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Chapter Text

Saruman the White shifted in his chair and ignored the soft padding of Wormtongue’s monotonous footsteps circling the room. The disarray of scrolls and sheaves of parchment spread out in front of him had proved itself worthless so far, and he mindlessly ran his hand over yet another page full of outdated advice aimed at common dunderheads. He made a mental note to trim the fat from Isengard’s vast library at some point in the future, when far more pressing matters had been put to rest. Much of it had outlasted its usefulness.

Not everything archaic was necessarily appreciated, he reminded himself with a sigh of pain.

The muffled cacophony rising from the caverns outside was a constant reminder of his predicament. Lurtz awoke unseemly things in him, sensations and cravings he hadn’t grappled with in literal ages. It was most unbefitting a Wizard. His purpose on Middle-earth was to gather wisdom and power, not wobble and swoon like some dimwit peasant girl who’d just gotten her first glance at the village blacksmith without his shirt on. The body was merely a vessel; it was the spirit inside that mattered, and he could ill afford for his to become distracted by the earthly weaknesses that surrounded it.

But how could he not be? His tireless devotion to his craft had paid off handsomely. He had picked up the slack where Morgoth had left off after being so rudely interrupted, perfecting his creations, tying up loose ends, untwisting their spines and cloaking them from the sting of the light. There would be no Fighting Uruk-hai without Saruman, and they reflected his brilliance as the moon reflected the sun.

Of course some moonbeams would glow brighter than others. The sickness coiled in his guts like a restless serpent, spreading its feverish venom through his veins. Binding him within this flawed husk, the Valar had cursed him, and he silently cursed them in turn.

“Gríma,” he said, glancing at the clammy Man hovering at his side, “How do you manage it? How do you go on every day knowing that which you hunger for lies forever beyond your reach, oblivious to your desire and almost certain to be disgusted by it?” His gaze shifted to the expanse visible out the window, a vast clearing of dead stumps and dead earth where only months before there was a thriving forest.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, my lord,” Gríma replied. This conversation was a gate he wanted to slam shut before anything more could slip through. Saruman wasn’t being quite as mysterious as he thought he was. Gríma was all too familiar with the way the Wizard’s eyes wandered over his favored champion, and preferred to shove those thoughts into the furthest possible corner of his mind. He preferred not to think of Lurtz at all, if he could help it.

“Surely you of all people are familiar with such unquenched yearnings,” the Wizard said, still staring out the window.

Gríma flinched at the barb and cast his eyes at the floor, making a futile attempt to blink away the wetness creeping up into them. “Don’t you have a book or something you could talk to about this?”

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation. It cannot be easy keeping your underlings in line, but I trust they know not to to misbehave in your absence. Your reputation precedes you.”

Lurtz bowed his head. “Thanks, I think.” It was true, the lads under his command knew pissing him off was hardly worth it, and he had gained a rapport with most of them, tense as it was at times. “Now can’t we do something about...” Lurtz jerked his thumb back at Gríma, stuck his tongue out, and blew a loud fart noise. The faintest hint of a smirk fluttered across Saruman’s face just before he lifted a hand over his mouth and feigned clearing his throat.

The Wizard fixed his eyes on Gríma. “Ah. Wormtongue. I forgot you were even there. True, this is none of your concern and it would be best if you made yourself useful elsewhere at the moment,” Saruman said. “Perhaps Theoden King,“ he practically spat the name, “...needs counseling.”

Gríma, still not quite accustomed to such open contempt, at least not from his true master, sneered at Lurtz and sulked off towards the stairway, muttering some unintelligible whinging nonsense under his breath.

Lurtz made a rude gesture at the last flutter of Grima’s cloak disappearing from the doorway. The Man of Rohan stirred up a particular revulsion in him, beyond ordinary Orkish disdain for his weak race. Grima resembled nothing so much as a gigantic sentient maggot, pallid and parasitic and spineless.

Lurtz settled next to the Wizard, ignoring the threatening creak the ancient chair made under his weight. Saruman had just started on another of his lectures. The Uruk’s attention almost immediately drifted to the gloomy scenery outside the window, watching a team of Goblins attempt to uproot a particularly stubborn tree stump.

The scheming stuff, Lurtz understood. He could follow the route Saruman plotted, the maneuvers and knowledge used to gain the trust and generosity of the burning Lord in the East only to cut his ethereal hamstrings and seize that power as his own. Likewise, he grasped battle strategies that involved all manner of resources befitting the greatest of Wizards; Uruks and beasts and metal devices all working in lockstep like one gigantic creature, flesh supplemented by machinery, more than the sum of its myriad body parts.

It was the piddling details, the rubbish strewn in the path, that he didn’t bother wasting his thoughts on. As soon as Saruman began a tangent about the ratio of one mystery powder to mix with another to make some arcane compound, or calculating a perfect catapult trajectory aimed at a wall of a certain height, Lurtz was lost in the haze.

