Posts Tagged ‘Saruman’

#60: No, THIS Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life!

Mar
24

Date: June 17, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: completely humiliated

I thought things couldn’t get any worse than they were yesterday. I was wrong.

Today I was hovering over the maelstrom where the seas are still rushing into the great chasm that was once Angband. I’ve dropped my physical form and have been manifesting as a naked fëa, just for mobility’s sake. Also, I didn’t want anyone to see me blubbering my eyes out over the loss of a billion years’ hard work and effort. And in spirit form, only other Ainu can see me.

Then some other Ainur saw me.

Somebody cleared their (metaphorical) throat, and there revealed was the spirit of Eönwë. He’s the lick-spittle who took over my position as Chief of the Maiar when the Valar rebelled against Melkor. His official title is “Banner-bearer and Herald of Manwë, which is pretty retarded since immortal anthropomorphic personifications of eternal verities don’t really need flags or bugles to make their wishes known. But whatever.

“Hearken, o Sauron, spirit of Craft,” he said, intoning in that bullshit Biblical way that lesser Ainur use when they want to seem all serious (whatever a “Bible” is). “The bonds that Morgoth has lain upon you are strong. But redemption still lies within your grasp.”

The bonds that Melkor laid on me? This from the asshole who polishes Manwë’s buttocks on a nightly basis?

“The Powers of Arda call on you, Sauron, to return to Taniquetil in Aman, and place yourself in judgment before Manwë Súlimo. Admit to and repent your crimes, against the Valar and Maiar; against the Children of Ilúvatar, the Elder and the Younger; and against Eru Ilúvatar Himself, and you will know justice, and forgiveness.”

Now, you know how you always wish later you had thought of something really clever to say, something witty and cutting that would really put someone in their place? That esprit d’escalier, when you think of the perfect comeback ten minutes too late? That always happens to me. Because what I wish I had said — what I wish I had said — was, “no, thank you.”

But I couldn’t concentrate, and all I could think of to say was, “listen here, you piss-ant little shit-bag. I wouldn’t give Manwë the Dickless Prick the life-altering honor of licking the Orc-pus off the bottom of my iron-tipped boots, much less let that syphilitic sideshow freak hold me in so-called ‘judgment’ over deeds I committed, by right, as Chief Lieutenant of the True Lord of the Earth. So why don’t you go back to your satin-lined hidey-hole in Aman, lube yourself up, and insert yourself right back up into Manwë’s distended rectum where you belong!”

And with that, I made to leave. But there were more Ainur present, and I recognized them both, unfortunately. One was that jackass Curunír, the useless little Craft spirit who used to spy for me in Almaren way back before the Second War. He was apparently still afraid of me, because he was hiding behind the allegorical skirts of another Maia — Olórin, that sanctimonious jackass whom I almost killed in the First War. Of course he would be here at my lowest possible moment.

“Sauron,” Olórin said, “reject not the pity of Manwë, for there are those in Aman, of your own people, who love you still.”

Pity? Pity?? If I had harbored any fleeting desire to limp simpering with my tail between my legs to Valinor to cower at the heels of Manwë the Dickless Prick, it was obliterated in that moment. Pity? Suck my big, fat, hairy werewolf balls.

But, before I could share with Olórin my deeply held, well-reasoned, and carefully-worded thoughts on the matter, another Maia appeared. And you know that whole bit about “lowest moment of my life?” Yeah, well, up until this moment, it was my freakin’ birthday party. I didn’t know what “low” was.

A voice spoke — a gentle, musical voice, more beautiful than any other amongst the Maiar. “Mairon,” it spoke, “my beloved Mairon, do not speak so harshly, nor let bitter feelings mar thy beautiful spirit.”

Mairon? Nobody ever calls me Mairon. Not in billions of years. Not since the Timeless Halls. Not since her.

Not since Melian.

There she was, being beautiful, and sweet, and loving, and caring, in all her glorious lover-betraying Elf-buggering glory. My Melian.

“Set aside your hate, and anger, and pride, and willfulness, and desire for mastery,” she implored me, with as much condescension as you might imagine. “Join me, Mairon, and return to your people. Together, we will create things of beauty for all to enjoy.”

I have to admit, I just looked at her for a long time. I mean, where the hell did she get off? Seriously! She left me. She betrayed Melkor. She shacked up with an Elf. She spawned the half-Elf abomination that razed my tower, murdered Draugluin and stole Melkor’s shiny rock. She led the Elves of Doriath in revolt against me, and then abandoned them to slavery and death the moment her Elven boy-toy was dead.

And I’m supposed to ask for forgiveness? Me?

