Chapter 4

Sauron had no idea how to get to the Máhanaxar.

His knowledge of Valinor consisted solely of the gleaned pieces of information he had gathered from Noldorin thralls and Morgoth himself, though the latter rarely had spoken of his time in Aman and his servants had all known better than to pry into what was clearly a sensitive subject for the Dark Vala. Therefore, Sauron's acquaintance with the Blessed Realm stretched little further than details that were vague at best: a sky-tall mountain that caught the light of the Sun's passing, a harbor that had once been filled with white ships before it had been filled with Telerin bodies, a dark hall of dead spirits and punishment on the edge of the world, beauty, bliss, entrapment, thralldom. He had heard many words to describe Valinor. But Sauron trusted words just about as little as he trusted appearances.

But one thing he could not yet deny was the beauty of Valinor. Despite himself, he had felt jealousy burning inside on the short walk that afternoon from the harbor to the outskirts of Valmar. Beleriand had been fair, mysterious, and wild, but its beauty had been dark and, Sauron knew, marred. That was the one thing in which Sauron had always been at odds with Melkor, though he never had spoken his dissent aloud. Melkor had lived under the conviction that if it could not be his, utterly and completely, then it must be destroyed beyond all recovery.

Sauron, on the other hand, had always acted under the principle of "waste not." Where he could adopt the usefulness or glory of another's design, he was not above melding it and improving it with his own work, even if he could not claim the result as unadulteratedly his. So what if Beleriand had been principally designed by his enemies? It had been beautiful, and he would have greatly preferred to become lord of an exquisite paradise – his own Land of Bliss to challenge the tales he heard of Valinor – rather than the burning, ravaged ruin he'd left, but Melkor would not hear of it. To Melkor, it seemed the only way something could be his was if he twisted it so far from its original form that it become unrecognizable. And Melkor, Sauron thought with a hint of a sigh, had not exactly been a connoisseur of beauty.

However, as he walked through the cool evening, the low-riding sun pouring its golden light over Taniquetil looming silently beyond the city, setting on fire the bright, unstained rivers, trees, slopes, and plains, Sauron came the closest he had ever felt to Melkor's burning hatred toward all things that were not and could not ever be his. As he gazed upon the shimmering, golden slopes of the Pelóri across the plains from him, he wished that such a land could have been his and he had a sudden desire to set real flames to this mocking land, this land that flaunted its beauty in his face, this land that could never, ever belong to him. It seemed better that it should burn than that it should exist beyond the grasp of his tantalized fingertips, a realm going to waste without his will to govern and shape it to absolute perfection.

It seemed pointless to walk when he had no idea where he was going, so he just stood on the lip of the hill, gazing down into the valley of Valmar at the feet of the mountain. His dramatic and arrogant exit from the house had been for nothing more than show, and if he knew one thing for certain, it was that the Valar wouldn't let him walk off into the evening unattended. In the spur of the moment, he had been proud to take his life into his own hands and demand his own trial, but looking back, he was already feeling queasy about it. He did not take back his determination to go down with his head held high, to show that he was not merely some pawn to be moved about a board at a game master's will, but he worried once again that perhaps his arrogance might work against him. It had been both Eönwë and Aulë's warnings, and he knew his pride had played significant roles in various low points in his life. He was not above the recognition that his position was precarious. Some doom awaited him, and while he was sure there was little he could do at this point to make it better, he was fairly sure it was still quite possible for him to dig himself a deeper grave. He hoped he had not just done so.

Fool, he thought to himself, when will you learn that your emotions are your enemy? It was only ever when Morgoth lost his iron control that he opened himself up to weakness and defeat. Do you wish to follow that same path, Sauron, that path straight to the Void?

Again, he cursed the unstable ground that he was metaphorically teetering on. What was it the Valar wanted of him? I suppose I shall discover that soon enough, he thought, and despite the perfect, warm weather of Aman, he shivered.

That was when the Valar chose to join him. Námo and Estë had vanished, perhaps going on ahead to the Ring of Doom to alert the other Valar that the trial was indeed going on as planned, but he felt the presences of Irmo and Aulë emerging from the golden evening behind him. Sauron knew the Máhanaxar lay somewhere on the outskirts of Valmar, so he began walking purposefully down the hill towards the city, as if that had been his plan all along. Soon, the uncomfortable sensation of being flanked by two Lords of Valinor settled over him though, and he dropped back just slightly, letting them do the guiding. Neither Vala commented on his refusal of Estë's healing, his demand to go ahead with the trial, or his abrupt exit from the house, for which Sauron was at least presently thankful. Talking, especially with Aulë, was not high on his list of priorities at the moment, and so they plodded on, silence wrapping around them even as the grey of twilight finally settled over the fair countryside.

