Written for this post at the hobbit kinkmeme: Saruman is about to dig his very first Uruk-Hai out of the mud pit, but the White Council - who doesn't suspect him of anything sinister yet - has arrived to Isengard for a surprise visit. Saruman has to find an innocent explanation for what he's doing.

hobbit-kink .

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Hope it's something along the lines of what you wanted, OP!

Finally! Saruman licks his lips in anticipation. This is it; he can feel it! After months and months of nosing through ancient scrolls for instructions, then weeks of creating strange misshapen beings that look oddly like snowmen and crumble into dust at a touch – so inconvenient if he decides to send them into battle- he is about to bring the first of his magnificent mangled monsters to life.

At least, he hopes so. It better work, he thinks grumpily. He's spent weeks turning his beautiful gardens at Isengard into yucky filthy old mud pits. Instead of waking up to a fresh green leafy scent every morning, he's now waking up to stuff that smells like poo. And every time he attempts a creation, once he's done all the hand-waving, creepy chanting and other magicky thingamajigs –pah! The easy bits!- he's actually had to get down on his knees in his precious snowy white robes to dig them out. Manual labour, ugh! He defies anyone to say he hasn't made sacrifices to get where he is.

Almost there! He's about to dig out the last of the mud, when he hears a voice in his head.

Saruman? Where are you? We are waiting!

He blinks. Galadriel? What are you talking about? Who do you mean by we? Where?

He hears her laughter, throaty and rich and golden, in his mind.

The White Council, and we are at Isengard, of course! Will you not come to greet us? No matter, we will come to you!

He scrambles out of the mud in horror. Nononono! Why do they always have such horrible timing? He can't allow them to see his first Uruk-hai! What can he say?

"Saruman, there you are!" Glorfindel's sunny smile falls into a frown. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Why are you so muddy?" says Elrond, his face twisted in disgust. He holds out his hand, palm out, as though to keep Saruman a good distance away from himself. Prissy elf.

Galadriel, Gandalf and Círdan simply stare.

"I- uh- I-"

"He was probably making mud pies!" chimes in Radagast, waving his hands excitedly as usual. "Fantastic activity, that! After all, the Wise should always make every attempt to get closer to nature. Saruman should be praised for leading the way!"

"I most certainly was not!" bursts out Saruman before he can stop himself. What, him being involved in such an undignified activity as mud pie making? Never!

"Then what were you doing?" asks Gandalf, and he detects the undercurrent of impatience.

"Um, well- Radagast was right in a sense. I was indeed trying to build a more meaningful and mutually fulfilling relationship with nature. I find that Yavanna is ever willing to listen, if we open our hearts to her. But I must stress that I was not making mud pies!"

"You don't look very fulfilled to me," says Círdan, stroking his little goatee. "Merely a little grumpy, and terribly muddy. I must insist you cleanse yourself before we begin the meeting. I hope the Kementári was pleased with your efforts, at least?"

"I would not know," says Saruman crossly. "That is not the point! Are you not aware that being in the mud can strengthen the body against nasty invading illnesses? Oh, I suppose you're too busy with your silly ships to ever pick up a copy of Men's Health!"

"There is no need to be insulting! I will have you know that my ships are the finest in all of Middle-Earth. I have a 100% customer satisfaction rate, and every elf who wishes to sail takes one! Círdan's Ships; Don't Leave Middle-Earth Without It."

"First of all, that slogan is grammatically incorrect," breaks in Elrond. "I would expect an elf that has lived millennia to know that. Even I do, and I'm far younger than you."

"Secondly, we physically cannot leave without a ship," says Glorfindel, rolling his eyes. "I believe that is the whole point of the phrase 'sailing for Valinor', Círdan."

"Can we please get down to the issue at hand?" says Galadriel, raising her voice to be heard above the bickering. "Saruman, why were you playing in the mud? Wild tales about the health benefits aside."

"It's true! There are many other positive effects. It also makes a person happier, and improves one's disposition."

"Does that really work?" asks Glorfindel, suddenly sounding very interested. "Could I send someone to you for treatment? The lord I serve is often so terribly serious and moody, not to mention bossy! He makes my position is intolerable at times. If you could get him to lighten up, I'd be quite willing to meet any expenses."

Elrond clears his throat. "Ahem. I happen to be standing right here."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about you, my lord," says Glorfindel, a picture of wide-eyed innocence. "You didn't hear me saying your name, did I? Don't be so sensitive, it's unbecoming in an Elven-lord."

Elrond's face turns an interesting shade of puce. Gandalf coughs loudly. "Back to the glowing review of mud. Saruman?"

At this point, Saruman is grasping for anything and everything he can think of. "Mud is a wonderful art medium!"

"Ah!" crows Radagast. "I was right! So you were making mud pies, after all!"

Círdan, still smarting from the insulting comments about his ships and slogan, turns his gaze left, right, up down and generally all around him, but naturally comes up with nothing. "So where's all this great artwork, then?"

Saruman wants to tear his tongue out. That was stupid of him. Quickly, he says the one thing he knows is guaranteed to distract them all. "Mud can also make you wiser and more beautiful!"

The words are barely out of his mouth before all the Wizards and Elves present throw themselves onto the soggy ground, and rub their faces in the mud.

He glares at Gandalf. The old fool has no idea how easy he has it. Has he never realised there's such a thing as hair conditioner? But of course, he's Gandalf the Grey, so he doesn't have to bother about such things. What Saruman wouldn't give to have that tangled messy old hair that never needs a wash and blow dry, and thick rough grey robes that really don't look all that bad mud-spattered. An image of the fate of his last set of white robes springs to mind. Tattered, caked with mud, stained beyond the power of even Domestos bleach to reach. He has to choke back a sob.

But it's all right, he managed to fix them up in the end, just about. A little bit of magic, a bit of dye, and voila! Look out, fashion world, here comes Saruman! He strikes a sexy pose, something like what he imagines a male model or that elf Legolas would do. Head tilted, lips slightly parted in a pout, hand on hip. Darn, that old staff does get in the way.

"For I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colours!"

Gandalf blinks. His head tilts, trying to catch the intricate colours in the robe – well, they could hardly stay white with all those mud stains, could they?- and shrugs.

"I liked white better," he says.

"White!" Saruman sneers. "It serves as a beginning. White cloth may be dyed. The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken. I'm telling you, Gandalf, multicolour is the new white. It's very in."

"I still think white is better. You look ridiculous."

"NOOOOOO!"

THE END

I know it's a bit nonsensical, but I hope it was fun to read, because it was definitely fun to write! Please do let me know what you thought, I find it really difficult to keep on writing without feedback :)