A/N: I'd like to take a moment to thank all my anonymous reviewers, since I can't do it through PM.
To Almedias: thanks for the comments and predictions. This chapter should answer some of your questions about Sauron's powers and the Valar, too :)
To Guest: thanks for leaving your review, and I'm glad you like my portrayal of Sauron so far. I do see him as a cruel, powerful, proud character at this point in his history, and I'm glad I'm not diminishing him.
To Anonymous: thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm happy I'm doing a good job of showing both sides of this story sympathetically. I don't want it to look simply like the Valar are the "bad guys" and Sauron is the hero, or the other way round.
Enjoy, and cheers!
Chapter 5
Sauron fought his way out of a dream of destroying flames and searing ice and hunting wolves that hemmed him in on every side. His skin felt feverishly hot, and his mind struggled to begin working at its regular speed. Where was he? What had happened? His thoughts were fuzzy and distant, but underneath the haze of his drug-like stupor, he was vaguely aware of pain deep down inside himself.
The very effort of opening his eyes drained his energy, almost as if he had forgotten how to perform such a simple action. His vision wavered as he attempted to take in his surroundings and make sense of his situation. There was nothing to see but grey stones and it was very dark in the room, except for the flicker of some light off to his left.
It must be night, he thought, but then again, it was always dark in Gaurhoth. Or was he deep beneath the chambers of Angband? No, the air was clean and light here, unlike the hot, heavy air of Melkor's deep caverns that was so thick his chest would always hurt for days after staying there for any length of time. He greatly preferred his high tower in Gaurhoth where he could at least let in a breeze of fresh air when he wanted. That must be where he was now. But why did his mind refuse to shake away this fog that had settled on it and what was this pain that he felt deep on the edges of his consciousness, like something had been stabbed deep into his fëa?
Now he was starting to get annoyed with himself. He could not lie here forever. There were always things to do for the Black Captain. Reports to read and reply to if necessary, scouting forays to organize, duties to distribute among his officers, some elven prisoners that he had captured that Melkor wanted broken for interrogation, supply carts to check to make sure nothing unregulated entered or left the fortress, messages to Angband that he needed to relay to Thuringwethil. How could he even think of lying here staring at the ceiling when there was so much to be done?
It was this cursed darkness that was causing it. He knew it was necessary, the shadow of Morgoth that shrouded all the northern lands of Beleriand nowadays, but he couldn't help thinking that if he had designed and created the orcs, he would have made sure they did not curl up like ants in a fire under the light of the sun. It seemed like a weakness that should have been rectified a long time ago.
But Sauron didn't create with flesh and blood. That was Melkor's craft: the shaping and twisting of limbs and skin and fëar. Melkor was the one who forged living forms from the torture chambers of Angband that were his beloved forges. Sauron stuck to metal: armor, weapons, and torture devices mostly in the recent years; his favorite elements were gold and silver rather than raw bodies and blood. Melkor was the master of that art, and Sauron had no plans to complain.
Of course, Melkor had imparted some of the skills of his trade to his chief lieutenant when he deemed it necessary. Sauron knew how to rip apart a body piece by piece and still keep the finished product breathing and perhaps even produce a useful slave by the end of it, but this was just another of his duties, not a pleasure of creation like such an act was for Melkor, like forging some exquisite diadem was for himself.
More pleasurable was the Binding of a soul to such a twisted form, creating one of his monstrous werewolves or a blood-thirsting vampire like Thuringwethil, but the pleasure was not from the act of creating a new creature itself. That pleasure came from the wielding of his powers. It came from knowing that he was the most powerful of all his order, for with the sorcery that Melkor gifted him, he had grown further than he ever could have dreamed of doing in some small forge of Almaren under Aulë…
Aulë. The Binding of fëar. His powers.
Everything crashed back over him like ice cold water suddenly dousing his body. And then he was wide awake, shaking uncontrollably, terrified of facing his new reality, wishing he could fall back into his dreams, even if they were only filled with fire and wolves. He was Bound. The Valar had taken all his precious powers, ripping from him every glimmer of Melkor's sorcery and locking away his innate abilities until, they claimed, he had earned them back.
Which will be never, a voice hissed in his mind. You were told they would not make the same mistakes with you as they did with Melkor. Why would they ever give you back your powers when they have you so neatly caged? You put your own neck in their noose and now there is no turning back. You fool. You deserve to go to the Void for being such a fool.
But they would not send him to the Void. Not now. He was helpless now, no longer a threat to them, just as they wanted. Just as Melkor had told him. They had clipped his wings, set him out as a trophy in their cage of Valinor, and he could already feel his heart fluttering madly in his chest, beating itself slowly and painfully to death.
Except that there was no escape through death. Not for a Maia whose spirit could never flee the confines of this world he had agreed to enter so long ago. He was trapped and at the complete mercy of his captors forever, until history ground to an end.
Was he really any better off than Melkor?
His breath rose in his throat as a strangled sob, but he choked it down, refusing to lose control yet again. His fingers wound into the fabric of whatever he was lying on, digging in so deep that it hurt. The tension in every muscle of his body was painful in and of itself. He fixed his eyes on the dark stones over his head, struggling to control the impulses of his strained body while simultaneously trying to come to grips with his situation and figure out how in Arda he was going to deal with the panic, fear, and horror at the idea of his new life as a powerless prisoner of the ones he and his master had defied. For a while, all his mind was capable of was a helpless fury and a nauseous emptiness as he wallowed, body, mind, and fëa, in the knowledge that he was nothing now.
Finally, the part of him that was the Black Captain of Morgoth began to take control of his mind and shove his thoughts in a more useful and restrained direction. As best he could, he blocked out all the reality that was causing him to panic, immersing his mind in a pool of blankness, and concentrated on every breath, following it from its beginning outside his nostrils, feeling it swell his lungs, then allowing it to slip back out his mouth. In and out. In and out. Every time his mind tried to stray away from his breath, he pulled it back, allowing himself to feel nothing save for that cool wash of air filling him and leaving him.
