Disclaimer: I am not JRR Tolkien reborn, nor am I one of his relatives. Therefore, I do not own much of this, only a few pretentious metaphors and the like.
FOR THOSE WHO HAVE NOT READ THE SILMARILLION READ THE SILMARILLION, and also Morgoth is the first Dark Lord and Sauron's old boss, and also Utumno was his main fortress until it got destroyed by the Valar (big, important, god-type people) during the Years of the Trees (shortly after the first elves awoke), and also Angband was the secondary fortress, which was used during the wars of the First Age, and also Eönwë was the leader of the army of the Valar during the War of Wrath (big wrathful war at the end of the First Age), and also after Morgoth was defeated Sauron surrendered himself to him but then chickened out and ran away again, and also Curumo is Saruman, and also READ THE SILMARILLION.
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Discord (noun)
lack of concord or harmony between persons or things:
disagreement; difference of opinions
strife; dispute; war
an inharmonious combination of musical tones sounded together.
any confused or harsh noise; dissonance.
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"But in after years he rose like a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost in his malice, and walked behind him on the same ruinous path down into the Void." -JRR Tolkien, the Valaquenta
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"Perfection is shallow, unreal, and fatally uninteresting." -Annie Lamott
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Silence.
It hangs thick in the air, muffling the noise of the snowflakes as they hit the earth. Not heavy and uncomfortable, nor relaxing and content, merely the dull, muted silence of the earth when there is nothing but rock and ice. Sauron advances forward, gliding smoothly across the fallen white powder with naught but a rustle of his cloak. His icy breath cuts cleanly through the frigid air, so cold it burns, and yet he feels nothing more than an empty numbness.
The sky is dark and dead, lifeless and empty. No stars glitter in the endless fields of night above the grave of Utumno.
The Valar were thorough in their rage, their wrathful destruction so carefully coordinated that no outward trace was left of the dark palace that once stood proudly in this infinitely barren plain. Sauron prefers it that way, he decides, instead of disorderly heaping piles of rubble scattered across the ground there is naught but a perfectly bland and unbroken blanket of silence and snow.
Somewhere nearby is the entrance to miles upon miles of sprawling catacombs, the deep bowels of Utumno from which came orcs and werewolves and balrogs, yet even the Dark Lord of Mordor is hesitant to enter them, for some are still undoubtedly infested with dark, nameless things that he dare not face in this pathetically mutated form.
In the distance, the Iron Mountains loom threateningly over the flat expanse of even snow. They are half as tall as they once were, mere shadows of once monstrous towers of rock, beaten down by war and wind and time. He remembers how well they served him, creating an unpassible wall of endless stone to protect his fortress of Angband, the way Mordor is incased by the Ash Mountains to the north and the Mountains of Shadow to the south and to the west.
He has not sure what brought him here. He has not left his tower in centuries, preferring to watch from afar, as a great, all-seeing, lidless eye wreathed in fire, the way the stories tell it. But he is drawn to perfection, to unblemished, smooth, wholeness, and Mordor is too filled with sharp edges and rocky outcrops. In the final days, as the neverending wars of the First Age raged on, his master never left the throne room of Angband, but he is not Morgoth.
He could have come here to feel the chill on his skin, however his scarred, blackened flesh is numb, insensitive, and there is no biting wind to beat against his face anyway. In all honesty, it feels like he is simply gazing into his Palantír, watching the imperfect world rush by from the polished, dark, marble rooms of his tower.
Truly, he is all but useless to his own cause like this. In this foul, barely solid physical form it is all he can do to keep from simply drifting apart. Until he has his ring back, he is content to let the brunt of the western armies throw themselves at Curumo, doing great damage to both parties in the process, while he chips steadily away at the crumbling mountain that is the realm of Gondor.
Curumo is weak, blinded, and a fool, Sauron has decided, but a useful fool at that. He can see through his deception as if the White Wizard is a child playing dress up in his father's clothes. He can see the lust burning in the eyes of the Istari, a black, all consuming fire that he recognises all to well, yet he does not fear it. His ring is loyal to him alone - it is his other half, so to speak - and if discovered it shall use Curumo as it has used countless others before.
And oh, how he cannot wait to have his precious ring returned to his possession. It calls to him, tugging at his shattered feä, and he aches to feel its unmarked metal scorching his deadened flesh again. The thought of Curumo's horrified face when he realises that the double crosser has been double crossed is delightfully elating, and Sauron also cannot wait to shatter that pathetic, arrogant little Istari into tiny, squashable pieces.
Curumo wants to rule the world, while Sauron only wishes to bring it to its knees. (He is a lieutenant after all; a mere conqueror to this damaged earth, and certainly not its true king.)
