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Saruman was powerful in his own right. A maiar, the mightiest of the Istar. He had little to fear from the decayed and rotten form of Sauron.
That did not stop his trepidation, however, as he opened the link of the Palantír. The force he sent could not be traced back to him, his cover was still intact. But still, he had lost. That would entail consequences.
Normally, Sauron's presence was a slow constriction, but not today. It was a lightning bolt, pinning the wizard in place in this empty hall of Isengard.
How dare you.
"My Lord, I --"
It was as though a nail was being hammered directly into his brain.
How dare you.
Saruman shook his head, hair flying in front of his face. "I did it for you. I'm sorry I failed. I wanted to retrieve your heart from the witch's woo --"
His windpipe was being crushed by a ghostly presence. Half a continent of separation, and Sauron reduced to a parody of a physical form, yet the pain was real.
You will not look at her, or think of her. A pause in the words that bit into Saruman's mind like a whip. You will certainly not steal from her, do you understand?
Saruman could not even nod his agreement. He let out a quiet squeak, which seemed enough to placate the Dark Lord. The ghostly hand around his neck faded, as did the burning Palantír. Saruman knew he had been dismissed.
Still, Sauron's words echoed in his head for days. He did not think about the Lady of Lothlórien much more than as an irksome regional rival for power. Their lands were placed too close together for them to ever be friendly. The witch always seemed above her station -- snobbish and cold to him.
Mithrandir enjoyed her company, he knew. The other Istar found her and her husband respectable, full of wise counsel and gracious hosts. So he wrote to him, curiosity burning at the back of his mind at the Dark Lord's words.
Steal from her, as though she was a worthy adversary who won the heart, rather than have it gifted to her by her daughter's husband. Absurd.
Unless.
So he wrote, summoned Mithrandir under the guise of seeking his advice on matters related to Rohan's new king. He arrived, large hat left on his horse, tangled grey hair flowing behind him. Always so… rustic, Saruman thought.
"Did you arrive from the North?" he asked eventually, when the wizards were sat in the gardens of Isengard. Mithrandir paused at the small talk, but took a sip of water nonetheless.
"The Lord of Lothlórien required my counsel," he said. "There was a minor raid."
Saruman frowned.
"A raid?"
Mithrandir smiled, the concern leaving his good-natured eyes.
"Little more than a skirmish on the borders of their lands. Orcs making trouble," he said. Saruman paused to consider. Perhaps his endeavours were even more of a failure than he originally thought. It would explain parts of the Dark Lord's fury. But then he thought of the crush to his windpipe from a hundred leagues away -- you will certainly not steal from her. No, there was clearly more to the story.
"I trust there were no losses for the Lord of the woods?" Saruman asked, coating his voice in appropriate concern. Mithrandir shook his head.
"No, nothing like that. They believe the orcs were searching for something specific," he said.
"So the orcs were organised?" Saruman said immediately, slipping into the leader of the White Council easily. Mithrandir paused for a moment.
"Not necessarily."
"And in your experience, do orcs plan and conceal and burglarise of their own accord?" he asked haughtily.
The other wizard had no response. He knew it was best to be aggressive now, to divert any suspicion away from his own actions. He would demand a thorough investigation of the matter; he would seem paranoid, even, at the prospect of a new orc general. Better that than appearing complacent.
"If they have rallied around a new general, we must know. It is bad enough that the lassitude of some of our number led the necromancer to take up residence in Dol-Guldur," he said pointedly. Thranduil had failed to contain the influence of Sauron, and he would not let Mithrandir forget it. Never mind that Saruman himself had spent long months assuring the elven king that the ghost of what was once a maia was of no real threat to the safety of his lands. Mithrandir pursed his lips, but nodded in agreement. Sauruman let the subject drop, steering the conversation to other matters. It would not serve his purpose to rankle the Istar further.
It was not until Mithrandir readied his horse for departure that he brought it up once again.
