By Milly of Isengard
Saruman / Grima
Drama/ Slash / Angst ***A.U. for added plot
I lie under him, my heart throbbing painfully, my breath failing me. His eyes, so dark, so endless, bore into me, seeking my mind, finding it, penetrating it.
I do not know words of Quenyan, his native tongue, or Sindarin, or any of the elegant languages he has mastered.
I only know the speech of the Rohirrim, and so in that I murmur to him, lost in love, lost in respect.
“Lord Saruman..” He loves when I speak to him in lavishly flattering phrases, as he knows I am sincere, while others who might do so are not.
He looks down at me, stern, unsmiling, wild nobility.
I was driven from Edoras, and to him I fled.
He welcomed me back with anger and frustration- not at me, but mostly at Stormcrow.
Angry… that Gandalf had come back from the Otherworld, and frustrated..well, there are many reasons for the frustration.
I see the mingled emotions on his face when he speaks of him.
Once- there must have been something.
He has told me of Gandalf’s imprisonment here.
I asked him – gently- why he did not slay Stormcrow after being rebuffed and refused.
He only said: “I did not wish to do that..if it may be avoided. He may be of use to us.”
I was there, looking on in terror, when my Master was driven from Théoden as well, and his possession over that wretched creature ended.
Stormcrow drove him out, cast him out, and yet- he did not kill him. I am no fool, I am well aware that he could have.
Instead, he hurled him by his craft back to Orthanc, shaken and angry but unharmed.
I do not know what is between them.
Whatever it is, it still lives, although in a strange state now, as if in some sort of hiding, as a volcano may sleep, yet burn still within.
But I do not care, for he is with me, and I am the one who has not denied him. I have given up everything else now.
Once, I loved the fair Eowyn.
It is all over, that hope now. Her hate for me was crystal clear. No more shall I speak of it.
Nor shall I speak too much of the…evil days that come to Orthanc.
Days when my Lord loses the bright light in his eyes, and they glaze into a black fog, and if I can, I flee from him. If I can.
Those are the times…he goes away…you may call it.
Those are the dangerous times.
And I have the scars…and healing bones… to prove it.
But now, he is with me, and those eyes are vibrant and clear.
He lies over me, with an almost ethereal grace of movement. He leans down to me, his long warm body pressing down on me, and kisses me, his tongue snaking into my mouth, tasting of Shire wine.
His hips move very slowly, with a degree of restrained arousal I cannot even imagine, his cock grinding into mine through our robes..he is already very hard. I catch my breath, moaning, my arms around his strong narrow shoulders.
Once, he frightened me very badly- not by any violence or delusions- but merely by his words. He had come from a session at the seeing stone – during which I am careful to never disturb him- and he looked strangely shaken, pale, almost terrified. He looked at me very oddly, with some unfathomable sorrow.
I had carefully asked what was the matter- and he had muttered something about our futures- and walked away in a daze, whispering, “Blood…blood..and heat…if he fails..the doom of one another…”
At length, the strange mood passed, and he never told me any more. And I was afraid to know, and I did not ask.
But for now, we have love, and his warm, gigantic bed, and it is more than enough.
I cling to him, pleading for it to begin, anxious, beyond ready.
He reaches between us and opens our robes, and our bare skin touches at last. I moan again, deeply excited.
He delays no more, and now I smell the musk scented oil, and I know he is rubbing it on himself, and then I feel slick fingers on me, then inside me. I stifle a small cry as his long nails enter me, leaving jolts of pleasure and pain in their probing.
The fingers seek and find the gland, that mysterious place of ecstasy within, and one nail gently grazes it, and I gasp at the sensation.
Then the fingers are withdrawn, and I writhe slightly under him, aching now, needing, needing…
With swift movements, he turns me on my side, and pulls me up against him, so we are back to front, he behind me, lifting my leg up around him. I can feel him pressing against me, swollen, hard, so hot…and then with a graceful push, he enters me, slowly at first, but immediately harder..
I close my eyes, hearing my own voice, wailing almost, submitting gladly to him..
He favors the deep thrust of the ardent lover, and soon I am clutching the bedcovers, savoring each hard push into me, reeling with the pleasure as his large cock strikes against the gland inside, making my heart pound to the point of dizziness.
He lifts my leg even higher, and shoves into me mightily, and I know I am crying out loudly, but there is no controlling it.
His only sounds, by contrast, are severely restrained, heavy, labored breathing.
The bed thunders against the wall, and as the rhythm increases, I feel it now..feel it coming…a thousand years of paradise releases in an almost unbearably sweet implosion, and my cries become howls, and he bites my shoulder fiercely, in feral passion.
I feel him shiver against me, and his strong arms grip around me tightly- and I hear him sigh softly, and then I am released.
The love remains, as he sleeps next to me, serene, elegant…highborn and powerful.
But now there is something else, as well, though we never speak of it- some vague threat, some misty shadow of coming sorrow, a tragic future.
I cast out the sadness and fear, and rest my head upon his chest, the music of his beating heart calming me…may I never be the cause of its ruin…
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.