Chapter 6
There was a soft knock on the door to Sauron's room. Partially awake already, his mind mired in the bleary state between dream and wakefulness, he dragged his eyelids open and realized it was later than he'd guessed. Light streamed into the room through the window to the right of his bed and his senses told him he'd slept long and deeply.
Too long and too deeply. His head throbbed, and it took him several seconds to figure out where he was, the usual procedure for him upon waking, ever since the upheaval in his life weeks ago. The truth came quicker than in the Máhanaxar cell however, and the realization did not overwhelm him with immediate despair and ravaging pain; instead, he was simply numb to his new reality. His mind was wiped of emotion for the moment, everything around him taking on an ethereal quality, as if nothing was worth the bother of really caring about. Facing the new day, just getting out of bed, seemed worthless tasks that did not deserve his concern. Despite the night's sleep, he still felt unexplainably exhausted, and even keeping his eyes cracked open proved too great a feat. He let them fall shut again, and with an involuntary moan, he wriggled deeper under the covers and tried to blot out his awareness of the world.
The knock came again, louder this time, and Sauron let out a low, animal snarl. He did not want to be bothered, to stir this blissful numbness in his heart back into a seething cauldron of hate, fear, and pain. It was better to simply not care.
But whoever was outside his door was not going to give him that luxury. Another knock reverberated through the room, this time accompanied by a familiar, deep voice. "Nauron, are you awake? May I come in?"
"No, and no," Sauron growled peevishly at the door, knowing any answer would do little to change the inevitable outcome.
Indeed, he had barely finished speaking when the door scraped softly open, followed by the heavy footfalls of Aulë's boots. He pushed his face down into the grey pillows and hunched his shoulders, all but disappearing into the bed, wishing he could smother himself away into oblivion. But he could not block out the rasp of Aulë pulling up a chair or that distinctive burn on his nape from powerful eyes gazing intently at him.
"Nauron, you really ought to consider getting up," Aulë said after a minute of staring at Sauron while Sauron pointedly ignored him.
The Maia was considering a sharp retort when something slipped back into his mind, something he'd thankfully repressed since waking but which now came prickling back into his thoughts like a thorny vine. The last stipulation for his pardon. The Valar would make him go to that quarry to hammer at rocks all day. It was one of the last things he'd want to do in any circumstance, but at the moment, it seemed a torture keener than anything else his mind could have contrived.
That did it. The fragile numb shell around his heart and mind shattered, and he felt the familiar biting pain of his anger and hate suffusing him. He hated the Valar. He hated the Elves back in Middle-earth that he was going to be forced to work for like a slave. He hated Aulë.
But deep, deep down, locked tight in his breast, he felt a single stabbing heat to warm the chilling hate, though it itself had a painfully sharp bite to it. But it was a pain that was somehow cathartic, like opening a blister, and he found himself fondling that single comfort, trusting himself to it to soothe the loathing, rage, and despair. It was that one flame that was going to keep him sane – the promise he'd made himself in the Máhanaxar, the promise that one day, somehow, he was going to take revenge on the Valar for what they had done to him.
"You shouldn't lie here all day. There's much to do," Aulë said, more firmly this time.
Sauron lifted his head fractionally but kept his back to the Smith. "Why bother talking then? Why don't you force me to do what you want?" he snarled in a low voice. "It is something for which the Valar clearly have a talent."
Aulë sighed, but this time it sounded more irritated than indulgent. "There is no being in Arda we have ever forced to do our will. The only Vala who did that is no longer in the Circles of the World."
Sauron gave a short, bitter laugh. "Melkor didn't force me to do anything."
"Yes, yes, I know. It would have been easier for us to deal with you now if he had." Aulë's voice was tinged with sorrow. "But perhaps not. Perhaps there is more hope for a free will than an enslaved one in the end."
Sauron's fingers curled into fists around clumps of the delicate, brown sheets. "And I suppose you see a vast difference between an enslaved will and a Bound one."
The chair creaked slightly as Aulë shifted. "We have not touched your will. You were always given a choice and the freedom to choose."
"To choose this or the Void!" Sauron finally sat up and turned to face the Smith, his eyes shining balefully. "Melkor too offered choices to those under him: servitude or unimaginable torture. You are not so different from him as you like to think. None of you."
