Chapter 2
All the Elves had hurried to the front of the ship as soon as land was sighted, leaving Sauron deserted in the middle of the vessel. Instinctively, he tugged his cloak close about his body, as if it could ward off his impending doom, whatever it would be. His throat still felt tight, and his stomach had gone from fluttering like a bird to feeling like it was weighed down with bricks. He let his head droop forward, and his long, black hair fell curtain-like around his face, blocking out the sight of the rejoicing Elves and Maiar and the land they had now reached. He resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands, as well.
A tremor ran through the entire keel of the shallow ship as the prow bumped against the quay. Sauron automatically put out his hands to steady himself, though in reality the vibration was hardly more dramatic than the waves they'd run into on the windier days out at sea. But with his nerves on edge, everything seemed heightened: every brush of wind across his skin, every bump of the ship as the Elves on shore flung ropes to the Teleri on board, every whisper of the sea against the boards beneath his feet. He'd been in this state before and recognized it, though usually previously he'd been in a battle or on the edge of a fight and had an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through him. Everything in him told him to run, to fight for his survival, to kill anything in his path that threatened him. But with the acute control he had taught himself over the years in Morgoth's service, he forced himself to remain seated and listened to each breath come shuddering out of his mouth.
"Sauron."
The two Maiar who had acted as commanders during the voyage were suddenly standing in front of him. Sauron slowly lifted his head and brushed back his hair, keeping his fingers steady. The dark-haired woman was tall and had a slight, hunter's form, an image completed by her forest-green attire and the hunting knife at her belt. Obviously, a Maia of Oromë, although he didn't know her name or remember her from the days before he had left. The man was stockier and had a strong, square face that Sauron had yet to see without a scowl on it. His red hair matched the sun-brown of his complexion. Sauron remembered his face vaguely from the early days, but no name came with it; but he figured this Maia had as little love for Morgoth's servants as did his master, Tulkas.
It was the man who had spoken and when Sauron looked up at him, he gave an unceremonial jerk of his head toward the plank that had been lowered between the ship and the quay. "You're to come with us."
Most of the Elves were already on shore, many greeting friends and laughing in their clear voices. A few were standing solemnly beside mourning Eldar who had evidently just received news of a loved one's fall. One golden-haired Vanya stood sobbing just to the right of the plank, holding to her chest a green scarf soiled with all-too-familiar dark stains while several men, including the young fellow Sauron had seen scrubbing the railing only a little while ago, stood around her with their heads bowed and their hands on her shoulders.
Sauron walked down the plank, the two Maiar following closely behind him, and as eyes began to fall on him, he scowled inwardly at how much he looked like a prisoner being flanked by guards. Not that it wasn't the closest thing to the truth. Sauron knew perfectly well why the Maiar had come along. The Telerin sailors were completely capable of sailing back to Valinor on their own without Maiarin overseers. Maybe he could have run back in Middle-earth, but that option was far behind him. There was nowhere to run in Valinor. Eönwë had said that the Valar would not be making the same mistakes with him as they had with Melkor, and Sauron assumed this probably included letting him slip out of their sight.
His presence washed over the Elves like an early frost sweeping across a field of flowers. As he passed, silence fell over everyone, revelers and mourners alike, and they drew apart before him as if afraid that they would fall over dead if so much as his cloak brushed against them. Hundreds of eyes bored into him, some angry, some shocked, some simply bewildered or curious. He had no doubt that news of his coming had proceeded him, whether Ulmo himself had borne it or some other Maia of the sea or even the birds of Manwë, but he did not know what might have been said. He was not sure how much the Elves of Aman knew about the Wars that their cousins had been carrying out for hundreds of years in Beleriand or how many dark tales they knew about Morgoth and his Black Captain. But whether or not they knew him by name or by reputation, there could be no doubt among them about what he was, flanked as he was by the two stern-faced Maiar and clad still in his deviceless black garments, his face the darkly fair mask that he had worn as Morgoth's tempter and deceiver.
He could feel their anger. It was something he had grown used to sensing in the air. There was even hatred, its bitter heat and numbing cold biting him from every side. He could almost hear the accusations, threats, and abuses just waiting to slip off of every tongue in that hostile crowd. It did not bother him; he had been hated for far more years than he cared to count.
No, what bothered him was their lack of fear.
What he had first assumed was fear as they drew apart before them, he now saw in their eyes was loathing, as if the touch of his cloak might defile them. In and of itself, that too would not have bothered him, for he had little doubt that every servant under him at Angband or Gaurhoth had felt the same. But his servants had cringed away from him when he looked in their direction. They had groveled at his feet when he raised his voice in anger. His mere presence had been enough to set them trembling. He knew the smell of fear as well as that of anger or hatred. And it was completely absent now.
