A/N: Thank you very much to all the anonymous reviewers: Guest, DrangySmallfoot for the reviews of both this chapter and the previous one, Guest (2), and Amalthea. As always, I'm sorry I can't properly and individually reply to all your reviews within the author notes, as that might end up looking like a mini-chapter itself. But I read all your reviews closely and I deeply appreciate all the ideas, predictions, observations, encouragements, and constructive criticism I've been receiving from all of you. Hannon le!
However, I would like to briefly address a concern that I have noticed in several people's comments, the concern about the romantic elements of this story. Many of you have noted that Sauron is not currently capable of handling a romantic relationship, and I fully agree with you on that. Sauron is not currently capable of participating in any sort of healthy relationship, be it romantic, friendship-based, or familial. He's much too self-consumed for that.
If it helps allay any concerns, I will say that it will still be quite a while before any romantic elements start coming into play at all. At this point, I'm not even sure when I will officially be introducing Sauron's future lover into the story line. And once the romantic elements do start appearing, I plan to have Sauron reacting to the proposition of a romance in his life in a way that I think will be very fitting to his character. Don't worry – Sauron isn't going to be falling head over heels for anyone on first sight, and I foresee it being a long and painful process for him to find any capability within himself to express anything resembling a healthy, loving relationship.
That said, I don't believe that means that Sauron will never be capable. That's what I hope for this story to be about: that Sauron is capable of healing. Sauron is a being of incredibly strong passions and convictions, and with healing, I think he would make for a wonderfully loyal, passionate, fierce friend, or lover, just as much as he's capable of being a terrible, passionate, fierce enemy now!
Chapter 10
Sauron reclined beneath the spreading branches of a hazelnut tree, reading another one of the books from Aulë's library. Several more, these already finished, lay stacked at his side. The day was clear, bright, and pleasant – in other words, identical to every other wearisome day in Valinor.
It was not the fair weather that had drawn him out to the Gardens of Yavanna that spread in a good thirty league radius around the Halls of Aulë nor did the typical Valinorean climate hold any particular interest for him. He would have preferred in fact to stay indoors and read in the comfort of the library itself, but this was safer. Above all else, he did not want to grow predictable and he knew the importance of not allowing himself to fall into habit. Habit was not conducive for keeping a sharp and wary mind, and Sauron knew the dangers of presenting an unbroken pattern to an enemy, unless of course the pattern was established with the specific purpose of breaking it to the consternation and downfall of any who might be spying. It was best if he was not seen reading in the library every day at the same time.
With this in mind, so far he'd found a different place to read each day and he'd staggered his visits to the library so that they fell at different, random times. It was not that he was particularly worried about actually being discovered reading or that he could be found culpable for such an activity – at the moment, there was not much else for him to be doing, and reading was not the strangest or most dubious of pastimes. Considering his background as a smith, there was nothing odd in his choice of reading material either. There was absolutely no proof to be brought forward that he was doing anything inappropriate.
But he knew that once he formed one habit, others were sure to follow. It was simply easier to go through a day by rote, easier to adopt an attitude of acceptance rather than active choice, especially in a situation such as his, but when such complacency began to form, that was when he would be exposed to any who wished to attack him. It had become so with Morgoth. The war against the Elves, the constant pushes back and forth across Beleriand, the long periods of watchfulness interrupted by brutal eruptions of battle – they had all become commonplace, and Morgoth (and all of his servants) had grown used to the way of things and neglectful of the full scope of their enemies. Sometimes, Sauron wondered if the War of Wrath would have gone differently if they had been fully alert and ready for a potential attack from across the sea. He suspected not – neither he nor Morgoth had envisioned anything nearly as vast and destructive as the Host of the West that had uprooted the very land – but there was little point wondering either way. There was nothing he could do about it now. Even he knew he could not free Melkor from the Void.
He skimmed to the end of the chapter and then with a sigh let the book drop open to his chest. He folded an arm behind his head, using it as a pillow, and stared upward though not truly looking at the branches or patches of open sky above him. Five full days had passed now since he'd arrived at the Halls of Aulë. Tomorrow morning he was to report in at the quarry before the Sun rose over the Pelóri. And so far, he had found nothing to aid him in his quest for revenge.
A second mantra had joined his first, this one a constant self-appeal for patience. It did not make it particularly easier. Even though he'd known that the task before him would be long and mostly fruitless, it was still rankling to finish each day feeling as if he had accomplished nothing concrete, especially with the clock ticking steadily down towards an indefinite period where his free time would be severely constricted. In the back of his mind, he had hoped to find at least some small measure of information early on to indicate that he was on the right track. So far, the books he'd read had contained little he did not know and nothing that had sparked his imagination. If there had been no greater purpose to the reading than entertainment and the gathering of simple facts that might be of use to a smith, he might have been satisfied; so far, he'd learned a number of different ways to cut gems to produce optimum brightness and there had been a fairly lengthy section in one book from two days prior about a completely new method of casting silver jewelry. He tried to take interest in these tidbits of knowledge, as he usually did when faced with something novel, conceding that he never knew when some knowledge might prove useful in the future, but all the same, each time he shut another book and laid it aside, a significant piece of him felt disappointment, gnawing impatience, and even angry frustration.
