Gandalf had never considered himself brave—if anything, the thought of danger sent a cold shiver down his spine. This was a fact he had repeatedly expressed to Manwë, the mighty Lord of the Valar, in no uncertain terms.
But Manwë, with his usual quiet wisdom, had always answered the same: "And that is exactly why you must go, and help the people of Middle-earth face Sauron."
And so, Gandalf was sent. But in truth, the meaning behind Manwë's words escaped him. How could someone like him—a coward, paralyzed by fear at the mere mention of Sauron's name—be of any help to anyone, let alone the peoples of Middle-earth?
It was a mystery that gnawed at him, for the Lord of the Valar's request made little sense. In his heart, Gandalf had hoped that perhaps Manwë had misinterpreted something—some small, insignificant comment of his—but no, the great Valar had insisted. And so Gandalf found himself, along with Saruman, Radagast, and the Blue Wizards, tasked with a mission that filled him with dread.
When Gandalf first arrived in Middle-earth, it didn't take long before he—and Radagast, whom he had reluctantly agreed to travel with—realized that the East was far too dangerous. Sauron's reach, though still unseen, loomed over the land, and the very thought of venturing to confront him was enough to make Gandalf's skin crawl. And so, despite their mission, they decided to stay in the safety of the West, where they could continue to live comfortably.
Years turned into decades, and centuries passed, while Gandalf and Radagast lived much as they pleased. They explored the countryside, visiting strange lands and hidden corners of the world, enjoying the wonders of nature and indulging in the simple pleasures of life. Whether gambling in distant taverns or finding work as errant storytellers, the two wizards made little more than a game of their purpose in Middle-earth. The years rolled by without any real concern for the looming threat they had been sent to defeat. Instead, their days were spent in pursuits of fleeting joys and passing fancies.
Radagast, in his peculiar way, had found his true calling in the creatures of the land. Bunnies, particularly, had become his obsession. He spent his time in Mirkwood's forests, surrounded by an ever-growing collection of soft, fluffy creatures, and away from any responsibility that would require him to confront the looming darkness.
As for Gandalf, he grew quite skilled at blending in with the everyday folk of Middle-earth—working as a barmaid, telling tales, and—most notably—gambling. Though he had a flair for it, he found himself perpetually in debt. His silver tongue could win a game or two, but more often than not, it led him to trouble with tavern owners and local creditors. All the while, he knew in his heart that he wasn't living up to the mission he had been given. He was avoiding it at all costs, fooling himself into believing that as long as he wasn't directly in the East, the danger was still far away.
Gandalf had no intention of ever confronting Sauron or leading any charge against the growing shadow. For him, the East could remain a distant worry. After all, he was no warrior, no hero. He had been thrust into a role he had neither wanted nor understood, and so he chose, quite deliberately, to live his life in the safest corner of the world.
And as the years rolled on, with the whispers of darkness growing ever louder, Gandalf found comfort only in his gambling, his tales, and his quiet detachment from the true dangers of Middle-earth. The great war that Manwë had hoped to prevent seemed, for Gandalf, an issue that would always be someone else's to handle.
But luckily in the year 1635 his luck changed for the better with the coming of the great plague.
Most of Middle-earth was consumed within its sickness. It turned the land into a nightmarish spectacle. It was not merely a sickness that withered the body, but a plague that ravaged the soul and mind. The afflicted, regardless of age, status, or strength, were driven to dance with an uncontrollable fury until death claimed them. The illness twisted their limbs and forced them into erratic, uncoordinated movements, leaving them nothing but a grotesque parody of celebration. It became known as the Great Dancing Sickness, and it spread like wildfire across the land, touching every corner of Middle-earth.
At first, it seemed almost innocuous—a few odd, disjointed steps here, a strange jig there. But as the sickness took hold, it grew worse. It consumed villages, cities, and the very heart of society. It was as though the entire world had suddenly lost control of its very rhythm.
In the cities, noble lords and proud warriors found themselves no different from the lowliest of peasants. Guards who had once stood watch with rigid discipline were now thrashing around, spinning and leaping in wild abandon, their swords clattering to the ground as they flailed helplessly in the grip of the plague. Even the mightiest lords, with their finely crafted armor and flowing mantles, were reduced to caricatures of themselves, their regal poise replaced with uncoordinated jerking, as though a cruel jester had taken possession of their bodies. The High Lords of Gondor, once pillars of strength and order, were seen in the streets, spinning in circles like children at play, their dignified airs now replaced by faces twisted in agony as they struggled to maintain control. They were now nothing but marionettes, their every movement dictated by the plague's sinister power.
The women, too, were not spared. Lords' wives and daughters—always so graceful—found themselves stumbling in uncoordinated pirouettes, their silks and gowns tangled around their legs. In the marketplaces, the women were seen shaking uncontrollably, their hands flailing in the air as though trying to grasp something they could not see. Faces that once wore the beauty of their age now bore the horror of losing themselves to the sickness. Some collapsed, their arms splayed as they fell, but the sickness refused to release them, forcing their limbs into spasms that would continue even in death. In the taverns, drunken revelers who had lived their lives in carefree abandon found themselves dancing even more frantically than the sober. The dance was both a torment and a release, as they shuffled, hopped, and spun until they dropped from exhaustion or died from the exertion. Their eyes would roll back, and their last breath would escape between ragged gasps, even as their feet continued to twitch.
In the villages, the situation was even worse. Fathers, mothers, and children danced side by side, their once familiar faces contorted into expressions of pain and desperation. Entire families danced in unison, but not in harmony. Children stumbled, too small to bear the weight of the disease, but still their bodies jerked with a rhythm they couldn't control. Their cries mixed with the sounds of older relatives, who, despite their age, twisted and writhed through the madness. Even infants, still in their swaddling clothes, could not escape. The newborns, helpless in their mothers' arms, were caught in the contagion and forced into the grotesque ballet of death. Their tiny feet flailed and kicked until they fell silent, their little bodies contorting as their mothers clung to them, unable to do anything but dance along.
Some would dance in tight, erratic circles, eyes wide and unblinking, while others would leap as high as they could, landing in terrible, awkward positions, only to rise again and continue in their hopeless movements. There were those who flopped to the ground in exhaustion, only for their limbs to jerk and twitch violently, dragging them back into their maddened steps. The cries of those who had already fallen to the ground only added to the cacophony. There were families who simply sat by, helpless and horrified, watching their loved ones die before their eyes, unable to offer anything but desperate prayers.
