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Everything was going to Gríma's satisfaction until the Lord Boromir announced his imminent arrival in Bree.

It was unnecessary in the extreme. Boromir could go wherever he wished, even the remains of Mordor, should he wish it. Nothing was barred to him, he was the darling of Gondor, the friend of the King. Gríma only had Bree-land, and the Shire, and he was not liked in those places, either- merely tolerated.

But one did not achieve success in the court- and then lose it- without learning that one's desires did not matter to those in charge and that life was an unending series of disappointments. Very well- the Lord Boromir was coming to Bree, as was his brother- who was less arrogant, but also less interesting- and Gríma could not even say he did not like it because Merry and Pippin were so excited to see them both.

There was no explanation for their excitement. Merry and Pippin were decent judges of character in most regards and they were wary of Big Folk, as most Shire-hobbits were. No matter. Gríma had found that even when hobbits appeared to make sense, they never quite would- not in every respect. At least Sam- who had the common sense that came with being common-born- was a little warier of Boromir, though not of Faramir.

A minor nuisance- Gríma would simply avoid the brothers. There were plenty of hiding places in Bree. Their purported business, some sort of political talk to do with the new regime, had nothing to do with Gríma. The welcoming parties the hobbits were planning for the visiting nobles were optional- they said quite tactfully that they knew Gríma was shy. The creatures were too kindly to call him unpleasant. He would stay out of the way. Everyone would be happier.

But he did believe in being prepared, so he ensured he was on hand to watch the visitors arrive in town, to see the lay of the land, so to speak.

This was more difficult than he had expected. It was a bright sunny day, and the crowds were sparser than one would wish if one wished to hide. Here in Bree, they had no idea who Boromir was. No doubt the General would be surprised by the low turnout, which mostly consisted of curious hobbits. Another difficulty. Gríma was no tall, gallant son of Edoras, but he was taller than a hobbit. He could not hide behind them.

Bright days cast dark shadows, so he did in the end manage to find an out of the way nook to lurk in as he watched the procession.

Boromir looked slighter and fairer than he remembered- and younger; it took him longer than he would have liked to admit to realize that he was looking at Faramir. He had simply not expected Faramir to be out in front, in the leadership position. But there he was- and smiling. Gríma had only seen the man once or twice, on affairs of state- he had never seen him smile. Perhaps his happiness was due to the woman riding beside him, an uncommonly beautiful one, also smiling. She looked much like Éowyn. It could not, of course, be Éowyn. Éowyn would not be here, in the middle of nowhere, riding beside the son of the Steward of Gondor. Why would Éowyn be here? Why would Éowyn look so happy? Éowyn did not look like that. Éowyn did not smile. Éowyn was cold, cool, refined, icy. She was miles away. He was cracking up.

Gríma was long used to observing everything and everyone about him, so he saw Boromir even as he was distracted by reassurances to himself that he had not seen Éowyn. When he remembered to pay attention to what he was seeing, he noted that Boromir rode in a cart- a cane at his side might be the reason why, although why could he not ride? An unfamiliar Man- a peasant, likely- was driving. Boromir was looking over the assorted hobbits and townsfolk, and he looked almost as wide-eyed and curious as they- he seemed to take a particular interest in a batch of hobbit-children clustered around their mother, shockingly tiny creatures. The General's eyes were almost soft.

There was a dingy pile of rags between Boromir and the cart-driver, which Gríma took no notice of until Boromir turned and appeared to be trying to wake it up. This proved unsuccessful. Boromir gave the thing a pat, and then looked back over the townsfolk; at that time the procession came to an abrupt halt because Merry and Pippin had come into the middle of the road. This acted as a signal, and curious hobbits and Men-children flooded the streets. Gríma left, he had seen enough.

That would likely have been the end of it, but for chance- fickle chance that has wed more couples than any matchmaker and slain more kings than any assassin. Gríma was walking to his lodgings- going about his business- when rain broke. It had been threatening all day but was swifter and heavier than he had expected. His cloak was worn- he had means to replace it, for the Master had seen him able to support himself before taking that final voyage, but he had not bothered to do so. He was regretting this when he heard laughter, and a man and woman came into his view- they had been caught in the rain too, it seemed, and one of them was Faramir.

Gríma sidestepped into a corner where he could not be seen. It was a reflex like breathing. With Faramir was his golden-haired princess, running about, splashing in puddles like a wild thing.

It was not Éowyn, but it was. It had to be. In long ago days when he had come to Edoras as a gangly young man, she had been still mostly a girl and had splashed in that wild way in the rain. But it could not be Éowyn, she could not be here, and she could not laugh that way, and look at Faramir with love that way, and kiss him with such tenderness-

If it was by chance Éowyn, she would not wish to be seen in this manner and by Wormtongue. And of course she wore a sword. He flitted away, and when he was out of earshot, he started walking very fast. It could not be Éowyn, it could not. She did not look joyful in that way- she could not, unless she was a different person than he had thought. He had thought she was simply aloof, a woman of melancholy temperament by birth, a woman alike to himself.  Saruman had fed that notion.

Gríma looked up with a snarl- the moment that Saruman came into his thoughts, they became less hospitable. He saw empty land dotted by trees. In fact he had left the town entirely. He must have gone through a gate, and told the guard why he had to go out, and not remembered a thing. Or had he scaled the wall somehow? At the moment he could believe anything.

Gríma looked behind him, and could see very little. The rain was thick. It had happened before that he had lost track of what he was doing, and simply wandered- and if anyone happened to be about, he might follow that person, like a duckling, which was a good way to be berated back into consciousness. But usually he did this on days when the visibility was better, and he didn't get so badly lost.

Life was full of disappointments. Éowyn had been capable of love and fire all along, and she simply, truly, sincerely had not liked Gríma; and now he was lost. He began to walk in what he presumed was the way he had come.

He heard running water ahead, and shuddered, thinking of the Isen. He had reached the creek outside of town to the east. Or was it west? He would simply have to turn and walk back, that was all. He turned, and at some point he must have turned again, because he was by the creek again.

Splashing and chortling noises came from somewhere in the water. Gríma had again run into someone at play in the rain. He turned away and started to hurry off.

The sounds abruptly stopped. Had he been seen? And now that he thought of it- it was rather odd for someone to be giggling and splashing here, so late, in the rain and cold. It was one thing to be caught in the rain in town and make the best of it with one's lover and another to be in the creek after dark. Gríma could not resist glancing back.

Two points of light like eyes were peering at him from across the water.

Half-orcs still dwelt in the countryside of Bree. "Forgive me for the intrusion," Gríma said, with a smooth bow. He turned and walked away, quickly.

