Curumo, slices of vice. by Chiara Cadrich

The Years of the Trees, Valinor, Aulë’s caves...

The coppery-bearded colossus was watching his apprentice working a silver torc in the furnace of his forges.

- "Mairon, your works show great concentration and a strong desire to perfect your art. You dominate your subject with power, but your efforts are bent in vain on your inner purpose only...

- How so, Lord Aulë?, questioned the apprentice with a greedy voice.

- Open yourself to others! Take Curumo as an example! His demand for excellence leads him constantly to exchange with his peers, about their motivations, their projects, their practices... "

Mairon, the most powerful of Aulë’s followers, went back to his work, furiously concentrating his will towards perfection. His master sighed, letting him face his need to dominate the matter, and passed to the next workshop.

- "Your pieces show great subtlety and remarkable finesse for mingling new ideas.

- Nonetheless, Lord Aulë? For there is certainly an objection, isn’t it?, Inquired a soft, melodious voice.

- Indeed, Curumo... You're dispersing too much, by probing your peers’ heart. Take confidence in your own inspiration and lead your ideas to their proper untying. Follow the example of Mairon, your elder, focus your will towards your goal! "

The two apprentices espied for a moment, gauging each other through stifling wisps. In a glance, the brilliant but hesitant subtlety mocked the powerful but vain obstinacy. This rivalry, encouraged by their master, may end up some day in dazzling masterpieces…

.oOo.

Around SA 1000 - The Istari land at the gray havens...

A bridge was thrown from the nave and a youth choir began singing an elven lay of Valinor. A cloud of butterflies rose from the grassy banks, scattering toward the azure of the silvery-edged mountains.

Then a man dressed in a rich immaculate dress, walked down on the marble quay. His tall stature and lordly demeanour required respect. A deep insight illuminated his penetrating gaze. But neither the determination of his noble brow, nor his long hands’ skills, nor even the wisdom of many ages that lit his aquiline face, struck the assistance as much as his voice.

When he spoke before the beautiful people who had gathered to welcome him, they felt as if the verb of Valinor’s Lords had come down among them on these shores of Middle-earth: mistakes of the past would be forgiven, the mysterious evil that had arisen would be seen through, vain old alliances would be forged anew, the wise vigilance of the Valar’s envoy would enlighten the destiny of the elves.

Captivating his audience, Curumo watched in their faces, the scars of doubtful and painful years, fainting under the spell of his learned modulations.

Suddenly he caught sight of a detail. A shaggy character, who had descended from the same elven nave, had jumped at the bottom of the dock. Wading in algae, a decrepit seagull on his shoulder, he seemed absorbed in the passionate contemplation of a mussels’ shoal.

A wave of irritation altered the powerful harmony of Curumo’s noble words. With a majestic gesture of authority, he dryly struck the slab with his white stick.

- "Aïwendil! Do not make me regret having granted the favor of your presence to Lady Kementari!"

Scolded, the disheveled and haggard man sniffed deeply, pretended to disperse crabs clung to his brown wool dress, and clumsily climbed the dock’s steps, while his gull defecated on his ear with a reproving cry towards the white mage.

His eyelids heavy with contempt, Curumo disdained his grotesque sidekick with a grimace of disgust and a sigh of resignation. Turning away to a large elf to with a short blond beard, he gravely spoke to him.

However, a third man was walking down the board, embarrassed with a big oak and silver trunk. Some gray elves came to his aid, avoiding the precious luggage to dump in the bay’s waters. Adjusting his own bundle, the old man, stooped and graying, thanked his rescuers and noisily drew the trunk on the pavement, earning a reproachful look from Curumo.

Ignoring this second interruption, the white mage led Cirdan away, sharing his high views while Olorin was taking care of his trunks. Most urgently, he said in his deep and captivating voice, was to find traces of the blue wizards, he had sent as scouts. Then he would get down to coordinating the entire order “Heren Istarion”...

.oOo.

TA 2848 - Gandalf and his ward - a Tuck - are pursued by dark brigands. Saruman pulls them out of trouble with the help of his dunlending allies.