"What were the orcs searching for?" he asked. Mithrandir paused.
"The riches of Lothlórien, no doubt," he replied simply, focusing on adjusting the stirrups of his saddle.
Interesting.
Saruman did not doubt that the rumours of what happened to the Dark Lord's heart had also reached Mithrandir.
So not quite a lie, but certainly an obfuscation. And one designed to keep the witch's secrets at that.
He raised his own bushy dark brow wordlessly in response. Let Mithrandir think Saruman bore an intangible suspicion towards him. Since when do the creatures of darkness care for silver trinkets and fine silks?
Perhaps he had underestimated Mithrandir. Perhaps he had dismissed the possibility of making him see sense far too soon. Indeed, the wizard had never become such a lost cause as others among their order, continuing to intervene in worldly affairs; albeit on a smaller scale than which Saruman was capable.
Perhaps the wizard plotted with the witch. And perhaps the witch guarded her lands so carefully because she possessed more notable secrets than a mere spoil of war. A hypothesis to be tested, certainly.
Still, Saruman was no fool. He let the matter rest. For years, he let his suspicions lie untested. His master had displayed a long patience over the long centuries as a mere fog on the winds of the world. He could display a similar restraint.
He simply bided his time -- at least until the trade fiasco.
He had long held men of Rohan in his employ. Certain families who live in small villages could be easily plied by Isengard's generosity. Fresh fruit from the orchards, access to the trees of the Old Forest for fuel. The men of Rohan were simple creatures.
Some were more useful than others.
Mostly, Saruman's contacts simply moaned about taxation from Edoras, their sons drafted to fight in a squabble with the men to the South or the East.
Others, however, were tradesmen. These tended to fare better. Saruman's birds could see far into the distance, but even the most cunning among them paid little attention to the gossip among men, the sort that is visible in a tightness to the shoulders, an edge on the voice. That was where his trading folk came in.
They carried their wares between larger towns, rooting out tales of lordlings fornicating with farmgirls, accusations of witchcraft levelled at widows to steal their husband's land. All of this was useful.
All these schemers resided in Saruman's sphere of influence.
So he let it be known that those who would bring word of unusual elvish treasures would be rewarded. The witch's wood had ever been private, hidden, but even that had relaxed in recent decades.
The Istar thought he had been quite bright, cunning even. He did not account for the stupidity of men.
First was the foul-toothed woman who thought it was a job for thievery. She received a sharp elvish arrow to the neck for her troubles.
Then, a young lad of thirteen asked too many questions of an elf passing through his father's farm. The elf had narrowed his eyes and left the father's farm without the protection he had been hired to provide.
Worst of all was the horse tamer.
He tried to gain an audience with the witch herself.
Yes, my Lord Elf, nothing but the finest steeds for her ladyship.
A gift from the land of Rohan.
No, my Lord, I'd never accept a coin from your pocket. But my steeds are noble , finely bred . Perhaps an unusual trinket… ?
The oaf had been unceremoniously booted from the witch's land.
Perhaps it had been foolish to expect men to prize the secrets out of the elves of the golden wood. They were not like the elves of Greenwood -- fat and drunk and all too willing to gossip.
The witch, to her credit, let only the most discrete of her kind reside in her woods. Upon reflection, that should have been a clear sign of her secrets.
That ring on her finger, that heart she keeps hidden…
What other treasures was she staining with her unworthy hand? And, perhaps more importantly, to what end?
These failures of his networks were what led Saruman to increase his boldness. The task was best left to the only one in his ranks worthy of his trust: himself.
It led him to make the voyage North, writing to the witch to let her know, asking her graciously to receive him on his trek beyond the Mountains.
His pride rankled at his reception in Lothlórien--the Lord and Lady greeting him elegantly, Celeborn assuring him that his wife had prepared a sumptuous feast in his honour.
Galadriel blinked pleasantly at her husband, pure and sweet in white as though her character were just as clear and pure as the blue of her eyes.