Yet every time he felt the urge to give vent to that frustration and throw the offending book into the nearest body of water (and there seemed to be plenty of these in Yavanna's Gardens, all so crystalline that it took a prodigious amount of self-control not to hurl dirt clods into their pristine depths), he'd repeat his mantra until his mind calmed. Patience, he told himself repeatedly. There is no rush. The Valar will grow complacent with time, and as long as you remain alert and keen, you will gain the advantage over them when that time comes. Watch and listen. Stalk your prey with skill and leap when the best chance, not the first chance, shows itself. Be patience, and you know you will be rewarded.
He told himself that again and again: if he worked steadily and slowly, he must achieve his goal. Sooner or later, he would find something that would be of use to his plans. The concept that all this was in vain was simply not an option. For now, he needed to observe his surroundings, learning the strengths and weaknesses of all those around him, all the while gleaning information. There were only two things he simply could not do: let anyone guess his intentions or submit to despair in his mission.
And yet, every once in a while, he had the troubling sensation that he was missing something. He told himself it was nothing but the various other levels of stress and impatience that threatened to settle upon him, but that doubt itched away at the back of his mind despite his mental reassurances. He could not think of anything more to do other than what he was already doing, and yet… He could not shake off the feeling that he was somehow missing the bigger picture that he needed to see in order to succeed. Under Morgoth, he had learned the value of efficiency and honed it to a skill – surely, there was a more efficient way to go about this than reading every single book on every single shelf and trudging through this plethora of information that he had probably known before it was ever written down. There was something else he needed to be seeing and acknowledging, he sensed, but the matter eluded him, flickering away from him like wisps of smoke the moment he felt its touch. Perhaps it was this that drove his intense desire to find some clue in his reading that he was on the right track, to prove these doubts but a figment of his stressed mind. But at the moment, he had no better battle plan than to sift his way slowly through each tome as he came to it. At best, it was irksome. With his luck, the first book he skipped would be the one to contain some vital bit of knowledge he needed.
That ticking clock in the back of his mind did not help either. If this was all his existence was to consist of for the rest of Time, being relatively ignored and allowed to fill his time as he pleased with reading or other Valar-approved, benign activities, it might be a dull existence but one that was comparatively desirable to the fate that actually awaited him. However, knowing that his slave work in the quarry was to begin in less than twenty-four hours sank his heart into a black pit. The very thought of that impending doom fanned up the furious, indignant flame that had blazed into life at his trial and motivated him to swear his oath of vengeance in the first place. Every passing day – no, every passing moment – that the Valar continued to reign unchallenged, unscathed after what they had done to him, what they were doing to him every second, and what they planned to do to him in the near future was a nigh unbearable humiliation inflicted upon him.
He suspected as well that condemning him to the quarry had a double purpose. Even though he had no doubt that the Valar were going to enjoy themselves immensely watching him fulfill their stipulation under the virtuous pretense of allowing him to show his goodwill by aiding those in Middle-earth, he guessed this task of physical labor had also been contrived to keep him contained, to weary him daily, and to control most of his time rather than leaving him to his own devices. This last suspicion, perhaps more than anything else, fueled his craving, his need, to discover something that would transform his oath into reality, something he could slap in the Valar's faces to show them that despite their best efforts, they could not defeat him utterly.
Absently, he drew his fingers through his hair, combing it back around his ears, his face revealing none of his inner turmoil, except for a slight purse of his lips as he stared up into the hazelnut canopy and watched the thin branches bounce in the slight Valinorean breeze. The day was already waning; these past five days had sped by far too quickly, even as each individual one had paradoxically seemed to drag on indefinitely. At least it was not yet the morrow. He wrenched his thoughts away from the quarry. It was best not to linger on a matter that was only guaranteed to stir up his ire.
Instead, he gently played with the ring on his forefinger, admiring its smoothness as he turned it. It fit perfectly, but that was a matter of inconsequence to him; whenever he changed humanoid forms, he always kept his ring size the same. It would probably be no great feat for him to fit a band of gold to his finger even in his sleep, he considered with a hint of amused pride.
Thrice in the past five nights he had sneaked to the forges. He had not returned during the day, neither desiring to cross paths with Curumo again nor wanting to be seen lingering around the forges when he was still not sure whether his night-time visits would be banned if they were discovered. He could see no practical reason why he'd be denied such a pleasure, but at this point, he had a feeling the Valar would deny it to him simply to rob him of the privilege and the joy. The very fact that he desired the opportunity to ply his craft and took pleasure in it was a weakness, and he knew better than most that even the smallest weakness could be exploited. If the Valar remained ignorant of his desires, so much the better. Why would they bother to steal something from him for which they did not know he yearned?
Consequently, all three nights he had taken the greatest care to cover up the evidence of his visits: meticulously cleaning the new soot out of the unused forge and replacing any gold he used with new bars from the storehouse adjacent. He was fairly sure at this point that his visits had gone unnoticed. The amount of gold he had used was inconsequential. True, if someone with a skilled eye looked carefully at the forge, they would be able to tell that it had been used recently, a fact about which he could do nothing, but there was no proof that he had been the user and he was confident by now that the forge he had chosen was a spare, ignored unless all the other forges were occupied. A fitting companion for one such as I, he'd thought to himself in a mood of dark humor.
