For Sauron, Eric's words landed like a hammer blow.
[Corruption: 0.002%]
As the corruption ticked upward, so too did the rage within the flames. The black shadow at the heart of the fire writhed with hatred. Heat bled from the palantír crystal, flooding the room with a harsh glow.
From within the shadow came a chorus of whispers, sinister murmurs clawing at Eric's mind. They pressed against his thoughts, trying to coil inside his skull.
Eric leaned closer, deliberately offering his ear. At last he caught the meaning.
"You will die."
[Corruption: 0.031%]
"Really? That doesn't sound so bad," Eric replied evenly. "In my view, living or dying is better than dragging on half-alive."
A heavy thud struck his consciousness, like a storm slamming into a door. The weight of the Dark Lord's will bore down on him, and shadows swept across his inner world, gnawing at reason and clarity. His breathing turned ragged, chest tightening as though invisible chains were coiling around his lungs.
Yet the inner flame in his heart did not falter. It flickered stubbornly, resilient against the storm, impossible to snuff out.
"I will find you," hissed the voice. "And then I will kill you."
"You won't," Eric said flatly.
And then, just like that, the shadow was gone.
The crystal dimmed, leaving Eric dizzy and staggering back a step.
[Corruption: 1%]
"I'll handle this!"
Saruman swung his staff down with alarming force, the strike carrying enough wind to rattle the shelves.
Clang!
The impact rang sharp, though Eric could not tell if it was wood striking wood or metal against metal.
A plain wooden staff blocked the blow, its dangling pipe clattering from the vibration.
"Gandalf."
Saruman's tone was sour.
"There's no need," Gandalf said cheerfully, easing Saruman's staff aside with gentle pressure. He offered Eric a steadying hand. "He has not been ensnared."
Eric exhaled and steadied himself. "I'll manage. Thanks to you, it isn't as bad as it could have been."
"Not as bad? I'd call it dreadful," Gandalf countered, his eyes narrowing. "You have provoked Sauron himself. He will not forgive this slight. You must tread carefully, Eric. His sorcery creeps in when least expected, slipping past defenses like a thief in the night."
The reminder struck true. Eric's strength had never been in spellcraft.
"If you are threatened again, go to Rivendell or Lothlórien. They have the power to aid you. Or even Radagast, though his remedies tend to involve mushrooms." Gandalf's lips twitched with faint amusement.
"And do not forget me," Saruman added smoothly, withdrawing his staff. "You may always come to me. I would be glad to help."
Gandalf inclined his head, showing trust.
Eric, on the other hand, privately doubted it. Oh, Saruman might lend a hand… but the price tag would be steep.
"Right. Got it," Eric said, eager to move on. He covered the palantír with its dark cloth, putting a sharp end to the matter. Too risky.
Only the last few years, spent running across Middle-earth, had tempered him enough to survive that exchange. Back when he first arrived, he might not have lasted a moment.
With the crystal dealt with, Eric turned his focus to something safer: the tower's library.
Saruman looked mildly disappointed but said nothing as Eric slipped into the great archives. Towering shelves stretched into the gloom, a labyrinth of parchment and vellum. Eric scanned titles, fingers trailing along spines as though he might unlock secrets with touch alone.
"What are you looking for, Eric?" Gandalf asked, volunteering as a guide. "I have spent some time here. My memory of these shelves is not too dim."
"Magic," Eric answered simply.
"Magic?" Gandalf chuckled. "Then this way."
Moments later, a stack of heavy tomes landed on a table with a dull thud. Eric read their titles in sequence, each more elaborate than the last, and felt his scalp prickle. Entire pamphlets could be filled with just the subtitles.
"Right… I'll start with these."
From that day, Eric practically moved into the library. He slept little, ate less, and buried himself in parchment and ink. Gandalf stayed a few days, keeping him company, but once he was sure Eric and Saruman would not come to blows, he departed with a rueful smile.
"Time presses, my friend. My road calls me onward," the Grey Wizard said, as restless as ever.
Eric nodded absently, already nose-deep in another tome.
Days trickled by. The library remained silent but for the rustle of pages.
Saruman appeared once, frowning at the sight of his sleepless guest.
"Do you not require rest?" he asked. "I would prefer not to have a corpse collapse in my tower."
"Worry about yourself," Eric muttered, not looking up.
Saruman's knuckles whitened on his staff, but he turned with a swirl of his robe and left. At the door he beckoned a servant.
"Keep an eye on him," he whispered. "I will not have him dying in here. The politics would be intolerable."
The servant nodded hastily, though Eric never noticed.
The problem was not a lack of books, but the wrong kind.
The so-called magical tomes were mostly histories, folklore, or poems. They rambled about past heroes, ancient wars, or curious tales. The few texts that touched on true craft buried it beneath endless cultural commentary. Useful facts were scarce, tossed in only as side notes.
Still, persistence brought small rewards. Two volumes contained Saruman's handwritten notes, quick thoughts scribbled in the margins. They hinted at his research into the fundamental "elements" of the world, fragments of an ambitious theory.
Unfortunately, they were scraps, not substance. His true breakthroughs, Eric suspected, were locked in a private laboratory far beyond reach.
Eric sighed heavily, shutting another book with a thump. "So much for the shortcut."
He rose, brushing dust from his sleeves, and opened the library door.
The motion startled a servant dozing in the hallway. The man leapt up, bowing quickly before scurrying away.
Eric ignored him. He stretched stiff muscles and wandered upward through the tower, letting the change of scenery clear his head.
The architecture of Orthanc never failed to impress. Shelves of books filled entire floors, connected in strange patterns that made the tower feel alive with knowledge. Only a fraction of the rooms were devoted to living quarters or experiments.
Turning a corner, Eric stumbled into one such chamber. A proper alchemical workshop sprawled before him, complete with brewing tables and grinding tools. Papers lay scattered across the desk by the window, ink still wet.
Curious, Eric picked up the nearest sheet.
"On the Enchantment of Metallic Substances," it read.
Months ago, the arcane jargon would have baffled him. But after drowning in stacks of parchment, he could now make sense of at least a few lines.
Progress, perhaps, though only a sliver.
Eric rubbed the back of his neck and smiled wryly. "Well, better than nothing."