A/N: Suffering from Love Pays No Indemnity withdrawal, my mind decided that this story should exist. Instead of writing for A Suicidal Journey, my muse told me 'Eh, what about a story about Sauron and Bilbo becoming BFFs and saving Middle Earth? Power of friendship and love save all?'

Things to note:

1.) I know little about the Tolkien universe so inaccuracies can be expected from this story. Please point these out and I shall do my best to correct them!

2.) I've taken some liberties and invented some facts to fit the story better. So, some inaccuracies are intentional :P

3.) It's my first time trying this kind of writing. I call it 'high-writing' because it describes a metaphysical world which transcends the concrete world, and I really suck at it. Let me know whether I should stick to straightforward, non-metaphysical writing!

4.) As usual, anything other than a oneshot from me has a high risk of staying incomplete. I'm really sorry for doing this a lot T^T. I go where my muse goes, unfortunately.

5.) The cover art I got from loki-nightfire at tumblr. Check out their other artworks!

6.) The Bagginshield is pre-slash and might stay that way. DON'T EVER READ FOR THE SLASH ALONE 'CAUSE YOU WILL BE DISAPPOINTED.

Lastly, I hope you enjoy this feel-good story ~

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Paradigm Shift

- Describes a profound change in a fundamental model or the perception of events

- Basic and fundamental principles may be shown to have an error and there is a need to look at the same information in a completely different way

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When his ring kissed the scorching heat of the fires in which it was made, Sauron's fëa hissed in bodiless agony. His strength waned in a continuous stream, drained by the whispers of the earth, the jeers of the skies, and the croons of the trees. A Song rang in the air, a joyfully aggressive harmonization of a thousand voices. It was the Song of life, of light, of freedom, of hope, of praise. It was the Song of victory and one that was not meant for Sauron.

His ring melted in the oppressive heat, and an indescribable torment ripped through his whole being. In that moment, Sauron knew complete defeat.

His consciousness slowly spread and thinned over Middle Earth, parts of him chipping away to be oppressed by the unbearable warmth of kind and selfless souls. The gleeful cries of Men, Dwarves, and Elves reverberated in the cold heavy air of Mordor, dissipating the pall of darkness and death.

No. What remained of Sauron's soul vibrated with unadulterated rage and damnable despair. He Sang a thundering melody, inviting grief and doubt and hate. But hope drowned away his words and clawed at his fëa in response.

We've won, oh Abhorred One, the mortals and Children of Ilúvatar cheered as one, tone not one of taunting but just one of sheer delight. We've fought, we've suffered, we've lived, and we've won!

Sauron could not win against the onslaught of their Song. He would be destroyed, obliterated with naught a speck of his being left. Feebly, he chanted a promise of vengeance.

You will not know freedom, free will! To know order, you must be subjugated by me! I will not be conquered!

The music was snatched away by laughter before anyone could hear.

The Dark Lord gathered the shadows of his fëa, mere wisps fluttering in the hopeful air.

The war ended, the children of Morgoth scattering chaotically in the absence of its master and victory of their foes. Each creature of evil bolted without a thought to their comrades, each knowing that their days were now numbered.

Sauron retreated to the deepest darkest recesses of mortal hearts where he could neither influence nor overpower even the lowliest of creatures. His consciousness would have faded, had he tarried a moment more, leaving what was once Sauron just mere shadows in corners and soft whispers in the wind.

As it was, the Dark Lord could be described as a weakened spirit but just barely. He lurked in the darkest crevices of the world, struggling not to get trampled by the strengthening light smothering the darkness he once spread.

All manner of creatures and the Valar rejoiced, thinking him gone forever.

Across the lands, the colors grew brighter. The infestation in Mirkwood healed with no support from the Dark Lord. Orcs and goblins were hunted, numbers quickly dwindling down. Life who had not known Sauron's wrath blossomed beautifully, joining thousands of voices in their praise of Ilúvatar.

Sauron watched it all with disgust.

