Eastward Bound Wind

First comes the Spring, but Winter ends all things- Saruman

First comes the Spring, of hidden flowers and melting ice, where the pink and purple topped buds peak out, to open upon a new world. First comes the Spring of hatching birds and broken eggs, where life springs forth. First comes the Spring with it's rushing music of the running waters, newly freed form the clutches of the merciless ice. I was the first, I saw the Spring, I saw that it could be. I journeyed forth for I saw the Spring, I wanted to help it be. I came with hope, I came with Spring (four more came after me.)

Sing of Curumo, the first who came. Sing of me, the one who saw the Spring. I came to meld and mend and bend, to shape and aid and change the world. Curumir, Saruman the White. (White is for first snows, beginnings and blank canvases to fill)

I came to Arda and the Spring turned to Summer. Summer is the time of easy days, of ripened peaches and enough to eat. Summer is the time for sleeping outside, for trust and promising winds. Summer is the time of content.

I labored hard, I found a home, a tower of olden beauty. Strong was the tower of Isenguard and proud, I was so proud to call it home. I met with men and dwarfs and elves, the "Man of skill" they called me. I became a master of the ancient lore, of the foe we were soon to be fighting.

But Summer ends too soon and the Autumn comes. The season of leaves that change, from vibrant green to red, orange, rusty brown. Leaves and ideals that change from healthy to not so. Autumn is a time of preparation, of degeneration, of waiting not wishing. Automn speaks of resignation for the season can't be turned, nor can the tide, or the hearts of men. Autumn is two named and they call it Fall. It was my fall, the fall of Saruman.

Sing of pride and delving to deep, of working alone and treasures not meant to be found. Sing of stones rounded and reflecting, that ensnare the gazer. These mortal cares became my own and Arda had so much potential, so much to change, to work, to make better. I could make this world better (for me)

Days shorten and the cold sets in, deep in the bones, in the heart. Nights never ending, entrancing, I was caught, no, I caught myself. Change beauty for power, power is beautiful and white is so ugly, so easily stained. And when I break myself to find myself is my wisdom gone? Improved, just say improved.

I was better, I was stronger, I had Isenguard, my stone cold fortress. Home, say home, what home have I? Arda will be my home. I found men who would fight and others too. Tools ugly and corrupted do not make my results so. What of using orcs? What of beauty? What is beauty, I ask? The stone answers me, power. Dark and safe as the night that overwhelms, this is my rightful place, my world to shape. Hail the conqueror!

Winter is of fallen leaves that bloomed last Spring, of choking whiteness, of ends. Not deep enough burrows and no where to hide. Winter is of biting pain and sharpness, of anguish you can't prepare for, I wasn't prepared. Winter is bleak (and forever)

The metal is dull but the stroke is true, fueled by hatred and desperation. The dog has turned on the master. (The dog was more then a dog). Sing of the seasons. I have come, I have fallen, the cold is set in. And then I remember.

The seconds hold still and time holds still and I see. I see myself changed and corrupted, a shining white to nothing but the barest fog, breathed of ill will. I do not deserve a color. How has Curumo fallen so far? And now I remember.

Of Spring! Of Hope! Oh, Home!

I want to go home . . .

The yearning fills me, a longing for those timeless shores. I turn.

The eastward bound wind roars, of envy and hatred and ugliness, and pushes me away.

Sing of Saruman the colorless.

I can never go home.