Yet his thoughts strayed- then his feet strayed, and soon he found himself back at the creek. He eyed the water- it had become turbulent from the rain. He turned around, frowning, and looked over his shoulder. Had he crossed a bridge without meaning to?

Before he knew he had seen it, Gríma jumped backwards. A dim shape was before him, looking up with gleaming eyes. Again he wondered if he had crossed a bridge, but then he saw a familiar tree nearby, and judged that he had not done so, rather, this thing had been the one to cross to the other bank.

"Ha, ha! We've frightened him, my precious, not nice, not nice Sméagol," it said comfortably. The shining eyes were set in a pallid face that was mostly hidden by a dark hood. The creature was absolutely drenched, clad all over in sopping wet rags that it was snuggling itself into, the way one would expect to see a person nestling into a warm, dry coat. When it laughed, it showed fangs. "What is it the Men says? Peace! Peace. Sméagol doesn't bite, unless- unless someone scares him. But you won't, will you?"

Gríma had well practiced the art of learning names and their connections, and being alert to when they were said and by whom. He knew that the name of Sméagol had had some meaning to Sam and to the Master. That name had been spoken in hushed voices among the hobbits, as they watched Gríma dig aimlessly with his hands in the garden, and asked one another if he would return to Manhood at any point. These memories were fragmented. If Gríma had ever known who Sméagol was or why he was important, he no longer did.

He also did not know if encountering Sméagol unawares was a good thing. Some impression in his memory spoke otherwise, but perhaps this ominous sense was due to the trouble that had been within his own heart when he had heard the name, and not the grimness with which it had been spoken.

"Is he nice?" Sméagol asked, now beginning to sound tremulous. "Is he friendly? No blades. No nothing." He held up his hands, showing they were empty- and caked in mud. Indeed he looked harmless, even pitiful.

When in doubt, it was best to be polite. "Indeed, I am a friend, a trustworthy friend, who will do you no harm. It grieves me to have disturbed the peace of your evening," said Gríma with a deep bow.

Sméagol answered in a shrill cackle. "What pretty manners he has, o yes! How nice!"

"I thank you. Yes... even amidst mockey and derision, one can keep one's manners."

"O yes, yes, Sméagol has nice mannerses too, doesn't he?"

"The nicest manners I have ever seen in one of his kind," said Gríma. "And now, I regret that I must depart."

"Depart to where? Isn't he lost?"

Gríma did not answer at once. Sméagol continued: "We thought he was. He came to the edge of the creek, and then he looked at the water as if he had smelt something foul, and he walked away again, and he went back and forth like a fissh-" he demonstrated here with a motion of his hand- "and walked right back to the bank again and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. It seemed as if he must be lost, yes, and I can help you, I knows my way back. Yes, and I was just going there, going back." He absent-mindedly scratched at his stomach. "The Man might follow us if he's lost."

Gríma was trembling with cold, and must look blue, but he thought he sounded suitably calm. "Tis a generous offer, to a lowly stranger. Before I consider it I must first ask where you are going, kind friend."

"He asks where we're going. Ha, ha! Won't just go anywhere with a stranger. Too smart. Clever Man. We goes to Bree-town, of course. Sméagol is visiting. They lets him stay in a house, like a guest! Yes, we will be going back in through the gate. Right through. They told the Man there to let Sméagol through when he comes and goes, but you will have to tell them why you want to go back in. It is jusst back there, and you can find it on your own, perhaps. But it didn't look like he was going to find it, eh?"

 The creature's habit of referring to both himself and Gríma as 'he' by turns did not make his swift chatter any easier to keep track of.

"Very well," Gríma said finally. He was willing to risk being led to some bandit den in exchange for getting out of the rain. He knew most of the bandits anyway.  "Lead the way, and your servant shall follow." He bowed low.

"My servant, is he? Ha, ha! Very friendly, very nice Man. Come this way, this way." Sméagol bounded off on all fours.

Gríma almost, without thinking, dropped down to crawl after him. He caught himself just in time. Men did not crawl unless they were too weak to stand. Sméagol was plainly no Man- what he might be, Gríma did not know. One of the accursed things from legend that had begun crawling out into the sun when the War had stirred them up like mud at the bottom of a lake. At least Sméagol was only about the size of a medium dog and seemed harmless. It could have been worse, the trees could have gotten up and started scoffing, or the creek itself, perhaps.

Sméagol had stopped some distance away and was looking back at him. Gríma was standing still. He shook himself and shuffled after his guide.

The land about him was featureless. With nothing to draw his eye, Éowyn's face came back into his mind. Surely it had not really been her. How would she have even met Faramir? How could he be so certain it was her? True, he had never seen her like before, and suspected there was no one like her in all the world, but could that really be so? Were not all other women but Éowyn an interchangeable mess of humanity to Gríma's eyes?

"He's from Rohan, isn't he?"

Gríma jerked in surprise. His foot slipped on the wet grass and he pitched forward, hitting something wet and full of bones that squawked in dismay, then pushed Gríma back upright with compelling force.

"It watches its step," Sméagol snapped.

"Yes," Gríma said desperately. The shove had felt so familiar, even if Sméagol had used his clutching, dripping hands and not his foot or a stick.

"Slippery. Man is wearing foolish little shoeses. They are not even new. Ach! Men! He is heavy, heavy!"

"I'm sorry," Gríma whined.

"Yes, yes, he is. He keeps walking."

Gríma shuffled forward. He was tense all over, waiting, he realized, for the blow of a staff.

"Yes! Yes, like that," Sméagol said, with the sound of someone dragging on the reins of his temper. "Good, nice Man. Can't help being clumsy. Not nimble like a hobbit. Too big and clumsy. He watches his step now, yes?" He was rubbing his elbow and frowning. The creature was small, with little padding on his spare frame. If Gríma were in the mood to be generous, he might acknowledge that Sméagol could likely take quite an injury from being stumbled over by a Man.

"It was not my intent to fall," Gríma said.

"Of course not. No. Perhaps he stays a little father back, then."

"Gladly."

"His voice shivers. He's cold, isn't he?"

"Extremely. I see that your kind does not feel it, but mine does badly."

"Inside soon. Yes, then the Man will be warm. It is warmer this time of year in Rohan, that is what he's used to."

"You persist in speaking of Rohan."

"The Riddermark, they calls it there," Sméagol hummed. "We saw it on the way to Bree. Didn't we?"

