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
For I did dream, back then.