In those three nights, he had made himself three rings, which he now kept in his wardrobe unless he was wearing one, as he had done today. It was a small matter, the rings plain and nothing in which he would have ever boasted, but he felt distinctly protective of the small gold bands. They were the only pieces of his work that he knew undoubtedly to still exist. And not only that, but they were the only items that were not on loan to him from the Valar, the only trinkets he could truly call his (though even they were made with Aulë's gold). It was some small measure of comfort, however miniscule, to feel the warm metal against his finger and to know that he was not completely bereft of personal possessions now, some beggar that the Valar had graciously housed. He was still a smith, the rings the evidence of his continued skill. The rings brought him hope, that faint hope that he could still regain what he had lost, the hope that he had not been completely defeated, not yet.
He slipped the ring from his hand, running the tip of his forefinger over the flawless yellow surface, following the thread of red gold that he had skillfully woven into it. It glittered invitingly in the brilliant Valinorean light, and he permitted himself to sink into the sight of his beautiful creation. Flipping it up, he allowed it to make a single, slow, glittering rotation before he caught it again. It felt good admiring his work, a simple pleasure to be sure, but anything that felt remotely positive was a remarkably welcome feeling of late. With a sigh, he laid the ring on the top of his small pile of books, continuing to run his forefinger around its rim, absently admiring it, as his mind drifted back to reflection.
Over the past five days, he had learned his way about the halls and grounds as well as might be expected. He had met no opposition in his exploration, save for the occasional hostile glares from those of the Eldar with whom he crossed paths, but these he had learned to ignore for now. He could bide his time. He could wait for the opportune occasion to teach them who truly was a lord by right.
Though in truth, he had made a point of avoiding contact with any other inhabitants of the Halls as best he could: steering clear of the Great Hall around mealtimes and avoiding the main lounges and gathering places where the Eldar and Maiar seemed to enjoy hording, especially during the evenings. He had yet to make a reappearance at any meal. This rankled him considerably – he felt as though by his avoidance, he was acknowledging Yavanna and the Elves the victory for the time being, that they had managed to chase him away – but he did not want to risk another confrontation, and if no one was going to stop him from taking his meals in private, he was not going to complain about the arrangement.
True, Aulë had noticed his absence at meals almost immediately and come to investigate the matter on the second evening. At first, he had half-heartedly tried to convince Sauron to rejoin them at meals, but after the scene with Yavanna, it was not hard for Sauron to sway the Smith to begrudgingly acknowledge that perhaps it was better this way for now.
However, Aulë had then insisted on having regular meals personally set aside for the Maia, apparently feeling that letting Sauron skulk around the kitchens pinching random items of food from the carts en route to the Great Hall was not healthy behavior (Imagine that! Sauron had thought to himself with a mental eye-roll) even though it was not quite stealing when he was going to be eating it one way or another, either served to him at a table or snatched off a cart. It had been the principle of the matter though and, Sauron suspected, Aulë's natural and prodigious mother-henning quality that had led to his insistence. Eru forbid that Aulë's poor, little Nauron should have to fend for himself after all!
Sauron had given a non-committal shrug to the suggestion, which Aulë took as acceptance, and for the past three nights, the Smith had ordered some items of food prepared and set aside for him. If there was anything he still wanted that was missing from the meals (or if he simply felt like flouting Aulë's wishes), he had taken whatever he fancied from the carts, as well.
However, he had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be left in peace about this matter forever. Eventually, he was going to have to face Yavanna and his fellow inhabitants of the Halls again, but the longer as he could stave off the encounter, the better, in his opinion.
A rustle in the treetops too loud and irregular to be the wind interrupted Sauron's thoughts and prompted him to sit up, peering upwards into the branches. The soft whisper of movement came again from above, and this time Sauron caught a glimpse of a small, brown form skittering down a branch. The squirrel paused at the end of the tree limb, flicking its tail and peering down curiously at the Maia. The slender branch bobbed under its weight.
Sauron glared irritably back up at the animal. There seemed to be a good deal of vermin in the area, and he guessed Lady Yavanna and her exquisite Gardens were probably to blame for that. The Gardens were said to contain at least one of every kind of flora, from moss to trees, or so he'd heard, though Sauron did not know the truth of the claim and guessed anyway that the count only included those items of vegetation that Yavanna had personally caused to grow. He had certainly not seen here any of the brambles and thorns that had been plentiful in Taur-nu-Fuin, nor even the deadly but fairer nightshades, mistletoes, and poison ivies that had come from the mingling of Melkor's corruption with Yavanna's earliest experiments in Arda.
There had been animals in Beleriand of course, but they had been skittish, dark things for the most part that rarely showed themselves. The animals here were annoyingly bold. In the south of Valinor, where Oromë and his hunters ranged, he supposed the animals might have learned to fear his kind, but the animals in Yavanna's Gardens generally seemed to be expecting food rather than arrows.
The squirrel made a soft chattering sound, still staring unabashedly at Sauron. The Maia felt his thin patience fraying. Anger and aversion for this plump, simple little creature, happy and content with its life of undoubted luxury in the Gardens of Yavanna, free to run were it willed without a care, bubbled up inside Sauron. As if the Elves were not bad enough, even the animals here seemed to find him a spectacle!
