Here begins Part 2
That isolated, bleak outpost hiding in the wastes of Beleriand was certainly no fortress, never intended to house so many. While Sauron had gained the followers he sought, he lost the space he had. Melkor's captains poked and prodded about the place in restless anticipation of the vengeance they expected their new leader to immediately enact.
Could Angband's survivors reclaim their former power without Melkor? Was such a thing even possible? Sauron had mixed emotions surrounding the Vala. He had feared him, but he had not hated him – nay, he respected the Dark Lord, for reasons even he did not fully comprehend.
He had never given up trying to glean praise and recognition from Melkor, a task often comparable to begging breadcrumbs off the stingiest giver. But Sauron was not a quitter. The brutal punishments at worst and cold indifference at best did not deter him; rather, they made the eventual reward that much more satisfying.
While he could not deny a feeling of relief behind Melkor's absence, he did not believe that the Dark Lord was truly gone. He saw his former master everywhere – in the cruel eyes of the Orcs and their misshapen bodies, in the looming storm clouds on dark nights, and especially in the new, chaotic structure of the earth that Melkor had wrought in his refusal to be defeated. Every crooked tree branch and every jagged mountain top was Melkor. At all times the Maia felt those black eyes close upon him, for there was nowhere under shade or under sun that Melkor could not perceive him.
Even the very walls of the tower seemed to have a Melkor element in their composition. Sauron peered suspiciously at the grimy black stones, wondering if a part of his master hid there.
"Lord Mairon," Taryamo tried again for his attention. "When shall we retaliate against the Valar?"
"You will wait, if you want to survive," Sauron stated matter-of-factly. "It is too risky now, with the Eldar gathered in large numbers and the Valar's emissary in their midst. If we begin to stir in resistance, the lords of Aman shall hunt every last one of us down and drag us in chains to Valinor."
At the mention of Eönwë, Taryamo's eyes instinctively went to the leg where Sauron had sustained his injury in the duel with the herald. He must have witnessed, or else heard tell of the event afterward. Conscious of Sauron noticing his stare, the huntsman quickly looked away, but the former did not fail to catch his subtle glance.
"I've not been granted the gift of patience," Taryamo complained. "I cannot sit in a dark tower and busy myself with raising the dead, gaining pleasure watching them suffer. How long must we wait? Hundreds, thousands of years?"
"The enemy will be destroyed," Sauron said with surprising calmness, "for their insolence in defying Melkor and twice over. I promise you this, Taryamo."
"You are very much like him - refusing to tell us your plans so that we might assist."
Sauron leaned closer, and in the darkness of the tower it appeared to the other Maia that a semblance of Melkor entered his face. "I understand now why he did so. It only takes one incompetent to ruin an ingenious plan."
Despite Taryamo's claim that he and Melkor were the same, Sauron did not agree. He was not his master. Melkor's rise had brought destruction and ruin, and now it fell to him to repair and reorder the faults his lord left behind in his blind ambition. No, he was not a lover of chaos, but he would build off its template and bring Melkor's plans to perfection.
The hundreds of persons in the tower prevented Sauron's attendant from easily finding him. The wraith pushed past the loitering captains, making them mutter in annoyance. "My lord!" he called frantically, "I do not see you!"
"Over here," the Maia answered.
Relieved, he started to approach his master. "I have finished my tasks. Your horse is groomed and I've polished her reins-"
One of Taryamo's men suddenly picked up the servant, inspecting him with a cruel laugh. "What's this? A lowly wraith, kissing up to the lieutenant?"
"Unhand my attendant," Sauron ordered coldly. "He swore his loyalty long before you."
"Don't lay one finger on his wraiths, or you'll regret it," a fellow hunter joked.
The wraith shook off his oppressor and scampered gratefully to his master's side. The latter did not pay him any heed. He stood gazing out the window at something only he could see, absorbed in his plotting. Deception was the easiest path to success, Melkor had always said. Sauron decided to lay low and forbid the Orcs from venturing beyond their hideout, staying silent but ever watchful. Before long, the Valar would let down their guard, and Eönwë would return to the shores of Valinor with the most faithful of the Eldar. Sauron smiled as he pictured the ships on the horizon, leaving Middle earth in the belief that it was saved, having been "freed" from the blight of Melkor.
