Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire

He liked Sharkey. The old man seemed a bit odd, true, but he was being most supportive. He agreed with everything Lotho decided. He had moved him to a different room for his office, one deeper into the Hill. A room with no windows, no outside walls. ‘Where there can be no chance of spies, Chief Lotho, my friend.’ Shakey had said, his voice so very warm and soothing. He always showed such concern.

The room was a bit chill, it was freshly delved into the earth, but Lotho knew his dear friend would have the walls tended to soon. Lotho never needed to leave the room, so thoughtful of Sharkey. There was a small simple bed, a nice sized desk with lots of pigeon holes, the large map of his realm hung upon one wall, a table where he took his meals, a chamber pot beneath the bed.

From time to time, Lotho would wonder now his mother was faring. But the concern was fleeting. Sharkey had confided to Lotho that Lobelia had been seen gossiping with other hobbits and Sharkey was unsure of her trustworthiness. This really came as no surprise. Mother had been acting strangely of late. He had begun to wonder . . . for whom was it that she was spying on him? Just as well that Sharkey kept her away.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts as he lay upon his bed, dozing. "Enter," Lotho said, his voice sounding strange from lack of use and drowsiness. The door opened. It was only Sharkey’s servant, Wormtongue.

Wormtongue slunk about Bag End like the shadow of a thought. The Men loathed him, so they ignored him, except to shove him out of their way as needed. Saruman . . . Grima trembled and looked furtively about at the mere thought of his Master . . . Grima was Saruman’s good dog. Wormtongue bared his teeth at the thought, looking all the more dog-like in truth. He had done the hunting for food while they had wandered, using his bare hands as Saruman had allowed him no weapon. He gnawed the bones and gristle that his Master cast aside. Then they were here, in this place, in the Baggins’ place. At least Grima no longer had to hunt. He now had the scraps from the Men as well as the Master. Well, until a bit ago. The men still threw their scraps into the corners of the kitchen and dining room. But now, well . . . the Men fouled the piles. Grima did not know that Saruman had ordered them to do so. The only scraps Wormtongue received were the Master’s. But Saruman was content, almost happy. They were living where the Shire rats were from, where the evil little rats who had come with the Tree Demons had been bred. Saruman was decorating it to his liking, Grima cackled at that thought! A little surprise for the Lordly Rats.

The Master had told his Men to leave the silly little Chief’s hag alone . . . totally alone . . . unless they saw her outside of Bag End. Wormtongue chuckled gleefully, Saruman couldn’t have her out and about amongst the other little rats, could he? No, he couldn’t have that. She might tell them who was really in charge of their sty. They had orders. The Men had orders. Drag her off at once if they ever saw her out of the hole. And they did. Wormtongue laughed until he coughed and retched.

Saruman smiled to himself. Things were most satisfactory. Perhaps, he thought, he had miscalled these pathetic creatures: rats were smarter than these foul little fools. Rabbits. Hobbits. Saruman laughed. Yes, much better. Scared, brainless, defenseless Rabbit-hobbits.

He was becoming quite comfortable in their little land, it would soon be most homey indeed. He would soon take care of, what was it called? Ah, yes! Tookland. His men would move in and kill every Rabbit they found. The hills, the Green Hills, Saruman laughed, they would be green no more. Ore lay beneath them, of that he was certain. Well, reasonably certain. He would have them dug flat if need be and if there was no ore . . . just as well. He cared not.

Buckland. Now Buckland would be interesting. How much of it would remain above water when the dam was built at The Bounds? He was looking forward to finding out. But, for now, there was another small matter to attend to.

"Move along, Worm! How long must you take to slither down this tunnel?" Saruman’s voice had none of its smoothness now, Grima no longer needed it, or did he? "Now then, Grima."

Grima looked up, his eyes flashed for a moment at the use of his real name. Saruman continued to speak, his voice as it had been of old when dealing with Grima . . . honeyed poison.

