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huinare| I remarked in the last Tolkien_Weekly challenge about insufficient space to elaborate on an aspect of a drabble series I’d just wrapped. Dwimordene happened to set this bait: “False dawn light.” Thank you indeed for the prompt, Dwim; I found it a bit too ideal and ran down the street dragging it like a manic pit-bull until 1500 words of something quite distinct from the drabble series twitched in my wake. In token of appreciation, and because I’d have wanted to anyway, I’ve incorporated an element in which we seem to have a mutual interest. |
Wherein Sauron’s vexation is made manifest after Gandalf’s escape from Saruman’s roof. Alludes to Unfinished Tales, “The Hunt for the Ring” narrative C. Alludes also to Huinárian fanon, which includes spherical!Arda and imaginative (yet I’d like to think, not untenable) extrapolation of Saruman’s history. Since my predilections are untrammeled by word limits, one can expect general morbidness and philosophical brooding, vague descriptions of torment, a depressing happening, and a random shift in narrative perspective.
Ye Olde Disclaimre: Characters belong to Tolkien. No profit reaped by myself, aside from a wealth of intellectual giddiness.
Additional authorial blathering: “There are two dawns. One is called the tail of the wolf, which is the false dawn …“ I found this quoted numerously in discussions and articles concerning Fajr (the day’s first prayer of Islam), though I haven’t located an attribution. Given my tendency to portray Sauron in a somewhat lupine way, I was rather taken with the phrase. It also struck me as interesting that the events of this story would occur on the Roman calendar during ideal visibility of the zodiacal lights, and possibly during Ramadan. If this thing contains vague religious undertones, it indicates no disregard to religion in general, but seemed rather an appropriate symbolic backdrop.
_____________________________________________________________
as-yet-untitled incident in the earthly existence of Saruman,
inflicted upon the universe by Huinárë on New Year’s Day, 2012.
The wizard attempts, uselessly, to conceal his dread, and still more uselessly to back away from the palantír. «I told the Nine all that I knew of this ‘Shire’ from Mithrandir–»
He knew of the Shire long before Mithrandir took up involuntary residence on the stargazing platform, but to feign ignorance of Saruman’s lies has been to Sauron’s benefit. The latter therefore diverts his wrath. «I know this. What concerns me more is that your guest is no longer where you placed him.»
The wizard’s hands shake more than usual, and in fact his entire person is trembling. «He–seems to have taken his leave with the aide of an Eagle.»
Sauron’s wrath is kindled the more to consider the descendents of Manwë’s Eagles, meddling still, in this late age. «Perhaps a sensible person would not have put Mithrandir on the roof in the first place?»
«Mairon, the access to that platform is guarded by greater art than any enclosed space in–»
«Did you say ‘Mairon’ when your esteemed counsels met to undermine me?»
The wizard falls silent, dread evident in his visage, and in his mind which he tries and fails to hold shut. Terror seeps past his will and into the perception of Sauron, who even in his vexation is not displeased to note it. Sauron follows the trail of this fear like a wolf of ancient song at the hunt, back to its source, worrying at the borders of the other’s mind with teeth of malice. Saruman tries again to retreat, physically and metaphysically and uselessly, and can only succeed in shrinking downward in pain.
«The Wise do not speak of ‘Mairon,’ do they?» the lord of Mordor persists.
Saruman’s presence oscillates with indecision, unsure whether speech or silence will bring the worse outcome. Dread, in its guise and timbre fashioned by one who knew him well before the Music, makes exponential inroads into his being until reason is obscured.
«Sauron.» A vehement tone of plea or accusation.
It is not the right response. There are no right responses.
________________________________
There is a negative correlation between the smoke and the trees. Banners of smoke uplift themselves as though the ring of Angrenost encloses a chalice at the bottom of which burn divers flames of contemptuous offering, and the vegetation shrinks back. He likes to think it cowers back, as though its shame might lessen his own. The Orcs and Men cannot be suffered to think that Curunír is anything but in control of the situation. His voice and his words are lulling. He puts up a good front. He has never liked to think of it as ‘lying.’ If they believe he wields power, he does. The truth bends, as the light does, in accordance with the angles of the prism and the line of sight.
________________________________
What have you ever done that has been true?