When he deemed himself sufficiently calm, he let his mind creep outward. Methodically, he began to assess himself to figure out exactly what shape he was in. He began with his physical form, permitting his conscious to slid its way over every inch like mental fingers probing his flesh. As those mental fingers touched each muscle, he forced it to go limp until he was wholly relaxed. What he found encouraged him. Physically, there was no damage whatsoever that he could find. He was still wearing the beautiful form he had convinced the Valar to give him, and it was pristine, unharmed, and pure as the body of a newborn child.
Satisfied with what he found, he moved on to his mind and made a similar, analytical assessment of his mental state. Again, no damage. He was stressed, but his mind was unscathed. He had not gone mad from the pain and shock of what he had just been through; he was tired and strained, but his thoughts still progressed in their normal logical fashion and gripped reality in a way that mollified him for the moment.
After coming to these conclusions for his body and mind, he took a deep breath, both physical and mental, then plunged into the last aspect of himself he needed to examine, the one he was dreading: his fëa.
Immediately, he had to call upon all the strength and the calmness that he'd been building up all this time as he took in the full ruin of what had been his spirit. The damage was sickening in and of itself, but knowing that it was his own spirit he was examining made it worse. Fighting down his panic, he forced himself to scrutinize his fëa in the same strict, impassive manner as he had done with his body and mind.
His fëa had been badly ripped and there were great gaping holes where his powers of sorcery had been. He had not realized how deeply grafted those particular powers had been in his spirit or how much he had come to rely on them. Now that he was directly confronting it, he was blasted with the full extent of the pain that he'd been holding at bay at the edge of his consciousness. It was not nearly as bad as it had been, more like a dull, throbbing burn now, not pleasant, but bearable in and of itself. Quite frankly, it did not hurt nearly as much as it had when Melkor had first grafted the powers into him. He had been incapacitated for days every time after Melkor had decided his lieutenant had earned a new reward of power. But he had borne that agony with complete willingness, and the pain was dulled by the ecstasy of his newest gain.
The exact opposite was true now, and he knew the pain of his spiritual wounds was doubled by the fact that his precious powers were now gone and would never be returned. Even if Melkor were not in the Void, Sauron knew he could not regain his sorcery. It would destroy his spirit beyond repair to attempt to graft the unnatural powers back into it now.
There was nothing that could be done, and stoically, Sauron forced his mind away from those gaping holes. His powers were gone, and it would do him no good to mourn them. He could only wait for his fëa to heal and try to forget that those powers had ever been his.
Venturing deeper into his fëa, he found there was significantly less damage. Deeper and deeper down into the core of his being, he was still whole; this he could sense, but every time he attempted to delve into the deepest recesses of his spirit, he was blocked from doing so, like some invisible barrier had been set up around the heart of his essence. Locked away inside were the remainder of his powers, completely safe and intact, but untouchable and unusable.
For some time, Sauron prodded his way around those barriers, searching for any nonexistent weaknesses or gaps, knowing the futility of his actions even as he performed them, and finally in frustration, he began flinging himself against them, his burning rage starting to creep back in around the edge of his thoughts. It was all in vain. The barriers remained, pressing uncomfortably around his fëa, cumbersome and unpleasant, like manacles that hindered his free movement. Finally, with a curse that had no power behind it, Sauron withdrew from his fëa and returned his thoughts to his room.
Despite what he had discovered, he felt considerably better. Now he knew the exact extent of his condition and that itself was calming. The horrible panic of not knowing what damage had been done had receded, leaving him able to contemplate his current situation with a clear mind.
He still balked at thinking too closely about what his Bound state meant for his future, but he finally allowed himself to begin examining the room in which he'd woken, doing so in the same slow, orderly manner with which he had assessed himself. It was not a large room, square, with perhaps twenty paces in any direction. It was constructed entirely of a pale grey stone with which he was not familiar, although he could tell it was well built, with hardly a gap between the precisely fitted blocks that formed a smooth, glossy surface. It was unfurnished, save for the single, slim cot on which he was lying, and across the room from him was a solid, wooden door with iron supports. All of it immediately unnerved Sauron further. It was several seconds though before he understood why.
It wasn't a room; it was a cell.
Instantly, Sauron found himself fighting back the panic again. After a vicious skirmish that lasted perhaps thirty seconds, he wrenched his mind back away from all the fearful thoughts that had immediately begun pouring in at his revelation. He gave himself a cruel, mental swat, deciding that he was really starting to hate that bubbling, maddening sensation of panic.
All right, so he was in a cell. But most likely they didn't intend to keep him here. He had no food or water, so obviously someone would have to show up sooner or later, and hopefully he would be able to get a few answers if nothing else. Nor was he chained like Melkor had been. Both those things were hopefully good signs.
Besides, the Valar had not acted like they were going to fling him in a dungeon. Why go to all the trouble of Binding him and removing his powers if they were going to keep him in a cell for the rest of eternity? And the provisos he had been forced to agree with certainly hadn't sounded like they meant to keep him in a cell.
For a moment, he was suspicious – he was not yet convinced that the Valar were not trying to deceive him or simply catch him off his guard – but he dismissed the idea that the Valar had lied to him in this matter and meant to imprison him all along. There was no need for the deception. He had already been in their power and was clearly helpless before them. If they had told him they were imprisoning him, there was little he could have done to fight his fate at that point. Sauron's mind ran on a highly practical track, and he could see no practicality in the Valar lying to him throughout the trial.
Which meant someone was going to come and get him eventually. He wasn't sure whether he hoped it would be sooner or later. For the moment, he was thankful at being left alone to gather and control his thoughts. He was not sure what fate awaited him next, but he was starting to feel thirsty and the four walls that pinned him in were unnerving. It was also completely silent, so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat and each soft breath gliding in and out of his body.
