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It’s early morning so early that not even the songbirds have risen and nor perhaps has the sun though the greater world is impossible to glean from the place where Éomer-King keeps his returned traitor. It’s so early that no healer has come yet to rouse him from sleep and feed him. No-one to look at the bandages around his chest his legs feet arms.
Gríma pulls his nightshirt up so it is waddled around his belly, rolls onto his front, then puts a hand to his eager prick.
The urge hasn’t come in well he doesn’t know how long. When he first arrived at Court he was filled with unmet lust but the days were bright then. He had hope. He had not met the wise Wizard Saruman. He had not met ruin. He often made his hand a funnel and found satisfaction in it, until he spilled: then, shame. Anger. Hatred. His hand—in truth he knew and knows always knows it was revealed that his own hand is all the love he’ll ever get and peering down his sallow chest he thinks his prick aggrieved and shrivelling from fucking his palm over and over and over and over. Let it shrivel. He is many worse things than ugly and even his own cock shrinks in horror from his touch but perhaps he dreamt up that humiliation. He has so many dreams now that he met and left the Wizard.
The ugliness was there before the Wizard of course he did not change the nature of Gríma he only revealed and revealed and revealed like a man with a block of wood and a sharp knife reveals the spoon inside the wood as he whittles. Only Gríma was nothing so useful it turns out when you carve into Gríma you see worm.
Years ago before the Wizard and the revealing that is done with staff and with rocks and worst of all with words Gríma was at court filled with unmet lust and he wanted to ask is it normal to want so much that it is like starving. Is it normal to want so much it is like a dragon. Is it normal to want more and more and more with every year to want so much that when you see two people kiss you are angry. He had no one even then to ask. Spoke often to everyone at Court of course but the cold Lady Éowyn surely encountered as much variety in bed as he. Thoughts of her brother gaining the necessary experience for advice only ever annoyed Gríma. Who’d even take Éomer? He was annoying. Brash. Nephew to the King of course and he could handle a horse well but apart from that—and they were at odds even then if he asked then Éomer would laugh… The King Théoden-King it was then held respect for Gríma son of Gálmód. He was the only one at all who had any respect for Gríma and Gríma could not turn to him could not confess what surely was obvious at a single glance. His want. His ugliness. The servants loathed Gríma. Perhaps not at the start but more towards the end of those five years working for the Wizard. But hadn’t Gríma always felt loathed by them? He was ugly. He was hungry. He was angry. He was Counsellor only by trust of the King despite his daily hard work his achievements his mind…
There is none of that left now of course Gríma the Counsellor was carved away with those tools that were mentioned before and so was even Gríma the Wormtongue whom Éomer liked to insult it was all carved away until what was left was worm. Worm was caught somewhere in the wilderness, running. Crawling. Happy in all honesty to see the hoofs and then the riders up on them for he was so hungry and so sure that the Wizard had found him and the riders fed him and wrapped his wounds and carried him off they were honourable like Éomer is honourable and Gríma isn’t.
He is in a room in Meduseld now no windows like Orthanc but the floor is Éotheod made and so is the ceiling the bed. He is alive. There is no law for this he is not confined to his quarters for worm no longer has quarters anywhere in the Mark. By right he should have met his end on the King’s sword Gríma had spoken that deadly judgment for other men when Théoden was King and when he’d served the Wizard he’d spoken it more often. The Wizard did not speak death for Gríma he spoke worse. He spoke— but Gríma is in Meduseld now. His hand is still holding his prick but it’s gone soft again as happens often when he lets his mind wander. His mind wanders where he never wants to go again. He wants a day of waiting and perhaps more questions from Éomer-King regarding the whereabouts of some grain Gríma chose to misplace while following the Wizard or another matter perhaps but probing questions nonetheless. He wants the King to come as soon as the sun rises which it may have already or not but probably not and so he has time now and the urge the hunger he ought to use this time even though the prick’s almost soft again now.
In truth the urge disappears often when he looks down because his ribs barely even hide behind skin which is white where it’s not blue-bruised and then past that sight there is the penis like another worm growing from him and he’s heard so much about worms. It feels disgusting sometimes to touch it but today he does it anyway fingers on the soft hot skin of his wilted cock.
