A weapon of victory 1 – The summoning
The magic chamber of Saruman was unlike anything any other wizard used. And if one of the other members of the Order had walked in, they would have known at once that his soul had been corrupted. Streaks of colour appeared and disappeared across the bare black walls, creating a constantly shifting, kaleidoscopic light that made it hard to focus and even to see. Other objects appeared and disappeared in the shifting light, as if their presence was not completely anchored in reality; and once or twice, behind the objects that appeared and disappeared, behind the streaks of dancing polychrome light, something could be seen – something like faces in pain, but silent, speechless, contorted, and swiftly vanishing.
All this was not just there to please the wizard. It was necessary, in order for him to reach out across realms and realities, to achieve what he wanted. And yet sometimes he himself fell victim to its constant, disconcerting shifts. Magic required concentration; and sometimes the endless lights and tones sneaked under one's focus without even being noticed.
Like just now.
He had been throwing off, at last, the stifling and dreary mask he had worn for so long. He had thrown himself in earnest into the fortification of Isengard, and he had set the wheels of war into motion. And of course war needed weapons, and was meant for victory. He needed a weapon of victory. And so he had set up a mighty enchantment, working over days to reach across many dimensions and all ages, to gain a weapon of victory.
And now he had realized he had missed a step in the long spell. A single step.
He did not even remember what it was. And he could not break off the spell to check his books. He was on the verge of the climax of all his working; he could not hold off now, or else the immense energies he had gathered might run wild, and the consequences would not bear thinking about. So he went on working, even though he had a nasty feeling at the back of his mind that this would end up backfiring on him somehow. Lights and flashes raged around him in an insubstantial whirl, and shadows of winged things were cast across the walls in complex patterns; and over and above it all, his voice raged, in roaring and thundering tones hardly to be believed in such an elderly, white-haired frame.
Space was rent. Even Saruman, in his long and mighty life, had never seen anything like that, and there is no way that what he saw could be described to those who are restricted to three dimensions. But space was rent, and something… a whole host of somethings… could be seen, black and writhing, beyond. And something suddenly fell through, striking the ground as if she had been falling from a great height.
A voice rang around Saruman, a voice whose source he could not locate. A loud laugh tore through the chamber, and the sound of words followed. "YOU HAVE YOUR WEAPON OF VICTORY, WIZARD. USE HER WELL."
Her. Her? Yes. It was a woman… a girl, actually. A small, fair-haired girl, wearing curiously tight clothes that yet did not suggest what his world would have expected, any kind of easy virtue. And he saw her rise and look around with large, watchful hazel eyes.
Yes, that is Buffy. No secret about THAT! And some reviews might be nice, please.
The character of Buffy and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon. The character of Saruman and all related characters belong to the estate of Professor JRR Tolkien. No violation of copyright is intended and no money will be made from this story.