2. The Prisoner
My eyes open slowly, painfully, to a world I no longer recognize; a
storm is battering the roof and windows of my strange prison, and I
can hear the thunder pealing in tremendous crashes. It is an unusually violent storm, and I wonder at its ferocity- perhaps I will ask Gandalf about it, when he returns.
IF he returns.
I always wonder what will become of me, if one day he does not return
here, to bring me provisions, to bring me company- even his company
is better than none at all.
I no longer recognize even myself, now.
I look into the one mirror in this dark and secret cottage, and I see a tired, drained old face, weary unto the point of death, beyond all hope of recovery. My beard has grown even longer, down to my chest, and he does not let me even trim it. My hair is down my back, and seems to become whiter every hour. The color of an old man's hair, the color of approaching death.
Gandalf always chastised me for my pride, and I mocked him for his
insistence on "playing by the rules". But I suppose my pride really has been my downfall, now, after all.
How I long for my great Staff, how I miss it. I could conjure a million crebain to do my will, or summon a black and furious windstorm, to tear down the rooftops of the dwellers in the Vale below.
And now I am just - just a servant, really. His servant. His prisoner.
Once, when I made angry mention of regaining liberty over my own Will, Gandalf took me firmly by the shoulders, and looked me straight in the eyes, and said:
"Do you still not understand? Outside there, outside in Middle Earth, the whole world is crying for your blood, for your head on a stake! There is nowhere to go, that is safe for you, save right here! Sauron does not cease to search for you, and your Orcs and Uruks have been commanded to turn on you, and bring you to Mordor. You asked me once, if I chose to live or die- now I ask you the same thing. Pray, choose wisely, for I will not let you do otherwise. I cannot bear to see you fall into his tender clutches!"
Is he lying to me? I often wonder. But most likely not, I know. I have made many, many enemies. And I already knew Sauron desired my death, and even more, to make an example of me for defying him.
Gandalf does not try to deceive me, about controlling my Will and my actions. He says he allows my thoughts and desires to be unencumbered, but he must retain control of my activity.
I often wish he had killed me, on top of my great and much-missed Tower. I suppose I do not truly mean that, I am actually quite loathe to die, for then what will happen to me?
I have not exactly "behaved well" in my time on Middle Earth. But I only did what I believed was best, I swear it.
Perhaps not seen as wicked as Sauron, or Melkor before him, but still- I desperately dread being called upon to face Manwe - yet he will no doubt be forgiving - to a point. It would be better, if I can dwell here longer, and perhaps think of a way out of this. Some way, any way at all.
Well, I suppose Gandalf will put in a good word for me- at this thought, I am tempted to nearly burst forth in shrill, hysterical laughter, and I only barely control myself.
I am startled out of my self-pity by a commotion at the door - Gandalf, coming in from the morning storm. Come back, to bring food and wine, and - that power- that ability - which truly keeps me subjected.
He looks like a large shaggy grey wolfhound, dripping from the cold rain, and hair even more tangled than usual. I feel the usual confusion of warmth and hate for him. That old feeling in my heart, partially deep contempt, and yet intense fondness as well.
He looks at me and harrumphs, shaking off his cloak and that dreadful ancient hat, and finally speaks- something inane, of course, what else? - "Are you alright, Saruman? No troubles here?" I stare back at him with dislike and desire competing for my expression, and finally settle on impassivity:
"No, you have missed nothing, nothing but the endless hours of what
remains of my life."
The exaggerated pathos was a bit over the top, but I truly do feel that sorrowful. Never mind, soon I will be alright again.
He considers me thoughtfully, and then opens his arms to embrace me : "Come here, Curunir. I have missed you."
I hesitate- he ought to know I hate blatant displays like this- but the urge to begin- to have it begin- is too powerful, and I slowly get up - but I do not approach him. I make him walk over to me, and he does so, with a heavy sigh, and wraps his arms around me tightly. I do not embrace him, but remain in my enforced, angry coldness. He holds me for what seems like a very long time, nevertheless, and I cannot deny the effect it is having on me.
I shift ever so slightly in his embrace, so as to be at a better angle - down there - where I am already coming to life, silently, fiercely - I do this with great care and precision, as I do not want him to be aware of it.
But of course, he does notice.
He moves to accomodate our best position, saying nothing, and I suddenly feel the hard and living attention I have inspired in him, and he presses against me urgently, and despite the stunning pleasure it causes, I push him away, albeit slowly.
He berates me gently:
"Now, what is wrong, hmm? Of a mind to resist your own self again? Nay, do not do so, do not waste time being cold, I am already cold from the storm, but your heat is rising like Mt. Doom itself, can you deny it? Come, warm me, and I will do likewise for your frozen condition!"
If we do this - if I let him do this to me - I will never have my own
And once, I had such a Voice, the Elves trembled for fear of it.
"I am your slave! Your prisoner! That does somewhat dull my sense of arousal, yes!" I snarl at him, knowing he will not heed any of my words.
Gandalf the Grey- the shaggy headed and soft hearted Istar in command of my existence and future, regards me silently.
Instead of what I anticipated - kind words and smooth caresses – he merely stares at me in an unusually cold way. It is, for once, my turn to have my blood chill.
"Saruman- I have told you many times that if you leave this place- you are as good as dead- or much worse. Aragorn, and those in my company - the Fellowship- have seen it my way, though grudgingly, and they will not make a move against you. But do you recall King Theoden? When he learned of your - your lack of trustworthiness, shall we say- he was determined you would be called to account for treason. He said it to me, and I could not dissuade him."
"Treason?!" I spit the word back in his face, "I owe him no allegiance in the first place!"