"I am an exile," Gríma hissed. "I urge you not to speak the name of that place to me." He drew back, his body tensing to ward off another shove, though his rational mind thought it unlikely- if the creature took offense, a rebuke would do, and clearly he was ready with such words.

"Ohhh," Sméagol breathed. "That is hard. A hard thing, it is. Yes. Yes. A sad thing. We won't talk about it, precious. Don't need to say anything about the horse-lands."

"You are kind indeed. I do not wish to discuss the circumstances under which I left Rohan," Gríma said carefully, "nor the country. But I would wish to know, sire, if it pleases you, how you guessed at my place of birth."

"The way he talks," said Sméagol. "And he is so fancy. They has such nice manners in Rohan and Gondor, and he is not from Gondor, precious. And he smells like the horse-lords, doesn't he? Men can't tell, no. Men's noses isn't good for anything except looking silly."

An accent could be lost, Gríma mused. So could manners- his had been lost once already. And apparently his scent would be of no account to anyone normal.

"Sméagol is banisshed too," the creature lamented softly. "And his place is gone now, there is no trace of it. No one hears my talk and says, 'he is from the River'. No one sees my manners and says 'he was taught in the willow-lands.' They are all gone, gone, and no one is left who knew them at all."

"Gone," said Gríma in a distracted voice. "How was your land destroyed? Armies? The fighting Uruk-hai?"

"I don't know," he said in a tiny, painful voice. "The land is still there, but no one lives on it. When I looked, everything was gone. Gone. We dug- I dug there. Didn't find nothing. It had been years and yearses, hadn't it?" And then he made a noise, a sharp, distinct, and rather nasty noise that sounded a bit like gollum.

Gríma found that he had heard that noise before, or a facsimile of it. But he was not at first sure where he had heard it.

"Not orcses," Sméagol said, hesitantly, and in a carefully neutral tone. "They leave traces. Yes, always. They makes marks. They wants to say, 'I am an orc, and I was strong, and I was here,' because the next day- they may be gone, eh?" Again he made that curious swallowing noise.

Gríma had seen the kinds of marks orcs left. Those marks would have been all that was left of Rohan now if he had had his way back during the War. "What does that country look like now?" he ventured.

"Like no one ever lived there. Perhaps all along old Gollum came out of the mud at the bottom of the lake, and he's been telling himself a story," the creature whispered.

Gríma was quiet a moment, suppressing his irritation, which would do him no good, and, perhaps, it would be unkind- at least, the Master would have thought it unkind. If nothing else, he suspected that Sméagol would easily answer rudeness for rudeness and might even prove ruder than Gríma. "What a horrible thing," he said finally, instead of speaking what was in his thoughts, which was 'I meant Rohan, you fool'. "I can see you have suffered much. Rohan must have looked full of life to you."

"Yes, but he does not wish to talk about it!"

He had indeed said that he did not. "Perhaps-"

Gríma hesitated only a second, but Sméagol needed very little invitation to talk. "He wants to know how it's doing after all, perhaps? While it is still there?"

"I was premature in telling you what not to discuss. I have no power over you, you are only a generous stranger."

"The poor Man, he misses it, doesn't he? Homesick. Can't go back. Maybe it is better not to talk about it."

Perhaps it was better. "How long ago were you exiled," Gríma ventured, "if there was no trace at all left of your people? Were they travelers?" He did not care very much, but he may as well turn Sméagol back to what appeared to be his favorite subject- himself- rather than letting him wander to other subjects that might prove to hold unpleasant surprises.

"No," said Sméagol. "Not travelers. Not at all. They are all gone, we thinks. Don't know how. There was no Rohan when the fisherfolk lived by the River. They went away, and now we have the horse-lords, and they are tall and fine, and no one misses the nasty little people who would argue over fish and push each other down, and perhaps it is better this way."

"You are an incurable optimist," Gríma said. He himself would not speak to whether it was better to have more Rohirrim (even of the sort he most disliked) than more Sméagols. "Almost hobbitish in manner."

"Almost," Sméagol said softly. "Not quite. Not ever. So he would like to know what has happened to the Mark since they pushed him out, would he? Or would he not?"

"I would know," said Gríma, "as much as you have the ability to tell me."

"Rohan is very green and wide, and the winds ruffle the grasses. So many grasses. Bunches of horses walk wherever they wants to, and when they run it sounds like it is storming. And there are fat rabbits- nice rabbits. Field mices too, yes!"

"How edifying," said Gríma. "What of the people?"

"They are tall and has yellow hair. Like gold."

Gríma grit his teeth for a moment, then said quite naturally: "What of their structures, their buildings, their supplies?" He did not say 'I know what the Rohirrim look like and I want to know how many of them have been slaughtered by orcs'.

"Wooden buildings," said Sméagol. "Lotses of them, very tall, and walls built on the hill. But we did not go inside often." He added as an afterthought, "the people was away for the War, so they has lotses of rats, gollum."

"How long were they away?" In his mind he was calculating supply, deducting what he had helped Saruman take for the army, thinking of how much was needed to sustain so many people and for so long, and making a guess at how many had starved.

"Not long, not long, rats is quick." Sméagol, too, was quick, and difficult to keep up with on uneven ground- he scurried as if he were a rat himself. "Sméagol was under everyone's feets and in the way. There was a wedding. 'Go and be outside and be free in the grass, Sméagol', they said, which means they wants Sméagol to go away, but we goes nicely, yes, even when-"

"Who was wed?" Gríma asked sharply.

"Sméagol is bad with names, the silly thing. Why does the nice Man want to know?"

"Only curiosity, I am afraid I have the vice of gossip."

"Gossip, is it? We do not remember, can't help him gossip."

"Ah. Of course. You are a wild creature, and know little of Men, and their gossip, and their dwellings, and the horrors of war. I ought not tread on your dear innocence."

Sméagol was quiet a moment. "War," he said at length. "Not nice. Over now. Peoples are coming back and green things are growing. That is better- isn't it? Everyone says it is. We do not like all of the new things, but they are better than fires and marching armies. Why would we talk about war?"

"Why indeed? A wretched, sordid thing, a war," said Gríma.

"All war does is hurt people and make them hate each other. Even Sméagol knows that. Nasty Sméagol. I am not innocent."

"I would not like to allow you to believe that I am in favor of war," said Gríma. "I have made foolish errors, but never the error of thinking that war is glorious. Necessary, perhaps, and best ended decisively and in one's favor, but not glorious. It's a dirty, foul thing and most of it is done in secret. I do not wish to speak of war in order to relive some sense of triumph or honor but merely to establish whether my country has been destroyed!"

"It hasn't," said Sméagol.

