Our journey had finally come to an end. My wise and mighty master had spoken little to me during our wanderings, relegating me to a fetch-this- and-carry-that role that I balked at, but only in the safe harbor of my mind. Even then, the dark and delectable thoughts that flitted inside my head betrayed me by their joyous hatred and Saruman's staff would lay across my back or gleefully strike my ankles, bringing me to my knees or on my face in the dust and grime. He occupied himself with these petty victories and told me naught of his plans, for a master need not share such things with his servant.

His servant. A servant is what I was, what I had always been, what I always would be if I remained the miserable man I am. Wish as I might to be something else, I could not find the strength in myself to be other than what I was. Saruman had never thought differently of me, or so he said, and he delighted in telling me that my horrible nature was a cloak I could never shed.

During those long days and nights as we traveled north and west towards this Shire Land, the only scrap of information he felt inclined to toss me, I lamented my departure from Edoras. I cursed my fanatical obedience to this wizard for whom I had sacrificed honor and country in hopes of a promised prize. On the wind-swept plain outside the gates of Edoras, a hand was extended to me, the hand of my King held out with redemption nestled in his leathery palm. Another prize in exchange for one lost. Yet I pushed it aside to rejoin with my powerful protector.

Why had I done so? All the while I traveled back to Isengard, as the hooves of my mount pounded the thawing terrain, I recalled that moment over and over, trying to imagine how differently it might have ended, but nothing materialized in my toadying brain. I convinced myself that there was no alternative. Saruman had assured success and, from the lips of a wizard learned in arts both light and dark, I told myself to believe that the end would be nothing less than complete victory.

My prize, lost long ago. No, only a matter of months, but alone on the road with Saruman, begging bread and seeking shelter when the elements forced us, days became as unendurable as the tortures of the most malicious orcs. But I endured.

Oh yes, I bore it -- the humiliations, the sneering remarks that hissed through the ragged beard of my proud and steely master. "A shame that you only have yourself in that cloak to warm yourself in the night's deepest chill, Worm!" I heard more than once. "But that fair spawn of Rohan you lusted after would have none of you even if she were here naked and helpless."

These words were always met with a bow of the head and an unspoken promise to be one day mighty, to topple this ruined magicdoer from his shabby pedestal that even now was crumbling from beneath his feet. It was possible. Indeed it was. We were entering new lands, away from the mystique of Orthanc, now in the hands of monstrous trees. Magic would no longer surround me, the obsidian walls no longer entomb me inside his will and power. We were away from Rohan where I was known and despised. Away from those rampaging horsemen, away from that fool Éomer who had protected his sister against me.

Éowyn. . . It was she who made this long trek bearable. She and the unending thoughts of revenge upon my master. But when such musings became too virulent, I felt a twisting of my mind that made me arch in pain, my teeth grinding against the white-hot agony. Slowly the grip around all my senses would slacken and I could breathe once more. Despite my master's fall, he still had powers that could cripple and maim, especially a broken creature like I. I did not know whether to be angry or flattered at having the attentions of such an illustrious figure, brutal or not. Only in my early years as Théoden King's Most Humble and Trusted Advisor had I enjoyed such a boon from the mighty and titled.

Whenever I recovered, a period that could last for minutes or sometimes hours depending on Saruman's inclination, my mind would wander to images and memories of the pale and beautiful White Lady of Rohan, my princess of ice and unmelting snow. During the nights -- every night -- I would lay my cheek against the furred lining of my tattered cloak and my fingers would brush the soft hairs, imagining that they were of the purest spun gold. All mine to caress and kiss should my ardor be gentle, or gripped and pulled if my anger and frustration had to be vented into an unfortunate vessel.

Such were my dreams and fantasies, the strength that I harbored while skulking in the fallen wizard's shadow. One day I would step out from behind him or, and this image never ceased to bring a smile to my lips, walk over his twitching corpse, the instrument of his destruction clenched in a suddenly powerful and indestructible hand.

Our journey had ended and I now stood at the edge of a land that could -- no, must -- house my birth as the man I was intended to be all along. Away from Orthanc, away from Rohan, the unsavory powers and shadows of those places were now far behind me. This green and rolling innocence that now greeted my eyes was ripe for a man's rebirth, fertile soil for a harvest of power. I would sow all that I could and reap much more.

"Quaint, is it not?" Saruman sneered, motionless at the border of a verdant field that nestled up against the forest we had just traversed. "That fool Gandalf spent years of his life sitting about, too brain-addled in a haze of weed smoke to know he was virtually propping his legs upon the One Ring." He laughed, a short sharp burst of laughter that made me cringe for it might herald another sadistic mood. Though he had said nothing of it, the fact that Gandalf Greyhame now wore the white mantle of Saruman rankled my fallen master. Many nights I had ventured a glance at him, only to see grim features set in an immobile trance, staring into the flames as the mind within contemplated, seethed, and plotted. What tortures he was conjuring behind those lethal and piercing black eyes, I could only imagine. After our chance meeting with Gandalf, the elves, and the halflings on the road by Isengard, his resolve had hardened further, and so had his heart, if such a thing were possible. It was already as unbreakable and black as the tower he had been forced to leave.

