The Coming of the Night
One- The Third Dark Lord
Perfection.
It was what he craved above all else, and if he had to condescend to personally destroy all to achieve it, he would without a second thought.
Such a lofty aim for such a lofty figure- not anymore. The little golden ring set on the top of his staff's gem of Valarin diamond assured him of that.
For the first time, and not the last, he opened his mouth and let fly a truly evil cackle of Dark Triumph. The dark syllables reached his ears and satisfied them greatly- although it was gloating of the basest kind, there was no harm in obliging one's ego from time to time, was there?
He acknowledged that he had an ego- a tremendously large one at that- and he revelled in how he was going to accomplish all it told him to.
He reflected on how he had had to suppress his ego to accomplish such a feat- if he had but made a small oversight, it would all have been for naught.
It happened after he brought his former 'friend' (pathetic grey dullard of an old fool) for a little talk at Isengard by a subtle manipulation of Radagast (whose wit, or lack thereof, needed no introduction).
The deluded, blind old lunatic (such a failure in Saruman's case for having overestimated his wisdom) had then demonstrated his complete and utter lack of vision. Two choices he had been offered- two wise choices- and he declined.
To paraphrase him, Gandalf was the one who had abandoned reason for madness. He was, therefore, offered a third choice- to remain incarcerated, until he finally spoke of the ring, or until it was found in his despite. The ruler would then have time to turn to lighter matters- such as a fitting reward for the hindrance and insolence of Gandalf the Grey.
"That may not prove to be one of the lighter matters." said he, and Saruman was tempted to laugh. He thought the words empty at first- so did Gandalf, apparently. However, Saruman was a master of guile- and he recognised deception when he saw it. Perhaps Gandalf's resigned expression was not deceptive- but it was taken as one.
A thorough search was conducted of him, his garments and his body, by Saruman himself. He brought the palantír over, and turned its farseeing gaze directly at him, which strained them both- and the palantír never lied.
Through the glass, he saw what was hidden- what was invisible. The Ring Narya, bringer of flames- ON THE HAND OF THAT CONTEMPTIBLE FOOL! That was Saruman's ring! Saruman's! Cursed elves, they would pay, and dearly so.
Ego, however, he had convinced himself, would not aid him- evil would. He, therefore, slid the ring onto Gandalf's finger, after restraining him, and then exploiting the inanimate object's link to the wizard (which he could do because of his own affinity with fire), he conducted an absolutely vicious and ruthless search of the inner secrets of his former friend's mind. Piece by piece, he penetrated deeper, and nearly tore the Grey Istar apart from the inside- and in the deepest corner of his fëa, he found the knowledge of the Ruling Ring.
Gandalf had collapsed after the search- he had to be given credit for not immediately disincarnating after being subjected to the most terrible torture that could be done to his kind- and was left reeling on the floor. Saruman had plans for him- plans within plans. Soon, he would be turned from lunacy and made actually useful…
After that, it was a simple matter of donning the fool's grey robes- drab, meaningless colour- and riding to the Shire. It at once reminded Saruman of how he would like the entirety of the world to be- peaceful and tranquil, accepting its life as a gift, while he ruled over a realm of such simplistic order with an iron fist.
It was simple enough to reach Bag End and mimic his friend's voice for long enough to whisk the ring-bearing hobbit away on a cart- and a well-placed blow to the temple took care of him before he could notice any difference in character from his friend.
When he was outside the Shire, he conducted a similarly thorough search of the hobbit- this time, the ring Narya came in handy in detecting the ring, which hung from a chain on his neck. It was, then, a simple matter to take him to Isengard personally, without wearing the ring- for he had information that there were other hunters in pursuit.
The ring was taken, and placed on top of his staff, and he spent all his hours studying it henceforth. The hobbit he kept alive and unspoilt- the surprising resilience of the creature to such a powerful pull was indeed worthy of… scientific… examination.
He himself could only stave off the pull of wearing it with his hours of study- and a little 'lighter' matter that suddenly took precedence.
It occurred to him that he would not be able to fend of the Nine for long- his magical wards would hold for a while against their weakened might- but as soon as Sauron's attention came to him, his full wrath would be directed at Isengard. Saruman, therefore, needed a weapon, and such a weapon was being… created… now.
