Title:Saruman
Disclaimer: The White Wizard is Tolkien's, not mine. So are all the other places, faces, and races mentioned in this short piece.
Notes: Written for LOTR RPG after I recieved threat of losing chara. Was Saruman and needed to post but there was no graceful way of doing this, since the RPG action was currently so far away from Isengard. Makes for an awkward segue. Anyway, here's a look into the mind of Saruman.
***
It had been years since the flowers last bloomed.
Isengard was once a beautiful land, the most beautiful in all of Middle- Earth, perhaps. Saruman had always remembered it like that in his mind. Saruman remembered a lot.
He remembered the great war of the Second Age and even great events that happened far before that. He remembered when the Earth had been wild and pristine. He doubted that even the Elves remembered that far back.
Then Men had come, with their stone-cold heart and flinty eyes. They killed the land, ruined it and he could not stop them. They had closed hearts and closed minds and saw beauty nowhere except in their gray castles and silver swords.
That was why the Elves were leaving. Filthy cowards. Saruman knew that in their hearts, they hated Men as much as he. But the First Born could not bear to kill the Second Born, for some sentimental reason or another. The Elves had always been flightly, useless fools.
Saruman would stay and fight, if no one else would. For the sake of the Istari, his dying race. Saruman knew that one day he, like the Elves, would leave this world. But he would struggle, he would fight, because such is the nature of any living creature faced with the dilemma of extinction.
Beauty. Beauty was dying and all the races of Middle Earth lived for beauty. The Elves were accustomed to beauty, the Men longed for beauty, the Dwarves coveted beauty, and the Hobbits were in awe of beauty. Superficial and silly. Even Gandalf cherished such romantic notions. Only the Orcs and the Uruk-Hai lived always in darkness because they were hideous. Even the Elves, from whom they had been descended from, despised them. But Saruman had lived too long and beauty was indifferent to him. She did not seduce him and he did not lust after her. He liked useful things. He loved the Orcs, they were useful and he had made them. They were the only things in this life that could ever truly belong to him.
There was one other, perhaps, who could save this world. The one who had made the Rings of Power, all twenty of them. He had the power to cleanse this world, purge it of its impurities and create the earth anew. It would be perfect, beautiful, and functional, exactly like the Ring of Power with its dark perfection.
There were times when he dreamt dreams of glittering gold, of a gentle voice calling to him. "We can make everything beautiful again," it would say. "We can create the lost paradise, you and I." And Saruman would wake up with his eyes stinging and his head clouded and it was times like these when he thought of how easy the power lay within his grasp, if only he reached out to take it...
But for now, he looks into the palantir and watches. He watches the childlike Hobbits with the wizened Gandalf. He watches the worried Elrond consult with the Elvish council of Rivendell. He watches as the Orcs slay the greedy Balin in the depths of Moria and he rejoices in their strength. Most of all, he watches the one called Strider, the one who would be Aragorn, Elessar, the son of Arathorn, the heir of Isuldir. He watches because, one day, he knows that the two of them will meet face to face and he will destory the youthful King of Men.
The flowers never bloom in Isengard anymore. He had loved the marigolds.
Saruman sits in the tall tower, watching and thinking.
***
"Sic transit gloria mundi."
Disclaimer: The White Wizard is Tolkien's, not mine. So are all the other places, faces, and races mentioned in this short piece.
Notes: Written for LOTR RPG after I recieved threat of losing chara. Was Saruman and needed to post but there was no graceful way of doing this, since the RPG action was currently so far away from Isengard. Makes for an awkward segue. Anyway, here's a look into the mind of Saruman.
***
It had been years since the flowers last bloomed.
Isengard was once a beautiful land, the most beautiful in all of Middle- Earth, perhaps. Saruman had always remembered it like that in his mind. Saruman remembered a lot.
He remembered the great war of the Second Age and even great events that happened far before that. He remembered when the Earth had been wild and pristine. He doubted that even the Elves remembered that far back.
Then Men had come, with their stone-cold heart and flinty eyes. They killed the land, ruined it and he could not stop them. They had closed hearts and closed minds and saw beauty nowhere except in their gray castles and silver swords.
That was why the Elves were leaving. Filthy cowards. Saruman knew that in their hearts, they hated Men as much as he. But the First Born could not bear to kill the Second Born, for some sentimental reason or another. The Elves had always been flightly, useless fools.
Saruman would stay and fight, if no one else would. For the sake of the Istari, his dying race. Saruman knew that one day he, like the Elves, would leave this world. But he would struggle, he would fight, because such is the nature of any living creature faced with the dilemma of extinction.
Beauty. Beauty was dying and all the races of Middle Earth lived for beauty. The Elves were accustomed to beauty, the Men longed for beauty, the Dwarves coveted beauty, and the Hobbits were in awe of beauty. Superficial and silly. Even Gandalf cherished such romantic notions. Only the Orcs and the Uruk-Hai lived always in darkness because they were hideous. Even the Elves, from whom they had been descended from, despised them. But Saruman had lived too long and beauty was indifferent to him. She did not seduce him and he did not lust after her. He liked useful things. He loved the Orcs, they were useful and he had made them. They were the only things in this life that could ever truly belong to him.
There was one other, perhaps, who could save this world. The one who had made the Rings of Power, all twenty of them. He had the power to cleanse this world, purge it of its impurities and create the earth anew. It would be perfect, beautiful, and functional, exactly like the Ring of Power with its dark perfection.
There were times when he dreamt dreams of glittering gold, of a gentle voice calling to him. "We can make everything beautiful again," it would say. "We can create the lost paradise, you and I." And Saruman would wake up with his eyes stinging and his head clouded and it was times like these when he thought of how easy the power lay within his grasp, if only he reached out to take it...
But for now, he looks into the palantir and watches. He watches the childlike Hobbits with the wizened Gandalf. He watches the worried Elrond consult with the Elvish council of Rivendell. He watches as the Orcs slay the greedy Balin in the depths of Moria and he rejoices in their strength. Most of all, he watches the one called Strider, the one who would be Aragorn, Elessar, the son of Arathorn, the heir of Isuldir. He watches because, one day, he knows that the two of them will meet face to face and he will destory the youthful King of Men.
The flowers never bloom in Isengard anymore. He had loved the marigolds.
Saruman sits in the tall tower, watching and thinking.
***
"Sic transit gloria mundi."