A/N: Thanks for all the hits and especially the reviews!

Ranger's Scop: I'm glad you're enjoying the way the characters are portrayed. Thank you very much for the compliments on my writing style, I do indeed try to stay close to Tolkien's way of writing because a) I like it b) I cannot think of another way to write Tom Bombadil specifically and c) my goal for the story was to retain the flavour of the original, at least partially. Finally, thank you for taking the time to write two reviews, it's safe to say you made my evening.

dragonsire13: Thanks for your kind review, given the compliment wasn't part of an elaborate April's Fool's joke, which I don't believe, by the way. I'm happy that my approach finds appeal with the reader's, I do indeed have a thing for approaching stories from an usual angle and see where that takes me. Nice to hear the readers like it, too.

Fro: Thank you for the review. You are right, there are pitifully few stories featuring Tom Bombadil out there and I hope I will be able to deliver if you're now following my own story. Reviews are kind of scarce, but that won't influence my posting schedule. The story fully laid out and the major part of it is already written, so you don't have to worry about me abandoning this fic. I will definitely finish it.

On a more general note, I am surprised that some readers seem to feel genuine pity for Sauron, if only a bit. Yes, he is obviously in a tight spot, but I for my part could not work up a lot of sympathy for him, seeing how it is completely and entirely his own fault where he ended up. In fact, a very good alternative title for this thing would have been "Sauron, the results of being a humongous blockhead for two Ages and where it takes you".

Then again, maybe you folks are just to nice for your own good.

Be that as it may, here is the third chapter:

III. The Master and the Mote

ooooo

Sleeping while having a body that was not made of fire and air was a most terrifying experience, as Sauron found out. Of course it was not entirely unlike the mind-wandering he had occasionally done before he had lost his real form. Back then, however, he had merely abandoned his form and taken his being with him wherever he went and the smallest exertion of his willpower would form a new body for him wherever he chose to reappear in the physical world. Mortals, of course, shared another fate. When they went to sleep, their souls abandoned their bodies to venture into the deep, chaotic realms of the Dreaming, and in the mornings when they woke the souls re-entered their bodies and they would go about their daily business.

Sauron did not know whether returning from the Dreaming came naturally to mortal spirits or whether it was a hard-won ability. Whatever it was, he found that it did not come easily to him. He had never had to make an effort to return from somewhere and his spirit was used to straying and roaming by nature. Therefore, as soon as sleep overtook him, he was uprooted and caught in the grip of forces unknown like a leaf in the wind. Sleep took him far away from his body and after being confined to the small safety of a corporeal shape the infinity of the Dreaming around him horrified him. He could not navigate the bizarre world in between sleeping and waking like he used to. Instead Sleep batted him to and fro, threw him into dream after dream, every single one more bizarre than the one that had come before. Memories interwove with glances of futures not yet-lived, worlds like the one he knew were followed by worlds that consisted merely of sound and colour. It was a chaotic and erratic orchestra and he flew and leapt between dreams and nightmares until he suddenly found a golden thread that led through and away from the chaos around him. He followed the thread, gleaming as the only thing never-changing in the world of ever-changing things and at last, he woke.

Sun was shining through the window on the eastern side of the room when he opened his eyes. He could hear birdsong in the garden and another, brighter voice that fell in tune with them. For a moment he looked down at himself and when he found that there was nothing wrong with him as he had apparently successfully returned to his body, he immediately threw back the blanket and got out of the bed.

What to do now? he thought. His body felt rested, but he had been (and remained) a spirit at heart and being confined in any way did not please him in the least. There was nothing he could do about the predicament of having a body made of mud and twigs, but leaving all this aside he still felt discontent for he did not like having nothing to do. For more than a thousand years his spirit had been confined within the black walls of Barad-Dûr and his fortress had at last become his prison. Now that he was finally free of the tower, he was not one to abandon himself to idleness. Thus, he left his room and went in search for something to occupy his mind or his hands with. In the room with the fireplace he found a table set with one dish, where bread, milk and honeycomb had been left for him. He was hungry, but did not feel like giving in to the demands of his body just yet, therefore he turned around and went outside.

