Gandalf moved cautiously through the dungeons of Dol Guldur. He was intently aware of the map and key he had just been entrusted with, and responsibility they carried. But his mission here had not been to find and avenge an old Dwarf, though he hoped what he had been given would prove useful in the future.
No, he was here because he needed to know if the one called the Necromancer was really Sauron. If it was really his brother.
Gandalf closed his eyes as memories of a time he had still been called Olórin rose in his mind. He had been hesitant to take this assignment, to stand against the growing shadow. He had taken it out of respect for his Lord, but how did one stand against a brother? He knew it could be done, his own Lord had been forced to, after all. But he also knew the pain that it caused.
And Gandalf was almost certain that the master of this tower was his brother. All that was lacking was the actual recognition. No matter what Saruman had said, the actions of the Necromancer had been familiar. They stirred the same memories as those recollections of his brother's once laughing golden eyes.
And yet, Gandalf hoped he was wrong. For his little brother to have fallen so far…
He had been the one to discover that Mairon had turned in allegiance to Melkor. Had betrayed them all. Had betrayed him. And the pain of it had never left. Mairon's betrayal had been a devastating blow. His power made him a valuable asset to Melkor, and Gandalf would be the first to admit that his little brother was a brilliant strategist. Gandalf could still remember the mingled awe and disbelief he'd felt when he'd heard of just what Sauron had convinced the Númenóreans to do.
And ironically, it made the possibility that Necromancer was Sauron even worse. Because compared to the brilliant and subtle stratagems that Sauron had employed in the past, this was…petty. Uninspired. Brute force instead of corruption. Still dangerous, and still carried out with that obsessive attention to detail that made Gandalf almost certain of its author, but still. It was almost unworthy of the daring finesse his brother had once been known for.
As softly as his form allowed, Gandalf crept to a place he could see but not be seen. So close to the throne room, so close to the heart of the Necromancers power, and–if he was right–so close to the brother he hadn't seen in Ages.
His first reaction to the figure on the throne was horror. It was a form of darkness, of malice, of hatred. For an instant, Gandalf dared to hope he was wrong. But then it raised its head.
And Gandalf's heart broke.
Because despite the expression on that face, the pride and the evil that could be seen there, there was no mistaking those golden eyes. While Gandalf knew that he should be planning what to do now that the greatest fears of the Wise had been realized, or how to engineer his own escape from this dreadful place, all he could do was mourn.
He stared at the ruined form sitting on its throne, as indistinguishable from his memories of his innocent, laughing brother as orcs were from elves.
Something shifted within his heart, and Gandalf no longer doubted his ability to face Sauron. He may still fail in his task, but it would not be because he could not find it within himself to bring about his brother's destruction. For now he had finally learned the truth.
His brother was already destroyed, beyond any redemption Gandalf could foresee. When this war ended, if someday he watched his brother's entire empire crumble to dust, Gandalf knew that he would rejoice. Because utter destruction would be better than this mockery of everything his brother had been.
It was only when the awareness of his brother faded from his senses that Sauron moved from his throne. His plans were laid; for the truth of his identity to be revealed was no danger, and would actually be a help.
"For who we once were, brother, I will let you go this once," Sauron whispered to the empty room. "But do not expect such mercy again."
The past could never be reclaimed.