In the noble courts, the dance was more formal but no less tragic. Lords who had once been accustomed to commanding respect were now reduced to puppets of the plague, weaving in complicated patterns in an attempt to retain some semblance of dignity. But dignity was nowhere to be found in their movements. The steps were stiff and uncoordinated, a mockery of the elegant dances they once led at feasts and celebrations. Some lords tried to stop, collapsing to their knees in tears, but the sickness did not relent. The more they struggled, the more frantic their movements became. In the grand halls, the clinking of armor was drowned out by the sounds of clattering feet and ragged breaths. The dancers collided into one another, gasping in horror and pain, as their once-powerful bodies jerked uncontrollably, each step dragging them closer to the inevitable.
The carnage went on for days, weeks even. Entire streets were littered with the bodies of those who had danced themselves to death. The earth was stained with the marks of their frantic, tortured final movements, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Some collapsed in exhaustion, unable to go on, while others danced until their final breath left them. Families that had once been close-knit were shattered, with the dead piling up in the streets as their loved ones watched helplessly from windows or doorways. Many attempted to flee, but where could they go? The plague was everywhere, and the suffering was universal. Even those who managed to survive watched as their homes became hollowed-out shells, their memories twisted by the sickness that had claimed their people.
There was no peace in death, for even in their final moments, the infected continued to dance. Their legs would twitch in spasms, their bodies would jerk uncontrollably, and the haunting rhythm of the dance would echo in the streets long after the last body had fallen. What remained in the wake of the Great Dancing Sickness was not a kingdom of thriving peoples, but a silent, barren wasteland. The farms were abandoned, the villages were empty, and the cities had become nothing more than ruins, haunted by the memories of those who had danced to their deaths.
In the aftermath, the survivors found themselves burdened with grief, and perhaps something far worse: shame. The shame of having watched their families and friends, their neighbors and leaders, reduced to mindless dancers, helpless and broken under the grip of the plague. There would be no honor in their passing, no legacy to leave behind. Only the memories of those who had danced to their deaths, and the eerie silence that followed in the plague's wake.
Amid the chaos of the Great Dancing Sickness, as entire populations were swept away by the madness, Gandalf, ever the opportunist, found an unlikely haven. In the midst of a land in turmoil, the simple, trusting Hobbits of the Shire stood as an island of relative calm—so simple, so naïve, that they were blind to the dangers that lurked in the world beyond their borders. And in that simplicity, Gandalf saw not just refuge, but a chance to secure power for himself.
These little folk, with their short stature, their unassuming ways, their generous but naïve hearts, were the perfect subjects for a man such as him. They were simple-minded, easy to manipulate, and their trust in others, however misplaced, gave Gandalf a golden opportunity to establish dominion without the fear of revolt. He had long been a coward, terrified of true power, but here, in this quaint, unassuming land, he found a place where his fear could be hidden behind the veil of divine rule.
In the midst of the plague's horrors, when the world seemed to be tearing itself apart, Gandalf made his move. He appeared to the Hobbits as a figure of power, guiding them with promises of protection and salvation. In their fevered, sickened state, they saw him as a figure of hope. And so, guided by Gandalf, the sick Hobbits, wracked with the symptoms of the Great Dancing Sickness, were rounded up and herded into a pit. They danced and stumbled in confusion, their weak limbs unable to control the frantic movements that the plague demanded of them. In their delirium, they were struck with sticks and nuts, their bodies helpless against the assault. Finally, the sickly, gasping bodies of the Hobbits were consumed by the fire that raged in the pit—a cleansing, if you could call it that—of the plague that had ravaged their minds and bodies.
With the leadership of the Shire now destroyed in the wake of this grotesque purge, the political structure of the land lay in ruin. There was no one to protest, no one to resist, no one to question the authority that Gandalf now claimed for himself. With a simple vote of no confidence—a move that no one had the strength or clarity to oppose—Gandalf declared himself the ruler of the land. In a moment of divine irony, he appointed himself "God King" of the Hobbits, a ruler so absolute that not even the most sacred traditions of the Shire could stand in his way.
As "God King," Gandalf found the perfect hiding place for his cowardly soul. The Hobbits, small and meek, were no threat to him. They did not challenge his authority or question his every move. In their eyes, he was a divine figure, one who had descended from the heavens to rule over them. He was a god in their eyes, and the idea of a higher being, with his lofty gaze and godlike stature, provided Gandalf with a sense of safety he had never known.
In his newfound position of power, Gandalf found himself free to indulge in his darker, more petty impulses. He would shove the Hobbits to the ground "accidentally," trip them as they walked, or use their shirts as handkerchiefs whenever he needed to sneeze. These small acts of cruelty, though trivial, gave him a sense of control, of dominance. But what was truly maddening to him was the fact that the Hobbits seemed to enjoy being subjugated. They saw each insult as a blessing, each humiliation as a holy act.
"Thank you, God King Gandalf," they would say, their voices filled with worship. "Please, take my monthly salary whenever you wish, or throw soup in my face. It is a great honor, as always, to be noticed by your eyes that are higher than ours. And please, take my sister, if you wish—she doesn't mind."
Their adoration was endless, and yet it grew tiresome. The Hobbits would bend over backwards to please him, offering him their wealth, their homes, and even their families, all with the blind, unwavering devotion of a people who believed that anything Gandalf did was for their good. They would even let him trample on their homes, take showers in their bathrooms, or ignore basic manners without so much as a protest. To them, it was a blessing—proof of his power and favor.
But Gandalf, despite his newfound title and power, grew weary of the fawning. He found little satisfaction in the constant praise and deference. He became repulsed by the sycophantic adoration of the Hobbits, who would treat even his smallest whims as divine commands. The more they offered, the more they worshiped, the more he grew disgusted. For all the power he had gained, Gandalf found himself longing for something more—something other than the incessant, cloying reverence of the very people he now ruled over.
In time, his godlike stature became a burden, not a blessing. His cowardly nature, once shielded by the protection of the Shire's small size and simplicity, began to eat at him. The power he had seized so effortlessly began to feel like a cage, and the Hobbits' never-ending gratitude became a constant reminder of his own emptiness. There was no one to challenge him, no true rival to his authority, and no real meaning in his reign. Yet, despite all this, Gandalf remained in the Shire, his power secure and unchallenged, a god among the little folk who adored him—unaware that his victory was hollow, that the real battle against the forces of darkness had long since been lost.
