Grima heard the bed creak and groan softly and he shut his eyes tighter so that bright spots danced beneath his closed lids and wished he could as easily shut his ears. He could not, so he did the next best thing: he pulled his thin wool blanket up over his head and wormed his way deeper into the thin straw-stuffed cotton that served as his pillow. Even that was not enough to shut out the groans and the soft screech of stretching leather as weight settled on the adjacent bed. Or his mother’s pandering whispers and seductive moans. And worse were the grunts of a man rutting in his mother’s bed as a pig ruts for truffles.
Tears welled and beaded on Grima’s lashes. Tears of shame and fear. Every night it was the same. His mother came home from the inn, stinking of cheap wine and pitch smoke and sweat, with a man lumbering in her wake. For a few coppers, she’d take off her clothes, exposing her sagging breasts and flabby middle to any man who’d have her. If Grima interfered or showed himself at these times, his reward was a sharp cuff to the ear.
His mother’s cries grew shrill and wheezy. Grima bit his bottom lip, willing himself not to hear, even though he lay only a few feet away from them. The man, whoever he was, gave a shout and a loud, self-satisfied groan and the bed was still. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing that men and women sometimes filled with soft laughter and love-words, but Grima’s young mind did not know of this. All he knew was the harsh reality of his mother selling her body for whatever any one willing gave for it and the shame of being called Whore’s Son by the children of his village. He knew hunger and fear. He understood, as a stray cur understands, that a kick in the ribs is as likely as a hand of friendship.
He did not remember a time when his life was not chaos. He did not remember a time when he could look at his mother with compassion or love or even respect. He only felt a deep loathing that went through to his sinews and bones. His heart froze over with it. He choked on his rage every night. His humiliation clung to him like the stench of a midden.
Grima vowed that one day, those who called him Whore’s Son would pay. And pay. They would keep on paying until they bled dry.
“ Grima!”
Grima awoke with a start and stared through the gloom. He was cold, but then he was always cold. He sat up and felt the sting of his master’s whip fresh on his back, his chest, and his thighs. He rolled off his pallet and stood shivering, with his tiny shriveled member dangling limply between his white, pasty thighs. The dream had not come to him in many years; not since he’d arrived at Théoden’s court. Now, as he looked into the dim future, he thought he saw why it was that he was again tormented by the dreams of a past that, try as he might, he never seemed to out run.
Eowyn . The name echoed around in his head. Her rejection stung and remained fresh within him. Not even his master could wash it away with flail and blood. Like those who had tormented him as a child, Grima swore that she, too, would pay. She would spend out the days of her life paying homage to him when Théoden was used up and Rohan was his.
Blue eyes darted this way and that and his pink tongue lapped at his chapped lips. “My lord?”
Saruman stepped into the small chamber and crinkled his beaked nose slightly at the stench. Grima’s stench. A foolish man, vain and crooked Vain, crooked men easily manipulated, either by treats or punishments. For such men the gift of gold or the whip’s sting was one and the same. His piercing eyes traveled slowly the length of Grima’s body and he admired his handiwork. The red marks showed his control and he was most proud of his ability to control himself. “We have a guest.”
A frown appeared between Grima’s eyes. The lines were deep for he frowned often. “A guest, my lord? Who has come to Orthanc?”
“He is my guest, welcome as a brother to me,” Saruman chastised Grima for his implied censure. “You will go and wash yourself and dress properly. Radagast is a fellow wizard and he will not be easily fooled.”
The long robes swished softly on the stone floor as the great wizard exited the room, leaving Grima alone with his crooked thoughts and his twisted lusts. He went to the ewer and poured cold water into a basin. With a rough cloth, he removed traces of sweat and blood, leaving behind only the glimmering white of his flesh overlaid, like veined marble, streaks of red. When he had finished, he donned his heavy black velvet robe and then drew his chain of office—his most prized possession—over his lank, dark hair to lie on his thin chest. The sable mantle came last.
*~*
Radagast the Brown entered Orthanc, unaware that deep within the great structure evil bred and grew. He only came at the behest of his old friend, Gandalf the Grey, a man whose wisdom he greatly valued, although he did not share in either the love of the mortals or the need for such lore.
“My lord,” he bowed slowly from the waist as Saruman entered the room. “I have news, urgent news, that Gandalf the Grey wished me to convey. He has need of your council.”
The white eyebrows drew up half a notch, but Saruman the Wise kept his tongue and did not let either his excitement or his perplexity show. “Whatever it is, I am sure it can wait until you’ve had rest and refreshment. I have a guest from Rohan with me this evening. It seems that Gandalf is not alone in seeking council.”
“I have heard that Théoden, King of the Mark, has been ill of late. Has he traveled all this way to seek your wisdom?”
“Nay,” Saruman shook his head sadly, as if troubled by the knowledge that the great king refused him. “He no longer knows friend from enemy in the dark corners of his mind. His advisor, Grima Wormtongue, is here.”
Radagast searched his mind, recalling only a dim impression of a slight man with greasy hair straggling his face and large, greedy eyes. “Is my presence an intrusion?”
Saruman’s eyes lit from within. “Your timing could not be more opportune. Indeed, there is a small matter on which your advice would be most welcome. But come, my friend, it can wait. A few turns of the hourglass will make little difference.”
Radagast took off his tall brown hat and set it aside and his locks, although now streaked with gray, flowed over his back and shoulders in soft waves. His tapered hands fluffed back the locks off his shoulders and smoothed down his beard. “Your hospitality is most kind. It has been many a while since I’ve shared bread with men or elf.”