He thinks Éomer-King’s questions will be long today or perhaps the word is hopes. The King usually questions him in this room but he’s had Gríma outside once only once on that day when Gríma was first brought back and thrown at his feet and the King decided not to use the sword. He didn’t say why. They were at odds then they have always been at odds but Éomer-King didn’t unsheath his sword and standing above Gríma strong and proud and golden-curled he was beautiful so beautiful and Gríma was hungry of course hungry wanting. It was not the first time Éomer was beautiful though Gríma makes no habit of saying that because the King knows his own face his golden hair his eyes he knows he is beautiful and the King also knows that Gríma is ugly. Gríma is a traitor but feels worse being ugly.
He was ugly starved wounded on the throne room floor and he’s ugly in bed with his prick in his hand and Éomer looked and didn’t say worm. The King’s boots were muddy then Gríma remembers he’d been outside giving hope or looking over destroyed fields not just up the entire day on his horse though his thighs were as broad as ever a true master of horses true son of Éorl. His hair was sunlight. His eyes were very green. And his lips—
His broad shoulders his hands then Gríma stared at his eyes again and his mouth he used to watch that mouth when they sparred with words back long ago before the Wizard and Éomer used to hate when Gríma watched his lips used to call it shifty but that was good it meant he only knew Gríma wasn’t meeting his eyes and not the why. His hair was sunlight his eyes were so green Gríma didn’t know he was crowned King until much later because those eyes were so green or maybe that was the pain the fear the hunger. Gríma knows Éomer is King now. He was told by a healer. The King could speak his death. Gríma is alive. He’s in bed rolled onto his belly bandaged and fed and one hand on his prick that is no more a limp worm. He drags only the thumb all the way up and down the length and it feels better than it has in a long time. The thumb peels the foreskin off the head which is something Gríma likes to feel but hates to see laying on his belly there is no danger of seeing and he closes his eyes too just to be sure.
Éomer-King would have Gríma hunched over between his spread knees. It’s a stance that aches after a short while and the King wouldn’t know that because he’s not like Gríma he’s proud does not bow. He would want it because it would make him laugh in mockery of Théoden’s Counsellor Gríma who also hunched and bowed. He would laugh and he would. Here Gríma’s fist on his prick tightens so it hurts in excitement. Éomer-King would have Gríma bow down his head and lean forward forward forward and open his mouth. Your lying mouth, he’d say, and Gríma would want to protest but he wouldn’t have the chance to speak to lie again because Éomer-King would have his hard cock pulled out of his breeches and he’d spear Gríma’s head with it. Éomer-King may rightly use his sword to pierce through the socket of an oath-breaker’s eye. He didn’t. He won’t. Not here in this small room, not inside Gríma’s head. Here he’d take the mouth and he'd use his cock.
Gríma would be bare. Éomer-King would say something in the story about how all his clothes were made at Court and the traitor Gríma has no right to them nor any need. He’s no longer wearing his tunic nor his shirt nor his scarves nor his boots nor his fur cloak out there in the room hasn’t been wearing them since the Wizard forced him to— but instead it would be Éomer-King that makes him strip off in his mind, and Gríma would shake with shame of course, pale thin thighs unhurt revealed before the eye of a golden-haired King with the legs of a true horse lord in his prime, but his coat and his boots and his scarves and his shirt and his tunic would be piled up before the throne. When the Wizard forced him to leave it all and crawl, he— but it would be Éomer-King watching him. The King and the Court everyone that Gríma felt he was better than back when he still served Théoden and in those five years when it was the Wizard too. They would be watching. He would be naked. He would crouch and shuffle towards the King. He would open his mouth.