Gandalf looks at me with an unreadable expression, and nods his head:
"Perhaps not. And I cannot protect you from everyone who would do you ill. Nor should I have to: you are no child! But- and hear me well, for the last time - the Dark Lord still seeks you. You have never allowed yourself to understand what he will do to you, if he captures you. I know what he did to Gollum, for no crime, but only to extract information. If you only understood, you would never seek to leave the sanctuary I have been able to make for you here!"
"And what kind of existence is that!", I shout at him angrily, frustrated, all the more so, because all he has said rings true.
He straightens up, and looks at me with that old sternness, and simply replies:
"You are not being torn apart by red hot pincers, or scalded by boiling magma from Mt Doom, or harmed in any way, but your dignity and pride, and sense of inhibition. Do you think you ought to escape entirely unscathed, Curunir? Are you really so arrogant?"
I look away, as I have no real answer for that. Nothing he will like to hear, anyway.
Another heavy, unhappy sigh, and then he delivers it: his FINAL WORD:
"And you must remember: when the War has at last been lost or won,
then it will all be settled, and you will not need to stay here like this. If Sauron- Eru forbid- but if Sauron should prevail - I have already made a last resort plan of action- for us."
I look at him in mingled respect and dread, and I know what he is saying: Sauron must not capture us, either of us, ALIVE, for it will be too terrible a thing to allow.
I do not want to know, and yet I must ask:
"What will you do?" I ask him, in a grave whisper.
Gandalf looks at me firmly, and says softly: "Very well, you deserve to know, you have a right to. If it is obvious that we have truly lost, and there is no means of escape- I will-" he swallows hard, and continues:
"I will stop your heart with a spell - painlessly of course- and then the same for myself." I stare at him blankly, and then I simply nod in agreement.
He looks at me piercingly, and his radiant blue eyes become gentle
again, more so than I have ever seen.
"I love you, you fool, don't you understand that?", he says, reaching for me, and I back away, and must stifle a laugh at his words.
Love? Love, indeed. I succeed in restraining my laughter.
Before I know what has happened, I am on the bed with him, and I know it has begun. My Will, slipping away from me, my rare outburst of defiance, so short-lived, is already fading from my mind, as we entangle together, and I gasp as quietly as I am able to, as his hand finds and caresses me, finally; I sigh deeply, and relax, in what is rapidly becoming an intense state of excitement.
His mouth upon mine, tongues seeking each other, liquid passion flowing and swelling. My rebellious words are dying on my lips, as his tongue thrusts deep into my waiting mouth.
The *problem* is this: when it begins, as it has now, and I really start to feel this immense and breathtaking pleasure, I no longer care that that I am a prisoner.
The door could be swung wide open for me, and I would never leave.
Gandalf kept me here in the beginning by the power of his magick, with a few words of restraint and domination- but now- well, now I am a slave to an entirely different power.
The power- the addiction, even- to an experience that cannot be had in any other way, or with anyone else. What I will soon feel - what keeps me as subdued and tamed as a caged dragon- what I refuse to do without- is an orgasm that is so intense, and so shockingly powerful, that it literally chokes off my breath when it comes, and nearly renders me unconscious. The world ceases to exist, the universe fades into unimportance, in those moments of surreal ecstasy.
Perhaps it is because we are so very uniquely matched, as Istari, that it is so overwhelming. I do not know. I do not even care.
But I will not give it up, willingly.
On my knees, I take him in my mouth, I am not interested in his pleasure, and I believe he knows that, I am only getting it ready-for my pleasure. I lick and drench the massive organ, and he places his hands on my head, stroking my hair, telling me again how much he loves me, how he fears for me - I have heard it all before-
And as he hovers above me, and turns me over easily with a word of
magick, I lie face downwards, and I submit.
I loathe doing so, it is against my nature, it ruptures my very soul, and tortures my pride, yet I do so, despite it all. I submit to him, and I am nearly trembling with anticipation of what is coming.
His hands under me, pulling me up tightly against him, his strong belly against my back, his long legs entwined with mine, and I am so aroused, I can hear myself groaning, as if from very far away. He buries his face in my hair from behind, and kisses me- ah- the excitement has grown to a painful swollen fury, now, and he does not make me wait any longer, and I feel his well-moistened cock -dripping with my eager oral ministrations- pressing against me, too gently, too carefully, just do it then, all of it, now!
Oh, deep, deep, does he push into me, so deep I cannot even make a sound, so overcome with pleasure I cannot move or even think. Only feel, ah yes, just feel it. Perhaps in a moment I will be able to scream, but even that will not convey the feeling.
So very huge, he is, and his tremendous cock stretches me open, blissfully plunging into me, and I arch up and rock myself against him, and he matches my movements, pushing hard, hard, ah, I am truly ready to cry out, but somehow, the sounds will not come.
The bed crashes against the wall, moved by our furious passion, over
and over, and creaks loudly. He likes to make it last, caught up in his dream of love, but my desire is for what he is doing to me, and for that alone.
If I was capable of love, it would be him. If.
And now it arrives, the sweet rush, the drowning, sweeping tidal wave of climax, and I again am shocked by the thunderous intensity. My long nails dig fissures into the silk of the bed, and I alternately rise and collapse, nearly howling like a rabid warg in explosive sensation.
I feel him tense above me, and moan softly into my ear, pushing deepest of all now, and I suppose his moment has come for him as well.
I am not too interested in that, of course.
I must rest, I must sleep.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow I may be able to bargain for my release.
But not tonight. Tonight, I will simply lie here, drifting into sleep, with my fellow Maia's liquid gushing out of me in hot rivers, dreaming of freedom.
Oh yes, and Power.
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.