Saruman also found obscure landmarks absolutely fascinating. Lurtz didn’t. He also didn’t particularly care why that one boulder was shattered into exactly forty-seven pieces, or how many long-dead Men it had taken to build that fallen fortress. He just wanted to know if the wreckage was likely to get in his way. But as far as Saruman was concerned, every single stray remnant of stone or decrepit foundation in the ass end of nowhere had a story to tell, and tell it he would.

One of the Goblins tripped over a hidden root, flailing as he landed face down in the muck. His boss yelled at him, another underling yelled at the boss, and a fistfight broke out. Lurtz squelched a laugh.

Saruman was still talking. “...and thus, they learned a harsh lesson in strategic outpost placement and the subtle dangers of soil erosion.” Lurtz blinked and took a quick glance around the table to make sure he hadn’t missed a burst of colored flame or some such that should provoke an impressed reaction. The room was quiet and still. He simply nodded.

“You’re such a good listener,” said Saruman.

Chapter Text

Time was moving strangely.

Lurtz sighed and breathed out, slowly reopening his eyes. The smoke poured out of his mouth and dissipated into the air, mixing with the the beams of muted, fading sunlight crossing through the patterned windows.

If this eventually ended in disaster like half the pipeweed stories that the snaga who toiled in the pits loved swapping, well, it wasn’t his fault. Saruman told him to.

Saruman put off smoking until Lurtz had tried it. It must have been a big deal, seeing as how he removed it from a hidden compartment in a carved wooden box and made a show of offering to share it with him. It smelled pleasant enough, its floral qualities dampened by a sharp acidic undertone, and Lurtz soon felt a strange but agreeable sensation radiating outward from his lungs. The Wizard exhaled smoke in rings and spirals and mirrored patterns. Lurtz managed to cough out an acceptable inpression of a boulder.

He sensed that for all his wisdom and power, Sharkey wasn’t the sort who got a lot of breaks in life. He worked tirelessly while shuttered away in his tower. He was always alone, and always glowering. Even deformed Goblins had friends. The poor old bastard was wound so tight he might snap in a strong breeze. No wonder he cherished such a simple scrap of pleasure.

Lurtz exhaled another lungful. “It’s nice,” he said, feeling like a pillock as soon as the words rolled out of him, His body was slow and heavy, as if he was moving deep below the surface of warm, still water. He laughed.

:What's so amusing?" said Saruman, who seemed plenty amused already.

"I closed my eyes and felt my legs sinking into the fllor, and I wondered if this is what it'd be like to be back in the ground." He looked down at his feet just to be certain. "You know, just warm and dark and..." He laughed again, snorting. "Is this shit giving me brain damage?"

Saruman managed to let the coarse language slide. "The key is in moderation. Not just smoking yourself stupid while carousing with the Shire-rabble like that bumbling fool Gandalf.”

“I still don’t know who that is,” said Lurtz.

“An enviable position.” Saruman’s dark eyes darted to shadows moving past the library door. He glided over to it and lowered the heavy bolt across it. “Let us change the subject to something less frustrating.”

Lurtz smirked. He’d already guessed Saruman wanted something more than a smoking buddy. “As you wish,” he said as he started undoing the laces at the neck of his leather armor. The Wizard jolted, letting out a slight cough. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” Saruman frowned as if he’d just lost a game of riddles to a stray pig. Lurtz sighed. “That was a joke, Master.”

He was quite a looker by Uruk-hai standards, and no stranger to offers like this. But a private chamber, a heavy door between them and the world...this was unfamiliar territory. No Uglúk or Mauhûr (or maybe both) rolling around with him, no getting drunk off mystery bottles stolen from the kitchen, no using your teeth. No fun seemed a distinct possibility.

No fucking snaga snickering at them and beating off in some shadowy corner, at least.

Saruman shifted in his seat, ever aware of Lurtz’s fangs and claws and heightened reflexes. . He rested one hand just above Lurtz’s knee, and when the Uruk didn’t protest, he traced the curve of msucle running up and around Lurtz’s thigh with his fingetips, his touch soft ang glancing.

Lurtz flinched and snathced his hand away. “I don’t like that,” he said. “Feels like bugs crawling on me.” He gave Saruman’s wrist a light squeeze, and smiled when he found the slender form and parchment-pale skin belied wiry muscle and sinew twisted over bones as strong as iron. Lurtz gazed directly in the Wizard’s eyes and pressed his hand back on his thigh, guiding it upwards. “You know what I’m made of. Don’t go easy on me.”

The flash of heat that burst inside Saruman could have powered the forges for a week.

Feeling as close to giddy as he was capable of, he led Lurtz to the massive table at the center of the room. He cast the mess of books and scrolls strewn on it aside with a swipe of his arm, then spun around, sat down, and shrugged off the outer layer of his robes in one fluid motion. Lurtz fumbled with his belt and wobbled forward, almost losing his balance.