"What?" he snapped at the small creature. "I don't have any food, you stupid little beast. I wouldn't give you any if I did. Now go on, find something else to stare at."
The squirrel uttered its chatter again, bouncing on the limb slightly, apparently undeterred by his harsh tone.
With a snort of disgust, Sauron resumed his former, prostrate position, picking the book up from his lap and flipping back open to the next chapter, pointedly ignoring the squirrel. Hopefully, it was not stupid enough to miss his message, though one could never underestimate the dim-wittedness of anything that fell under the domain of Yavanna, he reflected snidely.
As he attempted to re-focus his attention on the introductory passage about purifying gold, he heard the leaves rustling again. At first, he thought the animal must have got the hint that he had no intention of giving it either food or notice and was consequently leaving, but then there came the distinctive skittering sound of the squirrel's claws on the bark of the tree trunk. In his peripheral, he saw it hop down into the grass and sit up, twitching its nose and watching him in a way that would have been almost idiotically comical had he not already decided he thoroughly hated the obnoxious, little creature. He glanced sideways at it, letting a low, threatening snarl rumble up through his throat.
For such a fat little beast, the squirrel moved much more quickly than he had anticipated, dashing at him in a series of quick, flying leaps. His first thought was that it was trying to attack him, as idiotic as that seemed, and he brought his book up aggressively, ready to smash it over the squirrel's head as soon as it was within range. However, just as it reached him, its momentary, senseless courage or aggression, whichever it was, seemed to fail it, for it turned tail and fled back towards the tree. Sauron lowered the book, scowling, but just a tad confused by the rodent's erratic behavior. Perhaps it was not simply stupid but really and truly mad. As it darted back up the tree trunk, he rolled his eyes and leaned back again. Yavanna had certainly not gifted her creations with inordinate intellect. Not that she had much herself to begin with to give them, he thought sourly.
He'd just found his place on the page again when the squirrel started up its chattering once more from the original branch right above him. He knew that all creatures had their own secret tongues and he had learned a few of the more useful ones – wolves, crows, serpents – but he did not understand the squirrel's quick gibbering. However, something in its tone alerted him to the fact that it was highly pleased about something or other. That in and of itself disturbed him. Automatically, he glanced upward.
And saw the gleam of gold between its paws.
His heart shot into his throat as his eyes simultaneously snapped down to the pile of books at his side, even as his left hand uselessly groped at his right forefinger. He'd completely forgotten that he had taken off his ring and set it beside him while admiring it, distracted as he had been by the squirrel's arrival and his own contemplations. The squirrel hadn't been interested in attacking him or even in food. Its greedy little eyes had only seen the alluring glitter of gold. His gold. His ring.
Blind rage erupted white-hot throughout his entire body. The Valar had stripped him bare, and now even the smallest of their beasts saw no qualms in taking anything they pleased from him. In his eyes, it was suddenly not a squirrel sitting there holding his beautiful ring in its filthy paws, but Yavanna herself, smirking at how easily she'd robbed him, how they'd all robbed him, how they continued to rob him every second. Of his physical possessions, of his powers, of his dignity. It didn't matter to them. The Valar didn't mean to just humiliate him once and be done with it – they were determined to keep him in humiliation and destitution for the remainder of his existence. He was not even allowed to keep a tiny ring, forged by his very own hand, created by the sweat of his own brow, born from no one's mind but his own.
Fury and sudden intense agony at the thought of losing the small band of gold in such a humiliating way leant strength to Sauron's arm. Before his mind even caught up with his emotions and actions, he had picked up a fallen hazelnut and hurled it straight at the squirrel, screaming a foul orcish curse at it as he did so.
He was a good shot. The nut hit the squirrel directly in its side, almost knocking it off the branch. It gave a high-pitched squeal of fright and pain, nearly losing its footing in its panicked retreat. As its brown tail hurtled out of his sight into the neighboring tree, falling gold flashed in the afternoon sunlight.
Sauron made an impulsive dive for the ring and snatched it up just as it hit the ground. He dropped backward then onto his haunches, his heart still pounding uncomfortably hard as he clutched the gold tightly in his hands which he now realized were red, sweaty, and trembling. Crooning mental reassurances to himself, trying to regain his calm, he brushed the ring off gently with his fingertips, sinking into the soothing motion, then he fit it snugly back onto his hand. It was safe. And woe betide anyone who dared so much as to touch his possessions again.
He glanced around the nearby trees, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. There was no sign of movement in any of them. Just as well. Hopefully, that squirrel at the very least would now have a healthy dose of respect for any Maiar, or their possessions, that it happened across. Or even better, maybe he'd damaged some internal organs properly enough that it would die in some miserable, forsaken corner of the Gardens. Either way, at least something was a little more right in the world.
Sauron picked up his book once again and resumed reading.
~o~o~o~
The Lady Yavanna knelt on a patch of recently overturned earth, her eyes closed. She was clad in a knee-length smock of cloverleaf green, her arms bare, and her legs sheathed in thigh-high, brown boots, while her long hair was bound back and up in an elaborate braid that wound itself around and around her head. Beside her was a basket containing a number of large, pale golden bulbs.
