Frodo knew this was a dream as soon as he opened his eyes. His surroundings were foreign to him, and their shapes were strange, with those peculiar blurry outlines that only belonged to the world of sleep. The hobbit stood up and turned around, his hand immediately flying toward his neck, where his fingers searched for a split second before closing on the golden object hidden beneath his cloak. His grasp tightened around it in relief. Frodo enjoyed the touch of the smooth surface the jewel had, before letting his hand fall at his side. Even in his sleep, it had become a natural reflex for him to check if the Ring was still there. The hobbit was saddened by this fact, but now he couldn't really help it.
Huge, vertiginous darts of stones rose from either side of him, piercing the mist above with their hard, rocky surface, their tip disappearing in that foggy ocean. Frodo was surrounded by those peaks, which reminded him eerily of weapons ready for war. No sky was visible above his head, only those shreds of whitish fog clinging desperately to the bumpy slopes. The landscape stretched and stretched around him, in those same endless patterns, with absolutely no sound but his own, and Frodo knew instantly that this barren place held no shelter for anything, and no living creature would be found here. Everything was dead.
This wasn't the Mordor, Frodo instinctively knew. This was some place else, something very far away, that perhaps could only exist here, in his dreams.
Those mountains held such a sense of desperate loneliness that it almost brought tears to his eyes. The hobbit looked again at this misty shroud held over those fearful peaks and felt like mourning the sole existence of this place, its barrenness, when he sensed a new presence. Soft, quiet footsteps resonated in the emptiness of the peaks. Then a shadow appeared, the mist twirling and curling around its outlines. Frodo blinked, and the shadow materialized in front of him, as silent as the fog creeping around them. Even if he had never seen him before, Frodo instantly recognized him, with the weird feeling of finally meeting a friend he had long lost sight of, and resisted the urge to grasp the Ring between his fingers.
He stood silently as Sauron gazed down at him. No words were exchanged. Frodo felt different emotions boiling inside him, hurling together like a hurricane in front of this godly being: anger, fear, awe, amazement. His throat was too tight to speak; he wanted to run, to flee, but he couldn't detach his eyes from the mesmerizing light the Maia's held.
Sauron was wearing a thick, pitch-black armor. Twisted spikes sprouted from the shoulders, alike to deadly plants growing in that strange metal, ready to pierce whoever attacked him. The armor reminded too much Frodo of a bizarre insect's shell, with some pieces overlapping themselves in indefinite patterns, coiling around the arms to form those peculiar spikes on the shoulders. The armor had this smooth, spotless surface, which could only be attributed to the scales of a snake, pulsing in a faint glow despite the lack of light between the peaks. The armor was strong, and despite its heaviness, looked as light as a feather. Its strangeness, so unlike anything Frodo had ever seen, unnerved greatly the hobbit, and unnerved him even more when he noticed the very faint crimson hue the gauntlets had taken, at the very tip of the fingers, which were curled like claws. The armor had killed, and would kill again if given the chance.
The hobbit forced himself to tear off his gaze from the color of the gauntlet to look at the godly being in the eyes. The dark shade of the armor contrasted violently with the white of his long hair, which were mixed with some very faded golden locks, shining there and there, traces of an old self Frodo didn't know about. The hair fell along a graceful face, still bearing the light of the gods of old, only now it was a roughened beauty, hardened by scars and wars, which Frodo guessed more than he saw: there was an unforgiveness, a cold resentment in those features, that spoke of more age and experience than he could imagine. Sauron had lived, seen and gone through much, much more than any of them on this earth, and Frodo felt suddenly the weight of this immortality, in the air, the rocks, everything around them. The Maia was old, a pillar of time, and Frodo felt insignificant for even daring to look at him. There was an ancient, lost wisdom within Sauron's mind that Frodo would never be able to understand, tales that would be forever lost. It saddened the hobbit, but he felt that this veil of time could never be pierced by anyone, and should never be. There was too much to be told, or else, to be hidden.
