The Mansions of Aulë, TA 3016

They followed Mircaewen up the cellar stairs to the kitchens. Makeshift cheesecloth blackout curtains covered the lower half of all of the windows. That was another security measure. It prevented anyone outside from seeing the fugitives. Without the curtains, they would have had to stay in the cellar for the duration of the reunion.

The long table was full. Angmar recognized Saruman and Radagast among the people sitting on the benches, visitors like themselves. Angmar also noticed many curious eyes on Sauron. Apparently he was something of a celebrity.

Mircaewen told them, "Breakfast is nothing fancy. We have bread and butter, there's cheese if you want it, and we still have some coffee left. Everything's on the sideboard. Help yourselves, and wash up when you're finished."

Angmar finally asked, "Don't you have servants to do all that?"

Sauron looked surprised. "Of course we have servants. This is the servants hall." He indicated everybody in the room, including himself. "We are the servants."

"But everybody in the room is a Maia." said Angmar. "The Holy Ones. Sacred beings who sang in the Ainulindalë and created the world. Not ordinary domestic servants."

"Maia means Servant." Sauron explained. "Everyone here in the servants hall is someone like me."

"It doesn't bother you, being a servant?" Angmar asked.

"No, of course not. I was created to be a servant to a Vala. It's the natural order of things. I've never minded." he said. "It was leading armies and calling myself 'Lord' that didn't feel natural at first. Although I did manage to get used to it, eventually." He laughed.

Angmar considered what he'd heard. If a dozen or more people, each similar to his Master, were the household servants of a Vala, he couldn't even imagine how powerful a Vala must be. The stories about Valar ripping mountains out of the earth and throwing them at each other, of destroying whole continents when they fought, suddenly seemed plausible. Angmar also had a new appreciation for his Master's fear of them, given that he was on their bad side.

They fixed plates and sat down at the long table. As they ate, Angmar listened to fragments of conversation among various people in the servants hall. He was surprised to learn that Mircaewen was Sauron's oldest sister. Angmar thought she was mouthy and vulgar, and he didn't like the way she talked to him. She teased him a lot, and some of the things she said to him were pretty crude. But Angmar also noticed how relaxed Sauron was around her, and that she made him laugh.

When they finished breakfast, Sauron picked up his plate and Angmar's, and took them to the sink to wash. Angmar jumped to his feet. There was no way he would allow his Master to wait on him, but Sauron told him to sit down. One of the others asked, "Why are you waiting on your own servant? Shouldn't he be waiting on you?"

"He is my servant, but not the kind that waits on me. He's a great general who leads my armies. He's my chief advisor. And if anything happens to me, he'll be the next Dark Lord." Sauron explained, "Angmar was born into the upper reaches of the aristocracy. No, that's an understatement. He was born into the royal family of Númenor, the highest civilization in Arda, and the mightiest. He does not do menial labor. I forbid it."

"But you do do menial labor?"

"Sure. Not a problem." Sauron replied.

Sauron was a snob about the pedigree of his most powerful servants. Virtually all of them were nobility, and in a few cases, royalty. He did not allow them to work with their hands, or to do menial labor of any kind. On the other hand, he thought of himself as working class, and didn't feel that his prohibitions against menial labor for his captains applied to himself.

After breakfast was put away, Sauron disappeared into the washroom to rinse off the dust of travel. He came back in clean clothes, the best he brought along on the trip. Sauron hadn't talked to Aulë since he'd left him to follow Melkor. A lot had happened since then. Aulë had disowned him, for one. Sauron was understandably nervous about the upcoming interview. He dealt with his anxiety by focusing on the preparations.

At the moment, Angmar was trying to shave his Master with a straight razor. Sauron was seated in a straight backed chair, slid forward on the seat, with the back of his neck on the chair back. His head was tipped back and his hands were folded in his lap. The chair had been moved close to the window to take advantage of the bright sunlight.

"If you want me to do this, you can't talk. Or fidget." Angmar said, exasperated.

"You know, if you assumed an Elvish form like the rest of us, you wouldn't need to shave in the first place." observed Mircaewen. "Or, if you insisted on keeping your Mannish form, you could wear a close-trimmed beard in the Númenorian style. Either way, it would be less work."

She may have had an elvish form, but privately, Angmar didn't think there was anything even remotely elvish about Mircaewen, other than being tall. She was plump, and her hands were red and raw from hard work. He could easily imagine her standing around with the other farm wives, talking about chickens and making crude observations about their husbands. There wasn't a thing about her that was refined or highborn.

Saruman was still reacting to what Sauron said earlier about the succession. Saruman was Sauron's next-of-kin. He'd just assumed he was Sauron's heir, without anything having been said. He hadn't known that Sauron had named the Witch King of Angmar as his heir instead. Saruman wanted to be the next Dark Lord. He wanted to claim the Ring and wield it. He resented it that his brother chose a Nazgûl as his successor rather than himself.

"I'm surprised you let your second-in-command shave you." said Saruman, far too casually. "I mean, think about it. He was already your most powerful servant. Then you gave him the a ring which doubled his power and made him immortal. From what I hear, you allow him almost complete free will. And just recently, you declared him your heir." Saruman studied his fingernails casually. "I don't know, I just find it interesting that you let him hold a straight razor to your throat like that, given that, if there's anyone among your people who has a reason to assassinate you, it's him."

Sauron abruptly shoved Angmar's hand away. Angmar stepped back, his feelings badly hurt. Then Sauron doubled over and sneezed.

"Bright sunlight." he explained. "It makes me sneeze."

