Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 15

Third Age: 2nd March 3019

Tower of Orthanc, Isengard

It was an incensed (but colourful) Saruman who hobbled angrily through the large hall of his forbidding tower after escaping from Fangorn. He paused half-way through the vast chamber to scratch furiously at his burning bits.

It had taken almost a day longer to return home than usual (due to his frequent sojourns to the few streams that were to be found in the midst of the gloomy forest).

After fleeing as far from the wrath of the flying witch as he was physically able, he had finally felt secure enough to stumble to a halt and deal with his most pressing need: the banishment of the curse to his most intimate areas. Much to his horror, however, nothing he tried could bring relief to the burning, furious rash that clung as possessively to his bits as a Rohirrim to a horse. No spells or arts, incantations or commands broke the stronghold of what was surely the worst curse he had ever been subject to (apart from his ever-present and much-loathed breasts). In the end, he had been left with no choice but to make his way back to Isengard by way of the scant streams that fed the Entwash, so that he could immerse (or throw) himself in the soothing waters whenever the itch became too unbearable (which was more or less all the time).

So consumed had he been with alleviating the demands of his rash-consumed bits, that he forgot to duck when dashing through the trees, and his magnificent antlers quickly became entangled in a low-hanging branch. After five minutes of manic struggle (and almost puce with the desperate need to cool his nethers), the unhappy wizard had been left with no choice but to blast the bough from the tree. In his haste to get the deed done, however, his less than accurate aim resulted in him blasting at his own head. Fortunately, he sustained no damage to his (natural) anatomical features and his hasty action had freed him from the worst of his antlers, but it did leave him with two rather ragged stumps that he had been unable to remove since.

Of course, the next challenge had been passing through the grounds of his own fortress unchallenged. Ever since his disastrous encounter with the hated Augusta Longbottom (curse her!), he had taken to cloaking himself completely from head to toe, so that none of his minions discovered his humiliation at her hands. Those that had found him lying on the floor of his hall after their confrontation had been dealt with (the wargs were very grateful) and now only Borgalak and Grodek remained as witnesses to his shame. Thankfully, were easily controlled, weak-minded minions that they were; but if some of his higher lieutenants or captains knew of his fate at the hands of a mere woman... This new degradation, therefore, made it necessary to skulk into his own tower - his own tower! - like a thief in the night; silent and watchful, fearful and...incredibly itchy.

And now, safe in the bastion of his home a day later, he had been reduced to conjuring an enchanted vapour which enveloped his form from the waist down and took the worst of the sting from his bits (although any observant spectator would still be privy to the sight of him making the occasional grab and scratch...).

Witches! Curse them! Curse them all!! When he got his hands on the pair of them, he would see to it that they were torn limb from limb. He would pluck their eyes from their heads with his very fingers; make them dance on a bed of spikes; tear their hearts from their womanly chests and roast them on a spit!

He hated them!

The sound of his army marching across the grounds below pulled him from his malicious contemplations. Turning on his heel, he pulled his hood over his (jagged) head and stomped awkwardly towards the balcony doors to view the one bright spot of his currently miserable existence. He opened them and passed onto the balcony proper, keeping his face and body safely concealed beneath the finely woven depths of his cloak. The sight of ten thousand orcs and uruk-hai leaving the grounds of Isengard to crush the straw-haired Rohirrim lifted his black heart for a moment and a slight curve graced the corner of his lips.

Good! If Grima spoke truly, Théoden would move his forces to Helm's Deep, and in a matter of days Saruman's army would destroy them! His orcs would then sweep the land crushing any who resisted and enslaving the remaining population. With such control over the region and so many servants at his bidding, finding the hobbits - and thus the One Ring - could only be a matter of time. They could not have gotten far. And when he did, he would be more powerful than the Dark Lord Sauron himself!

As long as he found and destroyed these new intruders...

Another vicious twinge forced all thoughts of glory from his mind, and he turned from the balcony and yanked up his robe to give his abused manhood a thorough scratching. Cursed vapour! Why was it not working as well as it should? He rubbed frantically between his legs in an effort to find relief, but - unfortunately for the miserable Maia - Borgalak chose that moment to waltz into the chamber with news from abroad. The ugly uruk almost collapsed in shock when he spotted his noble master apparently 'servicing' himself near the balcony doors.

Mortified and furious at the unannounced visit, Saruman quickly removed his hand from his groin and dropped his robe.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion!" he hissed angrily at the (practically blushing) creature.

"Sorry, yore Lordship, sir" replied Borgalak, desperate to turn round and get as far away from the livid wizard as possible (he had had no idea his master was prone to such displays of self-affection and, quite frankly, would rather take his chances with a roomful of starving wargs than witness such a sight again). "I didn't know yer was...er...busy, master."

The mortified uruk found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the formerly offending (green) hand of the cloaked wizard, something which his master was clearly unhappy with, for he shoved it behind his back as soon as he realised what Borgalak was looking. The creature raised his head to make eye contact, instead.

"I was not 'busy'!" Saruman spat scornfully. "I was merely..."

He paused, wondering how to elaborate. Merely what? Scratching himself thoughtfully while he contemplated his next move against the Men of the West? Pining after some female companionship?

"Yes, me Lord?" enquired Borgalak with a fearful, wide-eyed gaze of almost morbid fascination at the wizard's rumpled cloak and the fine mist which enshrouded his lower half.

Bah! He would not explain himself to a mere servant! "...busy!" he yelled, silently daring the uruk to point out that that had been his first suggestion. But Borgalak wisely refrained from making that (no doubt fatal) mistake and Saruman, determined to reinforce his position of authority, stormed towards the dais and (gently) lowered himself on his throne.

"Well, have you brought news of worth for your master? Or did you come here simply to spy upon him, you worthless creature?" he sneered.

His snide accusation snapped Borgalak out of his trance and the uruk moved to stand to attention before him.

"I is loyal only ter you, me Lord," Borgalak protested, affronted at the slight to his good name.