Where am I? he wondered. Melkor had been held prisoner in the Halls of Mandos, and it was certainly quiet enough to be the halls of the dead. The thought sent a chill running down his spine, causing him to shiver impulsively. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. He was also not sure about the size of Valinor or the placement of the Halls. He knew from Melkor that Mandos lay somewhere on the furthest western reaches of the Blessed Realm, but he had no idea how far that was or how long it would take to get there.
However, as he pondered this, something new sparked in his thoughts, an observation he had so far taken for granted: he was able to see. There was no torch on the walls and when he noticed the light, he realized it was a soft white instead of the yellow-red glow of flames.
He sat up from his cot which was set up right against the wall opposite the door. Still feeling weak, he took a few cautious steps out into the middle of the cell then turned to look up at the wall against which he'd been lying. High up, set deep in the stone wall, was a window. It was barred, but through it streamed both the flow of fresh air he had noticed early upon waking and that white light.
Then he realized where he was. He was still in the Máhanaxar.
It immediately made sense. The Valar would hardly have wanted to drag his unconscious body to wherever he was going to end up. The Ring of Doom was thick and large, and now he realized that was because it contained cells for any prisoners awaiting condemnation from the Valar. The window, he realized, opened up into the inside of the Ring itself, and the white light was the lamp he had stood under during the trial. Again, he felt slightly better at having figured this out, rather than blindly wondering where he was. He was sure he was not going to be kept here indefinitely.
But where would he be taken next?
He remembered Námo mentioning that he would be assigned a hall. That made sense. He was clearly going to be closely supervised, and it was reasonable to assume he'd be put under the care and watchful eye of one of the Valar.
He sat back down, frowning, and leaned his head back against the wall, running his fingers absently through his long hair. The question up in the air now was which hall he'd been assigned, if the decision had yet been reached at all. The most likely option seemed to him to be Estë. She'd asked to take him even before the trial, and from the bit of conversation he'd overheard, he'd gathered that she and Irmo were both eager to heal him. What exactly "healing him" entailed he was not completely sure. All the little that he'd heard of the Gardens of Lórien though did not sound unpleasant: rest, healing, and peace. It did sound rather dull however, and he was fairly sure he would not receive the type of peace and rest he wanted, namely being left alone. And now memories of that brew Estë had waved in his face began seeping back…
He shivered and moved on. Nienna seemed a fairly likely candidate as well. Compassion was probably something the Valar would like to see him learning a bit more about. Sauron wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought. He actually knew very little about Nienna herself or her halls – he had hardly ever seen her in Almaren and Melkor had never mentioned her as far as he could remember – but what he did know did not suit him. He had always scorned her as one of the weakest of the Valar and was not particularly afraid of her, and his observations of her at the trial had done nothing to raise his opinion. If he was going to be the slave of some Vala, he preferred not having to lick the feet of one that devoted her time to weeping and pitying. And if the Valar thought they were going to make him sob over his past deeds, they were in for disappointment. That at least had not been part of their conditions for his stay in Valinor.
And in perfect honesty, Sauron was not particularly sorry for what he suspected the Valar thought he should be sorry. They had called his deeds heinous, treacherous, abhorrent, and evil. Although he hadn't been about to say it at the trial, Sauron had been rather indignant, even frustrated and angry, at that. He supposed they meant his rebellion primarily, though rebellion was all a matter of perspective. Melkor had warned him of that. The Valar didn't take kindly to those who thought they could seek out a better path, Vala, Maia, Elf, or Man, those who wished to change the story from the one the Valar insisted they were supposed to be writing. This was one topic in which Sauron and Melkor had never been at odds; who were the Valar to set History in stone, to order his life at their convenience, to use him or not as if he were no more than a forging hammer? There had been times Sauron had regretted his rebellion, but not for the rebellion's sake. There were times that he wished he'd taken the easier path, standing in line with his head bowed like a good, little Maia, waiting for orders – a path that would have been dull, but painful only in its ache of restraining his powers.
He also realized that the Valar did not view his and Melkor's methods of the domination of Beleriand in any positive light, but again, wasn't that a matter of perspective? It wasn't as if the Valar hadn't desired to be lords of all Arda. They called their methods compassionate and Melkor's cruel. But perhaps their methods were merely weak and Melkor's were strong. Sauron sensed their anger centered around those cursed Eruhini. Melkor had certainly thought so. If it had not been for the Children, the Valar most likely would have given up and left Middle-earth to Melkor. In fact, they had done so – it was only when the Elves made their appearance that the Valar had begun showing interest in Melkor's domain once again.
That fact was enough to make Sauron hate the Elves in and of itself. It was not as if he'd been torturing and killing his own kind during his years as the Black Captain. The Valar were infatuated with their whining, weak, little Eldar; that was the only reason to explain why the Valar seemed blind to the fact that it had been the Elves who attacked Melkor and kept that long dreary war dragging on, not the other way round. And for what? Three shining Jewels? They had been amazing trinkets to be sure – Sauron could certainly not deny their exquisite craftsmanship – but had they really been worth all that pain, death, and suffering? The Elves had apparently thought so, but now he himself was facing the blame of that war. As he thought it over, Sauron decided he was even less sorry for what he had done to the Elves throughout the centuries.
He had told Eönwë that he repented and that was not wholly false. But what he was sorry for was how everything had fallen apart on him at the end. If he had known of the utter ruin to which Morgoth's realm would come, he did not know if he would have listened to Melkor in the first place. The anguish he had suffered since the War of Wrath began was a high price to pay for the powers he had wielded all those years. And did any of it really matter, if in the end, his powers had been stripped from him as if they had never been? Had he never known the glory and bliss of such power in the first place, he would never have known the pain of losing it.