~o~o~o~

"The Ring of Doom – a pretty name for the Valar's stocks where they will bind you, find every chink with which they can humiliate you, and then take their turns flinging their mud of accusations into your face, and for what crime? To rule? To create? No, for daring to oppose them and to reveal that there are other paths in the world to trod, paths apart from the one they have ordained. It was so for me, and it is so for all who succumb to the misfortune of entering that cursed ring of punishment and humiliation. Doom, hah! There is no worse doom than that!"

The night had been one late in the War of Wrath, when it was clear that the war was not going in the favor of Angband. His tongue loosened uncharacteristically by both rage and several bottles of dark wine, Morgoth had informed Sauron quite colorfully about what exactly awaited them all when the last line of defenses broke and the Valar dragged them out of their hiding like rats from a hole. That night Sauron had learned more about his master's stay in Valinor than he had heard in the hundreds of years leading up to it, and the combination of hate, rage, and terror in the Dark Vala's eyes was enough to freeze the Black Captain's heart.

For the beginning, Morgoth had shared a multitude of unpleasant memories from his own experience, but when the wine grew thicker on his breath, he had turned his attention to his lieutenant.

"If they treat their own flesh and blood as no more than a contemptible rat, than what do you think awaits you, fiery little traitor?" Morgoth had laughed, his voice horribly slurred by the wine and his own fearful despair. "They will strip you to the bone, leave your mind reeling, naked, and humiliated. Oh, they will enjoy you, Sauron, clip your wings and watch you pound yourself to death against the bars of their cage. Pretty little bird will never fly again."

Sauron, his own mind reeling from several more glasses of Morgoth's wine than were good for him, had just listened, horrified, the images seared bright in his mind. Morgoth's iron crown with its one empty socket like a disfigured eye seemed to grow in his vision until it was a ring big enough for him to stand in, surrounded on all sides by tall iron spikes, with no entrance and no exit, nothing but sheer metal walls all around him. He imagined himself forced to stand stark-naked in the middle of that terrible ring while shadowy figures pressed in all around him, clamping chains about his wrists, his ankles, his neck, then lastly and most terribly, over his mouth, and then leaving him, speechless, to stand in chains for the rest of eternity as an example to every living creature that passed by to mock him. Sauron's gorge rose violently, and aided by the alcohol and many sleepless nights of fear, he had emptied his stomach onto Morgoth's black marble floor.

The morning after, with a pounding head but a decidedly more stable mind, the Black Captain had decided that Morgoth might have exaggerated a little, but one thing stuck fast in his thoughts: the Ring of Doom was not somewhere he wanted to end up.

~o~o~o~

Sauron looked up at the tall grey walls directly in front of him, not iron, but some elegant, smooth stone. A large pair of double doors made of wood stood directly in front of him. There was nothing innately intimidating about them, nothing more so than with any other structure in Valinor – in fact, their curved surface was graceful and lovely even, nothing like that cruel ring of iron torture he had envisioned that night with Morgoth. But all the same, he knew it was going to take every ounce of his will to step through those doors once they opened.

Aulë and Irmo had left him once they reached the gates, doubtlessly to join the other Valar before he was permitted to enter. He was thankful for it. He preferred not to show up looking like he needed two babysitters. Although he could not see anyone, he was sure he was being watched, though. Not only did he doubt that the Valar would leave him unsupervised at this crucial moment, but he could feel piercing eyes on the back of his neck. He remained stiff and unmoving, however, facing the gates, not submitting to the temptation to look around for his observers.

He saw little point in trying to corral his thoughts, now when all his doubts and fears of the last two weeks – and from farther back – were culminating in a single event that would probably determine what the rest of his life looked like. His mouth had gone bone dry and he had to fight to swallow. Everything terrible Morgoth had ever told him about his punishment and the fates that awaited any of his servants that had the misfortune of being captured were racing through his thoughts. Sauron's mind needed no prompting to conjure up images of horror; he had personally seen, and carried out, many of the tortures inflicted on his and Morgoth's own prisoners of war.

But you are not a prisoner, some small voice whispered in the back of his mind. You came to them.

A harsher voice laughed back. A prisoner of war is a prisoner of war regardless of whether he was captured or surrendered of his own free will. You should have run, you fool.

Sauron pushed both voices back, straightening his shoulders. Whatever awaited him beyond those doors, he was fairly sure, despite Morgoth's words, that it wouldn't be torture, not in the tradition sense. The Valar were just, but they were not cruel, of that he was sure. And that was the reason why he could not wrap his mind around what they might do to him. If their positions were reversed, he the conquering lord and they the defeated traitors, he knew exactly what he would do, and neither mercy nor kindness entered anywhere into the equation. But what might someone do to him who had no desire to see him writhe in anguish, shriek for mercy, and finally die a slow, painful death to compensate for his treachery? Námo had been plain enough – they could not let him wander Valinor freely – and he was fairly sure that they did not intend to condemn him to the Void just yet (why heal or care for him if his body was about to be annihilated?) and he was confident in ruling physical torture out of the picture. What then was left?

