"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.