And worst of all, he knew the reason why.
It was not uttered until he had almost reached the edge of the crowd and could no longer hear the creak of ships or the slosh of water. Silence still held the Elves frozen, their glares burning into him. But as the last of the crowd parted to avoid his touch as one would avoid the touch of a plague-victim, he heard a shout from behind him.
"May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!"
The one voice unleashed the flood-gates. All the pent-up sorrow, rage, and hate boiled over, and suddenly Sauron's ears were ringing with the countless cries of the Elves. Taunts, insults, and an endless list of grievances crashed against him like some engine of war. They did not fear him now. He was a helpless prisoner, powerless before their victorious Valarin kings and queens. He was in their land. He was a doomed enemy, a vicious dog with its teeth ripped out who could now be kicked at will by those it had bitten. He looked up at the seething mass and silently hated them back with all his might.
He turned away, his back stiff, his heart roiling, even as he heard the commanding shouts of his guards telling the Elves to be quiet and go back to their own business. He hated them for it. He hated them for reminding him that he was no longer the one giving orders, for making it clear to the Elves that there was nothing he could do to them. Everything – everything that mattered for him – had changed.
~o~o~o~
Five hours had passed since Sauron arrived in Valinor. The day had brightened as afternoon drew on and the chariot of the Sun neared its resting place on the far side of Aman before it would begin its descent beneath the world. In that time, his "escorts" had brought him to the city of Valmar (or, more appropriately, to a small dwelling place on the outskirts of Valmar, as the Maiar probably did not want the entire elven population of the capital making a similar scene to the one at the harbor.)
Instead, it was Sauron who had made a scene, if anyone had been around to see it, though at this point, he had thankfully been left to himself. Finally alone, he unleashed his considerable rage upon a collection of cooking utensils, a wall tapestry, and various pieces of furniture. As he smashed the dining room chairs one by one with his bare hands, he imagined them to be Elves and Maiar, and the snap of wood transformed to the all-too-familiar crack of bone in his ears. It was hardly satisfying – if anything, it only reminded him of his powerlessness to harm his real foes – but it released the overwhelming fury from his system and left him spent, with only a smoldering resentment heating his face.
He had been provided washing and drinking water, food, and new clothing, this time of a dark blue and deep gold material with no device. After he had regained his composure and began to think straight once again, Sauron took advantage of these comforts. It had been weeks since he'd washed properly, and he had a feeling that appearing well-groomed before the Valar would be better than playing the pathetic tramp, which at this point he doubted would earn him an ounce of pity.
Quite frankly, he was not sure how to handle his audience with the Valar, which his guards had informed him would take place that evening. He had played arrogant with Eönwë, but he knew the Herald's warnings had been justified. There were individual Valar that he might have taken a chance with – Aulë who had an legendary soft heart, Nienna who was known for her compassion, or even Irmo or Estë who might be more interested in healing him than punishing him for the moment. But Sauron had no doubt that he would warrant the attention of the full council of fourteen, and he was equally sure that Valar such as Oromë, Tulkas, and Námo would not be impressed or endeared by any show of power or pride from him.
But he had made up his mind with equal conviction that he was not going to grovel, scrape, or beg either.
He forced himself to eat the fresh fruit and bread that he found in the cupboard; he had not eaten well on the ship and did not want to be any more light-headed than he was already going to be. After that, he meandered into the bedroom and flopped across the bed dejectedly, letting one hand fall off the edge and trail against the floor in thoughtless circles. He wished he had been taken straight to the Valar upon arriving. It was something he had learned from Melkor: if you were going to be punished, it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later. Especially if you hadn't even the slimmest chance of escape. Which he knew he hadn't.
He found himself stroking his forefinger over the metal head of his hammer, which he'd kept with him, though carefully concealed under his loose outer robe, for the entire voyage. He pulled it out of the dark blue outer robe that draped over his shoulders and hung open in the front, revealing the matching tunic and black leggings underneath. He stared at the tool blankly, his fingers tracing the notches and scars that hundreds of blows had left on its surface. Properly, it should have been smoothed back down, polished and mended on a regular basis, but Sauron had no doubt that the Valar had sent it to him in this state on purpose. He was no fool. He read the symbolism and the message he had been sent as clearly as letters on a page. Angrily, he let the hammer slip out of his fingers and drop onto the bed at his side. Then he rolled over with his back to it.
He was fairly sure that the polishing process was no fun for the hammer.
A loud knock on the front door startled him out of his reverie.