"Indeed?" scoffed Saruman tightly, trying desperately not to wriggle in his seat. When he got his hands on that flame-haired, broom-flying, disease of a woman... "Then state your business and be gone!"

His servant shuffled nervously on the spot. "Yes, me Lord. One of 'em Nazgûl from Mordor flew in ter see yer last evening, but yer was still in the forest. 'E 'ad a message from the Dark Lord - says yore to speak wiv 'im as soon as yer gets back. Black Rider weren't too 'appy neither, if yer asks me, sir, but 'e wouldn't state his business more'n 'at, an' 'e flew off straight after."

A Nazgûl? Saruman frowned. It was not unusual for Sauron to use them as glorified messengers between the Two Towers when his attention was diverted elsewhere and he had not the time to spare to communicate via the Palantír. Though the Black Riders were more concerned of late with finding the One Ring, one would still occasionally call to bring news of troop deployment or other snippets of strategic import from the south which were required for the coordination of both armies against the Men of the West.

Indeed, the last Nazgûl to call at Orthanc had been successfully persuaded by him to join the hunt for the Fellowship - although he had made no mention of the One Ring; merely stating that a small band of spies - possibly under the protection of dangerous witch - was seeking to infiltrate the Black Lands to gather intelligence which would be used against Sauron's forces. The Nazgûl was instructed to secure the hobbits and the Longbottom hag (curse her!), and return them to Isengard with all possible haste. But that had been several days ago and Saruman had heard nothing from Sauron's servant since.

Perhaps this Nazgûl from yester-eve was the very one he had despatched almost a week ago? But where, then, was Longbottom? Was she dead? Had she escaped capture?

A voice interrupted his musings.

"Yore Lordship? Is you well?"

Saruman blinked and glared briefly at the uruk from beneath the rim of his hood before dismissing him. "Get out, fool. I will call you again if I have need of you."

With that, Borgalak executed a clumsy bow and turned towards the door, anxious to leave his temperamental master. But before the uruk could move away, the wizard spoke to him again in a dangerously silky voice.

"And Borgalak? Never enter my hall again without forewarning. And do not forget that all you see and hear in this hall is not for the eyes or ears of those outside it," Saruman drawled, glaring at the unhappy creature as its blunt face peeped over its shoulder. "Any mention of what you have seen or heard today to anyone other than myself, and your existence here may become...untenable. Do you understand?"

Borgalak gulped audibly at the threat. Oh yes, he understood: keep all news of the war to himself unless otherwise instructed (which, as any good soldier knew, went without saying) - and don't tell anyone that master was 'tickling the garden snake' (or he'd be seeing that roomful of starving wargs sooner than he thought).

"Yes, me Lord. I understands perfectly, yore Lordship, sir."

Saruman leaned back in his chair, watching in satisfaction as the hulking creature raced towards the doors and exited quickly, slamming them firmly shut behind him and leaving the Istar alone with his thoughts (and a good opportunity for another scratch).

So, the Dark Lord wished an audience with his ally, did he? Did he have news from the Black Lands? Had he gathered his forces sufficiently to make a strike against Gondor?

No. Impossible: the Dark Lord's messenger had informed him last week that the Easterlings were yet on their long march to Mordor. They could not have arrived so soon. Therefore, Sauron did not yet have sufficient forces to rally against the White City - not if he intended his strike to be a definitive one.

Perhaps the Nazgûl he had despatched to intercept the Fellowship had indeed found them - and the One Ring with them? Such a thing was not impossible; in fact, it was more than likely. Were the Black Riders not drawn to it, after all? And if it had discovered its master's prize, it would have claimed both it and the one who carried it and borne them both back to Mordor. It would not take long for the Dark Lord to deduce what the master of Orthanc had been attempting to achieve, once the Nazgûl informed him that the White Wizard had ordered the capture of the hobbits and their subsequent return to Isengard...

This was a most unpleasant thought - unpleasant enough to make Saruman temporarily forget the angry itch. He rose from his seat and descended the dais. He turned right and (gingerly) walked the few steps to the carved table by his throne, pouring himself a healthy glass of red wine from the decanter and gulping it down in one long swallow. The potent liquid coursed its way down his throat and a warm glow emanated throughout his body as it settled in his stomach, soothing his rattled nerves and clearing his mind of doubt.

Nay, Sauron could not know of his plans. As far as the Dark Lord was concerned, they were allies. If he learned that Saruman desired the return of the hobbits to Orthanc, he would - in his arrogance - assume that his old friend merely wished to be the one to return his prize to him personally.

Fool!

With his fears of unmasking assuaged, Saruman poured himself another glass of wine and began to hobble across the long hall, nursing the crystal glass in his hands.

Whatever the reason for the Dark Lord's urgent summons, it would have to wait a few minutes more. He had other matters on his mind at present than the concerns of Sauron - matters which revolved around the ever-increasing number of witches on the borders of his land.

A hot flush crept up his neck as his thoughts dwelled on the unpleasant encounters with both the Longbottom hag (curse her!) and the flame-haired fiend who had altered his gait from a regal stride to a tortured waddle.

Where had they come from? Who had sent them? The Valar? Nay, they came not from the distant shores of Valinor - their magic was too unfamiliar to be of an accord with the Maiar who once dwelt there.

So, not Maiar...then what? Clearly they possessed a power of sorts, but it had been several millennia since last there had been one female in Arda - let alone two - who could wield such arts, and she had passed after the dwarves slew her elven mate. Of course, Melian's magic would have been of the variety more familiar to him than the peculiar (but effective) brand used by the foreign witches.

For peculiar their magic was - he was living proof of that (from the tips of his green toes to the top of his spiked, yellow head).

Was their magic so different from his because they were female? Hmm, possible.

Yet, no. It could not be. For the boy the flying witch was so keen to protect had also wielded similar arts against him; had also possessed one of those abnormally short staffs.

The boy...

Saruman paused in thought for a moment, taking a sip of his wine as he scratched absently at his groin. There was something about that boy, something he had forgotten in both the heat of battle and his subsequent affront at the hands of the child's protector...