I now edged away from him silently, distancing myself from that abominable staff. Despite my uneasy state, I smirked inwardly upon mention of the pipe-weed. I had seen Saruman himself indulge in the fragrant and potent concoction whenever he felt particularly pleased at his success during the building of his vast army, now destroyed.

Saruman inhaled deeply and I could hear the air whistling past those cruel, pinched nostrils, the bumpy beak pointed upwards, as though seeking out his next meal. He would feast, most certainly, and the Gods help all who were in his path. I was not so naïve to think that I need not worry about my own well-being. Oh no, that was foremost in my mind.

"Come, Worm!" my master called. Despite my fear that his demeanor would turn foul, it was not a barked command, such as I had heard nearly every day of our journey. Oddly enough, he seemed. . .pleased. He had reached the object of his desire and if he felt charitable towards me, though only in tone, well, then I would try not to bring it to an end unwittingly.

"This land is ripe for corruption," Saruman continued. "Can you not sense it? It has already begun. I have seen to that. Soon all of Gandalf's hobbits will discover the pain and fury the rest of us have suffered while they sat snug by their fires and toiled lazily in their fields. None in Middle Earth shall be spared from the wrath and might of Saruman and Sauron, in one form or another. And those cursed halflings that plagued me, defying my will, shall return to see their precious Shire reduced to nothing but blasted earth, bearing ten thousand scars."

Harsh, vengeful words, but spoken so pleasantly! There was a time when I would have shivered in delighted fear, or stood in awe of my master's seeming omnipotence, but now I felt nothing. Well, perhaps something. . .strange and, yes, even troubling. As his words faded into a soft, rumbling chuckle, I recalled the two halflings in the company of those bloodthirsty trees. I saw their plump, earnest faces and imagined an entire province peopled with such child-like creatures. Then loomed the sharp, angular figure of this raggedy white wizard, his shadow twisting the honest, ruddy features into nasty, grasping and cowardly things.

They turned into things not unlike I.

But why this concern for ones other than myself? I lamented my own condition every wretched day, but now I felt an odd pang of pity for these nameless and unseen hobbits. Had that emotion not truly died within me? Could I feel sympathy?

My eyes sought out the landscape, suddenly eager to sup on the magic it held, for it truly must possess powers to stir my soul so strongly. Something long thought dead or lost had been revived. Whether it would ever occur again I knew not, but the memory of it heartened me. Perhaps I was not to remain the miserable, broken creature that had suffered scorn at the hand of the mighty and lowly alike.

I shook off these musings. I was becoming a weak fool. My mind was not clear. It must be the smoke from that foul weed, an invisible haze clinging to the hills and valleys.
* * *
We entered the heart of the Shire Land soon enough. As we pressed inward, we encountered no obstruction. Hobbits whose paths met with ours showed fear at the appearance of folk such as we. It was an understandable reaction, considering our bedraggled state and Saruman's proud bearing and steady gaze. All Saruman had to say was that he bore news from the departed Baggins and they eagerly absorbed the brief lies he spun and directed him towards the central town, Hobbiton. In a land of hobbits. How imaginative.

On and on we went. Word of our progress skimmed through the countryside like an expertly thrown stone over a still pond. By the time we reached the tiny, bustling center of activity, many rotund faces lined the street, peering at us in undisguised curiosity. So small. So innocent.

So foolish.

My previous moment of sympathy for them vanished. This ridiculously contented folk would fall easily to Saruman, faster than any race that had come under his sway. It was difficult to disguise my contempt for them, contempt for their weaknesses, their gullibility. I held myself in contempt for the very same reasons, so none could accuse poor Gríma of hypocrisy.

Much as I despised my master, he possessed the power I yearned for. Even in his diminished state, I envied him and wanted to rob him of all that he owned and controlled. To destroy him, I must emulate him. To break free, I must remain enslaved and wait, gathering scraps of advantage and forces of my own. I could not pity these creatures if my own fate depended on their broken wills and bodies. Healthy and unconquered, they were useless to me. What would I do with them? Lead these feckless, slack-jawed farmers in a revolt against Saruman? I? The insurrection would not last the time it took a Rohirrim to don his armor. No, I might as well slit my throat than rely on absent fortitude in these fat little halflings. As Saruman worked among them, so would I, pursuing my own plans. With luck, some of these hobbits would be loyal to Gríma alone.

My head began to feel heavier, tighter, as though in a vise. My chest clenched, but that spasm was not Saruman's doing. It was my own fear that my thoughts had been perceived. Saruman was never too distracted to let dark thoughts about him go unfelt. How fortunate for me that the nasty details were beyond his ability. Had he been able to sense all that I had conjured over the past, my life would have ended long ago. Was that fortunate as well? There were days when I cursed my luck. The pain, slight and uncomfortable, quickly eased into nothingness and I breathed easily. Saruman was indeed feeling generous.

The curious hum of the halflings was silenced when my master spoke. "Good hobbits," he began, charmingly I thought. "I bear news from your departed neighbor, Baggins, gone these long months. I trust he has relations to whom I can relay these tidings?"

Several of the halflings whispered to one another and one scampered down the road and reappeared in the near distance knocking on a green door that led into a shallow mound of significant size, like the shell of a broad turtle. Windows pocked the grassy slope and a chimney jutted upward, cold and unused. Cozy, yes, but the same dwelling as moles and snakes. A Worm I may be, but I fancied stone and wood above ground than being entombed by dirt beneath.

