Chapter 3
That night, the Valar again gathered in the Máhanaxar. Námo gave a mental command, and two of his Maiar appeared, dragging Sauron to the center of the ring, before bowing and leaving. The Valar did not want anyone else around for this.
Manwë stared gravely at the slightly shifting Maia in the center of the ring.
"It was pointed out to us this afternoon that none can claim to know the motives behind your actions," he began. "Therefore we have decided to examine your memories, to be fully assured that our justice is indeed that."
The Maia froze. "You can't just throw me in a cell for the rest of eternity?" he said, a small amount of panic leaking into his voice, as much as he tried to hide it.
"No," Manwë said. "Your actions we know. Your motives are what have been called into question."
Sauron was now fighting against the mental bonds that held him there. "I do not give permission for you to do so," he said voice rising in intensity as his fear grew.
"We will not violate your innermost self, child," Manwë said. "But we will know what has caused you to become what you have. You do not get a choice."
Sauron began to shake his head frantically, trying to rise to his feet and flee.
With a single though, Manwë reached out and touched the Maia's mind. It was strongly guarded, and Sauron immediately tried to fight off the mental touch. But Manwë was undeterred, and gently, but inexorably, he peeled apart the Maia's mental defenses.
Sauron was now fully panicking, futilely struggling against a grip much stronger than his own. Námo mentally frowned. There should not be such a strong reaction to this. What was the Maia so desperate to keep hidden, that he would deny mental contact at all costs?
And then Manwë finally broke through the last defenses, and a memory rolled over them like a wave.
He hadn't wanted to come. Morgoth was furious. He had been humiliated in his own hall, and had lost a Silmaril. Never mind that if he himself had fallen under Lúthien's power, Sauron had no chance against her. In Morgoth's mind, if Sauron had killed Beren, none of this would have happened. So Morgoth decided all the blame for this fiasco rested squarely on the shoulders of his lieutenant.
Understandably, this made Sauron extremely nervous, and he wished he could be anywhere but here. But his Master had called, and Sauron could not ignore the summons.
Arriving before the throne, Sauron bowed deeply, remaining half hunched over, hoping against hope that his obvious display of fear and contrition might soften the punishment that was sure to follow.
"Look at me," Morgoth commanded, his voice a low, soft growl. Sauron mentally gulped. This was the most furious he had ever seen his fell master, and he had been there when Draugluin and Glaurung had displeased Morgoth enough to end up as his next 'projects'. This was not going to end well.
Slowly, he raised his head and eyes to the Vala in front of him. As soon as he did so, Morgoth's hand shot out, wrapping around his throat, fingers burying themselves into the scabbed over wounds that Huan had left, reopening them. Sauron was unable to stop himself from wincing in pain, but he did not cry out. Doing so would only encourage the Vala to hurt him worse to see what other reactions he could provoke.
"Do you know what has occurred here since you lost Tol Sirion?" Morgoth asked rhetorically. "I have lost a Silmaril to a elleth and a mortal. And then I find out that you had the mortal in your power and you–didn't–kill–him." On the last words he tightened his grip, leaving Sauron unable to fully reach the floor, almost hanging in Morgoth's grasp by his already damaged neck.
"So this entire humiliation can be laid at your feet," Morgoth continued. "And I am in no mood to forgive this failure."
With that, the full force of his will slammed into Sauron's mental defenses, effortlessly destroying them. Sauron's back arced, a psychic shriek escaping him as the Vala's fury tore through him.
Morgoth ripped into the young Maia's memories, taking the pleasant memories he cherished and destroyed or bound them, laying heavy blocks in his mind. He left alone Sauron's technical knowledge, as that was still useful to the Vala. Once the only memories that the Maia still retained were technical in nature, or ones he hated or regretted, Morgoth cruelly pushed deeper into Sauron's mind, tearing another mental scream from the Maia. The fallen Vala forced his way into the core of Sauron's very being, violating his mind and soul as Melkor's hatred and malice damaged the delicate parts of Sauron's fëa that created who the Maia truly was.
With the hand still gripping Sauron's throat, Morgoth threw him across the room into the wall. He lay crumpled at the base of it, glassy eyes seeing nothing, unable to even think after the brutality he'd been subjected to.
"Gothmog," Morgoth ordered. The Lord of the Balrogs moved forward and bowed, torn between fear of his master's wrath, and hope that he would finally get to take revenge against his hated rival.
"You may do what you will with him," Morgoth continued. Gothmog grinned, bowed again, and moved forward. Sauron was unable to resist as burning hands grabbed his upper arms, hauling him upright.
"Oh, and Gothmog," Morgoth continued. Gothmog paused, and looked back at the Lord of Angband. "Do what you will, but do not destroy the fána. Otherwise it will be you who faces my wrath next."
"Yes, my lord," the Balrog-lord said, bowing once more. Turning, he continued to drag the Maia who was responsible for him being stuck in this hideous form into the bowels of Angband. Only the orcs and the Noldorin slaves who sadly toiled here knew of the full horror that lay in the depths. He grinned. Revenge would be sweet.
The memory ended, and the Valar were still as statues. Sauron's actions were starting to make a horrible sort of sense…
Sauron had stopped fighting against the invisible bonds that held him in place, but his head was thrown back, and he was mentally screaming from the memories he was being force to relive. Before the Valar could stop it, another memory arose.
