by NorthStar


I cannot get used to these rooms, these small, low-ceilinged holes with curved walls and round windows, made for those small in stature and mind as well. I crouch over the tiny writing table, squinting in candlelight’s pale flicker as I strain to write these words, the tale of my life. In the careful script of my youth, I inscribe these pages…the Tale of Grima Wormtongue.

Often I am so immersed in remembrance that I do not feel the shadow looming over me until the voice interrupts my thoughts, the voice that has lost its power to command men, but not the naïve folk of this land. ”Who will want to read of you?” he has asked scornfully. “You have precious little wisdom to offer the world, thou Worm.” My master is cruel, more so now than ever before, and still I fear him; so I nod in obeisance and set aside my papers and ink, while secretly seething. He thinks little of me, but that does not matter. Nor does it matter what is thought by those who will read these words. I know that my time on this earth has been of import, that I have shaped men’s destinies in ways I could never have imagined as a child, even deep in my darkest dreams.

For I did dream, back then.