'Heh, heh, heh, haeh, hah, hah, haaaahh…" he cackled again, as he could not deny that he was enjoying this. Such a pity that a maia so reputedly wise needed to be brought to this level- but so very worth it.
The Ring's corruption was a tool he could use without mastering it- and it was being used to great effect.
Chained and gagged lay Gandalf, Narya on his finger, to heighten his connection to the One. Saruman was slowly, brutally clawing his mind to pieces, intent on breaking his will.
Clearly, physical pain was needed. He mused, then, on how best to hurt his former friend- fire? Gandalf had a greater affinity for that than him. Wind and Water were out of the question. Frost? A viable option, but he thought the maia of Manwë would possess a high resistance to it.
Lightning, then. It was risky to charge the sub-atomic particles inside his tower, but he had the one ring. He had also succeeded in unlocking a bit of his own maiarin might, which had been bound by the Valar before he could come to Middle-earth.
He spread the tips of his fingers in a claw, and directed a terrible blast directly at Gandalf's heart. The maia shouted in pain- for the first time- and keeled over. He was not allowed to remain unconscious, however, as Saruman struck the iron pillar to which he was chained, and the sparks violently jolted him awake.
"Why… are you doing this, Curu..mo?"
"You now pay the rightful price for your complete lack of wisdom. I am only doing what is necessary, Gandalf the Grey."
"You have turned from the l-light of the Valar- y-you are crafting, as if a fey smith of fates, your own doom."
"Valar? Valar?! At times, old friend, I wonder why they were quite so short-sighted- particularly my former 'master'- and yours. But worry not, friend- I shall break you from their shackles as I have broken mine."
"You will never win, S-Saruman."
"We shall see- in time, you will cease to call Manwë 'Master'."
And with that, he left the wizard to mull his choices over, returning to his studies of the ring.
Two- Sauron's Wrath
Sauron's wrath was unleashed.
Herumor, the Dark Marshal of Sauron, had been waiting three hundred and three thousand years to witness such an event.
Orc after orc, troll after troll, Easterling after easterling had assembled to his lord's command, and with a single thought of Sauron's dark will, had made with all haste for Isengard.
The Orcs of the Misty Mountains had been personally touched and shadowed by Sauron's will, their chieftains falling prey to its black touch, all being commanded to surge forth to the tower of Orthanc. The halls of Angmar were, after a thousand years, rendered open, and the harsh men of the north, along with the few Black Núménoreans who still abode in the chill wastes, had all marched forth to pay Sauron's new rival fell greeting and destruction.
The Ar-Adûnaîm of Umbar had set sail with their great boats, landing at unoccupied Tharbad and making way to the Nan Curunír. The Haradrim, with their caravans and their long boats of the sea had even inexplicably managed to ferry a few soldiers to Saruman's hold.
Rhûn was the only vassal-nation left to defend Sauron's lands to the east.
To some, it was seen as a vile outpouring of the forces of darkness- to Herumor, it was glory incarnate.
Legion upon Legion was advancing at his lord's command.
He had little time to ponder about Sauron having sensed that Saruman, of all people, was in possession of his treasure- his fëa- and of how Saruman had gotten a-hold of it in the first place.
He had scarce little time for such trivialities, as he was being ordered to march up Barad-dûr's stairs to Saurons throne room, where his lord awaited him.
As for Sauron, the Dark Lord was… troubled. He was consumed by wrath, by rage, by shadows- he must get what was his own back- but Saruman's sudden capture of the Ring had freed him from the grasp of constant thought about his treasure.
Mairon was the admirable smith no more. He was pained. He had suffered pain greater than any other being in Eä had ever had to endure- and he had learned to fight it.
Every moment of his existence was a burning hell- the shadows of the world, his closest friends, were also his greatest foes, for every instant they strove to tear him apart. In his tower he was confined- doomed not to walk the world outside.
What few knew was that Sauron loved Middle-earth. He had always done- and forever would until the ending doom of the Dagorath. He hated Valinor and the other continents- but Middle-earth was his very life.
Arda was a manifestation of chaos, and he hated chaos- but he still loved her and for her sake, had descended from the timeless halls.
A cruel, mirthless laugh came from his lip, reflecting on where that had gotten him.
