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