Gently, the Valië stretched out her hand and laid it on top of the disturbed earth, her fingers outspread. Underneath, she could feel the soil, not just the grainy physical touch of it, but also its richness, its essence, the intricacies of the hundreds of individual elements that made up that single piece of ground. She allowed her fëa's consciousness to creep outward from the confines of her fána, sensing the complex root systems of the grass all about her, the flowers, and even the powerful pulse of life in the large oak tree that rose some twenty paces behind her. Each of the plants greeted her spiritual touch in their own way, murmuring to her in their soft voices, humming snatches of their quiet themes that each had been part of her own Song in the Ainulindalë and that continued to fill the earth with her gift of Life. Similarly, she could sense the life of the kelvar around her: the grasshopper crawling beside her right knee, the crickets hiding in the cracks of the oak and chorusing their own version of her Song, and the lark that touched her mind in passing as it swooped past overhead.
But it was none of these things that drew her immediate attention. Instead, she pressed her fëa downward, digging her fingers physically into the earth as she did so. She felt her fingers elongate and taper at a thought, themselves becoming root-like as she soaked in the information that the ground readily gave her.
Several feet down, she sensed the sleeping life, its young hum like the heartbeat of an unborn child. Tenderly, she brushed her fëa's consciousness against it, a warm thrill of joy spreading through her spirit as it responded with a faint croon that she knew would eventually blossom into yet another melody of the Song that she always heard throughout Valinor, a new strain of her theme that she had not yet expressed in physical Arda.
She could already envision her new creation: it would be a flower of the lily family, seven-petaled, the color of mingled gold and silver. She did not like quarreling with her husband, even if it was justified and he was being a stubborn and foolish loon. But he was her Aulë, her lord, her husband, and Life was her domain. She could think of no finer gift of reconciliation between them than this new glorious flower that would arise from her powers. Tánolótë, it would be called, the Smith's flower, strong and sturdy, proud in its own quiet way, as bright and metallic as Aulë's own eyes. A soft, fond smile turned the corners of Yavanna's lips as with her mind she gently caressed the sleeping bulb in its bed of soil.
A low hum vibrated in her throat, her own strain of the Music that was older than Arda itself. It was slow, barely audible, and yet contained a steady, captivating rhythm, strong and irresistible as the call of life itself. Around her, the grass dug its roots deeper, soaking in her music and growing in response. The daisies and dandelions in the grass blossomed, and underneath her fingers, the bulb stirred, its own hum louder as it responded to its mistress' life-giving aura.
"My lady, my lady Yavanna– Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting, my lady."
Yavanna's eyes flickered open, her hum fading, and she withdrew her hand from the soil, allowing her fingers to return to their humanoid shape once again before turning. "It is all right, Aiwendil. What is it you need?"
The Maia standing several paces behind her, holding a basket of birdseed in one hand and another of fresh tomatoes in the other, had wide, honest features. Aiwendil was one of the few Maiar who had chosen a fána closer in form to the Secondborn than the Firstborn; chestnut-brown hair curled erratically about his rounded ears and full cheeks, the latter of which were layered in fine, boyish down. His wide, hazel eyes were almost childish, and there was a similar youthful air of curiosity and wonder at his mistress's world that hung about him. He wore simple, well-used gardener's attire at the moment, with grass stains on his trouser knees and dirt on his smock elbows, as if he'd been leaning forward on the ground to peer into a hole or examine some small creature. With Aiwendil, neither were particularly unlikely scenarios.
The Maia glanced inquisitively at the disturbed patch of earth in front of his mistress before seeming to remember what it was that he had come to say. His face brightened, and the small dimples on his round cheeks deepened as he grinned. He held up the basket of red vegetables. "My lady, our new tomatoes are ripe. This is the very first batch," he said eagerly. "I thought you'd like to be the first to try one."
Yavanna stood and brushed the dirt from her knees in a small, quick gesture before stepping towards Aiwendil, smiling faintly at his enthusiasm. She took one of the tomatoes, holding it up to examine it. The flesh was a deep scarlet, the skin firm but yielding. Its rich smell was inviting, and Yavanna took a bite from it, closing her eyes as her senses were flooded with a taste that contained the watery flavor of a traditional tomato, but which also was laced with a distinctively sweetness, almost akin to a ripe grape. She nodded slowly in pleasure, pleased with the result of the experiment on which she and Aiwendil had been collaborating for the last few months.
"Well done, Aiwendil," she said, giving her Maia her thin smile once she had swallowed. "As usual, your judgment is impeccable."
Aiwendil grinned broadly and popped one of the smaller vegetables into his mouth whole. His cheek bulged out like a chipmunk's. "Thank you, my lady. Shall I take them to Vorimanor in the kitchens for supper tonight? There's plenty more to gather if you'd like me to. I was thinking–"
He stopped abruptly, switching his gaze to the oak tree standing behind her, a small confused frown replacing his former smile. "Excuse me, just a moment, my lady," he said, setting his baskets on the ground and giving Yavanna a wary glance. She frowned in turn as he took a few steps forward, craning his neck back to look up into the dense foliage before making a series of chattering sounds by clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Moments later, an answering string of squeaks and chatters emanated from the tree. The perpetrator revealed itself as a well-fed, brown squirrel who darted into sight down a low-hanging branch before dropping gracefully onto Aiwendil's shoulders. It circled the Maia fitfully, flicking its tail and keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Yavanna, who spent more of her time with her olvar than the kelvar, could not quite follow the rapid words, but the creature's indignant tone was obvious. However, from the grim expression that rapidly fixed itself on Aiwendil's face, it was obvious too that he understood the squirrel's message clearly.
