How had it come to this? Gandalf wondered to himself, as his enraged adversary glowered at him angrily; this had been what he wanted to avoid, and had tried so hard to prevent. He and Saruman- his former mentor, friend, and ally of 2000 years- were engaged in a deadly showdown. Saruman had been struck by Rohirrim swords several times, but had not been truly injured until now- Gandalf, for his part, had tried to talk him out of continuing the battle, but he would have none of it, and instead challenged Gandalf directly, cursing him viciously. And so they had faced off, and Saruman had left Gandalf no choice whatsoever, driving at him relentlessly, savagely, until finally there had come the inevitable moment that Gandalf had been forced to strike back at long last, and it had been, with little option, a decisive and mortal blow. There was no middle ground with Saruman, no way to stop him without resorting to grave measures. Gandalf had struck with deadly and lightning fast precision, with a sword-thrust that would have instantly killed anyone else.

And now they stood, only feet apart, Saruman in his once gleaming white robes, now stained ever more deeply with red, and Gandalf, who had delayed drawing his sword till his own life was in great jeopardy. Saruman held a fierce Uruk Hai made battle sword, and his long fingers were clenched around it with great intensity. How could this situation be brought back to reason, to sanity, amidst the seething madness that had overwhelmed his old friend...Gandalf the Grey was now Gandalf the White, but nevertheless he was utterly at a loss as to how to somehow stop this violence- and retain his own life in the process.

Gandalf sheathed his sword and attempted to back away from Saruman, not out of fear, but out of desire to calm the temper of his former ally. "Curumo, listen to me...I have no will to fight with you; a battle of the minds is one thing, but I do not wish to fight you on the battlefield!" Saruman glared at him with a rage that was unnatural in its fury, and Gandalf went on, still trying: " Look, you are injured. You have never trained for the arts of war, and neither have I! Any successes I have had, have only been pure fortune, not skill. I do not wish to fight in this way! " He was not being entirely truthful, and he knew Saruman was aware of it: Gandalf was renowned for his fighting prowess. But Saruman had, in truth, rarely lifted a sword, and though he was quite courageous, and certainly lacked nothing in strength, he was drastically ill-matched to meet Gandalf in battle.

And hadn't Gandalf made one more effort to avoid being forced into a bloodbath with his old mentor: " Put down the sword, Curumo, and let us sit down together, and try to reason this all out. We do not have to involve anyone else. Just you and I, privately." It had not worked, and all his words were to no avail. As now as Gandalf faced Saruman, he saw that the crimson staining the white cloak had spread significantly, and was now actually flowing from the cloak to the ground in a thin steady stream of dark red. He was now clutching his chest with one hand, still gripping the sword with the other. Blood flowed through his long fingers as he held his hand to the wound, and his face had taken on a very ashen color. He had been struck straight through the chest, it had been meant to do the unhappy job immediately. But his immensely strong Will kept the heart thundering on.

Gandalf instinctively started towards him, acting out of compassion that he could not deny, but Saruman held up his sword warningly, and spoke through gritted teeth: " Stay away from me, Gandalf, I have no need of anything to do with you!" He closed his eyes for a moment, and Gandalf could see he was in terrible pain. Gandalf's keen mind was racing, trying to arrive at a resolution: He is dying, slowly, far too slowly, this is becoming a horror, what can I do? What should I do?, he wondered wearily, and addressed Saruman with careful words:

" Curumo, you need not die for spite of me, it may be that you hate me, and all my comrades, but why will you insist on bleeding to death on this sad ground, already so drenched in gore and pain? You can be allowed your hatred, but be wise enough to accept help in your mortal predicament!"

Saruman merely shot Gandalf a bitterly scathing look, and made no reply; he turned away then, and swayed unsteadily for a moment. Legolas appeared as if from nowhere at Gandalf's side,and spoke in a soft voice to Saruman: " Mellon...old friend...Curunir..listen to me..." Saruman turned back and looked at Legolas with a strange expression, and he continued : " For many long ages, you were friend and not foe- this is a new thing for us both- once you were our greatest ally and protector, and though your heart has strayed very far from us, we do not wish you ill. Do you understand that? Will you allow yourself to? You are badly injured, will you not let us help you, instead of resisting? " His words were very soft, and very gentle, but their meaning was as the edge of a sword itself.

