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.