Years passed since Gandalf's claim over the Shire, and with the passing of time came change. Prosperity, mingled with darker aspects of society, blossomed within the kingdom of the Hobbits. What had once been a simple land of peace and farming, filled with carefree and generous people, now bore the unmistakable mark of industrialization and the darker influence of its new ruler.
Gandalf, the God King, watched as his kingdom expanded and grew. At first, the Hobbits had struggled with the idea of a kingdom, but soon enough, they accepted it. As the years went by, the influence of the surrounding world began to fade, leaving the Shire to thrive and change. The once quaint and pastoral Shire was now a land of booming industry, a system of wealth, power, and inequality as great as any kingdom in Middle-earth.
In the south, a darker chapter of this new era began to unfold. The Stoor Hobbits, the darker-skinned, more hairy, and less intelligent of their kin, were forced into servitude by the powerful Hornblower family. Lord Toby, a cruel and calculating figure, wielded his iron grip over the southern lands, where his family's cotton fields flourished. The Stoor Hobbits were worked relentlessly in the fields, their backs bent under the weight of endless labor. They were treated as little more than beasts of burden, their lives spent in servitude to the Hornblowers' textile empire.
With the profits gained from the sweat of the Stoor Hobbits, the Hornblower family became the third wealthiest family in the Shire, their business booming as they supplied clothes, blankets, and textiles across the land. They became famed not only in the Shire but in places as distant as Gondor. Their name was associated with luxury, but also with the blood of the Stoor Hobbits who toiled endlessly for their gain. The Hornblowers lived in opulence, their family name becoming synonymous with both wealth and cruelty.
To the west, the Brandybuck family carved out a more moderate existence. Led by Lord Doradoc Brandybuck, they were known for their fine beers and wine, particularly their wine-covered bread, a treat loved by many within the Shire. Though they were not as wealthy as the Hornblowers, their estate was well-kept, and their way of life was far easier than that of most. The Brandybucks were well-regarded for their hospitality and their serene lifestyle, untouched by the suffering endured by the Stoor Hobbits to the south.
The Bolgers, in the east, were the poorest of the Shire's noble families. Despite their poverty, they had earned respect for their famous pipe weed, which they produced in great quantities. Though their fortune was modest compared to the wealth of the Brandybucks or the Hornblowers, the Bolgers found a sense of pride in their simple ways. Their focus on hunting, herding, and farming made them respected, but their refusal to embrace the industrialization sweeping through the Shire left them at odds with the times. Gandalf, though indifferent to their rustic ways, was still fond of their pipe weed and allowed them to continue, humoring their unrefined traditions.
But it was the Tooks at the center of the Shire who truly set the stage for the kingdom's future. The Tooks were the wealthiest and most powerful family in the Shire, owing much of their fortune to their banking empire. The Tooks provided loans to the kingdoms of men, especially Gondor, while also fueling the ambitions of wild men who coveted the riches of Middle-earth. They thrived off of war and chaos, using their gold to fund conflicts between men and to spread discord across the lands. Their actions caused great instability, but to Gandalf, it was a necessary evil, a means to grow his power and wealth.
Though the Tooks controlled much of the financial landscape of the Shire, their wealth and influence were overshadowed by the grand castle of Gandalf, the God King, who towered above them all. His castle, built in the heart of the Shire, was an imposing symbol of his rule. No one, not even the richest families, dared to build a structure taller than the God King's. This was law in the Shire, for Gandalf's divine presence could never be outshone.
Though the Tooks remained the wealthiest family, they could never match the Bagginses of the north, who were favored by Gandalf for their power and industry. The Baggins family had captured the ruins of Annúminas, the ancient city of the Dunedain, and with it, the forests, rivers, and lake that surrounded it. They had transformed the land into an industrial powerhouse, their furnaces burning day and night to fuel the growth of the kingdom. Their metalwork was unmatched, their grain mills the fastest in the land, and their military, under the banner of Gandalf's divine rule, was a force to be reckoned with. The Bagginses' craftsmanship had earned them the favor of the God King, for they had created the First Royal Guard Legion of the Shire. The Hobbits, once simple farmers, now stood in gleaming armor, their shields and helmets adorned with symbols of their ranks. The shield walls they created were nearly impenetrable, and their spears and short swords were deadly in the hands of the most disciplined warriors.
For all their differences, all these families, from the Hornblowers to the Tooks to the Brandybucks, shared a common denominator: Gandalf. His rule was absolute, his influence felt in every corner of the Shire. And though the Shire had changed in ways that would have been unrecognizable to the Hobbits of old, one thing remained the same—Gandalf, the cowardly God King, ruled with absolute power, his reign built on the suffering of the weak and the ambitions of the strong.
And so, the Shire continued to expand, its population growing with each passing year. Its people, once humble and carefree, now lived in a society shaped by power, greed, and inequality. The mighty Hobbits of the Shire, under the rule of their God King, grew ever more prosperous, but at what cost? The land that had once known only peace and simplicity now felt the weight of ambition, and the world of the Hobbits would never be the same again.
As the Shire flourished under Gandalf's rule, the economy boomed. Caravans, laden with goods from the ever-expanding industries of the Hobbits, set forth to trade with neighboring lands. The cotton fields of the south provided clothes that both warmed and adorned the bodies of those who wore them. Pipeweed, harvested and packed with care, flowed into the markets, providing solace to those who needed to ease their nerves. Wine, in all its forms, found eager consumers, from those who drank it to forget their troubles to those who sought its potent effects to drive them mad with revelry. Salted pork, a comfort for the stomach, and bread coated in wine, a dual-purpose delight, became staples. Cigarettes—addictive and harsh—left their mark, causing fits of coughing yet never enough to turn the buyers away. And then there were the potions—strange concoctions that promised to enhance the strength of men and the desires of women, peddled to the eager and desperate alike.