The sun was already high in the sky above the pale and forbidding Barrow-downs which lay east of Tom's house. The air was crisp and cool, but not yet entirely devoid of the warmth of summer. The cold sting of winter's air had not yet found its way here. The sky was of a washed-out pale blue and white clouds flew across the sky chased by strong autumn winds. The forest around them was yellow and orange and brown and the trees were bent with the weight of their fruit which glowed golden and red in the sun.

Goldberry was in the back garden around the house where pumpkins and apple trees grew and where vines that were heavy with grapes climbed up the back wall of the house. She was hanging up laundry and pristine white bed-cloths on a thin line, but when she caught sight of him, she lowered her arms and laughed.

"Good morning, friend! Tom told me that you would not wake up early today! Have you seen the breakfast we left for you?"

Sauron considered for a moment of which kind his answer should be. He would do well to be friendly with the woman. She was the only other inhabitant of the valley, it seemed, and he already much preferred her silent joy to Tom Bombadil's singing and skipping. And although the time in which his existence had been split between Barad-Dûr and the Ring had eroded both his mind and his manners, he retained enough of his old shrewdness to know that there was nothing to be won by making enemies. He no longer had the strength to shatter those who he did not approve of, therefore he had to try to make them inclined towards him.

In the end, he settled for a small bow which was deep enough to be polite but not quite deep enough to flatter and make her wary of him. (Was there even wariness under that joyous demeanour of hers? He did not know.)

"Good morning, Goldberry River-daughter," he replied, his tone carefully neutral. "I have seen it and it is very forthcoming of you. But please do not concern yourself more than necessary with me, I do not intend to stay for long."

"But you won't leave immediately," Goldberry said, still with a smile on her face.

Sauron regarded her for a while, then he nodded and bowed once gain. "Excuse me, Lady Goldberry, I have a mind of exploring the valley. Do not trouble yourself with waiting for me, I might not return for the night."

She did not say anything but merely looked at him with a glint in her eyes that was neither mocking nor scolding, but nevertheless told him that she thought differently about when he would return.

Sauron turned around and left her behind. He followed the small river that cut through the meadow and in the west vanished in the ominous shadows of the trees of the Old Forest. He passed an old willow and went on until the grass under his feet became more spares and the trees around him grew taller and darker and the sunlight was eclipsed by leaves and needles. The path wound itself into the gloom beneath and vanished after a right turn. The silence under the trees was absolute, there were no birds singing and there were no small animals creeping through the undergrowth. The forest stood there like a silent threat, daring him to walk further, daring him to enter.

Once, Sauron would have turned into fire and flame and burned the mocking, evil old trees to the ground with a single breath, but now he only stalked along the outline of the forest, a bit ducked and carefully keeping his eyes on the trees. He walked to the very end of the valley until the forest suddenly jutted out and up the downs that surrounded the valley and cut off his way in that direction. Sauron halted and looked around, unsatisfied with what he had found.

The valley was quiet and peaceful, the bustling liveliness of summer making way for the drowsy days of early autumn and finally the solemn stillness of winter.

His eyes were not as keen as they had been and his ears not as sharp, but he could feel the land like a living thing all around him. He was diminished, but not entirely blind and deaf and even now he was able to notice things that stayed hidden from many others. It was a good land, friendly and open, even to him who held nothing but silent loathing for it. But there was something else which caught his attention. Under the calmness on the surface there was an underlying malevolence that had escaped him until now and whose presence did very much surprise him. It felt as misplaced as Minas Morgul in tranquil Ithilien. But it was there, running below the ground in thin veins which all came to a centre somewhere in the valley. His curiosity finally awakened and drawn to something which more closely resembled his own nature, he set out to find the centre of the malevolence. Perhaps there was an ally here he had overlooked until now, or at least someone he could persuade to join his cause. Despite last night's events, he still had not given up on escaping from the Valley.

He walked, following the veins of dark intent that lay dormant just out below the soil under his feet. His way brought him back to the stream that cut through the valley and back in the direction of Tom's house. He walked past an old willow, his eyes fixed to the ground as if not to miss what he was looking for, should it choose to surface. After a few steps, however, he found that the notion of closeness to the source became weaker, while the feeling of being watched suddenly made itself known.

