The Remains of Power

Morning brought no encouragement.  It brought only what it had brought the day before . . . a view of the devastation of his realm from the window of his study and the presence of his keepers.  He could feel the slow thoughts of the Ents.  Wood-demons.  He much preferred to think of them thus.  He knew there was naught to be done quickly with them.  He would have to be slow and patient in toying with their thoughts.  Added to that he was weary.  The loss of his staff . . . Saruman bristled at the memory.  Anger mixed with dread within him causing him to feel both the heat of wrath yet to have the hairs on his flesh rise as though chilled.  How dare that old fool splinter his staff!  He sighed heavily.  Over all else, however, he was weary.  Drained of more than he would have thought possible.  

He looked eastward.  Beyond the spur of the Misty Mountains, beyond the Great River and the Mountains of Shadow to where Mordor lay enveloped in it’s manufactured gloom.  Movement caught his eye.  A flock of ducks passed Orthanc and splashed to a gentle landing on the dark surface of a pool of water whose bottom was once the smithies of Isengard.  He brought his fist down hard upon the window sill then raised his arm in a menacing manner, but the ducks swam peacefully about.  For now, Saruman of Many Colours had not the power to rid himself of a filthy flock of ducks.

“But it will not be so forever, Gandalf the White,” he spat out.  “You may strip me of my rank and my staff but you cannot change what I am, old fool.  I have no colour you say?  I shall need none.  I will have time and that is all I need.”

Yet he trembled a bit as he turned from the disgusting scene to lower himself gracefully into the chair beside his huge desk.  How much time did he have?  He had felt the Nazgul which circled the tower just last night.  It did not call to him, but it had to have seen all.  It had to see the ruin.  It would have felt the wood-demons.  It would make a report to their Lord.

And there was something else troubling his thoughts.  A tremor.  A feeling that had crept up his spine before the Dark Lord’s winged servant had arrived last night.  Not cold nor even chill.  A knowing of something . . .

Saruman shivered and sank deeper into his chair.

**********

It was in the night that it came.  High above the soggy mass of earth that remained of Isengard.  The Ents stirred.  The ducks, resting on the mud at the edge of the still pool opened their eyes, glanced about warily before once more tucking their bills into the feathers of their wings.

But it was more than a distant tingle of terror to Saruman.  To him it spoke.

“Come forth.”

“We can speak thus,” the staff-less wizard answered in his cold mind.

“Come forth.”

Saruman climbed to the top of the tower to stand where he had once imprisoned his fellow wizard who had stolen his glory from him.

“What do you want?  It is cold and I’m weary of dealing with the ruined spirits of once arrogant mortals.  Your master can come to me himself if he wishes to converse.”   He turned to leave . . . but could not.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Where is it?”

Saruman snorted.  “You really need to improve your vocabu . . .”  His chest was gripped by a cold that burned leaving him unable to draw breath.

“Where is it?”

The old one sank to his knees as breath seeped back into him ever so slowly.  “Where is what?” he gasped.

To his mind came an image.  It seared itself into his thoughts, into his very being.  A halfling.  It stared with eyes frozen open in pain and terror while inside its spirit writhed in agony.

The vision departed and he knew what it was he had felt during the night.  It was one of the pair that had come with the wood-demons.  One of Gandalf’s dangles.

It had looked into the stone.

“It was useless,” the old liar’s thoughts said to the heartless spirit high above him.  “The Halfling was useless.  Not the one.”  Saruman paused.  It was no longer so easy for him to hide his thoughts, but hide them he would.  His existence depended on it.  “I killed it.”

For a few moments no word came from the Nazgul.

Endless fragments of moments fell into the void in which the game player awaited the result of his move.

“What of the Stone?”

Saruman felt relief he dared not show.  That move was won.

“The fool that was my spy in Rohan thought it a weapon and threw it at one of the wood-deamons.  It rolled into one of the pools of water the wood-demons made.  They are bottomless.  It is gone.”

Saruman waited for his ending.  But it did not come.

“You are of no use to us.”

Saruman of No Colour fell to his face on the cold impervious stone of Orthanc.  The Old Fool had pulled long standing power from him.  The Dark One pulled that power more recently acquired from their partnership.  But . . . he lived, and he laughed coldly, reveling in his victory.  It would be morn and past before Saruman would crawl back into his den to lick his wounds . . .

. . . and plot further destruction to wreak upon the Shire of the Halflings.