In return, the Shire's lack of mineral resources was rectified as precious metals and stones were hauled back, their value exchanged for the goods of the land. These minerals were forged into weapons—blades, shields, and armor—to further the might of Gandalf's army. Tools, too, were made to improve the lives of the Hobbits, though always with the aim of furthering their work under Gandalf's rule. Meanwhile, stone was carried from the mountains to feed the ever-growing needs of the Shire's capital—Gandalf's own ever-expanding castle, a symbol of his godlike reign. And nestled within the walls of this stronghold were the Hobbit women, subjects of his gaze but never his touch. He looked at them as one might admire a piece of fine artwork—beautiful and distant, but never meant to be truly engaged with.
The Shire never truly rested; the hum of industry was constant, a rhythm that never ceased. The once joyous, barter-based culture of the Hobbits had transformed into a money-driven society, where labor and profit were the only concerns. And every year, on the first day of the year, all Hobbits awoke to turn toward the heart of the Shire—toward Gandalf's castle—and fall on one knee in silent worship. For an hour, they would bow their heads and pray to their God King. It was a ritual, an obligation. The gray enforcers, clad in tattered gray sacks with only their eyes and mouths exposed, stood watch, ensuring that every Hobbit performed their duties. To fail to pray—to fail to show reverence—was met with harsh punishment. The whips of the gray enforcers lashed out without mercy, each stroke a reminder of the God King's authority.
Yet, despite this enforced peace, there were moments of resistance. From time to time, protests would arise—Hobbits, tired of the endless labor, would gather before Gandalf's castle, demanding better wages and fewer working hours. Their calls for justice were met with swift and brutal repression. Gandalf, as always, sent forth his enforcers to quell any signs of rebellion. The sight of the gray-clad figures marching forth was enough to send a shiver down any Hobbit's spine. Armed with whips and wooden clubs, the enforcers moved with chilling precision, their eyes cold behind their sacks.
The protesters, a mix of men and women, stood firm, their voices ringing out in defiance. They demanded change, but the God King would not be moved. As the enforcers surged forward, the protestors were overwhelmed by the violent response. The cries of pain echoed through the streets. The whips cracked, leaving red welts across flesh, some lashes so fierce that eyes were struck blind and ears rang with a deafening pain. Those who fell, unable to flee, were clubbed mercilessly, their bodies beaten and broken. The lucky few who managed to escape fled in terror, but the majority were dragged back, shackled in chains, and branded with the mark of their subjugation. Men were taken to toil in the fields and mines, while women were forced into the breeding holes, where their bodies would be used to create more warriors for the God King's army.
The revolt of the year 2460 was one of the more insignificant uprisings—low-effort, as protests went. Gandalf didn't even take the time to personally oversee the punishment of the dissidents. The usual protocol was followed, and soon enough, the protests were extinguished. The peace of the Shire was maintained, though it was a peace forged in blood and fear. Gandalf's reign was secure, for now.
The years passed quietly, until in 2463, a summons came from Saruman. Gandalf, the God King of the Shire, was called to Rivendell, a journey that would take him far from his fortress of control and into a world filled with danger, intrigue, and perhaps—though he'd never admit it—a hint of fear. His peaceful reign in the Shire was about to be interrupted, but Gandalf's cowardly nature would find ways to cope, even if it meant facing old ghosts from his past.
With a great deal of reluctant whining from his Hobbit servants, Gandalf finally gathered his grand procession—a motley band of Hobbit Pony Knights, eager yet entirely out of their element. The host, though small in number, was nonetheless a curious sight, an odd parade of hobbits atop their ponies, most with wide grins plastered on their faces, ready to venture beyond the borders of their peaceful land. Their laughter and cheerful songs rang out across the hills of the Shire, echoing in the ears of the rabbits grazing on the grassy plains. At the sound of their joyful noise, the creatures scattered, taking to their burrows and nests, while flocks of birds were driven to flight, startled by the enthusiastic hobbits' antics. The sight of so many hobbits, singing and drinking merrily as they journeyed, was a sight unlike any other. Their revelry was infectious, and many began to drink more liberally, letting their cheers grow louder and more boisterous as they ventured into the unknown.
But even in the midst of their lightheartedness, the journey ahead was fraught with danger, and the toll of such a reckless expedition began to show. Many of Gandalf's proud Hobbit knights, so eager for adventure, would not live to see the hidden valley of Rivendell. Some fell from cliffs that loomed high above the road to Rivendell, their joyful hearts failing them when their ponies slipped or stumbled. Others, too distracted by the comforts of the Prancing Pony Inn, found themselves lost in its hazy revelry, never to regain their bearings. And then there were those who wandered too far from the path, tempted by the wilds, only to be snatched up by hungry foxes or prowling bears lurking in the dense woods that lined their way.
Through it all, Gandalf moved with a measured caution, ever watchful of the reckless hobbits under his command. He was no fool, and despite his nature to seek comfort and safety, he understood the dangers of the journey. His keen eyes swept the paths ahead, wary of the many perils that awaited them. Yet even with his cautious leadership, the hazards of the wilderness could not be fully avoided. His Hobbit knights, so unaccustomed to the trials of the road, were often caught by surprise, their merry singing turning to frantic calls for help as they tumbled down rocky slopes or found themselves at the mercy of the wilderness.
And so the journey continued, the group making slow progress as they wound their way eastward, through the familiar lands that once seemed so vast but now felt ever smaller as they left the Shire behind. As they passed the woods, the air grew cooler, the trees taller, and the paths narrower. The land around them became more wild, more untamed, and the hobbits' songs faltered as they became more aware of the changing world around them. Gandalf, with his usual mix of patience and exasperation, pushed them forward. Despite the losses and the mishaps, a few of the hardy, yet surprisingly resilient, Hobbit knights continued on the path.
By the time the party reached the foothills near Rivendell, Gandalf's small contingent had dwindled significantly. Only a few brave souls remained—those who had survived the dangers of the journey, who had somehow managed to cling to their resolve despite the challenges. These hardy hobbits—so unlike the merry folk they had once been—made their way through the cool, misty air of the valley, towards the hidden haven of Rivendell.
They had traveled through dark and tangled forests, over winding streams, and across rugged hills, until at last the peaceful light of Rivendell's hidden valley came into view. Despite the chaos and the losses of the journey, those few who made it were filled with a sense of awe as they gazed upon the beauty of the Elven realm, a place untouched by the troubles of the world. The journey had been long, dangerous, and filled with peril, but it had led them to a place of quiet refuge, where Gandalf would meet his old ally Saruman, and the hobbits would find themselves standing on the threshold of a new chapter in their strange and unwitting roles in Middle-earth's fate.