He was lying on a cold stone floor. He only knew it because he was shivering. The pain was too intense to take notice of any of his surroundings. He whimpered in pain and winced, his throat raw from screaming. He didn't think he was bleeding anywhere but his neck, but that was only because the fire whips cauterized the wounds they left.
He didn't want to think about that. He tried to push the memory away, but was unable too, his mind still in turmoil from what Morgoth had done to him. Distracted as he was, trying to create order out of the chaos that was his mind and body, he jumped when someone ran a finger down his still bleeding throat. He screamed despite himself as that movement re-woke the agony that devoured what had once been a nicely working fána. The scream hurt too, his throat hurting more than the rest of his physical form, if that were even possible.
Once the pain had died down slightly, he opened glazed golden eyes to peer at the world around him, wanting to know who was with him. A pure, holy light met his unfocused gaze. He promptly shut his eyes again. Not who he wanted to see. Even Gothmog would have been better. And after what he had done to him, that was saying something.
"Ah, Mairon," Morgoth's voice was smooth and gentle. "Why do you make me do this?"
Sauron didn't answer, unable to speak with his damaged throat.
"It's your fault you know," Morgoth continued, pouring poison into the already shattered thoughts of the Maia. "If you would simply be better, I wouldn't have to do this. I'm doing it for your own good. You need to be punished for your mistakes, or you'll never learn from them. I'm doing it because I want you to be better than you are now. You have wonderful potential. But you can't start making mistakes."
Morgoth gently ran his hand down the broken body of the helpless Maia before him. Sauron shuddered, incapable of hiding his reactions like he normally did. Morgoth gripped Sauron's upper arm, tightening his grasp to painful levels. The arm was broken, Sauron remembered with an odd floating detachment.
"Disincarnate," Morgoth growled. "Disincarnate and get out."
On his fourth try, Sauron was able to do just that, not realizing as he fled Angband that his once steady golden aura was now black with red and orange fragments, shattered and distorted.
The Valar were horrified at what they were finding, but they needed to know more. Why had Sauron fled from Eönwë, when he offered the chance for repentance? But the memory they found was not what they were expecting…
"Are you planning to go running back to the Valar after all this, Mairon?" Morgoth asked a third question. "Go begging and pleading for their forgiveness?"
"No," Sauron said, for the first time louder than a whisper. "They would not grant it, and most likely throw me to the Void along with you, condemning me to your presence for the rest of eternity: I can think of no worse fate!" He froze. He hadn't just said that, had he? Where had his sense of self-preservation gone? But Morgoth just chuckled again.
"You do hate me, don't you Mairon?" he said. "But then, I am not the only one you hate." He ran his hand down the side of Sauron's face again, this time trailing his fingers until they paused above the Maia's heart. "You hate yourself, don't you? You know that all the trouble you are in you brought upon yourself. You cannot go back now, my little wolf." Sauron's stomach clenched, as it always did at the twisted endearment, but he sagged against the wall, defeated.
"I know," he whispered. "No thanks to you."
"Indeed," Morgoth purred. He leaned down and in, placing his lips right at the Maia's ear, one hand still holding Sauron against the wall, the other cupped around the side of his face. The slight Maia tensed, trying not to shiver.
"Remember, little wolf, there is no salvation for you," he whispered, before releasing the Maia entirely and exiting the room. Sauron watched him go with lifeless golden eyes, still slumped against the wall, simply grateful that there had been no possessive in the Vala's final sentence.
The Valar finally found the memory they were looking for, and found just how deep Melkor's lies had gone.
Even if the Valar were inclined to be merciful, what could he look to but a long servitude? He would be closely watched, with never a moments freedom. It would be intolerable. He could not stand to be enslaved again.
But mercy was not the word Eönwë had used. Justice. It was a word that scared him even more. For he was truly fallen now, beyond redemption. They would throw him to the Void, just like the master he had so foolishly chosen to follow. And justice could only follow a trial.
A trial, where the Valar would rip him apart, looking for everything he'd done, and why he had done it. He could not endure such a thing again. It would destroy him.
Sauron raised a hand to his throat. This it was his fault. If he had been stronger, made fewer mistakes, this never would have happened. If only he had never listened to Melkor, or better yet, never left the Timeless Halls.
But he had. And now, he was nothing but a broken slave. No matter what he did, he was doomed. He bowed his head, as the last little shreds of hope and innocence, that he had been desperately clinging to, died. He had nothing left now, just broken dreams and a shattered life. Nothing but ashes.
And so, he began to move. Slowly, so as to not attract attention, he wandered to the edge of camp, and beyond. And when he was far enough away that none would hear him, he ran.
True to his nature, he fled, trying to outrun the pain.
The Valar pulled back from the mental contact. Sauron continued to scream, still trapped in his past. Námo stood silently and moved to the center of the ring, taking the Maia in his arms, grounding him in the present.
Slowly, the screams stopped, and Sauron slumped in Námo's hold, breathing heavily and shaking uncontrollably. Finally, after an indeterminate time, he raised his head, tortured golden eyes locking with Manwë's pure blue ones. They remained like that for a second that lasted for eternity, then Sauron dropped his head.
"You wanted to know why I did it all," he said, voice raw with emotion. His shaking increased, though with as hard as he was trembling to begin with, Námo was the only one who noticed. He met Manwë's eyes again, this time betrayal, agony, and accusation swirling in his gaze. He didn't raise his voice more than a whisper, but he didn't have to.
"I was never going to be hurt again."