Warnings: slightly dark/angsty
Book/Source: Lord of the Rings
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Tolkien. No profit reaped by myself, aside from a wealth of intellectual giddiness.
Note! – These two drabbles ('Barrow-wight' and 'Ghost' prompts, respectively) have gone beyond being fashionably late and are simply scandalously late. I had some kind of mental block, which the prospect of the next challenge (yep, I will be continuing with Gríma) unstuck. If entries to the challenge before last are inappropriate at this late hour, feel free to remove.
_________________________________ Wherein Things Have Not Gone as Planned
2 March, 3019
Orcs, Rohirrim, all one to him, all peril. Gríma rode to exhaustion, curling up in the tall grass around midnight.
He dreamed they dragged him out of Meduseld again, with Théoden’s sword Herugrim; except Meduseld became one of the burial mounds, and Stormcrow proclaimed that Gríma was a barrow-wight. The mounds, the grass, the people all leered menacingly over him. Éowyn repeated the glare of unadulterated hatred she’d given him that morning.
He woke wretched, still tired, but took to horse again. Isengard would offer no refuge from nightmares, but at least its walls were strong.
_________________________________ The Wizard’s Vale
The mist cloaking Nan Curunír grew unnervingly dense. Something ghastly loomed up, interrogated Gríma, and coerced him onward into the ruin of Isengard.
He slogged through filthy water, nearly indifferent now, like a ghost surveying the ruins of a former life. It had been folly to think he could have lasting influence or respect or strands of gold trailing through his fingers.
At least Saruman couldn’t blame Gríma’s failure, having fared no better. Saruman was the nearest thing Gríma had to a friend, not that one would dare call him that. Perhaps they might commiserate on their downfall.