Strange Alliances
by Erestor
Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or the Harry Potter series. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
'He entered the service of the Dark Tower when it first rose again, and because of his cunning he grew ever higher in the Lord's favour; and he learned great sorcery, and knew much of the mind of Sauron; and he was more cruel than any orc.'
-J.R.R. Tolkien, 'The Return of the King'
"This loom was my pride and joy," said Vairë, sadly staring at its remains. "It will take years to repair."
Varda patted her on the back sympathetically. "Time will have stopped in Middle-earth," she said, "so they won't notice if it takes years."
Vairë picked up some pieces of thread. She began twisting them together and looping them between her fingers.
"What are you doing?" asked Varda.
"I'm checking something." Vairë frowned in concentration, and finally said, "I'm sorry, Varda, but time hasn't stopped in Middle-earth."
"It hasn't?"
Vairë shook her head, flinging the thread on the floor and crying out in exasperation, "Manwë destroyed my loom for nothing! He hasn't fixed the problem! He's just caused more of a mess, curse him!"
"He was planning to go to Middle-earth to get rid of Morgoth."
"Not a good idea. Morgoth is getting stronger every moment," said Vairë, picking up the threads again and arranging them in the palm of her hand. "He could probably tie Manwë in knots at this point. Not," she added grimly, "that I would mind."
"What has happened?" asked Varda. "It should have worked, shouldn't it?"
"Some outside source is controlling history now," said Vairë. "And I would guess, from the direction history is going, that the outside source is Morgoth."
Varda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I need to tell Manwë," she said, "that instead of going to Middle-earth, he should search one of the Otherworlds, looking for Morgoth there."
"It could take a long time," said Vairë.
"Mandos and his siblings visited the Otherworlds. They may have the answer," said Varda.
"True," said Vairë. "Fortunately, I know a quick way to ask him."
Elfdeath scampered through Barad-dûr with great rapidity and grace, bounding over obstacles and fairly flying around corners in her haste to find Sauron. The MoS was less rapid and graceful in his pursuit of her. He looked pained, and was making funny noises.
"Hurry, hurry!" cried Elfdeath, galloping madly.
"I'm sure my lord can wait for just a few more minutes," wheezed the MoS.
Elfdeath came to a halt. If she had been a dog, she would have been looking over her shoulder, one paw in the air, tail wagging, tongue hanging out in the friendly fashion of all great canines. Being a spider, and not in a particularly friendly mood, she was unable to do this. She sort of bounced up and down.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Dying, I think," said the MoS, bent double and trying to catch his breath.
"Don't die yet," said Elfdeath. "You can die after you save Master."
"Your pathetic loyalty is beginning to be very exasperating," growled the MoS, though the sinister impact of his words was somewhat diminished by the way he gasped them out. "Anyway, it's not fair. You have eight legs, and I have only two."
"Yours are longer," said Elfdeath. She grew bored, and started scampering again. The MoS followed her reluctantly.
"I sense orcs ahead!" said Elfdeath after a few moments.
The MoS did not doubt her, for he could the sound of bellowing growing closer. Orcs are always lacking in subtlety.
Generally, the MoS was skilled at scaring orcs, but with Morgoth somewhere in the building, he felt that popping out and dismembering a few would do him no good.
"We should be quiet," hissed Elfdeath piercingly.
"I am being quiet," the MoS hissed back, just as piercingly. "You be quiet."
"Fine," muttered Elfdeath. "Fend for yourself." She climbed briskly up the wall, and was soon lost in the shadows.
Fëanor found Sauron after a few hours of gliding to and fro. The Maia was sitting on the ground beside Morgoth's huge iron throne, his eyes shut. Fëanor had not entered the throne room before, because it had been full of men and orcs. Since it was morning, and a new day had dawned, the orcs and men had crawled to shadowy places where the sun could not touch them, leaving Sauron to think in peace and quiet at last.
"Sauron?" whispered Fëanor. He did not know why he was whispering. In this vast room, it felt like the right thing to do.
Sauron stirred, and opened his eyes. "Oh, it's you," he said, blinking up at the fëa. "This really is taking necromancy to another level, you know. I did not even have to do anything to summon you."
"Necromancy," said Fëanor huffily, "is bad."
Sauron gave him a weak grin. "Oh, tsk. You only say that because I am good at it."
"You are only good at it because it's bad!" said Fëanor.
"Bad people can be good at good things," said Sauron. "Just like good people can be good at bad things."
"Or good people can be bad at bad things," said Fëanor. "Or bad people can be bad at good things."
"Or bad people can be good at bad things," said Sauron, " and good people can be bad at good things."