Sauron shook away such thoughts. How many times did he have to remind himself that agonizing over the past would not change the future? Did it really matter now whether or not he regretted or repented of any of his choices, when his choices had led him here?
There seemed one other likely option for where he might end up now, he thought, drawing his mind back to its original track. There was the possibility that he would be sent back to the Vala under whom he'd first been placed. He might be sent back to the Halls of Aulë.
His initial reaction was scorn. He'd already had enough of Aulë's pity and compassion, and there had been a reason he'd deserted his rightful master in the first place. Aulë's fatherly concern and endless lessons constantly dogging him did not sound like a life Sauron could stand for long without going mad. And living in the Halls of Aulë would mean he'd get the bonus of Yavanna's suspicious, watchful eyes, as well. All in all, it sounded like a good situation to avoid.
He fingered the edge of his robe then let his hands stray restlessly to the stone walls. They were perfectly smooth and again he was impressed by their flawless craftsmanship. And as he thought this, a new idea began to form in his mind.
In the Halls of Aulë, there were sure to be forges.
Something sparked in Sauron and began to glow gently. Forges. Perhaps, if he were assigned with Aulë, he would be given the chance to use the forges. Perhaps he could even convince Aulë to give him his own, as he'd had in Almaren.
The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. He'd had a forge at Gaurhoth and another at Angband, but when he'd had the chance to actually use them during any spare moments amongst his other duties, it was always to make some weapon or tool of iron or steel, never the gems and finery and subtle artifacts of power that he truly loved making. Now that he thought of it, he could not remember the last time he had forged some crown or necklace or ring from gold, silver, and gems, some item that had no use in war but was merely a beautiful decoration. Melkor had no love of such a soft metal as gold and did not encourage its use. And other than his Silmaril-studded crown, he had just as little use for pretty trinkets.
Hunger awoke deep down in Sauron's heart. Now that his thoughts were turned to it, he realized it was no mere dry fancy with which he longed for a forge fire and his bands of gold; it was a consuming need. It was almost painful how much he missed the feeling of a hammer between his fingers and the heat of his fires on his face.
If…if he could convince Aulë to give him a forge, if he were allowed to spend his days there, if he could retreat away from his sorrows and worries and loss to his creations, then perhaps, perhaps, this life could be made bearable. Perhaps he could even bring himself one day to feel something like happiness.
There was no doubt now in Sauron's mind. He had to convince the Valar to assign him with Aulë. Once that was done, he was sure he could get his way with the Smith himself. That would be worth even Aulë's endless lessons and Yavanna's antagonism. Surely, there wasn't anything in his desire that the Valar could complain about. It had been the task he'd been assigned at the very beginning; surely, they would let him return to the work he'd been created to do. They might even see it as a sign of some healing in him.
For the first time since he'd met with Eönwë in Middle-earth, even for the first time since the downfall of Morgoth, Sauron felt the tiniest bit of hope that he actually had a future that might be worth living.
~o~o~o~
Some while later, he heard someone at his door. He'd been pacing, his strength returning and the pain of his wounded fëa and the discomfort of his Bound powers dulling slightly. Now that the idea had planted itself in him, now that he could almost see that forge, thousands of ideas were pouring into his mind, each begging for attention. Rings, circlets, bracelets, belts, sheaths, sword hilts – all the designs he'd never had the chance to see brought into reality. Suddenly, eternity didn't seem quite so long. What if he could get his own forge away from the other apprentices and smiths under Aulë and spend his days by himself, working away at all those beautiful pieces of art that he could already see so clearly in his mind? Maybe, if he devoted himself to his work wholly enough, the Valar would be convinced that he was no longer a threat and would even be willing to grant him back some of his powers in the future.
It was not until he heard a scrape at the door of a bar being lifted that Sauron realized someone had finally come to fetch him. He instantly turned to face the door, his back to the cot, his body stiffening again in response to a possible threat.
It was Eönwë. The golden-haired Maia had a thin wooden platter containing two flasks and a plate with bread. Sauron's thirst had grown considerably since he awoke and now that he saw and smelled fresh bread, he realized he was hungry as well. But at the sight of Eönwë, his bitterness and anger crept back in, and he became distinctly and uncomfortably aware of that hard, crushing barrier and those painful holes in his spirit.
With only a brief glance in Sauron's direction, Eönwë set down the platter on the cot. When Sauron made no move to partake of it, the Herald folded his arms and stepped back. "I'm not going to do anything with you until you eat and drink."
Sauron sat down cautiously, not sure whether Eönwë's words were meant to be a reassurance that he could eat in peace or a threat that he'd be given no information about his fate until he complied. He picked up the bread and found it soft and still surprisingly hot. Thankfully, he bit into it as he examined the two drinks.
One proved to be water which he drank greedily, washing down the bread and soothing his dry, hoarse throat. The other was some dark liquid that he did not recognize, but when he sniffed it, he determined that it was alcoholic to some extent.
"It's Valarin wine," Eönwë said, noting Sauron's hesitation.
Sauron looked up at him, his eyes flashing darkly. "And what will it do to me?" he said in a low voice. "Rip more holes in my fëa?"
Eönwë's brow creased. "If you are in any pain, it will help. It will also calm your nerves. From what happened in the Ring, I suggest you drink it."
Sauron curled his lip slightly but took a small sip. It was sweeter than any wine he'd had before and left a warm tingle all the way down his throat to his stomach. The warmth spread outward, and it was several seconds before he realized it was soothing his fëa as much as his body.
His eyes flickered back up to Eönwë. "How long have I been out?" he asked slowly.
Eönwë shifted his weight just slightly to one leg. "It has only been an hour and a half since the Valar Bound you."
Only an hour and a half. Sauron had expected it to have been hours at the most for that blazing agony he'd felt in the Ring to subside to this aching throb. He took another sip of the Valarin wine. "Did the Valar know what was going to happen to me?" he asked, looking straight into the Herald's eyes to search for the truth. Discerning between truth and lies was a tricky game, but Sauron had learned to play it better than most.