Sauron turned around and looked back, but there was no one to be seen. Only the branches of the grey willow were swinging lightly in a cold breeze from the east. Sauron went back and circled the tree with the careful steps of a wolf that didn't know whether it was slinking around the den of a rabbit or a bear. He heard the rustle of branches in the wind and the slight crackle of twigs. At first he thought nothing of it and continued his circle when he suddenly noticed that there was, in fact, no wind blowing in the valley right now. He dropped to one knee just in time to avoid a thick, sharp branch spearing right through his neck. A moment later a gnarled root dug itself out of the earth and tried to wrap itself around his ankle. Sauron stepped aside and avoided another branch lashing at him like a whip. He ducked and caught it in his hand.

"You should have known better than to assault me," he ground out. "Do you know who I am? I have felled hundreds of your kin and I will burn you down as well. A fool you are if you think you can stand against me!"

The tree lashed out at him once more. Sauron stepped aside, but one sharpened branch caught his shoulder and ripped through fabric and skin. With his teeth bared in a snarl he gripped the branch trapped in his fingers, stepped back and was a sound like a cracking whip, the wood snapped and broke and was flung away from the old willow. A screech of groaning wood and anger as old as an age ran up the tree from root to crown. The ground rose and fell with the movements of awakened roots which had been digging into the deeps of the world for hundreds of years and now returned to the surface, called forth like summons by the anguish of the tree. One root rose like the ridge of a dragon's backbone from under the ground, shaking off soil and stones. Another branch lashed out at Sauron and he shielded his face with his lower arm. The branch struck with the force of lightning, but while the blow rattled his bones he did not feel any pain.

"Halt yourself!" he shouted. "I did not come here to fight you, but you are trying my patience."

And indeed did the old tree stop his assault for the moment, its branches pending menacingly over his head, twigs moving like fingers poised to grab and tear. Sauron stood still, his chest rising and falling, with air whistling down his windpipe and blood rushing through his veins so loudly he could hear it even now. "It is bad form to attack me when you have not even given me the opportunity to introduce myself. Then again, do you know me already? What are you? Another servant of the Ancient Ones gone astray? Of Yavannah, mayhaps?"

The tree did not move and he let out a hoarse laugh. Anger reverberated through the ground.

"What a coincidence! I was formerly of her husband's fellowship. When have you fallen from grace? Two or three ages ago? And what for? To seek greatness in exile? Have you found it and gone mad here, thinking yourself king of the valley?"

He noticed a movement out the corner of his eye. A thin root was creeping up to wrap itself around his ankle. He side-stepped it and let out a wolfish laugh.

"Be that as it may, I came here to seek you out and offer you friendship, but now I see that there is no reasoning with you."

He evaded another blow of the tree and reached out to snatch another oncoming branch out of mid-air when a booming voice resounded over the clearing.

"Ho dol, fellows! What are you doing there, fighting like squirrels over the last chestnut?"

And skipping down the path came Tom Bombadil in his blue jacket and yellow boots, the blue feather on his hat blowing in the wind.

The tree immediately went still and drew back its branches, righting itself up to its full height and blustering its foliage like an angered bird would puff up its feathers. If Sauron had been in his wolfish form, he would have stood with his hackles raised. He kept the snarl behind his teeth and backed away when the small man in he blue jacket stopped, putting himself between the tree and Sauron.

"I see you have found Old Man Willow," Tom said. "But I would have expected you to have better manners than to seek a fight on your first day here in Withywindle Valley."

"Quite the contrary," Sauron replied. "You should train your creatures better. The tree attacked me, I was merely passing by."

Tom turned toward the tree. "Why, Old Man Willow, did you forget what I told you?"

"Raise your leaves into the sun

Drink rain whene'er the clouds do weep

Dig with your roots to Earthen's core

And go back now, go back to sleep!

Awaken you shall nevermore!"

Thus sang Tom Bombadil and slowly the mindless wrath faded, the boundless strength in those thick wooden limbs was sucked out and away and the movements of the tree became aimless and slow, like an unwilling child trying to shake off sleep with heavy lids and trashing arms and legs. The ferocious will lost its edge and danger like a sword turned blunt and the malevolence was enshrouded in words that spoke of deep places, rich soil and water as Tom Bombadil sang the old tree to sleep, locking his spirit away from the waking world, each word a lock and each verse the turning of a key shutting a door. With each word the tree moved less and after the first verse had been completed the old willow had gone very still and did no longer move on its own, except for the light breeze rustling gently though its leaves.

