If all goes well and my muse is feeling friendly, this should develop into a series. If not... oh well. Lyrics are taken from the song "Fire in the Sky" by Ozzy Osbourne, one of the few people of our time worthy of worship-- the others are J.R.R. Tolkien, of course, and Hugo Weaving, and Johnny Depp. And hey, why not a disclaimer while I'm at it? I don't own LotR, or darling Gríma. But you knew that already. Wish I did, though, even though very little writing would get done ;)

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I. Fire in the Sky

The introduction to his heartache began as a child
So it's no wonder that he grew up to be so wild
So he protected his feelings in walls he imagined
But castles crumble exposing the frightened child

There was little joy upon the hour of my birth. In the dead of winter did I enter the world, when Rohan was covered with snow and the thatched-roof homes did not suffice to keep out the bitter cold. Like the last thin plants that struggled to push out through the snow and find the life-giving sun, I too was born weak and hungry.

The birthing had drained my mother, but still, as she had often told me when I was a child, that she had smiled to see me alive and well after such an ordeal. My mother loved me, perhaps because we were rather alike. I adored her, clinging to her apron strings and the words of her bedtime tales alike; and she never ceased to offer me her undivided attention. We both were in poor health more often than not, and yet she was always the stronger, for she would be the one to get up every morning, telling me to stay in bed while she made some hot soup for the both of us.

My father, however, was ashamed of me. He thought it impugnation of his honor to have such a sickly boy as his only child. He had said many times to my mother when he thought I was sleeping, that even a strong maid- child would have been better than me.

As I grew older, he tried – "tried" being the key word – to teach me what he called "the fine art of swordplay." It was, of course, sheer folly on his part to attempt teaching anything about weaponry to a boy who was far too often bedridden. Swords were heavy and unwieldy things; I had interest in another thing: the world of words. My mother found books for me that I might pass the time, and I was fascinated with facts and tales about everything under the wretched sun that made my eyes hurt and my skin itch. I attempted to explain to my father numerous times that physical force was completely unnecessary under most circumstances, for a clever speaker could talk his way out of anything or convince a man to throw himself into a fire depending on his desire. Words could start or end a war as simply as a battle.

Suffice to say that my father and I never saw eye to eye.

When I was weak with sickness he called me a failure, and I would try to hide my tears as he shouted in frustration. He would storm out and my mother would come with soft words and a loving maternal embrace. I could never hide anything from her, and we would weep together in my lonely little corner of the house.

Understand this: my father was not a bad man, nor a cruel man. He had desired what all fathers wish, and that is a son who they might shape in their own likeness and teach to love what they love. Looking back at him now I realize the frustration he must have felt. This does not, however, make me stop detesting him, nor does it make me regret his death.

I have come to believe that all people are born clean and accepting, and that the experiences we go through shape us along the way. Sadly, a few too many dark stains were made upon me, and I came to hate my father with all the passion I could muster. I envisioned him dying a thousand times, sometimes at my own frail hands, sometimes in battle against those fearsome creatures he abhorred, sometimes in a tragic accident. Most of all, I rather enjoyed the thought of our humble house burning down with him trapped inside. My mother and I would escape, though, and start a new life somewhere else, free from him.

I once told my mother that I had been having these thoughts. Her face grew grim and she said to me quite seriously that she could not control what went on in my mind, but that she never wished to hear me speak that way again. She said that since I understood the power of words, I should know better, for often to speak a thing is to make it so.

It was because of this that after my mother blew out the candle and left me in the dark every night, that I would whisper quietly into my pillow, "Let him burn."

Fire in the sky
Can't you see that all my castles are burning
Fire in the sky
Won't you help me now my castles are burning


Since I had proved myself thoroughly incapable of proving any use to the Riders of Rohan, my father had, as if to make up for this incompetence, become even more vehement in his hunting of orcs. A renowned Rider himself, he would go on hunts, then return and go to the mead-hall where he would boast of how many of the beasts he had killed. He had long realized that to share these tales at home was to have as responses only encouraging, tolerant smiles from my mother and dark looks from me; at least at the hall he had the pleasure of being intoxicated and being surrounded by people that matched his own intelligence.

After one of many of his little hunting parties, he did not return. He and his company had become the prey when the orcs laid siege to their camp and set it ablaze. Only a few survived, and they too died of wounds shortly after gasping out their unfortunate tale.

My mother was thrown into shock at the news. When at last she accepted it, she collapsed in my arms and sobbed as though the world was ending. I tried to comfort her and tell her that we didn't need him, that we would be just fine without him. I was then, unfortunately, only a reader of words and not yet an overly convincing speaker, and something in her eye changed as she pulled away.

She had remembered the things I had said about his death; I knew this even though she never told me so. I knew because she refused to look at me for days. To lie and say that I truly was sorry for his death would perhaps have been an easier way out, but she was the only one to whom I would not lie.

In solitude he couldn't deal with his own existence
The burning questions in the castles have still remained
God only knows how he searched in vain for the answers
Now castles crumble exposing his naked flames


Things healed between us; they had to, for we were all each other had. But after some time, she fell more ill than I had ever seen her. Night and day I cared for her; for once in my life I had to be the stronger one. I read every book on medicine which I could find – and they were scarce indeed – but I might as well have been trying to cheat Death itself. She died just before I reached my seventeenth year. Death took her as she slept, as I sat at her bedside holding her weak hand in mine. She looked as though all her cares had been washed away.

She was at peace, but for the first time in my life I knew what it was like not just to be lonely, but to be truly and utterly alone.

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Well, what do you guys think? I'm rather fond it it ;) Hey! I'm listening to "Canon" by Pachelbel and it's officially the best piece of classical music ever written! lol... please review and you'll get a Grima plushie!