But for now, all they could do was rest. And after so much hardship, they needed it.
As the drunken hobbit host stumbled into Rivendell, their clumsy movements and raucous laughter echoed through the pristine halls, a stark contrast to the serene atmosphere of the Elven refuge. Gandalf, though somewhat embarrassed by the display of his Hobbit knights, was not one to let such trivialities trouble him. He was here for more important matters—matters that involved his old companions, the wise of Middle-earth. The White Council awaited him, and as always, it was a curious gathering, full of conflicting personalities and hidden agendas.
Upon entering the council chamber, Gandalf found himself greeted by his usual magical companions. Elrond, lord of Rivendell, stood at the head, his ageless face as calm and composed as ever. He did not greet Gandalf with the usual warmth, for Elrond had learned long ago that the wizard's chaotic nature was a thing best kept at a distance. The others, too, looked on with varying degrees of indifference.
Galadriel, the Lady of Lothlórien, stood with a regal air, her golden hair cascading down her back like a river of sunlight. Her piercing gaze seemed to burn through all those around her, but when she turned her eyes on Gandalf, there was a certain softness in her expression, as if she saw through his feigned confidence to the trembling coward beneath. Her ethereal beauty was almost too much to bear, and Gandalf, despite his long years, still felt a flutter in his heart at the sight of her.
But Galadriel was not one for pleasantries, and it was clear that her mind was already elsewhere. When Saruman entered the room, his usually composed figure was uncharacteristically frazzled, his robes disheveled and his eyes wide with fear. He did not take his usual seat at the council's table but instead began to pace anxiously, his voice rising in agitation.
"Listen, please, you must listen to me," Saruman cried, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and desperation. "I know this might sound like a lot, but please understand that this is serious. Soon, blood will fall like rain upon us. It will be like a storm of death! Cities will burn, men, women, and children will die, the land will be drained of life until only darkness remains! No matter how much we struggle or endure here, we are all doomed! Doomed to die! We have to run! We must sail to Valinor! Surely the Valar would not turn us away, they must take us back!"
He began to mutter to himself, his eyes wild, as his hands shook. "I don't want to be eaten... not by them... Noooooo!" Saruman's words grew incoherent, and even Radagast, who was often the most eccentric of the wizards, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting nervously between Saruman and his rabbit.
Gandalf, who had been standing quietly off to the side, couldn't help but feel a deep unease gnawing at him. Saruman's words were laced with madness, and though there was no doubt the threat was real, there was something deeply unsettling about Saruman's sudden outburst. He was afraid—truly afraid—and it stirred a sense of dread in Gandalf as well.
The Valar, the immortal beings from the Undying Lands, were not to be trifled with. Gandalf knew well that they would not look kindly upon their failure in Middle-earth. Running to Valinor would be akin to self-imposed exile, and there was no guarantee that they would be received with open arms. The wizards' mission was clear: to guide and protect the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, not to abandon them in their time of need.
Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but before he could offer a word of comfort or reason, Galadriel's voice whispered in his mind, sharp and commanding.
"Don't just sit there, you coward. His your brother, is he not? Calm him down, and make him speak sense. I cannot stand to listen to his whining any longer. Do it, or I will not keep buying your weed for my people in the future, and you will not get our Elven wood for your little Hobbit bows."
Her thoughts were a cold, cutting presence in Gandalf's mind, and he could almost feel the weight of her anger through the telepathic bond they shared. Her voice was clear, and there was no room for negotiation. The Shire's defense depended on the bows, and without Galadriel's continued support, Gandalf's carefully built kingdom would crumble.
The weight of her words was enough to make Gandalf break into a cold sweat. The Orcs of Angmar were already raiding the outer colonies of the Shire, and without the advantage of the Elven-made bows, the hobbits stood little chance against the growing tide of darkness. He couldn't afford to anger Galadriel, not when so much depended on her favor.
With a heavy sigh, Gandalf turned his attention back to Saruman, whose ranting had only grown more frantic.
"Saruman!" Gandalf's voice cut through the madness, firm and commanding. "Calm yourself. We are not dead yet. There are threats, yes, but we will face them as we always have. Your words are those of a coward, not a leader. We will not abandon Middle-earth, not while there is still hope to fight. You speak of darkness, but you forget that the light still shines, even in the darkest of times."
Saruman's wild eyes fixed on Gandalf, and for a moment, there was silence. The other council members watched, waiting for a response.
"You speak of the Valar," Gandalf continued, his voice growing more steady. "But we are the ones who must take action. It is not running to Valinor that will save us, but standing firm against the forces of darkness. We will face them together, as we always have."
Saruman opened his mouth to argue, but Gandalf raised his hand, silencing him. "You have failed us before, Saruman, but you will not fail again. We will find a way. Together."
The room was still, the tension palpable. Gandalf's gaze met Galadriel's, and though her expression remained unchanged, there was a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps approval, perhaps just an acknowledgment of his words.
"Very well," Saruman muttered, his voice trembling, but his eyes no longer wild. He looked defeated, but not entirely hopeless. "But remember, Gandalf, when it all falls apart, you were the one who stayed."
Gandalf did not respond, for he knew the truth in Saruman's words. The weight of Middle-earth's fate lay heavy on their shoulders. And now, with the future of the Shire and all of Middle-earth in the balance, Gandalf was ready to act.
With a slow, steady breath, Gandalf attempted to steady himself, sensing the weight of the moment hanging in the air. The council, so full of knowledge and power, was on the brink of falling into chaos because of Saruman's anxiety and frantic words. But Gandalf, ever the master of disguise, knew how to handle such situations, at least in the moment. He simply needed to calm his brother—bring him back from the brink of madness.
"Calm down, Saruman," Gandalf said with surprising patience, his tone far more measured than his thoughts. "Your life has been spared. Whatever happened in the Far East is over now. You're safe here, behind the Goblin-infested Misty Mountains, where even the darkest forces cannot easily tread. So have a smoke, take a drink, and chill out for a moment. Talk to us once your mind is at ease again."