"That is all I require," said Gríma, whose hands were shaking.

"Some places burnt. Already rebuilding. All be back someday- yes, it will. Or a new thing will be there, but nothing gone forever."

"I see." After the initial relief, Gríma was forced to contend with the notion that the Mark was better off without him.

“The Master said- they cannot conquer forever.”

“Many people never conquer at all,” Gríma muttered.

“They do not! And- and nothing is for ever and ever, is it? Whether you wish it or not.”

“In that you are correct. Everything ends- often without warning.”

"Everything, everything, gollum, gollum."

Gríma had placed the sound. Saruman had made that noise. Yes. Once. He had summoned Gríma, and said to him in great secrecy that some four-footed thing had fled Mordor, which must be taken alive if found, and delivered to the White Hand- and that was the noise that it made.

It had been an odd thing to hear Saruman the 'Wise' imitate such a sound. Gríma had asked him to repeat it, and had been politely denied. Saruman's temper had been so much better then. He had seemed like a confidant- a friend. They could even laugh together.

Gríma shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. He did not think to ask Sméagol about the matter- at this late stage, he didn't care what Sméagol had been doing in Mordor, or if it had been indeed he- Gríma presumed there were other creatures of like kind that could be expected to also move on four limbs and make a similar cry. If it had been the same creature, perhaps he would not like to remember.

Sméagol had other topics on his mind anyhow. "Yes, everything ends. There is a new age, it is the fourth. They says it will be the Age of Men. All the Elveses are going away, and it will be Men in charge."

"May the Men at long last grow wise."

"Men builds tall things, clever things," whispered Sméagol. "What does we need Elveses for when Men can build a tower that catches the Sun?"

"And for what do we need orcs when Men can raze their own countries to the ground?"

"Yes, for what? When Men can kill and hurt and break, what does we need the poor little orcses for?"

"And why do we need Wizards when Men can kill them?"

"Why, why?" Sméagol asked. "But what about hobbitses, eh? Will the Men need them?"

"Yes," said Gríma.

"For what?"

"To tell Men when they are being idiots."

Sméagol chortled at that. "Yes, yes. They will always do that, whether Men likes it or not. But I hope-" He fell silent. Maybe he was waiting to be asked what he hoped, but Gríma did not ask. Sméagol was forced to continue without prompting (he did not seem to require any permission to talk). "I hopes- they will not need us any more to go to places like the Shadow Lands, that's what we hopes, isn't it, precious?" His voice had gotten thin and fretful, and he continued to speak at a volume too low to make out. Gríma had his own thoughts to preoccupy him.

No more Wizards. He spat into the grass.

Gríma did not think of Sméagol again until, some time later, the creature began to hiss at him and then, when ignored, to touch Gríma's shins with clammy hands. Gríma startled away from him.

"We are at the gate," said Sméagol, with a gesture of his head. "Will they lets you in or does you have some little tunnel or something like that? Sméagol won't tell anyone, but if you wants to leave, go now."

A little tunnel? Ah, he thought Gríma might have need to breach the wall. "I am a legitimate resident of Bree-town," Gríma all but snarled.

"None of our business," Sméagol said. "Is he coming to the gate?" And then, speaking slowly and clearly, with some obvious effort to be understandable, he said: "I won't lie for you. I don't know you."

"I will speak to the gatekeeper on my own behalf," said Gríma, instructing himself that he had no cause to be angry, for it seemed that Sméagol was, in fact, trying to be fair by giving him a chance to leave, if his business were not legitimate, rather than turning him over to the guard. It did Gríma no good to let his foolish pride insist that a stranger ought not to treat him as though there was a chance he might be up to no good. Gríma must not look very reputable at the moment, drenched and bedraggled as he was. In his past he had turned people away for much lesser offenses.

Without another word, Sméagol shambled towards the gatehouse.

The Man sitting there was familiar, although Gríma could never remember his name. Sméagol sat up and waved to catch his attention. 

"Ah," said the gatekeeper. "Back again, I see."

"Yes, yes," the creature said with an awkward laugh, as the gatekeeper came outside with his lantern, in no particular hurry, while Sméagol watched him the way a small, wary animal watched things move. "We are back, and- we might go in? Go in by the gate?"

"Yes, don't worry, no one's told me to stop letting you in, and I'm not to inquire about what you're doing, even though-" He caught sight of Gríma then.

"We met this Man by the creek," said Sméagol, "and we do not know him. He seems nice enough to us."

"It is Gríma," Gríma mumbled.

"Gríma! Yes, I haven't forgotten so soon," said the gatekeeper. "I was beginning to wonder if I should send someone after you, for the hour is late and you went out in only a threadbare cloak."

Gríma nodded and tried to look as if he was not alarmed to hear that he had apparently spoken with this Man and remembered nothing.

"He was lost!" Sméagol laughed. "I brought him back with us."

"Well, then! It's luck you happened onto the little creature, isn't it, Gríma? Or he happened onto you, more like, I don't doubt."

It was luck of some fashion. Gríma mumbled something under his breath. He was still unused to anyone so much as feigning concern for his welfare.

"But come in, come in," said the gatekeeper. "Do you need to warm up in the gatehouse?"

"No," said Sméagol, "he doesn't- Gríma is coming with us. Come along, nice Man. Yes, that's the way, follow Sméagol."

Gríma did as he was told under the curious clammy force of the little oddity's personality, and only after the gatekeeper had bid farewell and the gate was shut behind him- and Gríma was following in the dark- did he realize. "I never agreed to go with you any farther."

"You did just now when you followed us, didn't you? We are staying in a little house, it is nice. He'd rather warm up in a nice house than in that gatehouse, with that Man who has fleas. Yes, it's not his fault that he has fleas, but he does, eh? We smell them. Come along, Gríma. Watch for puddleses. Mustn't trip."

Sméagol's tactics were obvious and not particularly refined; he simply said audacious things and acted as if it was already agreed that he would be given his way, and implied that doing what Sméagol wanted was so reasonable that no one would think to argue; the listener, not expecting that anyone would be so blunt and outlandish, was thrown off guard. Gríma ought to know better. A simple 'no' ought to put an end to things. "I do not wish to go to with you to your lodgings."

"Then don't follow us," said Sméagol. "I am not making you go where I am going, but you keeps following Sméagol."

This was true and Gríma could turn aside. Yet, he found he was wondering very much where this Sméagol was going.

"You brought me with you when you heard my name," said Gríma.

"He noticed, did he? Yes, we have heard his name," Sméagol said smoothly, "but I am not making you go anywhere, am I?"

