A/N: Here is my humble attempt at a War of Wrath chapter- I hope it is even slightly worthy.
War of Wrath
"Sauron."
Only one being could safely utter that name, and he did so ironically, granting a dark power to the title.
The Maia lowered his helmet to his chest and raised his eyes to Melkor. The latter was clutching the arms of his throne with his gloved hands, his facial muscles drawn tight at his mouth. The black eyes were wide, almost pleading, as they searched into his.
The Vala put his smooth, beguiling voice to use. "Stay here with me."
Melkor could coerce even the immovable to sympathize with him. Sauron felt a pang at the bottom of his heart, and his only goal then was to protect the Vala. He stepped closer and took the hand Melkor held out to him.
It trembled. His eyes held more fear than Sauron had ever beheld in them before, and it was all the more reason for him to go. Both were aware that the Dark Lord's order was not one the lieutenant could follow.
The Vala's hand still firmly in his own, Sauron knelt before the throne, his helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.
"Let me see your face, one last time." With his free hand, Melkor touched the cold features of his servant-firm and strong beneath his fingers, the jaw clenched so he would not hear the teeth tensely grating another.
"It is not the end, my lord. We shall reign victorious in this battle, as we have in the previous."
A smile twitched at Melkor's lips, but it seemed sad, even pitying if he were capable. "You have been a faithful and trustworthy servant, Sauron. I know little of what shall become of you next."
Fear was making the Vala delusional, Sauron thought, yet he did not break from his grasp.
"At least I know one will always speak for me, even though this time I will not have him in Aman. I shall be alone."
"But if the Valar did capture you...they would release you again," the Maia reasoned. "And if not, I will return and free you myself."
Melkor rolled his eyes. "I feel I have given you unrealistic expectations of power, Sauron."
"You are the greatest power, my lord. No one can hold you. It is impossible." The Maia did not solely mean to flatter, for he truly believed what he spoke.
Leagues above the fortress, metal clashed against metal, the bloody choir of a thousand voices shouting at the gate.
Melkor tightened the grip on his hand, hissing at the pressure on his burns. Strangely, the pain seemed to invigorate him. Sauron held the injured palm lightly to his cheek.
"I will come back and find you here," he said, seeking to reassure his lord. But Melkor only responded with the unconvinced expression Sauron had always found humorous. Now it sank his spirits.
He slowly stood to his full height, letting the Vala slip away from him. Lifting his helmet, he adjusted it on his head, strands of black hair flowing out over his breastplate.
And he turned around, knowing full well in the depths of his heart that Melkor was right to be afraid. This battle would end differently. And the figure behind him he would never again see seated there, although he clung to every ounce of false hope.
He had fought such a temptation too many times just to give in now, so after ordering the remaining guard to watch over their lord, he strode out of the throne room without looking back once.
His heart raced as he moved towards the surface, every level sweeping by in a state of complete chaos. He focused only on reaching the top. The outside light met his dark-adjusted eyes, and with another two steps, he stood in the open at the center of battle.
The lieutenant's long shadow stretched over Anfauglith, manifesting as a creeping dread visible on the faces of the Elves and their Mannish allies.
But as the waves of the army receded on the tide of fear, one being took a step forward.
Eönwë. His golden hair and armor lit up as the heavy clouds broke apart and allowed in faint beams of light. The Maia eagerly set upon the lieutenant, grappling with one hand for his scabbard.
Sauron became slightly worried. He was proficient at best with a sword, if relying on that alone. And Eönwë was the greatest. The lieutenant sought to lose the herald by running into a nearby barracks swarming with Orcs.
Their captain bowed to the Maia. "My lord, it is fortunate you are here." Most of the Orcs huddled together, watching the walls rumble and shake. But once they saw Sauron's face in the light of the fires they immediately stood up straight in line, brandishing their weapons.
He smiled faintly despite himself. Without a word he rushed over to the furnaces, taking a hammer in his right hand and examining the half-finished scimitars and blades.