Éomer-King is strong. His cock would be strong too, thick. The nest of curls around it would be as enviously golden as those on his head, two suns, true gluttony. Éomer-King would dig his fist into the lank thinning strands of Gríma’s hair. Gríma digs his fist into his hair. It stings. It doesn’t sting enough. Éomer-King has strong hands so Gríma pulls until he’s torn out a few dark greasy strands by the root and that’s better. His other hand is still tugging on his own prick. He wouldn’t dare touch his prick when cowering between the spread knees of Éomer-King sitting on the throne in the great hall of Meduseld. He makes himself stop. He whines at the loss. Like a dog, he thinks—he remembers—and whines again. The sound is vile. There was once power in his voice and wisdom sometimes and even trust. It’s the voice of a dog now. It's always been a dog voice it was only revealed. Even so far as the voice of a worm perhaps but worms do not have tongues and the Wizard threatened he would take— but it would be Éomer-King here he remembers and even in a story that thought feels good. Éomer with his fist in Gríma’s sad hair, spearing the open mouth of the Wormtongue on his hard royal prick.
The King would stare down and watch. His cock would be fat and proud of course as was already said and so Gríma’s nose would not touch the golden curls of his groin from one pull of his strong arms alone. Everyone else would watch too. Everyone still alive after the War that is. There would be more left if Éomer had made good on his first threat against his uncle’s Counsellor so long ago. They were at odds then already but Gríma had not done it yet had not met the Wizard had not had his nature revealed. Éomer was all words when they insulted each other snidely every day it was fun for both perhaps. He let Gríma live. He is still allowing Gríma to live.
He'd be gifting Gríma a taste of his prick before thrusting up with his strong horse lord hips and that would do it. He’d hit the back of Gríma’s mouth cavern and Gríma would gag already eyes watering as the Wizard said he’s a snivelling little worm and— but Éomer-King who is in this story Éomer Éomer it’s important to remember that it's Éomer he would laugh in that hearty honest way of his and then thrust again. Gríma jams his hand the one that is not pulling on his hair into his mouth but it doesn’t come close to the weight of the King’s penis or at least he thinks it doesn’t. He’s never done it before. The King wouldn’t know that in the story or maybe it wouldn’t be Gríma’s first time at all though it would feel better than anything before this crouching as the King’s thick cock pushes past his tonsils and deep into his throat. The fingers can’t reach that far and Gríma already has to pull them back or he’ll puke. But not when he’s in the story. In the story Éomer-King’s big proud prick would be in his throat and his strong fingers would be in his hair and Gríma rightly would not see anything but his King’s tunic at all if he opened his eyes which he wouldn’t he’d feel good with closed eyes and the King’s cock in his throat would be so big and he couldn’t—no he would still breathe but with the King’s fingers in his hair he wouldn’t have the strength to move. Better that way.
You’d not let a snake go free. Nor a dog nor a worm or suchlike but Éomer-King wouldn’t hold his head like a snake or a dog or a worm but just the way Gríma presumes one holds the head of a lover during the act of mouth-pleasuring or if not a lover even just someone earning their coin. Though Gríma wouldn’t be doing much pleasuring. He’d want to of course but it would be enough, the not-doing the just being. Éomer-King would have him on his cock and hold his hair and Gríma wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t know the time passing. He’d only hear the other people who survived despite all that he did walking about the throne room and sometimes they would stand behind Gríma and sometimes to the side as they talked to the King. Gríma once stood to the side of the throne of Théoden-King though that was a long time ago. Gríma would be bare and he would be between the King’s spread knees and he wouldn’t be able to move his head he would hide his face in that body hide his face forever it would be good.
So your mouth is useful it seems despite all the counsel you gave to my uncle that brought only pain, Éomer-King would mock after a while looking down at Gríma the Wormtongue Gríma the traitor the worm the worm the worm why would he touch a— no no he still feels the heat in his groin he won’t lose the story.
Éomer would say it to Gríma.
Gríma with his head in Éomer’s lap.
Gríma with his tongue only barely pushing up against the heavy royal cock and Éomer-King would groan then and Gríma would do it again again again until the King’s fingernails would drag over his scalp to say, No I will not spill and then let you up. The choice is mine and my choice is more, longer, forever. Blissful quiet in Gríma’s head. Cock in his mouth. Hand in his hair.
And his knees and back would hurt from bowing and so would his head. The King would pull on his hair not to keep him still for Gríma would know no other place but just to toy with it even though it was black and greasy and thinning and the King had better hair right there on his head hair like the sun. He’d still play with Gríma’s. Somehow that would be important. Gríma touches his own hair more gently now though he can barely feel it after the way he tore out strands earlier. He’d be stuck mouth-first on the King’s prick for longer though perhaps even hours or days and he’d feel that gentle touch again.