He wasn't sure what changed in his surroundings, but he was suddenly aware that there was a person standing behind him. He stiffened automatically and clenched his hands into fists, half-expecting to feel ropes being bound around him.

"Don't worry, I'm just your escort."

Sauron turned his head at the sight of golden hair in his peripheral as the blue-clad Maia came to stand beside him. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Eönwë?"

The Herald of Manwë looked grim and official, wearing a formal tabard of pale blue with the white eagle of the Vala King on his chest. He glanced sideways at Sauron. "So you made it all the way to the Ring of Doom," he said. "I still wasn't sure you wouldn't jump ship or make some bolt for it once you arrived in Valinor."

Sauron scowled, his eyes burning darkly. "I'm not in the Ring of Doom yet."

Eönwë gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Well, if you're going to run, Sauron, now is your only chance. They're ready to see you."

Before Sauron could process those words, Eönwë stepped forward and pushed open the doors of the Máhanaxar.

White light rushed over Sauron and with it, he felt the surge of power from the Ring. His gut tightened, his tongue grew so heavy he doubted he still retained the powers of speech, and his head and neck pounded with racing blood. His vision elongated until it looked as if he were standing at the mouth of a tunnel instead of under a simple arch. He was sure at any moment his heart would explode. All in all, it left the adrenaline rush he'd felt at the harbor far behind.

I can't do it, he thought in a panic. I can't go in there and let them tear what's left of my life apart. I can't face this kind of humiliation.

He turned to run.

As he did so, something crept through him, dispelling the momentary panic as it did, cold and familiar. Pride. It was humiliation he feared, was it not? And yet, what could be more humiliating than to come all this way only to collapse in a useless heap or to finally flee at the last moment? His fingernails dug into his palms painfully. He was no coward; he was no wounded animal that flees in panic before the hunter. He thought of Morgoth's tales that awful night and the whispers he overheard among the Noldorin slaves that the greatest of the Valar had been dragged, wrapped in magical chains, begging for mercy, into this Ring. Morgoth had never been quite the same after his experience in Valinor, hiding in his deep halls while others fought his wars, and Sauron realized that he had secretly scorned his master for that weakness. Suddenly, it seemed to Sauron that the worst thing he could do, the most humiliating option, was to run now, in the full sight of all the Valar. Maybe they were just waiting for him to do so, waiting for him to give them a final reason to toss him once and for all into the Void. Well, he would show them. He had come to Eönwë, he had boarded the Telerin ship, he had demanded that his trial be carried out now despite his fatigue, and he was going to walk into that Ring and take whatever they gave him with a will of iron that even Morgoth would envy. He realized that nothing they could do would take away his pride and dignity; the only way he could be humiliated was if he allowed himself to be.

Sauron turned to face the light and felt a grim sense of satisfaction flood through him as his racing blood turned to steel in his veins. He bared his teeth in a dark smile of pride at his own strength.

And then he walked straight to the middle of the Ring of Doom.

~o~o~o~

At first, the light was so blinding that he could see nothing. It was white, pure white, and it reminded him chillingly of the Silmarilli, but also of something else that was shrouded in that shadow-web that Estë's athelas brew had revealed. Still clinging for dear life to that determination to show the Valar his true mettle, he forced himself to pause and wait until his eyes adjusted.

They did so in less than thirty seconds, though to Sauron, it seemed to drag on for minutes before shapes became clear and the light around him took form.

The first thing he saw was the source of the light itself: a great lamp elevated on a pillar in the middle of the ring. The shadow in his mind shifted slightly and he remembered the design: the Two Lamps of Aulë that had lit the world during the Spring of Arda before he himself had openly joined Melkor. This lamp was of a lesser kin to Illuin and Ormal but itself glorious and pure, shining like starlight over the entire Máhanaxar.

The Máhanaxar. The Ring of Doom. He guessed that it was close to seventy-five feet across in a perfect circle with the lamp pillar directly in its center. All around him, a sheer grey wall rose about ten feet before flattening out into a circular platform on which were set, at even intervals, fourteen thrones. Behind the thrones, the walls rose as a grey-white back-drop of another twenty feet. It was distinctly plain with no unnecessary embellishments or features, but it was quite effective. Sauron felt like a rat who had just stepped into a trap and had it snap up around him.

