Endless Day
.oOo.
« ... I stood alone on an island in the clouds; and I had no chance of escape, and my days were bitter. I was pierced with cold, and I had but little room in which to pace to and fro, brooding on the coming of the Riders to the North. »
The Lord of the Rings – The Fellowship of the Rings, Book 2, The Council of Elrond. J.R.R Tolkien
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep and throbbing. My skull still resonates with echoes of the confrontation. He finally knocked me down.
Breathing is a torment. The rock is hard, smooth and cold. I lay crushed by his spells and the memory of my defeat.
Saroumane has betrayed. He has taken hold of me and holds me in custody on the summit of Orthanc, from where the felon used to observe the stars and probe the future.
The stars!
Opening my eyes is a torture. Flashes of pain tear under my temples.
The shards of my soul wander scattered.
Gather myself. Stand together. Get up.
Every bit of my body screams the torments endured.
I fall back.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep and throbbing.
I endure the duel again and the blows resonate under my skull.
The stars fade. A bleak day rises on the ordeal of Gandalf the Grey.
Gather myself. Stand together. Get up. Where is my staff? The traitor broke it. Or has taken hold of it...
The acrimony of his spells radiates into my defeated body. Stand up, Gandalf, or what's left of me!
Dawn slowly pours its sad light into the Isengard Valley. My troubled eyes see the wells and forges of the renegade wizard, where the orchards once bloomed.
The vertigo takes me. There is no way down, apart from a narrow staircase of several thousand steps, and the valley seems extremely far below.
Every bit of my soul screams the defeat endured.
I fall back.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep and throbbing. My sore brain endures the sting of my remorse and the bitterness of my vanities.
The stars fade. A new day, bleak, rises on the valley of Isengard.
Gather myself. Stand together. Get up. Dispel the poison of this omnipresent pain...
Dawn slowly pours its pale sadness into my heart. My weeping eyes land on the steaming ruins of the gardens of yesteryear, where hordes of Orcs now scream, grown in order to rival with the Dark Tower.
Nausea takes me. There is no way to warn our allies, and the future looks hopeless.
Every bit of my soul screams the foretold defeat.
Staggering, I turn to the East. From the summit of Orthanc, Saruman is used to observing the surrounding countries and weighing on their future. Despite my blurred gaze, my vision takes a leap forward, carried by a forgotten power of Númenor, some enchantment of the watchtower, once inspired by the architect's genius and faith in the service of his King.
Annihilated by the revealed vision, I fall back, torn on the hard and cold stone.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep and throbbing. My mistakes become more unbearable to me than this unspeakable headache.
The stars fade. A new bleak day dawns over the Isengard Valley.
Gather myself. Stand together. Get up. Overcome this omnipresent pain...
Dawn slowly pours its poison into my heart, burning with blood the dark fumes enclosing the flanks of Orthanc. Prisoner on this island in the middle of the clouds, I contemplate with terror the armies of the traitor Saruman.
Appalled, I scrutinize the East. In the distance, a red glow, attentive and malevolent, burns under black clouds. Tiny but clean and menacing, the flame grabs me with its fiery ray and brings me down.
I collapse, knocked down on the hard and cold stone.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
The stars fade. A new bleak day dawns over the Isengard Valley.
Gather myself. Stand together. Get up. Overcome this omnipresent pain...
Dawn slowly pours its poison of despair into my heart.
Appalled, I scrutinize the East. In the distance, on the plains of Rohan, nine riders race, shadows of terror from Mordor.
The race to the Ring is on! The Nazgûl are out! Frodo is in danger!
And there is nothing I can do...
I sit, crushed, on the hard and cold stone.
The void invades me again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
The stars fade.
The painful dawn slowly empties my heart of the slightest hope.
On the plains of Rohan, nine riders race, shadows of terror launched for the Ring. And there is nothing I can do.
Cursing my mistakes, I sit, terrified, on the hard, cold stone.
The day repeats itself, equal to itself, bringing only pain, remorse and helplessness.
Suddenly I shudder: he is there!
The Lord of Isengard, draped in a white stole and the arrogance of the victor, has come to mock my defeat, to feed on my distress.
I pounce on him with the ferocity of despair.
With a lively and imperious gesture, Saruman the White slaughters me with his staff.
Impervious to any mercy, he smiles cruelly.
I collapse on the hard and cold stone.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
The dawn rises pale and despairing, repeats equally to itself, rehashing pain, remorse and helplessness.
On the plains of Rohan, nine riders race, launched for the Ring. And there is nothing I can do.
Cursing my mistakes, I shiver, terrified, on the hard and cold stone.
Solemn and majestic, Saruman stands in front of the half-open exit, draped in a thick white cloth. The Lord of Isengard gives off his cloak and hands it to me magnanimously.
When I grasp it, I see that the cape, which seemed white to me, is indeed not, but that it is woven with many colors and, in the wind, it shimmers and its hue changes, confusing look and judgment.
Rejecting the deceptive garment, I turn to my jailer. But I am alone on the summit of Orthanc.
The cold invades me.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
The dawn rises pale and despairing, repeats equally to itself, rehashing pain, remorse and helplessness.