"Of course, bad people can be bad at bad things, and good people can be good at good things," finished Fëanor.
They stared at each other blankly for a moment, having run out of combinations of good or bad people and things. They were both surprised that they had been having a civil conversation for so long, even if most of the civil conversation had been gibberish.
"So," said Sauron, "I'm good at necromancy. Which is, of course, why I am sometimes known as 'The Necromancer'."
"I thought that your 'necromancy skills' were just another myth that you liked to perpetuate," said Fëanor.
"Actually, no," said Sauron. "If I'm not allowed to talk to the spirits of the dead, then I suppose I had better ignore you," he concluded, closing his eyes again.
Fëanor hated being ignored. "Are you coming up with evil plans?" he asked.
"Would I tell you if I were?" asked Sauron. "Would you believe me if I weren't?"
"Probably not. I thought I'd ask," said Fëanor, regretting it.
"You will be glad to know that I am not coming up with evil plans," Sauron said. "I am busy holding my illusions together."
"Your illusions?"
Sauron nodded. "I let the Valar escape, and I made illusions of them to take their place. Even as we speak, my Master is torturing empty air. I hope He's having fun." Sauron closed his eyes again. "Let me concentrate. If Melkor finds out what I'm doing, my life isn't worth two figs."
"Oh."
They were both silent for a few minutes.
"Melkor hates figs," said Sauron.
"Oh," said Fëanor again.
They were silent for a few more minutes. Then Sauron opened his eyes once more. "He is finished," he said.
"Did he kill them?" asked Fëanor.
"He can't, because they aren't there," said Sauron. "Anyway, He thinks that if He completely destroys their bodies, they will be able to escape Him and return to Valinor."
"You could just be lying," said Fëanor. "He might have been torturing the real Valar."
"Of course," said Sauron.
"Is he coming back now?" asked Fëanor.
"No. He is going to inspect the troops," said Sauron, slumping against one leg of the great throne in exhaustion. "I have two good reasons for you now," he said after a moment.
"Two good reasons?" asked Fëanor blankly, before he remembered their earlier conversation.
"Yes. Two good reasons. That and that," said Sauron, pointing at one leg and then the other.
"What and what?" asked Fëanor.
"My legs. Both broken," said Sauron.
"How?" asked Fëanor.
"I would rather not go into the grisly details," said Sauron.
"Morgoth broke your legs? Why?"
"For fun, I think," said Sauron.
"That was... charming of him."
"Melkor does charming things like that now and then," said Sauron dryly.
"You seem very lucid for someone with two broken legs," said Fëanor.
"Oh?" asked Sauron. "Would you be more convinced if I were screaming in agony?"
"It would be more amusing to watch you if you were."
Sauron's yellow eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he said, "Fëanor, are you a good person good at bad things, or a good person bad at good things? Or are you a bad person? Are you as bad as I am?"
"I do not know whether I am a good person or a bad person," said Fëanor, "but I do know that you cannot judge me."
"Nor can you judge me," said Sauron. "So don't bother. But... consider this: You would like to stay in Middle-earth, wouldn't you? I can help you. I could make you a body. I'm good at that sort of thing. You and I served Aulë. We understand each other. If we defeat my Master together, then together we can reshape the world."
"You seem rather desperate for help," observed the fëa.
Sauron smiled. "I'm hardly desperate, Fëanor. I am making you a proposition, in a very calm, polite way. I have a thousand plans. I simply thought you might like to benefit from one of them."
Fëanor stopped hovering, coming a little closer to the Maia. "Why do you call him your master?"
"It's good for my life span," said Sauron. "At least, I used to think it was. I'm beginning to wonder."
"With Morgoth gone, neither of us would have to serve anyone," observed Fëanor.
"That is true," said Sauron. "Absolute power is the greatest freedom."
Fëanor was quiet for a few minutes. "Stop trying to corrupt me," he said at last.
"Why?" asked Sauron mildly. "Was I failing?"
"Yes," said Fëanor.
Sauron smirked. "Do you trust me?"
"Not really," said Fëanor. "Less than ever."
"Well, that's better than nothing," the Maia said. "There is a girl..."
"A girl?"
"A girl," said Sauron. "She is standing in front of Barad-dûr, wondering if she should come in and kill me or not."
"Fascinating," said Fëanor.
"Could you go and bring her to me?" asked Sauron.
"Why?" asked Fëanor. "If you want someone to put you out of your misery, I can fetch Maedhros instead. I'm sure he would love to impale you with something."
Sauron shook his head. "She has powers," he said.
"Powers," echoed Fëanor flatly. Then he said, "You think she will heal you, don't you?"
"That would be Plan A," said Sauron.
TBC...