“You spend too much time alone with the wild animals and the dark woods,” Saruman said as he placed his hand beneath Radagast’s elbow. “Come.”
Grima entered the room just as Saruman and Radagast were leaving and he stopped dead. His face twisted into a sneer that he worked doubly hard to erase. Radagast the Brown, Grima knew him from intuition alone, walked along Saruman’s right side. Usurper. He bowed low, sweeping aside the sable robe, but his eyes remained fixed on Radagast.
“ Grima,” Saruman’s purr was a gentle warning. “My old friend, Radagast, has agreed to dine with me this evening. I hope you will also take the pleasure.”
“I am honored to be in such honored company,” Grima made certain his gravelly voice held no hint of disrespect.
“He brings us news of Gandalf the Grey,” continued the White Wizard.
Grima’s ears perked up and he plastered what, in his mind, was a charming smile on his lips. Seeing both wizards flinch, Grima realized he’d failed and sobered. “I hope he is well?”
Radagast hesitated. Grima Wormtongue rightfully earned his name, or so it seemed to the wizard. Something about the advisor made his flesh squirm beneath his robes. “Perhaps Saruman should hear the news first, in private.”
“You show great wisdom, old friend. Come, come.” He led the way through the arched double doors to a cozier room with vaulted ceilings and shelves crammed with scrolls and books and other wizardly implements. There were chairs aplenty, reminiscent of the days of the great Council Meetings and a brazier in the center of the room aided the candles in lighting the chamber.
Grima walked to a sideboard and lifted a decanter, prepared to pour out the sticky sweet wine of the elves. Saruman caught his eye and Wormtongue put down the decanter. His hands fluttered among the jars and bottles, lighting briefly on one before flitting on. At last, he received a subtle nod of approval and his heart gave a small stutter.
Radagast seated himself in a low, backless chair and sighed. The books and scrolls were filled with who knew what and he found himself glad, at least for the moment, to be back in civilized company. Then he was handed a goblet from Grima’s own hand and something niggled in the back of his mind. He stared for a moment at Saruman, but the other wizard only smiled and tilted his goblet, drinking deeply. Radagast, although his heart bade him otherwise, could do nothing but follow suit.
Grima caught the wizard as he sank to the floor. “Master, he has not shared Gandalf’s news with us.”
Saruman smiled evilly. “In time, Grima, in time.”
~*~
Radagast’s dreams were filled with the smell of blood and sex; an unusual event in all respects, for the wizard never dreamed of smells. And he certainly never dreamed of sex or blood. His dreams grew even more disconcerting for pain became a part of his dream as well. In the dim recesses of his unconscious, he heard the whistling of leather and harsh gasps.
Part of him warned that it was his own voice crying out. The smell was his blood. He could not encompass it and so sank deeper into the troubling dreams, seeking refuge in a place of no refuge. In his sleep, he shivered and burned, as if with fever. So his mind said that he must be ill and he sank even further into himself, escaping into a healing sleep. When this failed, he struggled to wakefulness.
And wished that he’d remained unconscious. Oblivious.
He lay partially reclined and naked on a leather frame with his limbs stretched taunt. His abdomen and thighs stung horribly and his sweat was rank in his nostrils. Saruman wore only a loincloth over his narrow hips and his legs showed white in the dim firelight. His snowy hair was tied back away from his face with a leather thong and he wielded a whip with deadly accuracy.
Grima knelt on the floor writhing in what Radagast assumed was ecstasy, although he couldn’t have said what sort of pleasure the worm-like creature could possible gain from being laid into with a whip. Radagast gagged and his stomach clenched in a tight knot as Grima threw back his head and howled and his white seed splattered his own thighs. The brown wizard tried to vomit, but nothing; his stomach was mercifully empty and only sour bile came to his mouth. He spat and glared at Saruman.
“Welcome back, my old friend,” Saruman laid aside the whip and came forward. His robes always made him look thin, but he was anything but. Rather, his muscles were long and lean, honed as though chiseled from flint.
“Explain yourself,” Radagast tested his bonds and found them secure.
“You were reluctant to part with all your secrets. I simply—encouraged—you.” The slick smile writhed beneath the neatly trimmed white beard.
“And that?” Radagast nodded his chin towards Grima.
Saruman laughed nastily and moved forward. Reaching, he tested the bonds holding his captive. “You won’t sneer for much longer.”
Radagast felt his eyes widen at the implication and, once more the gorge rose in his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Do not fret so,” the wizard clucked. “I have no real interest in you. No, you will serve a greater purpose.”
Radagast thought about his love of animals and knowledge of woods. How could that help Saruman?
“Gandalf trusts you. He’ll tell you all his secrets, if you ask him.”
Watching Saruman move toward a table near the far wall, Radagast frowned. The vials were filled with things best left unnamed. “What makes you think I’ll ask him for his secrets?”
Saruman sniffed at the contents of a goblet. “You will.”
Radagast couldn’t take his eyes from the brimming cup. “No.”
“Yes,” Saruman nodded to Grima and the thin man leapt to his feet with great alacrity and approached Radagast.
The bound wizard thrashed hard against his bonds but the cords were strong and held him fast. The brew touched his lips and burned. Radagast tried to scream. The liquid slid down his throat, scorching him, stealing away his breath. His vision swam and his insides felt as though they were being ripped from his body. His muscles strained and his belly unclenched itself and what little remained in him was voided. Had he been able, he would have felt humiliated to soil himself so, but he was beyond caring or feeling anything but the fire ripping through him.
And then he knew nothing else.