13. Battlefield

I.

Saruman "The Wise" hadn't obtained his surname for nothing. Even in the – now quite distant – days of his youth a felicitous mixture of cool, clear intellect and ambition, from the almost unlimited sort, had made sure that he attracted attention from teachers both appropriate and capable. He hung at their lips, being taken up completely in whatever they taught him, positively absorbing their knowledge - until he outwitted them.

He'd gained fame swiftly, all too swiftly; and as every climber did, he soon was confronted with grudgers, hostility from the commonality, and the loneliness of rulers, an unholy trinity which easily could have been his downfall (for he was inexperienced in the art of intrigues still) if he hadn't possessed another inherent skill, vastly underestimated by his numerous enemies: Instinct. Saruman exhibited the refined senses of wild, and untamed animals, and he was able to read the hearts of most creatures, if he judged them worthy to do so. Once he'd perfected his skills, his enemies, if they still had some relevance, finally had to accept his superiority.

He'd been guided by a broad, somewhat superficial love of all beings in Middle-Earth then, and he, meritedly, became the respected wizard he still was nowadays in the eyes of many. But this love was lost eventually, gradually dying back from when he made the discovery he could not only read the thoughts of his fellow men, but also manipulate them. And Saruman, the duteous, the controlled, the educated, was completely unprepared for the storm of feelings that suddenly awoke in him; and the dominant and all consuming one was greed for power.

It slowly turned him into the monster he is today.

The tragic thing about his fall was that he didn't notice it. He didn't notice how he finally lost his last ethical principles, and the last compassionate part of his heart; carelessly forgetting that it was them that had paved his way to power and influence.

Together with them he lost his anchor to reality; and Saruman, a more than experienced player on the chessboard of political intrigues, committed exactly the same mistake he'd warned everyone else from more than once. He started to consider himself invincible, neglecting the old saying that too big a raising will bring about a deep fall, at least in the world of mortals.

It was his megalomania that finally overthrew him, a megalomania that pictured vivid images of incredible power in his feverish brain; and a megalomania that let him misconceive the signs that he was about to accept a defeat; a defeat that would be more bitter than everything that had befallen him before.

II.

There were many signs though.

Of course he noticed that the wood elves' arrows, being led by Rivendell's king and his warriors riding in the front line, missed their aim, or narrowly missed it; in a way that required even more skill than just hitting the target.

Of course he saw that the expected hail of wood elves' arrows became a piteous flash in the pan at best; and not a single Rivendell elf did even sway in the saddle.

Of course he saw that no further figures moved shadow-like in the trees, around Elrond and his elves, but still in his triumphant mind the jigsaws refused to fall together, as if he anticipated what their image, once finished, would show: The image of a devastating defeat.

His instincts raised an alarm though, when a small group of five hooded riders, wrapped in dark cloaks, blazed their trail to Elrond's side, Elrond, who still simply watched the approaching flood of the orcs, weirdly motionless, and weirdly composed. But then they answered with vehemence, and immediately, causing a slight dizziness in his head and nausea in his stomach to form.

Saruman gritted his teeth. His hands clenched the reins of his horse. His brain frantically worked; but still – perhaps for the first time in his life – his mind found nothing to which it could cling to, no straws, no other plan – the pieces of the puzzle didn't fall together.

Only when the hooded riders finally reached their destination, and drew back their hoods; only when he saw Gandalf and Aragorn among them, drawing their swords and taking their stand beside the elvenking, only when Elrond shouted something elvish in a loud, resounding voice, widely audible, and only when he saw the Rivendell elves now starting to divide themselves like the Red sea, did he understand deep down in his withered heart that his fall had begun.

Still his intellect refused to accept the scene unfolding before his eyes, refused to accept what he saw here; for the shock he'd suffered was still too fresh. He noticed the elves around him pointing their bows into his direction, threateningly, and the cold hand of defeat gripped his heart, and the bitter taste of bile was suddenly on his tongue.

Saruman squinted, his breath caught in his throat – and then, with an almost incredible effort of will, he got over the panic that had pulsed through him only seconds before.

He was Saruman, Saruman the Great, and here, at this borderline, this turning point of his advancement he once more proved his perilousness, for from that moment he didn´t waste any thought on the defeat he´d suffered. All he was concerned about now was how he could contain the damage it had brought.