Crack!

The glass shattered in his hand as he recalled the voice of the ranger crying out to the young wizard.

Neville Longbottom!

The boy was a Longbottom!

It was enough to make the blood boil in his veins. Discarding the remains of his glass contemptuously on the marble floor, he stormed over to the balcony doors and threw them open, allowing the wind to flow through the hall and cool his baking temper.

So, the ancient witch had seen fit to mate and produce offspring? And, as the boy was too young to have been the fruit of her own loins, he must be the child of her child. Her grandson, then.

But an Istar bearing children? Not since Melian wed Elu Thingol had such a thing happened, if one did not take into account the unnatural offspring of Ungoliant. Surely he, as the head of his Order, would have received news of this?

He snorted inelegantly. It would seem that there were a great many things of late that he had no knowledge of. The resurgence of witches alone was a great enough shock, let alone that they were peopling the lands with their spawn.

Nay, childbearing abilities aside, these infiltrators to his lands came not from Valinor, they hailed from elsewhere - somewhere unknown to him. And it was clear that they were in league with the Peoples of the West, for both the boy and his protector fought side by side with the ranger, dwarf and elf and had somehow managed to thwart his capture of the hobbits...

The Istar's ancient, pea-green brow creased in a frown.

Did the half-elven Lord of Imladris have aught to do with this? Possible, for the blood of Melian flowed strong in his veins and it would not be an impossibility for him to use the arts he had inherited, combined with his many long years of knowledge, to locate these new (if strange) allies and persuade them to join his cause.

And what of Galadriel? She was, after all, the most powerful elf in all Middle-Earth. She had travelled far and wide throughout the lands of Arda. Her wisdom and cunning were known to many and she had used her arts to secure herself the leadership of a realm in these mortal lands - something she had always desired. The elleth was powerful and arrogant and it was no secret that he had never fully gained her trust; something that became apparent when she made it known that she desired Gandalf to be head of the White Council and not him.

Yes, it was more than likely that the proud elleth had stumbled upon this group of foreign Istari during her travels, befriended them with her flowery, seductive arts, kept knowledge of their existence to herself - then called upon their aid when the situation merited it. How very like her to withhold information from those around her - how she must have laughed at them all!

Still, there was one she may have entrusted her knowledge to: her pet wizard. Gandalf would not have been able to resist travelling to meet these new allies and befriending them in that sickening, jolly manner that was unique to him. So it may very well be that it had not been the Lady of Lothlórien who had called on their aid at all! Once the Council of Elrond had made their decision to send the Ring to its destruction in Mordor - by which time the People of the West would have known of the White Wizard's treachery - it would have been but a little matter for Gandalf to send instructions to the hidden Istari to provide them with representatives to watch over Isengard, while he watched over his foolish band of Mordor-bound adventurers.

Curse that fool a thousand times! Even in death he had the power to cause disruption!

A sudden, vicious twitch in his nethers made him grab at his groin and scratch it furiously. Would this Arda-forsaken plague to his manliness never desist? When he got his hands on that flying wench...

And get his hands on her he would, he decided. He would not allow two women and a mere boy to ruin his carefully-laid plans - plans that were centuries in the making. For he was Saruman the White (a title he had reclaimed after Augusta fled Orthanc - the thought of referring to himself as 'Saruman of Many Colours' now was not as appealing as it had once been - even if it was more appropriate than ever), the most powerful wizard of his Order - and therefore the most powerful wizard in Middle Earth! He would make them all pay for their affronts to him!

But how to snare them? He would have to be careful, for it was clear they were both powerful and cunning. His own tower had not been able to contain the hated Longbottom hag (curse her!) and she had sailed off into the night on the back of the Lord of Eagles himself. As for the Red Witch, she did not require the services of a bird to soar through the skies.

Well, these were matters he would have to give further thought to at a later time. For the present, he had an appointment with the Dark Lord and it would not be wise to keep Sauron waiting any longer than he already had.

With that, Saruman pulled his hood even further down his brow, yelping in pain when it snagged on one of his broken horns and forcing him to reach up to untangle it.

Oh yes, he thought as he speed-waddled his way to the room at the opposite side of the chamber where he stored the Palantír: he would make them all pay!

*~*~*~*

The Palantír of Orthanc stood on a tall black plinth in an otherwise empty chamber, located off the west wall of the main hall, and only the Lord of Isengard held a key to its door.

After locking said door securely behind him, Saruman hobbled across the room until he stood before the cloth-covered seeing stone. He raised a hand and was about to uncover it when he paused, registering (yet again) the unsightly hue of his skin.

Bah! He could not appear before his ally looking like this - what had he been thinking? The Dark Lord would expect the reassuring form of the White Wizard, not this full-bosomed, rainbow-coloured, horn-headed, twitching travesty of a weakling! It was time to attempt another form change.

That thought made him grind his teeth in annoyance. After his own powers had failed to break the evil magicks which had resulted in his unfortunate transformation at the hands of Longbottom (curse her!), he had attempted to change his form back to its original using all the power at his command. He had met with some initial success, but it had not lasted for more than a minute, and the heady joy which had enveloped him at seeing his own white skin reappear turned to rage when the horrific green hue began to slowly bleed across his arms and face once more. And Orthanc had never been privy to a scream of such outrage as his when he felt the gentle, insistent swelling of his magnificent breasts as they playfully protruded once more from beneath the straining folds of his robe.

Now, standing before the Palantír, he surveyed them in disgust as he contemplated another attempt to be rid of them - if only for a short while.

Could he be successful this time? After all, his last attempt had not been a complete failure and it may be possible to keep his discussion with Sauron short enough to fool him. But would Sauron be satisfied with a mere minute of conversation? Bah! This was ridiculous! Was he not Saruman of Many Colo...NO!! Saruman the White! He was Saruman the WHITE!! He had been appointed by the Valar themselves to be the leader of his Order! Was it not he who had fooled the wisest of the White Council - nodding in agreement at their foolish suggestions for years on end while secretly plotting their collective downfall? Had he not created a more powerful breed of orc than the Dark Lord himself? Uruk-hai that could safely withstand the light of day to carry out any destruction he ordered? Was his army not this very minute marching towards Rohan to annihilate the pest of men which resided there?