This past age, he had bent the entirety of his will towards the hunt for his ring. The shadows of darkness had consumed him completely- and overcome by rage, he had become as a shadow of malice, a threat and a demon to all.
Being deprived of it, however- now that another had claimed it- he was filled with a lucidity that he had not experienced for the entire age.
It was what made Sauron terribly dangerous- if any dared to claim his ring, he would know, and having his mind returned to the realms of conscious thought, he would connive to destroy them in one fell stroke.
The Ring's tendencies of betrayal, however, had been silenced by evil. Pure, terrible evil. And he had never expected the former wizard to be the source of it. Saruman the 'White' radiated such overwhelming doomdarknessevil that it inspired dread in even his dark mind.
He knew not just how his former colleague under Aulë had become quite so… insidious.
As the Black Núménorean marched to his throne and knelt before him, Sauron saw fit to rise, the black robes and cloak encompassing his form. A four-fingered black hand made a sweeping gesture, and Herumor nodded his head before rising, seeing his lord descend the black steps.
"My lord Thû. If I may be permitted…"
"Cease your unnecessary words and hark close. Herumor- yea, that would be you… I do indeed remember…" spoke Sauron with a menacing, dark tone.
Herumor did not move, his eyes on his lord's feet. Yet no fear did grip him- for the Black Núménorean was the most loyal of the Dark Lord's servants, and Sauron knew it.
"By now, you must have surmised that it is… a rather… delicate matter for which I have summoned you. I remember you, as you were, in Núménor- and since the day of your realisation that the path to victory lay at my side, you have never once wavered."
Herumor remained static. Sauron never praised anyone, save perhaps his war-beasts. The Núménorean, were he not a three and a half thousand years old, would have felt proud. Instead, he felt a twinge in the bonds of Sauron's dark sorcery that held his fëa to his body.
He had kept himself remarkably well- he was not a husk at all. He resembled what any veteran among nobility would. He had, of course, remained unwavering.
Memories were brought to him, of how he publicly denounced Sauron (then Tar-Mairon) in Núménor, of his arrogance and vainglory in those days- and of how Sauron had taught him a lesson, and stripped him of all he cared about- a tragedy brought about by Fuinur, his own brother. It was then that he realised that his place was at Sauron's side- along with Fuinur had already taken it- and had never shaken in his beliefs. Attachments were inconsequential. They only existed to be exploited. Sauron taught him to never have any, and to exploit such attachments for his own cause.
Sauron knew, however, that Herumor was a man of honour. He was a deceptive manipulator, but never sought to destroy the honour of an adversary and always kept his own when challenged to a duel. Besides, he did care about his own allies and strove to keep them alive as best as he could.
It was these traits that would be vital in allowing Sauron to complete the first part of his plan.
Swallowing a great deal, of personal pride, Sauron let fly all his secrets at his bewildered servant.
"Herumor, speak not of this- think not of this- but I fear. I fear that I might have caused my own doom. Saruman- his evil knows no bounds. He has already managed to exploit my ring against me. I fear that he may gain an extremely dangerous ally soon. Should he break the bonds of loyalty I placed upon my creation, he will turn first to me.
The Nazgûl- they answer to the master of the ring, not me- you are the only one who answers to me and to me alone."
"M-my lord, command me. I draw breath only to do your bidding." said a stunned Herumor, fighting to regain composure.
"I know the mind of Saruman- but it has grown so dark that even I cannot see its full depths. It is with surety, however, that I can state that his first act would be against me. Saruman is vainglorious. He would claim the mantle of Dark Lord for himself, and suffer no challenger. The first battle would be here, at Barad-dûr- should he gain victory at Isengard. In Mordor, I have no chance of escape. There are too many shadows- little manifestations of Morgoth's power who answer only to the Dark Lord- and they will obey Saruman. He will aim to crush me.
Should he prevail against my full might, your orders are these- make no move against the Free Peoples. Gather up whatever resistance you may. Rely not on the orcs- not a single orc or goblin is to be in your army. Summon up whatever resistance you can from the peoples of Harad and Rhûn, and from the Black Núménorean descendants who answer to you.
It is my command that you hold here- that you fight a losing battle. Middle-earth is the land I love, Herumor- and Saruman will seek to bend her to his will. I cannot have that. I strove to enslave the peoples so that Arda could be free- but I see truth now.