What terrified Frodo the most were the eyes; they had no pupils, only this fiery, endless orange which had swallowed all trace of humanity or expression the being could have possessed once. Now this endless color was focused on Frodo only, and as the being studied him, Frodo felt the weight of this gaze, of the ages accumulated in those eyes, crushing his small, timid person.
Silence stretched between them as time passed, or rather didn't, in the way of dreams, when Sauron took a step toward the hobbit. This simple gesture alarmed Frodo, who didn't know what to do; he didn't feel safe, even in the knowledge that they were both in a dream. That this was possible was unclear to him, too, but the Maia simply knelt in front of him, never losing the hobbit's gaze. They were now at eye-level, and Frodo could see in a clearer way the Maia's face, the ghosts of scars on his throat, the endless pit of fire that had invaded his eyes. The fact that the god had done him a great honor by putting himself to his level did not escape him, either. It was Sauron who spoke first, breaking the silence.
"Ring-bearer," he simply said, as both an acknowledgment and a greeting.
Frodo stared at him, stunned. The Maia's voice was simply divine music to his ears; it was melodious and rich, curling in the mist, full of knowledge, with a small accent that belonged to older times, telling numerous tales that inflamed the hobbit's imagination. He hadn't expected to be greeted in such a way, having imagined rather cold hostility or wrath, instead of this almost friendly welcome. The Maia's lips had pulled into a small, amicable smile, as if amused by his guest's puzzlement. Frodo only bowed his head, not knowing what to say, or if he should say anything at all.
"How is this possible?" he finally asked the only question he had in his mind.
"The Ring allows me to connect with the mind of its bearer," Sauron explained, pointing a finger on the hobbit's tightly clenched fist.
Frodo looked down at his hand, not even realizing he had done the so-dreaded movement at some point.
"And I wanted to meet him," the Maia finished, in that same wonderful voice that lulled Frodo's mind.
The hobbit looked at him, not understanding how the monstruous eye and the blasphemous voice he had heard several times already could belong to the man in front of him.
"I must be a great disappointment to you."
"No," Sauron answered, with a glimmer of amusement in those infernal eyes. "Merely a surprise. I pity you, who has been set for an impossible task."
Frodo didn't answer, sensing already where the god was going with this. To admit that he was probably right, and that Frodo wouldn't be enough, would be an opening for him. Instead Frodo just stared at him, his fist still holding carefully the Ring.
The Maia felt his reluctance to speak, and instead tilted his head to one side.
"It hurts, does it not?"
The Ring suddenly became heavy, much heavier than it used to. Frodo's grasp tightened on it, despite the new pain. He stayed silent, refusing to confide about the suffering, physical and mental, dragging him down, like an anchor constantly set in his conscience now.
"And it will hurt even more," the god softly said, as if even more pained by this fact than Frodo was.
The Ring was burning now. A small, soft glow filtered through Frodo's closed fist, growing and growing until its light was all the hobbit could focus on. Its invisible fire had latched itself on Frodo's mind, devouring his thoughts, so alike to the color of the god's glowing eyes, which never left his own. The pain increased, and soon that orange was all Frodo could see. Frodo staggered, before falling to the ground, the flesh of his fingers reddening against the artefact, shivering under that merciless gaze.
"But it can be appeased."
Suddenly the pain retracted, as if called back, and the hobbit blinked, cleaning his mind of the last remnants of that blazing orange, panting. Sauron watched him, as though curious, never moving, never blinking those pits of burning lava that Frodo suddenly loathed with a strong, clear hatred. He understood the silent message, the warning about what was to come. The Ring would destroy his mind, in time. What he had felt was but a small glimpse of the effects the Ring would have, later. Frodo simply shook his head, willing himself to open his fist, but his body simply wouldn't respond.
"It is unfair," Sauron continued.
True, genuine sympathy had poured into his word, mixing with the accent of his voice, soothing the exhausted mind of the hobbit. He looked at the godly being, surprised.
"It is unfair, and such a burden should never have befallen you."
"No," the hobbit weakly responded.
He looked down, almost ashamed of himself, as Sauron was voicing exactly the frustrations he had so desperately tried to bury. Yes, that was unfair, yes he wished never to have seen the Ring, yes he wished someone else, better suited for this task, to have been chosen, but, amongst all, the worst was perhaps the bitter resentment he felt, for feeling abandoned, by the world and by the rest, to this mission, which he himself didn't believe in.