Saruman did not wait for the halfling to return. He set off down the road after bowing his head kindly in farewell to the gathered onlookers. From my position behind him, I could see his confident gait, as though he knew this place too well for one who had presumably never been here before. What Saruman had done while I was steeped in treachery at Edoras was a matter of speculation, but he had said that his work was already underway here. It was possible he had come here or had spies acting as very capable eyes and ears. Why not? I had served in a similar capacity myself.

As we approached, the halfling was turning away from the door. He started violently when he saw Saruman's formidable figure looming before him on the path, the only avenue of escape. "I--I knocked," the rotund Shireling stammered, "but he seems, uh, uh, not at h-home."

Saruman was silent and I peered around my master, assuming my severest expression to further intimidate the poor lad, who was making a poor effort to mask his trembling unease. "What is your name?" Saruman asked slowly.

"F--Fredegar. Bol--Bolger." He swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to harness his courage, what there might be of it. But when he spoke, the stuttering fear was still firmly in place. "I--I live in the East Farthing. I am. . .I--I belong to-- that is--uh. . ."

Saruman displayed great patience as he waited for the stout lad to find his tongue. When that seemed a long time in coming, Saruman brushed past him and knocked his staff against the round door. Traveling in his wake as I always did, I found myself opposite the quaking Bolger, who looked unsure whether he should remain or flee. I sensed something more desperate about him than the other hobbits we had seen so far, as though he knew he should escape and realized what it was he wished to escape from. But I could not be certain. His eyes reluctantly met mine and, without a word, he rushed down the path and back down onto the road, running in the opposite direction in which he had come. Or at least as fast as his considerable girth would allow.

Saruman's staff thudded once more against the heavy planks. "Lotho Sackville-Baggins," he intoned. "Open this door."

My surprise at his knowledge of this one halfling had no time to linger, for the door opened slightly and a most unattractive face appeared in the gap, his eyes glinting in suspicion. His hair was unkempt and his complexion was a garbled mix of pimples and blemishes. Even Éowyn would have had to agree I was a fairer creature. "How do," he said, voice guarded. "What d'ye want?"

"Have you suddenly decided to ignore summons?" Saruman replied. "In the past, you impressed me with your. . .responsiveness. Are you unwilling to continue this arrangement?"

Lotho's surprise matched my own. It was obvious he recognized who his visitor was and what this visit could imply. Hurrah for Lotho. For my part, I greeted Ignorance as a companion.

The door opened wide and Lotho ushered us in with a degree of reluctant and worried deference. Saruman's long bony skeleton stooped nearly double and I smothered a smile in the tattered fur of my cloak at the undignified sight. Gaining control of my expression, I assumed an air of vague curiosity as I passed through the door, slightly bent, and looked upon this queer dwelling.

The impression one got from looking at the outside was that the inside would be little more than roots and grubs poking through the walls. What met my eyes as I followed Lotho and our master into a room branching off the main hallway were wooden panels that lined the curved walls -- for everything that could have a round shape, did -- and an expertly-laid stone floor, strewn with rugs. Alas, the grandeur stopped there. What was once undoubtedly a fine home looked now to be in a state of neglect. Shelves that appeared to serve as trinket holders and bearers of all types of objects stood bare, as though the occupant was moving out, or had not yet fully moved in. Yet there were some objects lying about that seemed out of place with the genteel air of the hole, but utterly suited to our weedy and homely host.

I took a seat in a small chair near the fireplace while Saruman helped himself to the comfortable armchair near the desk. This study was not quite as large as the one I had whittled for myself at Edoras, but it revived memories of days when I had commanded a small group of men to carry out my deceit. Ultimately we all had owed loyalty to Saruman, but for immediate purposes, they did my will. It would indeed be a pleasure to enjoy such a position again. Sitting as I did off to the side, I relished the opportunity to rest my weary legs and watch the scene from afar.

"Are you not doing well for yourself, Lotho?" Saruman looked around the study and peered through open doors into other rooms, his scrawny neck twisting in exaggerated curiosity and shock. "I do not see evidence of the generosity my coffers have provided."

Lotho, who had been standing in discomfort on the other side of the desk, pointed out the window behind him, his finger and arm steady. "Out there. That's where it all is. Tied to the land."

"You will thank me for it, naturally."

"Thank you?" The hobbit sounded agitated, belligerence stirring. "Those men of yours that have been skulking about here for months on end said you would be coming soon and--"

"And. . .what, Lotho? Is there something you wish to say? Do you have misgivings about my generosity?" Saruman sighed and twisted his hands around the staff absently as he waited. When Lotho said nothing, Saruman allowed a smile to lift the two drooping halves of his silver moustache. "I thought not. You have done well for yourself, no matter what you may think. You are now the biggest landowner in the entire Shire and your crops are plentiful. The wagons bearing your exquisite leaf always arrived safely and earned me admirable sums. Both of us needed that abominable money to pursue our own goals, my dear Lotho. I sympathize with you, my clever man."

Lotho looked uncertainly at first Saruman, then me. His suspicion heightened as he met my eyes, as though he had seen me for the first time. "Who is he?" he demanded. "Another one that will be lurking around and making everyone nervous?"