He swallowed and tried not to look at the occupants of those fourteen thrones. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the task of getting to the middle of the Ring without losing all the control he was clinging to. The lamp pillar was itself elevated from the grass floor of the Ring by a circular platform of the same grey stone, perhaps ten feet across and four feet high with three shallow, curving steps leading up to it.

Eönwë was standing on the platform already, arms at his side, waiting. As Sauron steadily approached and reached the steps, he noticed the briefest flicker of surprise pass through the Herald's eyes. So, even up to this very moment, Eönwë had been expecting him to flee. He had not thought that Sauron could do it. Quite frankly, Sauron felt a little insulted, despite the fact that he had not been sure himself until a moment ago. It gave his pride that extra little prick he needed to mount the platform and turn to face the ones who would decide his doom.

They were all there: all fourteen of the most powerful beings of Arda. He could not help his eyes from roving now, flickering from face to face, as he attempted to discern the moods and perhaps even the thoughts of the Valar. Some of the expressions he noted were predictable: tall, handsome Oromë with his waves of flaming red hair looked as if he wouldn't hesitate for a moment to shoot Sauron with the giant bow clasped to his back; Tulkas with his mane and beard of gold already had his huge hands balled onto fists resting on his knees; and Ulmo, his cloudy blue-green eyes ever-changing and his pale skin as smooth and sleek as fish scales, was not trying to hide his glower. On the other hand, Nienna with her silver hair like spun moonlight streaked with black and her narrow, high-cheekboned face gazed compassionately down at him; Nessa, dressed in a simple green smock, with her knee-length sunrise-yellow hair loose, was sitting uncomfortably, clearly torn between the glares her brother and husband were shooting Sauron and her own feelings about the situation; and Aulë tried to give him a reassuring smile when Sauron's eyes passed over the Smith.

Eönwë cleared his throat officiously and announced in a loud, clearly-annunciated voice, "My Kings and Queens of the Valar, I present to you the Maia named Sauron Gorthaur, former Black Captain of Melkor the Morgoth in Beleriand and Middle-earth, who comes before you now in stated penitence to know your will and judgment and to accept your ruling concerning his doom on this the twelfth day of the second month of the Second Age of Arda under the Sun."

Thus finished, the Herald stepped briskly to the side and Sauron found himself at center stage with fourteen pairs of eyes unwaveringly fixed on him.

He looked up and found himself gazing at the three most powerful Valar. Námo was standing in the center at what looked like a lectern with an open book laid before him. On either side of him, still seated in their thrones with their hands linked between them, were the High King and Queen: Manwë dressed in his blue robes with a circlet of gold resting amid his curling yellow locks and Varda with her eyes of deepest blue in which her own stars seemed to dance and her hair so blonde it was a brilliant white. Although he tried, Sauron could determine nothing of their moods or feelings about seeing him there from their three smooth countenances. He shifted just slightly, uncomfortable under their piercing gazes but quickly stilled himself, lowering his gaze and simply waiting for them to have their say, knowing automatically that speaking first would do him no good.

The silence seemed to stretch on infuriatingly. Sauron had just finished counting all the stones that made up one row of the platform from one side to the other for the fourth time and was wondering if this was going to be his punishment after all – standing under that blinding lamp unable to move or speak under the end of Arda – when finally the Doomsman addressed him.

"Sauron Gorthaur," he said, and Sauron's head snapped up as if he'd had a string tied in his hair that was suddenly and forcefully yanked upward. "We are well acquainted with a list of your deeds that we do not believe needs uttering, as you yourself are, of all of us, most acquainted with it. And if Eönwë has spoken true that you came to him with the open desire for reconciliation, forgiveness, and justice, then it is our understanding that you recognize your deeds for what they are: heinous, treacherous, abhorrent, and evil."

Sauron flinched inwardly under every heavy word, his eyes dropping again. This was not a good beginning to a trial. Maybe they had deceived him after all. Maybe they had all lied to him in order to lure him here with the least amount of trouble on their part. Maybe they were going to throw him into the Void after all…

But Námo was still speaking. "And yet, we here recognize that though evil deeds may not be undone, other deeds may be done to counter and reconcile the evil done. Even Doom itself may not always be set in stone. We have offered pardon and the power and choice to be reconciled to many, even to those who were Cursed and banned from this land when their deeds proved worthy of forgiveness, yes, and even to the Dark Vala himself when he asked it of us."

Sauron's eyes lifted fractionally.

"Therefore, we also extend this choice to you, Sauron. Your treachery against us was bitter and deep, yet we did not fail to notice the loyalty with which you stood by your new master's side till the very end, whether out of fear, greed, or true faith, we do not know, but all the same, it spoke of some heart and spirit left in you. Now that Morgoth has fallen and a New Age has come upon Arda, we have agreed – though I warn you now that the decision was not unanimous – that you be given a second chance, if you truly seek it and if you will take it. It will not come without retribution and due pain, but we offer you this redemption in response to your request and in the belief that you are not wholly marred and that one day, you may be made whole and well again to the benefit of all of Arda."