Sauron stood and watched, his eyes narrowed and a clenching anger in his chest and he knew that his wrath was now merely concealing his fear, because he saw what Tom Bombadil could do to his creatures and to himself, for no more than one of his creatures was he now. He raised a hand to Goldberry's necklace of water-lilies and his fingers closed around them, ready to rip it off. However, when he moved his arm, a sharp pain lanced up through his bones and up to his shoulder and he let his arm fall to his side with a grimace. He looked down and only then did he notice that the hit of the willow which had caused him no pain before had split the skin of his arms which were now beginning to throb. Blood was flowing down to his palms and the back of his hands in little rivulets, dropping from his fingers and onto the ground where it vanished between the roots of Old Man Willow, as if even while falling asleep the tree and the ground around it thirsted for his blood.

Sauron frowned, but while he watched Tom Bombadil sing and raise his hands as if to ward the valley against the malevolent spirit in the tree, he felt a stirring of something very old inside of him and a kind of magic that he had long forgotten about resurfaced in the dark coiling thoughts in his mind: Music and song. He remembered having used it very often at the beginning of time, when the Darkness had not yet touched the shores of Middle-earth, long before the Darkness had touched Sauron himself—even before he had become Sauron. The veils and mists of time and corruption shrouded those times from his memories. All he could recall was a vague shade of a memory full of light split up into all the colours of the rainbow and cities of glass and diamond under a sky of always-dawn. And yet he knew that he had once possessed the power to reach into the fabric of creation with his voice and, at first, shape and coax it into the forms he wished and, later, bend and break it to its will.

Music and song held power, and so did blood. He may no longer have the Ring or be able to change into the form of a big wolf and the fire inside him was all but quenched, but he still had his voice given back to him.

And even while his blood was dripping into the earth and onto the roots of Old Man Willow, he opened his mouth and quietly spoke old words of Power, Rousing and Awakening, of Fight and Toil and Overthrowing. Hatred against the one who was his master now made him weave dark melodies with his tongue and anger lent strength to his words. He felt the ground quiver beneath the bare soles of his feet and his song made its way into the earth and the roots and he could feel the drowsiness in the branches bleed away, he could feel the roots and limbs clenching and flexing and remembering that they were strong, and he could feel the spirit of the tree freeing itself from the bindings as light and strong as spiderwebs that Tom Bombadil's words were laying about it, unburying itself from the tomb of eternal sleep were it should be sent to.

One branch lashed out with a crack and swished only a few hands above Tom's head who ducked out of the way and skipped back. Sauron wondered whether he was surprised, but there was no break in his song and his song became stronger, forcing the awakening tree back into the darkness of oblivion.

Sauron raised his own voice and went down on his knees, pressing his bloody palms to the ground. Blood and words united and the tree drank in both with murderous hunger, its own will lending itself to Sauron's intent and merging with it to become stronger, like a torrent breaking free of its dams. The wood of the trunk of the old willow creaked and groaned and suddenly, the ground started rising and undulating like water. Old roots, thick and gnarled and black, broke free from the ground, the leaves were rushing as if a storm was blowing through their midst and twigs like hands stretched out, beating and grabbing, aimlessly at first and then turning onto Tom Bombadil.

Sauron's mouth opened in a smile not unlike a wolf baring its teeth. The old tree did not like him, but its hate was for Tom Bombadil, the one who controlled and ruled it and longed to take its wakefulness—no doubt a gift hard earned over the course of thousands of years—away again. Roots hurled stones and sought to grab the yellow boots, but Tom skipped aside and backward as if he was dancing. Twigs and limbs lashed out at him, seeking to crush and maim, to rip and tear.

Sauron added words of Failure and Missteps, of Darkened Eyes and Error and directed them at the little man in the feathered hat. He might yet win over the master of the valley. But Tom Bombadil did neither fall nor stumble. He circled the tree until he was standing knee-deep in the water of the Withywindle and he spread his arms and sang, his voice loud and clear, while Sauron still knelt on the other side, his words low and dark. Both songs battled and interwove, dissonances ringing loud through the clearing where syllables and notes crashed like the soldiers of opposing armies. Old Man Willow shivered and trembled, torn at by two forces of equal power and while none could win over the other, his own being was ripped apart between them. Branches lashed out in an uncontrolled manner, the roots were coiling and uncoiling and some of them pointed skyward like big thorns, as if the tree wanted to escape the place where it had grown for such a long time and walk away like the Tree Shepherds of old.