Saruman forced a smile to his lips and thanked them for their kindness.
Still, he was able to play the old friend, advising Celeborn on matters of trade with the Rohirrim (Yes, my Lord, I can assure you that the Drumfells’ farm produces the finest horses), and on wider matters of security (For now, we watch and wait for Dol-Guldur’s next move. There is no use in provoking him too soon).
As for the witch herself?
He had to actively seek her out, finding her on the third and final day walking along the silver bridges that line the canopies of her realm.
He tutted gently, asking her how she had fared since the last attempt at an orcish incursion.
"The intruders have not been a great problem," Galadriel offered placidly. Once again clad in white, cloaked in purity.
A lack of imagination, Saruman thought. Limited and restrained, like she was a ball of yarn too tightly wound to be of any use to a weaver.
Still, he knew not to underestimate her.
"Do you know who is leading the incursions? It is unlike even the foul goblins of the Mountains to be so bold." He asked. Galadriel smiled in response, her cool blue eyes like ice.
He called her witch only in his head, but let that reputation spread throughout the lands over which he held influence. He did not truly believe in her witchcraft. Her power derived entirely from that ring on her finger.
Rumour was that she snatched it from the fire before it had a chance to truly cool, unwilling to have another stain it with their influence. Rumour was that it was not made for her, but rather her son-in-law.
Rumour was her pride refused to let even her old friend possess what she felt was her due.
It felt right, Saruman thought. Galadriel in her realm sucking up treasures and power like a terrible void.
She could not read his mind, however. Of that he was certain.
"I have my suspicions, Curunír."
"An orcish general?"
"That would do little to explain the prying men."
He shifted, filling his body with a feigned discomfort. He let his eyes grow serious and probing, concerned for his ally on the edge of Greenwood, so close to the influence of the enemy.
"Do you think --?"
He let himself trail off.
Let her think him a coward, unwilling to voice his fears even in the Golden Wood.
Galadriel simply blinked.
"No," she replied simply. "I would know."
Just after the Master's Fall, when through a moment of luck the Númenoreans struck a fatal blow on the dark fields of Dagorlad, there were rumours.
After all, the witch had quite the reputation -- a powerful commander of armies in her own right, fierce and vengeful and determined.
So where was she?
The Númenoreans did not trust her, that much was clear. Perhaps after the failed leadership of their blind queen, they rejected women in positions of power.
Or perhaps their grudge had been more personal.
Perhaps they had been concerned about her allegiances. Perhaps he and the witch were aligned on this matter.
"Fascinating to think that the powers of your foresight extend so far, my Lady," he coated his voice in an academic curiosity.
"I would not claim to have such a remarkable gift," she replied.
Saruman nodded and let the matter drop.
He would not probe further today.
Galadriel was powerful and long-lived. It would be foolish to make assumptions about her past and capabilities due to his own pride and jealousy.
The Istar could admit his pride -- it was certainly why his being refused to work in service to any but the brightest minds -- but he was not foolish. He was patient, and could remain so, despite any temptations that may come his way.
He thanked the Lady for her insight, played the grateful guest, and departed at the appointed time the next day. No deviation in his schedule, no hint of his disdain in his demeanour. No, Saruman knew he had played his part well.
He carried on Northwards -- of course Galadriel had her own spies in the wilds, of course she would wish to keep an eye on her regional rival.
It was many months before Saruman was able to safely return to Isengard. He sighed in relief as he crossed his own border. After all, the stone rings bordering his land served a dual purpose; the witch’s spies would never be able to penetrate his walls.
Indeed, he might have forgotten all about Galadriel and her secrets, were it not for the continued reticence with which his Master treated him.
Saruman was a valued servant, and he would not stand for anything less. And yet the Necromancer continued to let the Palantír lie dark in his hall, as though the wizard’s counsel was entirely unneeded. Indeed, his Master seemed reluctant to act at all. He stayed within the walls of Dol-Guldur, not even adding new armies to his ranks. Instead, Sauron was seemingly content to lurk on the border of Middle Earth’s nightmares.