There was a long pause while Námo allowed this information to sink into Sauron's brain. Then his deep voice rolled over the Ring of Doom. "Do you accept our offer, Sauron Gorthaur?"

It was not as if he could turn back from his choice now, not when the alternative at this point would clearly be a dungeon or the Void itself. Sauron felt his head bend slowly forward up and down, his voice coming out dry as a forest after a wildfire. "I accept."

There was a murmur like a small whirlwind spinning around him above in the Ring. Námo wrote something with a blackbird feather in his open book. "Then these are our stipulations for you if you wish to reside in peace and goodwill here in Valinor."

Manwë murmured something that Sauron could not hear, and Námo nodded before continuing. "We wish to make it clear that our stipulations are precautions, not punishments. When you earn our trust, adjustments shall be made to your situation accordingly. However, should you prove unruly or in any way seek to disrupt the peace of Valinor by breaking your word, appropriate actions will also be taken to discourage you from further misdemeanor. Do you understand?"

Sauron cursed his dry throat as he murmured his cracked reply. "I understand."

"Very good." Again the blackbird feather scratched against the parchment of Námo's book. "Our first stipulation is that you will remain here in Valinor under our complete supervision. You will be given freedom within the halls you are assigned, but if you leave them for any reason, you must inform us of your intentions and you must be accompanied by someone approved by ourselves at all times. There will be no exception to this condition until further notice. Any violation of this condition will lead to punishment that we feel fits the magnitude of the transgression." Another pause to let the information solidify for Sauron. "Do you understand?"

This request was no surprise to Sauron. Melkor had lived under a similar proviso and at least Sauron was skipping the three ages in a dungeon portion. He had been correct in guessing though that the Valar would be keeping a closer eye on him than they had with his former master; there'd be no slipping off quietly for him. But now that the actual words were in the air, Sauron felt like something was crushing down around his ribs making it difficult to breathe as the full scope of how he was going to be living now started to unfold before him. No, there would be no four walls pinning him in, but he already felt like a prisoner all the same. What was it Melkor had said to him? A wild bird beating itself to death against its cage? Sauron bit his lip, then felt his head slowly bend forward, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "I understand."

The scratching of that blackbird quill seemed absurdly loud in the quiet Ring. He was aware that the Valar were all watching him intently, as if none of them wanted to miss a single reaction from him. He swallowed painfully and waited for Námo to continue.

"Our second stipulation directly relates to your natural powers as a Maia, as well as those powers of sorcery that you gained under Morgoth's tutelage. It was never meant for one of your order to gain power to the extent to which you have done, and considering the uses to which you have been wont to put it in recent years, we currently consider your unbridled powers a direct threat to Valinor until we can trust you to use your powers for their original purposes. For the safety of all, and to remove any temptation from before you, your powers will be henceforth Bound. All unnatural powers beyond your order that you gained under Morgoth, including all magic of necromancy, sorcery, and the ability to Bind other souls, will be removed permanently, for they are a perversion of your original powers. Those powers that were originally granted to you by the will of Eru you will retain, but they shall be Bound until further notice and they shall be Unbound only when we see fit and you have proved yourself capable of wielding them responsibly. These powers include your ability to exert your will over others, all powers of illusion, the powers of Song, your control over fire, your ability to revert to spirit form, and your ability to change physical form."

At each new word, dread fell over Sauron and his heart sank lower and lower. By the end, his shock was such that he did not trust that he even still had the powers of speech left to him. He had assumed they would not allow him free reign with all his powers, especially the sorcery of Morgoth, but he had never guessed how completely they had planned to strip him. Panic began to set in; he could not even contemplate living so utterly bereft of the powers that he took for granted. It was as if they were telling him he was no longer going to be allowed to breathe.

Right on the heels of his panic came his anger. How dare they? He had been led to believe that by seeking pardon, he would be given leniency. Perhaps "leniency" simply meant not throwing him into the Void, but did they not know that this…this cursed condemnation was a living death for him all of its own? He had earned those powers under Morgoth, through toil and pain and centuries of service, and now in the blink of an eye, they would rip all his hard-earned rewards from him. They were not the ones who had toiled for those powers, they who had been granted their almighty abilities from the start just because they happened to be higher in Eru's favor. And of his true powers, the ones that made-up his very identity as a Maia, surely not even they had the right to steal that from him. What sort of life did they expect him to live? A slave's? Surely they could not be so arrogant as to take his very essence from him. He looked up at that ring of faces around him, so smug, so confident, and felt his hatred towards each and every one of them flaming inside of him so hot that it sent stabs of pain through his chest.