And would he not be the one to wrest the One Ring from the grasp of a field-loving Shire-rat - from under the very nose of its Creator - and use it to become more powerful than any Maia who had ever lived?

Powerful enough, even, to challenge the Valar themselves!

These heady thoughts filled him with a renewed sense of purpose and Saruman untied his cloak and threw it off contemptuously (being careful to avoid the irritating snag on his remnant horns). He lifted his staff high into the air and began to chant words of ancient magic with more purpose (and less desperation) than he had the first time.

For several long minutes he stood before the plinth, staff aloft and voice reverberating powerfully around the small chamber. The air began to shimmer. The green hand which held his staff began to fade to a more healthy pink tint; the disgusting yellow hair and orange beard transformed themselves into the more familiar white shot through with black strands, and finally - blessedly - the hated protuberances that had no right to adorn the noble chest of a male Maia began to shrink until eventually, they too were gone.

Success! Blissful, merciful liberation! Lowering his staff and resting it against the plinth, Saruman ran his hands across his face and arms, grabbing a fistful of hair and admiring the speckled strands. Truly, a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Well, two actually, he noted with glee as he ran his hands across the flat, manly plains that had - for the past few days - made the sighting of his own feet almost impossible (unless he sat down and raised them on a stool).

His joy was short-lived as another vicious twinge in his groin forced his hand to dive into enemy territory and claw at his bits.

Curse it all! Would it have been too much to ask to have a moments relief from the fire? What on earth had that plague of a woman done to him? It felt like he had a thousand hungry hobbits foraging through the forest of his manhood and sinking their teeth into his juicy, juicy mushrooms. Of course, there were no hobbits (or other life forms) there (he had already checked). But, by all the power of the Valar! If this unbearable itching did not desist soon, his bits would be in tatters before the Golden Hall fell!

Annoyed that he was having to waste precious time tending to his abused manhood - and wondering why he had not thought of it sooner - he decided to forgo the cooling mist enveloping his lower half and direct it instead straight to the source of his discomfort. Grabbing his staff, the ancient wizard pointed it directly at his offending anatomy and uttered the relevant incantation...

"Aaagh!"

The ivory staff clattered to the floor as Saruman bowed over and grabbed on to the plinth for support.

Aulë's enormous anvil! So that was why he had not thought to utilise the mist so directly before now! Gasping in shock, he clasped the plinth as if it were a lifeline, taking short, shallow breaths as his body registered the sudden transformation between his legs from the fire of Mordor's pits to the icy coldness of the Helcaraxe.

Slowly, slowly, he straightened himself, clutching at the ground for his staff and using it to bear his weight upon. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead as the spell hit its mark and he raised a hand to swipe at it. Pulling up his robe, he leaned over slightly and gingerly checked his groin to make sure he had not inadvertently given himself frost burn in that most delicate of areas. The little mist which clung there made it difficult to tell, so he ran a hand over it - ah, it appeared the cold had forced his 'mushrooms' into hiding. Still, everything else seemed intact, so he was happy with that. At least the dreadful itch had subsided for the time being.

The robe was loosened from his grip to fall around his ankles again and he sighed in relief. His form was fair once more, the fire had been banished from his groin and his army marched on towards victory against the horse-lords. If all went well, before too long he would be in possession of the One Ring, the boy, Longbottom (curse her!), the Red Witch (curse her, too!) - and not even Sauron himself would be able to stop him from becoming the ultimate power in Middle Earth!

Life was good.

With this in mind, the (temporarily) White Wizard schooled his features into a neutral mask and buried his thoughts of utter domination deep in the dark recesses of his devious mind. It would not bode well to have them lying too close to the surface when in conference with Sauron...

And so, confident that he had his power in hand (and an even firmer grip on reality), he pulled the soft grey cloth from the Palantír to consult with his 'ally'...

*~*~*~*

The Palantír reacted as soon as Saruman's hand came into contact with it. From within its black depths, a great swirling commenced, growing ever outwards until it seemed it held the power of a small hurricane, furious at its captivity in the glass sphere. At the centre of the cloudy mass, an orange glow emanated, small and weak, yet growing larger and stronger with each passing second, until it enveloped the phenomena which created it. Soon, the Palantír was black no more: it burned with the fire of the Eye.

Sauron had arrived.

And he was not happy.

"Saruman the White," hissed the terrible voice of the Dark Lord. "I sent word for you to contact me immediately, yet you dare to invoke my ire with delay?"

Saruman did not betray his thoughts with so much as a twitch. "Forgive me, old friend, but I had pressing matters to attend to in the borders of my land - an incursion of the Enemy that delayed my return until recently. I have only this second heard word of your summons."

Which was not the whole truth of course, but he would feed himself to his own wargs ere he admitted to the most powerful Dark Lord in Ages that he had been too busy fending off hostile witches and tending to his flaming groin (and springy chest) to answer any sooner.

Fortunately, the reply seemed to mollify the Eye. "'Tis a pity to hear that the Enemy has grown so bold as to attack the seat of a power so great," Sauron hissed, before his tone changed.

"Or perhaps the power of Orthanc is not what it once was and any fool of a Man with a decent sword and a handful of trusted followers may breach its defences."

The White Wizard clenched his jaw in anger. How he hated these discussions! Ever did the Eye of Sauron seek his support in this war they fought together, yet it never missed an opportunity to slander the power of Isengard with subtle insults and jibes. And always did he have to bite his tongue and ignore them, lest the Eye guess his true thoughts.

"The power of Orthanc is ever hale, my friend," he said innocently, wanting nothing more than to plunge his fist through the black sphere and punch the offending Eye in the...eye. "The incursion has been dealt with successfully..."