"Him? He is nothing to fear, only one who served me in a faraway land. He failed me, however. A sorry turn of events, that. But he has not completely outlived his use."

I felt my face flush hotly at these dismissive words. I should have long ago become used to his cruelty, though rarely had a third person borne witness to my humiliations. My eyes refused to look anywhere but down and I willed the two to begin talking again so that I could uncurl myself from this pathetic defensive ball I was now in.

"Why should the fears of your neighbors worry you?" Saruman began. "Those men of mine you whine about will tend that matter. . ."

I deemed it safe to raise my head once more, certain that I was no longer the object of scorn when matters of greater importance were at hand. I paused when I saw that Lotho was still looking at me, suspicion vanished from his eyes. On his pimply, pallid face was a palpable curiosity. I would be infected with ghoulish interest, too, if I were told the man in front of me was only being kept alive on sufferance. I averted my eyes and leaned on the arm of the chair, bringing one hand to my mouth where my teeth worried the skin of a knuckle. What was the stupid hobbit staring at? Hoping that Saruman would decide my usefulness would end soon and he could see what happened to worthless slaves?

"Tend it how?" came Lotho's voice. "Even the witless asses would not take orders from tall folk."

"I sincerely hope that unfortunate attitude of yours is not well-known," Saruman replied heavily. "After many long days of travel, I do not wish to spend vital time and energy trying to mend your intemperate reputation."

"They hate me and I hate them," Lotho said, not without a degree of malicious pride. I nearly smiled at that. How many times had such a similar thought entered my mind as I watched my own countrymen?

"It has always been so and it interferes with nothing," he went on. "They still do what they're told."

"By you."

"I own Bilbo and Frodo's place now. I have their position in Hobbiton. I am the Baggins here. I've bought out some folks, but they work it without complaint. I let them live in their old homes, so there is no reason to balk at it. A small house and a garden. They're bloody grateful, they are. The money I flashed before their eyes made the point that I could have done much more, like kicking them out on their arses, but I didn't."

During this brave declaration, I watched him avidly, wondering if it was mere performance and the halfling was truly trembling underneath. But I saw nothing but malice and resentment. Familiar words, familiar traits. I had to admit that this little creature was more courageous than I, but it was obvious that Saruman's true identity was a mystery to him. A monied man with shady aspirations, yes. Of that I had no doubt of Lotho's knowledge. Probably he felt safe standing square on his two large hobbit feet and speaking so brazenly. But a vengeful wizard? Should that ever be revealed, his pimples would surely burst.

Saruman's agents made sudden, permanent appearances not long afterwards. The night of our arrival, Lotho and Saruman came to an agreement as to how things in the Shire would proceed. Rather, Lotho believed there had been matters on which he had dictated terms, but Saruman gave not an inch while at the same time appearing to accommodate his grasping conspirator. I admired him in spite of my hatred. He could bend others to his will even without the use of magic, for his voice was the most formidable weapon in his unearthly arsenal.

Men arrived from a town to the east called Bree, and it was my impression that they had all served as spies in that town during the dark days before the War engulfed the entire eastern continent. All of them would nominally take orders from Lotho, who would in turn march to whatever suited Saruman, the halfling's money debt hanging about him like a burden forever unshed. And as for me? My position changed not a whit. As on the journey here, I fetched and carried.

Lotho introduced Saruman to the town as a welcome visitor who would aid them in enriching the Shire. He spoke vaguely of the need to fortify their livelihoods against hardship sure to come from regions beyond. It was as good a lie as any. It served and was successful, so there was little need to contemplate it.

However, the methods of this fortification puzzled and bewildered these rustic halflings, for they could not understand what mills and forges would accomplish and some sharp ones among them worried aloud that the Shire would be tarnished by such "progress." Much as I knew it pained Saruman to invoke his name, he assuaged these uncertainties by saying that he had discussed the matter with Gandalf, and Gandalf was a man who most certainly always had the interest of the Shire at heart, did he not? Oh yes, came the chorus.

I was not certain that discontent was laid to rest completely, but Gandalf's name clearly commanded attention in these parts and it kept grumbling low. I fancied that Saruman was relieved he would not have to speak so sweetly of his rival again.

Lotho deputed the men to oversee what became known as "alterations," a term that increasingly, laughably, lost all meaning as hills were leveled, pits dug, mills erected and crude huts thrown up to house the influx of hobbits brought in from the outer reaches of the Shire to work on this project that was, of course, in everyone's interests to complete.

Autumn fell on the Shire. We had arrived as the trees began to change color and I marveled at their beauty. The featureless rolling plains of Rohan harbored no such thing and by the time I had fled to Isengard, every living thing had been gleefully destroyed to feed Saruman's underground furnaces. Sentimental fool that I was, I took several leaves and pressed them between the pages of a heavy tome in Lotho's library. Several times I returned to that book and took out the leaves, rubbing the unblemished, silken skin of these natural robes between my fingers and against my cheek. It was the closest thing I had ever found to Éowyn's skin and I intended to cherish it as long as it lasted. I would throw them out as soon as they became thin and dry. I did not want to imagine her skin thus, reminding me of the passage of years that would occur where I would never see her again.