He travelled from mortal to mortal, unbeknownst, trying to consume their fëa to empower his own. The destruction of his ring, however, had made him impotent, and he failed to regain any kind of strength.

Sauron might not have met his end like the whole Middle Earth thought but he would never again be capable of conquest.

Fury ripped through his whole being, and even as he screamed, not a single creature heard him. Even his anger held no power, did nothing but ruffled a few leaves on trees. He was once the mightiest on this plane, and now he had been reduced to a sprite incapable of even summoning an hröa of his own.

But.

As the flickering tendrils of his fëa cooled, a great epiphany dawned to him. The beginnings of a plan sparked in his mind. Even the great minds of the Valar would not have anticipated it. His scheme expanded until there was no doubt to his success.

He roared with gleeful laughter. Oh, his vow of revenge would be fulfilled. In a way, he would ensure the promise would have never been spoken in the first place.

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Eons passed, and Sauron waited. He was patient, had always been patient. He nibbled at mortal souls, making certain that he would not wink out of existence. The indignity burned him but the guarantee of reward calmed his wrath. The mortals were barely affected by his deeds, the fëa the Dark Lord consumed barely making an impact in their thoughts and lifespans.

At last, the most peaceful era rose. Vairë, weaver of the stories of the world, had been made complacent. She would weave no great destinies in this age, desiring to rest her nimble fingers and spend time with her husband. As such, the tapestries of the world were left alone for but a moment.

A moment was all Sauron needed.

A fëa bounded in an hröa was grounded in the plane of Middle Earth. The Maia, with their strong and enormous fëa, cannot slip between the strands of the embroideries.

Sauron was neither bound in an hröa nor had a powerful fëa. His weakness had ensured his triumph. He dove in between the threads and stories, fighting against the current of time. He spun his way across the braids of forgotten wars and falling kingdoms. He twisted away from the plaits of boisterous celebrations and royal births.

His quest was not easy, each knot attempting to shake his consciousness apart. He persevered but he knew that soon, the tapestries would take too much of him. And he would truly be destroyed.

An eternity flitted by, and at last, just as Sauron's strength was nearly gone, the weave of his demise revealed itself. Without another thought, he reached out, grasped it, and pulled hard.

In the tapestry of the Battle of the Five Armies, a kink in the perfect knot formed.

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When Sauron came to his senses, he was overlooking a lake, a mountain and a large expanse of burnt land. Armies of Elves, Men, Dwarves gathered at the foot of the mountain as a larger platoon of orcs and goblins marched their way.

Dizzy and still weakened from fighting against the flow of time, Sauron wobbled in the blood-soaked air.

The Sauron of this time dissipated without a trace and without much flourish, the enfeebled Dark Lord of the future replacing him. Not that this Sauron, at this point in time, had been much stronger.

A small price to pay, the Dark Lord mused. In a couple of decades, the Sauron of the past would be defeated once more.

But there was no time for such thoughts. Vairë would soon be back to weaving her drapes. She would correct the plait, and Sauron would have done all this for naught.

The Dark Lord, an unseen fëa in the wind, drew closer to the armies. He darted past the Men, the Elves, and the Dwarves. Olórin, when Sauron was scant meters away, straightened abruptly. The ruby of Narya upon his gnarled finger glowed faintly in the Dark Lord's presence.

Sauron sucked in a sharp breath. Celebrimbor's ring! To think Olórin had one of them this time! He chuckled. Oh, how easy it would be to steal, how effortlessly Sauron would gain another artifact that was rightfully his!

But Narya was not the ring he sought after. Olórin could keep it for now.

The Maia's sharp gaze roamed warily but with no real concern. The Dark Lord's fëa was too decrepit to evoke an air of any real danger. Indeed, just as Olórin failed to notice the One Ring as it stood by his side, so too would he fail to detect Sauron.

He passed by the Maia, and trailed over his prize.

While it had been Frodo Baggins who had journeyed to Mordor to destroy the One Ring, Sauron's ruin began with Bilbo Baggins.