Aulë actually lowered his eyes from Sauron's hate-seared gaze. "You put us all in a very difficult situation."
"Oh, I see," Sauron spat. "Your task would have been much simpler had I run in Middle-earth, would it not? Then Eönwë and Oromë could have hunted me down and disposed of me properly and easily. You would have had no qualms about throwing me in the Void then. But I made things difficult for you. I surrendered, so your laws of morality and mercy hindered you from finishing me off once and for all. I put you all in a lovely little dilemma, didn't I? Melkor would not have been caught in such a predicament."
"No, and had Melkor been your judge, you would be in the Void now!" Aulë snapped, standing suddenly. His voice was sterner than it had been, and the Valarin light in his eyes flickered like a stoked fire. "I know you do not respect me, but do not forget your place, Maia. By the judgment of Námo, you are under my lordship now. If you thought to come here to have your way with me, then I fear you will be disappointed. Just because I care for you does not mean I plan on letting you do and say whatever you wish. Whatever has passed and may yet pass, you are no longer the Black Captain of Morgoth. You are mine again."
Sauron was actually rather stunned and for a moment, he stared at Aulë. On the one hand, he sensed predictable anger and indignation, but he couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration as well. Perhaps he'd not given Aulë enough merit. Perhaps Aulë had a stronger will than he recalled.
He realized his mouth was hanging slightly open and shut it, clamping his jaws firmly together in a grimace. No, a strong-willed Aulë was not what he wanted. His eyes automatically flickered away to the window, giving him a view of morning sunlight and rippling treetops.
Aulë sat back down with a humph, recapturing Sauron's attention. "Listen," he said, his voice weary and gentle again, "this is not going to be easy for any of us. I do not believe you know, or can know, the extent of my gladness and relief that you returned instead of fleeing. Not yet. If your fate had rested fully in my hands, it would not have been this way, but I am not gifted in judgment, and Námo's wisdom stretches further than I can see. We must trust this is the best path for you.
"We have given you mercy, not because our laws of morality constrain us to do so, but because we all have hope that Arda's wounds can still be healed. Please, do not toss aside the gift you have been given, Nauron."
Sauron's eyes remained fixed on the hypnotic undulation of the treetops. "Don't call me that," he said, almost inaudibly.
Aulë frowned. "Then what would you have me call you?"
Sauron shrugged and shook his head. It was as if his burning passions of a moment ago had devoured his energy and will to fight. The numbness was starting to creep back and he welcomed it. "I don't know," he said in a parched voice. "I hate all my names."
Aulë was silent, as if he could not think of an answer to that. In his peripheral, Sauron could see him looking out the window as well, his worn face Ages old. "Perhaps, you need a new name then," he said finally.
"I have a feeling any name that could encompass my current state would be more hateful to me than anything I already have," Sauron replied.
"If you find yourself in such a hateful situation, then why did you come back?"
Sauron just stared out the window, his mouth clamped tightly shut. He let it seem his silence was due to stubbornness. Rather than the truth. That at the moment, he was not sure of the answer.
Aulë rose. "Perhaps this will help remind you." He took a step forward and laid something on the bedside table before turning away towards the door.
It was the hammer, the one Eönwë had given him in Middle-earth. Sauron realized he must have left it behind at the house outside Valmar when he'd marched off to the trial, and Aulë apparently saw it lying abandoned on the bed and brought it along. The sight of it now had a different effect on him than it had in Middle-earth, however. Then, it had given him some hope, painful though it was, a burning desire to pick up the shattered remnants of an old life and a longing to play his old role in Arda's history.
But this was not the role he had deluded himself, back in Middle-earth, into believing he might still achieve. In light of the Valar's decree and his newly broken hope, the forge hammer was a cruel mockery of what the Valar had torn from him. It had proven a will-o-the-wisp light, luring him off what had been a fractured but still solid path into this quagmire he found himself in now. And now it danced before his face as he sank, taunting him with the knowledge that he was to be denied using it as he had hoped, that he was going to be sent away to labor instead of crafting beauty. That hammer had promised him the prospect of returning as an apprentice, picking up his old life where he'd left off, but instead he found himself in a new role that seemed nothing but slavery.