* * *

Autumn's peak was nigh over when the first tree fell. By this time, the men had become an inevitable presence and, with Lotho's clout behind them, they set about their work unmolested, saws sharp and quick. Down they went, one by one, with mighty crashes that rang throughout the Shire. They were quickly disposed of in the converted mill of one Ted Sandyman, another hobbit who showed no qualms about betraying his own kind. The local river, called the Bywater, became a foul trench as Sandyman's mill spewed filth into it.

That nearly always gave me pause. The race of innocents I had first set eyes upon had, in the meantime, revealed some very rotten apples in the basket. As in the world of Men, envy and hatred pushed some to harm themselves if it meant striking a blow against others they despised. Saruman did not have to instill corruption here. It already existed, needing only a poultice to bring the boil to the surface. One prick, and it was running free, a contagion that spread to those most susceptible.

As I carried out my duty of passing along orders and overseeing some of the minor acts of destruction, I had time to ponder these hobbits, more than I deemed healthy or desirable. Seeing the increasing looks of dismay and misery that hollowed their eyes and robust cheeks, my mind burned with one word: Why? Why do you let us do these things to you? I wanted to ask. Why are you so stupid? Why did you not leave when your hearts felt those first doubts? I had no illusions that they would be allowed to flee the Shire. Saruman's strong regiment of Bree roughnecks would have caught and returned all fugitives, but very few hobbits even made the attempt. It was easier to admire those who embraced being despised, such as Lotho and the Sandyman fellow, than feel sympathy for senseless clods who submitted to humiliation willingly.

But that is not to say that I didn't feign an understanding smile or a pitying gesture now and then. Whether I actually meant it as I did so, I do not know. Perhaps their despair reflected my own, for I was becoming all too aware of my own entrapment. My plans on the edge of the Shire before our arrival had become mired in impossibility. As Saruman cast his success in solid terms of scouring the Shire down to nothing, like rust off an old sword, I could count no advantage of my own. I began to wonder if I had been a deluded madman that day when I saw myself vanquishing Saruman. Only two had claimed that honor thus far, but I was neither Gandalf nor a walking tree. And neither defeat had proved permanent. If they could not do it, then I certainly would fail as well.

Saruman and I had taken quarters in Bag End. Bag End. . .Baggins. . .Bagshot Row. . . The willful lack of creativity never ceased to astound me. Whoever had imagined these names apparently reveled in their own banality. But I found that a curse of the entire race. The one occasion where I was foolish enough to encourage a hobbit to discuss their family turned into a tortuous history of nearly every hobbit who had ever lived. The names alone were enough to force me to a pint of ale, something I rarely indulged in. Mungo, Bungo, Fungo! Dungo. It was no better in the Brandybuck line, as my helpful little conversationalist illustrated at great length. I did discover that the Brandybuck heir had vanished along with Frodo Baggins and that he was, quite possibly, at Isengard with those infernal trees. Imagine that. I was in the company of the heir of the prestigious Brandybucks and did not know it. A belated honor, but one all the same, I was sure. I said as much and, before the fellow could embark on a long list of tales about Mr. Brandybuck, I departed with fleet foot, ringing ears, and pounding head.

It was no wonder that I took solace in the night, when all had been put to rest at the end of another long day. Invariably I would slink from my cot in one of the pantries and venture softly down the long hallway, passing the dingy and sparse rooms on either side of me. Out through the front door I would go and climb onto the grassy roof. An early frost had killed the tips of the fattest blades and withered the weaker ones, and the beginnings of a pit near the hobbit home was not exactly a peaceful thing to contemplate, but I found it a place not completely lacking in pleasure. My gaze was not focused on things upon the ground anyway. My eyes lifted to the stars and there they remained for hours on end. Sometimes I remained entranced until the stars began to fade from the encroaching dawn. Then I would slip back into Lotho's hole in the ground and take to my cot for the last remaining minutes of the night.

Yes, I was wishing myself away while remaining shackled to my master. There was every possibility that my enslavement would come to a natural end. Saruman was wreaking this destruction out of spite and revenge. When that was completed, when those four hobbits returned and saw his handiwork, what would come afterwards was uncertain. Would four crestfallen hobbits join those that already toiled by the day? Or would Saruman finally fade away, taking with him the joy of a malicious deed well wrought? If the latter was the case, then I would be free to part from him, if I could find the strength to walk a path without someone before me, leading the way. How strange it would be to see my way with my own eyes, rather than having a white robe always hindering my sight. Mayhap that path would even lead back to Edoras, if I could summon the courage to walk it.

* * *

"Worm!"

I flinched at hearing that name on lips other than Saruman's. My disgrace embodied in that name was now a matter of common knowledge, though only a few delighted in actually using the term. Most of the hobbits, however, realized that even a fallen Rohirrim is not without some dignity and welcomes the opportunity to swathe himself in it if he has nothing else to claim as his own.

"Worm!"

I hurried around the corner of the mill, where I had been calculating the amount of timber needed for some more huts, and met Lotho coming around the other side. He looked angry. His face had turned a shade of red and his blemishes a shade darker. His head looked like a tomato with the pox.