A blatant lie.

"...and my army marches even now towards the lands of the horse-lords. Soon, their race will fall and the Men of Gondor will be unable to look to the West for support when you strike at their City."

The Eye burned in orangey-red relief within the Palantír, receding and swelling in turn.

"That, at least, is good news, Curumo. Yet it is not the reason I called this meeting. I sent to you one of my Nazgûl a week since and he has not returned. Have you knowledge of his whereabouts?"

"I heard that he arrived yester eve to the Tower of Orthanc, but did not long tarry after giving my servants your message."

The Eye swelled to such an extent that it filled the sphere completely and he could see the black slit at its centre.

"I speak not of him, but of the one I despatched earlier with news of the Easterlings' march!" said the angry voice of the Dark Lord. "Do not play me for a fool, White Wizard!"

This time, Saruman did blink. The Eye spoke of the Nazgûl he had sent after the Fellowship - after the witch! Mustering his thoughts, he tried to concoct a believable response.

"Forgive me, old friend. Indeed, one of your Black Riders came to call at that time, but I had just had word from my agents that a small group of Elves from Lothlórien were making their way to your borders in secret, with the hope of infiltrating them and bringing back intelligence of your forces to the People of the West. Such news would be invaluable to both the Gondorians and the Rohirrim."

A derisive laugh. "Elves? From Lothlórien? The Lord and Lady of those cursed lands care not for the troubles of mortals! Why would they, in their arrogance, deign to assist the race of Men, when it is easier for their dwindling numbers to flee to the Grey Havens and take the boat to Valinor like the cowards they are?"

"A good question, my friend, but one that is easily answered. The Elves love their mortal realms deeply and it is would be with heavy hearts that they would relinquish them. If they can find a way to tip the balance of Fate to favour Men, they will search for it, for the fall of Men will lead to their own doom. And many Elves may not reach the Havens in time to sail across the Sea ere we conquer Middle Earth and hunt them down. It is in their own best interest to offer aid where they think it needed."

"Ere we conquer Middle Earth?" mocked the Eye, causing Saruman to grit his teeth again. "Of course, as plausible as your argument is, it still does not explain the absence of my Nazgûl."

The White Wizard took a long, deep breath before answering. "I bade your messenger to intercept the company of Elves and destroy them before they could reach Mordor. As he was returning to those very lands himself, it seemed prudent to make use of him thus."

There was a long, deathly pause.

"You bade him? Made use of him? How dare you attempt to control that which is beyond your power! The Nazgûl are servants of Barad-dúr, not Orthanc!"

Oh dear. This was not developing in quite the manner he planned. But why was the Dark Lord so angry? Surely he could see the sense in a servant being instructed to destroy spies intent on encroaching into his master's lands - regardless of who issued those instructions?

"My Lord Sauron..." he began, attempting once more to mollify the livid Eye, but could get no further than those three words.

"I shall tell you why your ill command to my servant has delayed his return, Fool of Orthanc! HE IS DESTROYED!"

Saruman blanched in shock. But that was impossible! Nothing could kill the Nine Riders other than the downfall of their master - and he was very much alive and glowing at him in fury from the confines of the Palantír.

The White Wizard was suddenly very grateful for the hundreds of leagues distance between the Two Towers, then immediately chastised himself for his weakness. There was no cause for alarm. A mere eye could not rip him limb from limb.

Yet.

"Not five days ago did Barad-dúr tremble with the shock of his death," hissed the Eye, still furious. "I lay the fault for that at your feet! And tell me not one more time that it was a group of Elves he intercepted before his death; not even the strongest of them has the power to vanquish a Nazgûl. Something is ill in the lands of Arda. I have sensed this for many days now. Something new and unexpected threatens my plans. What goes forth in the West, White Wizard? You must have knowledge of it. I command you to answer me!"

His

plans? Command? How dare this flaming ball of fire presume to command him! Anger licked through his veins as he fought to control both his temper, and mastery of a form that was being sorely tested by the unexpectedly powerful emotions the meeting was provoking in him. It would not be wise to allow words spoken in the heat of the moment to betray his ultimate plans - or his unfortunate condition. He must tread carefully, show no weakness, or the forces of Mordor would soon be marching towards the borders of Isengard to usurp him. He must give the Dark Lord some of the news he wished for. Well, so be it. It was foolish to have expected Sauron not to notice the same vibrations in the air which shook him to his core more than two weeks ago - which appeared to herald the arrival of the hated Augusta Longbottom.

Swallowing his anger, he made use of the same vocal gift that had captivated the Longbottom hag so many days before, injecting into it this time a note of gravity (it would not do to have the Dark Lord think he was attempting to seduce him).

"It grieves me to hear of this loss, Lord Sauron. It grieves me greatly. But I must respectfully protest at where you lay the blame for this. The feet of Saruman the White are not at fault here. Nay, ever do they tread with care by the side of a friend. Yet, the Nazgûl is still fallen, regardless of how cautious my step is, and I will admit, perhaps, to being misguided in despatching him anywhere without your express authority. You must understand though, that it is in both our interests to prevent any spies nearing your borders. It was that thought alone which caused me to act as I did."

Saruman paused for breath, but the Eye did not respond - something he took as a positive sign.

"Indeed you have the right of it when you say that something is ill in the lands of Arda, for I have seen those ills, my friend."

Another pause, this time for effect.

"Well," hissed the Dark Lord. "Do not keep me in suspense with your flair for drama, Saruman. I am in no mood for such sport!"

"We have, it seems, a new enemy."

Now the Eye paused, seeming to hold still in the Palantír, neither swelling or ebbing.

"A new enemy? What do you mean by this?"

A glow of satisfaction warmed all regions of the smug wizard's body (except his deeply-chilled nethers). The Dark Lord had obviously been taken by surprise. So, Saruman the White was in possession of intelligence that had not yet reached the Black Lands? Intelligence that - if he played his hand carefully - may be a greater aid to him than it would to Sauron? Splendid tidings...

