Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Four
Author: Katharine the Great
Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?" "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound. If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command. You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell
Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.
Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself. I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism! I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!
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The Tower of Orthanc had long stood silent, a mammoth obelisk cloaked in mystery and serenity. In days of old, all who had come within sight of its jutting form had paused to wonder at the secrets it contained, and the powerful wizard who resided there. Saruman had rarely emerged from his haven even before his lust for power had consumed him, but he had not been seen at all since the dawn of Sauron's renewed aggression against the forces of Middle-earth. Then, too, leisurely travel between lands had almost entirely ceased, and those few who still braved the roads made sure to avoid passing under the darkened skies of Isengard.
The Tower itself had become an eerily silent oasis in the midst of the clang and roar of the Orc-bellows entrenched all around it. The bellows were employed in the making of armor and weaponry for the dreaded Uruk-Hai, who erupted from their muddy birthing-grounds with swift regularity. The majestic trees that had previously shaded the grounds of Isengard had been ruthlessly uprooted at Saruman's command, so that the great underground caverns needed to create an army for the Dark Lord could be constructed. Smoke from smoldering underground fires had enveloped the Tower's base and seared it to a dull gray.
Saruman the White himself remained unchanged in appearance, except for the burning desire for power that shaded his formerly wise and grave eyes. He walked the corridors of his Tower, the walls of which he himself had taken great pains to reinforce with magics of old, so that it would take the might of all the peoples of Middle-earth to bring it to ruin. Ancient runes were inscribed on the walls of each hallway and chamber, having been engraved by the Tower's craftsmen long before. Saruman knew each by name, and the depth of their meanings as well. They had once been a source of speculation and introspection for him, as a scholar and keeper of wisdom beyond most mortals. But those days were long past, consumed by his own self-interest and the shifting tides of war.
Saruman came to a large door set with black stones and delicate threads of mithril, which formed snatches of Elvish script. The Istari elder knew the meaning of these words as well, and he allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corners of his thin mouth. Many of the inscriptions in the Tower of Orthanc were warnings against misusing one's own strengths in pursuit of personal gain. Their tidings of caution had long since ceased to be heeded by the occupant who daily beheld them.
Saruman stepped through the doorway as the wide doors slipped open before him. The chamber beyond was harshly lit by the windows, and the brightness was further intensified by the reflective stones embedded in the walls. He looked upon the chamber's sole fleck of color, and was filled with satisfaction at his handiwork. "Are you prepared?" he inquired.
The figure turned to face him. It was clad in thick, flowing robes of glistening white-silver, like the color of the Sea when the moon skittered across its shimmering waves. A dark void resided within the figure's forward-drawn hood, in place of a living visage. A belt of wrought silver laden with a pair of long white knives was loosely clasped at its waist, and clawed gloves of the same cold metal encased the creature's fingers. Slate-gray straps ran across its unmoving chest, connected to a quiver of white arrows at its back. The figure was silent as a grave, but it nodded once slowly, as if in a trance.
Saruman came closer, faint tremors running up his spine as he beheld the absence of form within the shroud. He turned his voice to a deep intone. "I name you Lasselanta, First Wraith of Isengard, for you are likened to the chill wind that forebodes the winter's icy spell," he told the silent creature. "You shall be the herald of Saruman the White from this day forward. You are indelibly bound to my will alone, and to I alone you shall answer. Isengard's Tower is your bastion, and your only allegiance is centered here. This place will beckon you in times of uncertainty and defeat." Saruman raised a hand as though bestowing a benediction of old. "And when the day comes that your kindred roam the land as my servants, you shall be the Lord of the Elven-wraiths, surpassed only by myself."
The Lasselanta Wraith stood still as a pillar of stone, his head slightly cocked to the side as he listened to his master's words. When Saruman had finished, the creature nodded once slowly, as he had done before. Every phrase the wizard spoke further shaped the Wraith's internal set of directives, the instincts that he would cling to in instances of doubt or indecision. He was not a personage unto himself; he was a shade, a mere shadow of the being that had been called Legolas of Mirkwood. Saruman's will and power suffused him, driving him to action at the wizard's command. Never again, however, would he act upon his own wishes, for he had none to speak of. The Wraith was an empty vessel into which Saruman had poured the essence of his purpose and authority, and any personality the creature possessed was born of that very same essence.
"Now, Wraith of Isengard, your first task awaits you," Saruman said, lowering his hand. His dark eyes burned with fierce intensity. "You shall pursue the Ring-bearer, and when you have discovered his whereabouts, you shall capture him alive and deliver the One Ring to myself. Do you understand what you are to do?"
There was a third nod from Lasselanta, and still not one word. Saruman was not certain as to whether the Wraith could speak, and if he could, in what tongue he would express himself. The Nine Ringwraiths of Minas Morgul spoke in the Black Speech, and because they had once been Men, they could also use Westron if need arose. Saruman assumed that his Wraith would speak either Elvish or Westron, but both would emerge in the guttural hissing common to all Wraiths.
"Go, then," Saruman commanded. "And do not fail."
A shaft of ice pierced the Wraith's immaterial chest as Saruman finished speaking, directly through the place where his Elven-body's heart had been stabbed with the Nazgûl blade. The creature winced, recognizing the threat in his master's words. He finally spoke, using a creaky, broken version of his formerly native Sindarin tongue. "I…understand."
Saruman nodded then, stepping aside to allow the Wraith to pass by. "Good. You will find a horse native to Rohan waiting beyond the Orc-pits. He has been trained to obey without fail those who wield my authority. Go."
Lasselanta stepped past the wizard without a word or gesture of acknowledgement; none was needed. The Wraith would obey every word Saruman had spoken, for such was his nature. He left the chamber with light, steady footfalls. He wore no boots under his cloak, as did the Ringwraiths, but only light silvery shoes. Every aspect of the Elven-wraith had been tailored in defiance and mockery of the Dark Lord's claim to power through his Ringwraiths, for the Istari elder of Orthanc had long since tired of Sauron's looming domination of Middle-earth. Lasselanta was indeed the personification of Saruman's rebellion.
The Orcs toiling away beneath the grounds of Isengard had little idea of what was transpiring in the Tower above. There were some who, at exactly the right moment, lifted their blackened eyes to glimpse a fleeting image of silver and white bounding over the land with a speed impossible to gauge. None could possibly comprehend the meaning of the strange apparition, however, and none tried to.
And so Lasselanta the Wraith came to the outreaches of Isengard and leaped nimbly astride the gray horse with white mane and tail that he found waiting there. The Wraith's long white bow was attached to the saddle, along with a cluster of additional arrows. Elves did not need saddles or reins to master their beasts, but the death-stricken Wraith no longer possessed any connection with nature. The horse bucked once, but was immediately cowed by a harsh word in Lasselanta's cracked timbre. The animal became obedient and subdued, just as Saruman had said it would.
The Wraith clutched the reins in his metallic fists and uttered a phrase, uncaring that the words were an exact echo of his former self. "Noro lim," he commanded the horse. "Noro lim."
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NOTE: "Lasselanta" literally means "leaf-fall" in the Quenya dialect of the Elvish language. Saruman was actually being pretty punny when he picked that name, since "Legolas" literally means "green-leaf." Lasselanta is also the word used to describe the fourth season of the Elven nature-calendar, and it's roughly equivalent to our October and November.
Anyway, that's the end of Chapter Four. Does everyone like my Elven-wraith? Review! Francine loves you all, and so do I!