Sauron’s words, ultimately worse than anything else instilled in that unfortunate hour, will not sleep. Curumo sits on the stargazing platform, the world exhaling smoke far beneath him, knees drawn up and leaning against one of the four vivid prongs of Orthanc. Dawn is perhaps the half of one hour off. He considers the eastern sky, and there the false dawn of the autumn comes into cold being like a slow spear of light impaling the horizon from beneath.
Some call such things a manifestation of Eru’s creativity and glory. Curumo calls it a diverting astronomical phenomenon. Sunlight glances off interplanetary debris at just the right angle, seeming as a vertical glow in the heavens when viewed by one upon Arda’s surface, before the earth turns another five degrees and into the horizontal line of the dawn proper.
You took not Melkor’s part in the Music, though you claimed with your ancient hubris that you would, but stood like a coward on the border of the two themes. Small wonder you have no concept of loyalty. Why should I believe that you didn’t leave that captive on the roof in some subconscious desire to undermine me or to spare him suffering? I know you lied often to Aulë’s face, rendering an affectation of service with concealed bitterness. Yet when you had the opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of Utumno, you shrank away from it. There is nothing you do not either hate or fear, is there?
The aging form is like a sodden cloak–slow, heavy, unwholesome. Curumo blearily regards the false dawn which one could almost fancy as the attenuated halo of some pale fire kindled in Mordor. His form is exhausted yet his mind will not rest, hypothesizing on the extent of Sauron’s knowledge and the nature of his plans, and on whether the former White Council and its lackeys shall seek to raise its hand against him, and on whether Valinor knows or cares what passes. He shivers irrepressibly, feeling the cold more than he can ever recall having done in all this long mortal sojourn in Endórë.
A movement catches on the hem of his vision. Glancing round, he sees a winged form about the size of a hawk detach itself from the southeastern prong of Orthanc.
“Angandil?” The size and shape are wrong, but Curumo is very tired and his vision is starting to blur. The form alights on the inward-curving tip of the tower’s fang, almost directly above him. The cold grips him more deeply, and he scrambles back.
Against the light in the east, it hangs upside-down. The bat is of a size and shape unknown in these latitudes, though rumor of such creatures in the south is an occasional matter of dark curiosity. Curumo, his chest cavity constricting heavily about its contents, reluctantly reaches forth with his will to ascertain the thing’s nature. It is an animal, but tampered with in some way, given power and a vague malice and a purpose by some deep art or cunning device.
The creature is watching. Perhaps Sauron at his palantír is watching, and maybe the Valar in their smug safety watch. Maybe, from whatever singularity they cast him into, Melkor sees these things.
Curumo had not circled the whole platform that night, as he typically does, being weary and preoccupied. He steps toward the neglected western edge, scanning the smooth, dark stone, courting without hope the thought that his paranoia is finally getting the better of him.
The craban is lying on the stone in an irregular way, as though its elderly body had offered a slow struggle to its larger and more energetic assailant. Picking up Angandil, Curumo sees the disarray of the neck feathers where the now well-fed bat’s fangs found purchase.
He recalls the fledging bird he held in both hands in a similar manner, two centuries and more past. He never had told Radagast he’d appreciated the housewarming gift, but he had named and taught the bird and later endeavored by painstaking craft to extend its already long life.
This post-script to Sauron’s wrath nearly has the intended effect of provoking negative catharsis. Curumo considers acknowledging Mordor’s superior mind and might, pleading for clemency, renouncing the shards of his private schemes. It would be a relief, really, pleasant.
You have ever been a traitor to all who dared place any hope in you.
He glances again to the blade of light in the eastern sky. What use in repentance? Foolishly, he had nearly repented to Gandalf, his enemy, and Gandalf had left Angrenost just in time to spurn such niceties. It should be equally foolish to repent in the face of Sauron, his enemy. There is no hope and no repentance.
Holding the bird gently in one hand, he repossess himself of his staff with the other, draws himself up and addresses the blood-drinker, “Leave the neighborhood of my tower while you can. You have done all you may here. If you have a means, convey to your master that I have deemed him but a petty shadow of Melkórë.”
The creature wings off into the light.
________________________________
What constitutes betrayal? Intent? Malice? When I perceived that the Music had become embattled, I was troubled and did not know how to react. I did not intend to betray anyone then and had no inkling of malice yet in my being, but they say that what is sung cannot be unsung. I have never thought fast on my feet, as it were. I think thoroughly and deeply, but slowly, and still I think about what I did–and still I have no answers that shall placate anyone, least of all myself.
