Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, 'What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.'

Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.

— Vincent Van Gogh

So leave, and be free of him! That's what had been said; you are free to leave. Free to go wherever you wish, to do whatever you want. Yet oh, how strange a taste that word would put on his tongue. He had hardly any dignity left to speak of, a mere tramp littering the road, pushed aside by other wayfarers. Ever weary, ever starving, he would follow on his master's heel because he had nowhere else to go. Be free of him, then! Only, to be free of him was to be nothing at all. Could they not see that? But, all dressed in white, respectable and respected as his power shone through his every limb, the newly designated White wizard could hardly comprehend such a lowly thing. Leave him, he said, and expected it done. And when it was not so, he turned his horse and continued on his way. Never looking back. Never fully comprehending the weakness of men.

One other did, however. One who spoke soft words, words to make a man feel a slight tingle of hope, one small chance of escaping his faith. A halfling, he had heard them called, those small creatures. Half a man, and yet they knew such compassion. After everything that had happened, when the halfling spoke of mercy and offered him respite right there on the road, he felt a window creak open in his soul, a thin ray of light trying to find its way in. Had he dared, he would have joined their company right there and then. But he was still under the rein of his master, and it took several nights for him to build up his courage and, at last, to leave.

He ran, heart pounding, blindly into the night. Sneaking softly out of the camp had offered no greater obstacles, it was mostly his imagination that forced him into a run. What the wizard of many colours would do when he found out. What the wizard of many colours would do, if he caught him. The images in his mind were vivid enough to keep him running, stumbling through the forest till daylight came and he hid, pulling dead leaves and branches over himself in hope they'd hide him. He dared not fall asleep but sleep claimed him nonetheless, and he dreamed of the earth opening as if to swallow him, of worms pulling him down into the darkness. He opened his mouth to scream, and the worms filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes until everything was dark and muffled, and yet he screamed. When he woke up he was still screaming, soaked with sweat. He was alone, leaves and dead branches covering him. Contemplating the nightmare, he shivered, absently pulling what was left of once fine robes about him. Had he foreseen his death? What did death hold in store for such as him, anyway? It did not bear thinking of. He very much preferred to stay alive. Perhaps, he mused, perhaps if he thought to repent. Repent in life, and be rewarded in death. At least, he very much hoped so. And every night that he woke up screaming, he vowed even harder at repentance.

He lumbered on, not yet paying much thought as to where, only that he was going away from his former master, and that the distance increased with each step taken. This satisfied him for a while. Once he felt certain that the wizard of many colours was not in pursuit he took to the road, sleeping by the side of it or under a hedge, if such luxury was provided. He ate what he found, which wasn't much, but it hadn't been much before he left his masters side, either. He'd become accustomed to traveling on an empty stomach, ignoring the dull pain in his belly and putting his mind to placing one foot before the other, and again, and again until nightfall came and he couldn't see his feet anymore. If there were other wayfarers, he kept his eyes on the ground and stepped to the side until they'd passed.

Despite the halfling's offer, he did not rightly know how to find the company, as he'd ran blindly. He had probably ended up far from where they were going. He didn't put much mind to where he was headed, but then again, perhaps he did. As he came to a fork in the road, he would turn east, then later again choose the road leading north. And slowly, ever so slowly he came closer to the land he had once abandoned, back to the people he had once betrayed. Perhaps his feet knew the way all by themselves, for he hardly lifted his eyes from the road. Yet, once he did, he was nearing the borderlands of Rohan, home of the proud Horse Lords, the country he himself had sought to tear down and destroy. His own country, once, but no more. His treacherous feet had led him back to the beginning. Or perhaps, he thought, they had led him to his end.

It was late in the season, the year turning to face winter, which on the plains was harsh and unforgiving. The man, who had by now made camp right at the border, considered his options. But though he had spent considerable amounts of time thinking it through, he always reached the same conclusion: that he had few. Without his master, he was nothing. But he had left his master, and he was not going back, nay, never. His master had used him to his own means, and when he was no longer useful, had taken from him all pride, all dignity, everything he could still call his own. Even his name; his master had called him nothing but Worm, miserable creature crawling along as the wizard saw fit. So, the man mused, he was nothing now, but he had been nothing much before, either. Reduced to whatever the wizard thought of him, he figured he preferred the present: he was still nothing. But at least he was no longer spit on, no longer beaten by the wizard's staff. He was no longer Worm, but no one at all. And that, at long last, was a freedom of sorts.

The question was, was it a freedom he thought worth keeping? This he asked himself, as he considered the plains and the cold gray skies above them. No one cannot survive without food or shelter for very much longer, winter is coming and it is cruel, as he well knew. Darkness will fall, not the shadow of evil but an ordinary night, now that the war is over. Yet, even an ordinary night brings dreams, does it not? Dreams to wake you up screaming, dreams that made you swear to make amends. Repent in life and then, in death, who knows? Perhaps you could be no one no longer, perhaps you could once more be considered a man. Perhaps even, if you are lucky, you could be considered a man of Rohan. All it takes is a little courage, to venture into her lands, to walk those plains on tired feet. All it takes is for a King to remember his offer of mercy, and maybe, just maybe, you'll be given one more chance. Yet, if you are not, you need not fear having to suffer for much longer. Death will come swift and smooth, if you are to have no more chances. Never fear. The King will see to it, should he not find himself in the mood for mercy. All it takes is a little courage, and a few more steps along the road.

Théoden King had indeed offered mercy to the traitor Gríma Wormtongue, the man he had once considered a trustworthy Counsellor. Mercy, that was, under the condition that the Wormtongue changed his ways and remained by his side, proving himself loyal to the King and to Rohan. Wormtongue had spat at Théoden's offer and fled to his new master, the wizard Saruman, blinded by his power and his promises. Nothing good had come of it, and he'd had many a cold night to think his decisions over. Yet, he'd never thought he could muster enough spirit to leave the wizard. It turned out he had misjudged himself. Your dreams reek of fear, Gríma Wormtongue, fear of what you have become and where it might lead you! You have sworn to repent, now all it takes to put your feet back on the road once more is just a tiny bit of courage.

He dully realized that he must have carried these fancies all along. To somehow make amends, that Théoden's offer of mercy would still be valid, could he only prove himself worthy. He stared at the sky, but it held no answer except that night, and possibly snow, was going to fall. Being no one, he realized, meant having no future. Having nothing, additionally, meant having nothing left to lose. As this novel idea settled in his mind, his feet took to moving again, one in front of the other, repeat, and again. Slowly, Gríma Wormtongue wandered into Rohan as darkness fell. Occasionally, he'd glance up at the cloudy skies with something that resembled determination.