On the plains of Rohan, nine riders race, launched for the Ring. And there is nothing I can do.
Cursing my mistakes, I lay, appalled and hungry, on the hard and cold stone.
Rejecting the corrupted bread, I take the tonic to my lips.
Solemn and majestic, Saruman the White stands in front of the half-open exit. The Lord of Isengard hands to me a cordial and a loaf of bread, with a magnanimous air.
When I grasp it, I see that the bread, which had seemed golden to me, is teeming with worms feeding on black crumbs with human flesh.
The Elves have slowly distilled it, no vile hand has defiled this blessed beverage! Spring fragrances bloom in my memory. Shimmering sparkles of honey and clear water remind me of the time before the marring of the world. An order of beauty that still seems within reach...
I reluctantly postpone these deceptive hallucinations and turn to my jailer.
But I am alone on the summit of Orthanc.
Hunger and cold do not leave me anymore.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
Equal to itself, the dawn rises pale and despairing, endlessly rehashing pain, remorse and helplessness.
On the plains of Rohan, nine riders race. And there is nothing I can do.
I lay, appalled, on the summit of Orthanc, on the hard and cold stone.
But I am no longer alone on the hard and cold stone. Doubt imposes on me its odious presence in the guise of my host, who haunts my soul with his ambiguous meditations:
– "The Elder Days are gone. The time of the Elves is over, but our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule. But we must have power, power to order all things for the good which only the Wise can see. And listen, Gandalf, my old friend and helper! I say we, for we it may be, if you will join with me. A new Power is rising. Against it the old allies and policies will not avail us at all. There is no hope left in Elves or dying Númenor. This then is one choice before you. before us. We may join with that Power. It would be wise, Gandalf. There is hope that way. Its victory is at hand; and there will be rich reward for those that aided it. As the Power grows, its proved friends will also grow; and the Wise, such as you and I, may with patience come at last to moderate its courses and control it. We can bide our time, we can keep our thoughts in our hearts, deploring maybe evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order in Middle-Earth! There would not be any real change in our designs, only in our means." »
Doubt bites me, in the humidity of the freezing night, on the summit of Orthanc.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
Equal to itself, the dawn rises pale and despairing, endlessly rehashing pain, remorse and helplessness.
On the plains of Rohan, nine riders race. And there is nothing I can do.
I lay, appalled, on the summit of Orthanc, at the mercy of hunger and doubt.
Solemn and majestic, Saruman the White stands in front of the half-open exit. The Lord of Isengard hands me my staff, looking magnanimous and sure of his strength.
I grab my old companion! At its contact, power flocks! My invigorated body no longer feels hunger or cold. Free, my thoughts fly to those I would like to protect. I wander by the paths of the Shire in autumn, with Frodo, I tread dead leaves and pick some mushroom, we fry chestnuts together. I feel the strength and appetites of a living being reborn in me.
I push the staff away. Looking closely, it's just a twisted branch.
What is worth a power subjected to an undignified yoke?
What is such a freedom that must be paid for by obedience?
Despair invades me, alone on the summit of Orthanc.
Void again.
.oOo.
Suffering. Deep, throbbing and unbearable.
Equal to itself, the dawn rises pale and despairing, endlessly rehashing pain, remorse and helplessness.
Beyond the plains of Rohan, nine riders race. And there is nothing I can do.
I lay, appalled, on the summit of Orthanc, at the mercy of hunger and doubt.
Endless succession of days, each similar to the previous one, except in the torments it inflicts on me.
I get up and face the abyss. Anything would be preferable to me than this endless day. To free myself from this defeated body, to join with my kind beyond the ocean, to bow before the thrones of the Valar...
Solemn and majestic, Saruman the White stands by my side. The Lord of Isengard points to me the abyss, with a haughty gesture:
– So jump! Since you believe so much in the victory of the West! May the clique of your Gone Gods rescue you and lead you to the Immortal Lands!
This renegade wizard, this dry and narrow heart, is no longer able to embrace the immeasurable power and ineffable compassion of the Lords of the West. Arrogance takes me – I shall show him who is the sole custodian of their authority now!
But a cruel glimmer, which shines in the eyes of the tempter, holds back my steps and my unforgivable presumption. My time has not yet come!
As I retreat, vacillating, realizing the folly of my pride, a cruel smile distorts the face of Saruman, who believes he holds my surrender.
My time has not come yet…
Will it ever come?
But in the back of the felon, I see my salvation hovering!
Out of doubt and rejecting all pride, I jump into the void...
... where the eagle catches me on the fly!
.oOo.
The great eagle Gwaïhir, indeed an emissary of the Valar (These "Gone Gods"), put Gandalf in Edoras. There, the Grey Wizard discovered the evil already at work. King Theoden, in order to get rid of him, offered him to take a horse and leave. Gandalf chose the most magnificent of the steeds, Shadowfax. Thanks to this formidable mount, he was able to catch up with the black riders, just after they had reached the Shire.
.oOo.
NOTES
Inspirations – The film Groundhog Day, as well as the Temptation of Christ, Gospell by Saint Luke.