________________________________
The first inkling of the dawn proper, a strand of glowing floss, lies over the peaks. It is still dark in Angrenost. Banners of smoke lean upward as though the mountains enclose a chalice murmuring with divers flames of offering. A small fire springs into its bright, brief life atop Orthanc, its smoke curling above the head of the figure which kneels without hope and without repentance.
Wherein Sauron’s vexation is made manifest after Gandalf’s escape from Saruman’s roof. Alludes to Unfinished Tales, “The Hunt for the Ring” narrative C. Alludes also to Huinárian fanon, which includes spherical!Arda and imaginative (yet I’d like to think, not untenable) extrapolation of Saruman’s history. Since my predilections are untrammeled by word limits, one can expect general morbidness and philosophical brooding, vague descriptions of torment, a depressing happening, and a random shift in narrative perspective.
Ye Olde Disclaimre: Characters belong to Tolkien. No profit reaped by myself, aside from a wealth of intellectual giddiness.
Additional authorial blathering: “There are two dawns. One is called the tail of the wolf, which is the false dawn …“ I found this quoted numerously in discussions and articles concerning Fajr (the day’s first prayer of Islam), though I haven’t located an attribution. Given my tendency to portray Sauron in a somewhat lupine way, I was rather taken with the phrase. It also struck me as interesting that the events of this story would occur on the Roman calendar during ideal visibility of the zodiacal lights, and possibly during Ramadan. If this thing contains vague religious undertones, it indicates no disregard to religion in general, but seemed rather an appropriate symbolic backdrop.
_____________________________________________________________
inflicted upon the universe by Huinárë on New Year’s Day, 2012.
The wizard attempts, uselessly, to conceal his dread, and still more uselessly to back away from the palantír. «I told the Nine all that I knew of this ‘Shire’ from Mithrandir–»
He knew of the Shire long before Mithrandir took up involuntary residence on the stargazing platform, but to feign ignorance of Saruman’s lies has been to Sauron’s benefit. The latter therefore diverts his wrath. «I know this. What concerns me more is that your guest is no longer where you placed him.»
The wizard’s hands shake more than usual, and in fact his entire person is trembling. «He–seems to have taken his leave with the aide of an Eagle.»
Sauron’s wrath is kindled the more to consider the descendents of Manwë’s Eagles, meddling still, in this late age. «Perhaps a sensible person would not have put Mithrandir on the roof in the first place?»
«Mairon, the access to that platform is guarded by greater art than any enclosed space in–»
«Did you say ‘Mairon’ when your esteemed counsels met to undermine me?»
The wizard falls silent, dread evident in his visage, and in his mind which he tries and fails to hold shut. Terror seeps past his will and into the perception of Sauron, who even in his vexation is not displeased to note it. Sauron follows the trail of this fear like a wolf of ancient song at the hunt, back to its source, worrying at the borders of the other’s mind with teeth of malice. Saruman tries again to retreat, physically and metaphysically and uselessly, and can only succeed in shrinking downward in pain.
«The Wise do not speak of ‘Mairon,’ do they?» the lord of Mordor persists.
Saruman’s presence oscillates with indecision, unsure whether speech or silence will bring the worse outcome. Dread, in its guise and timbre fashioned by one who knew him well before the Music, makes exponential inroads into his being until reason is obscured.
«Sauron.» A vehement tone of plea or accusation.
It is not the right response. There are no right responses.
________________________________
There is a negative correlation between the smoke and the trees. Banners of smoke uplift themselves as though the ring of Angrenost encloses a chalice at the bottom of which burn divers flames of contemptuous offering, and the vegetation shrinks back. He likes to think it cowers back, as though its shame might lessen his own. The Orcs and Men cannot be suffered to think that Curunír is anything but in control of the situation. His voice and his words are lulling. He puts up a good front. He has never liked to think of it as ‘lying.’ If they believe he wields power, he does. The truth bends, as the light does, in accordance with the angles of the prism and the line of sight.
________________________________
What have you ever done that has been true?
Sauron’s words, ultimately worse than anything else instilled in that unfortunate hour, will not sleep. Curumo sits on the stargazing platform, the world exhaling smoke far beneath him, knees drawn up and leaning against one of the four vivid prongs of Orthanc. Dawn is perhaps the half of one hour off. He considers the eastern sky, and there the false dawn of the autumn comes into cold being like a slow spear of light impaling the horizon from beneath.