As the Dark Lord glimpsed upon the guileless anxious face of his demise, rage and irritation trickled into his being. Such a small soft powerless creature had brought about the defeat of the mightiest of the Maiar! Sauron would love nothing more than to devour the Halfling's melodic fëa, beat it into submission and torment it for eternity. Slowly, he would twist and break the Halfling's soul until it resembled that of an orc's.

Luckily for Bilbo Baggins, Sauron had no time for frivolities.

The Dark Lord stood in front of the Halfling, allured by the artifact nestled in his pocket. His ring, his precious wicked ring! How he missed it! Sauron longed to wear it upon his finger once more, to be complete and utterly indestructible.

In his current state, however, he was unable to form an hröa, let alone one strong enough to handle the power of his ring. He had not the strength to absorb another's fëa to restore his own; he could not overpower anyone who would resist him. But Bilbo Baggins had been exposed to the One Ring's influence for months and the beginnings of darkness creeped into his mind (Although it would not be enough. One day, the Halfling would still have the strength to resist and willingly give up the One Ring to his ward to be destroyed). Already, the Halfling's soul was linked Sauron's, like the previous ring bearers were.

The Halfling was just what Sauron needed to regain enough might to consume other fëar. Sauron merely needed to ensure that he would not resist the Dark Lord's attempts to annihilate him.

It was easier than one would think. Sauron shared memories with his ring once it came near Mordor, once Frodo Baggins gave in to the ring's temptation at that last moment before the end. The fëa coating the jewelry called out to its master, signaling its location. The ring saw through its bearers' minds, and Sauron's Great Eye inherited its experiences. In an instant, he knew everything there was to know about Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.

Sauron put his plan into action. He stretched and reached out to the Halfling's mind, touch unobtrusive and disarming. Still, the Halfling's eyes widened and he released an almost inaudible gasp.

Look, Bilbo Baggins, Sauron Sang, sadness and despair warring in his voice. It took all of his will not to recoil in revolt. Tragedy awaits you in the oncoming war.

The Dark Lord fed the Halfling's mind with gore and grime. He showed him friends being cut down, let him hear the horrified screams, filled him with the smell of blood and rot, and introduced the touch of the spongy entrails of a dark-haired dwarf. It did not matter that some of them did not ever come to pass.

No, no, no! The Halfling cried out, devastated beyond belief. No, please, no!

Sauron stifled a smirk in the face of the Halfling's anguish.

He could not help but croon, Oh, Bilbo Baggins, such havoc looms in the near future. Friends will be slaughtered, foes will triumph! Oh, poor little hobbit, so far away from home. Came along with nothing, came back having lost all.

No! I-It won't happen. I won't allow it! The conviction behind the promise startled Sauron out of his Music. I'll save them, I'll save them all, continued the Halfling. His fëa burned with unparalleled determination, the Songs of his life harmonizing into one euphonious hymn.

Sauron grappled with the harmony of his own Song, realizing his astonishment had cost him. Save them all indeed! I've an offer, brave little burglar. I beg you to accept. The Dark Lord fought down a shudder of displeasure. He Sang in a cloying tone, Today, not one life will be taken, not one soul forfeit except that of yours.

Quicker that Sauron expected, Bilbo Baggins realized the implication of his words. Confusion stirred him. My life for the life of thousands?

Billions, Sauron thought with dark amusement. Every creature in Middle Earth owed their lives to the Halfling. At this war, thousands would die to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, an important stronghold against Sauron's forces. At this war, thousands would die just so Bilbo Baggins, the longest bearer of his ring, could live. Theses lives were a small sacrifice, Sauron supposed, compared to the lives lost should the Halfling die in this battle.

No matter. That was another lifetime. In this one, Bilbo Baggins would not get a chance to play hero.