He only wished he could see them off himself.
The Maia never did mind waiting if he was sure in the result. Eventually, he knew, Eönwë would leave, convincing many Elves to go with him. Perhaps the Valar would even forgive the Noldor and welcome them back to Valinor with open arms, or perhaps they would be punished. Sauron did not particularly care either way. Fantasizing about harming the Noldor had been Melkor's obsession, after all, not his. But if they refused the summons and remained in Middle earth, he had no qualms about torturing them for all the harms they caused. One day, he might let them become his servants…but he wasn't sure they deserved that honor.
His spies brought news to him daily regarding the fate of Men and Elves. As Sauron predicted, Eönwë took many of the faithful of the Eldar back to Valinor, but the Valar refused Men entry to the Undying Lands, offering another island, Númenór, as a compromise. At first, the Maia thought it the next best thing, were it not for their love of seafaring. Enriched by the combined teachings of the Eldar and Valar, the Men of Númenór began colonizing and instructing the inhabitants of Middle earth and undoing the labors of Melkor.
Beneath his calm demeanor, Sauron seethed with rage. As soon as word reached his ears of yet another outpost of the Númenóreans upon his land, he deemed his hour had come. He lifted the restrictions placed upon his Orcs and other dark servants, allowing them to pour into the lands of Middle-earth to once again work their evil. His Maiarin captains rejoiced, taking forms as horrid as the Orcs and following in their train.
But Sauron did not remain to watch. An epiphany had come to him in the turmoil of his dreams, and he swore the words came from Melkor himself. Somehow, the Vala managed to cross the unfathomable distance between the Void and the uppermost level of the tower where Sauron slept to speak to his former lieutenant.
The latter shot awake, glancing around his chamber with the feeling he was not alone. His eyes detected movement on the porch adjoining. There a tall shadow stood against the balcony ledge, leaning forward as it regarded something on the horizon, obscured by the storm brewing in the west.
His heart thumping wildly, Sauron leapt out of bed and threw open the doors to join his master, but by the time he stepped outside found he was alone on the balcony in the rain. Somewhat discouraged, he walked to the place where he thought he had seen Melkor and looked out. Thousands of water droplets cascaded down the tower wall and into the distant trees of the forest below. Straight ahead, past the sea of waves bucking and tossing under strong winds, his keen sight made out the faint glimmer of the port of Númenór.
The words of his dream filtered slowly into his waking mind:
Recall my deeds of long ago, how I triumphed at a time when the whole world was set against me.
For a long hour Sauron remained there, waiting perchance Melkor might speak to him again, until his mind was made. He closed his eyes as he released the hold upon his physical form. With a shrill, piercing shriek, his midnight-black fëa rose into the sky, a beacon of terror and awe to the wild Men and Elves.
His spirit swept across the tumultuous sea. Even his cold heart shivered at the icy spray and mist rising off the waves. A warm breeze tugged in the direction of Valinor, but he escaped its grasp and rode another current blowing toward his destination.
Upon the gleaming star-shaped isle he lighted, surrounded by a myriad of festive halls, gold inlaid palaces, and sprawling docks. With conniving glee he chose his victims: he spoke into the ears of the sailors, saying, "I am free to sail wherever I wish, but not towards the west; therefore I am not truly free." He entered the palaces and found the kings in the company of their entourages, comfortable and content in their halls of luxury, and he hovered above them, whispering, "What is the difference between me and the gods, between me and their fair servants, the Elves? Would that I lived for thousands of years and never died, I could be just as great, if not greater."
Sauron was delighted at how little time elapsed before he saw results, innocent and trivial though they were. The sailors went on more frequent and longer voyages, reluctant to return home and with weary hearts. The kings were no longer content sitting on their lofty thrones, but wandered the endless corridors of their palaces, plagued by restlessness.
He beheld the fruit of the seeds he had sown with great mirth, giddy at the impending doom of that marvelous city. But he was not alone; for another, familiar voice could be heard joining in his laughter.