It would be a kindness, Gríma thinks. With his mouth full he wouldn’t beg. For Éomer to look at his face and still— For mercy. For forgiveness. Anything close to it. Anything. Anything.
And if he cannot beg then Éomer-King won't look down with his honest green eyes that aren’t green now and say, You were loathed from the day you were born you worm you worm worm worm worm crawl you dirty thing see it rut on its belly dreaming lying who would touch you who would fuck you who would love you men don’t love worms you idiot crawl then crawl away try it I will find you I will always find you. You will be loathed till the day you die. Worm.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Never ever meet a Wizard for they show you what you are.
And you will never forget it.
Not even in the early morning when you’re getting off. Gríma still has one play-acting hand in his mouth one in his hair but his prick is withered. Soft. And he doesn’t. Fuck. Men don’t touch worms. The words and the nature of Gríma that was revealed by the Wizard do not belong in this story the story is about Éomer and Éomer won’t say them doesn’t think them because Gríma lives and worm would not live worm would die crushed under a muddy boot. Éomer-King has said plenty to Gríma in the time before ruination about his distrust of Gríma as a Counsellor and rider and man in general and of course he spoke harsh words during the five years when Gríma worked for the Wizard they were at odds even before then of course. They are always at odds. But he has said Wormtongue. He has not said worm.
Wormtongue is a traitor is a man. Worm is a thing worm is a thing.
He has not said worm.
Worm is a thing.
The words of the Wizard revealed truth like a knife carving wood and he was carved and carved no food no sleep worms eat the dirt crawl worm is a thing worm is crushed under boots. The Wizard revealed Gríma’s nature and there was nothing inside but Éomer doesn’t know there is nothing inside doesn’t know he’s just worm he put Gríma in a room with a bed and food and he asks questions doesn’t he know worms don’t speak they have no tongue no tongue but he ran before that happened he—
“Get up! I have questions about what you did to the northern fortifications. It’s already noon, you—Wormtongue?” Éomer’s voice is deeper than in the story more beautiful more worried he—
Gríma is on the bed he remembers with his arms curled around his head there were other times when he hid his head in his arms it did not work then of course a Wizard’s staff can carve through arms and worms have no arms nothing to shield with of course of course no arms not allowed to shield to hide to cry worms have no eyes but he is weeping he’s wasting water he’ll die of thirst he must run run but worm can’t run worm has no legs hands pulling his hair worm has no hair worm has no hair worm has no hair.
Hands on his hands strong hands warm hands.
Above Gríma’s ear he smells of mud and grass and horse he smells of home home worm has no home he has always been worm he never had home he just wanted and hungered and lied to himself but still with the good voice Éomer says, “If this is a trick,” holding Gríma’s hands so he can’t tear out the hair of worm a trick what trick Gríma always had tricks but worm does not worm has no brain the Wizard said—
Soft snort of laughter now horses snort snort is good the Wizard laughed cold.
“No, you wouldn’t. You can’t deceive me anyway. I was right about you, I was always right, I told my uncle you’re a proud greedy lying bastard and this is…” Éomer murmurs to himself and he pushes the nightshirt which was waddled up over Gríma’s starved bruised belly down down over the cock that looks like a small worm growing from him ugly ugly Gríma’s face burns no one has seen that ugliness or maybe they did he was naked when he crawled to the riders too they must have laughed Éomer should laugh he was just too hungry too pained too afraid to hear or the King’s eyes were too green maybe they are too green now too maybe he won’t hear if he looks up right now but instead he must be making noises because Éomer-King who is holding onto his hands sighs and sits on the bed and says voice soft like he is soothing but by tone alone because there are no good words to a worm, “Fucking Saruman. I don’t want to pity you.”
He is wrong of course there is nothing to pity there is nothing nothing nothing to pity the Wizard just carved away until truth was left and truth is a worm.
But maybe he’s wrong again.
Maybe worm can deceive the King forever and live as Wormtongue as traitor as man.