Title: FATAL PRIDE
Type: Slash 
Author: By Milly of Isengard / black_traitor_of_isengard@yahoo.com 
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing: Saruman / Witchking 
Warning: Graphic sex / Rape 
Disclaimer: No profit made. Characters JRR Tolkien's.
 
Timeline: Somewhere on the road, after the Fall of Isengard. **AU, in assuming 
Saruman’s release and escape from Orthanc occurs before the Last Battle.

WILL BE ARCHIVED AT: ICE ON FIRE - THE SARUMAN SLASH ARCHIVE 
 
http://www.blacktraitor.com/Ice_on_Fire.html 
 
 
 

FATAL PRIDE



Arrogant and vile!

I look at him in a blind rage, shaking with anger and frustration.

"You! Treacherous betrayer! Give me some reason, I ought not to cut out your lying 
tongue!"

The White Istar lies before me, and I, the Lord of the Nazgul, called the Witchking of 
Angmar, see the contempt yet gleaming in those dark eyes.

I wonder where the staff is- I do not see it, it is nowhere near him.

The weak creature known as Worm I have already dispatched, with one effortless blow. 
He lies dead in the road, his eyes open wide.

I raise my sword, seeking to impress upon the fool that I am serious, and this is no jest.

I see that being knocked to the ground has had no effect on his demeanor.

He regards the raised sword, with some measure of fear, but for the most part, the 
arrogance is still the predominant factor.

Finally, he moves back, easing away from me, and finds his voice, though with no magic 
in it now:

“How dare you!  How dare you- threaten –me?!”

As the lightening flashes in the space of a moment, I am upon him, and hold the sword 
point against his throat.

“Silence your lying tongue!”

To my utter astonishment, he turns his white maned head, and spits in the dirt, with a 
look of inexpressible scorn on his face.

I listen to his amazing words:

“Filthy pawn! No matter what you do to me, you will still be only a twisted shadow of a 
man… and I shall be a Maia, one of the Lords of the West! You shall always lick 
Sauron’s feet, ever groveling, and never anything more than..a slave, a fawning 
servant…a ghost of a fallen human king!”

Incredibly, he smiles at me, with great spite and malice.

My frozen heart aches with rage, and yet, I am stunned by his courage, in the face of 
certain death.

I kneel down to him, and he meets my ethereal gaze with resigned calm- I want to touch 
that mocking face, but whether to strike it, or caress it, I do not know.

I reach out with one hand, and stroke his face with fingers of ice and chill. He shivers, is 
it merely from the cold?

“Do you wish so ardently for death, then?” I ask him, in my voice of glacial cold. “Why 
do you not seek to preserve your own life?”

I lower the sword, and trail my long white fingers down his beard, and he looks at me 
with a strange expression- for the first time, he seems rattled, unnerved.

He flinches back from me, and I realize, at last, how to reach him.

I can make him understand.

He is no better than me, the faithful and true servant of Sauron the Lord.

I may have begun as a mere Man…but I shall soon be a ..Deity.

I bring my shining white sword up so that the point of it rests at his throat yet again- he 
looks at me, as if in wonderment and confusion.

“You are about to learn something new, Saruman, treacherous Lord of Orthanc! And 
when the lesson is over, perhaps you will have changed your attitude!”

I raise my hand and flip him on his belly, and alight on him with my nearly weightless 
form.

He makes a strange, angry sound, and struggles under me.

“Lie still, or my sword shall find your vitals!” I hiss at him, with no real anger in my 
voice now.  I am too intent upon what I am about to do.

I am aroused now, by his sheer utter subjection under me, the feel of his writhing, warm 
body. I can remember having such warmth, once.

But I am still a feeling being, between the living and the dead, a creature of limbo.

My cock is hard, engorged not by the blood of an incarnate man, nor the astral fire of a 
spirit- but by something altogether different.

My nether-body is as it was when it was mortal, and yet not.