He stopped near a small building, and blinked his pale eyes up at Gríma. "I am going inside and you can come with me, or you can stays here, or go somewhere else. I brought you into the town just as I said I would, yes I did. Helpful Sméagol." With this he flapped off.

Gríma found himself facing a stone wall. There was a door there set into the wall, quite plain and unassuming. Sméagol was busily wriggling through a window instead. There was nothing underneath the window to be climbed on and Gríma was at a loss for how he had gotten up to it.

Sméagol vanished into the building with a flick of his feet (which were flat and white, and soft, and had left wet flippery marks on the wall- had he climbed it?) and in the next moment the door clicked and swung silently open. A dim, warm glow came from within.

Gríma peered through the window and found his view blocked by a screen inside, some sort of room divider, which must also be between the window and the light, for it was quite dark. He heard a voice, a kindly human voice. "You're back!"

"Yes, yes, Sméagol always comes back whether he's wanted or not, doesn't he?"

"He is very much wanted. Did you enjoy exploring?"

"Yes, yes. Had a lovely time." Sméagol's voice was softer, nearly purring. It sounded as if being told he was wanted had produced quite an effect. "Met somebody, too." The voice came closer, accompanied by wet slapping noises. Sméagol's glinting eyes blinked up at Gríma, then turned aside and vanished into the dark. "He's looking in at the window even though he will not fit and the door is open. A silly Man."

"Oh!"

Gríma found himself looking into a new face- rather pleasant, boyish and polite, and evidently belonging to someone of great compassion or great stupidity if it was he who had been fawning over Sméagol. But it was also a Gondorian face, or so it looked to Gríma- dark of hair, and gray of eye.

"Good evening to you, sir," said the Man. "The weather is not pleasant for the likes of Men. Please come inside, and dry yourself. There is a fire burning."

Gríma sidled into the room, sideways, with his face downcast, as if he were trying, at this late stage, not to be noticed.

"It is Gríma," Sméagol said diffidently.

"Is that your name?" the stranger asked, as he led Gríma inside and closed the door.

"The creature may be mistaken," said Gríma, unwilling to confirm, but unable to deny. "I would like to know why you ask."

"I... see. I travel with the Lord Boromir, who is close to the hobbits who live in the Shire, and he knows they are friends of yours, and thus he has desired to speak with you. It seems Sméagol may have been trying to bring this about, but my lord has made it quite clear that he will not require your presence if you do not offer it, Gríma son of Gálmód, and you are free to warm yourself by the fire and then depart, if that is your wish."

Gríma glanced over at the creature Sméagol. The venom of his glance was nullified somewhat by the fact that this creature was now hiding behind the screen and likely could not see him. "I see," he said. "He brought me here for his own ends, it seems."

The only reply from Sméagol was a soft hiss.

"Perhaps in part," the Man admitted. "But Sméagol is a gregarious creature and likely would have brought you here anyway, if you had a kind word for him. He makes friends easily. Please remove your cloak and be seated, Gríma. My lord is not here now and will not trouble you if you do not wish it."

"Why won't he talk to Boromir?" This was Sméagol, who sounded rather stung. "Boromir is nice."

"Very nice," said the stranger, who was now physically wrangling Gríma into a chair and removing his cloak. "My name, so that you know it, is Faelon. I assist with tending the gardens in Minas Tirith, and I also assist in tending Sméagol- I have accompanied the Lord Steward and the General to Bree so that I may perform this latter office."

"An office of great honor," said Gríma. The numbness was wearing off, and his teeth were chattering. Perhaps that was why his sarcasm was lost on Faelon.

"It is, indeed!" the young Man cried. "I have had great fortune that I could never have anticipated. For my own part, I would urge you to speak with my lord Boromir for he is kind, and he has said he wishes to make an apology to you, though he did not tell me why. He will never force you to speak with him if you don't wish to, but he will be distressed if you refuse him."

Of course he would. Boromir had never been refused anything in his life. It would give Gríma a wicked pleasure to refuse him now, but an apology did also sound tempting. Even if it was an obvious ploy- a ploy for what, Gríma did not know, and that made him curious.

Saying nothing, Gríma scooted closer to the fire. The little room seemed to be divided roughly into halves- there were ordinary rushes on the floor where Gríma and Faelon sat, and there was a bare stone path that led behind the screen into the darkened half of the room. That must be for Sméagol, since that was where he had at once gone. Damp, muddy towels had been left crumpled up by the wall in his wake.

The Men's half of the room was supplied with a table and chairs, a chest, the small crackling fireplace, and a low shelf covered in sundries- Gríma saw a chessboard with figures, a handful of puzzle-toys, a well-worn journal, and a handful of seed packets that looked identical to the ones Samwise used- Gríma even thought he spotted the hobbit's neat handwriting on them.

Faelon had hung up the cloak he had confiscated from Gríma on a rack that sat along the bare stone path, where it could drip harmlessly. Beside it was a dry Man-sized cloak on one side and a soaking wet thing on the other side- removed from its odd owner, it could be seen for what it was, a hobbit's traveling garment. One of the chairs at the table was of the high, well-padded sort that hobbits in Bree used when they wanted to share tables with Men; this chair was worn, scratched up and slimy-looking.

"Didn't know who he was until the gate," Sméagol said shortly. Flip-flap sounds came from behind the screen as he pattered about. There was an article of clothing flung carelessly over the top of the screen- it looked like a pair of patched trousers, again sized for a hobbit. "He didn't have to follow us, did he?"

"I doubt you put him under arrest," Faelon laughed. "Be not angry, little one, Gríma is chilled and distressed, and I am sure he did not mean to accuse you of any wrongdoing."

"Yes he did, but we bears it. Sméagol is always upsetting peoples."

"Now, Sméagol."

Sméagol whimpered.

"If you deceived Gríma," said Faelon, "he may well be angry with you, but if you have done him no wrong, he has no call to be angry. Either apologize to him, or put his thoughts out of your mind if they are unjust."

"Didn't do nothing."

"Then be at peace."

"Yes, yes, peace. We sleeps now. Tired."

"Are you not hungry?" Faelon asked.

"No." His tone softening, and becoming a little self-conscious, Sméagol added: "Nice fishes in the creek. Don't need foods jusst now. Nice Man."

"I see," said Faelon. "It sounds as if you've had a good outing."

"O yes, yes."

Gríma pondered whether or not that counted as poaching. Likely it did not matter- if Sméagol was with the party from Gondor he could get away with anything. In any case Gríma would not have reported it. There would have been a time when he would have been required to do so, and looking the other way would have been a risky act that he would only perform in exchange for a bribe or a favor owed. Now he didn't need to bother about it. He was an ordinary citizen. Well- almost ordinary.

