Editing finished 6-18-14.
Prologue
Manwë may have blown what was left of the stubborn ex-lieutenant of Melkor away from the Armies of the West, but Námo had enough of his trying to enslave Middle-earth. With the greater part of his power destroyed with his Ring, he was unable to resist as Námo exerted his power over the hapless Maia. He was swiftly pulled into the cell Námo had prepared for him. It wasn't Melkor's old cell, but it didn't have to be. With so much of his essence destroyed, he wasn't much stronger than the elves held in the other cells like this one. Námo had placed him in a wing of his own: he didn't want to have any of them find out Sauron was here. Although placing Fëanor and Sauron together in a small space might be highly amusing…
Námo sighed as he examined the damaged fëa before him. There was very little left to tell that this one had once been a brilliant gold—merely little hints here and there. He was so badly damaged that he wasn't even truly self-aware. Námo could feel the confused tangle of the Maia's thoughts.
Carefully, Námo wrapped Sauron with a little bit of his power; a psychic blanket that would sooth most of the Maia's intense pain. While it was mostly likely that Manwë would order this one thrown into the Void like the Vala he had chosen to follow, while he was in the Halls of Mandos, Námo would see to it that he did not suffer. No matter what the Elves seemed to think, his halls were not a place of torment, and he would not allow them to become such.
Incarnating the small Maia would be the best course of action to help him heal, but if he was simply going to be thrown to the Void, Námo was not going to do that. So he reached out mentally and touched Manwë's thoughts. When the Elder King turned his attention to Námo, the Lord of Mandos explained what he had done to gain his hall's newest resident and asked just what Manwë wanted done with the Maia. Manwë was silent for a long while.
I do not like the idea of sentencing him to the Void without a trial, Manwë finally said. And ideally, he would need to be able to speak at that trial…
I will incarnate him then, Námo responded. He will heal more quickly that way. It will probably be a few years before he will be able to stand trial, but we are not in any hurry.
That is true, Manwë replied. Then I will remand him to your care until he is strong enough to face trial in the Máhanaxar.
Námo gave a mental bow, and let the connection fade. He turned his attention again to the Maia and gently unwrapped him, compassion filling his eyes as Sauron gave a confused cry, not understanding why the warmth was gone and the pain had returned.
"Shh, little one, it is alright," the Vala murmured, picking up the Maia so that his own presence could alleviate some of the pain that wracked the damaged creature. Incarnating him would be tricky. The fëa of an Elf remembered it's hröa very strongly, and it was easy to find the memories that could be used to recreate it. For a Maia, however, the memories of a self-created fána could be buried very deeply indeed. And it was considered unethical to dig though another's memories without their consent. Considering the circumstances, Námo was tempted to ignore that, but as damaged as Sauron was, the last thing Námo wanted him to do was panic. And if he became aware of someone else in his mind…
"Well, little one, I hope you will not object to the fána that I create for you," Námo murmured, pulling his own memories of the form this particular Maia had once worn to the fore. Sauron's fána formed slowly: about the hight of the tallest among the Firstborn, but short for one of the Ainur, with long black hair and golden eyes that were the shade his fëa had once been, and a face pale from the long darkness he had created. The missing forefinger and the scared neck from the brief—but memorable—meetings with Isildur and Huan created the defining features of an otherwise beautiful and flawless figure.
Námo looked into the golden eyes, but they were unfocused and hazy, not showing any evidence of intelligent thought. But Námo could tell that the little Maia had settled, the fána able to protect his fëa better than almost anything else Námo could do. And as well, the physical form would allow him to heal faster. So Námo mentally added a cot to the cell, Vairë adding thick, rich bedding from where she was in her workshop. Námo carefully tucked Sauron into the bed and smoothed the covers over him, before gently closing the Maia's eyes and leaving him to his rest.
FA 1
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
The faintly muttered word, accompanied by a faint banging, was the first thing that Námo heard when he next approached Sauron's cell. The disorientation should have worn off by now, at least partially, and Námo needed to check on the Maia's progress.