His piercing glare fell on the elves surrounding him, their weapons menacingly risen. „You may think you've caught a fox." he thought in a sudden flush of hate. „But give me a moment of inattention – and you'll see how a ravaging wolf will tear you apart."

It was the last emotional release he allowed himself. Then he looked ahead, with narrow eyes; and mentally he congratulated the elvenking for the perfection of the snare he'd set.

III.

It was like a scene from a classical play; a scene in which all participant actors  appear on stage just once more, for the final act, in which the fate of all will be decided; and still no one knows if the final curtain will fall behind a tragedy or not.

It was like a scene from a classical play, with one significant difference: The blood that was being spilt was real; and everyone falling would not raise again to accept the final applause.

 It was like a scene from a classical play, and Elrond was its director.

On his command the army of the Rivendell-elves parted, gave way to the approaching black flood of orcs, without any resistance - and then circled it in two groups, swiftly, until they surged at the orcs, like brisk, thunderous water nagging at an obstacle, softly losing ground again and again; but adamant, and tireless, until every hindrance is shattered and finally vanishes into the flood.

The orcs shrank back.

To the elves, as fast as lightning on their agile horses, attacking as rapidly as falcons did; and to their masterly aimed arrows, they had nothing to oppose; even more so because their enemies did not stand up to them.

At the sides of the orc front they dropped like flies; and panic began to take possession of their survivor´s senses.

Elrond, armed like his warriors except for that he wasn't helmed, saw it; and in a grim smile he bared his white, flashing teeth. Yes, he did not stand out, did not even wear one single sign of authority, but still anyone would have acknowledged him as the leader of the field right away; for the king of the Rivendell elves, as self controlled, and even gentle though he usually was, now radiated an almost tangible aggressiveness that made everyone, even his allies, give way from him.

The elvenking slowly unsheathed his sword; and while his companions did the same, he bent forward; tense like a slender hound on a sure scent, and he waited. For the scene unfolding before his eyes had not reached it's culmination yet.

He waited.

In the meantime the orcs had obviously recovered from their first shock, for they now forged ahead, stumbling and pushing, blindly trampling over their fallen co specifics, and like gregarious animals in mindless panic they followed the only way of escape that was offered to them.

 Straight towards Elrond and his fellow warriors.

Straight towards Rivendell.

The grim smile on the elven king's face wore off, and he narrowed his eyes, as if he instinctively tried to shut out what he saw: A black, threatening flood, already reduced, and embanked, through the attacks of the elves at it's sides, but still not running dry, still impressive, and still baneful. 

And still the event that Elrond waited for, increasingly desperate, had not arrived.

There came visions instead, images inside his head, so vivid – as they always were - that Elrond immediately got absorbed in their world, was lost in reverie for a few seconds, caught in a state he neither knew to explain, nor to avoid; as if the visions had the specific power to take possession of him, until nothing else remains to be done than giving them the attention they claim.

This time the visions turned out to be nightmares.

 There were images of a Rivendell totally destroyed, drowned, and flooded, devoid of everything alive, images of battles and fights, in which elven warriors, women and even children were slaughtered by orcs, more numerous than the leaves on a tree in full bloom. Images of elvish faces, pale, flawless, the lights in their eyes extincted, with trickles of blood in the corners of their mouths. And there were images of wood elves, over and over again, staring at him with their wild, and angry faces, their eyes so inquiring, so accusing  – before they fell under a black flood of orcs.

It was their accusing stare which sent a cold shiver down Elrond´s spine, whilst the rest of his cool intellect desperately clang to the warm knowledge that these images were only visions haunting him, visions, from which he´d often wondered if they simply arose from his subconsciousness; or if they were some heritage of his ancestors, hidden deep in the innermost part of his soul; or if they really showed something the future might bring about, and therefore were true foreshadowings.

He remembered that Galadriel had not answered his questions in this regard except with a smile that had not reached her eyes, and he remembered how her tall, slender figure had gone rigid. Elrond had not hassled her further.