... Saruman the White walked in majesty, still inhabited by the wrath of battle. Approaching Gandalf, he held out his hand. The gray wizard bowed respectfully:

- "Saruman ..."

The white wizard, who had masterfully restored a difficult situation, savored this deference for a few seconds before raising Gandalf with a noble gesture.

- "Please, my friend.", Saruman whispered with a serious and compassionate tone. Shall I be entrusted how you ran down the countryside, with a band of brigands at your heels? ". The conniving and jocular voice called for a confidence.

As Gandalf brought some care to the hobbit who lay nearby, this lack of deference antagonized the great Saruman:

- "Your compassion honors our order, Mithrandir, but have you nothing more useful to do than mothering one of these rascals? Are you sure you choose your priorities with sufficient discernment? "The voice was that of an eminent strategist trying to raise the debate before a board of promising but turbulent young captains.

Gandalf, concerned about his companion’s health, was paying little attention to Saruman, who approached, looking vaguely anxious:

- "Your ward needs the oblivion of sleep. Let me do it! ". A tone of a healer in the fullness of his art, left no alternative. Gandalf parted with gratitude and hope.

"Look into my eyes, my young friend. Fear dissolves into sleep! "Enunciated the white wizard with a bass voice, softly authoritarian and soothing. Then he ran his hand through the blond curls of the hobbit, who relaxed, laid down and fell asleep.

"He will keep no memory of his trouble. And now will you explain to me?", Saruman ended with a tip of annoyance which required a report.

- "I have to open myself to you... about disturbing events" began the gray wizard softly.

- "When Gandalf comes, so follows the storm! You are often the heart of the turmoil! ", quipped the soft voice of a General speaking confidently to a proven aide-de-camp. I am listening, my friend. "

- "Eriador is no longer guarded. The rangers of Arnor have evacuated the southern parts. They have deserted the country from Sarn Ford up to Tharbad, and my messages have remained unanswered.

- Indeed this deficiency and silence are of concern. But I have long stopped relying on a single ally. There is nothing to expect from the scattered remnants and ruins of Arnor, I'm afraid. Their lineage has failed a long time ago...

- Yet they are reliable, and this is much nowadays.

- Your naivety would be touching if that was not a fatal error! What is our use for such a strength, continuously declining or defeated at the first alarm? "

Gandalf, lowering his head, continued his speech:

- I fear that winged spies assist our enemies, and our movements are crossed.

- Gandalf, your route is written in letters of fire. For those who can read signs, you leave a blazing trail throughout your journey. No wonder your whereabouts are known! ". This time the mocking tone was tempered with no shade of kindness. Upset Gandalf persisted:

- "I may explain the rangers’ failure, only by a major offensive! Many men, well equipped and provided with gold, are spying around Tharbad. They terrorize the weak and bribe the others. But beyond river Gwathló, I know no force able to sustain them. Where do they come from? "

The strong voice cut in stark terms:

- You finally get to right conclusions! I spotted these brigands several months ago. They obviously come from the east, gathered and trained by a master that I know now. And I am taking care to stop this threat personally, as you have noticed. When I'm done with them, their corporation will be driven out of Eriador. You do not seem to understand that a power is about to raise, Mithrandir. "

The tone of Armies’ Grand Commander brooked no reply. "A power struggle has just begun, we must keep control of the western regions at all costs, otherwise we shall fall. I shall deal with this war. "

Yet Gandalf objected:

- "I still do not understand who they are and why they followed us!

- You are boasting about a reputation of yours, that deserves us, Gandalf!", The voice had lost its sweet tone, animated only by annoyance and a strand of jealousy. Then Saruman resumed as an angry but just father, in pain for being forced to severity:

- "I do not think your young friend has any interest, neither for you, nor for your attackers. These brigands sought after you. You are always at the heart of the storm because you provoke it! "

Gandalf was going to protest, but Saruman sternly interrupted his subordinate:

- "You draw too much attention on yourself. Your vow of humility seems to wane in pipe-weed smoke... Or do you wish to shine in the eyes of the White Council?"