"They knew it would cause you pain," Eönwë replied steadily. "The extent of the pain overreached their expectations, however."
The cool tone of Eönwë's voice rankled Sauron further, as did the knowledge that the Valar had refrained from warning him about the pain he'd just been through. He knew it would be better if he kept his mouth shut, but his tongue had always had a way of making itself heard. "They are very gracious hosts, your masters," he said icily. "You failed to mention on the shores of Middle-earth that I would be robbed of my very dignity and essence. But I suppose that was all part of their plan: lure me in and snare me."
Eönwë tilted his head back slightly, jutting out his sharp chin, and his brows grew closer together. His nostrils flared angrily. "What did you expect, Sauron? A feast and a full pardon? I told you that you would not be allowed to go on living the life of a dark lord in Valinor."
"You didn't tell me they were going to take everything!" Sauron exploded, flinging the flask of wine to the floor suddenly. The liquid spilled out across the pristine, grey stones in a bloody, maroon stain.
Eönwë ignored the spill, but his blue eyes turned hard and cold, and when he spoke, there was tight anger barely harnessed in it. "There is only one person who you can blame for your pain, Sauron – you. It is not the Valar's fault that you allowed Melkor's sorcery to eat so deep into your fëa. Nor is it the Valar's fault that you cannot be trusted to use your powers for the benefit of any save yourself. They have done what you made it necessary for them to do."
"You told me that I would receive mercy if I came back," Sauron hissed, standing, his hands quivering into fists. "The Valar had no right to violate me in such a manner."
"They had every right!" Eönwë shot back, anger now blazing in his eyes. "They had the right to throw you into the Void. Do you have any idea how merciful they have been to you? You felt no qualms about mutilating the bodies and spirits of thousands of the Children. And now you dare to whine about a few rips in your own fëa, holes left from the unnatural powers you chose to allow to become part of you? I saw Elves and Men rotting in the dark prisons of Angband who were barely recognizable as such, who cowered away from me and cried like animals, unable to even remember their own tongues, and you complain about your precious Bound powers from a fána a king might envy!" The Herald clenched his teeth, his eyes as sharp as his sword. "Sauron, do you have any idea how despicable you have become?"
The two Maiar confronted each other, fury written on both their faces. Finally, Eönwë turned his back on Sauron. "You will follow me. The Valar have more to say to you," he said in his tight, clipped manner that made it clear he was done discussing this matter.
Still fighting to control his rage, Sauron followed stiffly to the door, but when he reached it, he hissed at the Herald. "You think me low, but what of you? Manwë's little slave runs his tasks well."
He saw Eönwë's shoulders stiffen, but the golden-haired Maia neither stopped nor replied.
~o~o~o~
They emerged back out into the Ring of Doom. The red tinge of evening had vanished completely from the sky by now and the only light was that brilliant lamp and the stars dotted throughout the black canopy. It was not yet late if he had only been in the cell a few hours, but this day felt like it had been dragging on forever already. Sauron hoped there was not much more that needed discussing and that he would then be left alone again to sleep for the night.
It was only when he stepped out into the Ring again, following in step with Eönwë, that he suddenly remembered the task he had set himself. He needed to make sure that he would be assigned to Aulë! He cursed himself inwardly. Eönwë had distracted him from the much more important task of figuring out a plan to ensure his desired place. Curse the Herald! he thought furiously.
But it was not the first time he'd had to use his wits on short notice. Improvisation was another skill that he'd found useful to nurture, and the times when he'd been called upon by Melkor to use his more theatrical talents were some of the few missions he had most enjoyed. Pure domination was thrilling and addicting, but subtle manipulation was often a sweeter and more lasting victory.
He knew Aulë well, his strengths and his weaknesses. And Sauron knew how to play on weaknesses.
He already knew where the Smith would be sitting from the beginning of the trial. As he and Eönwë marched towards the platform at the center of the Ring, Sauron turned his eyes to Aulë's throne. Sure enough, Aulë was watching him intently, a sad expression on his face. Sauron met his former master's eyes for no more than a moment, but that was all he needed. In that moment, he gave Aulë an anguished look of pain, sorrow, and deep betrayal. You let them do this to me, he let his eyes say. You could have stopped them. You told me I could trust you, that you loved me, but yet you let them hurt me like this. You betrayed me.
He did not wait to see the results of his look. He swept his eyes away and made his way to the platform, still feigning an air of injury and hurt feelings that he knew Aulë would be able to pick up on all too well.
He mounted the platform, again having to squint against that sheer, white light that poured around him. The Valar were all seated on their thrones again, or still – he had the distinct feeling they'd been discussing him right before he came in. Some of them still looked moody and angry, and he wondered if they'd been arguing again over the form he'd chosen.
This time, there was no introduction from Eönwë. As soon as the Valar saw that Sauron had taken his place, Námo rose from his throne and stared down gravely. "How do you feel, Sauron?" he asked, his black eyes flickering for a moment over the Maia.
Sauron stiffened automatically, but he was not about to repeat the accusations he'd fired at Eönwë minutes ago. Instead, he kept up that chilled detachment he'd shown Aulë. "I assume I am as well as can be expected in my circumstances," he replied coolly.
Námo nodded slowly, his eyes still boring into Sauron's. "It proved a weightier task than was expected, which is why you were given your reprieve," he said, as if he knew the charges of cruelty that Sauron had made. "But we have agreed to finish the trial this evening, and we guessed that you would be equally pleased to put it behind you."
Sauron made no reply, as it was true.
"There is still the matter of where you are to be assigned," Námo continued. "This decision must be reached before we discuss our final stipulation for your remaining in Valinor."