"I had to," he muttered, more to himself than in response to the Maia. "I did not know…"
"Of course you did not," Sauron said, still with that same sympathy, mingled with compassion. "How could you have? You did what was asked of you; that is enough. There will be no reward at the end," he finished, his eyes staring intently at Frodo.
They were so convinced of his death, so sure of his failure, that for a moment the hobbit thought about simply handling it to him, its true owner. Perhaps he was right. There was no glory in this pointless journey. Frodo felt less and less like himself, his mind gnawed, piece by piece, by the Ring's own thoughts, while his body failed to carry him any further, and this everyday.
"You should give me the Ring," the Maia gently said. "Spare yourself this useless torment. I will give enough time for you and your people to leave, and never bother you again."
There was so much kindness in those words, so much truth, that for a moment Frodo let himself be comforted by the soothing thought of home, its colors, its ravishing scents, its lasting sense of safety.
"You could go home," Sauron finished, sensing the hobbit's hesitation.
As soon as he said those words, the mountains disappeared, and from one second to the next the lonely landscape had faded away; the grey of the mountains had melted into a bright green, and large, ancient oaks had spread their foliage above their heads. The mist stiffened at their feet, growing into lively blades of grass, while the remnants of fog turned into petals of numerous flowers that bloomed all around them. New sounds filled the air, killing that awful silence they had been standing in, now replaced by jokes and laughter. They were now standing in the Shire, with its small homes, its busy inhabitants running there and there, talking, joking, laughing, living. Frodo looked around, amazed but still fearful. It was his own mind that had been shaped into this. He took one hesitant step, feeling the grass split under his tired foot, then the muddy earth, full of worms. Life had bloomed around him, and yet he still felt a strange discomfort. There was something wrong with the picture in front of him, something he knew he ought to notice, but he simply couldn't, when finally it hit him.
The light was wrong. Its rays, a curious mix of orange and red, were illuminating the Shire in an odd way. Frodo raised his head, looking up at the sky. A huge ball of fire floated there, in the ways of dreams, illuminating, burning the hobbits with its light, shining upon their face, which were wrong, too. Blurry, unclean features mixed in the air, in an incoherent cacophony. What Frodo had taken as laughter now sounded harsh, mocking. The grass wasn't as brilliant as before. The mist was still there, clinging above them, falling on the trees around. Frodo stepped back, and looked at Sauron.
The Maia stared intently around him, watched curiously the life taking place around him, his lips still twisted in that gentle smile, but it felt wrong, too.
Frodo looked around again, and realized that this was the god's vision of the Shire, not his. Foolish, little creatures, so unimportant they had no face in Sauron's eyes. Upon realizing this, the veil of the illusion was finally lifted, and Frodo saw, for the first time, the monstruous greediness with which the god was looking around. What he had taken as a kind smile was a mocking rictus, his sympathy a disguised, disdainful pity. He backed away. The veil had lifted too, in the sky, and instead of the sun there was nothing but that monstruous eye, casting its deadly gaze on the small, faceless hobbits beneath him, rejoicing in its glory and its ambition, burning the Shire, devouring it with that selfish greediness. He realized all he had heard had been lies, nothing but lies, disguised with lies. Sauron would never leave them alone. Even if he did leave time to them, war would catch up to them, closing in on them like a hunter's trap. Sauron looked down at him. Painful tears of infernal fire were streaming from his eyes, and all kindness had deserted his expression.
"Few can seen through my spells," he said.
Frodo almost cowered against the ground with despair. His voice, which had been such a wonder to hear, had now taken the same blasphemous tone Frodo knew. The words were harsh, grinded against each other, drowned in that foreign accent which told of darker times instead of stories, but, as he gazed at the fire leaking from his eyes, the resentment and hatred dripping from his voice, Frodo looked again at the light, and felt nothing but profound, immense sadness.
"I pity you," he told the Maia, sadly.
The Maia's eyes widened in surprise, and a small twitch of dismay crossed his face.
