Man in Fangorn

In a round room of white marble and granite and arching ceilings, a man hunched over a stone. It was heated unnaturally, his hands had melted onto the magical object.

He noticed not.

His mind wander where the stone led him. His mind was filled with the flaring heat of the forge, the clacking of metal, the dark. He lost himself in the enormity of the dark.

There is no hope for man.

He came to himself, pulled his hands away, leaving strips of flesh stuck to the palantir. Wildly, he flung himself away from the pedestal the stone sat on. Collapsing against the wall, he slid onto the floor and shook violently, unable to decide whether he should laugh or cry,

A band of four burst from the forest's shadow. The wizard first, on his mearas, Shadowfax, followed by the heavily panting horse that bore Aragorn. By the time Legolas and Gimli had broke free of the treeline, Gandalf had already found the nearest Ent.

"Greetings, shepherd. How goes the work of the treekeepers?"

"It is good to see you, young master Gandalf," the wizened ash rumbled in its slow way, "The trees are settled once more, the life returns to Fangorn. The Ents are content once more. We sing to the seed and it grows. As things should be, they are."

"And of the wizard?"

"It is as it should be," the Ent replied.

Gandalf's brow furrowed as his companions gathered around, "Does Saruman the White sit in the tower?"

"Saruman Ironmaker found his end in the embrace of the Green Father."

Gandalf closed his eyes. He clutched at Shadowfax's mane and fought of images of death and despair.

"Excellent," Gimli crowed, "One less unnatural fellow running around with his dark conjurations. Where to next, Gandalf?"

"Into the tower. Unfortunately, with Saruman dead I'm afraid there are very few paths open now," the wizard replied, urging his steed toward the dark stone tower.

"I would have thought that a dead Saruman would be counted on the positive side of happenings lately," Gimli muttered darkly to Legolas.

Gandalf stopped Shadowfax.

"We need Saruman not for his strength of character or affability, master dwarf, but for his information. We face a war, outnumbered. We go into battle, lands ravaged and crops stolen. Our forces have yet to gather. Nations that refuse to cooperate filled with people that are quickly going mad with grief.

"Sauron has many eyes upon us, he sees our movements and our weaknesses. He will push where our alliances are tenuous and where our men are crying. All the while, he will sit behind the mountainous walls that surround Mordor, our eyes blind to his thoughts."

Gandalf allowed himself one more moment of silence before pushing on to the looming tower.

"Come. Our last hope lies inside the depths of Saruman's madness.''

He is a man of wealth, but not of beauty. He lies barefoot in the lavish room, a house built on a desert oasis. There are no mirrors, no looking glasses in the dwelling and he rarely glances at his reflection in the water. He has his slaves look down because he does not like to see the reflection of his scars in their horror. He does not search for acceptance, but avoidance. He is established enough that any man of power seeking his favor will not dwell on his imperfections. There are memories he lives to avoid. There are shadowy times carved and branded onto his face. As he enjoys the delights of power, he does not brood on the tale his body tells of the past. He lives determinedly in the present.

He lounges on silk and soft throw pillows, eating delicate fruits that only the eastern lands could boast. Captives of war, all darkly marked by the sun, fanned him and attended to his wants, they were gifts from the tribes that paid him tribute.

His life was built of their tribute.

Slaves for cooking, cleaning. Slaves for fanning. Slaves for serving.

Warriors of various tribes that followed his words surrounded the building. They were of peoples that slaughtered each other and hated each other, but they all held the peace for the man of magic who they all respected. They worked with each other for the honor of protecting him from harm.

The house he resided in, a construction of mud and stone and precious wood, decorated with elaborate depictions of myths and wonders along the outside.

The interior of his home was filled with intensely detailed rugs and beautiful carvings. His furniture was from them and his chests were filled with their golden and shining treasures.

His life was built of their tributes and he accepted only the best.

A teenaged girl, tattooed with dark colors across her cheeks and collar that marked her tribe and the training she had undertaken as a woman of battle, walked in with food piled upon a ornate wooden tray. Pungent scents of spices and varied meats wafted from the platter to his nose. He motioned the girl forward, simultaneously dismissing the young man holding the sweet fruits for his leisure. The boy took his tray back to the kitchens, returning hastily with a fresh pitcher of crisp wine to battle the ever present heat that plagued the eastern desert lands.

Another youth slipped into the chamber through the main doors. "Master," the boy announced in the harsh language of the Eastern peoples, "There are dark riders approaching."

"From what tribe, child?"

"I- The horses are wrong, master. They," the child hesitated, "They are not of any tribe. Not that I know."

He drew him self upright, away from the pleasure of the cushions. "Dark, you said?"

"Yes, master. They wear black in the midday heat. It- It sweeps behind them like the vulture's tail."

He hissed, a low, long sound, "Do not let them in." He shuddered and pushed the serving boy away as he stood upright. The glass container holding the wine broke as the slave fell, spreading sparkling glass and dark, dark red across the costly rugs.

He noticed none of it, he rushed over the jagged glass with his bare feet, mixing his blood with the wine. He grabbed the child by the face tightly, squeezing harshly at the boy's cheeks and chin with one hand. "Do not let them in."

He threw the boy out of the room, closing them as best he could afterwards. He paced the room, pushing the glass into the carpet with his mounting terror.

No way out. No way out.

