This is a story almost five years in the making. I originally wrote it as a series of one-shots, just writing the bits of story that came to me when they came. But about three years ago, I decided to try to knock it into shape, and put it all together as one story. This is the part where I have to thank my friend Crackers, who read over it several times and helped me get the basic structure into a decent shape. (I did not, however, ask her to beta read it, so any misplaced modifiers or awkward verbiage remains solely my own.)

This story is more than just the one-shots I originally wrote, however; it contains a fair amount of new material, as well as bonus shorts at the end, little pieces that didn't really fit in the main story, but I hope you'll enjoy anyway. I hope that even if you have read the original series of one-shots, you'll still take the time to review this story. Reviews feed the muse, after all.

Sauron screamed in agony as his soul was captured, twisted, violently forced to submit to the one who wore his Ring now. It let up briefly, and he found himself on hands and knees, panting harshly. It reminded him of the form he once had taken often, that of the wolf. He had roamed the northern wilderness then, with the illusion of freedom. He'd been nothing but a slave in truth, but a feared and respected slave, the deadly lieutenant of Morgoth.

Now though, he could not escape the realization of his folly. He'd escaped that life, only to re-enslave himself half an Age later. And now he was paying for that rare bit of stupidity. How had he failed to see when he had made the Ring the inherent weakness, the danger? He'd never even considered the fact the Ring could be taken from him, or that another would use the part of his power and soul bound in it to subjugate the rest to the Wielder's every whim.

He raised anguished golden eyes to the band of gold that held him enthralled, and raised a trembling hand towards it, in longing or beseeching he didn't know.

And screamed again, in hopeless desperation, as the violation of his mind and soul continued without mercy.

"Go Aragorn," Halbarad said in a voice that brooked no opposition. "There are too many of them."

"What other option do we have?" Aragorn demanded. "We cannot simply let them invade Eriador!"

"No, we cannot," Halbarad said, strangely calm. "But neither can we risk the life of the last remaining Heir of Isildur in this fight." Aragorn stared at him in disbelief. But before he could retort, Anóriel joined them, covered in blood.

"We are surrounded," she said calmly. "But I've gathered together some of the best—they'll protect you as you cut your way out, Aragorn. Make for Rivendell."

"You cannot ask me to leave," Aragorn said horsely.

"You are the Hope of the Dúnedain, Aragorn," Anóriel said. "You must survive for them to ever rise from obscurity."

"There are too many of them," Aragorn said with quiet knowledge born of foresight. "You will not survive." An sorrowful flash in her immortal eyes told him that she knew that as well.

"Aurë entuluva," she quoted the last cry of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears softly.

"Day will come again, Aragorn," Halbarad echoed her, just as softly. "Even if we are not here to see it. And that is why you must go. Bring down this Darkness, and make our sacrifices worth it." He smiled softly.

"I have been more privileged than I ever dreamed to be able to follow you, my cousin…and my King. May the blessings of the Valar always follow you." His smile faded. "Now go, before it is too late!" Aragorn bowed his head, finally accepting the inevitable as he and his guards began to cut their way back towards the North, hearing as he went the voices of too many of his dear friends rise in the desperate cry: Aurë entuluva!

By the time Aragorn and his depleted guards arrived in Rivendell, Aragorn was unconscious from the wounds he had received. Four more of those who had fought beside him would die of complications despite the Elven care they received. Without Vilya, Elrond was limited to more basic means of healing, though he still had the ability to seek another's fëa. But when he reached out to that of his foster-son, all he could find was that ancient battle-cry, echoing in twisted, despairing paths.

The overwhelming agony stopped when the invading mind had moved completely through him, and the feeling of unclean fingers touching the innermost part of his soul faded. Sauron found himself curled on the ground, screams fading to helpless whimpers.

"So broken," Saruman's honeyed voice cut through the lingering confusion and pain. Hands gently pulled him out of his protective curl, leaving him on his back as they traced the crests of his hipbones and the lines of his lower ribs before moving to caress his face and neck. He nuzzled into them, touch-starved and desperate for any sort of comfort; loving and hating the touch of the small golden band that had betrayed him. Saruman laughed.

"You sold your soul searching for love, and never found it," he mused. "Enslaved first by Melkor, then by your own creation…It is as if there is part of you that wants to be a slave. Why else would the Ring act as it does? You are willing to be controlled by anyone strong enough to force you to their will." Saruman smiled at the resigned vulnerability in the younger Maia's eyes which made him look almost innocent.

"What is even more interesting is you know that," he continued. "You've always known that. It is simply a part of you. All you've ever asked in return is to be loved, and that is the one thing you have always been denied." He paused in thought, hands absently tracing the scars on Sauron's neck, making him shiver.