They want something else from me still, Sauron thought, his heart already sinking again. What more can they possibly take? He closed his eyes briefly, harnessing his thoughts. It doesn't matter. As long as I'm assigned with Aulë and they give me a forge, it doesn't matter. I have to be assigned with Aulë. He sent out a silent plea that the one look he'd given the Smith would be enough, though he was not sure who, if anyone, would receive a prayer from one such as him.
He remained still and quiet, refusing to look around at the Valar, hoping Aulë was squirming with guilt and pity and compassion at this point, enough to claim his former apprentice anyway.
It was not Aulë's voice that spoke, however. "He is welcome with us."
Sauron knew Estë's voice without even lifting his head and that little bit of hope he'd been cradling in his heart choked and sputtered.
"In the Gardens of Lórien, he will be well cared for and he will find the aid, rest, and healing, body, mind, and spirit, that he needs," Estë went on in her sleepy, gentle voice. "Both I and my husband agree that he needs all these things before he can be expected to meet his new life in Valinor."
There were murmurs of confirmation throughout the Ring. Sauron lifted his eyes fractionally again, just enough to see Námo. The Doomsman was nodding and opening his mouth to speak, and Sauron knew what he was going to say. Námo was going to agree with Estë, and Sauron would be shipped off to wherever Lórien was, away from any glimmer of getting to use a forge and the last hope he'd had of living a bearable life. He did not now have to feign the misery that he was sure was radiating off him.
"Sauron Gorthaur," Námo said in that imperious, doomsayer voice of his, "you shall be–"
"Stop! No! Please let him come with me!"
Sauron's head shot back up as everyone looked at Aulë who had risen from his throne. One look at his face and Sauron knew his ploy had caused its desired effect. Aulë looked nearly as miserable as Sauron at the prospect of him being sent to Lórien, and there was a look of terrible guilt on the Smith's face, though even Sauron knew he had not really been responsible for anything. But that was Aulë's weakness, that and his pity, and Sauron's dagger of a gaze had struck home. The Smith felt responsible for him now.
All the Valar were staring in surprise at Aulë. He gathered his composure and looked pleadingly at Námo and Manwë. "Please," he said in his deep, earnest voice. "Let him come back to my halls with me. He was my Maia at the beginning, and I know him the best of all of you. He will be better off amongst his own folk in a place familiar to him than he will in Lórien."
Yavanna was looking at her husband in shock. She stood and took hold of his arm. "What are you doing?" she asked. "It is clear that Estë is right and that he should be taken to Lórien for what healing he still has the ability to absorb. Your skills are not in healing, Aulë, and you know it."
Námo's brows knit together. "I fear, Aulë, that I am inclined to agree with Yavanna. The need to deal with Sauron's powers was the only reason he was not sent to Lórien immediately upon arrival, and I also think it will do him the most good to spend some time with Estë and Irmo."
Aulë pulled away from Yavanna's grip and faced the Doomsman stubbornly. "I tell you that none of you know him as I do. It will do him better good to return to the tasks he was sent into this world to complete. Please, assign him to my halls."
Yavanna tugged on his arm again, pulling him around to face her. "Listen to Námo," she said stiffly. "There is nothing you can do for Sauron at the moment. Do you really want the agony of having to watch over him? Do you really think it best for him? You have already lost him once."
The pain on Aulë's face at that last comment was clear. But instead of subduing him, it seemed to magnify his determination. Ignoring Yavanna, he stared intently at Námo, his jaw tightening visibly under his bushy beard. "I made a mistake," he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "I let him slip out of my grasp all those ages ago, and there is not a day that has passed when I have not mourned his loss and my own folly. Please, this is not just for him. I have longed for a day when I might have the chance to right my own wrongs and find forgiveness with Eru for allowing one of his spirits, my charge, to go astray. You never lost a Maia to the darkness, Lord Námo. I beg for this second chance, this one chance. It will be my redemption as much as his."
His metallic eyes flickered just to Námo's right, where Manwë was seated, watching the proceedings silently, leaning one elbow against the armrest of his throne with the back of his fist pressed to his lips. "Lord Manwë," Aulë said, "if you'd had the chance to heal your brother, would you have not taken him into your own hall and cared for him yourself? Would you have entrusted such a task to another?"
The Ring was completely silent, as Aulë stood, his fists quivering slightly at his side, a look of pleading on his face that would have cracked one of his diamonds in two.
At last, Manwë shifted and lifted his head from his hand. "Námo," he said quietly, "let the Maia go with Aulë."
Námo turned to look at the High King. "My lord," he said just as softly, "you do realize the dangers–"
Manwë's storm-grey eyes shone with Valarin power. "I realize many things, Námo. And I realize that we cannot deny this to the Smith."
Námo bowed his head briefly. "Very well, my lord." And before Sauron could quite process everything that had just happened, the Doomsman's voice boomed over the Ring. "Sauron Gorthaur, you shall be henceforth assigned to the Halls of Aulë, to remain under the supervision of the Lord Aulë and his folk, under his authority, not to leave the assigned halls unless given approved permission, from now forevermore unless you receive new orders from this council."
And then he was writing it down with his blackbird quill in his book and Sauron was left standing in shocked relief that his plan had actually worked. But then it sunk in and he had to control every limb to stop himself from shaking. He'd actually done it. He was going to be assigned with Aulë. He'd have his forge. He'd have back the one thing that he had truly and deeply regretted losing all those years under Morgoth. He might be bereft of his powers, no more than a prisoner in the land of his long-time foes, but he would be able to shut it all out, burn his memory away in the fires, beat out his anger and frustration with a hammer, lose himself in gold and silver and precious gems. He could already feel the heat soaking into his flesh, the hiss and whoosh of the bellows, the bitter tang of soot on his lips, the silky, cool smoothness of the metals… Everything had been going so wrong for him since the War of Wrath began that he could hardly wrap his mind around the concept that something, however small, had gone right for him.