"You have not been feeling useful since we have arrived here, have you, my good Grima?"

The man in the black ragged clothes cowered, then drew closer as he shook his head. He said nothing.

"You feel I’ve no need for your talents any longer, that I keep you about only to chastize you." Smooth flowed the words from Saruman’s lips. "Am I right in this, Grima?"

The man inched closer to the wizard. This time the head nodded.

"I am truly sorry, my most loyal associate. It has been most careless of me to allow you to feel I no longer have need of you. As it is, I have great need of you at this time." They arrived at the kitchen. Grima started salivating. There was stew cooking over the fire. "I do suppose it seems an unimportant task, but perhaps you can take dear Chief Lotho his dinner?" Saruman placed an empty tray in Grima’s hands.

Grima only had eyes for the stew in the pot, the ladle dipping into the stew, the stew pouring into a bowl. "Yes, my lord," he said absently.

The bowl was placed upon the tray along with a spoon, a piece of bread, a mug of water . . . and a long sharp carving knife.

"Come along now, dear Grima." The wizard took hold of his slave’s shoulders, turned him about and gave him a small shove toward the door way. "Prove to me that I have been wrong to neglect you so by doing a good job for me now."

Grima nodded and walked on ahead of his master. He nearly stumbled twice, as his eyes were fixed on the bowl of stew instead of the debris strewn tunnel. He kept having to swallow.

"Here we are," Saruman intoned as they came to Lotho’s door. He leant close to Grima’s filthy hair that covered the man’s ear. "How good that stew looks, don’t you think, Grima?" He paused to let the thought sink in. "And how good it smells. Does it smell good to you, Grima?"

Grima’s eyes grew brighter. His stomach churned from all the saliva he had been swallowing.

"You would like that bowl of stew yourself wouldn’t you, my dear Grima." The Voice was low. The Voice was soft. The Voice and the bowl of stew were the only things in the world. Grima nodded. "There is a way for you to have the bowl of stew all for yourself. Shall I tell you the way, my good Grima?" Grima nodded. "The little one inside has no need of the knife, my dearest Grima. He has no need for the knife." The Voice. The Stew. "See, there is only the slice of bread, not a loaf. There is nothing to spread upon the bread. The little one has no need of the knife, Grima, my old friend."

The Voice.

The Stew.

The Knife.

"Should something happen to the little one, you could have the bowl of stew, Grima."

The knife was taken up from the tray. It was placed in Grima’s hand so that it was held by curled fingers hidden from view beneath the tray.

Saruman knocked upon the door. A faint "Enter" was heard.

The door was pushed open.

Grima carried the tray to the table.

Lotho began to sit up.

Lotho gasped.

His life’s blood flowed around the knife, buried to its handle in his heart.

Grima cared nothing for the dead hobbit. He turned back to the table.

The bowl and the bread were gone !

He heard soft laughter.

Saruman stood behind him, looking at the bloody corpse . . . holding the bowl of stew and the bread.

"Good! You have taken care of their miserable little ‘Chief’, my dearest Worm. Very good. You deserve a reward."

The Voice had changed. Wormtongue cowered. Hatred filled his eyes. Saliva ran from one corner of his mouth.

"This?" Saruman smiled as he gestured with the bowl. "You think this is your reward?" He looked down at the bowl in his hand. Saruman dipped the bread into the thick rich gravy, let some drip lazily off onto the dirt floor before putting it into his mouth to bite off the juices-soaked bread. He chewed a few moments. "Quite good, this." He looked at Wormtongue. "This?" He gestured again with the bowl. "This is my dinner. Oh! Are you hungry Worm?" Saruman used the hand holding the bowl to gesture toward the small bloody figure on the now soiled bed. "Have some Hobbit!" Saruman swiftly passed through the doorway, flinging the door shut behind him. As he flung himself at the door, Wormtongue heard the bolt on the outside slide into place.

Two days later, the smell of meat beginning to turn finally got the better of Wormtongue.