He leaned back again. "Okay, I'm better. Continue." Except that Angmar couldn't, because Sauron had a very hard time going for any length of time without talking. True to form, Sauron looked right at Saruman and said,

"Oh, and by the way, my most trusted advisor and heir has a name. It's Tindomul, son of Ciryatan." ('Twilight Son, son of Shipwright') he said, indicating Angmar.

A group of Maiar were sitting at the kitchen table were the morning light was good, working at various small chores. Sauron was trying to repair a delicate piece of machinery made from complex brass parts that were rather small. He had taken it apart and laid the pieces out methodically on a folded white cloth so they wouldn't roll away and get lost. He'd arranged the little brass screws by size and lined them up in neat rows, perfectly vertical with the heads at the top. In spite of all the care he took, it wasn't going well. He had just dropped the same tiny screw for the third time, and now he couldn't find it. He sat with his hands clenching the edges of the bench, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down.

Saruman said, "Take a break, I can take over." Saruman was much better than Sauron with small, delicate work. His approach was patient, deliberate, and careful, where Sauron's approach was often one of becoming impatient, getting angry, and applying more force than necessary.

Sauron slid over on the bench to make room for him, which put him at the edge of a group of Aulë's apprentices, people he knew when he was young. There had brought in an armload of harnesses and bridles to repair. Normally that work would be done in the Forge, but they weren't supposed to be out there during the quarantine. Sauron picked up the broken buckle from a piece of harness. He dipped a rag in machine oil and began to clean it, nonchalantly eavesdropping on their conversation while pretending he wasn't paying attention.

Celebtan, Aulë's apprentice who met them at the beach with the wagon, was in the middle of a story. "You know my friend who's one of Namo's people? Well, I was talking with him a few days ago. He said that someone dared them to spend a night in Melkor's old cell. Only a few of Namo's people have ever seen it. My friend wasn't one of them, and he thought this was the only way he'd ever get to see it. Luckily Namo got wind of the plan and put a stop to the overnight part, but he still took them down there to have a look.

"You know that another name for 'The Halls of Mandos' is 'The Prison Fortress of Mandos'? The prison is in the basement. You go through a guard room to reach a corridor going back to the cells. The ordinary prison cells are small square rooms, stone walled and windowless, with a stone bench for sitting or sleeping on, and a bucket for a privy. Each cell had a heavy wooden door with an iron lock and a small barred window for the guard to look through.

"At the end of the corridor was a closed door. Behind it was a steep, narrow stair that went deep below the basements. At the foot of the stair, there was a short hallway that led to a heavy door, locked and barred. This door was different than the ones on the cells upstairs. It was made of iron, the barred window was smaller and covered by a metal plate, and the lock was made of steel. Namo told us the lock was Aulë's work, and couldn't be defeated by force or enchantment.

"Namo warned them never, ever to go in the cell without someone standing outside, because the door was designed to swing shut and lock itself. Even if someone had the key in his hand, there's no keyhole on the inside of the door, and he would be trapped.

"Namo slid back the metal cover over the barred window and invited them to look in. My friend said there was nothing to see inside but liquid blackness. Namo produced a key, unlocked the door, and held it open for us. Someone stood in the doorway and held up a lamp.

"The cell was cut into the living rock. It was the same width as the cells upstairs, but longer. An iron portcullis divided the cell in half and created a cage in the back half of the cell. The cell was absolutely bare. The only features he saw were iron rings sunk into the walls and floor as attachment points for chains, and a hole in the floor. He said he could tell this cell was made for a really, really dangerous prisoner, because there was a line on the floor warning you to stay at least arms' reach away from the portcullis. An almost tangible evil clung to the place, as though it were still haunted by the presence of its last inhabitant. It was completely creepy. He said they couldn't get out of there fast enough."

Although he never let on that he was listening, Sauron had nightmares about that cell for years afterwards. His Master had been imprisoned there for three long ages, and he knew that if his own luck went bad, he would go there too.

Late in the morning, Angmar saw the Maiar look at each other restlessly. All conversation stopped. Apparently they sensed the presence of one of the Valar coming in the direction of the servants hall.

The door opened, and they all rose to their feet. When a tall woman with long black hair and a green dress entered the room, their all bowed their heads. Angmar didn't know it, but it was she who gave Khamûl the letter. And while Khamûl had spoken to her respectfully and done as she asked, it was nothing compared to the deference shown to her by the Maiar of the household, her Maiar and Aulë's both.

She spoke. "Your attention please! Aulë wishes to speak with each of you, one at a time, throughout the day. When the messenger comes to fetch you, please be ready to drop anything and come upstairs right away." She spoke to one of Sauron's sisters, one of the younger ones. "You will be first. You can go up now."

"Thank you, Mistress." She curtsied low, and headed for the servants' staircase.

Yavanna saw Sauron, and walked over to him.

"Mistress?" He'd bowed his head like the others when she came in, but now he lifted it and met her eye.

"Nothing yet. I'm still trying." Yavanna said.

"Thank you, Mistress." He bowed low.

Angmar had never seen his Master acting subservient toward anybody. He witnessed him feign submission towards Ar-Pharazôn when he was captured, but this was real. Angmar felt strange about it.

Throughout the day, the messenger comes into the kitchen and informs one Maia or another that their presence was required upstairs in Aulë's study. Each time the messenger appeared, Sauron looked up expectantly, and then was disappointed when someone else was summoned. Invitations went to the Maiar of both Aulë and Yavanna.

Toward late afternoon, when almost everyone had had a turn, some people were called up a second time. Angmar knew that Sauron was beginning to worry, although he made an effort not to show it.