The Maia stroked his fingers sympathetically along the squirrel's spine. "I think you'll be all right, Ratatosk," he told the little animal. He gently pressed two fingers to the creature's ribs. "See, there, all fine. No damage done." He prodded the plump stomach. "You've got more than enough padding, I think, my little friend. But I suggest you keep your distance in the future, all right?" He bent down, scooping up a handful of birdseed from his basket and presented it to the squirrel, who immediately began stuffing it into its cheeks, apparently appeased for the moment. Aiwendil, however, lowered his eyes and avoided Yavanna's gaze.
Yavanna's frown deepened. Even though she had not understood the squirrel's chatter, she had a sneaking suspicion concerning who had caused its distress. Aiwendil's sudden silence and innocent discomfort only solidified that suspicion. She folded her arms and her skin rippled darker. "Aiwendil," she said, her voice low, "would you care to explain?"
Aiwendil kept his eyes lowered sheepishly, still holding his open hand up to his shoulder for Ratatosk to eat from. "My lady, it seems- well, it seems that he was hit in the side with a hazelnut." He blanched a little, then added in a barely audible voice: "By Sauron."
Yavanna's good mood evaporated instantaneously, and her skin flared mahogany. The fact that the squirrel was evidently unharmed and most of the injury had been merely dealt to its pride did little to placate the abhorrence and anger that the very name of the hated Maia aroused. His presence here in the Halls was like a constant thorn pressing into her thoughts. He was a poison seeping through the peaceful stream of life in Valinor, a nipping, hissing fire surrounded by dry kindle that had to be constantly watched and worried over. Each morning since his arrival, she had woken with an unpleasant weight in her stomach, the knowledge that something was amiss, that something distasteful had to be dealt with that day. Then she would remember. That cruel, arrogant face with eyes that blazed with roiling hatred and anger. That snarling voice full of accusations and venom.
She cursed the fallen Maia aloud, disregarding the fact that had Aulë been there, he would have given her a thoroughly scandalized look. Aiwendil shrank back, uncomfortable in the suddenly hostile atmosphere, as her righteous anger verbalized itself further in a passionate string of threats directed against Morgoth's former Black Captain.
She had looked into Sauron's eyes and, despite herself, searched for a glimmer of the Maia she once had loved, whose delight with life, whose intricate sense of order, whose passion to create, had oftentimes made her wish that he had been given to her, instead of to Aulë. But all she could find there was the same blazing Wildfire that had consumed the Spring of Arda and the glory of the Valar. She had looked into his eyes and seen an image that had haunted her dreams for the past Age. Her Gardens on fire, blazing, blazing as far as her eyes could see, the smoke of her children boiling upward into the soiled sky.
She had looked into his eyes and seen Melkor reflected there.
He had brought back to her all the pain and sorrow of Arda Marred, ages of suffering and death dealt to the heart of her domain. He had re-opened the wounds of the early wars between Melkor and the Valar, when time and time again she had watched her beautiful new creations destroyed with such violence that it seemed to rend gashes across her very fëa. He was a reminder that not even Valinor was completely whole and safe; in his eyes was darkness, the same Darkness that had defiled the Blessed Realm once before when it cloaked the land in shadows and swallowed the Light of her two most precious creations. He was a reminder that it could happen again.
She closed her eyes, trying to gain control over her seething thoughts and words and the bitter pain that had lingered deep in her fëa ever since the death of the Two Trees. Despite herself, frustration towards Aulë welled up in her again, along with anger towards the other Valar whose decrees had allowed this vicious beast to come dwell in the same halls in which she must live. It was clear to her that he had no intention of changing his ways. It was his nature now. He was evil, through and through, a being whose noxious darkness stained and poisoned and destroyed everything he touched.
Mairon was long since dead, and Sauron was nothing but a monster.
"My lady…?" Aiwendil's soft voice cut through her anger and fear. She looked down to see her Maia staring at her with cautious concern, the squirrel still perched upright on his shoulder nibbling birdseed from its tiny paws. She felt a flicker of affection for the gentle Ainu, but that was quickly followed by the thought that innocent Aiwendil was yet another prime victim for Sauron's cruelty and seemingly boundless malice. What could a squirrel, a little fat squirrel, possibly have done to earn such treatment from any being?
No, she reminded herself, Sauron does not need a reason to be cruel.
"Where is he, Aiwendil?" she asked in a hard, low voice.
Aiwendil glanced at the squirrel and shifted uncomfortably. "Ratatosk says he's in the garden, not too far away." He shifted his weight again. "But, my lady, er, I don't think Ratatosk meant to get him in trouble or anything like that. Ratatosk can be a little, well, intrusive sometimes, and maybe, maybe Sauron didn't mean to hit him."