It was why he decided to grow bolder.
He could not deny that the power of the heart, hidden away in Lothlórien, was decidedly tempting. Who could say what potential lurked within it? And yet, the witch refused to use it.
No, the heart was wasted in her lands.
He did not marshall a force, however. He did not delude himself into thinking that his retinue of orcs would be enough to breach the magical walls of Galadriel’s lands. Instead, he ensured his own invite into her territory. He promised information on Dol-Guldur in a missive, and it was information that could not wait.
It was the husband that replied. He was unsurprised at Galadriel’s own lack of response, she had always been a prideful creature.
Still, it was enough to get him into the witch’s lands.
What was more surprising was Galadriel’s absence upon greeting him. The elf was cold, but aware of her duties. Celeborn simply smiled sweetly at Saruman.
“I apologise. She will return in a few days,” he offered with a low bow. Saruman raised an eyebrow.
“What could possibly have called her away?” he asked. Celeborn shrugged.
“My wife has long kept her own counsel. She often needs time to meditate on her foresight,” he said. Saruman nodded. So that particular rumour was true. Galadriel was in possession of more than one artefact of great significance.
Her mirror.
Another stolen power.
Yet if she was truly absent, that gave Saruman a rather remarkable opportunity.
Long after the elves had retired, he sat in his chamber, and prodded at the Unseen World. There was nothing unexpected to find--slivers of consciousness from some of the more powerful elven, the rest were peaceful, uncaring and unaware.
He reached out, searching for the true ruler of the Golden Wood.
Nothing.
Either she was far less powerful than he suspected, or she was truly absent from her realm. Regardless, excellent news for his plans.
He removed his travelling boots, padding softly across the delicate wood panelling of Galadriel’s palace towards her chambers. He paused briefly, torn between the two possible rooms where he might find the heart.
Her reading room?
Or her bedchamber?
He reached out, softly, and felt it. It did not beat, and never would again. Of course he knew that. But still, Saruman could feel its power. The door to the left--the elf-witch’s reading room.
Again, Saruman remained cautious, creeping slowly between desks and drawers and shelves.
That, of course, was until he noticed a small vase on a small cabinet. A minor decoration in a grande room. It was conspicuous in the way it did not fit with the rest of the reading room’s stylings--foregoing something grande in favour of the discrete.
He was disappointed that the drawer opened without the need for his spells.
And there it lay, wrapped carefully in a dark silk. Anyone would think it a minor sentimental trinket, one that broke and Galadriel refused to throw away.
But he knew. He could feel the power radiating from it. It felt rather like Valinor itself--endless potential, squandered and restrained by its vessel. But no more.
He reached a wizened hand towards the heart until--
“And what,” a feminine voice hissed in his ear, “do you think you are doing?”
He looked down. A sharp glinting blade was sat firmly nestled on top of his beard, only requiring a small flick of her wrist to pierce his neck.
“I could ask you the same,” he replied, his own dark eyes meeting Galadriel’s blue ones. They were sharp like ice, freshly fallen from the mouth of a cave. He let the elf see some of his power, letting the black tar of his soul be visible in his gaze.
She backed away with a sharp intake of breath.
“I knew it.”
There was more than a hint of triumph in her voice. He could hear the prideful gloating that coloured her tone and it grated on his ears.
Of course she hadn’t known . An absurd statement from an arrogant wench. Galadriel had always simply been jealous of his standing, annoyed that someone who didn’t even bear a ring dared to control the White Council. Never mind the fact that his very presence in Middle Earth was a symbol of his might, not forgetting that he was the driving force behind the Council in the first place. She had long been jealous of the attention he commanded in his role, irked that Mithrandir would prize Saruman’s advice and wisdom above her own.