The white wizard was careful not to reveal anything about the power he had unmasked. Noticing Gandalf’s livid face and compressed lips, Saruman took on a more conciliatory tone, as for a reprimanded, but very much liked student:

- "I urge you, from now, to apply your faculties to perseverance and effectiveness, by showing you more circumspect. Promise me to deploy your talents to good use, only without witness! "

The dunlending clan, which had pledged allegiance to Saruman, now held the brigands as prisoners, kneeling and bound to each other in front of a lying trunk. Their weary and resigned heads bowed over their chest. They seemed to have no illusion about their conquerors’ clemency. With a triumphant grin, the clan leader went forth under the cheers of his warriors in tartan. Suddenly brandishing his great battle ax, he beheaded one by one the few survivors, without further ado.

Gandalf rushed, but was stayed in his tracks:

- "No, Mithrandir! This people makes war his own way. What right do you have to judge them, since you have not been expelled from your ancestral lands? Besides, you are indebted to them by the law of blood - without them, you would weep for your young protege... For this is a merciless war, which stake is the balance of power in the North and the opportunity for each people to shape their own destiny. Indeed I tell you again: I cannot, no more than you can, leave a witness behind us... "

Appalled Gandalf bowed, sick at heart. His superior had called him out in many respects.

Saruman walked away, satisfied with his firmer influence on his subordinate. It was necessary to neutralize him, whereas keeping his goodwill: he could prove useful later...

.oOo.

TA 2872, Isengard...

Dark clouds were rolling around the top of the great black granite tower, intermittently lighting a tripod in the center of a vast empty room.

The white wizard carefully pulled the golden black silk scarf, revealing a dark glass sphere.

With his scrolls in hand, Saruman scanned the inert stone for minutes. Finally he decided and began crafty and cautious passes with his skillful hand, above the dark ball.

Slowly, he explored its surface. Laboriously, he cautiously probed reactions to the solicitations of his expert fingers. Gently, the white wizard, sensitive follower of Aulë, managed to orientate the stone around its invisible axis, which alone would allow access to its secrets.

But the stone remained silent and void, as impenetrable as the darkness of a bottomless pit.

Tirelessly, the white wizard repeated his rituals and silent injunctions, like a craftsman forging and tempering his blade over a hundred times. The stone resisted him - sometimes a kind of frank and serene opposition to an unmasked usurper, sometimes a deaf refusal, irrational and full of dread.

But hours succeeded to hours, exhausting the scrolls’ resources and Saruman’s perseverance. Finally, without realizing it, the white wizard, out of patience, summoned of a word of power:

- "Edro!"

Then a flame shot at the heart of the stone, tiny and distant, yet sharp and strong as a beacon in a cloudless night.

The white wizard sketched a triumphant grin. But immediately, a heavy yoke surrounded him, as if the walls, columns and clouds around Isengard had known his burst and now fixed their attention on the stone.

Saruman had yet experienced this alert presence, this intense concentration... but where?

He raised his voice again, the ultimate power of his, ordering the stone to bend to his will.

So it was done.

The stone told him space, the near and the far, the small and the great, the swift and the patient.

The stone told him time, the proven and the possible, the forgotten and the probable, the unthinkable and the imminent.

The stone told him Knowledge and Power, it revealed the possibilities of Will, but it could not tell him anything about Duty.

For proud Saruman refused to glimpse the humility of Duty.

The stone taught him Absence – the dwindling of the elves, the remoteness of the Undying Lands, the dulling of principles, the power vacuum, the extinction of scruples.

Finally the stone made him know Presence - the omnipresence, vindictive and exclusive thirsty domination of one eye, glowing and lidless eye, swelling in his mind to submerge him.

Saruman yelled a word of secrecy and withdrew from the stone.

Shaken and gasping, he gathered his wits. He had recognized this alert presence, this intense concentration: Mairon, his old rival, stronger and more determined than ever... but still unable of finesse, all power and will.

Now he was sure: he alone could defeat this odious presence. It was his destiny. Confident in his cunning and his arcanes, he would probe the stone again, but this time, he would have geared up... with a ring, maybe?[1]

.oOo.

