The Two Towers begins - Wormtongue & Do Not Trust to Hope

[written_leaves]

I'm beginning this poetry set for TTT with snapshots of how events were wending along in Rohan, the next stop for (some of) our main characters. Grima Wormtongue (i.e. tongue of smooth deception rather than tongue of worm) is to me a fascinating figure, the corrupted and downfallen nobility that could have been so much more if he had only not turned aside to darkness to meet his personal obsessions. Still, Eowyn had it right when she called him a snake.

With it is a sketch of Eomer in his despairing over the his people and the encroaching corruption and violence he could not seem to hold back.

Wormtongue

Voice smooth as silk,
Warm and
Replete with carefully chosen wisdom,
Soothing as softly perfumed oils;
Tongue bearing the essence
Of a dragon's cunning,
Wormtongue.
The voice of the ancient dragons,
The great Worms of old
Lives on in your choices of words,
Like the hypnotic gaze of a snake,
Your counsel gently approaches and
Binds.

Softly you use them to weave your net
Around him,
Slowly, slowly you notch it tighter...
Ensuring he will make no move
Or decision without you.
Until he can be consumed;
His will sipped away drop by drop,
Under the spell of your counsel.

How wise your words sound,
How compassionate and kind,
Always in great consideration
Of his weaknesses.
Convincing your prey that you alone
Truly understand him.
As a dragon counts and tallies his gold,
You carefully weigh the balance of your power.
Surely as a good servant you will be rewarded?
Surely, the one who taught you how to speak thus
Will grant you your riches in due time.
Surely the one who taught you to deceive so well
Is trustworthy...

As a dragon secure in your lair
You curl around your ill-gotten treasure,
In foolish assurance you do not fear
These few, newly come to the door.
The power of the tongue
Seems greater than any man's strength...
And the woman you have been promised
Is always kept near.

-
Do Not Trust to Hope

Gone to dust, returned to the soil.
Another empty place in our line.

Too many fingers yet curled around the reins,
Dead hands I've pulled away from
Beloved companions.
Too many uncomprehending equine eyes
Watching their masters set into the ground,
Covered over with earth and stone.
The familiar weight gone from their backs,
The well-loved voice stilled.
Mute questions unanswerable.
Do not trust to hope.

Too many men beloved as brothers
Whose life's blood yet stains their saddlebows.
Too many.
Somewhere inside, the small corner
That I allow to remain softened
Keens and weeps at their loss, mourns bitterly
And beats its fists.
I shut the door on it.

Too commonplace has death become...
Do not seek reassurance from me.
What hope have we?
Abandoned by our allies,
Surrounded by our enemies.
Trust not.
-