Feeling much more confident about his role in the conversation, Saruman adopted a slightly concerned expression.

"It would be more accurate, my friend, to say 'several new enemies'. Two weeks ago, a group of my soldiers came under attack from a Witch of considerable power not four leagues from Orthanc. Only one survived the slaughter of his companions to bring word of her existence back to Isengard."

The Eye grew within the Palantír once more. "A Witch? What devilry is this? There have been no female Maia in the lands of Arda since the First Age!"

"Ah, but she is no Maia. Nay, I do not believe she has ever set foot upon the Elven Realm of Valinor."

"Impossible! How can such a woman possess the power of a Maia, yet not hail from across the Sundering Sea? And why is it, friend," sneered the Eye, "that if you knew of her presence two weeks ago, you did not see fit to inform me of her existence until necessity deemed it inevitable?"

"I thought not that her power was of sufficient challenge to either the might of Isengard or Mordor," countered Saruman, keeping a tight hold on his temper once more. The effort of controlling his form was becoming more of a strain with each biting slur from his 'ally'.

"And yet," snapped Sauron, scorn audible in his tone, "you have been able to form your own expert opinion on the extent of her 'insufficient' power. How did this come to pass?"

"She was captured attempting to infiltrate Isengard and brought before me," the White Wizard revealed (not bothering to mention she had actually managed to breech the Tower of Orthanc before said capture - there was no need to give the one-eyed monster that amount of detail).

"And what did you learn from this...Witch?"

"I commanded her to reveal her name and her purpose here."

Or rather, charmed her into visibility and seduced her into lowering her guard while he whipped her staff from her grasp and threw her from pillar to post like an incompetent orc.

"Her name is Augusta Longbottom. At first I thought her to be sent straight from the Valar to aid the Men of the West in their fight, but her staff is like none I have ever seen and the magic it wields is preceded by bursts of riotous colour."

Typical female, really. Even with a staff of power in their unworthy hands, they could not resist the urge to decorate.

Which made him think of his green skin. And yellow hair. And orange beard. He stifled a growl.

Shaking off the distraction of his current multi-coloured woes, he returned to the matter at hand.

"Furthermore, she did not appear to know of the Valar or the Undying Lands. I thought this trickery on her part, but perhaps it is not."

"How can you be so certain of this?"

"Because I had her detained in the dungeons of Isengard for many days, where I tortured her mercilessly," said Saruman, lying through his teeth (without so much as batting an eyelash). "Indeed, her screams of pain so disturbed my wargs, that I had to imprison her on the pinnacle of the Tower itself. But not once, in all the many agonies she endured, did she admit to knowledge of the Valar."

"I see," replied the Eye of Sauron thoughtfully. "Well do I know the effectiveness of torture which can be inflicted by a Maia, my friend. It would be impossible for anyone to withstand such agonies, least of all a woman."

Saruman chose not to reply to that. The only agonies that had been endured had been the ones created by the cursed woman herself. His eardrums had almost shattered when her voice boomed across half of Isengard demanding 'improved accommodations'. Not to mention that trick she played on him with her staff when he had foolishly placed the wretched thing in his mouth and almost blasted a hole through the back of his neck. And, of course, who could forget the classic shower of 'golden rain' that she flung from the pinnacle of Orthanc, drenching him with her own waste when he was rallying the Dunlendings to join his fight against their hated Rohirrim neighbours?

Agonies indeed!

"But if she does not come from the Undying Lands, from whence does she hail?" demanded the Eye impatiently, pulling him from his dark thoughts.

"I know not, Lord Sauron. And I had not the time to question her further before she was rescued from the pinnacle by one the Great Eagles and flown to regions unknown. Although, it may be safe to hazard a guess that she was carried to one of the Elven havens. Perhaps even Lothlórien itself. If she was not an ally of the West upon her arrival in Isengard, she was when she left it."

"And what of these other enemies? Are you saying there are more of her kind here aiding the People of the West?"

"That is exactly what I am saying. For the incursion to my borders which delayed my appearance here today was caused by another of these Witches - one who flew through the air on no more than a broomstick and used magic of strange and terrible awe."

Terrible

awe. His rash-consumed bits would testify to that.

"And there was also the Wizard-boy she protected."

"A Wizard-boy? Come now, Saruman, you sport with me once more - I tire of it! There are no Wizards of such youth in all the lands of Arda."

"I have seen him with my own eyes, my friend. A child of Istari, of no more than eighteen Winters. He wields a staff of power similar to his female counterparts. And despite his youth, he wields it effectively; extinguishing fire with water from its tip, shielding against spells set upon him. As did his flying companion. Their arts may be strange, but they are powerful - and now, the Men of the West call these strangers 'friend'."

The Eye shimmered. "Which means that they are my enemies, whether sent by the Valar or not. You say they wield strange magic of great power? You have seen this with your own eyes?"

He nodded. "I have. They are not completely immune to the effects of my magic, but it can be difficult to use it against them when they are able to shield themselves so effectively."

There was a long silence as the Dark Lord digested this information. Too long. While Saruman was happy enough to let him worry about these interlopers for a while, the duration of it was beginning to concern him; he was struggling to contain his form now and if Sauron did not reach the obvious conclusion soon, he would be revealed in all his colourful glory...

"Do you believe their magic to be great enough to destroy a Nazgûl?"

Finally! The wizard resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead answered the inquiry.

"I believe it is a possibility which cannot be ignored, my friend."

'My friend' indeed!

"This is a complication I had not foreseen, Saruman."

The Istar was surprised he could see anything at all with that swollen eye.

"I had believed that the fall of Gandalf the Grey would be too severe a blow for the Enemy to recover from. Yet now, they appear to have the aid of at least three more powerful allies! We cannot allow these foreign Istari to thwart our plans - not when we are so close to victory!"

Oh, so it was 'we' again was it? Saruman fought harder to control his temper at the obvious duplicity of his ally.

"I agree. We need to contain the threat they present..."

