Chapter Text
She made dandelions grow on his grave. It was known as the Rose of the Worm in the area of Claivón. A weed but non the less a welcome sight in early summer, like small suns smiling in the grass. The roots would spread everywhere, as she reminded herself that this man's words once used to. His tomb would remain nameless, unknown, but a thousand suns would blossom there each spring. It was no King’s flower, but it was, she thought, the right choice.
The hobbits had come to reclaim the land that was theirs. Saruman had been killed and his Worm forever lost. She had felt the bond between them burst then, in his last moments, when he finally swore himself free from his master and chose a path of own. It had been too late. Three arrows had found their target before Wormtongue had time either to flee or obey the offer of shelter given to him. And Imaén, hidden in the woods and helplessly observing everything that happened, had thought she perceived a joyous song as the distorted man’s spirit escaped the shackles of his body and finally flung out, free.
He had not been able to heed her words when she tried to break her charm and release him. Lost in his desire had he clung to the binding spell: this wave he wanted to ride forever; here, he wanted to always remain. Fear of missing out on the pleasure she promised had made him cling to her, she was forced to give in to the tidal wave that was his pent-up emotional storm since all dams had burst. All his attention, all his hopes of love and affection he directed towards her that night, and only a stone stood could have resisted. The spell was only half broken, and as she did give up her power over his mind he pushed all dominion back into her arms, feverishly willing to follow and serve her for the reward of getting to rest in her embrace. Imaén could not grant his wish. Oh, surely he could follow her if he so desired, but as a free man, not as a weakling who had given all authority over himself to another. She had told him:
“You must make your own decisions and take responsibility for your actions. No one but you should have that power over yourself. Too long have you been a horse led by the bridle, it's time you resumed your seat in the saddle and decide for yourself where the road is to take you!”
He was displeased when, believing that her speech alluded to the equestrian people he derived from, and the way in which he was now become a shameful blot on the map of proud Rohan.
“So stay then and face your shame,” said Imaén annoyed, “stand up like a man and slay thy inner demons. Bring back all power over yourself that you are so willing to give away to others. Choose your actions for yourself and be not ashamed as to why!”
“A man,” he spit, “you may well see that's hardly something I can call myself anymore. You have the right to scold me for a weakling, you do not know the deeds I committed because I feared my master and his wrath.” A thought struck him: “Or is it that you do? Is that why you turn yourself from me? Were it not for your spell, you would never have shown me any kindness. What do you think I have to expect from others? Who would show me mercy?”
“I do not know what crimes you have committed,” Imaén replied wearily, “or who is going to show you the mercy you desire. Follow me if you wish, but first throw your shackles aside and become unbound from your master. Do not come back to me until you are ready to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re a man, and that you want to be free.”
He fell silent. Imaén had put her blanket over his shoulders as protection from the night air. She herself sat wrapped in her cloak. His stinking clothes remained forgotten where she had let them fall, and that was just as well. She dared not light a fire for fear of being detected by enemies. It was still far till dawn, and she shivered. She did not know what else she could say to persuade him to obey her bid. After a while he turned to her with questioning eyes:
“So ... this is farewell? Will you send me from your side now, to muster my courage best I can,” he said. Imaén did not answer immediately, for it seemed to her that he had more at heart. True and sure, he continued hesitatingly:
“Or would you perhaps show me ... mercy?” Come as far, he lowered his head and let his hair fall over his cheeks, but he was not quick enough. Imaén could see their colour shift and how he nervously moistened his lips. She had to smile:
“Mercy? I have shared bread with you, washed you and anointed healing salve on your wounds,” at this, her smile became more oblique, more cunning; “What else could I do to strengthen your courage?”
He glanced sheepishly at her. She would force him to spell it out, of this he was certain. Well, he clenched:
“Twice we have been together, but never without ulterior motive on your part,” he managed. He twisted uncomfortably but continued doggedly, bolstered by the fact that the spell had now been lifted from him well enough that he could remember both of those occasions clearly.
“If a woman should willingly take a dispirited and reprobate man to her bed, would this not strengthen his courage and raise his spirit?” There. It was said. He stared intently at her, prepared for the mocking words and the rejection that was sure to follow.
Imaén cocked her head to the side. He still had a certain amount of courage. The problem was that he did not understand it. Well, if this was what it would take for him to convince himself of his value, why not. She could afford to be... merciful. She was amazed by the storms that this man, albeit discouraged and reprobate, could awaken within her with his mouth and his hands. When the emotions he so hard had pressed below the surface eventually did well up, they were frantic, almost violent. Her own booming response to his touch had surprised her. She was more than happy to grant him his wish.