He had known all along that their only desire was to see him humiliated. I told you so," mocked the harsh voice that had told him to run. He decided he hated that little voice as much as he hated the Valar.

But Námo was not finished. Whether or not he could read the effects of his words on Sauron's face, he continued speaking in his even, unhurried voice.

"However, concerning the last of these powers listed, we realize it is unnatural for an Ainu to be Bound to a single form, and doubtlessly you will find your condition uncomfortable initially. Therefore, we have agreed that it is only right and fair that you be allowed to choose the form to which your spirit will be Bound."

His mind seething with hate and anger, Sauron's first inclination to this offer was to take one of his monstrous forms, just to spite them: the huge werewolf with poisonous breath and eyes that could smite down those of weaker will or a loathsome serpent with reeking venom dripping from its fangs. Let them play master to that! However, he soon dismissed such thoughts as he forced himself to contemplate his decision with a clearer mind. While seeing their initial shock to him taking a monster's form might be briefly satisfying, in the long run, it would do nothing for his position. He'd used such forms when necessarily, but he had never been fond of them, and he had no idea how long he might have to wear it. And taking such a form would probably not encourage the Valar to give him back his abilities sooner rather than later. He did not like the thought of being stuck on all fours or crawling on his belly for the next three ages.

That idea ruled out, his mind began to turn in other directions, ones more familiar and comfortable to him. For the moment, he laid aside his burning emotions to contemplate the life he was being told he was going to have to live. This was an important decision, probably one of the few he would be allowed to make concerning his new life, and he did not want to waste it. That considered, he realized there were more subtle and more useful ways to twist the Valar's offer. Ways more familiar to Sauron the Deceiver.

Morgoth might have personally preferred the threatening figure of a Dark Lord, but he had recognized the distinct use of having a lieutenant with a silver tongue and a beautiful form. And Sauron knew personally that flies were more easily snared with honey than with salt.

He closed his eyes. It took no more than a thought to change his form, as easy as slipping out of one garment and into another. His current form was fair, but nothing spectacular, the same one in which he had come to Eönwë two weeks ago in Middle-earth, but he would not be satisfied now with anything short of the best. He molded his body like a potter with his clay, smoothing out every imperfection, perfecting every feature. He had worn many fair forms, that of a Maia, Elf, or Human, but this one would be his crowning glory. No, he would not waste this opportunity.

He needed no mirror to know when he was done. He paused, mentally assessing his work and assuring himself that he was completely satisfied with the results. Then he opened his eyes.

The looks on the Valar's faces told him his work was successful.

The Valar were surrounded by beauty, they themselves fair as kings and queens of the Eldar, and yet even they were not completely immune to his powers. Caught off guard, many of them were staring at him as if they could not pull their eyes away, and even a few of the Valiër, notably Nienna, were gazing at him with unfeigned admiration. His fiery hatred and anger of moments ago was replaced by a cool confidence and a cocky pride at their expressions, but he did not let it show. Instead, he smoothed his face over with an innocent air, as if oblivious to the stares he was getting and their implications, and stretched his arms out, lowering his head slightly. When he spoke, he was glad to hear that his voice had recovered. "I choose this form."

There were several nods from around the Ring. Sauron smirked to himself, pleased that none of them apparently recognized his subtle flouting of their offer with such a form or the danger that he could present with it. Námo opened his mouth to speak, but before he could accept Sauron's choice, another voice cut across the silence in the Ring. "I protest!"

Sauron's head whipped around to find the speaker, just as the Valar did the same. He cursed inwardly at what he saw.

The Valië standing before her throne was the only one that Sauron had been pointedly avoiding eye contact with the entire trial. She was beautiful, stunningly beautiful, her flawless skin of olive hue, her rippling, hip-length waves of luscious brown hair woven through with flowering vines that seemed to need no other nourishment than their mistress's locks. Her eyes were spring green, her form straight and impressively tall, and she was clad in a dark green and gold robe belted flatteringly at her waist with a girdle of gold shaped like linked dandelions.

As she stepped forward, her presence washed over Sauron, like the first day of warm spring after a particularly long and cold winter. Her aura had always been powerful, and Sauron found himself not completely able to shake off the thrill and deep pulse of life that trembled through his entire body. Yavanna might hold her trees and plants of all kinds in highest honor, but it was no secret that it was from her that all living creatures had their life and flourished. However, noting the glower she was currently wearing, Sauron was fairly sure she was not interested in seeing him flourish in any way, shape, or form.

Námo frowned at the Valië of Flora and Fauna, and Manwë shifted in his throne to face her, leaning his chin on his propped fist, his deep blue-grey eyes intrigued by this turn of events. "Yes, Yavanna, you have a complaint?" Námo prompted, raising his dark, heavy eyebrow.

