Clang!
Clang!
High atop the black tower of Orthanc, in the forge room, came the endless rhythm of hammering and the flashing glow of molten light. A figure cloaked in white labored tirelessly within.
Clack.
The forging tool was gently set down.
Saruman picked up the newly forged ring, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
"At last. It is perfect."
It was a ring of pure white, shimmering with the luster of starlight. No flaw could be found upon it. "Perfect" was indeed the right word to describe it.
"Success."
A smile crept across his lips.
Behind him stood an obsidian pedestal encased in glass, clearly the shell of a beacon. But it no longer shone, for what had once given it light had been removed.
Unable to contain himself, he slipped the ring onto his finger. Instantly, his robe swelled as if caught in a wind, though none blew. A vast and potent force began to flow through him, channeled by the ring.
Feeling the power course through his veins, he evaluated it silently.
"Stronger than the Three Rings of the Elves, but still far from the One Ring."
A heaviness settled in his heart.
Having forged a powerful Ring of Power with his own hands, his understanding of the One Ring deepened, and with it, his obsession grew.
"Whew."
He exhaled softly, calming his excitement. Slowly, he returned to his usual stern composure.
A thousand years ago, when Gandalf received the Ring of Fire from Círdan at the Grey Havens, Saruman had been consumed with jealousy, convinced that he was more worthy to wield a Ring of Power.
Now, a thousand years later, he had accomplished it. By his own skill, he had created a ring mightier even than the Three Rings of the Elves.
No longer did he envy Gandalf. In its place was contempt, and a pride that reached higher still.
"Garrett, I truly must thank you. If not for this beacon, I fear..."
He feared that even with all his strength, the ring he could have forged would barely match the power of the Elven rings.
After a moment's reflection, he began testing his new creation.
Beyond the standard might expected of a Ring of Power, this one possessed something new, an unprecedented ability born from the Nether Star material used in the beacon's core. It granted its bearer a kind of enhancement.
It could be immense strength, or life-force enough to pull one back from the brink of death, or perhaps swiftness, agility, and skin as hard as stone.
"The Ring of Stars."
After some thought, he named it thus.
"From this day forth, I am the master of the Ring of Stars. Saruman, the Great Ringforger."
Satisfied with his new title, his eyes happened to fall upon his white robe.
"Too plain," he murmured, shaking his head.
He needed a new color, one that would proclaim his power.
But which color?
After pondering for a while, he slowly raised his hand.
"I shall have all of them."
Shipments of dyes were sent to Isengard, carried into the tower.
Months later, Saruman emerged. The attendants stationed there felt something had changed in him, and yet, somehow, had not.
That white robe dazzled the eyes.
No, not quite white.
At first glance it seemed so, but not entirely.
It was woven of countless colors, so many that they blended into an illusion of white. Yet when he moved, those hues shimmered and shifted, a cascade of color too rich to behold.
He was most pleased with the effect.
Thus, that year, he gave himself another title: Saruman of Many Colors.
Under the sun, his robe gleamed with infinite shades, appearing white as a whole. But in darkness, when the light faded, those colors vanished, and the robe turned dark, ominous, and fearsome.
"Whom do you serve?"
In the underground breeding pit, Saruman seized an orc's head with the hand wearing the Ring of Stars. His eyes shone with a blinding white light.
"I serve... I serve..."
The orc's thoughts twisted and changed under the ring's power.
"I serve the great Saruman!"
Thud!
Saruman released his grip.
On the orc's forehead now blazed a mark, a white, skeletal handprint.
"Good."
This time, he was truly satisfied.
The Ring of Power could now ensure the orcs' absolute loyalty.
If before, there had been a chance that these orcs, sworn to him, might still betray him in the presence of Sauron, that possibility was now gone.
They had become a true army, one that could stand against Mordor itself.
"I should let Gandalf and Garrett see my work. They would be astonished."
Saruman smiled.
To use the enemy's army against the enemy, what a brilliant plan.
When Sauron fell, history would surely remember his name in bold letters. But something was still lacking.
Snapping out of his daydream, he looked at the frail orc before him and fell into thought.
Too weak. Not enough. Far from enough.
For years, even with his magic, the latest orc breed had only grown slightly stronger, still pitifully inadequate.
But now, with the Ring of Stars, his power had grown once more.
He could finally begin the next stage of his research.