The line of Orcs remained in position, gazing straight ahead with renewed courage and awaiting his orders. Only their captain glanced towards Sauron's bustling form, curious as to what he was doing.
Even his most skilled Orcs were no match for Eönwë. Sauron strengthened their weaponry using his methods, hurrying with all speed. Once his task was complete, he handed them out. A few of the Orcs looked to him with shy smiles, unsure what to say.
He felt better after, more secure - so before Eönwë gave up the search, he sent out his legions. Such was their eagerness that the doorways jammed with their charging bodies and a segment of Vanyarin Elves that had dared approach the barracks retreated fifty feet.
The remaining Orcs dug their hands into piles of bloodied meat, holding it over the pits of rabid wolves. Once the gates opened, the meat was hurtled over the advancing army and the wolves took off running, snarling and gnashing their teeth.
Sauron hoped that would throw Eönwë off guard, the need to protect his master's favorite Elves- but it was again in their best interest to hide behind the Maia, and the wolves searched for the thrown bait rather than approach that overly bright being. The Orcs were undaunted, however, for their blood thirst and ire foolishly increased at the sight of the enemy.
Eönwë and his army plowed through the wall of Orcs as if he had a battering ram in his possession. There was nowhere left for the lieutenant to run. The herald was fast approaching now that a way had cleared.
Melkor's Maia reluctantly unsheathed his sword and met Eönwë in challenging, as the latter's blue eyes sized him up from within the gilded gaps of his plumed helmet. Sauron had always hated those eyes, too fond of looking into things they shouldn't. Suspecting what they shouldn't, meddling in what they had no business meddling in. He remembered his final confrontation with Eönwë in Valinor, how the herald had been suspicious of him even then. It seemed not much time had elapsed since that encounter. Did Eönwë know the identity of his opponent?
Unfortunately, his skills remained just as Sauron recalled. The elite swordsman maneuvered his blade in sweeping blows and sharp arcs the lieutenant was hard-pressed to parry, driving him back across the plain to the shelter of the fortress's shadowed walls.
The two Maiar gasped for air, metal swords ringing, locked in the most intimate of conflicts. The black fire of the lieutenant's blade smoked every time it clashed with the blade shining bright blue. Sauron searched for an escape from the duel, knowing it could only end badly, but the herald was intent on keeping him in close combat. He was merely the distraction – a way of giving Melkor more time to muster his forces.
If he could just shape-shift, or take Manwë's Maia at unawares with an ambush…
Sauron put forth his hand to summon his phantoms, but in that split second of concentration, Eönwë side-stepped and swung his sword high above his head, thrusting the weapon into the leg of Melkor's Maia. The latter choked on the words of his spell, losing the grip on his sword as he tumbled in a cloud of dust.
He saw flashes of red. The next thing Sauron knew, the herald vanished into the crowds of Elves and Orcs, and in the malice of Eönwë's heart, he left him writhing there with a blade shoved all the way through his limb to hold him in place.
It was an agony he'd never experienced before. He did not know how long he lay there, incapacitated, before he was discovered by one of Melkor's bodyguards. Lungorthin hesitated to reach for the gold-tipped hilt.
"JUST GET IT OUT, DAMMIT!" Sauron desperately pleaded.
In a swift motion, perhaps intended to be painless, the Balrog pulled the blade from his leg and heaved the terrible sword as far as he could.
Sauron hissed as blood spilled down and seeped under his armor in hot, sticky waves. "Is Melkor safe?" he asked even as his own life receded.
The expression he witnessed on the Balrog's face was not heartening. Sauron splayed his fingers over the wound and tried to heal himself, but the leg burned like it was on fire. Whatever weapon Eönwë used against him must have been cursed.
"Can you stand?" the Balrog inquired with what could have been concern.
"I'll be fine," Sauron choked out unconvincingly. "Go to him. Protect the god of Arda."
The message shared between them was unspoken but clear. What were they, without Melkor? Who were they? Sauron did not know, and he could tell by Lungorthin's eyes that he did not know, either.