Some call such things a manifestation of Eru’s creativity and glory. Curumo calls it a diverting astronomical phenomenon. Sunlight glances off interplanetary debris at just the right angle, seeming as a vertical glow in the heavens when viewed by one upon Arda’s surface, before the earth turns another five degrees and into the horizontal line of the dawn proper.
You took not Melkor’s part in the Music, though you claimed with your ancient hubris that you would, but stood like a coward on the border of the two themes. Small wonder you have no concept of loyalty. Why should I believe that you didn’t leave that captive on the roof in some subconscious desire to undermine me or to spare him suffering? I know you lied often to Aulë’s face, rendering an affectation of service with concealed bitterness. Yet when you had the opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of Utumno, you shrank away from it. There is nothing you do not either hate or fear, is there?
The aging form is like a sodden cloak–slow, heavy, unwholesome. Curumo blearily regards the false dawn which one could almost fancy as the attenuated halo of some pale fire kindled in Mordor. His form is exhausted yet his mind will not rest, hypothesizing on the extent of Sauron’s knowledge and the nature of his plans, and on whether the former White Council and its lackeys shall seek to raise its hand against him, and on whether Valinor knows or cares what passes. He shivers irrepressibly, feeling the cold more than he can ever recall having done in all this long mortal sojourn in Endórë.
A movement catches on the hem of his vision. Glancing round, he sees a winged form about the size of a hawk detach itself from the southeastern prong of Orthanc.
“Angandil?” The size and shape are wrong, but Curumo is very tired and his vision is starting to blur. The form alights on the inward-curving tip of the tower’s fang, almost directly above him. The cold grips him more deeply, and he scrambles back.
Against the light in the east, it hangs upside-down. The bat is of a size and shape unknown in these latitudes, though rumor of such creatures in the south is an occasional matter of dark curiosity. Curumo, his chest cavity constricting heavily about its contents, reluctantly reaches forth with his will to ascertain the thing’s nature. It is an animal, but tampered with in some way, given power and a vague malice and a purpose by some deep art or cunning device.
The creature is watching. Perhaps Sauron at his palantír is watching, and maybe the Valar in their smug safety watch. Maybe, from whatever singularity they cast him into, Melkor sees these things.
Curumo had not circled the whole platform that night, as he typically does, being weary and preoccupied. He steps toward the neglected western edge, scanning the smooth, dark stone, courting without hope the thought that his paranoia is finally getting the better of him.
The craban is lying on the stone in an irregular way, as though its elderly body had offered a slow struggle to its larger and more energetic assailant. Picking up Angandil, Curumo sees the disarray of the neck feathers where the now well-fed bat’s fangs found purchase.
He recalls the fledging bird he held in both hands in a similar manner, two centuries and more past. He never had told Radagast he’d appreciated the housewarming gift, but he had named and taught the bird and later endeavored by painstaking craft to extend its already long life.
This post-script to Sauron’s wrath nearly has the intended effect of provoking negative catharsis. Curumo considers acknowledging Mordor’s superior mind and might, pleading for clemency, renouncing the shards of his private schemes. It would be a relief, really, pleasant.
You have ever been a traitor to all who dared place any hope in you.
He glances again to the blade of light in the eastern sky. What use in repentance? Foolishly, he had nearly repented to Gandalf, his enemy, and Gandalf had left Angrenost just in time to spurn such niceties. It should be equally foolish to repent in the face of Sauron, his enemy. There is no hope and no repentance.
Holding the bird gently in one hand, he repossess himself of his staff with the other, draws himself up and addresses the blood-drinker, “Leave the neighborhood of my tower while you can. You have done all you may here. If you have a means, convey to your master that I have deemed him but a petty shadow of Melkórë.”
The creature wings off into the light.
________________________________
What constitutes betrayal? Intent? Malice? When I perceived that the Music had become embattled, I was troubled and did not know how to react. I did not intend to betray anyone then and had no inkling of malice yet in my being, but they say that what is sung cannot be unsung. I have never thought fast on my feet, as it were. I think thoroughly and deeply, but slowly, and still I think about what I did–and still I have no answers that shall placate anyone, least of all myself.
________________________________
The first inkling of the dawn proper, a strand of glowing floss, lies over the peaks. It is still dark in Angrenost. Banners of smoke lean upward as though the mountains enclose a chalice murmuring with divers flames of offering. A small fire springs into its bright, brief life atop Orthanc, its smoke curling above the head of the figure which kneels without hope and without repentance.
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