Gríma Wormtongue accidentally banged his head against the ceiling in the Hobbit hole for the umpteenth time. He couldn't stand being in Hobbiton. He had no idea what was going on in the rest of Middle Earth. Saruman knew, but of course wouldn't tell him. He was too busy putting any weak-minded Hobbits he could find under his spell. Gríma was sick of the name 'Sharkey' since the moment he heard it uttered. Too bad it seemed to stick. They had been in Hobbiton for what seemed like weeks now, and Gríma could not wait to get out.

What business could Saruman possibly try to make with such half-humans? He thought in disgust. He was bored out of his mind. He didn't want to go outside because it was still too cheerful. Saruman had given him some power over the Hobbits, and he had them starting to tear up their own land. He grinned. At least they are easy to control... being so simple-minded!

He listened through the walls quietly, trying to hear Saruman's voice. He heard the sweet voice he used to control others coming from down the hall. He walked quietly, like always, into the room, to see three Hobbits prostrated in front of Saruman, muttering yes to his every word.

"We shall be moving to Bag End as soon as possible. I wish to look at it again later today, but something must be done about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. He is still a problem. I'll just have to use some persuasion, possibly with his mother, Lobelia." Saruman fully realized that Gríma was there, but did not acknowledge his presence.

Don't mind me. I'm used to being ignored... even when I am controlling others, no one notices me.

The Hobbits bowed to Saruman, and quickly scuttled out of the room. Saruman sat there quietly, contemplating. Gríma stood there silently, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"My, Lord? Is there any news from Gondor? The Mark? Mordor? Anywhere?"

Saruman looked up at him sharply. "So impatient. Since when did you ever care about the rest of the world?"

Gríma remained silent.

Saruman narrowed his eyes at him. "Maybe you only care about the land of Men? More precisely, Rohan? Why stop there? You want to know what has become of the Lady Éowyn."

Gríma shifted uncomfortably. Go ahead. Torture me with your knowledge. There is nothing you can say that will affect me. Not even her death.

"The Lady Éowyn came close to death, affected by the Black Breath. She is fine now. Pulled from the shadow by the hands of a king." An evil look came to Saruman's eyes as he looked at Gríma. "You could only dream to have made her as healed as she is now."

"What are you saying?" Gríma rasped. "She has been healed from the Black Breath, a miracle in itself. How did she come to be infected?"

"The Nazgûl."

"I know this. Why did the Nazgûl attack her? Why did they attack my cold flower?"

Saruman turned his gaze from Gríma, looking out on the Shire, slowly being turned desolate. "She lost all hope. She went to battle. She wanted to die. She slew the Ringwraith king, being not a man born of woman, and was thus infected. She lay in the House of Healing in Gondor, healing in body, dying in spirit."

"You said she was fully healed!" Gríma spat violently. Saruman turned to him in surprise and anger.

"I only hope you never spoke so rudely to your former king! She is fully healed now, in both body and mind. She has been healed by love. Saved from one hand, loved by another. There is no hope left for you."

Gríma stood frozen. She has found someone. My cold flower has been snatched away from me, warmed and thawed to the light. I cannot believe it. I will not believe it!

"I do not believe you." He said it in distrust, but he could not let out his hate yet. Not yet.

Sarmuan narrowed his eyes again. "I will show you."

Perhaps an hour later, Saruman led Gríma into a dark area of the Old Forest. There was a natural bridge from a tree that had collapsed, over a large pond. Saruman simply took out a satchel, pulling forth a handful of fine, gray powder.

"Now, you will see." He sprinkled the powder slowly into the water, and Gríma follwed the trail into the water, watching as it stirred and churned, rippling into a glass-like surface. He could no longer see through the water. Yet, it was neither ice nor glass. It was rigid stillness.

"You want to see your Lady Éowyn? Your 'Cold Flower'?" Look into the stillness, and you will see everything you are not."

Suddenly, he saw her. Standing in a garden, wearing white. A breeze was floating through her hair. She shivered, the cold seeping to her skin. Gríma longed to reach out to her, wrap a warm cloak around her. Suddenly, a man came up behind her. He gently placed a blue cloak on her shoulders. Her face turned to his. Gríma felt his insides collapse as the look on her face went from wonder, to pure love. The man's kind, young face smiled lovingly at her. They kissed.

He is kissing my Flower. Mine! She is mine! How dare he!

"Who is he?" Gríma demanded.