My strength wavers, my powers weak. Bestow upon me your soul and it shall be enough, Sauron replied, inserting a kernel of truth. I plead for your swift agreement. The children of Morgoth marches on, armed with death and destruction. Let me save the children of the light! If the price is too steep –"

I'll do it, interjected the Halfling. In the physical realm, he raised his head, gaze towards a balcony in the mountain holding thirteen dwarves. Hope glimmered in his eyes. Please take it. Defeat the orcs and the goblins, and save my friends. Then, with his mind, the Halfling reached out, unknowingly touched fëar with the Dark Lord, and opened himself up for the assault.

Desperation blinded Bilbo Baggins to the signs, to pause and think on the truth of the supposed savior's Song. Sauron took advantage, and did not hesitate to take the unresisting soul offered to him. He engulfed the Songs binding the Halfling's fëa together, scraping the soul from the body.

The devouring should have went easily and painlessly. But Sauron must have miscalculated, must have missed something in his plans. The Halfling's fëa was hard to swallow, and difficult to absorb.

Sauron! Bilbo Baggins finally realized with horror.

Yes, Sauron replied, wanting to sound smug but knew he was far too exhausted and distracted for it. Foolish little Halfling. Far too late to resist, far too late for anything.

But the Halfling's fëa did not merge effortlessly with Sauron's, and all his remaining strength were put into trying to subdue the Halfling's Songs.

Forcing a square peg on a circular one, flitted by Sauron's mind. And he found it perfectly described his situation. Uh, no, that metaphor was mine, thank you very much, you confusicating evil creature! The Halfling scratched at every part of Sauron's being, trying to draw away. But Sauron had devoured more than half of what was Bilbo Baggins, and he clutched the Halfling to try and consume the rest.

Their fëar battled with each other, low and high-pitched chants clashing for dominance. Sauron should not be losing; the Halfling's consciousness should have already dissipated. Sauron could feel his fëa being revitalized from his consumption, painful as the process might be. Yet what remained of the Halfling's fëa struggled fiercely, giving no leeway. Sauron supposed he should have expected no less from the bringer of his doom.

In their inner turmoil, something broke and neither knew what. Light spilled, darkness smothered, and Songs reached their peak.

The Halfling opened his mouth and let out a gut-wrenching scream, and Sauron found himself doing the same. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, they cried out as one.

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Centuries-worth of tapestries unraveled, threads uncoiling and slipping out of the Halls of Mandos. Vairë sobbed as she saw the mess that were once her greatest stories.

The Valar scrambled to find answers. What has happened? How can this be? What do we do next? What of Middle Earth? What of my children?

What of Sauron?

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When the Dark Lord came to, it seemed as if eternities have passed. Yet as he opened the eyes of the hröa that now contained his fëa, the shocked faces of Elves, Men, Dwarves, and one Maia met him. A glinting golden ring rested comfortably upon his middle finger.

The cooling corpse of the Halfling laid by his feet.

"What is the meaning of this?" the human leader – Bard, the Halfling's memory offered – gasped out. His eyes flicked to Sauron's form and the Halfling's body.

Power swirled inside him, beautiful and immense. Oh, this was more than he could hope for. With the possession of his ring and the feeding of the Halfling's fëa, he was nearly back to his full strength – the power he last had during the Second Age, before Isildur cut his ring from his hand.

"Sauron," Olórin said with fear, staff raised and countenance well-guarded. The king of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil Oropherion, backed away, expression as dark as night. "What have you done?"

"Sauron!?" the Dwarf-royalty called Dain exclaimed, weapon raised.

"Wha's happening down there?" One of the Dwarves peered down from above the mountain.

"W-Why's Bilbo laying on the ground?"

"W-Wha-Who's that?"

"Something's not right about him."

The murmurs rippled through the crowds but few recognized the evil incarnate. Sauron grinned and stepped over the corpse of the Halfling. The nearest creatures startled and stepped away, perturbed. The Dark Lord laughed, taking pleasure in their reactions.

Sauron had important matters to attend to but he could not resist twisting the knife in.

"I have your burglar to thank, Olórin," Sauron remarked casually, lifting his right hand to brandish the One Ring. The leaders of the armies flinched. "He seems to have found my ring."

