Кирилл Еськов - The Last Ringbearer

Saruman continued after a pause: “Sharya-Rana is correct that our Arda is unique: it is the only World which allows direct contact between the physical and magical worlds, where their inhabitants – Elves and Men – can talk to each other. Just think of the possibilities this offers! In a very short time you and the Elves will live together in harmony, enriching each other with your cultural achievements.”

“Live as directed by the Far West?” Haladdin smirked.

“That depends on you. Do you really lack minimal self-respect, enough to think yourselves clay in the hands of some otherworldly forces? I’m honestly ashamed to hear this.”

“So a time will come when the Elves will look at Men as something other than dung under their feet? I wish I could believe you!”

“There was a time when Men would eat anyone not from their cave, but now you have learned to behave a little differently, haven’t you? That’s exactly how it will be with you and the Elves, if you give it time. You are so very different, and that’s precisely what makes you need each other, believe me.” The palantír fell silent; Haladdin slumped as if a rod had been taken out of his spine.

“Who’s that, sir?” Tzerlag, standing some ten paces away, lower on the slope, looked at the crystal with superstitious fear.

“Saruman, Lord of Isengard, Head of the White Council, and so on and so forth… He’s trying to talk me out of dropping the palantír into the Eternal Fire, lest the whole world perish.”

“Is he lying?”

“I think so,” Haladdin answered after some thought.

In reality he was not sure of that at all; the opposite, in fact. Saruman could very well have said something like “the Nazgúl have lost the fight and decided to destroy the world with your hands on their way out” and persuasively corroborate that theory (how did Haladdin know that the Nazgúl were the good guys? Only from Sharya-Rana’s words); he could, but he did not, and somehow that fact made Haladdin trust everything the White Wizard was saying. “Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct?” Yes, that’s how it comes out.

He has succeeded, Haladdin realized with horror. I have doubts, and therefore I have lost the right to act: to interpret doubt for the defendant’s benefit is too deeply ingrained in me. To do what I intended while knowing of the possible consequences (which I now do, thanks to Saruman) one has to be either God or a madman, and I’m neither. Nor can I do it and say later that I was following orders – that’s not my style… Plus you really don’t want to fry that Elvish beauty with your own hands, right? Right, I don’t, to put it mildly – is that a plus or a minus?

Forgive me, guys… forgive me, Sharya-Rana, and you, Baron! (In his mind he went down on his knees.) Everything you’ve done has been for naught. I know that I’m betraying you and your memory, but the choice I have to make is beyond me… or any Man – only the One can make such a choice. All I can do is block my palantír from transmitting and drop it into Orodruin; let what may come do so without my participation. I’m not cut out to decide the fate of the World – I’m made from a different kind of clay… and should you want to say: from crap, not clay – I accept that.

As if to confirm this decision of his, the palantír suddenly lit up from the inside and showed him the interior of some tower with narrow windows, something resembling a low table on curved legs, and a deathly pale – and somehow even more beautiful for that – face of Eornis.

It is truly amazing what trifles change the course of history sometimes. In this case the matter was decided by the interruption of blood flow to Haladdin’s left calf muscle due to the uncomfortable position he had assumed over the past few minutes. The doctor got a cramp in his leg; when he got up awkwardly and leaned over to relieve the pain in his calf, the smooth globe of the palantír fell out of his hand and rolled slowly down the crater’s almost-level outer slope. Tzerlag, who stood a little below, interpreted his commander’s muffled oath as an order and lunged at the crystal ball…

“No-o-o-o-o!!” The frantic yell shattered the silence.

Too late.

The Orocuen grabbed the palantír and froze in an awkward pose; his body shimmered with bluish-purple sparks, as if frosted. Desperately Haladdin rushed to his comrade and knocked the devil’s toy out of his hands without thinking, in one motion; it took him a couple of seconds to realize with astonishment that it had not harmed him.

The purple sparks went out, leaving a strange frosty smell behind, and the Orocuen fell slowly sideways onto the gravel; Haladdin heard a strange clunking sound. He tried to lift the sergeant and was amazed by his body’s weight.

“Doctor, what’s happening to me?” The Orocuen’s face, usually expressionless or smiling, showed fear and bewilderment. “Can’t feel my hands or feet… at all… what’s happening?”

Haladdin took his wrist but jerked his hand back in surprise: the Orocuen’s hand was cold and hard as stone… Merciful God, it is stone! A couple of fingers on Tzerlag’s other hand broke off in the fall, and the doctor was now looking at the fresh break shimmering with tiny crystals – snow-white porous calcite of the bones and the darkly pink marble of the muscles shot with bright-red garnet of blood vessels – and marveling at the astonishing exactness of this stony imitation. The Orocuen’s neck and shoulders were still warm and living; feeling the arm, Haladdin realized that the boundary between stone and flesh was a bit higher than the elbow, slowly moving up the biceps. He was about to utter some comforting lie like ‘a temporary loss of sensation due to an electrical discharge,’ concealing the nature of the problem with fancy medical terminology, but the sergeant had already noticed his mangled hand and understood everything.

“Don’t leave me like this, hear? The strike of mercy – now’s the time…”

“What happened, Haladdin?” the palantír came to life with Saruman’s alarmed voice.

“What happened?! My friend is turning to stone, that’s what! Your work, bastards?”

“He touched the palantír ?! Why did you let him…”

“Devil take you! Lift the spell right now, you hear?”

“I can’t do that. It’s not my spell – why would I need to do that? – and it’s impossible to lift someone else’s spell, even for me. It must have been how my stupid predecessors have tried to stop you.”

“I don’t care who did it! Do what you can or else drag the one who did it over to your palantír !”

“They’re all gone already… I regret this deeply, but I can do nothing for your friend even at the cost of my own life.”

“Listen, Saruman.” Haladdin managed to get hold of himself, realizing that yelling would accomplish nothing. “It looks like my friend will turn to stone in five or six minutes. If you manage to lift the spell during that time, I’ll do what you’re asking me to do: block this palantír ‘s transmission and throw it into Orodruin. How to do it is your problem, but if you can’t, I’ll do what I intended to do, although, to be honest, you’ve almost convinced me otherwise. Well?”

“Be reasonable, Haladdin! Would you destroy a whole World – two Worlds, actually – to save one man? It won’t even save him when he dies later together with the World…”

“I don’t give a shit about your worlds, understand?! For the last time – will you try or not?”

“I can only repeat what I’ve said before to those idiots of the White Council: ‘What you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake.’”