It was no surprise that she masked her humiliation at being caught with accusations of her own, no matter how justified.
“Traitor,” she hissed. Saruman glared at the witch. Foolish girl.
“And what are you doing with such an artefact so deep in your territory?” He said. “Your private study, no less.”
He let the heart lay in the drawer, untouched in its cloth wrapping. Instead, he took a step towards Galadriel.
He saw her eyes dart between him and the drawer, saw the realisation dawn within her that it was useless to feign ignorance.
No, old friend. It is merely a memento from a departed servant. One who sailed West many decades ago.
Any excuse would be laughable.
She adjusted her stance, letting her knife slip from his neck.
“My business is my own.”
And he knew that he had her.
She could have at least tried to deflect, but no. And her reticence to even offer an excuse?
No, it was clear. Her husband had no idea what she kept in his halls. And wasn’t that in itself an interesting turn of events?
No wonder she was so cold, no wonder she rarely left the bounds of her husband’s realm--she couldn’t chance him snooping.
“I believe, my Lady, that your business is entirely bound up with mine.” Saruman offered.
It was possible, after all. He had discerned it himself. If Celeborn and Mithrandir were unaware of the heart’s presence, if his Master had consented to her keeping it at the bottom of the drawer… Well, it would explain at least some of the more strange mysteries of the last few millennia.
Perhaps they were aligned. Or perhaps he could make her believe such a thing.
He forced himself to relax his body, softening his shoulders. Saruman’s eyes met hers directly, black on blue. Hers remained icy--narrowed and intense.
He pushed his mind to brush hers.
I know all.
It was a promise and a threat, but still Galadriel did not move. He did not expect her to, he knew her will was strong.
Still, he could see the shame at the corner of her mind. All he had to do was bring it forth.
Oh, Galadriel, how far you have fallen. A blink. Is that why you have stayed? Unwilling to face your family on the shores of Valinor?
What would your husband say? Her mouth tightened. Your son-in-law? Mithrandir?
She turned away.
He knew she would. Too proud to admit her sins out loud, too foolish not to fall into them regardless.
“It is not what you believe,” she whispered, her voice quiet and fierce. Saruman remained silent, simply cocked his head at the elf. Of course she had fallen, just like himself. She preserved that heart so carefully and secretly. Galadriel swallowed, and when she spoke, he could hear the hitch of emotion in her voice. “He is not what you believe.”
And it became clear. She viewed the Master as an extension of her own ambition--for who could possibly be more worthy of a Noldor than a Maiar?
An emotion he did not think her capable of came to the elf’s eyes. Tears welled, and fell gracefully onto her cheeks. It only enhanced her beauty.
“You cannot possibly understand,” she whispered. “The weight of bearing this secret has almost been my undoing countless times before.”
Saruman was struck with something unexpected--a pity for Galadriel. A demure beauty, but one who wielded unbelievable power. In so many ways, she was all an elfmaid should be.
“Oh, my dear,” sincerity coloured his tone, and his hand reached out to pat her cheek paternally. “I believe I do.”
Her lips parted in surprise, hope returning to her gaze. The elf’s lip wobbled as she held back her tears of joy, of relief.
“I have kept it safe for so long,” she said in a high whisper. “I haven’t breathed a word.”
Saruman nodded, his hand squeezing her shoulder.
“I know. And so does He.” he hesitated before continuing. You will certainly not steal from her. At last, it made sense. She had not ‘won’ the heart, she had been entrusted with it. The Dark Lord’s most secret servant.
“I can promise you, He is grateful for your efforts,” Saruman said, alone in her dark room. Her eyes shone with pride and joy, a girlish hue covering them.
“Truly?” she breathed.
It occurred to him that Sauron had been particularly clever in his seduction of the elf. She was completely enthralled, willing to go to any lengths to do his bidding. She seduced her husband to keep his lands under her control, had Mithrandir coiled around her finger, utterly blind to the truth in front of him. An obedient elven princess at the Dark Lord’s command. And all Sauron had to do was offer vague promises of his eventual favouritism from his distant castle.