He glanced up at Aulë, and for a moment, a ridiculous urge come over him: to tell Aulë his multitude of emotions. For that moment, he thought perhaps Aulë was indeed ignorant of the pain the Valar's ruling had caused him and maybe if he knew, the Smith could in some way change the verdict, at least a little, help him get the forge he longed for, or do something to ease the humiliating judgment.
His mouth was already open, his tongue forming the words of his plea, when he caught himself and shoved the ludicrous thoughts away. What was he thinking? Aulë was one of the Valar, one of the ones that had done this to him, one of the fourteen on whom he had sworn to take revenge. Aulë had sat in that Ring and condemned Melkor to eternity in the Void, and he had sat in the exact same place and condemned Sauron to a life of Bound toil. It took little imagination to guess he'd been instrumental in sending that treacherous hammer to Sauron in the first place. And even if Aulë had wanted to help him, it was clear there was nothing he could have done in the face of the other Valar's decision. Since when did you start wanting to spill your heart out to your enemies? Sauron sneered at himself. But then again, when did you become such a fool as to walk straight into your enemies' traps?
All this took mere seconds to pass through his mind. In that time, Aulë crossed the room and put his hand on the door. As Sauron realized the Smith really was leaving, a puzzled expression briefly knit his brows. "You're leaving?" he said before he could catch himself, still half-surprised that Aulë was not forcing him to rise. The final stipulation had certainly not sounded optional to him.
Aulë turned back, his dark eyebrows raised, perhaps in surprise that Sauron had spoken to him again. His metallic eyes were unblinking. "You have made it quite clear that you don't desire my company, and as I said, I do not plan to force you up. If you wish to spend the day commiserating with yourself, that is your decision to make."
Sauron scowled at the disdainful tone of Aulë's voice but his surprise got the better of him. "Don't I have to go to that quarry all day? Didn't you come to make me do it or punish me if I didn't?"
There was a brief flicker of what looked almost like amusement in Aulë's eyes. "Perhaps if you had not been so busy accusing us Valar of Melkorian cruelty, you might have liked to know about a small adjustment to your situation. You've had a hard time recently, and what happened to you at the trial was no small matter. We unanimously agreed to give you five days in order to recover and adjust yourself, as well as getting used to your new home before you will be required to report at the quarry.
"That was actually what I came to tell you. However, I recommend you use the time wisely – I will be glad to give you a tour of the mansions and grounds or you are welcome to explore on your own. Meals are served communally in the Great Hall at seven in the morning, at noon, and at seven in the evening. I encourage you to rest as much as you need, but locking yourself away in here and wallowing in self-pity for the next five days will not stand you in good stead. If you need or want me, have anyone direct you to my chambers. I hope to see you about, Nauron." Then he retired from the room, leaving Sauron to brood.
As loath as he might be to admit it, this news did lighten his heart, if only fractionally. Five days was adequate time to recover physically and mentally with a proper balance of food and sleep and to regain his strength and composure, if not to completely adjust to his new life and his Bound fëa.
Plus, he'd have the chance to get the lay of the land – he felt much too helpless now, a blind man stumbling about in the dark, with no concept of where he was, either in the Halls of Aulë itself or in Valinor as a whole. Any little thing he could do to better himself, even if it was just knowing his way around, sounded desirable at this point.
And quite frankly, Sauron had never been one to lie around. Now that he had a free day before him and a new goal, he found himself ready to rise and face the day. If there was one thing he knew, it was that "wallowing in self-pity" achieved no practical purposes.
He decided to start by simply exploring his room. He'd barely glanced around the previous night, but now in the morning sunlight, he had to admit it was quite nice, certainly no cell. True, it was generically decorated and rather sparsely furnished, signs that until now it had probably been a rarely-used guestroom, but it was spacious and luxurious enough to satisfy his lordly tastes. The designs of the room were simple and geometric, though not unlovely; he did not regret the absence of the effeminate swirling patterns that marked elvish influence, something it had taken him years to remove from his chambers in the newly-conquered Gaurhoth tower. A rug of deep gold and rich browns lay over the grey, hexagonal flagstones, and there was a complementary gold trim around both floor and ceiling.