He reached into the black leather handbag that hung at his side—a bag worn with use, yet still intact after all his journeys—and pulled out a pack of thick, hand-rolled cigarettes. The smell of the tobacco was rich and pungent as he passed them around to the gathered council members. He offered them one by one to Elrond, Galadriel, Radagast, and Saruman, who all took one without question. Even the normally composed Elrond didn't refuse. Galadriel's expression remained unchanged, but she accepted the cigarette, her usual air of grace momentarily giving way to an understanding that Gandalf, in his own odd way, was taking control.
Gandalf took his own cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his finger, and exhaled a long, calming puff of smoke into the air. He glanced briefly at Radagast, who was already more interested in his pet rabbit than the conversation, but Gandalf's eyes hardened. "Hobbit, go get the wine, the weed, and something to eat," he said to his footstool Hobbit, who scurried off with surprising speed, perhaps grateful for the distraction.
"Music too, Hobbit," Gandalf called after him. "Let's set the mood right. We'll talk later."
The Hobbit returned shortly after with his arms full, as well as a few musicians in tow. The food was brought in—hearty dishes of meat pies, freshly baked bread, and wine in great quantities. Radagast's rabbit had a carrot or two, and the musicians began to play, their melodies echoing gently throughout the room.
Soon, the five of them—Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, Radagast, and Saruman—were gathered around a table, smoking, drinking, eating, and laughing. It was an odd scene, but for the moment, a kind of peace seemed to settle over the group. Saruman, who had been twitching with barely-contained madness just a moment ago, now looked slightly more composed, the tension in his face easing with each drink.
As the sun began to sink below the horizon, casting the chamber in a dim golden light, Saruman took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice slower now, more controlled.
"I have seen much," he began, his voice still a little shaky, though it was now laced with something deeper—something more thoughtful. "The Far East… it is not what it once was. Not by far."
He paused, as if gathering the right words, the smoke from his cigarette curling in the air before him.
"All these years I have watched the darkness grow," he continued, his eyes darkening with the weight of his memories. "But I did not know what true darkness was until I saw it firsthand. The lands beyond Rhûn... the land where the sun sets, where the shadows gather... it is more than just Orcs, Goblins, or trolls. No, the threat that comes from the east is something far older, and far worse, than any of us could have predicted."
Saruman's eyes flickered to Gandalf, a look of regret—or perhaps realization—passing between them.
"They have armies," Saruman went on, his voice lower now, as if the very words were a secret he had long kept to himself. "Not just Orcs, not just beasts, but something more… intelligent. They are gathering power like never before, and they have a leader. A shadow that none of us have yet truly encountered."
He took another drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in long tendrils, his hands trembling slightly. "I saw it, Gandalf. This leader—this being—he calls himself the Harbinger of the Black Sun. He is not like us, not like any other being. He is ancient. And he is coming. The armies of darkness are only the beginning."
The room fell silent, the musicians' soft music barely a hum in the background as Gandalf and the others listened intently. Elrond's brow furrowed, and even Galadriel, who had been staring at the flame of her cigarette with an unreadable expression, looked up sharply. Radagast's rabbit twitched nervously in his arms.
"The Harbinger," Saruman repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could feel his presence, even from across the seas. And I know, deep down, that he is coming to Middle-earth. His power grows, and when it reaches its peak, none of us will be safe. Not even Rivendell or Lothlórien. Not even the Shire, with all its pretensions of peace."
Gandalf leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with concern. "What do you propose we do, Saruman? Huddle here in Rivendell and wait for the storm to come?"
Saruman looked at him, his face showing the first hint of resolve that Gandalf had seen since he arrived. "No," he said slowly, the weight of his words thick in the air. "We fight. But we fight with everything we have, not just with magic, but with every people of Middle-earth—every race, every kingdom. The Free Peoples must unite, or we will fall one by one."
Galadriel's voice broke through the silence, her tone calm but firm. "And what of you, Saruman? You speak of unity, but you abandoned us once before."
For the briefest of moments, Saruman's eyes flickered with something akin to shame, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. He took a deep breath, his grip tightening on his cigarette.
"I will not make the same mistake again," he said, his voice steady now. "We must stand together, or we will be destroyed one by one."
And so, with that final, solemn declaration, the council fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Saruman's words hanging over them. The threat was real—darker and older than any of them had feared—and now they had no choice but to face it, together.
Gandalf, looking at his old friend, knew one thing: the road ahead would not be easy. But whatever lay beyond the horizon, the battle for Middle-earth had just begun.
***
While much of Saruman's words were lost among the inebriated stupor of the White Council, one thing stood clear: the Far East had transformed into a horrific and organized powerhouse under the leadership of the Orcs. Saruman's voice wavered as he recounted the rise of the Orc tribes, now unified under a single, terrifying banner. What had once been a disjointed, brutish force of Orcs was now a terrifyingly efficient war machine.
"They have united," Saruman murmured, his voice laden with disbelief. "It is no longer chaos. No, they have organized—into tribes, each one a cog in a monstrous machine, a system that grinds forward relentlessly."
Saruman's words hung heavy in the air, his fellow council members exchanging uneasy glances, though they remained distracted by their own indulgence. Still, Saruman's dark tale broke through their haze, and they listened intently as he described the tribes that now ruled the East with an iron fist.
"There is the Machine Tribe, the heart of their power. They've mastered industry—tools, armor, everything. The fires of their forges darken the skies. They've learned the art of manufacturing, producing weapons and machines, turning their lands into vast workshops of destruction. And their tools are not just crude instruments—they are efficient, precise, and deadly."
His hands shook slightly as he spoke, his mind racing with the images of the forges that had once seemed impossible for such creatures. But in the East, they had overcome every obstacle.
"The Feral Tribe, they are the ones who tame beasts, who tame everything. They've mastered the land itself, tilling the soil and breeding creatures for war. They're the ones who ride the monstrous beasts that strike fear into the hearts of any who see them. The Marauders—they handle the economy, running trade and loot as if they were seasoned merchants. They've turned pillaging into a methodical, organized effort."
His voice became darker as he described the next tribe.
"The Terror Tribe... they are the enforcers. Their job is to instill fear, to break any resistance, to crush any who oppose them. They are the ones who hold order through brutality, terrorizing the weak and silencing dissent."
"And then," Saruman's voice dropped even lower, "there are the Warmongers—the ones who study war. They train the Orcs to be warriors, to fight, to kill with precision. They understand battle better than anyone else, and they adapt quickly. They've become a living, breathing army."