"Rest well, then," said Faelon. "I shall tend to Gríma."

Sméagol started snoring at once. Faelon returned and sat near Gríma. "He really is asleep," the young Man said. "He falls asleep quickly. Sméagol may seem energetic but he is quite old, and not well. He sleeps often and soundly. We will not wake him with our voices."

Gríma hadn't asked about that. "I thank you for the fire. Now, I shall depart."

"The rain is still pouring," said Faelon, "and you are still trembling. My conscience would be heavy if I let you leave and you fell ill. But perhaps someone is waiting for you?"

"No," Gríma muttered.

"Then I urge you to accept my hospitality."

Gríma turned away a little.

Faelon did not seem at all bothered by his standoffishness. "Did Sméagol cause you offense?" he asked politely. "He has a sweet nature, but he shows it with difficulty, and not all are suited for his company. He will sleep for some time, and will say no more to you upon waking if you do not wish it. He would obey me if I asked him to leave you alone."

"Sméagol is of no account to me but I do not desire to speak to your lord," said Gríma, "either the elder brother, or the younger." A horrible thought gripped him. "The King has not come to Bree as well, I hope."

"He has not. If he had, he would be kind to you. If you fear the Lord Boromir appearing unannounced, that is unlikely at this hour and this weather. Lord Faramir has only spoken of you to express that he believes you wish to keep your distance. The Lords Boromir and Faramir stay in the inn, the Prancing Pony. Sméagol and I have been appointed here because staying in the inn would not suit him- he is too nervous to be with so many other people, and his comings and goings at night would be disruptive. It would be cruel to confine him."

"Am I correct to presume that this creature has his permanent residence in Minas Tirith?"

"He does. It seems you do not know who Sméagol is?"

"I know nothing of him besides what he told me, and he told me little."

"Sméagol is a Halfling," Faelon said, quietly. He glanced at Gríma, perhaps expecting some surprise, but there was none to see. "He took part in the Quest of the Ring, and the other Halflings who took part are known to him. He is fond of them, and he is here because he wished to see them. Beyond that I cannot tell you more without Sméagol's consent, for he is a private person."

"As am I," said Gríma.

"No doubt you feel Sméagol deceived you by omission. He meant you no evil by it, for he loves Lord Boromir, desires to please him, and would never believe he could do you harm. I do not believe it of him either."

"The Lord Faramir is newly wed, it seems."

"Yes, to a woman of Rohan."

Gríma's shoulders hunched.

"You are pale," said Faelon. "I know a little of the healer's art-"

"I need none."

"I am not so sure. I urge you, rest the night here. You will come to no harm."

Gríma eyed the door. He could hear the rain lashing outside, and compared it to the sound of the crackling fire.

"I must be entirely truthful myself," said Faelon. "The hour is late, the weather is foul, my charge is asleep, and I would be glad to have company for a time. Sméagol is not so dependent upon me that I could not leave him for a little while and walk to the inn, but the rain deters me from doing so."

Faelon must know something of Éowyn, if he had traveled alongside her.

"I have wine and bread," said Faelon, "plenty to spare."

"I will accept your offer," said Gríma, graciously bowing his head.

Faelon was generous with the wine, which was quite good, and Gríma partook freely, as was the role of a guest. He could hold his liquor marvelously well, due to his court training, and it was entirely by choice that he told Faelon all about Éowyn and how he had thought she was naturally reserved and perhaps he'd known Saruman had been lying when he said Éowyn was 'playing hard to get' and would respond favorably to being kidnapped by orcs and 'rescued', but see, he had wanted to believe it-

He awoke some time later- he had nodded off in his chair, with his back braced against the wall. Faelon slept in the other chair, snoring gently.

While they slept, Sméagol had awoken and crawled up into the hobbit-sized chair. He sat leaning forward onto the table, resting the upper half of his body upon his folded arms. He was watching Gríma. There was no telling how long he had been watching Gríma.

Gríma stirred in his chair, swallowed, and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and his throat was rough. He suspected some of the earlier freedom of his tongue had been due to fever. Or madness, perhaps, and the misleading impression that things said here would stay within the quiet hut; but not entirely the wine, which had been mild.

He had said so many things.

"Is he sick?" Sméagol whispered. "He smells sick."

The room was silent but for that hissing voice- which meant the rain outside had stopped.

Without a word, Gríma got to his feet, and found his cloak without much trouble. His vision in the dark was better than average. Perhaps it was from practice, or perhaps from breathing too many fumes in Saruman's laboratory. 

Saruman! If only he were here now and Gríma could stab him again!

"He shouldn't be going out if he's sick," Sméagol chided.

"It's not raining," Gríma rasped. He put on his cloak and walked out into the street. It did not greatly surprise him when Sméagol padded after him.

"Doesn't matter if it's raining or not," said Sméagol. "Shouldn't go out. But we can't stop him, can we?"

"You seem to wish to try." It was perfectly safe to go out on this night, which had become mild in the passing of the rain- in fact the fresh air was wholesome. If anything were to hold Gríma, he might admit that leaving Faelon without so much as a goodbye was more than a trifle rude. And in fact, he did not dislike the poor naive boy. He just could never talk to Faelon or look him in the eye again.

Sméagol either did not think of any of that or did not think Gríma would care, for he did not speak of it. "Gríma knew the Master."

"Yes."

"Master didn't want anything to happen to him," said Sméagol.

"I am quite safe. Return to your bed."

"Not sleepy."

"It is late."

"Late! O, not for Sméagol. I am nocturnal," said Sméagol, pronouncing the word with a Gondorian accent, which made Gríma suspect that it had been taught to him, perhaps for the express purpose of using it in explanations like this one. "Just takes naps at night, sometimes. Like Men do in the day. We had our nap. Naps are over now."

"Very well. Go and do something else, then."

"Can't. We must watch the silly Man, so he doesn't break his fool neck. Master has gone away," and he started to weep, a spectacle which resulted in frequent golluming noises. "Gone forever. Won't be back. We didn't come here in time. I am never in time, I have missed everyone."

"His choice to leave was odd. There are many who would have helped the Master," said Gríma. "Surely his pain could have been eased without a step so final." Or, could it? Part of what bothered Gríma about the matter was the fact that he could not know, for Frodo had not told him enough about it. "I know a little leechcraft of my own. He chose to hide his pain, and leave..."

"But so are you. You are doing the same thing."

"I have the beginnings of a head cold. It is not remotely the same thing. You claim to know a great deal about Gríma."