In addition to the bed and bedside table, he had a small bookshelf (empty at the moment), a slim wooden wardrobe, and in the corner, a chest with a key, doubtlessly for personal belongings. It was only at the sight of the chest that he was suddenly struck by the fact that he had nothing to his name, save the hammer, and that was debatable seeing as how the Valar had recently granted it back to him simply as a cruel lure. He'd left his black clothing at the Valmar house, the only things he'd brought from Middle-earth. Not that he'd owned anything more when he came to Eönwë. Everything – his books, wealth, servants, weapons, jewels, and more – was long lost in the ruins of Gaurhoth and Angband. A sharp pang shot through his chest at the realization of his beggarly state, along with a burning resentment at the knowledge that everything, down to the very clothes on his back, he currently owed to the Valar.
There was a private washroom adjacent to his chamber which he found had been stocked with any personal toiletries he might need: combs, soaps, and washing clothes. A hand basin rested on a thin shelf below a simple mirror, also hexagonal. The washing basin was raised several inches from the floor and underneath was the coal bed and necessary tools for heating the water. He was thankful though to see a spout running up from the floor – when he twisted it, a thin stream of cold water trickled into the basin with a tinny splash. At least, he didn't have to run up and down the stairs with a bucket like a slave to fill the basin every time he wanted a bath.
And he was quite high up, perhaps eighty feet from the ground, which made this a relief. His window afforded him a good view of the eastern side of the mansion grounds: tree tops of all different kinds, more than he'd supposed existed, stretching for a good half-mile, crisscrossed with slender gaps that must be paths and larger gaps where he glimpsed open gardens. Beyond, the trees thinned out into plains stretching leagues into the distance before they sloped upward into the shining, unnaturally steep peaks of the Pelóri. To the east and several miles south was the gap of the Calacirya, through which streamed the rays of the rising sun. To the north and south, however, the majority of his view was blocked by sweeping wings of the mansions.
Having fallen asleep in his clothes, his indigo robes were a wrinkled mess, a problem rectified with a glance into the wardrobe, however. Apparently, someone had known ahead of time that the room would be occupied shortly, for the wardrobe had been stocked with a decent collection of garments. Many of them were purely practical: sturdy work trousers and unadorned shirts and tunics. Sauron scowled; whoever had provided those garments had known he'd be spending his days in physical labor.
Along with the work clothes, however, were various less practical but more elegant articles of clothing: robes, leggings, long tunics, and silken shirts more suited to the wardrobe of a Maiarin lord. The person responsible had possessed the intuition to provide him clothes of darker colors, as well. True, the clothes worn by Aulë's folk tended to be darker – earthy and sooty – but he was glad to see the majority of his new garments were deep blue, shades of dark grey, and even black. Though seemingly small in detail, the thought of having to run about in shining white or pale blue, green, or grey like some Elf or Maia of Manwë or Estë turned his stomach.
He chose an outfit and dressed in the knee-length tunic of deep mahogany with a silver filigree pattern stitched across it, with black leggings and soft boots underneath and a sleeveless robe of a complementary grey that slipped over his shoulders and hung open in the front. Upon opening a lower drawer, he discovered several pieces of jewelry, as well. There was a collection of rings, all of which he curled his lip at, though they were not poorly made. But he had always preferred his own style and jewelry solely of his making. It was not so much the beauty of any given piece he enjoyed but knowing he bore the work of his own hands, a piece of artistry straight from his own mind and through which he could display his own unique skill.
He did, however, also find a plain, gold circlet, unadorned but perfectly smooth and oval. He had always worn such an ornament, back in his days as an apprentice smith of Aulë and in the years under Morgoth. Not only was it an elegant symbol of his lordly status, but it held down his long hair and kept it from falling forward into his face when he was working. He lifted the circlet, admiring the flawless surface, and slipped it onto his brow. To his surprise, it was a perfect fit. Either it had been made directly for him or he had made it himself in some lost age. He suspected the latter, though he could not remember crafting it. But then, it seemed his memory had shrouded that time of his life in shadow, and so perhaps it was not so surprising he had forgotten a single circlet when he could not even remember his old name. He left it on; the cold smoothness against his brow was a familiar comfort, along with the knowledge that sometime long ago, his own hands had shaped it.