Saruman nodded. He had underestimated Galadriel’s potential, and overestimated her cunning. A girl in love, devoted to the object of her affection. It was charming.
But no more than that.
He patted her hand with a paternal affection.
“My dear, you know the risks of keeping the heart here, don’t you?” he said gently. Galadriel hesitated for a moment, before nodding solemnly, unwilling to meet his eye.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispered. “But yes, it has been almost discovered…a number of times.”
He hummed. Yes, he could quite imagine. An overly devoted cleaner, or a prying guest like himself: he wondered how many corpses littered the ground of Lothlórien in her attempts to preserve her secrets. No matter now. He would recover the heart for his Master. It would be much safer in Isengard, especially once Sauron’s little pet was removed from the chessboard.
He did not doubt that Sauron would be irked by his plans, but no matter. He was sure the maiar would find another plaything in time.
“You know what we must do, no?” He asked. Far better for her to make the suggestion. Indeed she did.
“And will it be safe with you?” she asked quietly. Saruman nodded. Her smile was something wonderful to behold--all the charm and chastity of her people.
He prepared assiduously for Galadriel’s arrival. The barriers around Isengard were carefully reinforced, and he was sure that none would be able to breach them.
As for the tea? He brewed it himself. A nightshade paste was carefully laid around the rim of her cup. Imperceptible to the eye, but present nevertheless. A unique blend of his, one that he was proud of. Her unconscious state would give him time to plan.
She arrived three months after their conversation in the dark of her reading room. Without a retinue, Galadriel was resplendent on a horse, and he could believe the stories of her prowess in battle.
A fine creature.
She smiled at the sight of him, patting the saddlebag on her horse meaningfully.
Good girl.
Galadriel seemed almost giddy. Poor thing had been confined to her secrets for so long, she simply could not wait to discuss her devotion to their Master.
“None suspect,” she said proudly, and nudged him with her shoulder. “Certainly not Mithrandir.”
Saruman blinked.
“Oh, I do not doubt your subtlety, my dear,” he said. “You have always had a way with words.”
She laughed at that, a beautifully melodic sound as her hands ran along the bushes that lined Isengard’s gardens.
“But tell me,” she said quietly, her blue eyes sparkling in the midday sun. “What do you intend to do with It?” she asked.
Saruman paused for a moment. He had not truly considered the question. There were options before him that he had never contemplated. All his attention had been bent on obtaining the heart.
“I have been studying many ancient magics, my dear. His body will be restored to him,” he lied. For Saruman had never been made for servitude. Still, Galadriel did not perceive his deception, clapping her hands together in delight at his cleverness.
He guided her to be seated, and poured the tea. Galadriel reached forward, headstrong as ever. Her sleeve brushed the teapot as she took the cup from the table. She sighed happily at the sensation of the hot drink in her hands, and smelled deeply. For a moment, Saruman was nervous, unsure if she could perceive his intentions, but then the elf lifted the cup to her lips, and sipped lightly.
He sipped his own, and they began to speak of other matters.
“Yes,” Galadriel replied to his question, “Elrond is unaware of my allegiances. The poor dear, it would break his heart.” She tutted sadly.
How remarkable, Saruman thought, to so callously betray one’s own child and her family in favour of even the prospect of power. He supposed that the Noldor had always burned with an unsavoury ambition.
“Far better to keep him ignorant,” he assured her. “He will see that it was for the best in ti--”
Saruman tried to cough, but nothing emerged from his throat. He tried to take in a breath, nothing.
Galadriel looked at him placidly.
“What is the matter, friend?” She asked, blue eyes blinking innocently.
And then he realised.
Galadriel had made a good show of sipping from her cup, but she tilted it towards him. Not a drop had reached her lips.
A small smile played on her face.
It was one of victory.