He wonders who has his ring at the present, and what they intend to do with it. Is it a half mad, almost pitiful creature like that Gollum, who has been driven to insanity by his precious, or is it a powerful enemy already fruitlessly plotting his demise? Sauron cannot help but feel mildly amused at the utter stupidity of the children of Middle Earth; they must know now that his ring enslaves all who wear it, and yet they still attempt to wield it for their own personal gain.
Sauron passes absently across the heaping snow, his eyes wandering the horizon. Somewhere around here, he cannot help but think, once stood the great throne Morgoth, where he knelt in willful submission to the first Dark Lord. It is gone now, obviously, along with his master, while he - Sauron - still endures, alive, (alone), everlasting.
He can remember the last time he passed over these snow-covered fields, as the Valar came and wrought their destruction upon the fortress of his master. He can remember fleeing across miles upon miles of burning ice, the sound of its crisp crunching beneath his great paws the only noise present in his head, the snow sparkling, the world alight with power. He can remember hiding, for what felt like forever, alone in the dark pits deep beneath the earth.
He can remember his master's anger, in a different fortress now, as he paced up and down the throne room with three agonising jewels scorching in his crown. He can remember the feeling of blackened fingers crushing his throat, the ache of his starving lungs as they choked and gasped for air, and the sound of his ribs cracking as his stupid, weak, breakable body smashed against the cold stone floor. He can remember making a promise, a vow to never again desert his master, and he can remember how it burned in his mind as he fled the camp of Eönwë.
It is strange, here, in this utter silence. Absent even is the dull, flat, droning hum of the mountains, a dark, soothing song of his master. There is no wind to rush across the snowy plains, no leaves for it to rustle, and no rocks to thud down the mountainside. It has been so long since he has left his tower, where the shouts and cries of his orcs are carried up to his windows, and where the distant rumble of the volcano periodically shakes the ground.
He closes his eyes, and he can see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, sense nothing. There is nothing anymore, naught but he and and a flawless, everlasting darkness, firm and neat and orderly, stretching out before him for ever and ever. A though creeps to the forefront of his mind, an unpleasent thought, a thought of his future, alone in the deafening emptiness of the Timeless Void, and his eyes snap violently open again, the blazing orange orbs alight with an animalistic terror.
Suddenly, the perfect serenity of the snow plain does not feel quite as reassuring. It is the opposite in fact, it is as if the empty air is trapping him, suffocating him, drowning him in the silence, and Sauron suddenly finds himself gripped by the urge to flee, to return to his self imposed isolation in the summit of Barad-dûr, where the clang of crashing steal and the tortured screams of prisoners echo comfortingly through the obsidian.
He swallows, clenching his marred fists and and silently chanting I will not run over and over in his head. He would so like to shatter the suddenly despairing silence that surrounds him, yet his voice catches in his throat, holding him back. This is sacred ground, his mind tells him, and he should not defile its dissonant tranquillity with his cries.
Carefully, he stills himself, taking deep, slow breaths, watching the icy clouds of his breath evaporate into the chilling air.
Behind him, the snow has already settled over where here his hard iron boots had left deep imprints in the soft, white covering, leaving no sign at all of his passing. You are insignificant, unremarkable, the unmarred, crystalline, perfect snow seems to scream. You are but a single, sour note amidst a far greater symphony, and no matter how loud you sing you will always be drowned out. Alone you are nothing, and you will leave nothing behind you.
He blinks, once, twice, (I will not run) and then the snow is just snow again, sparkling innocently in the dim light of the starless sky. Silently, like the flitting of thoughts that come and go, the snowflakes continue to tumble from the sky, each one a perfect clump of crystallised water. They land around him with a peaceful, muted nothingness, merging with others to create this great blanket of sparkling dust. The white powder has built up even more since he has stopped walking, and already the toes of his boots are covered.
Perhaps if he stands here long enough it will bury him altogether, leaving no marring blemishes at all in the stark, blank whiteness.
The land here is perfect, endless fields of flawless, pure-white snow stretching out forever, contrasting against a spotless black sky. It is perfect, but only because it is dead.
Is complete extinction the only way to achieve absolute order?
His rings were always perfect bands of smooth gold. It was Celebrimbor who wanted to branch out, adding exquisitely glittering jems to satisfy his dragon-like lust for treasure, but Annatar would always refuse. They were creating masterpieces; Rings of Power that would burn and glow and dominate, and for that they needed to be impeccable.
His rings were always perfect, flawless, complete, but underneath the faultless surface they danced with the fire of life; an impossible, discordant contradiction.
He is not sure if perfection is really what he wants, anymore.
He takes another deep breath and holds it, counting painstakingly backwards from ten (IwillnotrunIwillnotrunIwillnotrun), before turning sharply on his heel and hastening away from the snow, and the silence, and the memories.
Behind him, the pale ghost of a dark fortress looms over the icy plain, casting a shadow against the deep, dayless sky; still, lifeless, everlasting.
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