"I do indeed!" Yavanna replied passionately. Her flashing eyes swept scornfully over her peers. "Surely you do not mean to simply sit there and let him" – she indicated Sauron with a contemptuous flick of her fingers – "taunt you in this manner. I feared when the matter was brought up initially between us that he would do something of this sort, and I was against allowing him this choice from the start, and it appears I am justified.

"Do you not see?" She turned around to glare at Sauron who remained completely silent. "Have you heard nothing of the stories from Beleriand? Did you learn absolutely nothing from Melkor? Short of Aulë, I am sure I knew this Maia best of all of you. Do not think for a moment that he has chosen this form in innocence. He will use this power of his against all he meets: Elf, Maia, and Vala alike. Look at you. Look at her," she suddenly said, pointing at Nienna who was still gaping rather openly at Sauron. "Do you mean to allow him to go about Valinor as he went about Beleriand as Melkor's pet Tempter and Deceiver? Give him this form and you will give him a weapon which I do not doubt he would – and will – use against you all in a heartbeat!"

Manwë stood up, meeting the hot gaze of Yavanna. "What you say is fair, Yavanna, but we heard your arguments at the council. And I do not believe it is fair to compare Sauron to Melkor at this time. Just because Melkor used his fair-seeming form against us when we granted him leniency does not mean that Sauron will do the same. We cannot punish for deeds he has not yet done and still call ourselves just. Aulë has made it quite clear, and he is not alone, that he believes Sauron has come to us in true faith. He gave himself into our hands of his own will. Why would he wish to flout our will now in our land, in the very Ring of Doom?"

"And yet, Lord Manwë, is that not what you thought of Melkor?" Now it was Oromë who rose from his throne. "I think we all can agree that your heart has always been overly merciful. Mercy has its place, but justice and the safety of Arda must come first. We were sent into Eä to care first and foremost for the Children, and Yavanna is correct in suggesting that we must consider any dangers he might present to the Children under our protection."

There were murmurs of agreement from a number of the Valar. Yavanna took up her argument again. "Perhaps he does not have some plan to overthrow our power at the moment, but he is giving himself – no, you are giving him – the chance to do so if the opportunity arises. Can you not see? We agreed to remove his powers as a safety precaution, but he has just given himself back what you are trying to take. You cannot take away his silver tongue short of cutting it out, an option I would not be wholly against, but do not add another weapon to his collection, a weapon that he has an abundance of practice using!"

Aulë joined in the argument, standing up to face his wife. "Since he has arrived, he has done nothing to warrant our suspicion or our hate, Yavanna. I have spoken to him. He is damaged, injured – Eönwë has told us he asked directly for reconciliation. How are we supposed to reconcile with him if we cannot even extend this small gesture of trust to him?"

Yavanna glared at him. "We know how you feel about him, Aulë. Your personal emotions cloud your judgment, just as much as they clouded Lord Manwë's judgment when he was forced to sentence his brother. You are not capable of suggesting sound arguments in this matter."

"I am capable!" Aulë fired back, his powerful chest swelling. "Maybe it is you who is blinded by what he has done to you in the past. Maybe it is you who has no right to make suggestions in this matter!"

"Enough!" Námo roared, bringing silence back to the Ring. He looked decidedly exasperated when he glared at Aulë and Yavanna, and Sauron had the feeling that this was not the first argument between the couple that the Doomsman had been forced to end. Under the severe glare of Námo, all the standing Valar returned to their seats, many of them still looking flustered.

However, Yavanna was not willing to leave the matter quite yet. As she took her seat, she waved her hand around the Ring. "If you need any evidence of his powers of discord, you have just seen it with your own eyes. Allow him to choose this form and you have already relinquished your power over him."

Sauron had listened silently as the argument played out before him, knowing that breaking in and arguing his own case would do him no good. He cursed Yavanna (of course it would be her) to reveal his intentions to the rest of the Valar, who had seemed oblivious beforehand. If he argued, he was afraid it would only make it clearer to the Valar that he had not chosen this form arbitrarily. Instead, he hoped appearing unconcerned over Yavanna's accusations would make his innocence seem stronger. However, as the argument flew back and forth, his anger and agitation began to return as he saw his last chance of holding on to some remnant of control over his own life slipping out of his fingers.

But as Yavanna sat down, with her last statement hanging in the air, Sauron felt the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly upward. He turned to look back up at Námo and Manwë, raising his eyebrows questioningly, his voice slipping out smoothly. "My lords, I understand that not everyone agrees with your decision, and I am sure you have already considered their arguments. But if I understand, you granted me the choice to choose my own form, and this is the one I have chosen. Surely, you do not mean to go back on your word to me."

