( Having found the One Ring in Frodo’s possession, Gandalf has just left to seek Saruman’s advice )
STRONG SLASH AHEAD...
I have ridden for a good distance, without stopping, having just found the Ruling Ring in the possession of a small halfling named Frodo Baggins, of the Shire.
It is a blessing, and a curse, all at once. And so I now ride with all haste to Isengard, to seek the advice of Saruman the White, and I force away my great sense of foreboding in doing so.
I convince myself that he will only be concerned with our obtaining and restraining the Ring- and nothing else. I must believe this. As the head of our Order, I must obtain his counsel, his wisdom. And I must not allow myself to dread his reaction to my news of finding the Ring.
Yes, I know he desires it, as a man desires a long-awaited lover. But I must believe- I do believe- he will come to his senses when he is given the awesome responsibility of giving guidance on what we must now do. Certainly, he will come out of his strange haze of lust for it, and see the Light again.
Yes, I believe that. I have to believe it.
I arrive at Isengard, and ride under the great gateway; the whole circular courtyard is blooming with life, huge trees, vivid flowers. I see some sort of activity, something is being worked on across the way. I do not have time to examine it, I have no time at all, it seems. I hear coarse voices and loud cursing, and sounds of clanging. There is smoke rising from what appears to be a pit of some kind. And look: there is another, and another. But I simply must put aside my wonder, and I tie my grey steed to the front of Orthanc.
Orthanc itself, feels different- I have been away for many days, and I have ceased informing Saruman whenever I am going to the Shire, as his hatred for the hobbits has grown into a kind of sickness. The very last time I mentioned a halfling- I made a slight remark about Bilbo- and Saruman’s face took on a very dark scowl, though he said nothing. But the look was one of pure hatred.
The Tower seems cold and icy, somehow, in a way it never has before. I shiver, involuntarily, and make my way slowly up the long staircase. I wearily wonder if I should use a little magic to ease my climb, and then decide against it. As I near the top quarters, I can hear very strange sounds, and what sounds alarmingly like a strangled sobbing. I cannot tell from whence it comes, it seems to surround me.
Has Saruman taken yet more hapless prisoners? I wonder uneasily.
My concern takes a strange twist, when I realize the muffled voice sounds eerily like Saruman himself, but not in any normal sense, not in any way I have ever heard him before. I feel a sudden wave of great fear, and I rush to his room and knock lightly- I am almost in a panic- there is no answer, and my intense concern motivates me to gently and carefully open the door.
The room is nearly dark, even though the sun is shining outside.
Again, I hear the soft, sorrowful sound.
As my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I can see Saruman sitting at a table, all his attention apparently focused on something on the table. He moves his hand over it, and I can see swirling colorful rainbows of mist in the object. He is muttering, in an unknown tongue, and breathing heavily, swaying slightly back and forth. And then his words degenerate into the strange near-sobbing that I had heard earlier.
“No, no, I cannot!!” I hear him whisper, oblivious to my presence, “The consequences will be terrible-!! ” - and then a second voice, rich and booming, undercut with malice:
“If you do not do it, the consequences will be beyond your imagination!”
Saruman again, sounding very strained and unlike himself:
“Yes, yes, I know where he has been- yes- I know- no, no, I will not do that to him -”
- and then suddenly a crimson flare shoots out from the mystery object and lights up the room.
Saruman sat back with a gasp, as the malevolent red light envelopes him for an instant. And then he collapses forward, his face hitting the table full on. I run to him, horrified and shocked – gently I raise him up from the table, and he looks at me in confusion. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, he grasps at a black cloth on the table and covers up a large orb- so that was the mystery object!- oddly familiar.
Something in the back of my mind screams at me, with a frantic voice of warning.
No doubt about it- a far sighted seeing stone, of great notoriety and renown. I stare at the covered orb silently, my thoughts racing. But I say nothing- I must tend to my mentor, who is looking very ill and pale. No words pass between us as I help him to his feet, and he walks unsteadily to the huge bed; I sit down beside him, and tentatively, I put my arms around him. I still say nothing, nor does he- perhaps we both realize there is nothing to be said at this moment.
We lie back together on the huge soft pillows- even in the half-light, I notice he has added many refinements- he drowns me in a long, sweet kiss, and nearly suffocates me with a powerful embrace.
“My grey wanderer- my Gandalf.”, he murmurs in my hair, “I want you to swear something to me, my love.”