"Sauron meant to hit him all right, you can trust to that," Yavanna replied, her face a grim mask. "That's about the only thing you can trust him to do. After I'm finished with him, I can assure you he won't be harming my creatures again."
Aiwendil looked around, still visibly uncomfortable with the newly dark atmosphere of Yavanna's fierce justice and Sauron's wanton cruelty. "My lady, wait," he said sheepishly. "Maybe letting Sauron have his distance for now is better. I'll make sure all the animals know not to mess with him. Maybe he just needs time to adjust, to find where he fits in, to, well, remember what it's like to not be evil. Somehow, I don't think punishing him over this is going to help. No offense meant, my lady."
Yavanna looked at Aiwendil shrewdly, her affection from a moment ago turning to vague condescension. Aiwendil's love of nature and his innate gentleness served him well as a Maia of the Valië of Flora and Fauna, but sometimes Yavanna thought his naiveté and insistence on always seeing the best in everyone was better suited to her husband's service than to hers. "You give that monster more credit than he deserves," she said coldly.
A flicker of sadness passed over Aiwendil's face. "Do you really think so, my lady?"
"Yes," Yavanna replied.
Ratatosk chattered, curling his tail around Aiwendil's neck, but when the Maia offered him no more birdseed, the little animal gave a flying leap into the oak tree. The branches rustled, and the skittering of small claws rapidly diminished. Aiwendil remained standing, the basket of forgotten tomatoes still beside him as he stared at the tree, lost in thought and giving off a distinctly plaintive aura. Finally, he hesitantly met Yavanna's eyes again. "He wasn't always like that," he murmured in a voice that sounded almost apologetic. "What do you think happened to him?"
His eyes flickered away from hers again and she could sense his troubled air. A twinge of regret over her outburst of anger and her threats touched Yavanna; she knew Aiwendil hated such conflict and preferred to think that everyone could just get along if there were enough tomatoes to go around. He was much too peaceful for the world he found himself living in. But a single Maia's gentleness was not going to fix everything that was wrong in Arda Marred.
However, as he continued to frown, the Maiarin light of his eyes dimmed, she sensed there was more to his disturbance than mere upset over her anger. Gently, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll let this go for now, this time," she said, keeping her voice calm and devoid of the anger that still bubbled inside. "I'll leave it to you to make sure all the animals know to stay away from him. That is if you're quite sure little Ratatosk is all right."
Aiwendil offered her a nod and a half-hearted smile, but his brown eyes remained troubled. "What is it, Aiwendil?" Yavanna prodded.
The Maia swallowed then said in a hollow voice. "I…I was just thinking, what if…what if Morgoth had taken me instead of Mairon? What would I have turned into? Would you have thought I was a monster when I came back, too?"
There was a look in Aiwendil's eyes like a child that has just awoken from a vivid nightmare and is still struggling in its grip. Pain showed on his soft, round face, and she could see a mist just beginning to form over his eyes. His lip quivered a little and he bit it. Yavanna tightened her hand on his shoulder. "No, Aiwendil," she said firmly. "Morgoth would never have won you over. He didn't take you because he knew you would never have cooperated with all the terrible things he was doing."
"He didn't take me because I'm not powerful," Aiwendil answered. "Why would he want a Maia who grows tomatoes and feeds the birds when he could have Mairon?" He gave a small smile, but there was none of his usual mirth behind it. "If I had been as powerful as Mairon, maybe he would have taken me."
Yavanna pressed on his shoulder, turning him fully to face her. "You are much more powerful than Mairon ever was," she said with firm assurance. "You have proved that to me and the Valar with every passing day. I would rather have a loyal gardener than an arrogant lord to serve me in any circumstance. And power is not simply about how many people you can force onto their knees before you."
Aiwendil gave her that small smile again, one that was somehow childish and yet gravely discerning all the same. "But Mairon wasn't like that before. You liked how he was before he left, what he was able to do then with his powers." Yavanna pursed her lips at the knowing tone in Aiwendil's voice when he said that; she had always assumed that she had kept to herself any jealousy she might have felt over Mairon's allotment to Aulë and did not like the thought that any might have guessed at it. Aiwendil continued though, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Yavanna's sudden discomfort. "He was one of us, and now…now he's…not. He always seemed so clever, smart. If he could fall, any of us could have fallen, you know. I…I can't help thinking he could have been any one of us. He was one of us."
A shiver made its way down Yavanna's spine as she considered Aiwendil's quiet words. It was easy for her, a Vala, to despise Sauron's obvious weakness, how easily he'd been sucked into Melkor's darkness, and how drastically he'd changed. But what effect must such a dark metamorphosis be having on the other Maiar of Valinor, to see a brother, one of their own order, transformed before their eyes into a ghastly beast spewing poison and darkness? For the first time, she found herself viewing Sauron through the eyes of another Maia, one who had always been of lesser power than Mairon, one who had looked up to Aulë's master apprentice the way every Maia in Aulë's household had. It was not the same as herself and Melkor. Melkor had set himself apart almost from the very beginning, from his first Discord in their Music, and she had always been foremost in opposing him. But what if Oromë had fallen, or Námo, or Varda… Someone she respected… Someone she could barely imagine falling into the Darkness…
Aiwendil was still talking, his halting words indicating that he was thinking out loud more than anything else. "It's just, well, when animals are hurt and afraid and angry, they bite, and we don't punish them for biting then, and well, I'd bite if I was afraid and angry, too. Aulë thinks if can we can figure out what's wrong and keep him from feeling afraid and angry, maybe he'll get better."