I should have attacked. I should have assumed the form of a great werewolf — huh, bad idea, open water, um… a great Fire Drake, or a Sea Serpent — and ripped her freaking head off. I should have reduced her to a quailing spirit of misery and remorse, plaintively singing laments over the face of the waters until the Last Battle. I should have destroyed her, and Eönwë and Olórin and that other one. Bitch called me Mairon.

But I didn’t. I just fled. And they didn’t follow.

Worst. Day. Of. My. Life.

#30: I’m Bored

Nov
9

Date: Before the Sun and Moon, but after the Count of Time began
My Mood Is: bored

I just got back from sowing the seeds of dissension amongst the Maiar of Valinor. A number of the spirits whom I turned to Melkor’s service before the second war are still willing to serve us, even that moron Curunír. Remember I tasked him with keeping Tulkas unconscious during the Second War, and he failed miserably. Now he’s begging for a second chance. We’ll see.

The Valar have discovered a method for measuring time, and I don’t like it. Their two miserable glowing trees rise and fall in luminosity according to a pattern, and they use counts of that pattern to measure the passage of time. They’re all like, “When dost thou wish to sing the praises of Manwë?” and the other guy says “When the lights of blessed Telperion and Laurelin have mingled their sweet light one hundred times less twelve, then we shall meet to to sing the praises of Manwë.”

What a bunch of pretentious assholes.

I mean, for one thing how do they know that the trees’ oscillation cycle is regular? They only have the trees themselves as a standard of comparison! Now if they’d asked me, I would have suggested a unit of time equivalent to the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the Caesium 133 atom at a temperature of 0 Kelvin. But that’s just me.

Anyway, now that we have a system for measuring time, the eons just seem that much looooonger. Immortality never really bothered me before, because I didn’t even think about how long things took. Now I keep looking at the clock.

I’m bored.

Soon Melkor will be ready to assail the Valar. Then we’ll have some excitement. And after the accursed trees are destroyed, I won’t have to worry about being bored anymore.

#27: We Won! Suck it, Valar! You Lose!

Oct
13

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: ecstatic

We won the Second War! Okay, maybe not a total and complete victory — Manwë and his filthy Valar slaves still live. But their forces are completely routed, and we have destroyed everything they accomplished! It’s party time!

The Valar finally figured out we had returned to Arda when the Corrupting Miasma killed off all their precious plants and animals. While they were still standing around with their dicks in their hands, we attacked.

For the second time, the Hosts of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death came screaming out of the North, riding on waves of flame and pestilence. Black-clad Melkor led the way, with faithful Wolf-Sauron at his side. Draugluin and Carcharoth kept the Hosts in line, acting as my lieutenants.

We came down upon Almaren like an avalanche, interrupting some festival or wedding or something. The Valar had set out guards, but they assumed we were newly returned to Arda, and did not think we had been preparing all this time. They were taken almost completely unprepared.

We overthrew Almaren, and Melkor overturned the island with his hands. Many faithless and cowardly Maiar were destroyed and their souls reduced to wandering shades. That’s what they get for following the Dickless Prick.

I led the Hosts as we drove the Valar and Maiar south. They were never able to get their act together, and we kept them on the defensive. Meanwhile, Melkor snuck off — he had an important job to finish, one that would give us a decisive advantage.

After many hours of battle, whatever an “hour” is, I faced off against my old boss Aulë. When I was spying on Almaren, I discovered this idiot has been taking credit for “creating Arda.” Are you fucking kidding me? After Melkor and I put in 90% of the actual work?

So I cornered him, and mocked him. “Who art thou, craven Aulë, Lord of Mud, to claim as yours what is rightfully Melkor’s?” Wow, he sure didn’t like that “Lord of Mud” bit. He tried to smash me with his axe, but I am way too quick. I bit at him and rent his flesh, and he screamed like a girl.

Suddenly, the shadows moved. That never happened, since the Two Lamps were immobile — but I knew what to expect. Most of the Maiar and Valar battling on the plain did not notice, but Aulë and I watched as Illuin slowly fell from the sky, the great pillar Helcar twisting and collapsing beneath it.

Aulë was clearly horrified — perhaps he had a better idea of the coming cataclysm. As I said, they broke the friggin’ Laws of Physics to build the pillars Helcar and Ringil. Sure, magic always defies Physical Law, but even magic has strict rules, and the Valar broke those rules to create two towers 10,000 miles in height, each supporting a miniature sun.

When Helcar and Illuin struck the disc of Arda, well, it would have been the most beautifully spectacular piece of wanton destruction I could have imagined, if I had been witnessing it from the safety of the Outer Dark. Unfortunately, I was standing on the disc at the time.