"What?" Sauron responded carefully, as if dreading the answer.
The eye shrank a bit in the sky, equally dismayed. The light dwindled, and the mist started to creep back around their feet, slowly, like tiny silver snakes.
"I pity you, who has forgotten the sun."
Frodo looked again at the eye of fire, its light, and the bitterness emerging from it. He thought about the mountains, their loneliness and the intense feeling of despair he had felt. He hadn't realized yet that this was Sauron's mind, not a place the godly being had chosen for the both of them.
Sauron's gaze hardened, and fire exploded above them as he let out his wrath. Flames reached down the illusory image of the Shire, burning the laughing hobbits, who kept running around, smiling.
"It does not matter," he snapped, his eyes gleaming as the grass started burning around them.
"I pity you, who has been forgotten."
It seemed to Frodo that the eye was descending on them, too, growing bigger and bigger, but he didn't pay attention to it. He was focused on Sauron and Sauron only, on his eyes streaming fiery tears, and the inferno closing in on their silhouettes. Soon the flames reached down the Shire, burning its illusory memory, setting ablaze the once so bright foliage of the trees. Fire swirled everywhere, and its teary colors swallowed them both, engulfing them in its destroying fury.
Finally the fire dissolved. Frodo tentatively opened his eyes as a filament of fog reached out to him, coiling around his arm. They were back in the mountains. There was nothing left of the grass, the flames, the wooden houses. Silence had filled the empty space again.
Frodo looked above, filled with a new wonder. The mist hadn't yet come back, revealing tons and tons of different objects, all trapped between the peaks of stones. He caught a glimpse of a broken prow, hanging precariously, while the rest of the ship hung a bit farther. He saw a broken sword, old, beautiful, its silver shards scattered on the bumpy slopes. A tower, pierced by the peaks. A black cross, covered in blood, struck with arrows. Jewels, clothes, a hammer, remnants of an ancient smith, but what struck him the most was the old temple, its whiteness tearing apart the mist, which was supported by numerous peaks. It was large, and great, and tall, and broken, dripping with water. As he stared at him, a few drops fell on Frodo's face, and he first believed them to be tears, for they had a salted taste.
Then the mist came and closed quickly, hiding feverishly those layers of centuries, which formed a history the hobbit had barely heard of. All of this was memory, repressed, on the verge of breaking, threatening to collapse, memories the Maia didn't want him to see, or maybe he himself had banished. The temple disappeared from Frodo's view, who kept staring several moments after, willing to seal this vision in his own memory.
He looked down, back at Sauron, who had fallen on his knees, just in front of him. He didn't look as impressive as before; he looked tired, he looked defeated, he looked old. Fire had left his eyes, and Frodo now saw their true color, a bright yellow, which reminded him of a precious gemstone. His hair had fallen on his face, hiding one half of it, leaving only a yellow dot to stare at Frodo.
"I am sorry for you."
Sauron looked at him, with a kind of broken, exhausted hatred, but that didn't discourage the hobbit anymore.
"This," Frodo said, holding out the Ring, to let the object shine clearly between the both of them. "I will destroy."
Sauron stayed silent again, but a renewed interest was now glowing in his eyes. He straightened a bit.
"I promise, I will set you free."
Sauron laughed, a bitter laughter, but he didn't lash out.
"So you will. Do as you wish, halfling."
Frodo thought he saw tears rolling on his cheeks, but that was hard to tell, with the mist descending on them. He eyed the Maia carefully. Pity hadn't left his heart, and it saddened him to know that was probably the last he would see of this version of the god, the true one, hidden in those stony peaks of memory.
"I am sorry," Frodo whispered one last time.
The Maia smiled back, a sad smile, before the mist finally engulfed them both, just as the fire had done before.
Warm sunlight greeted Frodo as he opened his eyes. He was back in the marshes, close to Mordor, to the dangers hiding behind the mountains. His fist closing on the Ring, and he looked sorrowfully at the peaks, which seemed less threatening now. Only lonely, alone, despairing. The jewel pulsed gently in his and, and he set out again, to fulfill his task.