He gave her a sideways glance at that, clearly aware that she did not share Aulë's views on that matter. However, as she remained silent, he went on as if he hadn't halted. "So, maybe he's not a monster all the way through. Maybe…maybe Mairon is still in there somewhere. Maybe we can help him. Maybe he'll never be a loyal gardener, but maybe he can be a lord again." He looked up at her and gave her another smile, this one hinting of hopefulness and humor. "I think he was always better as a lord anyway. He was pretty hopeless as a gardener."
And at Aiwendil's words, despite herself, Yavanna felt the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips. An old memory surfaced in her mind, one that she had not thought about in more years than she cared to count, and somewhere inside all the pain and anger that Sauron's presence aroused, a small bubble of warmth and amusement blossomed. Whether or not it was this particular memory to which Aiwendil had been alluding, she did not know, but she found herself glancing down at her basket of golden bulbs all the same.
Oh Mairon. No, she never had been successful in making a gardener out of him, even if she had tried…
"No, no, you're putting it in the wrong way, you loon. It's upside down."
She laughed as he blinked at her, those huge, bright eyes of his radiating confusion and mild annoyance. He had never liked being out of his element, but at her request, Aulë had agreed to lend her many of his Maiar as she began work on what was to become the greatest of all Gardens in Arda, the Tuiletarwa, her grand work on Almaren in the height of the Spring.
He was holding a bulb in one hand, kneeling in front of the shallow hole in the rich, dark soil. At her reprimand, he pulled it back from the hole where he'd been trying to stuff it, holding it awkwardly, and she hid her amused smile from him. How strange that one whose hands were so nimble and clever with heavy chunks of metal could become so graceless when handling something as simple and pure as a tulip's bulb. He could transform a lifeless lump of gold into an exquisite bracelet, but he could not seem to properly put to rest a young plant thrumming with life, who would readily tell him all he needed to know if he simply listened to its low, quiet Song.
She could tell he was annoyed, and she smiled to herself. It amused her seeing him disoriented like this, as bewildered and tongue-tied as a young man in the presence of a particularly fair maiden . He was always so confident, so slick and self-assured in Aulë's forges, keeping everything running as smoothly as a clear, spring stream. There was no doubt that he was brilliant at what he did, but that just made it doubly entertaining to see him so flustered at the moment. Aulë would probably have scolded her for ruffling his prize apprentice's feathers in such a manner if he knew of it, but she could not help teasing the fiery young Maia a little. It was good for him to slow down, to taste her rich, unhurried domain for once, to sip in some small measure from the well of her powers, instead of breathing in Aulë's soot all day long. Perhaps it was part of her nature, along with the burgeoning Spring and the passion of Life that everywhere was taking hold now that the Enemy was held at bay, but she found herself enjoying the crimson flush that was creeping across his cheeks as he continued to hold the bulb, clearly clueless about what to do with it.
She picked up another bulb from the basket and held it before him. "You put it in this way," she said, demonstrating with her own bulb by placing it upright in the hole. "In the dark, it does not know in which direction the light lies. So it must trust us, Mairon." She began to scoop dirt back over it tenderly with gently sweeping motions of her long fingers. "If we have failed it, it will smother in the dark, and all its long toil, and ours, will be for naught. But if we have not failed it, then it will find the light waiting for it, and it shall blossom."
A last sweep of her hands and the bulb vanished, put to rest until the Lamps' warmth and her powers brought its sprout forth. She indicated the next hole. "Now it's your turn."
The very tip of Mairon's tongue emerged, clenched between his teeth, as he examined the bulb in his hands. His face still sporting an exquisite blush of embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic ineptitude, he came to a decision and began lowering the bulb towards the hole, the slow movement making it clear he was still not sure about his choice.
Mentally, she rolled her eyes. It was the fifth task she had tried to give him that day and Mairon was still wrong.
"My lady?"
She looked up to find Aiwendil watching her with curious apprehension, his face still revealing his worry over her recent anger. She gave him a soft smile. "You're right, Aiwendil. The squirrel is all right, and why should we let that Maia ruin such a beautiful day? Let's go to the kitchens and see if Vorimanor can't serve a lovely tomato soup for supper tonight."
Aiwendil's bright smile flashed back on immediately. "And maybe you can take a look at the new swallow houses I've made for the Lindonal. I think I've finally gotten the proper combination of mud and clay but I wanted you to approve them before I put them up…"
Yavanna followed the cheerfully chattering Maia, listening to his plans for bird house designs as if there was no darkness in the entire world, let alone in these very Gardens, and she tried to keep her own thoughts just as light. She was not going to let the darkness of a defeated enemy destroy her life a second time.
A/N: If you don't know and weren't able to guess it, Aiwendil is Radagast's original Maiarin name. In The Unfinished Tales, in the chapter concerning the Istari, we learn from Tolkien that Aiwendil/Radagast was a Maia of Yavanna, so I couldn't help but bring him into the story.