Námo raised an eyebrow at the scene that greeted him upon arriving at the cell. Sauron was sitting against the back wall, knees up, one arm casually draped around them, muttering to himself, and banging his head against the wall in time to what he was saying. He'd also apparently found the clothing left for him, and was dressed in the black, loose-fitting tunic and breeches.
"Do you know how it makes you feel when you realize your were enslaved to your own creation?" he said without preamble, eyes flashing open and focusing on Námo's face. "No, of course not, because you've never done something so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he ranted, resuming banging his head against the wall. Námo leaned against the door jam, and let him rant.
"I mean, what did I think was going to happen when I poured the majority of my essence into an inanimate object, and made it seduce and enslave everyone it encounters!" He stopped banging his head on the wall and looked at Námo, curiosity glinting in his golden eyes. "How did those hobbits avoid that, anyway?" he asked.
"All your Ring offered was the power to dominate," Námo explained. "Hobbits as a rule do not desire such power. Thus they were fairly good at refusing Its call."
Sauron nodded, mulling that over. Then he sighed, running his four-fingered hand though his tangled hair. "So now what?" he asked bluntly.
The Doomsman of Arda stared at him dispassionately. "That is the question, isn't it." Námo commented quietly.
"I'm actually shocked you haven't thrown me out into the Void already," Sauron said when Námo seemed disinclined to say anything else.
"Manwë decided that action would not be taken unless you were sentenced after a formal trial," Námo responded.
"So you've all been waiting for me to heal so you could put me on trial," Sauron said dryly.
"Indeed," Námo said, matching his tone.
"So am I healed?" Sauron asked, that sardonic edge still in his voice.
"Considering the state of your fëa when you first arrive here, I sincerely doubt that," Námo said, and the Maia flinched almost imperceptibly.
"You are, however, strong enough to face trial," Námo continued. Sauron's face dropped into a remarkably emotionless mask, though he sighed slightly and shifted his weight to rise.
"Your trial is not yet, young one," Námo said calmly. "Manwë has decided that those who you have most hurt should have a voice in your fate."
"Finrod, Celebrimbor, Gil-galad…" Sauron mused. Námo shook his head again.
"Celebrimbor and Gil-galad have not yet been reborn. They will not be involved. Finrod, however, will be," Námo told him.
"So why the wait?" Sauron asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because Frodo Baggins will also get to give his opinion on what your fate will be." Sauron's face paled slightly.
"How can he?" he asked, voice almost steady.
"He is sailing to Valinor as we speak," Námo informed him. Sauron blinked in surprise.
"But he's mortal," the Maia pointed out.
"Yes, but he was so damaged by your Ring that he can no longer find healing in the mortal lands. In recognition of what he accomplished, we are offering him healing here, and he and his elderly kinsman Bilbo, who found the Ring, have accepted that offer, and are sailing here along with the bearers of the Three."
"I see," Sauron said noncommittally, rising to his feet. "He's so damaged, yet you're going to drag everything back up for him with my sham of a trial?" Námo raised an eyebrow.
"Sham?" he asked quietly.
"If everyone already knows what the outcome is going to be, than a trial is simply a formality, nothing more. And I don't think there is any doubt as to what the outcome of this so-called trial is going to be," Sauron spat.
"Do you want to be thrown into the Void?" Námo asked him, still remarkably calm.
"No!" Sauron replied loudly. "I've been running from that fate for two Ages now! But I am no fool: there will not be a single person at that trial that wants anything else than me in the Void. So again, what is the point of a sham of a trial?"
"Do you have any reason we should not throw you to the Void?" Námo asked baldly.
"Other than the fact you'd be handing Morgoth back his chief lieutenant?" Sauron replied. "Not really." He sighed, the fight going out of him, sliding down the fall to sit again, pulling his knees to his chest.
"I never believe the way Melkor did," he said quietly. "I never wanted to become what I have." He tilted his head back, meeting Námo's eyes squarely, one knee falling the the floor, and gave a huff that might have been a laugh under different circumstances.
"But it's far, far too late for that," he said with a mirthless grin that did nothing to alleviate the bleak despair in his eyes.