I rip open his trailing, filthy robes, and lodge myself in between his long legs, shocked at 
how easily I am overpowering him.

What has happened to him?

“Filthy spawn of a whore!” he snarls at me, unwisely, and I bring my knee up into his 
side, cherishing the sound of breaking ribs. He howls into the dirt, and thrashes under me.

I lean back for a moment to unlace my black robes, only enough to free my aching prick. 

I shall remain cloaked, always.

I lunge back onto him, and with one gauntleted hand, I open his legs enough, not trying to 
be gentle, perhaps quite the opposite. I am, in fact, quite brutal.

I was careful to not break ribs too high up, I do not want him to die of a punctured lung, 
as that would destroy the chance for the instruction he is about to receive.

I wrap my arm around his neck, and with the other hand I pull him up to me, sharply, so 
that he is utterly restrained.

Now.

I slide my iron clad finger along his inner thigh, and then up, and find the way in. I guide 
myself into him, and then thrust inside, every inch. And I am not meagerly endowed.

He jerks up against me, gasping, and I hold him firmly, ramming into him as savagely as 
I can manage.

I see he digs his hands into the dirt, and I notice his long nails, streaked with blood, as if 
he has hurt someone, or perhaps himself.

I no longer am curious why he was even on the road, instead of at Isengard, with his 
pitiful servant.

I had gone to Orthanc first, to seek him, to bring him to my Lord, to pay for his treachery. 
But I had only found mud and ruin, and tree-herders, of all things- and I departed to 
search for him, ignoring the angry shouts from the tree-devils.

My prey turns his head, and I hear he is trying to say something, between the groans of 
pain.  

I listen. 

“Your..mother..fucked... a pig ..to produce..you! And Sauron was..the…pig!”

I am almost amused, it is absurd that he would still have the courage and foolishness to 
insult not only myself, but the Lord of the Earth. Has he lost his reason? I am beginning 
to see this is the case.

I drive myself into him, and grab a handful of the long white hair, and pull his head back 
hard.

He makes a soft cry as I do so, and then falls silent. 

I do not have time to enjoy this as long as I would like, and I allow my release to come, 
with the bizarre sensations of pleasure that are somehow twisted now, somehow...not 
right.

I burn his insides with my cold seed, and withdraw as cruelly fast, and as painfully as I 
can.

I arise, and he slowly rolls back over, and lies looking at me with an almost frightening 
hatred.

This has gone far enough. 

I draw my sword, and raise it, preparing to silence that foul and lying mouth forever- and 
then- there is a light that shines behind me, and, deciding discretion might be wise, I turn 
back to look.

Standing in the road, there is a shocked looking party, and… among them is… Gandalf. 

He is white, as white as Saruman, and I have to glance back at the sprawled figure to be 
certain this is no trick. His eyes are angry, flashing, and he walks towards me, and I see 
he does have a staff.

And what of it?  I will simply finish my task. I turn back to the fallen creature before me, 
and again raise the sword, to sever his worthless head. For his part, he looks at Gandalf, 
and then to me, and I see something inscrutable. The prey thinks he will escape!

“Stop!”

 I ignore this, why he would attempt to stay my hand, I do not know. Perhaps it is merely 
his need to meddle.

But then, I am hit by a bolt of some energy from behind, and as I turn in fury, I see that 
he has pointed the staff at me.

Enraged, I start to go to meet his attack- and then- I get the call from my Master

*Enough! Leave the traitor! He is in good enough company, now! The fool may die with 
those of his ilk!*

Shivering with anger, and frustration, I retreat- and climb onto my beast, and as I fly over 
the heads of the wretched company below, I see Gandalf bending over and – incredibly!- 
attending to his fallen adversary.

As I wing my way back to Barad-Dur, I marvel at the weakness and simpering sense of 
mercy of our enemies.


Truly, our Victory is nearly come.





FIN