“Yes, of course, of course I will.” I whisper back, kissing his throat under the long beard-
“Swear to me- you will never- forsake me. No matter what.” he says softly, with what nearly sounds like fear in his voice.
“Need you even ask?”, I reply, “Of course I swear it.”
He grips me fiercely, desperately, saying:
“No matter what- no matter what happens, no matter what I may ever do, or say. Swear you will never forsake me, or – cease to love me.”
I hold him close, and I can feel his great stress and fear, and I say again, choking back my rising apprehension:
“I will never forsake you, Aratar, and I will always love you. No matter what. I swear it and you must believe it.”
He relaxes against me then, with a deep sigh.
I say no more, as I have spoken the truth to him. But what have I bought with my oath?
The midnight moon gleams through our open window, and a cool sweet breeze drifts in; I am drifting, myself, drifting half- asleep- Curumo lies beside me, and I wonder if he is awake.
I feel a stirring in my heart and soul, that familiar need and desire; I turn towards him, and I am met by his dark eyes in the moonlight. I reach out to him, and lightly touch his hair, as it frames his face- how I love to touch it, his tangled mane of silver snow!
I begin my slow journey downward, as he lies back, allowing it; I kiss his chest, and then his stomach, so powerfully muscular and tightly etched. His hand is upon my head, alternately stroking my hair and pushing me gently down farther, farther. I have a warm, exciting memory of the first time I did this:
I had been new to Middle Earth, so young!
After Curumo had shown me the delight of passion under him, I had felt the desire for different ways to accomplish this – this lovemaking. He, of course, knew a thousand ways of love and lust, but he let me believe I was discovering on my own.
And so, one spring day in the beautiful garden of Isengard, we walked in our solitude- this was before the days of his servant Grima- and I had listened to his many instructions and remarks, and we had finally stopped under the shade of a great ancient Oak.
Without really knowing what I was about to do, I had dropped slowly to my knees before him, in abject love and unspeakable devotion; he watched me with his usual impassive expression, only a slight movement of his jaw betraying his feelings. I unbuckled his sash and opened his overtunic, and then the inner white robe. He backed up against the Oak tree, and leaned against it, as I took hold of him with great desire and yearning. I had been powerfully drawn to take him in my mouth, and I realized later he must have willed me to do it: I knew nothing of such things as that, myself.
My much-loved mentor had placed one hand on my head, and pushed into my mouth passionately, as he gripped the ever present metal staff in the other. I had done it the best I could, and he seemed pleased, groaning softly and thrusting against my tongue hotly.
I had been amazed at the warm, gushing flood that had suddenly filled my mouth, but I knew it was from him, and so I devoured it gladly. The salty-sweet eruption had burned my throat slightly, but I took it all down. And he had been very pleased with me.
I tremble slightly, now, as I recall this cherished memory of so long ago.
How innocent I had been, so unaware. A hundred lifetimes ago, it seems now.
He had watched his black hair change over the centuries, first partially, and then in totality, and he had told me once how angry he was at losing his youth. I had told him it did not matter- we were born old anyway, and he had favored me with a rare laugh.
I shake off the old memories, so I may concentrate on the present: my searching hands and mouth have found their quarry, and I anxiously wrap my lips around the tip, and my fingers around the enormous shaft; I feel it stiffen even further with my ministrations, and the veins pulse with ancient, virile life under my tongue and fingertips. I take him in deeper, and he whispers in an urgent voice:
“Ah- my Stormcrow, ah, that’s very good, yes, my love, my greyhame, ahhh- ”
I trace my fingers over his tensed belly, and caress the sinewy muscles with great love.
Saruman pushes my head down on him, grasping my hair painfully, trying to make me take him in all the way, but I cannot.
I have only perhaps half in my mouth, and I cannot take any more. He is simply too huge, too massively endowed.
“Gandalf- swallow me all in- ah- you must- you must- ahhh- !” he tells me, between gasps, and instead,I take my mouth off him nearly all the way, and then come back down, raking my teeth along the sides with the greatest of delicacy. He thrusts up into my mouth deeply, and I feel him spasm slightly, with a very soft deep groan.
I am drenched with the hot burst of my lover’s orgasm, and I swallow it all, as the sacred ambrosia of love.
Oh, by the Valar, I think to myself, as I find sleep near dawn, may this love never be poisoned.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.