Saruman's words had begun to quicken, each new revelation striking deeper into the minds of his listeners. But it wasn't the Warmongers or the Terror Tribe that unnerved him the most—it was the dark magic that the Orcs had learned to wield.
"The Dark Tribe, they are assassins, spies, and infiltrators. They scale walls, slip into cities unnoticed, and open gates for their brethren. They operate in the shadows, eliminating those who would defy the Horde from within. They are a threat beyond measure."
A shiver ran down Saruman's spine as he continued, knowing that the most insidious tribes were the ones he could barely believe were true.
"There is the Mystic Tribe," he continued, his voice growing more haunted with each passing word. "They carry out dark rituals, raising dead animals—rats, birds, even Orcs, and men—as spies and soldiers. They practice necromancy, reanimating corpses, bending them to their will. It is said that they can even raise the corpses of old dragons—dragons—to fight in their armies. They are many in number, and they feed off the fear they generate."
A deep silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The other council members looked at Saruman, eyes wide in disbelief. The notion of Orcs wielding such power seemed almost beyond comprehension.
"The Lifegiver Tribe," Saruman continued, his voice thick with disgust, "is perhaps the most revolting of all. They are the Orc women—bred and raised in captivity, like cattle. In caves, like breeding farms, they are kept for one purpose: to breed more Orcs. They are milked, their bellies swollen with the offspring of their own kind. And those who are not yet pregnant—well, they are used to breed more."
The room felt stifling. Saruman's recounting of the horrors in the East grew darker and darker with every word. The Orcs, once thought to be mere savage beasts, had evolved into something far worse: a horrifyingly efficient society, a society that lacked any compassion or morals. They were machines, nothing more. They were relentless.
"They have no pity. No remorse. They use their own people as mere tools," Saruman said bitterly. "Their legions move like a wave of destruction, and they do not stop. Their numbers are overwhelming, and they have learned to sustain themselves from the very lands they conquer."
Gandalf, still sitting at the table, took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, his mind racing. "You said they've united, Saruman. But how? How did they manage to form such a... tribal empire?"
Saruman's eyes darkened, and his gaze grew distant as he thought back to the early days of their foray into the East.
"When we—when the Blue Wizards and I first ventured into the East, we thought we could contain them. They were primitive, scattered, uncoordinated. But by the year 1250 of the Third Age, it was already too late. They had begun to form alliances. They didn't just have one leader, but a system—an order. And we, we, we were blind."
He paused, his eyes flashing with regret. "The Blue Wizards and I fought to build alliances. But the people of the East did not trust us. They called me the Pale Man, a strange figure with strange ways. They didn't want our help, and though I impressed them with my knowledge and skills, it wasn't enough."
Gandalf nodded. He had heard stories of Saruman's time in the East, his failed attempts to win the trust of the people. "But you didn't give up. You kept fighting. And then... the Blue Wizards?"
Saruman looked down, eyes clouded. "The Blue Wizards were captured, enslaved, and forced to fight in gladiator arenas. It was a humiliating defeat. But in time, they managed to start a slave revolt, gaining power, eventually advising the Great Khan Ali. But still, it wasn't enough. The Orcs... they kept coming."
A bitter laugh escaped Saruman's lips as he spoke again, the memory of his failures weighing heavily on him. "We thought we could defeat them. We fought valiantly, but their wargs kept coming. We struck them down, but they returned with reinforcements. Each time we thought we had won, they came back stronger, their numbers swelling. And in the end, there was no hope. I saw it. I knew we were doomed."
He paused, staring into the flames, lost in the memory of it all. The threat was still alive, still growing, and Saruman knew that the East would soon rise to strike down everything in its path.
"The East is lost," Saruman whispered, the weight of his defeat hanging heavy in the air. "And now they are coming for us in the West."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The future of Middle-earth seemed darker than it ever had before. The Orcs were not just a threat—they were an unstoppable force, a nightmare made flesh, and they were now on the move. The council had no choice but to confront this looming terror or be consumed by it.
At last, Gandalf spoke, his voice low but steady: "Then we fight, Saruman. And this time, we fight with everything we have."
The fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance, and only time would tell if they could survive the coming storm.
Saruman's voice grew quieter, his eyes narrowing as he recounted the fateful events of the East. The Council, though intoxicated, was finally beginning to grasp the weight of his words. The Blue Wizards had inadvertently shattered the Great Empire of the East with their revolt, and the consequences had been catastrophic. The Khanate of Ali, once a powerful force, was left reeling, unable to fend off the relentless Orc onslaught.
"The truth," Saruman muttered, "is that the Blue Wizards, in their zeal to liberate, tore apart the very empire that could have fought back the Orcs. The revolt shattered everything—an empire that had stood for centuries fell in a matter of months. The Great Khan Ali had no resources left. His armies had been weakened, his treasury plundered. The Orcs, ever-growing in numbers and power, overwhelmed the neighboring kingdoms, until only the Khanate of Ali remained."
Saruman's voice wavered with a hint of regret. "And even Ali could not hold them off forever. The city of Alifareast, once a beacon of strength, was now a crumbling ruin. I watched as its walls—clay, mud—were shattered by the Orcs' catapults. The rooftops, once proud and curved in their shape, fell in a heap of dust and debris. The fires—oh, the fires!—they consumed everything. The half-moon churches, the palaces atop the hills, everything burned to the ground."
He paused, a flicker of something like sorrow crossing his face, before continuing. "And still, we fought. The Blue Wizards, with their magic—one wielding fire, the other ice. I, too, used my powers—earth, stone, fire. I threw boulders, set siege towers aflame. But it wasn't enough. The Orcs were relentless, and in the final moments of that siege, as the city fell, the Blue Wizards turned to me."
Saruman's hands trembled slightly as he recounted the final words of his comrades. "'Fly, you fool,' they said. 'Ride to the East, warn them. Prepare them. Make them build walls, castles. Do whatever you can, Saruman, because the darkness is coming.' And so, I fled. I fled to the East."
He stood up, his voice rising in indignation, as if trying to defend the choice he had made. "I created a tunnel with my magic—yes, a tunnel—far enough to escape. I took the fastest horse in the land, Shadobane, and I ran. I ran because I had no choice, because if I stayed, I would have been killed along with them. I did what I had to do, to carry their hopes and warnings to the East."