The lieutenant picked up his fallen sword and used it as a crutch to hoist himself on his right leg, the uninjured one. He looked around for Eönwë, but the other Maia was nowhere in sight.
While he limped towards the fortress, the Elves tried to take his injury as an opportunity, but he swatted them away like flies and obsessively hunted the bright figure that had gotten away from him.
Soon he was back on his knees, the pain was so intense. The agony combined with his hatred, his rage, his fear, transforming the scenes before him into nonsensical images. An orange sun melted in a red pool of sky, and the same liquid poured from the holes in his armor. A Vanya and an Orc were frozen in mid-air, prepared to exchange the glowing sword in the hand of the former for the studded iron club in the latter's. Not much of a fair trade, he noted objectively - the sword looked considerably more valuable.
He blinked, and years passed. The two opposite and yet identical creatures repelled, as if a bolt of invisible lightning had sent them flying by its sheer force. They lay among the piles of rubble, decomposing to the bare bones underneath. Sauron peeled off the Orc's helmet, and half a face, dark yet very fair, looked upon him with a lifeless eye socket.
A weak breath of air escaped its lips. "Save us, master. The shadows are consuming us."
The corpse of the Elf then seized him from behind, and the Maia was helpless to pull away. "Why did you betray us? I loved you! I loved you!"
He went to remove the helmet, but it faded to dust in his hands, and he stared instead at one of his Noldorin pupils from the forges of Valinor. The Elf's face was twisted in abhorrence, to the point of barely being recognizable. "I hate you!" he declared to the Maia. Once the vision faded, Sauron was left holding a dead Vanya he did not know.
Instead of the screams rattling his senses, he heard faint singing in a hitherto unknown part of his mind. No longer could he feel his pulse in his fingertips. White ash blanketed the field like snow, and he gazed at the soft flakes collecting on his blood-soaked palm. It was a grim kind of beauty. Was this how it felt to die?
And then his blood ran cold as a horrible sound filled his being, resuscitating him with a spark of divine energy and bringing the Maia back to the present.
Melkor's cry.
As he had done so many years ago, when it echoed over Arda while he stared with uncertainty back over the sea to Valinor, Sauron picked up his head and turned in that direction.
He had to get there in time.
Fiery pain shot up the left side of his body in resistance, and he screamed in fury. Something gigantic toppled over directly behind him - a troll, a dragon - and he found himself unable to move.
Finally, with all his strength willing, he crawled through the mud, carrying a heavy corpse on his back, until he was within viewing distance of the entrance. Eönwë appeared at the doors of Angband with an accompaniment of Elves, and behind them the form of his master dragged over the ground.
His crown was bent and twisted around his neck. Black liquid oozed out of his legs, and his face was concealed by his hair. He was cursing profusely, thrashing about while his captors paid no heed.
Strands of hair fell out of his eyes, and somehow, they knew exactly where to look. Deep in the ditch, hidden under the dead weight of some creature, Sauron felt the familiar dread of his stare.
Eönwë stopped and turned, noticing Melkor's sudden silence. He retraced his steps and pointed a sharp blade at the pale neck.
"Your lieutenant - Where is he?"
Sauron expected he was found. He let his head sink into the filth of the battlefield, defeated. But Melkor quickly glanced away to stare up into Eönwë's face with pure hatred, and then he spit.
The general reaction to that made Sauron cringe. Eönwë resumed dragging the Dark Lord by his hair, and as he slid by the crowds of Men and Elves kicked, spit, cursed him. Or all of the above.
Sauron watched in a repulsed state of shock from where he crouched, until his vision began to falter and the procession exited his range of sight.
They had failed. More importantly, he had failed.
His final thought just as darkness swept up from the vacated depths of Angband to claim him.
The former lieutenant regained his senses in time, emerging from a fuzzy dream. He found the pain lying there in wait.
For a few short moments he forgot everything that had just occurred. When the confusion passed, however, rage returned with a vengeance. The throbbing in his head worsened, as if someone was kicking him.
He could hear a faint conversation happening nearby.
"What are you doing?!" a guttural voice spoke.