For Saruman to be defeated, I must be alive. Mandë will tell, then, if I am to claim the ring at the end of it. For now, however…"
And with that, Sauron lifted his hood off, showing Herumor a face torn by war, scarred by Elendil and utterly broken by the sorrow of a thousand torments upon his beloved Middle-earth. The Núménorean could see that it was not a lie- the dark maia truly was sincere in his care for the land. That did indeed solve a great many questions.
"My lord, it will be an honour- my highest honour- to die in your name. For your victory, I am prepared to give anything. There is one thing I ask, however…"
Sauron looked at him. Herumor's words were not sycophancy, nor did they betray a slavish devotion. He spoke as a man of honour.
"Pray tell, if I may grant it."
"Please, my lord, look beyond your differences. For your sake. This is the end of the road for me- let it not be so for you. Look beyond the lies and deceptions, my lord, and only then will you find the key to the end of Saruman."
Sauron stumbled, absolutely taken by surprise. He had not expected these words to be spoken- but it was advice. As if given to a friend, a person one wished to keep alive. There were very few- nay, none- who would wish to keep him alive. He found the words ludicrous, but he found himself touched. He would never, however, mention it.
"It will be taken into consideration. For now, however, there is another small… errand…"
"My liege?"
Sauron drew breath, and he pulled his hood over his visage.
"I mean to leave alone, as it is the only way I will not be betrayed. I will need… to defend myself. Open the dark treasury, and go forth to Mûrburz, the hall of secret darkness. Bring me the weapon."
"The weapon?"
"Yea, the weapon."
Herumor left with a new sense of hope. It seemed odd- yet poetic, in a way. The black sword had never been wielded despite its terrifying enchantment. It would finally have a hand to guide it in battle- and how fitting that it would be this one.
Three- A Cunning Plan
Mellyrn.
Beautiful talans.
Nightingales.
Heavenly song.
Nightingales.
A beautiful queen, singing to a little child.
A Nightingale, singing for the vigorous coming of spring after the cold winter.
"Ah!"
Gandalf rose from the floor, reeling. Saruman had left him.
Five days he had tortured him, and Gandalf remembered little of it. He suspected that his will was breaking.
He remembered how Manwë had sent him to Middle-earth-and how it had ruined him- No!
He tried to focus on another one- of how he had asked Frodo to keep it secret- and how the incompetent fool had not- NO!
Gandalf thought awhile. His memories appeared to have been… corrupted. Tampered with.
He drew breath, and for the first time, he let loose his voice in hatred, uttering a dark curse unto Saruman. So that is what his fate would be. That would be Saruman's design for him.
He doubted his will would hold out much longer. If he were to be unleashed upon Middle-earth by Saruman, as the Dark Lord's deadliest servant- he could only wish someone would stand up to him, set aside old ties and stop him. It was a truly evil plan, bitter in its irony.
How fortunate that he had just come up with one to best it.
He surmised that the dream he had was a gift- one from Lórien, perhaps- or from Ilúvatar himself- for that created the crux of his new plan.
Nightingale.
He only hoped she would hearken to his call. The Istari were sent to Middle-earth to do the same duty Melian had been doing flawlessly for years, against much greater darkness.
She was perfect. She truly understood Middle-earth, more so than any other.
The wizards' maiarin power had been curtailed, for fear that they could damage the land further if they were to exercise them in battle against Sauron. There would be no risk of it with Melian- her power involved healing. She loved Middle-earth- she would not destroy it, and could only enrich it.
To keep Saruman in check, power would not be the correct choice- wits and compassion against vainglory and manipulation was needed. She was Saruman's antithesis.
A pity that he could not call to her in any way as she was in Valinor- but he knew of one who could.
In only one figure did Gandalf see hope for Midle-earth- and it was not in Aragorn or Faramir. Not in Dáin or any of Durin's folk. Not even in Elrond or in Galadriel- for Gandalf's sole hope lay with Thranduil.
A Nightingale, singing for the vigorous coming of spring after the cold winter.
Gandalf himself did not have any sort of bond with Melian- they merely knew each other well. Thranduil had shared a bond with her. She had cared for him when he was but a child. Surely he was the only one she would listen to.
Thus resolved, Gandalf put forth all the remnant of his strength into his will, and his mind called loudly:
"Tharan ethuil, lasto! Lasto, Thranduil!"