Saruman felt a strange satisfaction in hearing Gríma's voice. There was anger and despair. He was watching Gríma die before his very eyes. "He is not you. He is everything that you could only hope to be. He is everything that she loves."

Gríma shook his head violently, almost without knowing he had done so.

"His name is Faramir. He had been under the Black Breath curse as well. They healed together in the House of Healing." He couldn't help but grin at Gríma's pain. "They healed each other." He knew Gríma was close to breaking.

Gríma had always felt possessive of Éowyn. He had felt desire and perhaps even love for her since the moment he saw her. She was barely even twenty, but he knew she would become so much. This man she was with did not deserve her. "Why would she love him?"

Saruman's voice eerily filled his head, echoing so he could not forget what he heard.

"Faramir is one of the greatest men to ever live. One of the greatest who will ever live. Where you are old, he is young, still full of life. You are from a forgotten line of men who could never live up to anything. He is of the Numenor. He descends from the line of kings of Gondor, his family being the Stewards from the beginning, and he the current. When you speak, it is poison, when he speaks, it is a gentle song in the wind. You words had turned Éowyn cold to you, to everyone. His words undid the coldness. He was the shining light through the storm you created. You know of cunning, spying, falsehood. He knows of loyalty, goodness, hope, and love. You spent your days destroying a man she loved. He spends his days learning, loving, laughing, and she falls in love with him more and more each day because of this. As ugly you are, he is handsome. As traitorous you are, he is good and loyal."

Gríma stared at the picture in the water. They were holding each other lovingly. They had no cares or worries, just each other. It made him feel sick.

He felt Saruman leaning in close to him. I know you are trying to destroy me. I can feel your poison in my ears. You are going to make me like I made Theoden.

"Not only is he everything that you are not, everything that she loves; but he has everything you want. He has her. He has made your 'Cold Flower' into a beautiful, warm, white flower. A lily that will only open up to him."

Gríma's eyes widened. He now understood how Saruman was going to destroy him.

"He has had her in every way you've only dreamed of. He is her husband, best friend, and lover. He was made for her. Faramir and Éowyn where created for each other. Soul mated. They have found each other, and nothing will break them away."

Gríma closed his eyes, intent on drowning the sound in his head, and shutting out the image of the two lovers in each others embrace. Do you want me to kill them? Try to destroy this supposedly wonderful man and my beautiful lily? I will not harm one hair on her head.

"You could go to Ithilien. Sneak into their house, into their room. See the way he is holding her in their sleep. You could end it." Saruman's voice suddenly became like a song. "You could end their love. All you have to do is kill him."

To be honest, Gríma could not tell you how he suddenly was hiding in the garden of the house of the Steward of Gondor. He fingered the dagger hiding beneath his cloak. Saruman wanted him to kill the Steward. I can have my Éowyn again! I can kill the man lying at her side and claim her as my own!

In a dream, he sneaked into the house, through the halls, and found himself at the closed door of their bedchamber. His hand was shaking he turned the handle. He quietly moved to the bed, his eyes adjust the contrast of the darkness of night and the light from the moon pouring through the windows. They were lying in the bed. Her head was leaning against his chest, her hair pouring around the pillow, and look of blissful happiness on both of their faces.

She stirred in bed. He felt his breath stop as he looked at her bare shoulder, illuminated by the moon. It was torture. She lay in another man's arms. He should be me. His eyes flickered up to the man's face. Hatred was eminent on Gríma's face. He really was everything that Saruman said. He could tell by looking at him. He was good and kind, loyal, strong, loving, a great Steward. The pain in Gríma's heart turned to sorrow. This man will make a great father. He has made a great husband. He looked down at her face again. He loves her the way I only wish I could.

He looked down at the dagger. Saruman wanted him to kill Faramir. Saruman wants, Saruman wants, Saruman wants. What about what I want?

He quietly sneaked back out of the house. Once he left the house, he broke out into a run, and as he ran through the garden, he suddenly felt like he was being shoved into the ground. He felt very dizzy, and blacked out.

When he came to, he was lying on the hard wood floor of a Hobbit hole. Saruman was sitting on an armchair, facing away from him.

"Did you do it?" Was all he said.

I will not take your orders anymore. I will make decisions for myself. I am not your slave or servant. I am not an Uruk-Hai, nor a scared Hobbit. Even if Éowyn loves Faramir, he does not deserve death by my hand. I know exactly what I will do.

"It is done," was all Gríma said. Faramir does not deserve death.

"Good." Saruman didn't even turn around.

But, you do.