Gríma in turn was amazed to see her smile deepen, neither mocking nor in repudiation. He could hardly believe that she completely without profit would like to touch him again, but here she was now, up close. He swallowed hard, once, twice. Then, he looked up gingerly. Her face with the pointed chin and the big, unreliable eyes. Her hair in wavy curls after the bath, and for memory’s inner eye blazing red in the light of dawn. Her slender fingers untying the buckles of her cloak and the pale complexion that loomed up in the gaps. Gríma breathed faster and freed his arms from the blanket, let it slide down around his hips. He reached toward her and anew found delight in the feeling that there was nothing to hold him back. Standing on his knees, he twined the fingers of one hand in her hair, while the other shoved down the cloak from her shoulders and let it fall. His eyes widened as he felt her in return freeing him from the blanket, and how her hands excitedly began to explore his body. With heart pounding hard, he caught them and pressed them against his chest as he kissed her mouth; first softly, hesitating, but then much deeper as he felt her response. He let his hands caress her shoulders, and tenderly pecked her neck. Contentedly, he noted that she trembled as his hands travelled down her back and over the rounded hips.
Imaén let Gríma set the pace. This could be an exercise in him grasping the reins, so to speak, and take control of the journey. She pressed herself against him and knew immediately just how happy he was to see her, as the evidence of this was pressed firmly against her hip. He groaned slightly and bent her upper body backward, eagerly caressing one of her breasts with his hand while he let his tongue explore the other. Imaén felt a hot, voluptuous redness wander over her chest on its way up to her cheeks. She pressed her lower abdomen against his in response, rubbed against him, panting. His breath became heavier as he took a firm grip on her buttocks, caressing them and moved her legs so that she could wrap them around his hips. She leaned against his shoulders as he lifted her up and angled her toward him, and she uttered a noise of pleasure as he found his way and entered into her. They soon found balance and rhythm as they lustfully met each other again and again, until Gríma's body quaked from the effort and he fell backward into the grass, desperately grasping Imaén’s hips as not to lose the lovely rhythm. She deftly parried the new position, her heart rate so high that blood whistled in her ears, her body naught but a tool to the wild, passionate rhythm that seemed to live a life of its own and which did not allow either of them to miss a single beat. He pushed himself up to meet her as he pulled her hips towards him. Imaén took one of his hands and pressed it against her pleasure centre, where he quickly fell into the rhythm with a circular motion. She moaned loudly with pleasure and he answered her likewise, both caught in the crescendo of the wild rhythm, and in a final effort they both sang its praises and sank gasping in each other’s arms. Thus they remained for a while, happily oblivious to the outside world. At this moment, there was in truth mercy and consolation to be had for the both of them.
In early, gray dawn they parted. Imaén had followed Gríma back along the purling brook and watched until he slipped in and disappeared among the houses. All the grace she had to give, he had received, and if he saw his flushed cheeks as a symbol of courage, well, so much the better. She wished him luck, wished him free. But this was a path he must walk, however difficult it might be. She found her look-out tree and sat down to wait.
That the wrath of Saruman's would be difficult, Gríma had anticipated, but prepared enough he was not as he, mind still full of sweet thoughts of the night gone by, sneaked into the shed Saruman had assigned to him and walked straight into the arms of the wizard. Saruman did not usually seek out his Worm in its camp, but the fact that the Worm had been out all night and lingered to report on the mission he had been sent on had made the former Istari furious. Such disobedience! Such contempt must be severely punished, and was not to be repeated. Saruman had had a full night’s time to enrage himself properly, as he impatiently awaited answers about the deeds he had set his Worm to carry out. It should not have taken long, but here was Worm after a full night, meandering on as if nothing had happened and with a defiant countenance. Saruman struck, and he struck hard; shattered were the night’s sweet memories and the hope of being able to break free. The Worm was useless, sang Saruman, dripping tones of venom in its ear: inept, clumsy and imperfect. Unwanted by everyone and everything, a liar and a murderer.
“Whom, seen your true face, would wish you,” hissed the sorcerer's seductive voice, “do you think the world is blind?” And the Worm knew that what he heard was true; he closed his eyes, bent to his master’s voice and let the beatings hail over himself. But when finally left alone, dry sobs echoing within the shed, there was nevertheless a part deep within him, knowing that he had been told lies. He had once again been torn down and broken. And in the midst of his downhearted chest chafed and chafed a small grain of courage.
“Worm! Worm!”
When he finally opened his eyes to obey his master's call, he was mad, torn and unwell, but he was no longer Worm; he was Gríma, son of Gálmód, and he wanted to be free.
Epilogue
There is a place in the forest where a thousand suns bloom every spring. They shine for one who too rarely got to know tenderness or happiness. They spread light upon his knowledge of life and of the secrets he took with him to his grave. They bear witness of the mercy given to his tarnished soul.
Far away, in another forest, a rider approaches home. She went off seeking knowledge of her people and of their roots, to find the source of the witchcraft known by the forest people and to learn from their scriptures and legends. Knowledge is power. But power, she learned, is a fleeting thing and the knowledge she sought was not the one she found. It’s spring, the trees are green and the grass is lit with dandelions. The woman strokes her rounded belly distractedly. She gets a little throbbing in response. Imaén smiles. A small seed of courage, a gift she carries with her from her travels. And when those little hands get big enough, she will teach them how to plate a wreath of dandelions.
The End