"What if he's alive?" a similar one replied.
"Even more of a reason for us to hurry up and escape!"
Sauron lifted his face and released a wrathful cry. In response the small band of Orcs screamed and took a great leap back, dropping the stick they were cautiously prodding him with.
He turned over and cradled his head, groaning more from frustration than pain.
The Orcs were hesitant to speak, but they did so anyway. "Is the Master going to come back?"
"No, you idiots. They have taken him thanks to your utter lack of competence."
Judging from their reactions, they could not decide whether to be happy or sad at that news.
The red patches in Sauron's vision gradually cleared. He could now make out that aside from this group of Orcs, he was alone within the ruins of Angband.
There was enough strength in his limbs to finally throw off the gigantic troll crushing his lower body. He got up shakily, spitting blood at his feet. "Have the enemy gone?"
"Most of them, my lord. There are still a few Elves left wandering the battlefield, and many Orcs wounded not fatally. Some are also merely pretending to be dead."
He spun in a circle to overview the battlefield. A scattered number of Noldor and Vanyar strolled around with swords, stabbing at any fallen Orc in their path. Sure enough, when the Elves got too close, a group of Orcs that had previously lain still rolled into the shadows.
Another one of their battle techniques for quickly removing the enemy in order to make for a faster regrouping - but now, to Sauron's agitated mind, looked extremely stupid.
What of the Maiar, the Balrogs? Had they been captured or had they fled?
"Gather all the survivors," he ordered. "We are leaving."
"Where, my lord? This is our h-"
"Do not ask questions. I am the Master now."
I am the Master now. Was that really true?
The Orcs ran off to round up their brethren. "What did I tell you?" he heard one scold the rest.
The Maia staggered in the direction of Angband, leaving a withering trail of smoke in his wake. The ground was charred black from dragon fire, but green grass already sprouted up between their fallen bodies.
Ancalagon's massive bulk blocked the iron gates beneath the smashed remains of Thangorodrim. One of his flaming red eyes remained open even as his life ebbed away. He watched the lieutenant approach before his lids closed for good, the last thing he would ever see.
Sauron clambered over his corpse to enter the ruins of the courtyard. Elves and Orcs alike littered the former pathways descending into the fortress and scavenging birds circled over the carnage.
He paused at the threshold when he heard voices from within. They belonged to Elves, certainly, but even he did not currently possess the strength to fight them.
One of the Elves had the stolen Silmaril on his brow, and he was reprimanding another of his companions digging through the rubble.
"Do not take any artifact from this accursed place! Eönwë will return to destroy everything." Eärendil glanced around with discomfort. "Let us not linger here any longer— Morgoth may be defeated, but there is yet a sinister presence lurking in these ruins."
One by one they departed from the yard, unknowingly passing Sauron as he waited silently behind a crumbling wall. He made a dash inside once the Elves were out of close range.
Where the entrance of Angband once yawned, a wide sea now loomed, and the Maia stood at the edge of a sundered cliff. Melkor's throne, and his warhammer, which Sauron had meant to preserve, must have dwelt at its farthest depths.
No more halls of iron. No dark shapes drifting, no eerie shadows flickering. No fire smoking from the empty pits. No Balrogs guarding the way to the throne.
Sauron dropped to his knees on the desolate ground, prostrating himself to nothing. Why had Melkor spared him? What had he foreseen? Surely there was nothing left for him in such a barren wasteland?
With much reluctance, he got up to leave his former fortress behind, weaving back among the ruin and destruction to the spot where the Orcs awaited his further instructions.
"Where is my horse?" the Maia demanded.
They searched around, but needn't have gone far, for Muilë appeared out of the gloom at her master's side. Weakly, he climbed atop her back and reached for the reins.
Sauron urged his horse onward, giving no destination. But by now Muilë knew his mind, and she carried him out of the ruins of Beleriand, seeking any land similar to his outpost in Taur-nu-Fuin.
He continually slipped in and out of consciousness. At some point, he dropped out of the saddle and Muilë clipped to a halt, waiting patiently for him to pick himself up.