And easy as that, he had them. He saw it in both Námo and Manwë's eyes the instant he said it: they could not demand his trust and conformity to their stipulations if they themselves broke their word to him now.

Námo's lips pressed tightly together for a moment, then he nodded his head. "We do not intend to break our faith with you. It has been agreed that you would receive the choice, and that choice is yours. However, as with all choices, the responsibility of this choice, and how you use it, rests fully on you. Is this the form you chose to be Bound in?"

Sauron did not need to consider his answer. "It is," he replied, unruffled.

Námo's black eyes bored into him. "And do you understand completely the content of our second stipulation for your pardon and reconciliation?"

Sauron's fingers twitched just slightly, digging into the dark blue fabric of his robe. "I understand."

"Then, by the powers invested in me as the Doomsman of the Valar, I Bind your powers and your fëa, Sauron Gorthaur, until the time comes that we grant them back to you."

~o~o~o~

Mairon had been one of the first Ainur to descend into the new World That Is.

The fiery young spirit was curious, eager to see what their Songs had brought into being, rash and ready as ever to get to the heart of the task and begin work. His being still humming with the excitement and energy of the Ainulindalë and the unexpected discord, the lure of playing a significant role in the History that he'd just seen unfolded as a vision was too great to ignore or refuse.

Eru had been glad when so many of his Ainur had eagerly accepted His offer to go down into the world He'd created to play a part in its making and to guide the Children that would come. "But," He had told them, "it shall not be the same there as it is here, and there are many things that even you who have seen the vision shall neither foresee nor understand. Even some things which you have seen and believe to understand shall not be at all as you imagined them when you have entered into Eä."

Eru's words had proved true almost immediately. Eä was not like the Halls of Ilúvatar; Eä was physical, which meant that in order to do the task for which they had been sent, the Ainur that came down would have to be of the same substance as the world. They would need bodies.

Mairon had been sure he would never forget that moment, that first body in which his fëa had been clad. Being one of the first to descend, he'd had no idea what to expect, but even if he had formed a theory, it would have fallen far short. Even Mairon's quick mind and already skillful tongue could not find words for those first moments, when he drew in his first breath, when he first saw through the darkness to the World with physical eyes, felt his body and fëa intertwine and meld, his flesh warm, soft, real… He had thought he might go mad at first, his new senses assailed with so many unfamiliar sensations, his curious mind dragged every way at once. He had fallen onto his knees in the raw material of Eä, lifted his face to the dark skies, and laughed.

And yet there were limitations to being physical. At first the strange flesh had been awkward, even uncomfortable, chafing against a fëa unused to any such constraints. His physical senses were not as keen or all-encompassing as those of his spirit form, for when he wore his flesh, he no longer was able to see into the Spirit world, and he was restricted to a single place and a single form at any given time. And yet, that seemed a small price to pay to Mairon for the chance to play a part in this Story and to be a part of this physical World that held so many wonders.

Ages later, in the Ring of Doom as his powers were Bound, Sauron remembered that first day. It had been decades since he so much as gave it a thought, he realized faintly. There had been bad days when he cursed his physical form; there had been terrible days when he regretted his decision to come down into Eä altogether. But he had never felt anything like this before. Just as he had struggled to find words to describe that first time he had been clad in flesh, so he could not find words to adequately explain what was happening to him now.

The closest he had ever felt to it was that moment he had become physical, which was probably why that particular memory had surfaced in his mind so vividly. But this was worse. Much, much worse. That garment of flesh from long ago had been like slipping on a robe after going about naked for years; no matter how silky and well-fitting it had been, of course it had felt odd, cumbersome even, against a spirit unused to any such thing. But this was like being shoved into an unyielding garment that was far too small, one made of some unpleasant fabric. His fëa felt like it was being crushed, squeezed cruelly, a sensation that was the nonphysical equivalent to having his ribcage smashed in until every breath was agony.

He felt his powers of sorcery torn from him, and each passing moment left him with a more widely gaping hole in his being. He felt his natural powers withdrawn beyond his grasp, though still intact within him, lingering inside him like a locked chest with priceless treasures inside to which one has lost the key, inaccessible and tantalizing. He clung to each scrap of power like a drowning man to driftwood, but each one sank from under him and left him floundering in a black sea where he was naked, unprotected, and helpless.

Time lost meaning. It might have been seconds and it might have been hours since Námo spoke and Sauron would have been none the wiser. This was a torture for him completely unforeseen. He fought the waves of pain both physical and nonphysical and the helplessness as long as he could, but it was too much for him. The last thing he thought before he drowned was that Morgoth had been right: the only thing the Valar had wanted was to see him writhe in agony before them as punishment for his crimes. He had been wrong. The Valar were indeed cruel.