He glanced out the window automatically and saw that it was not yet evening. Perhaps his trial had been moved. Maybe Ulmo actually showed up early for once and they decided to get it over with, he thought sardonically.
Even though he'd wanted just that, the thought sent up new flurries in his stomach, and he was suddenly not sure he could trust his legs to hold him. Wonderful, I'll look stunning crawling into the Ring of Doom on all fours or being carried by my escorts, he mentally derided himself. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the intricate lattice of knotting carved in the ceiling wood. If they want me, they can come in and get me themselves, he decided, letting his arrogant streak take control for the moment so that it could push down his fear.
The door opened, and he heard heavy footsteps pause briefly in the entry way, doubtlessly surveying the mess of broken crockery, shredded tapestry, and splintered wood that Sauron had left on the floor. But then the steps progressed onward, and the bedroom door creaked slightly as a hand pushed it open from the other side. In his peripheral, Sauron saw the figure standing in the doorway. His skin prickled, and he instantly knew that it was not one of his guards.
He sat up so fast that the blood rushed from his head, causing his vision to dance with red and black points of light.
The man standing in the doorway was tall, but few would have probably guessed that he was one of the seven lords of the Valar. His face was pleasant, noble, and etched with an infinite compassion, but distinctly plain. His mottled brown hair was tied back neatly from his square, strong features, but he had a full wiry beard, which was a hint darker than his hair, almost soot grey-black around his lips, sticking out in a cloud of several inches around his chin and cheeks. His skin was rough, fire-browned, and tight over his compactly muscled frame, and he had small wrinkles around his eyes as if from hours of squinting into bright light. His clothes were equally plain: a deep molten-red jerkin, granite-grey leggings, and brown boots.
Only his eyes showed him as something more. They were a striking combination of gold and silver as if both metals had been poured together and mixed thoroughly – the gold shone clear but was speckled with pinpoints of the silver that made his eyes gleam. It was what lay behind them though that revealed the man's true nature: an eternal flame of grandeur and gentle power that washed over Sauron like the heat of a fire. In short, Aulë, Lord of the Earth, looked exactly the same as when Sauron had last seen him.
Sauron stumbled to his feet, his tongue feeling dry and swollen against his teeth. His heart was beating much harder than he liked. He had not dreamed that he would have to face any of the Valar, let alone his first master, before his trial, and even though he didn't fear immediate retribution from Aulë the way he would if he had found Oromë or Tulkas suddenly standing in his doorway, he was not prepared, in body or mind, to face one of the fourteen most powerful beings in Arda and answer the uncomfortable questions and accusations that Aulë would undoubtedly have.
But Aulë neither questioned nor accused for the moment. Instead, the Vala of Earth just looked at him long and hard with his deep gold eyes flecked with silver, his mouth a thin, straight line amidst the tangle of his beard. Sauron did his best to look back, but the power radiating from the Vala's eyes soon forced him to look away. It made him want to crawl under the bed or shrink down to the size of an insect. He hated his own inferiority, the sense that this being could snap his power in half like a dry twig if he wanted, the terrible, terrible urge to bow down and submit himself to the lord he had been sent into this world to serve.
But yet, at the same time, he felt a flicker of scorn at the unassuming figure of his former master. Aulë had always preferred simplicity over flair; his lessons were continually of restraint and control. Even the jewels he made at the forge, though beautiful beyond the reckonings of most, had a signature austerity, as if their maker was simply doing what he loved to do, with no thought of showing off his talent. It was something that had always irked Sauron. It was part of the reason why the eyes of the young Maia had been drawn elsewhere…
For there had been nothing plain, nothing unassuming, about Melkor. The Dark Vala had a flair that Sauron had never seen matched, and his lessons were more pleasing to the ambitious, talented apprentice smith than those of Aulë.
"It is foolish to keep your powers at bay," Melkor had told him once. "How can you know the extent of your own skill if you do not use it, stretch it to its very limits, relish it, and watch it work? This is art, Mairon. There are no rules. Constraint is for fools who fear to press themselves, those who live in fear of others who might not approve. Why should you be ashamed to reveal yourself, fully and proudly, and let the world know exactly who you are?"
"Master Aulë says that raw talent and power must be tempered with training and control," Sauron – young Mairon then (though he did not remember it) – had answered, a puzzled frown on his face as he tried to reconcile the two conflicting lessons. "He says there must always be rules, or else everything will fall into chaos and return to the Void."
"Mairon, Mairon," Melkor purred softly. "Who makes those rules? That's the only question that matters. Either you make your own rules or someone else makes them for you. And who has any right to tell you how you should use your own talent? Your power is yours, to do whatever you want to with it."