His heartbeat was dangerously slow, and he knew if he did not rest soon, his body would die. The Orcs rushed to surround him with fearful anticipation; they understood not his immortality, only knowing they would become scattered and disoriented if he too was lost.
Sauron limped the rest of the way, although he had no memory of the extent of that journey until the survivors happened upon a dark wood. There they were immediately spotted by the denizens of a grim citadel, who just so happened to be his old acquaintances from across the sea. They appeared at the gates and accepted the injured Maia in their arms, carrying him inside.
"The old tower did not survive the war, so we built our new residence here," the spirits of Mandos explained. He mumbled incoherently and did not appear to hear a word they were saying.
They laid him upon a table while they worked their death magic. Great force was applied to his chest again and again, shaking his limp body in a series of convulsions.
"The spirit will forsake the body if it has given up. Fight, if you hope to keep it!" they urged the Maia.
Hovering in a black cloud on the ceiling, Sauron could assess his injuries and the changes to his appearance over the years. Memories flashed before his eyes: Navigating the maze-like darkness of Middle earth. The conniving, jealous stares of the Maiar in Angband. Aulë clasping his shoulder in praise, and the inner warmth he felt afterward. Crippling pain and naïve shock when Melkor threw him from the heights of Thangorodrim. Lúthien mocking him while he thrashed under the steel grip of Huan's claws. Fear in Melkor's eyes. The greatest of the Valar degraded and brought to his knees while he could only watch in horror.
If he had done anything different, would the outcome remain the same? Sauron wondered. His hold faded fast at the final memory of Melkor overthrown. Before he was forced out for good, he used his last conscious thought as a wedge to jam his foot in through the door of life.
Arise! You are not finished!
The most powerful of the Maiar shot up with a start, setting a hand on his chest to feel a rapid heartbeat begin anew.
Sauron awoke from a dreamless sleep and found himself alone on a couch in a shadowy chamber, a tourniquet wrapped around the wound in his thigh. Mentally, he felt wretched, but physically he was no longer riddled with pain. He raised up on his elbow to gaze out a high window. Orcs congregated in the courtyard, but they were not at ease, for fell spirits had also taken up refuge there.
He was pleased to see other servants of Melkor. Orcs were useful, but he was of the mind that wraiths proved deadlier servants. The undead beings sat atop a burial mound, and they all identified him when he entered the sunken necropolis.
"We know you. You are the lieutenant of the Master. We heard how long ago you commanded an army of wraiths in the Wars of Beleriand. Alas, the forestlands of old are destroyed, and there are no safe places anymore."
"Do you swear your loyalty to me, as you did Melkor?"
A beat of silence passed. "That depends. Will you find us somewhere to live?"
Sauron did not answer. Instead he went back to the tower, leaving a door open in invitation.
He was not worried they would refuse. Any remaining servants of Melkor had few options – if they did not enter his service, they would be hunted by the enemy, or else attempt to make it on their own. And the first option provided the most security, as they would all eventually come to realize.
On his way upstairs he passed the spirits of Mandos weaving grotesque tapestries, coming then to the upper and largest chamber. Stolen furniture was strewn about the room, and he dusted off a chair, scraping it across the floor to the window facing Ered Luin's eastern slopes. The last rays of sunset crossed the mountains and fell aslant through the glass.
One of the wraiths had followed him, but now lingered in the doorway, unsure if he should have.
"Say what you have come to say," Sauron ordered impatiently.
The wraith turned and walked back in, tugging nervously at the neck of his robe. "My brother perished in the Wars of Beleriand. I think he once fought at your behest."
"And?" he asked.
"Well, I… wish to enter your service, in his steed."
Sauron crossed his arms and appraised the wraith with an amount of surprise. "You would bind yourself to me willingly?"
"As an attendant, my lord, if you are willing to have me."
"True loyalty is hard to find," the Maia considered. He scrutinized him a bit longer. "I accept."
Sauron gave his new attendant a list of tasks to complete, while he stood at the top of the tower and stared at the lights coming from the encampments to the west. He trembled every time he heard Eönwë's voice.