He broke off as his body began to spasm. Nay, not yet - they were almost finished! Struggling to contain the magic which presented the Dark Lord with the illusion of normalcy, he tried to continue as if nothing had happened.

Sauron did not appear to notice his momentary lapse. The Eye was too busy swelling and ebbing within the cold sphere as if contemplating options.

"We must capture them, this much is certain. We must ascertain if their numbers are greater than we have knowledge of at present. In order to capture them successfully, we must learn of their whereabouts and look for any weakness...Saruman? Saruman, why do you pay me no heed!?"

But Saruman could not reply: he was slick with sweat. It was pouring down his brow as he trembled against the betrayal of his magic.

The spell was wearing off! Here, now - in front of the Dark Lord himself!

"Answer me!" bellowed the Eye, furious at being ignored.

Desperate to save himself the utter humiliation of transforming back to the shadow that was his new self, he wrenched at the hand which lay on the Palantír in order to cut the communication with the Eye (hoping to pass the whole thing off later as nothing more than an irresistible urge to visit his chamber-pot), but to his horror his hand would not move.

Sauron would not release him!

"What are you fighting so hard to conceal, my friend?" hissed the Dark Lord suspiciously, his burning Eye pulsated in anger.

At any other time, Saruman would have had the power to cut the connection himself, but he had already spent a good deal of his power in maintaining his façade of normality, and it had tired him considerably. Now, with one hand glued to the sphere and the burning Eye of Sauron as witness, his body gave one final shudder, and the illusion he had fought so long to hold shattered as he sagged against the plinth.

The Eye of Sauron stilled and a shocked silence filled the room.

"Raise your head, White Wizard."

Powerless, furious, Saruman thought briefly about ignoring his 'guest'.

"RAISE YOUR HEAD, WHITE WIZARD!" bellowed the Eye once more.

The volume of the command alone made the Istar snap to attention, wincing as his eardrums quivered in protest. He stood before the flaming Eye, yellow locks hanging limply down his robe - a robe that was once again strained tightly across luscious curves that many a maiden would kill for.

"I beg your pardon, my old friend," hissed the Eye cautiously. "I was not aware that you had changed your title."

Confused at both the remark and the tone, he frowned.

The Dark Lord was in a mood to be accommodating. "Why, you are now Saruman the Green, are you not? Or is it Saruman of Many Colours?" Ghastly laughter boomed around the small chamber as Saruman cringed in shame.

"And...why...are those bosoms?"

More horrible laughter.

The multi-coloured wizard wondered what his hated ally would do if he picked the blasted Palantír off its cursed plinth and smashed it against a wall. But the Eye was too busy reverberating with laughter to contemplate such a reaction. He watched it swell and ebb violently, and viciously wished it would laugh so much that it might leak tears and extinguish itself forever.

No such luck. Instead, the Dark Lord laughed as he had never before heard him. It was several (long) minutes before the fiery orb could control itself enough to speak once more.

"I see you did not escape your encounters with these foreign Istari unscathed, my friend," cackled Sauron. "As a matter of fact, you look quite ill. I would even go as far as to say you look positively green."

Saruman glared at the Palantír in annoyance, wishing with all his heart that Isildur had possessed the strength of character to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mordor all those years ago, thus sparing him this humiliation.

"And," gasped the Eye, "I cannot tell for certain as I have never owned such myself, but I do believe that your magnificent chest should have more appropriate fittings. Perhaps a pretty dress to show it off in all its splendour?"

A hot flush crept up his neck and raced across his cheeks, turning his green skin a slightly darker, more purple shade. That was vastly unfair of his so-called ally! A dress? What nonsense! Not one hour after Longbottom's curse had been inflicted on him, he had bound the hideous blights beneath several layers of stiff fabric, but the pain of restraining them thus had been almost excruciating, so the bandages had been removed before dawn broke the next day. He had later toyed with the idea of wearing a wide robe that buttoned down the front, hoping that his hated bosoms would not be as conspicuous beneath its folds. But the useless garment had not been wide enough and - no matter what he did - there was always a gaping space between the buttons that traversed his cleavage, giving anyone who cared to look a most seductive eyeful. How on earth did women endure this?

Enough! The time for sympathising with Womankind had passed! The time to take control of the situation had come.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he narrowed his eyes and gazed directly into the Palantír.

"As you can see, Sauron, the power of these Istari is not to be underestimated."

If the Eye objected to being so intimately addressed, it did not betray itself. The cackling subsided at a natural rate as the Dark Lord regained control over his emotions.

"I agree, Saruman - now more than ever. Nay, my friend, do not be so hasty to take offence; I speak my mind in all seriousness. Any Istar who has the power to contend with the might of Isengard and inflict such...damage...to the White Wizard cannot be allowed to roam the lands of Arda unchecked, for such a threat to you is also a threat to me. I spoke of possible weaknesses that these Istari may have. Tell me: did you notice any during your...encounters...with them?"

Relieved to have the conversation back on track, Saruman frowned thoughtfully. The Longbottom hag (curse her!) was a force unto herself. He had humiliated her, caused her physical harm, starved her, taunted her and left her to the mercy of the elements - yet still she had escaped her prison. The boy had effectively deflected his curses and - he flushed at the remembrance - had the unmitigated gall to approach him and chastise him for not being able to decide on one colour and go with it (all the more infuriating now with his belated realisation that the child's own kin had been the cause of his unflattering complexion). And the Red Witch (curse her, too!) was a ball of flying fury who had cursed him in word and deed, before hitting him with, surely, the most embarrassing ailment he had ever suffered from.

And now it appeared that one of them had actually slain a Nazgûl!

It was imperative that he separate these strangers from the Fellowship and capture the One Ring for himself. If they managed to get the Ring-bearer to Mordor... Well, he had seen with his own eyes how easy it was for the aged hag to make herself invisible to the naked eye - she did not require a magic Ring to aid her with that. It would be of no matter to her or any of the others to render the hobbit invisible without the use of Sauron's trinket and spirit him across to Mount Doom, where he could fulfil the duty that had been pressed upon him by the deceased Grey Wizard.