And so Mairon the apprentice had abandoned his rightful master's lessons and submitted to the new tutelage of Melkor.
And now, here Sauron the Black Captain was, back face-to-face with the being he had scorned, abandoned, and betrayed, whose lessons he had ignored, and his fate was in that same Vala's hands. As he stared at the wood panels of the floor, Sauron considered what a thoroughly awkward situation he was in.
He had expected accusations, a lecture at the very least. He did not expect the word that Aulë finally spoke in a voice deeper than the caverns of Angband and more soft and gentle than the first warm breath of spring through the winter's chill.
"Nauron."
Sauron's head shot back up at the sound of the name. Fiery One. It had always been Aulë's personal name for him, an endearment perhaps and possibly a hint of a tease. He had no doubt that Aulë had always used it in reference to his somewhat intemperate tendencies just as much as it had been a reference to his skills with the flames and his abilities to shape them around his will. It was the name of the young smith who had burnt his fingers the first time he had seen molten gold and could not resist touching the shining, beautiful liquid; it was the name of the rash apprentice who had time and time again flung down his hammer in a fit of impatient rage when his grand projects did not go the way he had envisioned them in his mind. It was only when he heard Aulë speak it that the irony struck him of how much that name sounded like the one the Elves had given him.
Yet there was no anger or hatred in that word as there was in the name that had become his own, but moments later, Sauron wished there had been. Instead, there was that nauseatingly infinite compassion that Aulë had always possessed, that sickening trust that everyone had some good in them and that nothing could be wholly lost. Once Sauron – no, Aulë's Nauron – might have believed in something similar, but now such a belief seemed so quaint and antiquated that it made Sauron's scorn for this gentle, unlordly Vala blaze anew.
"My lord," he said stiffly, distantly, the tone of his voice making it clear that the "my" was simply a convention of grammar and in no way reflected Sauron's actual loyalties.
Aulë might have been plain, but he was no fool. His eyes deepened and saddened at Sauron's stiff formality, which only increased Sauron's disdain. Such a trick in front of Morgoth would have earned him a swift dagger of the Dark Vala's piercing mind ripping through his consciousness like a crueler version of a slap across the face. But at this point, Sauron knew that Aulë had come to neither punish nor gloat. He was here to pity, and Sauron hated that more than anything else the Vala of Earth could have done.
"Fiery One," Aulë said again softly, "so you have come back."
Sauron resisted the urge to scoff at such an obvious statement. Aulë was weak and soft among the Valar, but it would not do to anger him, especially with his trial mere hours away. Instead, he replied in the same distant voice. "So it would appear."
Aulë took a step into the room and half-closed the door behind him. "I heard of Eönwë's account of your surrender and journey," he continued. "I did not know whether you would come or not."
Sauron remained silent.
"I hoped you would," the Vala lord went on. "Not just for my sake, either. I hope you feel that you have made the right decision, Fiery One."
This time, Sauron could not resist the curl in his upper lip. "I have made many decisions that I considered right," he said in a low voice. "But that does not seem to be a guarantee that anyone else will view them as such."
"And do you still consider your decision to…leave…us to be right?" Aulë asked, audibly pausing by the word leave. A kinder word than 'betray', Sauron thought.
"Does that matter?" Sauron asked. "Now that I am here again?"
Aulë's eyes flickered with that strange inner flame of the Ainur. It had always been strong with Aulë, perhaps one of the many reasons that Morgoth had hated him especially. "I think it does," he said. "And so do many of the others. We know that the bonds of Morgoth are not easily thrown away, and nor is a desire for power and grandeur once such things have been tasted. You have drunk deep of both Morgoth's bondage and his gifts. Things will not be the same in Valinor – I trust that you already know this, and it gives me hope that you have come nevertheless. But still, a great many things will change depending on whether or not you view your past as a bondage and an evil – or not – and whether this journey of yours to Valinor is merely the lesser of two evils in your opinion, or whether it is truly a new beginning and a new hope."
Sauron's cheeks flushed as he listened the Aulë's slow, methodical words. His emotions stirred within him like seething water that has just been dipped with white-hot iron. His fiery temper bubbled up his throat until he could no longer contain himself. "Bondage and power!" he spat. "What would you know of either of those things? What do any of the Valar know of anything I have witnessed and known? Is that why you are here, Lord Aulë? To pity a fallen slave of Morgoth and to convince me before the trial that whatever sentence you place on my shoulders is a delight and a pleasure compared to my supposed agony in Middle-earth? I do not want your pity, or that of any living creature in Valinor!"
