The Hook Beneath the Skin

He thought he was pulling the strings. Lyrics Easy now. A frightened king needs careful words. A weary mind needs softer truths. Lean close. Let me carry what you cannot. No blade drawn, no banners raised, I conquered halls with a lowered gaze. A word in the morning, a doubt at night, Turn the strongest hand from the coming fight. No poison bites like fear well-fed, No chains hold tighter than thoughts in your head. I never commanded, merely advised, And watched an old king see through my eyes. They call me Wormtongue. Let them. A worm crawls blind beneath the heel. But I've felt the points beneath my skin. I know what I am. I am the fang behind the throne, The quiet venom in the bone. Never need to strike when whispers sting, Never wore a crown— still moved a king. Pull them softly, strand by strand, Make them swear the choice was in their hands. Call me worm if that's the name you bring. I know the difference. Worms don't sting. White hand waiting beyond the hill, One voice speaking, another will. He promised reward when the work was through, A kingdom weakened— and something I wanted too. Then thunder walked through the Golden Hall, And suddenly my words meant nothing at all. A king stood straight. A prisoner freed. Every careful root I'd planted turned to weed. I chose my road. I chose my side. I chose the tower where serpents hide. So why does something tighten every time I turn? I am the fang behind the throne, The quiet venom in the bone. I bent a king without a blade, Every step was mine— every choice I made. Pull them softly, strand by strand— Why does something pull against my hand? Call me worm. Go on. See if I care. I came to Orthanc bearing words, Found the mighty tower drowned. Stone in my hand. Voices below. Master behind me. Which way do I throw? I hated them. I hated him. Funny how narrow the choices become when every road you swear you've chosen leads exactly where he wants you to run. Something pulls. No. Something has always pulled. Those weren't fangs beneath my skin. That was the hook. All this time— I thought I hunted. I thought I chose. I thought the venom in my mouth was mine alone. A worm on a hook dreaming he was a snake, twisting when the fisherman twitched, calling every spasm a choice I got to make. Worm... Worm... Worm... SHUT UP! I moved the king! I broke his will! I poisoned every quiet hour! Who moved you? I— [Whispers] Who moved you? A lady told me I could leave. I followed. Mercy opened one last door. I followed. Every chain had long since rusted, still I crawled across the floor. My fate caught up inside a ring I never touched, I never bore. Kings and wizards, halfling feet kept washing me from shore to shore. Until the hand above the line laughed and called me worm once more. Worm. Yes. But even worms can turn. No fang. No throne. No master's word. No whispered lie that must be heard. No promised prize. No grand design. For once— this movement will be mine. Let the hook tear through the skin. Let the blood run. Let it end. I spent my life inside his hand. I'll die outside it. No serpent. No king. No clever thing. Just Gríma. And one choice without a string.