Louder and louder and fiercer and fiercer got the song and Sauron was now no longer speaking words in any mortal tongue, but the ear-splitting and unbearable speech of the ones that existed before the world came into being, a language that did not call the things as they were named, but as what they were at the deepest core of their being. With his voice, he reached into the nature of the tree and wrenched its will from it, the words an imperative that no lesser being could deny. Weak as he was, the words still carried power and the old willow was trashing and lashing out and now it was no longer in anger, but in fear and pain.

Tom Bombadil did not cease his words either, they were slower and louder, and he seemed to speak his own language, too, much of which would have sounded like non-sense to anyone who listened. At the beginning, they were light-hearted but stern, like a father scolding a disobedient, yet beloved child. Then the mirth faded away and left only room for a pure, unfettered will.

Sauron was pushed back and out of the mind of the old willow, but he held his ground and raised his voice once more.

The trunk was trembling and then, with a crack like a breaking spine, the tree was split open in the middle.

Tom halted his song and clapped his hands once. He was not laughing any longer. "Enough!" he called and there was no twinkle in his eyes, but a stern sheen like blue steel. The word expanded out from him in a circle like ripples from a stone dropped into a still pond and immediately, the tree stilled and Sauron gripped his throat as no more words came out.

"You have done enough damage today," Tom Bombadil said.

Sauron summoned all the willpower he possessed and spat out one syllable that sounded like the slash of a knife, raising his hand against the man and drew a line in the air, right over his neck—but before he could finish it, a cramp ran up his wounded arm and his muscles locked and both his arm and his curse were twisted away from its target.

Tom Bombadil had his hands raised, still standing in the middle of the Withywindle which was gently washing around his yellow boots. "No, no, you will not raise your hand against Old Tom! Tom is master of this valley and he is master of the spirits that dwell here!" He was not shouting, but still the sound rang in Sauron's ears like the blaring of a trumpet.

"I have no master!", he growled and turned away. "And I need neither your nor anyone else's help! I have came back from the brink of destruction more than once, I have balanced on the edge of unmaking and I have found my feet again! Even now my voice was enough to split the tree in half! What makes you think that you have any power over me, wood-man? I will go and even without your ridiculous magic, I will find a way to return, as I have done it before! Farewell!"

He turned and clutched his cramping arm to his chest, smearing the tunic with half-dried blood. He followed the path down the Withywindle and withstood the urge to look back where the old willow had been ripped in two by their trial of strength. Instead, he looked forward. Dark and forbidding loomed ahead the Old Forest. The path veered sharply to the right and disappeared in the underbrush. Sauron looked down at his arm and forcefully opened the cramped fist of his right hand with the fingers of his left one. When he looked up again, a path that had not been there before had opened before him, broad and even as it led into the murky darkness under the trees, welcoming him, trees fanning out to both sides like arms posed to embrace him. Sauron did not think of his loathing for greenery and mud and twigs. Instead he stepped into the shadow under the forest and the forest admitted him. He went forward, always forward and the light faded behind him until the way before him was the only thing visible in the absolute darkness; a silver band that wound itself around trees and roots and up and down little rises and valleys until it got narrower and more twisted, treacherous roots sticking out to trip him. When the last of the light had faded and the way was barely visible even to his eyes, he looked up. There was no sky overhead, no stars to light his way and watch him. He smiled grimly and then turned around.

The road stopped a few feet behind him. There were no windings and no left curve around a big boulder as he remembered. The way back was gone and the valley was long out of sight. The trees had closed around him and the air was stuffy and unnaturally warm.

The smile did not quite fade from his mouth, but it was stiff and dishonest and frozen to his face as he forged on, trying to get away from Tom Bombadil and out of his realm.

To the north, he thought. To Rhudaur and Angmar. And neither tree nor water nor man will keep me.

And with that thought he stepped off the beaten path that led (as he knew) westwards and into the underbrush and the green and black gloom of the Old Forest.

That's it. The third chapter is done and the plot thickens. Sauron is still unable to recognise his better when he sees him. Let's see where it takes him, but I don't think he'll get very far with that attitude.

If you liked the chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts about it and how you think the story will play out.

The next chapter will be posted on Wednesday, 13th of April.