The rain beat madness against the glass panes of the tiny window, the girl barely noticed the beat pounded out against the door, until a soft voice broke the silence.
"Excuse, my lady, this intrusion…" A gentle hand peeled the door back. His kind grey eyes were soft, and memories of women sifted like sand through the mind of Saruman. "My friend Gandalf left his book here." He motioned to the book, recognizing it instantly.
"Oh," she whispered, "I am sorry, give your Gandalf my apologies." She regretfully released her finger from the page which held the spot she has intended upon continuing to read. Saruman nodded, curling his goatee with one finger, and bad and often unnoticed habit on Saruman's part. "You shouldn't curl your beard, for afterwards, it shall fail to grow longer."
Saruman, the wise and all-seeing struck down the opinions of his current companion, "That is a silly wives tale."
The girl's unwavering patience stood as firm and as tall as the stone of time, her deep eyes brewing hidden storms. Saruman's smug face did not irk the poor girl, it was his sympathetic smile, the thought that his empathy for her foolishness would cure her wounded pride, that made her ill.
"Perhaps it is," she whispered, the energy in her voice drained, "that you are right, my lord. For what would one as I know compared to a sorcerer so great." She did not care anymore, let the man think what he will.
Saruman crouched to her bedside, and laid his dear hand upon her sickly colored cheek, "Dear, we must all learn." He stood, taking the book carefully from her hands. He walked to the doorframe, resting his hands upon the brass knob, ready to pull the door shut. His boot walked, stepping away, and the woman spoke.
"But to what degree, my friend?" she said, her voice frail as though she were old, as time.
Saruman's mind raced to answer her foolish question, there was no answer, no answer as truth as it was fallacy. He closed the door, a question hanging overhead, like a thundercloud, threatening, rumbling. Walking away, he realized soon he had gotten the best of the woman, leaving mysteriously, just as she had left him with a question, he, even better had left her with an unspoken question, an undetectable aura, an anonymity he decided he liked.
This woman made him think, think that…perhaps she was not so common a whore.
Gandalf leafed though the pages of the book, his eyes closed, he wafted the scent of lavender from the pages. Saruman raised his brows, "Friend Gandalf, you surely have gone mad, for my old Gandalf would not have spent his time smelling a book!" a smile toying with his lips.
"It smells like her room…" Gandalf smiled softly. "I wondered what a wonderful scent occupied the room that day. Lavender, the flower of the goddess…" he flipped through the pages again, breathing deep the heavy scent of the purple blossom.
"I think you like her, Gandalf!" Saruman heartily laughed, disguising his competitive jealousy.
"No, no, I think not!" Gandalf closed the book with a resolute snap. "I don't even know her name!" he challenged Saruman.
Saruman laughed, curling his goatee, "Why not call her Lavender, Gandalf, you seem to be keen upon that scent of flower…?"
The two merrily laughed, as friends should, but in the early hours of morn, it became nervous laughter, both men having figured the other liked the puzzling woman, for just that reason, the fact she was puzzling.
And both men decided to themselves…they wanted to know what she was hiding. To unlock the sweet mysteries this shadowy figure would have in store for them, and they became blind in all other aspects, their shifty eyes watching each other, watchful ears listening for the creak of a footfall upon the wooden boards.
The woman fell asleep listening to the peals of laughter emitted by the two young sorcerers. Her head spun with what they could be talking about, but she never would have guessed…