Four- Spring Calls, and the Nightingale Answers
Thranduil stood silent, his arms rested on the wooden railing of the balcony. This was one of the higher places in his palace- the rest was entirely underground.
Ivy lazily wound its way around the hewn wood, little flowers growing here and there. His realm was visible below. It was neither as majestic as Imladris- nor as impossibly beautiful as Caras Galadhon- but in his mind, it was the fairest of all realms. It was home.
The trees here had come to know and love him and his people. He recalled the many conversations he would have with the trees in his youth- through long training and listening, he could hear their voices answer his calls. Few elves, nowadays, cared to listen patiently and carefully enough- they were missing something quite wondrous.
He had little time to talk to them now, for his mind was caught in a last dilemma.
He had sent Legolas to Rivendell, on Elrond's summons- and this had happened.
It was only the previous day that he had heard Gandalf's voice, which woke him from his well-earned rest. The wizard had told him some truly terrifying news- and had assured him that it would be the last time he would ever be able to consciously speak with any friend he had.
On Thranduil's questioning, the wizard had cryptically revealed that 'The flame of Anor will soon desert me, the flame of Udûn taking its place' from which the Elvenking instantly deduced that Saruman was attempting to turn him to darkness. If the new Dark Lord had the one ring, then Gandalf could not hope to resist.
"Call to her, O Tharan Ethuil. The Nightingale will answer. You know of whom I speak- she is the only hope. We Istari have failed in our task- only she is fit to accomplish it."
"Lady Melian?" he had responded, instantly recalling the beloved queen, and how much of a mother she had been to him when his own mother was elsewhere needed.
He did not wish to do this. She ought to rest in Valinor. She had earned it well. She did not deserve another difficult undertaking of toil.
"Forgive me, Gandalf, but I cannot do this. I cannot call one I care for to partake in such a cruel fate. Can you not see that she is weary? That she is tired and wishes to remain in peace?"
"And can she live in peace, knowing that she will have doomed us? She knows, Thranduil. She knows the danger we are in, and she knows that she is needed. She merely requires a bit of convincing- none but you can convince her."
"I refuse to doom her as we have been!"
"Do I not also have the trust you place in Elrond, your friend of elder days? Am I not also one in your counsel? For I ask you to trust me now, Thranduil. Melian lives with the burden of guilt every day- this is a way for her to release it. It will be good for her, Thranduil- I suspect she will see it as another chance to do what she was meant to. To render dark things right."
The normally stoic Elvenking gulped. Gandalf was a manipulator, and he knew it. He knew that Melian would rush to their aid if he but nudged her. The burden of the decision was placed on him.
An image came unbidden into his mind, of a small elfling. A small elfling who had grown up and been sent to Rivendell- one who was walking into danger without knowing it.
Sighing, he made his decision, and knew that should it come to an ill end, he would never forgive himself.
"Excellent," Gandalf had said.
"There are but two more instructions I must give you, dear Elvenking. If you do call to Melian, ask her to speak with Lord Námo. She bears a grudge against him- tell her that it is of the essence to resolve it.
And finally…" here the wizard's voice cracked, despite it being a psychic manifestation in ósanwë-
"Thranduil, I want you- nay, need you to bring an end. To me."
"Gandalf, what in Arda's name…"
"Should you face me in battle, should I come to oppose you any time in the furture, promise me that you will bring an end to me. Promise me that you will… resolve to kill me. Whether it be honourable or not, please… should I oppose you in battle, end me."
"GANDALF, HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO…"
"Aragorn will never slay me- he is too attached to my old self. Legolas will not. Elrond and Galadriel cannot, as they must not risk using their rings. Melian- she would never kill one she cares about, even if it would be a better fate. That leaves only you. Promise me, Thranduil. Do it so that my fëa may leave and so that I can return to my rightful home."
Thranduil sighed. A tear ran down his eye, and he could have done nothing to stop it. He surmised that Gandalf was in the same predicament.
The world rested on his shoulder.
After a moment, he furiously wiped the tear away, and said, with a voice of cold steel: "To you I make this vow, and may I be damned should it be broken."
"I c-cannot express my gratitude. T-thank you. Farewell, Vigorous Spring." and with that, it was ended.