"Not so much, no," said Sméagol, "only that the hobbitses helped him, when he was trapped by a cruel wizard, lucky Gríma. And the Master cared for him. And Sam does not trust him, so he has done something right, eh?" He laughed dryly. "Didn't know him when we met him, didn't know we saw him. Didn't know it was Gríma until he said his name."

"I was trapped by a cruel wizard and was lucky. That is all you were told? How... hobbitish."

Sméagol did not mention anything that Gríma himself had told him, an omission that did not strike Gríma as odd- after all, they both knew what they had chosen to say to one another and there was no need for a reminder.

Gríma glanced down at the creature beside him. His head was not covered as it had been before, and was exposed to the light of the streetlamps. The thin, pallid face that was now visible held Gríma's gaze, and would not let it go; its sharp corners and flinching eyes and thin frowning mouth were things Gríma knew but made strange, distorted, familiar and foul. It was a face that Gríma had never seen before today, but it also was a face he had seen all of his life, or one he had been somehow waiting to see. Every strand of thin hair straggling about that face seemed to be in its accustomed spot. The point of a fang that barely showed at the sunken corner of the mouth was just where it had always been.  

Sméagol ducked his head a little. Gríma understood that he did not like to be stared at, and made himself look aside.

"Now we have answered his question," Sméagol snapped, "he must tell us what he knows about Sméagol. That is fair."

"Very little," said Gríma. "I know that you are familiar to the same hobbits that showed mercy on me, that you knew the Master, and that you yourself are a hobbit and had something to do with the Ring, at some time. I know too that my cruel wizard sought at one time to hold you, which I expect had something to do with this same Ring."

Something unpleasant entered Sméagol's flickering gaze at the mention of this Ring. "Sss. Sss."

"I do not seek to know more. I can guess that this same matter is how you are acquainted with the lords of Gondor, and that is nothing to do with Gríma, and I am pleased to be out of it. The only thing concerning me is your connection with the Master."

"He's not curious, is he?"

"Not at all."

"Not about anything?"

 A vague memory surfaced, that while Gríma had been speaking of the way Éowyn's hair shone in the sunlight (and how she had been in public at the time she was practicing her fluid and sure-footed swordwork and it was therefore not strange or inappropriate for him to watch her), and saying that he hoped Faramir appreciated these things properly- Sméagol had stumbled out from behind the screen and asked for a drink of water. At the time Gríma had paid no mind, and simply continued talking while Faelon fetched a cup of water at an unhurried, unbothered pace, and gave it to his charge, who sat there and sipped it for quite some time before going back into the dark.

Did Sméagol know Éowyn?

"It is better," Sméagol said idly. "Better not to be curious, yes. He doesn't think it's strange that they calls us hobbit?"

"No."

"We doesn't look much like one, does we?"

"It is easy to change one's form. That does not alter what one is. At first I was deceived by this superficial thing, but I know better by now and I had guessed you were a hobbit before I was told, for I saw that you were wearing a hobbit's clothing, and it struck me that you had greeted me in the way a hobbit would, with an easy demeanor and an offer of service, and merely with different accent and manner, for your accent and manner are of your lost River-people and not those of Bree or the Shire. Likewise a Man of the Riddermark is not the same as a Man of Gondor, but both are Men."

Sméagol yawned, opening his mouth very wide, like a cat. He didn't appear to have many teeth left.

Gríma didn't dare allow himself to yawn widely that way anymore. His tongue went to the points in his mouth where his own teeth had been lost- some to Saruman's fist and some to scurvy.

"Hobbits walks on two legs," said Sméagol.

"As do you. Plainly, those are arms, and not legs," said Gríma, with a gesture at Sméagol's pale hands. "You have hands, like a Man, not paws like an animal. Men too can be made to crawl. Some are fortunate enough to get back up again. You were not. Your look has been altered, as well, by the ravages of age, which are common to all things that survive long enough to feel them."

Sméagol looked disbelieving, but said no more. Gríma judged this subject was unwelcome, and he had said all that he had to say regardless.

"Lord Boromir is a favorite of yours, it seems," said Gríma.

"Yes, yes, a favorite, that he is."

"What of his brother?"

"Not a favorite.” He pulled back this statement at once with an awkward laugh. “O he is nice enough, yes, but we do not see him much. Not friends. Acquaintanceses." As Gríma drew breath to speak, the creature cut him off: “Won’t gossip about his wife.” He gave Gríma a sidelong glance.  

Surely you see my position, the glance seemed to say (or perhaps more accurately Surely you sees our position). I am a little wretch living among Big People. I am too blatantly devious to claim that I didn’t see any misdeed in answering your questions, and I am too untutored in the customs of Men to keep my doings from being found out. This leaves me in a place where I can get away with nothing, and must really be honest. I will not risk my place for you, for I do not know you. You cannot appeal to our shared duty to Frodo, for the Master would not have approved of this and we both know it.

“Very well,” Gríma said.

“We will answer questions about Sméagol if he wishes.”

“I have none.”

“None at all?”

“Would you prefer that I did?”

“No,” said Sméagol, “but people wonders things.”

“I have told you it is not my affair,” said Gríma, “and I will not feign interest in you to suit your desire for attention.”

Sméagol eyed Gríma as though he were a particularly interesting insect. “Very well, very well. Doesn’t want to know about the… sss… the Ring?”

“No. I do not care.”

“He doesn’t care, precious!”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, no attention for Gríma.”

“Very well.” Silence descended, broken by Gríma’s occasional dry coughing, and Sméagol’s various snuffling and choking sounds. He managed not to speak, though Gríma suspected he wanted to.

At long last, they reached Gríma’s boarding house. He stepped up to the door and looked back. Sméagol was sitting on the road behind him, blinking up like a cat that wonders if perhaps it will be invited in. The town was quiet this night and even the fairly short walk back to Sméagol’s lodging would no doubt seem lonely.

Gríma whisked inside without another word to the bedraggled thing. He fancied he heard a wistful sigh as the door shut.

Gríma appeared for his usual work the next day at the usual time- he did several odd jobs around Bree, most of which the Shire-hobbits had put him forward for, and many of these jobs involved accounting or figures. He was meant to be doing sums today for the blacksmith. However, the blacksmith took one look at his sweating face and told him, politely but firmly, to go home.

“I don’t have a home,” Gríma rasped, “merely a place to wait out the term of my existence.”

“Go there, then.”

Gríma went there and went back to bed. He was woken by a knock at the door, and when he answered it, there stood Lord Boromir.