But where was their weakness? Even without their staffs, they appeared to have command over their magic - albeit greatly reduced. How was he to contend with such as that?

The answer came to him quicker than a Longbottom curse and he gave a smile of genuine emotion as he finally replied to the Eye's query.

"Yes. I did notice one weakness that may be of great import in their downfall. It would debilitate them utterly, leaving their allies to flounder uselessly without their aid and allowing our armies to crush, once and for all, the so-called Free People of the West."

"Is that so? And what is this weakness?"

"The boy."

"The boy?"

"The boy. If we capture the Wizard-boy, the Witches will not rest until he is found. They will abandon their newly-formed friendships with Men without a second thought."

The Eye of Sauron was not as convinced of this as Saruman "I fail to see how the loss of one boy could cause two such powerful Witches to so lightly abandon their allies. If they are here to take up arms with them against us, then it is natural to assume they may expect casualties amidst their own ranks. Istari are not all-powerful - as the demise of Gandalf has surely demonstrated to them."

Smirking, Saruman leaned a little closer to the Palantír and spoke in a low, almost intimate manner. "But did I not say that the Red Witch protected him?"

"What of it," hissed the Eye in irritation. "This overrated maternal instinct will only ensure the capture of one of his companions."

"Perhaps I forgot to mention the boy's name, my friend," continued the wizard smugly. "How remiss of me - let me attend to that now: his name is Neville Longbottom."

Supremely confident of the impact the name would have, Saruman stood back and squared his shoulders as the Eye absorbed this information. Another dark cackle resounded throughout the chamber (though, mercifully, this time not at his expense).

"Longbottom? A child of Istari indeed! It is comforting to know that the unsightly protuberances which mar your head have not addled your wits, my friend. An excellent strategy: capture the boy - and both his protector and kin will follow, leaving the people of Arda defenceless once more. You are to be commended."

The smug grin that graced Saruman's face slipped off at the mention of 'unsightly protuberances' - he had completely forgotten about the mutilated horns until that moment...

"Do you have a plan, my curvaceous friend?" hissed the Eye in amusement, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Trying (unsuccessfully) not to glower, the fallen Maia spent the next ten minutes outlining his strategy of attack against the new Enemy of Isengard and Mordor - a plan that would split his ally's forces further whilst allowing him the luxury of continuing his search for the Ring-bearer.

"I expect only one thing if you should capture them before my soldiers do," said Saruman after the finer details of the plan had been fleshed out.

"Expect? You make demands of the Lord of Mordor, White Wizard? Truly you have grown bold. Perhaps I aught to be concerned?"

The Dark Lord's voice was dangerously low and Saruman almost kicked himself for his poor choice of words. It would not do to reveal himself so soon!

"Forgive me, my friend. I beg your indulgence in asking for a favour," he amended smoothly. It worked.

"Continue."

"If you should capture these foreign Istari before I do, I ask only that you send me the Longbottom Witch. We have...unfinished business...to attend to."

"As you wish. But only on the condition that she is not the one who destroyed my servant. For, if she is, then she and I shall have business of our own to attend to first. Your wounded pride will be of no import next to the wrath of Sauron."

It was an unsatisfactory compromise, for he knew Sauron would have to torture all three to the brink of death before he found the culprit responsible for slaying his precious Nazgûl, yet it was better than nothing. Perhaps Fate would smile upon him and deliver the hated Longbottom hag into his hands first. The thought was enough to muster a convincing smile to his features and he nodded in apparent submission.

"The generosity of Sauron knows no bounds."

Really. No bounds.

"Then, my friend, I believe this discussion has served its purpose. You will keep me apprised on the assault against the horse-lords?"

It was not a question, it was an order - and they both knew it.

"Certainly."

"Good. And I look forward to delivering the gift of your talented adversary, if circumstance permits it."

Which meant 'when I have finished with her'.

"But then again, I may find it within my heart to bestow the mercy of a swift death upon this foreign Witch."

The Istar narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Mercy. Of a swift death? For what? What was he talking about? Any fool with an ounce of self-awareness knew that the Dark Lord Sauron was not capable of mercy.

And he was not known for his generosity of heart either - in fact he did not possess a heart.

Just a great, flaming Eye!

The devious villain was sporting with him, trying to deny him his prize! Curse him!

"After all," continued the Eye, oblivious to the fuming wizard's thoughts and cackling darkly, "she has just delivered me with the best laugh I have had in Ages. Literally Ages."

Saruman cursed the Valar for linking his fate so inextricably with this lying, one-eyed, backstabbing despot.

The Eye of Sauron began to recede into the depths of the Palantír, signalling the end of their conversation.

But not before delivering one final, humiliating sting.

"Until we meet again, White Wizard - although, perhaps under the circumstances, I should say White Witch? Or Saruman of Many Colours? Perhaps Saruman of Unsightly Protuberances?"

And with a final evil cackle, the Eye was gone.

For many minutes, the ancient Istar stood in front of the black sphere that had housed his unfavourable guest, glowering at it with a loathing so deep he feared it may consume him. It took all his self control not to pick the cursed thing up and dash it against the wall, as he had wished to earlier.

So, Sauron thought to make sport with him? To play word games with him? To laugh at HIM!?

So be it! Not for long would the Dark Lord laugh once his 'ally' claimed his precious Ring for himself! Saruman of Many Colours? Little did the fool know it was a name he had bestowed upon himself (and then quickly shed after the Longbottom hag (curse her!) had made it a shocking reality)! The only wits that were addled in all Middle Earth were the ones that hovered high above the Tower of Barad-dúr in the unnatural form of a fiery orb.

A tower that he, with the aid of Sauron's own prize, would bring crashing down!

But not before the deluded Lord of Mordor took care of a few irritating loose ends for him. Like the foreign Istari.

With these comforting thoughts, Saruman turned on his heel and made his way back into the main hall, absently scratching at his bits as he waddled.

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