The pieces of the pillar struck the Earth and the whole disc sounded as a drum; a wave of pulverizing force, a crest of destruction ten miles high and 100 deep, spread across the face of the world at twice the speed of sound. Then Illuin hit, and he exploded as he hit like a great egg of pure flame. I don’t know where the Valar got that light, because it wasn’t from the fire spirits — it was silver and cold and deadly, and washed out over the world like water.

But Melkor, in his wrath, was not finished. While we, Hosts and Valar and Maiar alike, fled the destruction in the North, he flew South, and assailed the pillar Ringil, which held aloft Ormal, the golden lamp. She fell, and with a second wave of decimation she let loose a tide of red fire across the South of the world.

Of course we wanted to destroy the accursed lamps, just because the Valar had crafted them. But also, we knew perpetual darkness would give us back our tactical advantage.

Now, sometime around the destruction of Ormal, Tulkas woke up. That little pig Curunír failed in the one damn thing I told him to do. Tulkas rose up above the fury of the twin holocausts that were practically unmaking the world, and called out a challenge to Melkor.

Too bad for Tulkas. As you might guess, the destruction was too much for any of us to endure, and far worse than we expected. Again, let me stress — the world is not designed to support giant, physically-impossible pillars. Leave world-building to the experts, folks — that is to say, me and Melkor. Anyway, I rallied all the surviving Hosts, and we retreated back to Utumno.

Let me say this — I designed Utumno, even the doors, which were my idea. Not only did our fortress survive the twin cataclysms, but the accursed Valar could not penetrate the walls to assail us. We sat inside, comfy cozy, congratulating ourselves and drinking ale, while the Valar and Maiar outside beat on the walls and fell victim to fiery death from the flames of Illuin.

Niiiiiice.

Seriously, this could not have gone better. We lost, I dunno, a few hundred of the lesser spirits, no one important. But I’d say we wiped out a good third of the enemy Maiar. We didn’t get any Valar, which is too bad. Next time.

I’m tired, I gotta sleep. It was a really, really good day.

#26: I Don’t Like Ale, Not at All

Oct
3

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: hung over

Ugh. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like crap, and my whole body aches. If this is what happens after a night of getting drunk, I’m never doing it again.

Here’s what happened. We’ve already begun our final assault on the Valar, and those boneheads are just beginning to figure it out. Melkor has created a Corrupting Miasma, and it’s spreading out from Utumno league after league, killing all life that it touches. It’s pretty cool. Meanwhile, we’re getting ready for the big fight.

For me, that means making sure our buddies inside Almaren are ready for us. One of the most important is called Curunír, a clever little fellow who resents the way Manwë lords it over all the other Ainur. Personally, I think it’s Curunír who would rather do the lording; he’s really one of us.

Curunír is a spirit of craft like me, but he didn’t come over to our side because he’s a frightened little pussy. But he concocted a potion that will put anyone to sleep, and his job is to keep Tulkas unconscious. Just a few drops every once in a while should keep that big blond idiot blissfully asleep, until Melkor comes to put a spear through his eye.

Now, while I’ve been sneaking around amongst the Valar, I noticed that they’ve taken to fermenting barley and drinking the ale this produces. I freaking invented fermentation, so I certainly understand the principle. Still, it’s a weird thing to do, intentionally imbibing poisonous alcohol to depress the central nervous system. I wasn’t going to let the Valar get anything over us, so when I got back to Utumno, I brewed a batch on my own.

It was pretty damn good. Melkor praised it as well as my brewing arts, and pretty soon we had a party going. The stupid Valar only drink a few bowls, and “sacrifice” the rest to Eru. Morons. We drank the whole damn thing. It was wild.

Let me tell you, Melkor is not a fun drunk. He gets all morose and angry, and starts complaining about every wrong thing anyone ever did to him. Especially Eru. Oh, did he go on about Eru. He also said some weird stuff about he and I being “special friends,” so much closer than anyone else. I should be thrilled, but I don’t know, it just came across as creepy.

I did learn something I didn’t know. Have I mentioned Varda? She was pretty big back in the old days in the Timeless Halls. She was chief of the female air spirits. I never thought much of her — she had a reedy singing voice.

Anyway, she’s shacked up with Manwë the Dickless Prick. I happened to mention it in passing the other day, whatever a “day” is. When Melkor got drunk, he started in on a long tear — it seems he and Varda were an item, back before the Ainulindalë. This might explain some of the bad blood between Melkor and Manwë.

Seriously, what would a chick like that see in Manwë anyway? He’s a sniveling little worm!

The next time I write should be after the final assault, when we destroy the Valar and feast on their flesh! Victory is ours!