"I wonder what would happen if I gave you that, my little wolf," Saruman whispered pensively, making Sauron jump at the endearment that Melkor had always used for him. Saruman laughed.

"Oh yes, little wolf, you are mine now," he assured the younger Maia who was now watching him with terror in his eyes. "And Melkor's dear-name for you is very fitting." He deliberately ran his fingers down the scars marring Sauron's neck, making him whimper.

"Touch has only meant pain for you, for so long," Saruman whispered, pulling the other Maia into his arms. "I can teach you otherwise." Sauron cried out and wrenched away as Saruman stroked his thigh, the first resistance he offered the Maia who held part of his soul on his finger. Saruman chuckled.

"You're scared, for physical innocence is all you have left," he told the now squirming Maia in his arms. "I don't have the time now to teach you there is nothing to fear. But don't worry, my little wolf, when I rule the world I will return for you." He released Sauron, who scrambled a few feet away. Saruman reached out and stroked his face again.

"When I rule all, I will take you, and you will enjoy it," he promised. "I will give you the affection you've always been searching for, and you will be mine, body and soul." Sauron whimpered again, as Saruman used the Ring to mentally caress him. Saruman smiled and stood, leaving Sauron huddled on the floor.

"Until I rule all, my little wolf," he whispered as he left.

Gandalf stood on the pinnacle of Orthanc, and wept. Below him, the ground was unrecognizable, even from what it had been when he had first been placed here. It was covered now in deep choking fires from the deep forges that Saruman had delved into the plain. The torture of the earth was obvious. But that was not why the Istar wept.

Saruman had the Ring. And what that could mean for his dear friends…he didn't even want to contemplate.

He had removed Narya when Saruman had first put on the Ring, and he hoped that Elrond and Galadriel had been able to do the same with Vilya and Nenya. With them removed, it would take time for Saruman to be able to enslave them–time which he now had, Gandalf knew. The fallen wizard had just returned from the East, from a great victory. Barely able to admit it to himself, Gandalf wondered if he mourned his brother as well. While he had accepted this assignment to see his overthrow, Gandalf still felt slightly sick inside when he wondered what cruel fate Saruman would have given his defeated foe.

But none of that mattered. He had failed: failed his Lord and mission, failed his friends, failed Middle-earth, failed his brother… Gandalf paused. Yes, he had failed his brother. What Sauron was now merely a mockery of all his brother had been, and his destruction would have been a mercy in his older brother's eyes. But he was still here, part of him bound in that thrice-cursed Ring.

Gandalf knew that his own torment and destruction would be near at hand: had not Saruman promised as much? A fitting reward for the insolence of Gandalf the Grey? But he could not find it in him to care, not when everything he had fought and cared about had suddenly been laid to waste.

Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the rush of wings, until burning hands grabbed him, lifting him onto the back of a creature that looked like it had been spawned in the pits of Utumno. Gandalf froze, but did not resist as hands reached around him to grab reigns, frantically slapping the creature to get it airborne.

Saruman realized that his prisoner had escaped, but the creature was fast, and his response too late. Gandalf stayed quiet, and hands he still knew well, even after the Ages, guided the creature to the north-east. They skirted the edges of the Hithaeglir, eventually stopping at a small cave. The opening was barely large enough for the creature to fit, and inside, all was black: though Gandalf got the sense it was bigger than one would suspect.

Gandalf felt the one behind him dismount, an absence of heat more than anything. He too, slipped to the ground.

"The cave splits," a well-known voice said. "Take the one to the left: it has a bit of a draught in it, so I can light a fire without worrying about killing us both."

Gandalf did as the voice said, feeling the creature take the other fork. His rescuer followed him, and Gandalf could hear him rustling around, searching for something.

"I thought you had been destroyed," Gandalf said in a flat tone.

"What is the use of defeating and humiliating someone without them still able to understand their loss?" The weary, bitter pain in that statement almost made Gandalf flinch, and again wonder what Saruman had done.

"Why did you rescue me?" Gandalf asked, to cover his emotion. A snort met that query, and its owner seemed to finally find what he was looking for, as small sparks began to appear.

"I would not leave my worst enemy to Saruman…well, maybe Gothmog. Those two would deserve each other. But certainly not you." Gandalf squeezed his eyes shut as the fire finally caught.

"You are telling me, that you risked the wrath of the one who could completely destroy you, to rescue me…because we are brothers?" He opened his eyes again, meeting the golden ones which reflected the light of the new-caught flames.

"Yes," Sauron said simply.