He was truly afraid, and to admit that only made it worse. The image of his lord dragged and spat upon kept coming back to him, and he imagined himself in Melkor's place.
The Maia shuddered. It was a horrible thought. Such an insult made him furious, but again Eönwë's voice rang out clearly, and the anger immediately simmered down to fear.
It was only a matter of time before he was found. Eönwë knew he was still unaccounted for. Each passing night he grew more vigilant, until he hardly left his post.
The herald was going to come for him.
A voice interrupted his paranoid thoughts. "When are they going to leave? It's been months, and the war is long over." His wraith servant stood nearby, glaring at the camps through a break in the hills.
Sauron made no reply.
"My lord?"
"Go away."
He listened to the footsteps retreating from the room. Then the Maia lowered his head and traced his thumbs up to his brow, leaning against the window. Thinking.
Sauron truly hated this feeling more than all others, this helplessness. He was the lieutenant of Angband, damn it! He always had a plan.
But the only option he felt himself settling for was to surrender, and it made him sick. There were so many things he'd rather do than get on his knees in front of one of the Maiar.
Anything.
Only one more day until he comes. What will they do when they find you hiding out in the forest? Do you really expect to be shown mercy? Perhaps Manwë himself will come to watch you dragged from the tower-
He clenched his fists and a growl reverberated deep in his throat.
Fine. He would bow to the herald.
But he was going to despise every second.
His attendant ceased scrubbing the blood-stained tiles in the foyer as soon as he saw Sauron approach the doors. Immediately, he tossed the soiled rag back into the bucket of dirty water. "Where are you going, my lord? Shouldn't you bring a guard? I can escort y-"
"I will return later."
He probably wouldn't. But what did it matter? It was not the first lie he'd ever told. When he was some distance away from the tower and the Orcs who gawked when they saw him outside it, he found a secluded region of the forest. Standing there alone, he took on the fairest form he could conceive.
Flowing tresses of hair, softer than the ivory skin it covered. Deep blue eyes beneath arched brows. Clothing like Eönwë's: radiant and flowing, a finely woven cloak grazing slender leather boots.
He could not see himself, but it was probably best that way. He had done it all with the faint memory of Aman's splendor in mind, and if he gazed on his reflection, he would likely change it to something more...fitting. And this, he reminded himself, was more fitting for one of the Maiar to look upon.
His legs felt weighed down by lead, but he bid them walk. A flash of bright light entered his vision and he abruptly turned towards it. He could not show fear now.
Eönwë was coming closer on the path, wearing the cursed sword on his belt. He must have gone back for it - and wiped the blade clean.
Sauron grimaced. On the count of three, he would show himself.
1…
2…
Eönwë suddenly paused and inclined his head. Had he sensed his presence there?
Sauron ducked farther out of sight.
No. The herald was staring up at the sun, smiling in a cheerful manner.
3…
Go!
He didn't budge. When did he become such a coward?
GO!
He took a deep breath and stepped into Eönwë's path. The other Maia looked down, blinking sunlight out of his face. It seemed to take a while for his eyes to adjust.
So incredibly painful. As soon as Sauron dropped down to one knee, his pride began to scream obscenities towards him. He put on a false smile and ignored it.
Slowly, Eönwë smiled back. "Greetings, on this fair day. Who might you be?"
Get to the point.
"I was a Maia of my conquered lord, come before your merciful lordship to seek repentance."
"You are very fair to be a Maia of Morgoth. Unless, of course, your aim is to deceive me…?"
"I come in my true form."
Eönwë regarded him with polite curiosity. "You are familiar to me, somehow. What is your name?"
"I…have no recollection of my original name," Sauron stumbled. "I go by only foul ones now."
"How long had you been under the evil one's service?"
Would his punishment be decided based on the length of time he spent in Melkor's servitude? He hesitated to answer.
Still Eönwë smiled, as if he saw through everything, and in a condescending sort of way that made Sauron feel even lower than he bowed.