He glanced up, the elation swelling in him even as he realized how desperate he must be for such a small detail to bring him such delight, and found himself looking right at Manwë. The High King of the Valar looked directly back at him, and his gaze was keen, piercing, and perceiving. He did not speak, just gazed, his expression immutable, and Sauron perceived that Manwë knew exactly what he had done, that he had manipulated Aulë to get what he wanted. But nonetheless, Manwë had let it happen. And there was something else in those powerful, grey eyes, some burning, relentless knowledge in Manwë's gaze, that it chilled Sauron to the bone. For a moment, Sauron was torn between a hungering lust to know what Manwë knew and a searing hatred and fear of that unknown doom. Finally, he looked away.
Námo drew his thoughts away again. The Doomsman had pulled out several sheets of paper and was inspecting them. Manwë had leaned forward and was discussing something with Námo in a low voice that Sauron could not hear. Finally, they seemed to reach a conclusion, and Námo folded up the parchment and turned back to Sauron.
"We have one final stipulation for your stay in Valinor. You have done much harm and evil to the Children and all the people of Middle-earth, but while those deeds can never be undone, other deeds may be done to bring healing. To show your true goodwill, not only to us, but to all Arda, we ask you to aid in the rebuilding of a world to which you and your master brought ruin for many years.
"Many of the Firstborn have chosen to come to Valinor and many of the Secondborn have been given the gift of Númenór to compensate for their losses, but many more yet remain in their home of Middle-earth. But it is a land ravaged by war, and in the War of Wrath, cities were razed and lands destroyed.
"This is the task that we assign to you. Near Aulë's halls, a stone quarry has already been created, and the Elves have already begun the labor of creating and dressing stone blocks which will be shipped to Middle-earth to the Elves and Men whose cities and homes must be rebuilt before they can begin to thrive once again. Every day, you will be escorted to the quarry and under supervision, you will daily fill out your quota of blocks to send to the harbors. In this way, you shall have a task to keep you occupied and you will be sending direct aid to those you have harmed in a gesture of goodwill. You will be assigned to this task until either we give you different instructions or there is no more need for it. Do you understand?"
Hope is a funny, treacherous, little thing. It can seize hold of a man with a grip of iron and keep one striving onward despite the most terrible of odds and yet it can be shattered with the lightest touch. Moments ago, hope had left Sauron feeling the closest he had ever believed he would feel to being happy again, but just as quickly, as Námo's message sank in, hope abandoned him and left him with an agony of despair far worse for having had that brief hope.
The full meaning of this last stipulation quivered through his veins. They were going to make him go to some quarry, surrounded by hard-working, charitable Elves laboring for the good of their suffering kindred, wasting his skills chipping away at rocks all day, proving his supposed "goodwill" towards the Elves and Men for whom he felt no such thing. He had won his victory with Aulë for nothing. He had no forge waiting for him.
It was the final hammer stroke of a long and terrible day. That cold, uncomfortable barrier in his fëa tightened and those agonizing rips burned. He looked at the Valar and hated them. They had robbed him of his one last hope. In that moment, he decided he was going to make them pay. He had no idea how, but someday, he was going to make them pay.
But for now, there was nothing he could do. That was a fact that had been made painfully obvious to him all this agonizing day. He continued to stare at them, his eyes blank and his heart churning, and nodded his head once. "I understand."
Námo closed his book with a thud. "Then this trial is concluded."
Mere minutes later, Sauron found himself slumped on the back of a white horse, a cloak tugged close around his shoulders to block out a light, cool breeze as he followed Aulë and Yavanna down a long path that gleamed white in the darkness, winding down from the Máhanaxar, past Valmar, and onward. Weariness, both from the long day and the darkness in his heart, closed in around Sauron like a fog, and he afterward had little memory of what happened as the darkness slipped by. But finally, he was aware that they had stopped and there were lights before him, yellow candle-light in myriad windows. He could faintly make out a looming dark shape of a gigantic building in front of him as he allowed himself to be led forward.
He had equally little memory of passing through arching corridors and massive halls that smelt faintly of wood smoke and charcoal and up many stairs before he found himself in a spacious private chamber. Aulë said something to him in a reassuring voice, but Sauron's mind was blank and it was not until some indeterminate time later that he realized he was alone. There was a closed window opposite to him and beneath it a small round table with a single candle burning on it. Beside this was a bed, not a simple cot like in the Máhanaxar cell, but a full bed with thick, brown sheets and large, fluffy, grey pillows. Without even bothering to undress, Sauron fell into it, wrapping himself deep in the smothering cloth, and let the thankful, blissful oblivion of sleep consume him.
~o~o~o~
Several miles away to the south, another trio of travelers, two Valar and a Maia, arrived back at Ilmaren on the summit of Taniquentil.
Manwë, Varda, and Eönwë had flown home in eagle forms, but they took once again their bodies in the likenesses of the Children as they entered into the open courtyard of the palace. With a quiet word to her husband, Varda slipped away to her own chambers, but Manwë paused in the entrance hall, gazing upward. The roof was a sheet of glass, through which the starlight and Tilion's first beams fell silver onto the white marble floor. In the very center of the hall was a ring of raised stone and a fountain bubbled up inside it, spraying water upward in a soft plume. Where the spray mingled with the starlight, it cast a silver glow that shimmered illusively in the air.
Eönwë remained dutifully several steps away, waiting to see if his lord had any more tasks for him before he retired for the night. The Herald was silent, his lips a tight line in his stern and stately face.
Manwë was silent too for a long while, but when he finally spoke, he did not look at his Herald. "What did you think of the trial, Eönwë?"
The Maia shifted his weight slightly, surprised by the question, but he did not let it show on his face. Instead, he assumed a proper grave expression. "I do not believe it is my place to comment."
Manwë slowly stepped in front of him. Behind the High King, the silver glitter of starlit water formed a glowing corona. "The outcome of the trial displeased you. Why?"