The wizard's eyes widened as realization set in. Yes, the ring he had let the burglar keep, assured that it was no more than a useful trinket. Olórin's gaze dipped to the ground where the Halfling was sprawled, motionless. Grief deepened the lines of his wizened face.

"But how?" was Thranduil's disbelief-laden question. "Sauron has been vanquished!"

The said Dark Lord let out a deep-throated laugh. "Have I, Oropherion? Who then stands before you?"

"It cannot be." Bard denied, the beginnings of terror painting his expression.

"Sauron?" The incredulous whisper should have been lost to the wind. Sauron had heard nonetheless.

He raised his head towards the mountain, locking gazes with periwinkle eyes. The dwarf-king let out a surprised breath, face pale and gaunt. The skin around his eyes was bruised, lips dry and cracking. His stare shifted lower and like Olórin, he took in the lone cadaver stiffening by the foot of the mountain.

Sauron watched as the dwarf-king's murky eyes cleared, akin to stormy clouds blown away to reveal very blue skies.

"Bilbo?" was the soft gasp.

Something deep within Sauron unraveled, and he found his next exhale to be a bit breathless. Before he could investigate the phenomena further, a war cry echoed in the heavy air. His head snapped towards the source, just in time to see Dain and a group of Dwarves charging forward.

"Dain, no!" Olórin bellowed but the order fell on deaf ears.

Amused by their recklessness, Sauron met their attack halfway. Even without a weapon, the Dark Lord knew the Dwarves were no match for him. The mere proximity to Sauron's presence caused half of the Dwarves to freeze. The other half laid in a pathetic heap not too soon after. Dain trembled, one arm and leg severely broken, but stubbornly rose up against the foe he could not hope to defeat.

Fortunately for the Dwarf, Sauron had decided he had dawdled enough. With one last smirk towards the leaders of the armies, the Dark Lord unbounded his fëa from its hröa, and flew towards Ravenhill.

Azog recognized him the moment he landed. The white orc dropped to his knees, his subjects following instantly.

"My Lord," Azog rasped out, awe marring his face as he gazed upon his master.

"Call off your army," Sauron demanded without a greeting, Black Speech ripping guttural sounds from his throat. "We will be defeated in this war."

A good chunk of Sauron's forces had fallen here. It had taken decades to breed enough orcs to replace the ones that had met their deaths in the Battle of the Five Armies. And for what? In the end, the Lonely Mountain had not been reclaimed.

This time, Sauron would not waste his resources. The war he would rage against all races of Middle Earth would come to pass sooner than eighty years.

Azog's head snapped up at the declaration. "But, my Lord, the Dwarves –"

"Do not question my orders," Sauron cut in, voice lilting in what could be a start of a Song. His flaming eyes belied the calmness of his words.

"Right away, Dark Lord." Azog bowed low, forehead almost kissing the ground. Then, he scrambled to his feet, and shouted orders. He signaled the armies approaching the Lonely Mountain to stand down and retreat.

Sauron watched as legions of orcs and goblins slowly withdrew, preventing the large war that would tremendously deplete their forces.

And preventing the death of the Durin line.

The Dark Lord frowned, wondering why that would matter. Oh, yes. Dain, while hot-headed, had played an important role in strengthening the defenses against Sauron's armies. Clever and quick to act, Dain Ironfoot had easily bested the children of Morgoth. That incompetent gold-sick dwarf now sat on the throne; the Durins lived to ensure Erebor's downfall.

He allowed himself a smile. Oh, how everything had fallen to plan.

"To Mordor, we march!"

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A/N:

If you like this story, please go and read Love Pays No Indemnity by Jana! Read and review that, and maybe Jana will finally update ;_; ! Don't be discourage by the pairing! Gods, I swear everything about the story is amazing and believable and romantic!

Constructive criticisms are very much welcome!

Have you ever heard of a baby's laughter? I have a new cousin, and I hear their laughter every day, and it really lifts up my spirit. I hope that you too hear something that will lift your spirits! ^_^

~ Vividpast