I loathed this blustering creature. It had not taken long for me to experience that feeling. His curiosity towards me that day in the study had quickly descended into undisguised contempt and soon a sadistic glee had taken hold where he reveled in ordering me around like the meekest hobbit. I would not take it all, though Lotho's illusory position has the Chief of the Shire -- a pompous little title for a pompous little troll -- required some deference for the benefit of Hobbiton's citizens. No, I despised him because I could see no good end in Lotho's actions. He was mean and he enjoyed being mean. My treachery at Edoras had been for a reason, however selfish. In the end, it had been my hope to win Éowyn and attain, all in an instant, that which I had long dreamt of and have a life worth living. Or so I saw it at the time. But Lotho seemed intent on nothing beyond what Saruman wanted. As time passed, he wanted the Shire destroyed as much as his new master did. In the end, he would have nothing left, only the dubious pride of claiming that he had had a hand in the Shire's destruction. I suspected it had something to do with bad feelings between his family and that of the Ringbearer's, but I really had little interest in discovering what compelled Lotho.

"Yes?" I asked, inclining my head slightly.

"Bill Ferny says you promised him and his men a dozen hobbits to work down at Sackville. There's too much work for the ones already down there. Bill and the rest are ready to go and they want their workers."

"Sackville?" I heard myself saying. "You must have a number of good relations down there to work your lands. Ah, I forgot. You have shut many away for their disloyalty." I paused. "Even your dear mother."

"I had nothing to do with that," he spat.

"Still, you have let her rot away." I spoke carelessly, as though pointing out a sad, irrefutable fact. Lobelia was a foul-tempered harridan -- I had been on the receiving end of one of her umbrella attacks -- but perhaps I was clinging to foolish notions about my own mother and how I had always treated her with care until her dying day. Lobelia was over one hundred years old, or so I had heard, and the threat she posed was nonexistent. Yet Lotho had allowed her to be marched off to the Lockholes in Michel Delving after she assaulted some men intent on tampering with Bag End.

"Just get those workers ready and tell Ferny to get the work down there done quick. There isn't much to do." Without another word, he turned and left, so certain I would scurry around to carry out his command.

And so I did, but I did not scurry.

* * *

That night, I felt the need to sit under the stars more acutely than I had ever known. Before I went to bed, I had finally thrown away the last leaf hidden in the unused book. Sleep was stubborn and would not come to me. No matter how tightly I closed my eyes and willed myself to think of countless things, only one image would conjure itself. I could only see the brilliant yellow hue of those newly-fallen leaves, vibrant as the sun in Éowyn's hair, and soft as the skin of her cheek fresh from her washing bowl on a crisp morning in early winter.

I tossed and turned, fighting my coarse blanket and the spectres that would not leave me be. For long minutes I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness before throwing my blanket to the floor and snatching up my cloak in frustration.

The night chill met my face as I opened the front door. Yule was a matter of a month and a couple days away, yet I could already feel the bite in the air. I did not know what to expect of a Shire winter. If I was still here throughout the season, with luck it would not be too harsh. So far, my furred cloak had provided ample protection against these cold nights.

I rounded the end of the hobbit hole and pulled myself up the slope onto the roof. A slight frost had already fallen and my hands numbed pleasurably as they grasped the icy grass. Once on the roof, I huffed slightly at the thudding pain in my fingers and buried my hands in the folds of my robes. I looked up at the sky and smiled at the sight above me. The tiny furnaces of Hobbiton could not match Isengard's in smoke that blotted out the stars. On a clear night, it seemed like the fragments of a million smashed jewels were strewn about the sky. Worthless, but still beautiful.

I sat down in my usual stargazing spot and, after several minutes of rapturous concentration, my neck began to cramp and I lay down to watch in greater comfort. With one hand on my chest, I held the other out before me like a quill, connecting the stars, making any shape I pleased. When I tired, I folded my arms behind my head and continued to stare at everything and nothing.

A strange sound met my ears. It sounded like fabric ripping, or something being torn. I turned my head left and right, straining my ears to try to discern what it was. A stray scent filled my nostrils and I lifted my head in genuine puzzlement. It smelled like cut grass.

I rose to my knees and looked around, but though my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I was still unable to see anything. I was about to return to my prone position when I heard the ripping sound again, but this time it was accompanied by a strangled whine and a sniff. Again I smelled cut grass.

Curiosity thoroughly roused, I stood up and walked slowly around the roof, peering at the blackness around me. When my foot nudged something, a cry went up that infected me with alarm as well. I jumped backward, then just as quickly lunged forward to grab the unseen person in an effort to stifle their cries, or at least reassure them that there was nothing to fear.

"Hush!" I hissed, hands flying in the dark, hoping to find purchase. My fingers found clothing and they clamped onto it, holding fast. "Hush! You'll wake Saruman and that Lotho, too!"

"Worm!" It was an exclamation mixed with surprise and anger.

Lotho? I smelled the cut grass more than ever and I bent down towards the source. My hand swept the ground and came away covered with pieces of grass. "What are you doing?" I demanded. "There are easier ways to remove sod."

"I'll do what I like when I like," came the sharp response. A small arm flailed through the air and struck my stomach. "Now let me go."