NOTES

[1] Indeed, Saruman will forge his own ring, he will reveal to Gandalf while tempting to rally him.

Orclings

Warning : somehow trash and M-PREG !

.oOo.

« I wonder what he has done? Are they Men he has ruined, or has he blended the races of Orcs and Men? That would be a black evil! » Treebeard.

The Lord of the rings, The two towers, Book III, Chapter 4 Treebeard.

.oOo.

In the catacombs of Isengard ...

Draped in his immaculate mantle, an old man of noble bearing paced the breeding chamber without hiding his discontent:

- Well, Snagaur? Where are the companies of Saruman? Where are the high men of my new order?

With a sneer of disgust, the wizard removed with his staff, the unclean reliefs of some aborted experimentations. A placenta rolled into the mire, with a bloody fetus that looked half-rat, half-orc.

Hobbling in the skirts of his master, an arched orc whined obsequiously:

- Women refuse to mate with orcs...

Saruman probed Snagaur's half-closed eyelids. The yellow and sly look betrayed a lustful regret.

- “So my Dunlending allies refuse to engender the human elite of tomorrow? Let it be! But did I not give you robust women enslaved in Rohan?”

- "These slaves put their offspring to death! The strawhead females mutilate or sacrifice themselves before term!"

- "You are only an incompetent," roared Saruman, threatening the orc with his staff.

Snagaur curled up and threw:

- "Human females long carry their brats, and their litters are thin..."

That orc was right... The human gestation was far too long...

With a gesture of his staff, Saruman snapped Snagaur at the back of the cavern, where the casks and crates imported from the Shire were crowded together with foul dried meats of the orcs, and the bloody and still-born fruits of the breeding chamber.

The white wizard concentrated. The dream of a numerous, indefatigable and resilient humanity, obedient but full of resources, still escaped him... The implacable cogs of his subtle mind had set in motion. Of course... It would have been necessary to blend orc females, infinitely more prolific, with men. But they were also much rarer, and he could not get any. He knew that the possession of the females, the prolific nursery sows kept in the dungeon of the tribal dens, was the stake of wars in the depths of the Misty Mountains. But his deep knowledge gave him other means...

- Human females are not sufficiently prolific?

A disturbing glow lit the white wizard's dark eye.

.oOo.

Aligned in battery on straw litter, enormous orcs were constantly fed with a porridge carried on a rack in a continuous stream. The puffy males, perpetually fattened and hungry, had been subjected to some transformations by the Master’s subtle art of, for the superior good of the species. Their lower abdomens, agitated with spasms, were swollen with grafted pockets, which sometimes exploded with viscid and brownish liquids. From the gaping pocket, sickly orcs took the ripened fetuses, then replenished some precious eggs, and finally dressed the wound with a repugnant plaster.

Saruman inspected the installations with the high kindness of the founding father, adjusting here the dosimetry of the hormones, ordering there some prophylactic measure.

The little creatures, torn from their paternal wombs, were then placed in the care of other paunchy, abundantly nourished males. Armies of small battling orcs hung themselves at their rows of vast breasts.

The white wizard leaned compassionately on one of the litters, where a dozen small orclings were stirring. A wave of pride mingled with fear, ran through the puffy face of the orc, stretched out and unable to move. Saruman watched attentively, since a domestic drama occurred along the orcish flank, stretched by lactation.

Two babies, small gluming forms halfway between the orc and the human, were distraught. One, supernumerary, was deprived of a nipple. The other had chosen a dry breast. But both of them dislodged their neighbors ruthlessly. As the disinherited sought their place with ferocity, the two fellows cut off the question with their canines, along with the carotid of their unfortunate rivals.

The victims of this natural selection were recycled without regret, integrated into the rich diet of the insatiably hungry orcs.

But Saruman exulted for the perfection of his creation:

- "Here are natural leaders! These two will certainly be captains... Call them... Ugluk… and... Mauhour! And give them some human flesh to motivate them..."

Saruman embraced with a superior and paternal glance, the teeming army of his orclings. The dawn of the new orc-man, strong and implacable, would soon rise under the white hand.

.oOo.