The little desert palace was made for pleasure, for lazy luxury and gentle days filling a life without worries. It was not made for battle, for death and hasty escapes. There were no hideaways, no escapes. He was stuck. There were two doors and a slew of guards between him and whatever was coming.

Logically, he knew the warriors outside were of the best the deserts had to offer. They were fighters forged in the heat of battle and blood. Shaped by sand and continuous war of the most brutal stock. They would make a born and bred Gondor soldier look like a farmer's child playing at war.

But still, he remembered the dark times of long ago with vivid detail. The memories pressed in from all sides until all he can do, all he is capable of is to stand there and not weep and scream and shake apart and the ragged scats that hold him together.

Dark, always in the dark.

He had tried, for so very long, to forget.

The only light was the fire that lit the poker and that was flaming flaming hot. Burning burning searing heat. He'll never get away because this is it this is forever this is all that will ever be he'll never get out because there is no way out there is no way there is only the dark the dark is everywhen.

But some moments reforge you, remake a man.

And Pallando is screaming.

There is no way to forget, no way to escape that.

No way out and Pallando, my friend, please stop. The pain is always and there he is, Morgoth the dark, Morgoth the enemy is here and he brings the pain and then you scream. The pain is too much and Pallando you have to stop screaming because nothing ever ends here and forever is forever too long for me to listen to your screams.

The screams began outside. He can hear the clashing of metal and

the knives and nails and files of Morgoth's men in the dark

the gurgle of dying men as they try to cry out around their own blood and

he is crying out, but the blood from his face is running into his face and down his throat and his sounds die in the flow of red if there can even be red in the dark dark dark. They are in his mouth and prodding and pulling and why won't they just let him die instead of gloating and laughing and

the little boy, the little child he sent out there to stop them, he can hear him dying because the youngling is calling out, he

screams so loud, so hoarse and so desperately until he has nothing left and Pallando stop stop you have to be quiet

is loud and afraid until he is quite suddenly dead. And there is, for a breath, no noise but the shivers of his own body. The metal is gone, the blood is gone, the screams are gone.

Unexpectedly. Silent. And he calls out, Pallando. But there is no answer. He wants to call out to his companion louder but his throat is harsh with overuse and with the lingering heat of the blades. He can barely get out above a whisper, Pallando, Pallando. And he is afraid because this might be the time when they took his ears from him. Or his tongue. But he is silent for a while and then he realizes that it is not that. Pallando is dead. There is no second set of lungs gasping for air in the dark. There is only him. There is only him and the pain. And no way out. There is him and he is alone. And it is worse than any screaming or any pain. And it is forever.

The main doors open. There is nothing between him and the dark.

No way out.

The twisted creatures of Mordor stand in his home, swaddled in thick cloth to escape the sun's touch. They stand over him and he realizes suddenly that he is on the floor, curled in a puddle of blood and tears, wine and urine. The creatures part and a tall, robed figure steps forward. It wears an enormous helm that covers its head, wreathed in metal spikes. The helm covers everything, leaving only the bottom of its face, showing teeth and elaborate scarification.

After so long, after running so far, the dark had found him and this time he would not escape.

This is a creature that was once a man, he remembers, but now it has lost itself. Now it is all Mouth.

It looks down at him.

He wonders what he will become, after the dark eats him, too.

The Mouth smiles with its too long teeth and thin lips.

It speaks too him with clacking teeth and hissing syllables, "Alatar the Blue. My great master has a request of you."

In the Tower of Orthanc, the White Wizard Gandalf reached yet another set of doors. He heaved them open, exhausted from the journey and from searching the labyrinth of never ending rooms the tower contained.

Suddenly it was in front of him. Saruman, his companion of old, his friend, his leader, dead on the floor. White robes stained in red surround him, drown him.

Gandalf hurried across the room to kneel at the side of his fellow Istari.

Only to pause partway at a sudden crunch.

Below his feet, were dark shards of glass, sparkling from the pool of wizard blood.

The legendary palantir, his last hope for knowledge of Mordor, lay shattered across the floor.

He exhaled shakily before seeking out his friends.

"Aragorn," he called as he approached them, "take Gimli and Legolas back into Rohan. You will be needed as they muster their forces."

"And the wee hobbits?" Gimli queried.

"They are long gone from this place, but never fear, they are in good hands. I suspect they will join us soon," the wizard soothed.

"And you, Gandalf? Where do you go?" Aragorn asked.

"I ride to the White City with all haste. There is knowledge in Gondor, though I will have to work around its people to get it. There are men who will fight alongside us, though how many I cannot say."

Yes, I'm back. I received quite a few friendly PMs asking if I were dead or abandoning this. Which is no, to both counts, I assure you.

This was going to be a longer chapter, but I realized when I was done that it would work better if I cut it off here. I meant to have this to you earlier (clearly), but good news is that the next chapter is pretty much written already, so I just need some time to put it together right and proofread it. Yay!

Also, as this chapter really starts to show, I'm going to go into some real divergent plot lines here. So any questions or comments about anything, I'll reply to. Whether that's just a concern you have with the plot or a strong opinion of the direction the story is going or even just a question about some of the pieces of Tolkien's world that I'm using, write it into a review or whatever.

As always, I love you guys. Your feedback really means a lot to me. And I do take it into account when I write, like what I need to spend more time on and what needs to be clearer. And you're so outrageously patient with me. You rock so hardcore.