I loosened my fingers and he tore away from me before I had fully let go. My arm was yanked forward and I lashed out myself, but only landed a glancing blow on his shoulder as he passed. "Rotten halfling!" I snarled. "You and your kind have been a bane to all that have the misfortune to cross your path!" As I spoke it, I believed it utterly. "You hobbits could give lessons in deceit to the worst of Men."

"None could match yours, Worm."

"No worse than yours, Pimple." I felt immense satisfaction finally speaking his own disgraceful name to his face.

"Don't call me that!" Lotho shot back. "Don't call me that." That last command had sounded feeble, then came the same sniffling I had heard before.

"Why not?" I pressed, enjoying myself. "If I am nothing but a slithering creature, then you can at least own up to being nothing but a blotchy toad."

I was unprepared for the shock of a sturdy hobbit ramming into my midsection. I doubled over and fell to the ground, pinning him beneath me. Hard little fists struck my arms, my sides, my chest and my head. I convulsed at every blow, but could not summon the strength to fling myself off from him. Every time I felt I could do it, another well-aimed blow crippled me again. He was growling and sobbing words that I could barely understand in this dizzying outburst.

I managed to curl an arm underneath my chest and felt the softness of his throat beneath it. I pressed forward slightly, not enough to harm him, but he began to gasp, then croak, in panic as he found it harder to breathe.

With my other arm, I pushed myself off and rolled to the side, gasping as well. Soon I could hear his tears once more. I groaned, rolled onto my side, and struggled to my feet with shaking limbs. I had only staggered a few steps when he wailed, "Why didn't you kill me?" I stopped, but said nothing. "Why didn't you kill me?" he went on. "Please. . ." His words faded into a morass of whining tears.

Silently, I retraced my steps and fell to my knees beside him. I held out my hands and discovered he had curled onto his side. I shook him. "Come, Baggins. Tears will not help."

"Then what will?" he mewled. "What will stop all this?"

I looked up and surveyed all around me. Though it was still dark, I could see the land as it appeared in the height of day. Saruman had been in the Shire not yet a month and, in that time, hundreds of years had been stripped away, showing the bones of the earth as the gods had placed them. I bent my head. "It is too late for that," I whispered.

"It can't be."

I patted his shoulder and let my hand run along his shoulder and up to his hair. Blades of grass he had ripped from the ground were now tangled in his unruly and dirty mop. The poor creature had been venting his frustrations on that which he no longer wanted to destroy. I ruffled his hair free of some of the grass and grasped him by his shoulders, turning him around onto his back. It was then I realized that he was in simple clothes with nothing to guard against the cold. "Come, you will freeze. I will take you inside." I felt his forehead and a cheek with the back of my hand. His skin was icy to the touch, made even more frigid by the copious tears he had shed.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want to go back. He can have whatever he wants. I just want to leave."

"Impossible," I said. "Ferny or one of his men would drag you back and throw you in the Lockholes. You would rot beside your mother."

At this mention of Lobelia, Lotho's tears started afresh. I sat down and pulled him against me, wrapping my heavy cloak around us. If I had been told that I would be comforting the same pimply toad that had taken such visible delight in tormenting and insulting me, I would have laughed. But whoever that nasty hobbit had been, I no longer saw him. And I asked the question that had long burned within me.

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated after a long pause. "I don't know. For reasons that I can't even remember."

"Hatred?"

He jostled me to run an arm across his nose. "Yes."

"Fear?"

Another pause. Then a nod.

"Want?"

Another nod. "Always that."

And it was then that I knew Lotho Sackville-Baggins as well as I did myself.

We remained there for the rest of the night. I pointed out most of the stars and constellations I knew and he nodded wordlessly at each one. When sleep claimed him, I did not move. His head resting lightly against my chest and his little body folded up and encircled within my arms, I felt a peace different from that which I had enjoyed during my solitary nights.

Long had I dreamed of sitting beneath these same stars, a willing fair maiden of Rohan clasped firmly against me. I still yearned for it. I could not foresee a day when I would ever stop dreaming of Éowyn. But she was not here. She would never be with me, and I realized that moments such as this with her would never be blissful, the reason being that she was unable to understand me. Perhaps it was natural for darkness to seek out light, but such contrasts do nothing but strive to surmount the other. My reasoning and mind, the manner in which it worked and the things that had driven me to act as I had, were foreign to her. She could not fathom selfish acts, sacrificing many for one. For her, the opposite was rational and admirable. But this little hobbit understood.

And so we sat in the darkness together.

The following day, I half-expected Lotho to resume his foul-mannered ways and he did, to some extent. But I could see that his heart, such as it was, was not the source of his words. I did not hear the much-hated "Worm!" either. But neither did he call me by my true name. In its place was nothing, and I welcomed the omission.

My pleasure lasted one day. That night Saruman commanded that I eat with him in the Bag End dining room. I was troubled, since my meals had always been taken either in the kitchen or in my own bare quarters. But I obeyed.

I had little appetite, as always, but Sharkey cleaned his plate with considerable relish. He always appeared smug and robust when things were afoot. I did not have to wait long to find out why.

"They have reached the Brandywine Bridge," he said.

There was no need to ask who "they" were. It was obvious he was referring to those four hobbits, their journey homeward in its closing miles. Either Saruman's avian spies had kept him abreast of their progress or two-footed ones from Bree had brought the information.