Saruman looked at Legolas with tired, pain filled eyes, and then to Gandalf, who thought for a moment, and then spoke to him in soft words of the Valar; coaxing and yet firm, never losing that authority that Gandalf the White had returned from the grave with. In the ancient tongue, Gandalf spoke in magical and calming rhyme, and before he understood what had happened, Saruman had been charmed and enchanted into dropping the sword he still had been grimly clenching. He took a few steps backwards, and leaned heavily against an outcropping, by now gasping quietly; there was no reason to delay, and Gandalf stepped forward like lightning and took the fallen sword. Now there only remained the Staff-where was Saruman's Staff?- Gandalf did not see it anywhere. Well, he thought to himself, one thing at a time. Legolas assisted in easing Saruman- who by now was nearly unconscious on his feet- to lie against the edge of the outcropping.

The battle around them was in its last stages,and for the most part now consisted of rendering last mercies to the dying on the field. Orcs and Uruk Hai lay mortally wounded and dead in great numbers, and those few that had not been cleanly killed by the Elves and Rohirrim, were soon finished by the men who walked through the vale of death. Gandalf looked around at the killing field the battlefield had become, and then down at Saruman, who was breathing raggedly, with a strange sound. He was dying, there could be no doubt of that now, as his color had gone from the ill-grey of shock. to the pallor of great blood-loss.


Should I try to save him?, Gandalf agonized to himself; would it be all the worse for him to be kept in this world, with all the madness he was now immersed in...or would he be better able to regain his senses, if it were even possible at all, in the Next World? It was possible that if he lived still, he would somehow be cured eventually of this deep sickness of the mind. Gandalf knew he could never bring himself to simply watch as Saruman died, and do nothing. I cannot, he thought, I cannot allow it: he is dying too slowly, too hard, I cannot bear to see this go on.

He moved his hands carefully over the prone body, to where Saruman had been clutching at the injury-after moving aside some of the torn and blood soaked robe, he immediately saw the wound: a very deep sword thrust, with crimson heart's blood flowing in a river; Gandalf sighed, as he knew that if he turned Saruman over, he would see the exit point of the sword. He shuddered as he recalled with vivid accuracy when his sword had found its mark, how he had plunged deep into his enemy's chest and then withdrew it, sickened by what he had just done--a truly mortal injury, and if Saruman had not been a Maia, he most likely would have died within moments. Gandalf had intended it to be very quick, as quick as possible. But Saruman was an Istar, and was not created to die, being wonderfully made, and quite difficult to do harm to. However, the injury he now had taken was grave, and his life was slipping away in slow pulses of ebbing blood. Gandalf looked upon his old mentor with almost overwhelming grief and pity. He resolved to try to help him, if he could, somehow.


"Gandalf...Gandalf?" But Gandalf had gone into a deep meditative state, and was attempting a last try to save his fallen opponent. He was not even remotely aware of the danger as Saruman slowly and silently rose up next to him, and swiftly laid his hand upon Gandalf's ( bloody, what blood? ) sword. With a terrible smile that was almost genuine affection, he spoke again, this time with no death rattle in his voice, no sound of choking blood in his throat: "GANDALF!" Gandalf opened his eyes and came back to himself with great effort; he beheld Saruman in front of him, standing with Glaumdring in his hand, smiling at him. There was no sign of any injury, and the robes were now quite white again. "Soft-hearted fool!", he snarled with contempt, " I will tell you...I wanted to look in your eyes when I did this." Saruman said softly, almost sensually, and without waiting for Gandalf to make a move of any kind, plunged the sword through his midsection, until he hit bone with a grotesque thick sound. Gandalf gasped in utter shock and horror, and Saruman leaned in close to him, whispering "I have waited so long for this, it is immensely satisfying!"...he wore an expression of pleasure that was very nearly sexual. "It was all illusion, Gandalf. All of it. You never understood how dangerous it is to show mercy to an enemy. But I know you so well, don't I? I set it all up, and you came running into the trap! Your compassion is your weakness, and it has finished you!"

Gandalf looked at him in mute disbelief, and then slowly slipped off the killing blade and onto the ground. Saruman watched him silently, and was not even aware he was stroking the bloody blade, up and down, in a strange sort of erotic excitement. "Die, Old friend. Die." He muttered, and prodded Gandalf lightly with the tip of the sword, and then jabbing in , just a bit. Gandalf moved no more. Saruman sighed, very disappointed it had ended so quickly- he was very excited, and more than a bit aroused- but there was no more to be done here. Saruman sighed again, and frowned, somewhat frustrated, and then he walked away, back to the battlefield, where the Uruk Hai were killing the last of the Men and Elves. Sauron had been defeated, Aragorn was dead, and there was nothing between him and utter victory now.

The whole of Middle Earth was his, forever.

It had been a very, very good day.

He smiled to himself, with a sense of deep satisfaction. Killing Gandalf had certainly been a pleasure, more than he had imagined. The wind came up, strangely cold for such a warm day, and blew his long silvery hair. He already felt a thousand years younger. He wondered if Grima would even notice.