Summary: Gríma, treacherous Counsellor of Théoden King, flees towards Isengard, but meets someone on his way. This is the story of that meeting, and of its consequences.

A/N: This used to be called "All there is to know". As I've completed and edited the whole fic to make it flow more easily, I also changed the title to one that I feel better reflects the story. Other than that, it's still a Gríma/OC fic. I have no regrets. 3

And I am immensely grateful to everyone who read and reviewed back in the day. You are the best!

Chapter 1

Five in number were the wizards, Istari. And the elves named them: Curunír the White, he who held the knowledge of the rings of power, and was said to be foremost. Radagast, he who loved all the animals and birds in Middle Earth, and the wise Mithrandir, who comes with advice and decrees. Those acted in Middle Earth until the end of the Third Age, to unite and to preserve. Or to destroy; for those Istari were in the shape of men, left to the needs of food and rest as were the mortals. They were also left to the weaknesses of men, such as greed, and the weakness to allow themselves into temptation, to listen to promises of power. Five in number were the Istari. Three who acted in Middle Earth, two who left for Rhûn, and yet farther east. And all knowledge of them was to be forgotten...

An exhausted rider, on a horse also run-down and foundering, was searching his way through the barren landscape. He was, in fact, in a great hurry, but by now his head hung deep. And as tiredness overcame him, he let his hand, instead of lashing his steed to make it proceed a bit further, drop to his side. He got off the horse with great effort, intending to lead the animal, to save it. Of course the beast was tired, and it was not possible to get a new one out here, so what good would it do to have it drop dead at his feet? Well, of course the horse was tired. Yet, could anyone feel as tired as did he? He, who had seen all his efforts come to nothing, was now weary to the bone, into his very soul. Years of careful work gone, like would a child's weir be swept away by a furious river. And truly, it was a river that had swept him away, thrown him out… he cut his thought short. This wasn't the place for such pondering. He kept dragging himself forward, slower and slower, until he sank to his knees as if pressed to the ground by the heaviest hand. No hope left. Desperation, was that not the worst? It would probably be wisest to sink to the ground, allowing oneself to submit to unconsciousness, to disappear… with an effort, he shook himself back. Wise? He snorted. Foolish, more likely. No time for such dreams. He exerted himself and struggled to his feet. Impatiently, he grabbed the reins and led the horse on to the west, towards Isengard.

Strange were the tidings that had come to Imaén's ear in Gondor, stranger yet were the things she had heard in Rohan. But nothing was as strange as the things she had seen for herself in Isengard. She, who had travelled wide and far and who despite her humble age possessed a fair amount of knowledge, had found herself standing, mouth wide open in surprise. She had almost had to slap herself to refrain from clapping her hands enthusiastically and laugh out loud. A saga, a legend! Well now, she had seen some other things called nothing but legends turn out to be very real indeed, but this… Mightier than tales were the Ents in their wrath as the attacked Isengard and let the river in, allowing it to sweep away and drown all the filthy trade of the orcs. When she had managed to gather herself, Imaén had retired to a safe hideout in the rocks surrounding Isengard in order to watch the destruction more safely. She didn't much fancy being caught and accused of being a spy at this point. A spy, though? That thought did put a smile on her face. Was she not exactly that? Well, maybe the accusations were false, but it would perhaps not be enough to declare oneself innocent, since these lands were already too full of Saruman's spies. And she doubted that few, if any, strangers would be allowed to leave without suspicion, if caught. Moreover, having attention drawn to her was not a part of her plans. It was surprising, really, that she had for so long managed to avoid discovery, considering how long she had been spying, or as she herself would phrase it, observing Saruman's doings. Already in Minas Tirith, capitol of the proud Gondorians, had she been told that the wisest scholar she would ever find was the White wizard of Isengard. She had come to Gondor in search for their wisdom and blind to the fact that they would hardly give a stranger, nonetheless a woman, access to their large and extensive archives. In there, and this she knew for certain, were real treasures, invaluable, of wisdom. History, knowledge more or less forgotten... she clenched her fists bitterly, thinking of what they'd refused to give her. She, who'd had the naive idea that knowledge would belong to whomever claimed it! Now, not all knowledge. Of course not. No, but those scrolls in Minas Tirith, what did they contain except historical events? Perhaps they hadn't taken her request seriously. They had not allowed her to speak to the rulers of the city, and she could no longer remember all of their excuses. The one thing that had stuck in her memory was a comment from one guardsman to another when they'd probably thought her out of earshot;

"We have had enough of ferreting about in our books and scrolls by now." And the other guard had answered;

"Indeed we have. Saruman and Gandalf, both of them have been here poking. And as they both ran off in such a hurry, with neither thanks nor goodbye to our generous Lord Denethor, you'd think he'd be tired of letting out his library to anyone's services."

Imaén had listened carefully to all of this, but since nothing of further interest was said, she'd left Minas Tirith soon after. Saruman the White, she thought, or as the elves named him, Curunír. Perhaps he would be more generous with his wisdom? At least she knew where to find him: he was well known, and well spoken of, among elves as well as humans. Many times had she heard the tales about his great wisdom.