Thranduil had been entrusted to tell a maia to resolve a grudge with a Vala and then leave her life of peace on Valinor. To add to that, he had to kill one of the brightest beacons of hope for the Free Peoples.
Why did everything have to happen to him?!
Yet he remained calm, as only he could and returned to his dilemma.
Should he send for Legolas or should he not?
After a few minutes of calm, logical analysis, he decided that he should not. It would be too dangerous for Legolas, and could potentially expose his realm to the agents of Saruman.
He just did not want to fight a war, remaining in uncertainty of his son's safety. He needed to make absolutely sure that he could protect his beloved Legolas- for Legolas was all he had left. He had none else. His father, mother, wife- all gone. All taken by the darkness.
He told himself to put more trust in Elrond, his friend of old- then he smiled. That he could do, and with ease. Trusting Elrond was one of the decisions he had made in the past that he did not regret. After Doriath's end, all he had wanted was revenge against the Noldor. It was Elrond who had taught him to forgive, and to truly live again.
He could perhaps trust him with keeping his son safe, now that he thought of it.
Thoughts cleared, he turned to his aide, Sadron.
"Sadron, mellon-nin. I order you to stay at my side, and under all circumstances, to stay calm. I also need you to support me, should I need it. If necessary, call one who is strong of arm to aid you."
"Hír nin?" asked the puzzled elf. Thranduil was as unwavering as the mounatins, and had never before needed anything of the sort.
Thranduil smiled. "I am about to perform quite a risky and dangerous feat of ósanwë. Should I fall to the ground, I will ensure that I will arrange for you to be forcefully made to drink Dorwinion's wine and laid out unconscious for all the court to see. Am I clear?"
"Without a shadow of a doubt, my lord!" said he hastily.
"Faithful as always."
Having thus pronounced, Thranduil shut his eyes and immersed himself in thought. He recalled his memories of Doriath0 painful though they were- and yet there were good ones. Memories he smiled at.
And then, he found her.
Thrusting forth the entirety of his will, his mind spanned the leagues between Eryn Lasgalen and Valinor, and there he found her.
"Melian. Rise now, dear Queen of the Nightingales. Rise, for Ennor has need of you."
In Lórien, in the sanctity of Irmo's garden, Melian awoke.
The Nightingale answered the vigorous call of spring.
GLOSSARY:
Nan Curunír- (Sindarin)Wizard's vale
Curumo- (Sindarin) Man of Skill, Saruman's original name
Arda- Tolkien's world. Middle-earth is a continent on Arda.
Valar- 'Powers' or Demiurges. The highest beings to live in Arda.
Maiar- Subservient spirits to Valar. Eg. Gandalf, Sauron
Valinor- The Land of the Valar
Lórien- Realm of the Vala of Dreams, Irmo. Ocated in Valinor. Do not confuse with Lothlórien.
Námo/Mandos: Vala of Doom. Judge of the Valar. My favourite character
Manwë- Lord of the Valar, King of Arda.
Mandë: (Quenya) Doom
Herumor-(Quenya) Black Lord. He became a great lord of Harad in the Second Age, along with Fuinur. Kept alive by sorcery. One of the chief servants of Sauron
Ar-Adûnaîm- (Adûnaic) Corsairs of Umbar
Melian- Maia who founded the Kingdom of Doriath with Thingol in the first age
'Thranduil' comes from 'Tharan Ethuil' meaning Vigorous Spring
Lasto- (Sindarin) Hark/Listen
Sadron- Faithful one
Ósanwë- The art of extending one's mind to telepathically converse with another
Author's Note: If the person who inspired this oneshot reads this, she will immediately know that she inspired it, unbeknownst to herself. She will also understand just why I made Saruman evil incarnate.
To my other readers, Saruman's tremendous, overwhelming evil here is quite intentional. I know it to be non-canonical, and therefore it would be pointless to mention it. Saruman here is more evil than Sauron could ever hope to be.
The Black Sword is Anguirel, sister-sword of Anglachel (Túrin's sword, Gurthang). I shall steal Tolkien's idea and say that it was brought to Sauron by a troll who was too fearful of the black blade to choose to hoard it.
If you wish more of Thranduil, I urge you to read Arinariel's stories. They are poetic and beautiful.
This is another of those stories I will keep on hold until the muse decides to seek me out again.