The rest of Lurtz's armor thudded to the floor. He stood there as if waiting for instructions while the dim yellow glow of the candlelight danced over his blotchy skin. Once again, Saruman took in yhe sight of him, muscles accented by bruises and svars and a couple of obvious bite-marks that Saruman didn't want to ponder the origins of too deeply. He raised his hand and Lurtz was upon him before he could finish beckoning.

the finer points were clouded in a haze of smoke and desire. He was vaguely aware of his clothes being bunched up and pushed aside as he turned to brace himself against the table, catching a fleeting glimpse of Lurtz wetting his fingers in his mouth.

Saruman sucked in a sharp breath as Lurtz leaned against him and circled an arm around his ribcage. He pressed Lurtz’s hand over his chest, with his own hand clamped down and locked in place over it, immovable as a statue. Lightning shot through his veins as he drew the monster's body inside his own, psosessing and subsuming it. Lurtz let out a quiet, low growl.

The Wizard’s heart beat slowly; steady and monotonous, almost mechanical, a sharp contrast to the frantic pummeling that rose from inside the Uruk and reverberated through them both. Lurtz bent his head down to the crook of Saruman's neck and breathed in. His stomach clenched at the disorienting realization the Wizard had no scent.

Lurtz allowed himself to fall into the rhythm Saruman set, and soon found his other hand commandeered as well, Saruman’s grasp sliding it down his slender body. Warmth fluttered over his skin and he grinned. “You like my hands on you, yeah? You want me to bring you off with my big, strong, nasty...”

“Shut up,” said Saruman.

With that, Lurtz’s voice died in his throat, halting his grunt of protest like a candle flame being snuffed out. He had no choice but to follow Saruman's lead and let the sensations smother him.

A long, deep sigh emerged from Saruman like a sudden gust of wind as his flesh tensed and then went slack. There was a unearthly edge to the sound that made Lurtz’s pulse jump. A moment later he quivered, rolled his head back, and made a sound that was obscenely close to a howl of pained defeat. His fingers dug into Saruman’s hips and the Wizard barely noticed when a few claws broke his skin. Lurtz slowed until the only movement remaining was his heavy, heated breath brushing against Saruman’s neck.

After a silent stillness that felt like hours, Saruman released his grip on Lurtz. He examined his fingers, and in a rude parody of his army's white war-paint, he wiped his hand on their leader's collarbone. Lurtz's eyes went wide and then after a moment he broke into something between a gasp and a kaugh. "Fuck. Where have you been hiding all this time?" His shoulders relaxed. "And here I thought you were boring, Master."

Saruman bristled and then regained his composure as he straightened his robe and took a seat, reminding himself that he could hardly expect sugared sonnets to come from the likes of Lurtz. The Uruk was both more and less than he wanted or expected. Lurtz sank down to his knees and pressed his lips to Sarumans’s hand, clumsy and guileless. It felt wonderful. The Uruk slumped against the side of the chair, "Tell me again how I'm great," he mumbled as his eyelids gave up trying to stay open.

This filthy, violent, horny, beautiful creature rested at his feet, head in his lap, overpowered, and once again, marked as Saruman’s.

He quietly basked in his victory, in the knowledge that he could make Lurtz sweat and shudder, render him helpless, all by his force of will, proving his power did not lie in a magic staff or shimmering robe but was innate to his spirit.

Once again, Saruman couldn't resist hearing himself talk.

Lurtz occasionally blinked and nodded while he wove old stories of mysterious and primal forces long gone from Middle-earth, their influence tragically scattered to the dark corners of the world. It was more compelling than the usual, though between the pipeweed, his exhausted body, and the Wizard’s grandiose vocabulary, only about half of it sank in. But what did reached down to his bones, and the sound of Saruman’s voice called to some deep place he somehow yearned for despite never knowing.

The haze over Saruman had dissipated, yet he stayed in place. The room was in disarray and there was still a naked Uruk dozing at his side. It didn't matter. Piddling details didn't matter right now. Bizarre new kinds of beauty revealed themselves to him all the time now; in black powder that could reduce a stone fortress to ruin, in Wormtongue’s poisonous words concealed with a slimy sheen of flattery and submission, in the swirling hot colors of the fires below Orthanc, in the bloodthirsty hearts and bone-breaking limbs of his Uruk-hai.

The black spire of Isengard laid hollow roots and thrived on the iron they drew from the earth. Trees crumbled and Uruks sprouted to take their place. The spawn of Morgoth groveled at his feet to thank him for perfecting it and properly harnessing its power. The first hints of a hazy grey sunrise peeked through the window, more radiant than any dawn Saruman had seen in years.

The familiar pattern of Gríma's bony knuckles rapped against the door. Saruman ignored it.

Time was moving strangely.