The Tower of the Cunning Mind

His New Power Base

            He combed wind-blown hair from his eyes with his fingers and stared greedily at the tower, his new abode, empty almost from the day when Cirion gave the Mark to Eorl.  The Stewards since had been rightfully wary of sending even scholars regularly across foreign borders, no matter how friendly they might be.

            Now Orthanc and its power and secrets from Númenor and Elvenhome were his to use as he pleased.  He licked his lips in anticipation and walked up to the doors to take possession, already planning to comb its libraries and storerooms for what information he could use.

Drinking It In

            A lock of his hair, white as the swirling mist outside, curled on his shoulder.  He stared through the window, book in hand.  What a view to contemplate as he rose from his rest, the Misty Mountains showing differing aspects each time he looked north, and the shadowy reaches of Fangorn Forest in the distance.  No longer was he a houseless wanderer in largely empty lands, but a lord in his own right.  Perhaps one day he would gather an army to himself.  But for now, it was enough to curl up in a comfortable chair and read ancient wisdom.

How to Style Himself

            He stared with fascination where the light that had passed through his prism wrought of finest crystal shone with a rainbow’s beauty upon the white wall.  Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—see what it was that white light was wrought from?

            White light might be broken into many colors; the white page was intended to be overwritten; white cloth or hair might be dyed any desired color.

            The White Wizard—that was how others knew him.  But in his secret heart he began styling himself Saruman of Many Colors.  He would need no others of any hue.

 The Treasure Unsought

            “We found nothing of value in the river,” the captain of his searchers told him, “but in the valley of an unnamed tributary we found a settlement of very small folk, half the size of Men, living together in a single great burrow dug into the banks of the stream.  And in one room we found a Man’s bones, and with it, this.”

            A leathern bag, once dyed green, bound with a dried lock of dark hair.  And inside----

            “The Elendilmir!” he breathed.  “And what of those who had it?”

            “We dyed the river red with their blood, my lord.”

Worries Brushed Aside

            “We must determine for certain whether the Necromancer is Sauron!” insisted Gandalf, his brush of a beard almost bristling with his determination.

            “Why do you push the matter, my friend?” Saruman asked him, brushing a his hand down the front of his robe, seeing it lie straight under his own well trimmed, sleek beard.  “It changes nothing if your fears prove true.”

            “But if he is indeed gathering power from the deaths of those who fall into his hands, he might return.”

            But the White Wizard merely brushed aside his fellow’s concerns.  He had other priorities he wished to pursue.

Cutting Remark

             “You stink of horse!”  Well, it was true—Gríma reeked of the beasts.  But, then, what could one expect, considering his position in Théoden’s court and the typical Rohirric attitude of near worship for the creatures.

            How he wished he could cut his ties with the pathetic Man!  But, for one intent on guiding those of Middle Earth to a new era of peace and prosperity, he had learned he couldn’t be choosy when making alliances.

            He continued with the ritual of cutting a lock of his own hair to add to the materials already within the spiked kettle.

Setting Conditions

            He considered the condition of his hair and skin.  Once he’d beaten the Rohirrim into submission he would take some time to relax.  Soothing baths and balms—yes, that would suit him admirably!

            Conditions within the fortress couldn’t be good.  Too many men in too small a space, without sufficient stores for them to survive a prolonged siege.  If only the Dark Lord would allow enough time for them feel the pinch of starvation!

            He reread the conditions he was setting down in his proposed articles of surrender.  How much pleasure he would take in seeing Théoden sign them!

Continuing to Plait Schemes

            An Elven warrior stood by Gandalf?  Saruman surreptitiously considered the slender plaits that kept the Elf’s hair from blowing into his face and obscuring his vision.  Perhaps Thranduil’s whelp of a son?  None of the beads and fancy weavings favored by those few remaining Noldor.  Although the cloaks of all of them had come from the weavings of that foul witch Artanis—or Galadriel as she called herself now.

            Lady of Light indeed!  Well, he would deal with her when he must.  Now he must consider how he could salvage his former plans amongst the ruins of his fortress!

A Parting Commanded

            He glared at the creature that looked at him with equal measures of pity and some emotion Saruman could not name.  This weak, pathetic soul sought to command him—ordered him to depart from the Shire and forbade the rest to slay him?  What made this ratling, the much-vaunted Ringbearer, think he had the authority to order anyone?

            He wished he might blast the impudent Hobbit with the power of his staff, let that put a new parting in this Frodo’s hair!  That ambition forestalled, he instead unleashed the remnants of his voice.  At least his words still stung!