His vision went blank.
When he awoke, his situation was even worse. Restrained several feet off the floor of his reception hall, Saruman’s hands, feet were held firmly in place by rather pitiful cuffs.
A final precaution from Galadriel, clearly.
The effect of the paralytic held strong--it was not as though he were capable of moving his limbs anyway.
Saruman tried to move, but failed. He stared in horror at Galadriel’s expression--gone was the lovestruck elfmaid, or the willing dupe.
It was replaced with steely knowledge and utter self-assurance.
“What?” he muttered as he tried his restraints again.
Galadriel did not reply, instead she furrowed her brows at him, as though terribly disappointed, and made her thoughts clear: fool.
A delicate pale hand went to the Palantír, awakening it to her touch.
Saruman felt Sauron’s presence before anything. A surge of panicked magic springing forth at Galadriel’s hand on the orb.
“Your servant” Galadriel muttered into the orb. “is a moron.”
An incomprehensible shriek burst forth from the planatír. Galadriel turned to it, her expression annoyed.
“Quiet,” she said. The shriek stopped. She stroked a delicate finger across the orb.
“At least provide me with a challenge, my love,” she said softly.
The affection in her voice was nothing like what Saruman had become accustomed to hearing. It was born not of idolatry, but rather familiarity. A gentle teasing. An indiscernible whisper came from the smooth glass of the Palantír.
“I know,” she murmured. “But he crossed a line. He tried to steal my gift.”
Saruman tried to speak, to protest, but found himself unable to do so.
Gift? Saruman was sure that thought came from him, but it made no difference. It could just as equally be expressed by the evil spirit of Mirkwood.
“Not freely given, but stolen fairly by me,” Galadriel was ignoring him, as though it were just her and his Master. “I have taken good care of it, no?”
Her hand was fully on the orb now, her palm on the glass like it was hers. Perhaps it was. Saruman was excluded from the conversation, only able to hear the witch’s huff of breath in annoyance at whatever it was that Sauron had said.
“Absolutely not, ” she said firmly. “I know you far too well to expect you to stick to your word.”
A cold frisson rushed through Saruman’s body. It did him no good to understand that his Master was clearly requesting that the witch spare his servant. He knew Galadriel, he understood the ruthlessness at her heart.
It had just taken a while for him to recognise it for what it was.
She laughed, coldly.
“This is not an exchange,” she said. “Be glad that I have not elected to invade your castle.”
A pause, and then another laugh. More warmth in her voice this time.
“I’m sure you would. But I think we both know how that would end.”
Even as Saruman was aware of his dire situation, of his impending doom, he could admit to some…curiosity. This was no dialogue between enemies, nor between lovers. He thought back to Sauron’s initial reaction, when he sent that foolish orc to steal the heart-- How dare you.
As though he were interfering in matters quite beyond his comprehension.
Galadriel raised an eyebrow at the Palantír.
“It is hardly my fault he blundered his way through my home,” she said. “Perhaps this will teach you to select more competent servants in the future, my love.”
A witch, that was what she was. Somehow, she had bewitched even Sauron. Saruman thought of the strangeness of their interactions, and Sauron’s slow, methodical crawl to dominance over Middle Earth.
Perhaps he was wrong in assuming Galadriel was of the darkness. Perhaps her call had somehow influenced Sauron over the long centuries. The possibility was horrendous. If he could move, he might feel bile rising in his throat. As it stood, however, he watched helplessly as Galadriel parlayed with his Master.
Finally, Galadriel looked towards Saruman, a small smile on her lips. He knew his time was over. He would be sent back to the Halls of Mandos, where all knew exactly how far he had fallen. Only the One could tell what his punishment would be.
But perhaps his peers would deem this humiliation punishment enough.
“Well, for once it appears that we are in agreement,” said Galadriel softly. The glow of the Palantír faded, and with a mere swipe of Galadriel’s hand, Saruman departed Middle Earth.