Imaén was drawn back to the present. Wise, she thought. But not wise enough to resist greed. Oh no, hardly wise enough to cover his eyes and his ears from the Dark Lord and his promises... For when she had arrived to Isengard, orcs were all over the place, and she had not dared to make herself known. Instead, she'd been hiding, anxiously trying to find out what was going on. Many were the messengers who rode to and from Isengard these days, and once she'd spotted Nazgûl on the road. She knew about them, another tale brought to life, but she would have preferred if that tale had remained dormant. But now, her attention was drawn to some movement down on the road. What was it? A rider? Yes, a rider it was, dressed in white, and surrounded by the strangest light. He rode towards the gates of Isengard, and was greeted by the Ent guarding them. Sunlight was decreasing, and Imaén decided to climb down, just a little closer, trying to overhear what was discussed. Fortune was with her; as she reached a hideaway behind a fallen rock, the Ent and the figure dressed in white walked towards her, and so she was able to hear their conversation properly. The white clad one was talking fast and intensively;

"Helm's Deep is now being attacked by Saruman's orcs, and they will need your aid. Brave men they are, but few, and considering the great deed you've done here, I now must ask you for yet another: to relieve them!"

Imaén bit her lip thoughtfully. So that's what it was for, the giant army of Saruman? She had never seen this Helm's Deep, but what keep could possibly resist such an enemy? But now the Ent spoke;

"Hooumm... well, I, hrrm, I would think that we could spare a few around here. With... let me see... myself left on guard, and maybe a few others, we could spare some. Sure we could."

"Very well then, but there is yet another thing for you to know. A deserter, a spy from Théoden's very court, has been promised safe-conduct to his rightful master, or else to wheresoever he would please. But it is my belief that he'll chose to come here. In that case, let him into Orthanc."

"Ho-hoummmm, hrrmmm," said the Ent doubtfully, but that had no effect upon the white one.

"Wormtongue, he's called, but his right name, Gríma, is the one he will give you if asked."

"Ho, ehrmmm, given such a name, I can understand if he names himself differently. I'll keep a look- out for that one, then," said the Ent.

With this, the man in white robes seemed pleased, and turned to those little companions who had followed the Ents, and who came running towards him now.

"But Gandalf, where have you been?" cried one of them. Behind the rock, Imaén stiffened and listened sharply. Gandalf? That Gandalf?

So, he was a wizard that one, another Istari? One who could share with her knowledge about times past? Or another traitor, like Saruman? Imaén did not know whether to feel hope or distrust, for could one Istari degenerate like had Saruman, why, so could others. And why would he allow Curunír to sit safely in his little tower, despite the fact that he still had a Palantír in there? Imaén knew from her studies that one of the Palantíri, the seeing stones, had been in Saruman's care, and she assumed Gandalf knew as much. And Saruman could call out to his true master for aid, could he not, through this mighty orb?

Care? Imaén snorted. Mismanagement, more like. And to tempt such a powerful man, you would indeed have to be the Dark Lord himself. I guess, she thought, there wasn't anyone around to stop Curunír on the very day when he decided to look into the Palantír? Imaén felt uncertain. She did not know whether to trust this Gandalf, nor his motives. She tried to get a good look at him as he mounted his steed, ready to leave, but there wasn't much to see. The sun was almost gone, and his shining white robes were confusing her eyes. White was the rider, white the horse. But had not Saruman himself worn white? Curunír, foremost, had he not been that? What did it mean now, that this newcomer wore the same colour? Imaén was left with no time to consider these queries, as the wizard left with incredible speed down the road and out of sight, shining like a falling star. And now the Ent spoke again, addressing those little ones:

"The Hourns will help them."

For a moment, Imaén felt utterly lost. She scolded herself for not paying enough attention, but then her mind used the scraps of information to puzzle the picture out for her. The Hourns? Help them? Ah, at Helm's Deep of course. But who are… oh, the forest! Yes, of course! Wise you are, dear friend wizard, this could make anyone drop dead in fear! Another piece from the conversation she' just overheard tugged at her attention. Make anyone drop dead. Someone on their way towards Isengard? Wait, a deserter, had he not said so, the Istari? One who would be allowed to enter Orthanc! And, once in Orthanc...

At this thought, Imaén made sudden haste back the way she had come. Creeping and hiding at first, then almost running back to a den, comparatively safe, where she had hidden her horse and her belongings. A clever plan had started to form in her mind. She did not have much reason to believe that the trees would hurt her, would she but mind her own business and keep out of their way. She knew about trees and their powers, a knowledge hardly found in old scrolls. No, if only she kept to the fringes of the forest, there would not be much to fear. A fleeing deserter, on the other hand, one who might run head first into this marching forest… well, he would most likely turn and flee back the way he'd come. Imaén sought to prevent this. One who is declined passage through that forest will not come out alive, and Imaén really wanted him alive, that deserter. Alive and safe in Orthanc, where he might serve her purpose.

A smile, vague but sly, was on Imaén's face as she mounted her steed and followed the trail of Gandalf, the new White wizard.