Disclaimer: Not mine, wish they were. Really. Clones welcome, esp. chocolate-covered Elf-lords! ;)
A/N: 1)This is just a little something that popped into my head one day. The way it will go is
this: The first chapter is sort of an intro, then the rest will be a series of snippets. I have
3 such snippets just waiting to be posted. The more reviews I get, the sooner I post. I have no
ideas for an end this. *shrugs* Can't have everything, I guess. Let's just have fun in the
meantime, hmm? *g*
2)Thoughts are in / /. Emphasis is in * *.
3)Takes place after Saruman gets kicked out of Isengard.
Please review! ;)
Saruman walked along the road, heading northwest, the miserable excuse for a man, Grima Wormtongue,
slinking along at his feet.
The once-great wizard muttered angrily to himself as he went, ignoring his traveling companion
unless it was to snap at him or kick him out from underfoot.
"Ruined my tower, my home, will they? Break my staff, will they? Cast me from my place at the
head of the Istari Council, will they? Fools! They are fools to do these things and think me
beaten. I am not as stupid as they would have me appear." He grinned evilly. "Do they really
think that one so wise as I would concentrate my forces so badly? Do they really think that I
would not have forseen the possibility of this happening and had contingency plans? Fools!"
For hours, the two walked; fallen wizard and groveling lackey. They stopped when they got to a
smallish stone obelisk at the side of the road; a weather-worn road marker. There, Saruman
turned from the road and walked into the trees to the right of it, looking for a specific tree.
"Where is it?" he muttered, looking around as he walked. "That's not it. No, that's not it,
either. No. No. No. Aha! There it is!"
Saruman hurried over to the tree. It was cracked vertically for perhaps the first ten feet of
its trunk, the crack wide enough to slip an hand inside... or other things. Pushing up the
sleeve of his worse-for-wear robes, Saruman stuck his hand into the crack in the tree and pulled
out... an elaborately tooled leather scroll-case.
He frowned at it, dropped it to the ground and reached back in.
Two more scroll-cases, a bit of carved bone, a stringless bow and three books of Elvish love
poetry later, the wizard was becoming annoyed.
/People who stick things in other peoples' secret hiding spots should be turned into something
tasty and eaten,/ he thought to himself, frowning. /Preferably alive./ His fingers touched
slick, polished wood. He grabbed the thing, pulled it from the tree. /Finally!/ he thought in
/Fools they were to think that I had only *one* staff! Now for some revenge! But against who?
Those friends of Gandalf's? No. Gandalf himself?/ The very thought sent a shudder through him.
/The hobbits! But I've already got revenge-plans for their horrid little land. Who was
ultimately responsible for sending those... people... out against me?/ Saruman's face grew dark
with anger. /Elves, of course. They always stick their noses into everybody else's business.
Those... people... left Rivendell after that council held by Elrond. And the original group was
aided by that twit, Glorfindel./ He smiled, a vicious smile full of a dark and twisted humor.
/Elrond and Glorfindel. *They* shall be the ones to suffer my revenge. They look out over the
affairs of Middle-Earth as if they were parents watching over wayward children./ The smile
widened. /Now let those roles be reversed! And to add to the confusion, let that be only for a
certain part of the day!/
Saruman gripped his staff tightly, began the incantation even as evening's darkness grew thicker
Elrond and Glorfindel, along with many other Elves, were in the Hall of Fire that evening,
listening to the tales and songs being told or sung.
It was a pleasant evening; the skies were clear, the stars beginning to come out against the
darkening blue of the sky. A warm summer breeze blew gently throughout the valley of Rivendell,
and most windows were open to allow for its refreshing passing.
It was during the middle of the singing of the epic ballad of Beren and Luthien that both Elrond
and Glorfindel were stricken.
Rising abruptly from his high seat even as Glorfindel doubled over with a barely-choked-off cry,
Elrond clutched at his abdomen and the flaming pain that had suddenly awakened therein. He stood
hunched over an his dais, unable to straighten up.
"Father?" a voice asked in concern.
Full of spreading pain, it was all he could do to recognise the voice as that of his son Elladan.
"Father, what is it? What's wrong?" Elladan asked. He grabbed hold of his father's arm, guided
him down to sit on the cool floor.
The hall was silent save for the crackling of flame and the occasional hushed murmur among the
Elrond could not answer his son's query; at that moment it was all he could do to simply keep
back the pained scream that was building in him. If Glorfindel's soft moans were any indication,
he was feeling the same thing.
The pain spread from his abdomen all through him, into every limb and appendage until it felt
like he was on fire.
Then, as abruptly as it had come, the pain was gone.
Elrond took a deep, shuddering breath, then abother. He raised a trembling hand and wiped chill
sweat from his forehead. Slowly, he stood, straightened his robes.
"I am well," he said clearly, strongly.
"As am I," Glorfindel said, coming up beside him with Elrohir close behind him.
Elrond looked over those assembled, then once again sat on his ornately carved chair. "Continue,"
he said to the Elf whose song had been interrupted.
With that, the conversations in the Hall resumed, the balladeer began to sing once more, starting
over from the begining.
So, what do you think of it so far? Any guesses as to what Saruman's Revenge is? *g* Please
review! The rabid plotbunnies want to hear from you! Really! ;o)