"Surely, you cannot be the fierce warrior I met at the gate."
Ah, so Eönwë was attempting to reveal him by means of insults. The herald was sorely mistaken if he thought such a base tactic would work.
Sauron shook his lovely locks of hair. "No, I am not he."
Eönwë glanced past him at the only dark region of the forest. "And this would not happen to be your location of hiding?"
"Correct."
"There was once a very proud Maia of Valinor, in the house of Aulë, I believe. But at present I cannot recall his name. Perhaps you remember?"
Sauron's expression was blank. "No, you seem to be rambling, my lord. Pray tell, what became of him?"
"None know for certain, only there is a high amount of speculation that he fell under the shadow of Morgoth."
"An unfortunate soul. Your story is very moving, but typical. Many were deceived similarly. Why is he so important?"
"Yes, pride can make even the greatest fall into shame. I wonder what that Maia intends to do now that his lord has been cast into the Void?"
Eönwë searched in his eyes for a reaction, one Sauron made no attempt to hide.
"Your methods portray little mercy," he observed.
"For Morgoth, aye, who had many chances to repent. But perhaps some exists for you. I cannot grant pardon to another Maia; if you are truly sincere in this request, you must repent before Manwë."
"Then I will do so," Sauron replied agreeably, although he had no such intentions.
Eönwë held out a hand. "Will you return with me?"
Sauron stared at it but moved not. His love for Valinor had dissipated over the years, and he failed to see how returning would benefit him anyway.
As close as they were, Eönwë somehow appeared to be a great distance away. How had he ever looked on Manwë's herald without difficulty, without squinting against his light?
Eönwë lowered his hand closer, but to Sauron it made no difference.
"I will not return with you, but on my own time," he replied finally.
The herald raised an eyebrow and regarded him skeptically, until gradually he nodded and bid the other Maia farewell.
Sauron watched him leave for a time. Then he turned his attention to the sky.
Could Melkor observe from his place in the Void? Was he truly there, or had Eönwë lied to trick him?
He could go to Valinor and find out for certain, but such a decision carried many risks. If Melkor had indeed been cast into the Void, Sauron would have to remain there and face whatever punishment he would inevitably be sentenced to, thereby surrendering all his power and the sole surviving link to Melkor's empire.
And even if his lord was only held in temporary bondage, Sauron could no longer pass under suspicion. He would be closely watched, making it difficult to aid his escape.
No, the best choice was to remain. And wait. It was still possible that Melkor might find a way back, and it was Sauron's duty to prepare for such an event.
His attendant was busy sweeping cobwebs in the tower when the Maia returned in his usual form. The wraith leaned the broomstick against the wall, captivated suddenly by some sight outside the window.
"We cannot hide here forever," Sauron announced upon entry. He already began making preparations to depart.
"My lord—" his servant tried to interrupt, shooting frequent glances to the tower window.
"What choice do I have?" the Maia countered, thinking the wraith trying to argue with him. "He will search for me, and I have no-"
"My lord!" his servant tried again.
"-army, other than a few handfuls of Orcs, and what use-"
"My lord!"
Sauron finally turned to him, overwhelmed by irritation. "What?!"
The wraith eagerly waved the Maia over to the window. "I think you should see this."
So Sauron came at last, and he looked out, wondering why he couldn't see anything- and then realized why. The landscape was blotted out by hundreds of Maiar, all former captains of Melkor, and the crowd stretched past the clearing far off into the forest beyond.
Taryamo led the host. He must have tracked him for weeks to this location. When Sauron appeared at the window, the huntsman dipped his head in a show of respectful greeting.
"I am not going to serve a Maia!" one of the captains in his train protested.
"Shut up and bow!" Taryamo growled, smacking the rebel across the face.
Row by row, willingly or no, the Maiar knelt and submitted to him.
Sauron witnessed in shock. "I…I…" he stuttered, trying to form words, but found the ability temporarily lost to him. He gawked at the crowd, totally and utterly speechless.
His attendant looked up with an excited smile. "What was my lord saying about not having an army?"