Then the visions left him as suddenly as they had come and Elrond breathed deeply, redeemed, laboriously suppressing the trembling that suddenly had seized his body. His breath still came intermittently, and his face was covered in cold sweat. Even though he knew himself to be back, back to solid reality now, although he knew that his mental absence had lasted only seconds; he couldn't get rid of the sinking feeling that his realm would be lost, despite their efforts, drowned and flooded by their archenemies.

He despised himself because of his weakness, but the memory of the recent visions pressing him was still too vivid to be ignored, and he instinctively knew that the fate of one of the last elvish realms indeed was on the edge of a knife – for still the event on which his trap relied on had not yet taken place.

Elrond again closed his eyes. Beside him Aragorn stifled a curse between his teeth.

Then it came, what the elven king so desperately had hoped for, first as a soft singing, not louder than the lullaby of a mother, swelling to a loud hissing that filled the air – the wood elves, scattered in the trees on both sides of the orcs´ platoon, dispersed in between the already attacking Rinvendell elves and those who still held out with Elrond, had taken their part in the battle for Rivendell.

Since they were almost invisible in their hiding places, the music of their bows resembled the eerie singing of a menacing Greek chorus, raising its voice behind the scene.

More orcs fell when the wood elves' arrows found their intended victims, and they fell with the deadly precision of Swiss clockwork. The flood of the orcs became shallower, but still it was not stopped. Elrond relaxed, and then he shouted a short, snatchy command. The time of the heroes of this play had come.

The flood was here.

IV.

At the beginning it was so easy. Aragorn only had to ride through the rows of the orcs to effortlessly mow them down, and they fell as easily as corn under the harvest moon.

Their killing did not require any skill, had little relation to the art of swordplay Aragorn had perfected in his youth and while he literally hacked his way through the orcs, he felt the bitter taste of bile in his throat and the flaring of a dull headache, as if this way of killing, nothing more than a brutal slaughtering, was displeasing him even though he knew he fought for his life, even though orcs were the slaughter cattle. Still his displeasure did not cause his hands to shake nor did it slow down the vehemence of his strokes and desperately the orcs gave way to him, the human slayer, fighting among elves.

Aragorn was the warrior, the hero of this final act, fighting, as it should be, for his love, and for those who had offered him a home, who had been father, mother, brothers, sisters and friends to him as long as he could remember; and he fought for what was still good and pure in those days in Middle-Earth.

Most likely it was a mixture of all these motives that urged on Isildur´s son, that never allowed his arm to weaken, even when he already had to catch his breath and the sweat on his face was intermingling with blood and dirt.

V.

What Gandalf fought for, no one did understand yet. It was enough, anyway, that he did fight, adroitly, mercilessly, with more strength than one assumed in his haggard, still almost uncrooked stature, and where his stroke fell, no one would rise again.  He fought, as it was the way of wizards, restrained, cool headed, never using his sword for a single superfluous stroke, and never did he allow the blood thirst, to which especially men are susceptible in war, to get hold on his senses.

An uninvolved observer might been tempted to say that Gandalf did not really fight, but rather abstain from battle, in spite of his magical powers. He would have wronged the wizard, though, for Gandalf was there.

Whenever a warrior was in unexpected difficulties, whenever an orc tried to lead a backstabbing stroke, or a wounded elf had to be salvaged from the hazard zone, Gandalf was there, and he saved many lives that day, but still he never forgot to throw a glance at Saruman from time to time, Saruman, who still sat on his horse without moving, flanked by at least a dozen grim looking elves, and his almost eerie composure did trouble the grey wizard a great deal.

Rightly, as it turned out to be later, for now the tide began to turn; and not in favour for the elves.

To be continued…

Author´s note:  To everyone reading this… You suddenly feel relaxed…very relaxed… and carefree… and happy… ( repeat 24 times ) …and you suddenly feel like writing a review… a nice one… a long one…

Yes, I´m trying to hypnotize you, I admit it! Just to get some reviews! Think of the poor hard working author, and her beta-reader Elise (I´m still very happy about your efforts!), and please review… send a nice one… a long one… (repeat 24 times)

To Narcolinde/Morloth/SpaceVixenX and Elise: As you see above, I have to take desperate measures to get more reviews… but after all, I´m not too sad about it, as long as I have an exclusive circle of readers (to which you belong to, of course), who seem to like my story! Thanks for your reviews!!!