But as Saruman spoke, his words seemed to lose their conviction. Radagast, already in a drunken stupor, let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
"Bunny's shit!" Radagast slurred, clutching his rabbit tightly to his chest as he spoke. "You can't make tunnels like that! Hah! You're just a coward, Saruman! You ran away and left them, didn't you?"
Saruman's face turned red with fury, and he stood up quickly, slamming his fist down on the table. "No! I did not run! I was saving myself, saving what was left of our hopes! And you—you, Radagast—shut the hell up! You're the last person who should talk about bravery!"
He pointed a trembling finger at Radagast, his voice rising with anger. "I'm the leader here, you will believe everything I say! Now, if you want to sit there with your rabbit and babble nonsense, then fine! But the rest of you—listen to me!"
The tension in the room was palpable as Saruman glared at Radagast, who seemed to shrink back, clutching his rabbit even tighter, muttering strange words under his breath. Saruman's anger was only momentary, though, as he quickly shifted back to the matter at hand.
"Now listen," he continued, his voice softer but no less urgent. "The point I'm making is this: a great evil is coming. The Orcs have been building their strength, and soon they will come for us in the West. They are not the mindless beasts we once thought. They are organized, strategic, and relentless. If we do not prepare now, if we do not build our defenses, we will be overwhelmed."
He took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping the room, and then, in a more controlled tone, added, "Who among you is with me? Who will help me prepare for what is coming?"
Radagast, still cradling his rabbit, twitched strangely, letting out incoherent mutterings in his drunken stupor, but there was an unsettling look in his eyes, a flicker of awareness beneath the haze of his intoxication. He mumbled something incomprehensible, possibly in agreement or fear, before slumping back in his seat.
The rest of the Council, though still partially lost in their haze of smoke and drink, began to stir, murmuring among themselves and then they suddenly laughed. But the laughter quickly subsided, as Saruman's face grew increasingly dark.
The Council's light-hearted response, their light laughter and actions to the dire situation had been the last straw. The fate of Middle-earth—the entire world—seemed to hang by a thread, yet here they were, mocking the very idea of preparing for war. Gandalf continued to drink, completely unconcerned, while Galadriel watched the proceedings with a smirk that spoke volumes about her detached superiority. Elrond, on the other hand, still seemed sincere, but even his words, though grounded in wisdom, couldn't mask the fact that his plan—if it could even be called that—was as lacking as the rest of them.
"I agree," Elrond said seriously, his voice cutting through the tension. "Our enemy is surely gathering in force, and soon, they will be upon us, just as I have long ago predicted. The West must act. We need to strike a decisive blow before the Orcs are fully prepared! We must cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom and rid ourselves of Sauron's evil once and for all. But for that, we need a brave group of ring-bearers. A Fellowship of the Ring."
The idea of a Fellowship, a group of individuals tasked with the most important mission of their age, was not new. It echoed with familiarity. But the room responded with a series of raised eyebrows, skeptical glances, and half-hearted chuckles.
Galadriel leaned back in her seat with a haughty smirk, clearly amused by Elrond's words. "Ah, Elrond, wise as ever, I see," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "But your plan seems to be missing... well, something. Hmm, like the Ring, for instance. Hahaha! Why not simply summon a million Elven warriors and march to Mount Doom? Oh, wait, that's right—no one knows where Sauron is, and we don't have a million Elves to spare. Hahaha!"
Saruman, clearly frustrated, looked to Galadriel for clarification. "Wait... you mean to say that none of us are going to help? Surely, all of us—all of us—must come together to fight. This is the fate of the world we're speaking of!"
Galadriel's dismissal was swift, as she waved away Saruman's words with a casual flick of her hand. "That's impossible. If we leave our forests, who will defend them from the Goblins? And what about those pesky woodmen always cutting down our precious trees? My people are far too busy building a massive tree wall for our borders. I'm afraid I can't spare anyone for your little quest against evil, Saruman. We've already done more than enough in the last war. But I don't mind attending these meetings, the food is quite good, and free, of course."
Gandalf, surprisingly, agreed. "Yes, unfortunately, this is partly true for me as well. My Hobbits are in no condition to go traipsing off to Mount Doom. However," he added with a sly grin, "if the price is right, I might be able to rent out a small group of my Hobbits for your needs. They're a hardy folk, after all, and they'll do anything I tell them... for the right price, of course."
Elrond's expression soured as he glanced between Gandalf and Galadriel, his frustration mounting. Saruman, too, sighed deeply, knowing exactly how this was going to play out. They had all become so detached, so complacent.
"I regret to say that I, too, cannot leave these lands so easily," Elrond said, his voice now heavy with responsibility. "At best, I can gift a few of my Elves to form the Fellowship, but I cannot personally lead the charge. Perhaps Radagast could help?"
At the mention of his name, Radagast twitched strangely, a smile creeping across his face. He raised his fist into the air and shouted, "Ra ra, ras ssss, rasskabel! Rabbits are always ready to fight! Just give them carrots, and they'll be good to go!" His bizarre cheer only added to the absurdity of the situation.
Galadriel and Gandalf exchanged a knowing glance before they erupted into laughter. Saruman facepalmed, the image of Radagast and his absurd rabbit obsession too much for him to bear. Elrond, however, remained unamused, his serious tone cutting through the chaos.
"It's clear that Sauron's eye is fixed on the West again. We must take action, and we must do it now before it's too late." Elrond's words rang with urgency, but the mood of the council had already shifted from earnest discussion to drunken chaos.
Once again, a burst of laughter filled the room, and all semblance of seriousness was forgotten. The wise—or supposed wise—members of the White Council continued to puff on their pipes, drink their wine, and engage in meaningless conversation, as though the fate of the world rested in the balance.
By the time the night was out, all the Council members had passed out, sprawled across the table, utterly unaware of the momentous decisions they had failed to make. The first meeting of the Wise White Council had come to a close in complete disarray. The world might be on the brink of disaster, but none of them seemed to care.
As dawn broke over Rivendell, one lone figure departed from the city—the White Wizard, Saruman. Determined and angry, he mounted his horse and left the broken council behind. He could no longer rely on these fools to protect Middle-earth. The threat was real, and Saruman knew that he would have to face it on his own.
The fate of the world was no longer in the hands of those who held the power—no, it was in the hands of those who were willing to act. And Saruman, for all his faults, was one of the few still willing to fight for the future.