Raich
He had done everything right.
With the aid of Morgoth who was once Melkor, second to none in the choir of Ilúvatar before Time began, he would have become the Lord of all Middle-earth. Above the men, puny mayfly lives expended in the flash of a blade; above the Elves, whose self-righteous purity obscured their powers; even above others of the Maiar, who had grown so powerless as the Third age grew towards its glorious finale. The other Maia…hah! Saruman, greatest of the Maia on Middle-earth, was carefully in hand, a mere servant. Gandalf – a petty lover of Halflings, aid and watch-dog to Men – was not even a threat to such might as his. The third Maia, the Brown? Never to be considered. Bird-watcher, animal-tamer.
But he, in his stronghold forged by the combined powers of his servants and his Lord, Morgoth, would soon become Lord of Middle-earth, and even the Valar would soon learn to fear the name of Sauron!
Even Isildur's rash actions, a rare gleam in the sky of dimming, dying fireflies, had not set him back far. The other Kings of Men had long previous fallen under the sway of his terrible Rings; the Dwarves were no more; his armies had crushed even the combined fist of the Men and Elves, slaughtered their leaders. True, his form perished when the Master Ring, into which his soul, if he could be said to have such, was poured, hand been severed from his hand, but he had survived.
Those armies had fallen, but now the numbers of his servants had grown again into an unstoppable force…And the Ring was on its way back to its master. He could feel it, day and night; could hear it calling, see it inching along in his very lands in the hands of two foolish, brave Halflings. It gave him a strange pleasure to watch them creep through his land, bearing him all unknowing the weapon of ultimate destruction. The innocence of their hearts gave them a strange power over the Ring, and the bearer had been slow to corrupt under its terrible force. Ah, but finally he had broken, and was tortured every step, crushed ever more as the Ring drew nearer to its master…
Pathetic, the attempts of these dregs of Men to restore past alliances in order to defeat him! As though he could be defeated by the likes of them.
True, Helm's Deep had held against his forces, but Osgiliath had fallen, and Minas Tirith was standing on borrowed time.
What could have gone wrong? There was wrenching pain now, pain such as a mortal could never have endured, pain a thousand-fold what it had been when the Ring was shorn from his hand, pain which caused his faceless, voiceless form to roar in anguish. The spells woven into his stronghold he pulled to him, trying to survive this pain by the death-force of his servants.
But slowly the Tower beneath him crumbled as the pain shredded his spells. His very consciousness was focused on a single point as his vision blurred: the Ring, sinking into the fires of the mount in which it had been forged. His indestructible power, melting, ebbing in the flames…
They would go with him. Those puny Halflings who had evaded him through his pride – yes, the one and only flaw in his plan, he realized now, too late – and their friends gathered in a defiant gaggle before his Gate, surrounded by his dying servants. Perhaps Isildur's actions had proved a larger setback than imagined…
The stronghold collapsed as he drew in all his power. The Mountain roared, vomiting magma, the lifeblood of him consumed by it, spread as the flames boiled down the mount. Vision ended, and the final sights in his Eye were the army of Men, standing shielded by Gandalf's power from the force of his death, and the Halfling pair, safe on a rock high above the reach of the lava of Mount Doom…
With a final shriek of fury and anguish, Sauron departed Middle-earth. But Morgoth, his master, remained, and watched as the fourth age began. An age ruled by Men, when surely he would prosper.
His evil could not be conquered when Men proved such fertile ground for his seed…
Sauron, as he fled to the silent Halls, vanquished forever from Middle-earth, heard the laughter of Morgoth in the eruption of the Mountain, in the settling of the stones.
Lasto lalaith nîn, the mightiest of the Ainur whispered, never abandoned as were the others thanks to the hearts of Men. Although the Elvish tongue burned on his lips as he spoke it, he wanted to be heard as his truest servant fled. Hear me laugh, Estel, Ilúvatar! Rachon le, for only I will last the fourth age.