"This must remain secret for now. At least until I have bred a stronger kind of orc."
"Only then will I show them my results."
Up to this point, he was still pure in purpose. Everything he did was for the sake of defeating the Great Enemy.
Until the year 3000 of the Third Age, when Saruman suddenly received a piece of intelligence.
It came from a spy in Gondor.
Perhaps the spy had little else to report, so he casually mentioned a few details that everyone else had long ignored.
Among them was this: he had occasionally seen Denethor entering a tall tower in the distance.
When the spy described the appearance of that tower, Saruman shot to his feet and roared, "Fool! Such vital information, and you mention it only now?!"
Denethor actually used that seeing-stone!
"I must warn him."
No.
Saruman froze mid-sentence.
Denethor, the current Steward of Gondor, seemed perfectly normal and in control.
Could it be that he had resisted Sauron's will?
Impossible.
Saruman's eyes widened in disbelief.
"If he can do it, then why cannot I?"
Lifting his head with pride, he strode toward the chamber where the palantír, the Seeing Stone of Orthanc, was kept.
Thud!
The instant his hand touched the stone, two vast wills surged into his mind, nearly driving him to his knees.
One was unyielding, hard as iron, striking him squarely like a hammer blow.
The other was dark and boundless, stretching without end, its corruption seeping into his thoughts with just a brush of contact.
Boom.
A colossal Eye of flame appeared within the tower, its heat drying Saruman's lips.
From within the darkness, a black figure spoke slowly:
"We are of one purpose, Saruman the White."
---
"Saruman, you do not look well. Has something been troubling you lately?"
A week later, inside Orthanc, Gandalf came to visit. He frowned as he studied Saruman's face, full of concern.
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Saruman seemed... tired.
"No need for your concern. I am quite well," Saruman replied stiffly, forcing himself to sound steady.
"Very well, I shall not press," Gandalf sighed. "I came only to discuss matters of the North. You must have heard. The evil creatures of Angmar and Gundabad have been eliminated by the armies of the Free Cities. It will greatly alter the balance of Middle-earth."
"Perhaps," Saruman said dismissively. "I must admit, Garrett's followers are formidable indeed. That confederation of city-states has grown strong enough to stand without his constant guidance."
"'Guidance,' yes, though I doubt Garrett would put it quite that way," Gandalf chuckled lightly. "From what I have seen, the Free Cities have matured into a stable system, even showing traces of Númenórean influence. Their only weakness is the brief lifespans of Men. The passing of so many old friends has weighed heavily upon Garrett..."
Hearing this, Saruman shook his head.
"Incomprehensible. Mortals die so quickly. Why dwell upon it?"
"You still do not understand, old friend," Gandalf said gently, trying once more to correct Saruman's view.
But he was doomed to fail. Saruman was not listening. Throughout their conversation, Gandalf could sense it. Saruman's mind was elsewhere, wandering in shadows.
"Ah..."
Gandalf sighed. Seeing Saruman's distracted state, he said nothing more and rose to take his leave.
Saruman followed him down the corridor, saying little.
They walked together to the great doors of the tower.
Outside, Gandalf stood in the sunlight and bowed slightly in farewell.
Saruman, standing in the doorway, was caught half in the light, half in the tower's shadow.
As Gandalf's figure grew smaller in the distance, Saruman suddenly jolted, as if waking from a trance. He raised a trembling hand toward that departing figure, as though trying to grasp something just beyond reach.
"Wait, I..."
But the darkness buried in his heart surged again once his guest was gone, clawing its way up from the depths.
"Help..."
A faint sound escaped his throat, the White Wizard's final attempt to resist. Yet as he watched that distant figure fade into the light, the words he wanted to say refused to leave his lips.
His pride, that towering pride, would not allow him to ask for help from one he deemed beneath him, a mere Grey Wizard.
The figure disappeared beyond sight.
Saruman lowered his hand, clenched his fist, and the last flicker of light in his heart slowly went out.
When Gandalf's shadow vanished entirely, he knew. He had missed his final chance to change his fate.
He turned away, stepping back into the tower, into the darkness.
"Help with what?"
Just then, an annoyingly familiar voice echoed from ahead.
Saruman's head snapped up, and there, sitting on the staircase leading to the upper levels, was a man, watching him with an infuriating half-smile, as though enjoying the show.
"Do you not know how to knock?"