Aulë listened to Sauron's rant in silence, his face stone still. Only when angry words stopped spilling from the Maia's lips, leaving him breathing hard and trembling, did the Vala speak. "Then what do you want from us here, Sauron, if not our pity and our aid?"
Will the tiresome fool never leave me in peace? Sauron thought. He felt spent and weary, not what he wanted to feel right before his trial. Aulë's question, so similar to Eönwë's, was not what he wanted to hear right now either. What other choice did I have? he told himself. He had heard tales of the Noldor's exile from Valinor and the curse Námo had laid upon them for daring to challenge and disobey the Powers. He suddenly wondered if he was under a similar curse: forever doomed. To never find rest or happiness until the world ended. Did the choices he made really matter in the end, any more than Fëanor's had, or his cursed sons? Was he merely being yanked along by some cosmological string, and if so, why did it matter what he wanted? Why should he even bother figuring it out if it would only be yanked from under his nose the moment he laid his fingertip upon it?
Suspicions began to creep through his mind. Perhaps Aulë's visit was not as benign as it appeared. Perhaps the other Valar had sent him to eat away at Sauron's confidence and to undermine any rebellion he might still be harboring. Perhaps they meant to turn him into some drooling, pathetic lapdog, bereft of his will and powers, whining his thanks to them for sparing him from the evil fate that they themselves had driven him to.
For had they not done so? Melkor had told him as much far more times than he could count. "What choice do they leave you?" Melkor had crooned in his ear. "They have divvied up this world and all its power amongst themselves, and they are merely throwing you enough scraps to keep you satisfied and blind to what you might have. You were powerful among the Ainur. Your song, no less than theirs, brought forth the vision of Eä. By keeping your inheritance from you, they are driving you to reach out and seize it by force. Take it and become your own lord. Cast off the burden of the Valar and show them that you are not afraid to do what they are daring you to do. It is your fate, Mairon, your doom written from the beginning, to wear the grandeur of lordship. Who are they to keep it from you?"
Sauron pressed his hands over his ears, his head ringing. A thousand voices, his own, Melkor's, Aulë's, and a myriad others, reverberated inside his mind. He felt dizzy, as if the world were tilting crazily, and up and down and left and right seemed to have no meaning. A piercing stab of some mental agony tore through his mind and he cried out as if he had been physically injured. At least under Morgoth, there were certain incarnate truths that he had built his life upon and had known and trusted without fail: that there was no turning back from the choices he had made, that Gaurhoth and the iron of Angband were his home and the source of his glorious power and dominion, that there was only one Power in Eä that mattered and he sat on a black throne, crowned with the Silmarilli.
But these truths had failed him and left him shattered and broken. First Eönwë, and now Aulë, were slowly tearing down that fortress he had built about himself, telling him that it had been lies he'd lived upon for so long and that they could offer him something different. There were no truths for him here, no iron certainties he could find his footing on. If he disobeyed Morgoth, he had known without fail that he could expect the Vala's lash; if he proved faithful and useful, he had known without fail that he could expect that Vala's dark praise and gifts of power. There were no such certainties here. He did not know what to believe, what to expect, what he was supposed to do or feel. He was lost. And that, perhaps more than anything else, terrified him to his core.
"I don't know!" he screamed, at Aulë, at Morgoth, at Eönwë, at the voices in his head. "I don't know!" And then his carefully constructed control slipped again for the second time that day, for it too had been built upon those deceitful certainties under Morgoth, and he was cursing and raging and hating himself for it (how could he have never realized how much he hated himself?), and then somehow his body was crumpled, cowering against the wall and the unfamiliar bed that was not his, his mind reeling, his legs no longer able to hold him. Unsummoned, pictures flashed through his mind: Melkor leaning against the wall, holding a crown that Sauron had just made, smiling with the firelight reflecting from the gold into his dark eyes where it vanished; a Noldorin prisoner bound to some hideous contraption of which only Sauron knew the exact workings, screaming and crying as Valaraukar lashed his naked body with fiery whips while a dark shadow (Sauron's) questioned him from the edge of the room where the blood could not splatter him; the impenetrable towers of Thangorodrim buckling in upon themselves and falling, the motion seemingly slow from so far away, each rock hurling down the next until the greatest fortress of Arda collapsed upon the ground in a ruin that seemed to shake the foundations of the world; elven eyes piercing him from every side, hate-filled but no longer afraid, chanting a crescendo of words in his ears: May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!
"I hate you!" Sauron heard himself shriek, though he did not know to whom he said it. Then he plunged into darkness, and his mind went blissfully blank.