“That cur!” Gríma cried. “That wretch! He has played me false, the treacherous amphibian serpent! The crawling lantern-eyed mongrel, the descendant of orcs! I hope he chokes on whatever it is that he’s always swallowing!”

Boromir had remarkable composure at this stage in his life. His eyebrows rose and he said: “You do not speak of Pippin, I hope.”

Gríma spat on the ground and said: “Pippin the Took?”

“The same.”

“Of him I do not speak.”

“Twas he who directed me to your place of residence and advised me to meet with you.”

“An unfortunate error, my lord.”

“On your part or his?”

“I spoke of my error, but he erred as well by directing you here, for you have had a poor welcome.”

“I have,” said Boromir, “but that welcome was given by you, not Pippin. But do not let us speak of it. Your true anger, I suspect, was directed at the sight of me, and you have no real quarrel with any unfortunate crawling figures who may have lantern-eyes.”

“Very astute, my Lord,” Gríma mumbled. Now that Boromir was here, it seemed inevitable, and best to get it over with. 

Boromir was no longer in fit fighting condition- he used a cane, and held himself in a careful fashion that made Gríma suspect less visible hurts. Pain had carved his face, but his eyes were gentler than Gríma remembered them and his voice more measured. “You have offended me not; it was no more than I deserved coming unannounced when I knew I was not certain of my welcome. Pippin did not tell me falsely, he warned me you may be displeased. I chose to come. But I will not enter your rooms if you do not give me leave, Gríma son of Gálmód, for I did not come to berate you or to press you under the yoke of my rank so far from the White City.”

“I would do you the courtesy of inviting you inside,” said Gríma, “but it would not be a courtesy on this day, for I am not fit to receive guests. It is my hope that the business you brought can be conducted here on my doorstep.” He was not lying- his apartment was filthy, and he would not even have allowed someone of the like of half-wild Sméagol to see it, let alone a noble.

At this stage it did not even occur to him to try to send Boromir away entirely.

“I will not enter,” said Boromir. "My words can be spoken here where I stand, if you will hear them."

"Speak as you wish."

"I came to apologize, for in the past, I treated you unfairly. As my fellow Man, you deserved better and I am grieved to think that I may have in my own way caused you to stumble. For plainly you are not evil at heart, and perhaps if you had seen more kindness in your life you would have been stronger when the trial came to you. I could have offered you such, it would have cost me nothing to give you a word of friendship and I did not do it. I was remiss.” He inclined his head respectfully.

Gríma said nothing and began to chew his nails.

“That is all I came to tell you,” said Boromir.

“Are you apologizing to all Men to whom you have given an arrogant look or harsh word?”

“Not all, of course,” said Boromir. “I could not manage to do so within my lifetime, as I am sure you suspect! But in your case the harm was especially great, and you are close at hand, and we have common friends who care about your welfare. I would have had to make a choice to neglect you.”

“I see.”

“I do not wish to compel you to pretend gratitude for my meager words,” Boromir continued, “only for you to know that a wrong was done, and that you are yet a Man, who should be treated fairly. I will depart shortly if you have no words for me.”

“I have none, my lord,” said Gríma. “I have never been spoken to thus. This is strange."

“It is strange to me as well,” said Boromir. “Many things are strange in this world without the Shadow, and I have the choice to linger bitterly in my faults and wish that my strengths were applied exactly as they were before, or to accept the guidance of the ones shaping this new age, who are generous enough to lead me, and face the responsibility of my new freedoms.”

Gríma raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“You know about that better than I,” said Boromir. “I confess you remind me of another, who is often mistreated for strangeness of manner he cannot help, and has suffered for want of kindness- and caused others to suffer. I have an interest in his welfare and I have an interest in yours. I owe it to Frodo. Should you need my help, please call upon me, although I am not as useful as the Shire-folk or the Bree-landers in this peaceful new world.”

Gríma nodded.

“But now I suspect the best thing I can do is leave you to your rest. Farewell,” and Boromir left, and Gríma nodded for some time afterwards.

Left alone to stew in his own misery, Gríma had time to reflect on what had happened. He must think of it as Boromir had meant it, and not as Gríma was tempted to take it. The nobility did not apologize lightly.

Gríma began to work on a letter. He did not wish to see Boromir in person again if he could help it- something about the zealotry in the large Man’s eyes had unnerved him. Neither did he want to have another glimpse of the creature Sméagol, who was apparently the General’s beloved pet. This was not, upon reflection, as bizarre as it might seem. Sméagol was unlovely and unpleasant enough that one could feel that one was a righteous and compassionate fellow for giving him the time of day, and his problems were obvious, so that anyone who saw him would know his friends were compassionate. Sméagol was clever and aware of his own shortcomings enough to know when to flatter someone who was taking pity on him. He was politically important in some fashion thanks to the hobbits and the Ring. He was tailor-made to be a troubled noble’s project.

Gríma could almost find it in his own heart to pity Sméagol. The old hobbit seemed to have been born with the destiny to be someone-or-other’s pawn, and he was just sharp enough to know it. No doubt he would always suspect anyone who showed him kindness.

To the most generous and estimable Lord Boromir of Gondor, his humble servant Gríma takes the liberty of writing. You have shown yourself to be a merciful and just Man, and one who will treat fairly with the words of one so debased.

When you spoke so graciously to your servant last evening, your servant was ill-disposed and ill-equipped to reply in an appropriate manner. Therefore I submit now my acceptance of your gracious apology. You have shown a consideration for others that most in your position shall never consider that they ought to attempt.

This was Gríma’s true and honest opinion.

You offered me your services and so I offer mine in kind, should ever you require a manservant. I am moderately skilled in figuring and herb-lore, as well as able to perform manual labor.

Here he gnawed at the end of his feather-pen for some time, and at length, he noted:

In the past I regret to say that I was involved in unpleasantries involving the Lady Éowyn. She will not wish to see me, or hear the words of Wormtongue again in any fashion, nor do I wish to inflict my words upon her. But you, my lord, I will present my case to, for I do not wish for you to hear the words of others and fear you are wrong to say that Gríma is not evil based upon a misunderstanding. You ought to know the truth.

I behaved selfishly concerning this Éowyn. I am cold of heart, and could not be said to have loved her. Yet neither did I wish to do her harm. I deceived myself that I would not do so regarding her, and willfully closed my eyes. Seeing the happiness she has found with your brother has undeceived me, for it is a happiness that she would never have found at my side. I will never approach her again.

I beseech you to remember what you told me, and what noble beliefs you now hold, and to not withhold your kindnesses to those who may yet be saved.

No more to you at this time.