Eönwë swallowed and looked up into his lord's grey eyes. He was accounted the most powerful Maia in Valinor, and yet even he could not steadily meet the High King's gaze for long. He dropped his eyes fractionally. "I believe you were too merciful with Sauron, my lord," he replied stiffly.
Manwë made a small sound that might have been a sigh. "It was you yourself who sent him too us. Do you not wish to see him reconciled to his kindred?"
Eönwë bowed his head a little further in deference. "My lord, I hoped when he first came to me that his show of penitence was born of more than fear and self-preservation. If he in truth came with the hope of reconciliation and remorse for his past deeds, then I would be the first to desire his reinstatement among his kindred. But that is not why he is here."
"Is it not?" Manwë said, his voice as soft as one of his spring zephyrs.
Eönwë looked back up into his lord's compassionate face and swallowed again. "He is not sorry," he said, bitterness putting a steel edge in his voice. "He is ungrateful, arrogant, cruel."
Now that he finally saying it, he found his anger swelling up inside his throat. "You should have heard the things he said in his cell at the Máhanaxar," he went on hotly. "He blamed you and the other Valar for his pain and humiliation. He had the audacity to complain about your mercy, as if it was an insult to his cursed pride. He thinks of no one but himself." He shook his head, his cheeks burning with anger. "He has become a monster, my lord."
Manwë was silent for a moment, slowly turning a sapphire ring on his right forefinger with his other hand. "We cannot expect to see immediate results," he said, looking back at Eönwë. "He has long been lost in the darkness, and we cannot expect him to immediately adjust to the light."
Eönwë felt frustration building up inside of him. That was how Manwë had spoken of Melkor, and the Herald felt intense unhappiness at the thought that he would have to watch the painful cycle repeated with Sauron. "My lord," he said fervently, "we cannot trust that time will heal him. He is dangerous now. He feels no compassion, no regret, no sorrow. He is consumed by self-pity and hatred. Melkor's hatred. Can you not tell that from looking in his eyes? He deserves to be punished, my lord."
Now Manwë's eyes took on a sheen of subtle power flickering like lightning in their depths. "Deserves. A cruel word. And yet, is that not the definition of mercy: to lighten the burden of one who deserves to carry it?"
Eönwë's fists clenched. "You were not there, in Middle-earth, my lord. If you had been, you would not have been so quick to mercy. You didn't see the horrors I saw. I saw slaves in Angband that had been chained so long that we had to cut their manacles out of their flesh. I saw prisoners that had been tortured and mutilated beyond recognition, their skin hanging off their bodies in bloody strips, their hearts still beating underneath raw muscle. I saw beasts and monsters that looked at me with eyes that had once been elven and human but their fëar had been twisted and shredded until they were no more than animals. I saw unspeakable devices of wood and metal made for the sole purpose of causing suffering, some of which still contained the rotting corpses of their last victims, which their captors had not even graced to remove and dispose of."
His breath choked in his throat now, half sobs of horror at the memories. "These were the Children, my lord. He did this to the Children. The Children that he swore in the beginning to protect and care for and love. And he doesn't care. He is drenched in the blood of the Children, and all he can think is to complain that you were not lenient enough with him and that you had no right to take his cursed powers."
Tears gathered in the Herald's eyes. "Lord Manwë, I cannot bear the thought that those innocent lives he destroyed, that he defiled, will go unavenged."
Manwë cupped the Maia's chin in his fingers, lifting his face. "They are not forgotten," he said in a deep, tender voice. "But paying for bloodshed with ever more bloodshed will never heal this world."
Eönwë looked down again despite Manwë's hand, his breathing hard, the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks any moment. "Everyone knows that you are too merciful, my lord. Sauron does not deserve to live."
The High King pulled Eönwë's head back up to meet his eyes, and this time his face was hard. "Eönwë," he said in a low, intense voice that commanded attention and respect, "I do not ever want you to say that again." His voice softened a little. "Do you understand me, my child?"
Eönwë nodded, not trusting his voice.
Manwë gently placed a hand on both of the Herald's shoulders, still holding his gaze with his powerful grey eyes. "Mercy always looks hollow when you are not the one receiving it. The Valar have made their ruling, and there will be no going back from it now. And even the eyes of the Valar, little Maia, even my eyes, do not see all of what is to come."
He touched Eönwë's cheek in a gentle, fatherly movement. "Do not be so eager to condemn when your eyes can only scratch the surface. We do not know what may be happening deep within your fellow Maia's heart or what he has experienced himself these long years."
He withdrew his hands and half-turned from Eönwë and for a while seemed lost in thought, gazing into the sparkling fountain. For a while there was no sound save the water's soothing patter, like falling rain on a lake, as Manwë's fingers strayed again to his sapphire ring, gently turning it back and forth on his finger.
Finally, his eyes flickered back to where Eönwë was still standing downcast, a mist still clouding his sky-blue eyes. The High King was smiling faintly now in a manner that made Eönwë uneasy, although he couldn't decide why.
"I have another task for you, Eönwë," Manwë said. "I think it will do you good."
Eönwë dipped his head briefly. "I am yours to command, my lord."
Manwë told him what he wanted.
The Herald gaped at his lord, before finally finding his voice which had acquired a distinct and undignified sputter. "But, m-my lord, surely that is no task for a herald or a Commander of Maiar. Are you sure, my lord?"
Now Manwë's lips had twitched into a deep smile that reached to his sparkling eyes. "I'm quite sure, Eönwë." His eyes flashed. "It seems that even you, my child, may become indignant when you feel your pride might have been touched and that you might be lowered beneath your perceived status." He took a step back, surveying his Maia with his keen, amused gaze. "Yes, I think it will be good for the both of you."
He turned, leaving Eönwë still standing in the middle of the hall. "Goodnight, Eönwë," he said before he vanished through the door into his private chambers.