"There is no need for our good host anymore, is there?"

He said it so casually that I nearly missed it. My hand, in the process of setting my cup back down, began to tremble as his meaning took sudden shape. With great effort, I managed to keep the contents from spilling. "No need?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"Do not play the dunce. You have not served me well through lack of wits. Craven, yes; but not an imbecile."

"Why?"

Saruman's eyebrow lifted slightly, as though amused I should even ask. "He has done all that I needed of him. Our guests will soon be here and it would be a tragedy for brave Master Baggins to return home, only to find what he left behind in ruins. Things. . .people. . . It matters not."

"It would not trouble him to be rid of his cousin," I said, masking my horror. "There is no love lost between those families. But if you wish to be rid of him, then I will not question the reasons. Kill him. I care not." I took my cup again and drank long and deep from it. As I set it down, I noticed that Saruman was staring at me, gaze unwavering.

"You would do that?"

"I? Not I kill him?"

Saruman did not speak. His eyes did not flicker.

"I have never killed anyone," I said, chest tightening.

"Blood may never have touched your hands, but it is there all the same. Helm's Deep. The Fords of Isen. The Westfold. A weakened Théoden meant a weakened Rohan and an easy harvest of slain Rohirrim." He tilted his head and smiled reproachfully. "Am I to believe you had no part in those deaths?"

I could not answer for I had none. "And is this what is in store for me when I have outlived my usefulness?"

"Perhaps, but you will have to summon the courage to do the deed yourself for there will be no one to do it for you. I certainly shall not do it."

"Have someone else kill the hobbit. There are others more willing. Those men from Bree would do it gladly." My desperation was making me speak more forcefully than I had ever done.

Saruman pondered me silently as I continued to eat, although the food sat heavily in my stomach. "I could," he began, "but I am not without pity. Young Lotho has not ingratiated himself with those men. Were I to give them the task, I somehow fear that his ending would be prolonged and not very pleasant."

I felt the lump of bread in my throat rise at the thought of Lotho being sadistically tortured by that filthy band of ruffians. It could very well be me in his place. I stood up and pushed back my chair. It teetered on its back legs before thumping onto the floor again. My stomach convulsed and I ran over to the door and grasped the casing, gritting my teeth and forcing myself to be calm.

"If you will not do it, then I shall give the task to someone else," Saruman continued. "It will be tonight, regardless. Good night, Worm."

I staggered into the hallway and made my way to my small quarters. I fell onto my cot and ran my hand under the soiled, flattened pillow until I felt the cold steel of my dagger. Today I had not worn it. The touch of it had been hateful this morning. Pulling it out from its hiding place, I let the hilt fit into my palm and squeezed my fingers around it. And I stared at it.

Why was I doing this? Carrying out another order of Saruman's because that is what I had done always? Was I acting out of some latent desire to spill blood? Did I really want to spare Lotho from the bodily tortures those repulsive Breelanders would surely put him through? Or was I sparing him from something else?

His words returned to me. /Why didn't you kill me?/ That same thought had raced through my mind, when my lord king had stood above me, broadsword gleaming in the Rohan sun as it hovered in the air, poised for a killing blow. I had been spared by a plea that indicated I was not worth killing. That action had forced me to wallow in misery and humiliation ever since. Without a country or family. Nothing to call my own.

If I failed to carry this out and, by some chance, Lotho was spared from actual death, he would find himself in a living one. Even the most generous of hobbits would not willingly embrace him again. His life would be as mine was, and continued to be, and that was a punishment fit for no one.

Lotho had retired early, so he was in a deep sleep when I entered his room. He had left the tapers lit and they were burned down halfway. I studied him in the light. His face was turned towards me, one hand slung carelessly over his head, the other resting on his stomach. His features were pinched in worry, etched in misery. It had been so long since I had ventured a glance in a looking glass that I was unaware if my face was similarly marred. Oddly, his inner troubles were more apparent than the blemishes that dotted his face. He would have to die with those troubles etched on him. I knew of no possible comfort to give him easy passing. The best I could offer was to do it quickly and silently, in the cover of darkness.

I reached out a hand and laid it gently on his forehead. The other held the dagger over his heart. The blade did not glint in the flame. It was dull and resigned, as was I.

When I was certain all was positioned, I turned my head and blew out the tapers. I would not have him see me.

The dagger found its mark. Lotho's body leapt from its dreams. My other hand pressed down with as much force as I could muster, pinning him to the bed. Again I stabbed, and once more. Arms and legs flailed. He found his voice and a scream split the room in a thousand shards. Quickly I yanked the pillow out from under his head and held it over his face. With all my weight, I bore down on him until the flailing subsided as his life's forces slowly bled away. With a shuddering heave, it was over. And I wept.

My hands shook uncontrollably as I relit the candles, grabbed my dagger, and moved towards the door. Saruman would want him disposed of tonight and that task would fall to poor Gríma as well.

Warmth flooded my fingers and I looked down to see them covered in blood. The hilt was also smeared with red. I looked at this instrument. I have done it once. Can I do it again? Shall it be myself or another?

Slowly I turn and gaze upon the body lying on the bed. The candlelight flickers and the hobbit is gone, replaced by a bony wizard, his throat bearing a bloody smile.

THE END