By Black Traitor Of Isengard
NC-17 for graphic sex / violence
Saruman / Lurtz / Orcs / Gandalf ( the usurper ) / And Jahi Ravenclaw…
who longs to be Mistress of Orthanc
The moon loomed over Isengard as a pale demon’s visage, and the young Rohirrim girl crept under its all seeing eye with stealth and determination, treachery in her mind. Her face was set, in a mingled look of excitement and fear, and as she carefully stole past the Orcs guarding the great door of Orthanc, she forced herself grimly to not consider what they would do to her if she was caught.
Why, she already knew, so why think on it? They would assault her, perhaps keep her alive for a while, until they tired of rutting the young woman – or until she died of injuries from their “attentions”.
She had heard tales of Orc rape, and they were hideous. She was a girl of little sexual inhibition, but the stories of the Orcs brutality – a female friend back in Rohan had whispered to her once, in a conspiratorial voice, that their cocks were burning hot - and not in a good way!- her friend had snickered. They used human females until they died, or the Orc’s hunger for flesh, overcame the needs of their organs.
Jahi shuddered, and, with all the innate grace of the natural thief or spy, slipped behind the large, half-asleep Orcish guards.
Inside, it was dark, half lit by large torches on the walls.
She began to ascend the long, seemingly endless staircase, suddenly bitterly afraid. She must not be caught- she must make it to him! The thought of succeeding gave her a warm, pleasant flush, and she felt the slight ache of excitement begin between her legs.
The White Wizard.
She climbed the stairs silently, her legs beginning to tremble- it was a long way up, and she was not particularly fond of heights. But oh, the prize that awaited!
She thought of him again, the magnificent Star – the Istar.
Long snowy hair, just touched by silver starlight, falling nearly to the middle of his back, and endless midnight eyes. She recalled his touch, at once frightening and gentle, and the memory of him being inside her caused her to nearly cry out. She had been with Men, and Elves, as well, but they were sorrowful comparisons to the passion of the ancient wizard.
So many hundreds of years, he had lived on Middle Earth, she had been told, that there were not numbers to count them. And before descending to this mundane world, he had been a Lord of vast power in the Otherworld- an Istar- nearly a God!
She nearly lost her footing in her distraction, and gripped the rail with a terrified, sweaty hand. Her heart galloped in fear, and she held on to the railing viciously. Then she began to climb again.
After what seemed like a never ending ascent, she finally reached the top of the staircase.
There was no one in view.
She tried to remember the layout of the rooms up here- she had not been allowed to see much, and she knew if she made a mistake, it would likely be a fatal one.
He had sent her away, with a strange look on his refined and stern face, and had disappeared into the shadows, after telling her he would not forget her.
Had he been sincere? There had been nothing to prevent him from killing her, if he had wished. The Uruks would have been delighted.
All her instincts told her that this was far too easy- he was too crafty, too wise, to not be aware of her presence.
But he may truly be asleep, she thought, hopefully. It is very late- and even a wizard can tire.
There, she thought, there it is: his chamber. A large door stood out from the others, carved with dragons and magical symbols. She prayed she was correct, and after casting another nervous glance around, moved towards it, and carefully placed a shaking hand on the ornate knob.
It turned, almost too easily, almost on its own, really- and she felt grim alarm course through her. Her legs were so weak now she could scarcely stand up, but she slowly opened the door, and fearfully peered inside.
Her thighs were damp as she moved forward, but she barely took notice. She smiled slightly, as if she were approaching a loving suitor’s waiting arms, instead of the terribly dangerous striking distance of a deadly dragon.
She had been right, it was the chamber of the Master- she nearly wept with relief as she took in the sight before her:
There, on an impossibly huge bed, lay the Lord of Isengard, still and sleeping, his fierce eyes closed, and his long hair strewn around him on the white pillows. So much white!, she thought wildly. The bed itself was draped and covered with long runners of glittering white, and all she could see was the White, the White of him, all around.
She heard no sound of breathing from him, as she watched him, in terrified rapture.
Is he alright?, she thought suddenly, and in irrational fear for him, moved forward, until she was very close. Love for him, and awe, swelled in her heart, and desire awakened anew.
My Lord, her mind sang, you sent me from you- but I will not go. Do with me as you will, I shall serve you. I will have no other.
She had no time to react or even think as his hand shot out, so swiftly she did not even perceive it, and grasped her wrist tightly. His eyes opened slowly, and she could only moan as he rose from the bed.
His dark eyes shone with ancient malice, and he stood before her, in a glimmering pale robe of changing and prismatic colors.
“So, you have returned. Did I not warn you against it? Very well, your decision is yours, and yours alone. So be it!”
He looked to the open door, and out of nowhere, a gigantic form filled the doorway.
“Master? You summoned me?”
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.