Saruman looked up from the ancient manuscript that he had already read fifty times. There it was again. He couldn't quite place the noise, which irked him somewhat, as he was the wisest of all wizards and was therefore required to know everything.
He put down the decaying parchment and looked around at Orthanc's impressive library. The books and scrolls ran all the way up to the vaulted black ceiling, collected from all over Middle Earth. Saruman let himself have a small smile. Being the wisest wizard was easy from here, because here was amassed an enormous amount of information that no one else would ever be able to read. And Saruman had read through it all, most of them at least twice.
Saruman sighed, remembering the good old days. Back before he'd started plotting for power, back when all he would do was read and take walks through the forest. Back then it had been much easier to be the wisest because everyone had been an imbecile in comparison. But now, with the world on the brink of destruction, certain people were getting frustratingly close to Saruman's vast wealth of knowledge. Even Gandalf was getting ideas, something silly about a ring. He'd have to consult the palantir about that later.
Also, he was going to have to make an army. At least he'd gotten in his allotted reading for the day.
And there, there it was again, that noise! What was it? The stone walls muffled the sound greatly, but he could almost hear the wailing of a dying animal, mixed with something that sounded like the squelching a leech made when squashed.
Saruman stood, angrily pushing the chair back and reaching for his staff. "Grima!" he called loudly. Then he remembered. He'd sent the fool off to Edoras to poison the mind of Theoden. Well, things were best done when he didn't have to leave them to that idiot anyway.
Saruman swept away from the table and left the library in a huff. He liked leaving things in a huff because it made him feel superior.
Following the unidentifiable sound, Saruman traversed several dark hallways and two flights of stairs before he came upon the source. There, in one of the hallways just above the stairs, sat an elf huddled against the wall. He was wearing a black cloak with the hood up over stringy black hair. He was also holding a black harp while attempting to play, sing, and cry at the same time.
Saruman was shocked. Not only had this elf somehow gotten into his impenetrable fortress, but now he was… singing! And rather poorly at that. His voice sounded as if a crow was attempting to caw halfway through swallowing a rat.
The elf stopped momentarily and turned his face to the wizard. He was wearing something black over his eyes, which had streaked down his face with the tears. "No one understands," he wept. "No one understands my life."
The wizard then noticed the poem written on the wall in blood, which was depressing, and also poorly written. That was it! No more! He turned back to the emotional elf and called on the dark powers, making himself taller, more threatening, and wiser, because that was his style.
Even in his anger, Saruman gave an inward sigh. No one understood him either. So much to do. So little time to be better than everyone else at it.