Turning, he looked into the mirror. It was a refined, noble reflection that met his gaze, one that showed little to nothing of the disarray underneath. But he had been slipping on masks for centuries now, and so long as his beautiful outward form showed no signs of the broken fëa and roiling heart inside to undiscerning bystanders, he would be satisfied. He quirked his lip upward in a bitter smile at the thought that he barely remembered a time when he freely showed his true self on any regular basis. Any form reflecting his true self now would hardly be welcomed. But for the moment, the monster underneath was adequately hidden.
He slipped quietly from the room into a long hallway lined with doors to the east and arched windows to the west, high on the north wing, the living quarters apparently. At the far southern end of the hallway was a high stained-glass window, set with Aulë's device of an anvil and flames, looming above a dark, downward flight of stairs.
For the next several hours, Sauron wandered the Halls of Aulë, his new home, as hard as it was to wrap his mind around that concept. As dark as his thoughts remained, he couldn't help but admire the combined grandeur and vast, organized design of the Halls that appealed to his sense of order. Its splendor surpassed anything he'd experienced before – this was truly the mansion of a Lord. But he couldn't stem the thought that flickered through his mind simultaneously: too bad that Lord is Aulë.
That thought grew steadily as he wandered through magnificent chambers with high vaulted roofs supported by sweeping trusses, arched doorways, and tall glass windows, hallways decorated with geometrical tracery, lined with columns, and ending in great oaken double doors, libraries filled to the roof with books while colored dust motes floated in streaming rays that flooded through the stained glass windows high above, and other rooms and galleries and winding stairwells that seemed endless. This was grander than his dark halls and soaring towers of Gaurhoth, greater even than the cavernous grandeur and unending labyrinths of Angband. Everywhere was visible the wealth and glory of Valinor: gold and silver gilding, jewels and crafted gems set in the cornices and corbels, crystal lanterns suspended in air which cast silver light over the chambers, shining glass, and feats of architectural wonder at every turn. It was a show of might and power that awed Sauron, as loath as he was to admit it.
But none of it was his.
Every new hall, every new glitter of gold, every new pulse of power drove it deeper and deeper: how he had nothing and the Valar had everything. Gaurhoth was covered in moss and dirt long since and Angband had been torn apart and the mighty towers of Thangorodrim hurled to the ground. Of all the might of Morgoth, there was now nothing but a shattered memory. Ever more, he suffered deep horror, shame, and anger at his own pitiful beggar's state. Ever more, he felt like a homeless wretch that some great lord had graciously supported and brought in out of pity, but instead of gratefulness, the comparison seared him with bitterness. It was like salt rubbed into his wounds, dirt ground into his face. It was as if the Valar were flaunting the fact that they had taken everything from him and there was nothing he could do about it.
Once again, as he'd experienced on the hilltop outside of Valmar, an intense desire consumed him to see this great mansion go up in flames, watch it floating away in ashes and collapsing in such utter ruin that everyone who gazed upon it would do so in dread. Once, such a fancy could have become reality for the Captain of Morgoth who had witnessed (and caused) the destruction of many great, proud kings' citadels – but no more. The Halls of Aulë stood in defiance of his fantasies, as untouchable as a mountain in the face of the wind's anger.
And yet, even the wind could slowly wear away at stone. The tiniest stream could gouge a scar in rock if given enough time. Sauron was clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. He cradled that bitter flame in his heart as his envy and ire tore at him. There was no point in living without hope. And the hope of revenge was all the Valar had left him. It's their own fault, his mind whispered. They stole everything from you. They lured you back here to ensnare you. They ripped from you the last hope of living here in a way that would make life bearable. They have left you one choice: revenge or despair.
And Sauron knew better than most how to play the waiting game of revenge.
~o~o~o~
Another aspect of his new home steadily infuriated him during his exploration.
Coming down through the dormitory north wing, he met no one, but that changed upon making his way into the central halls. Passing through a roofed, outdoor portico that marked the end of the north wing, he found himself in one of the huge, vaulted halls held up by two rows of columns that reminded him of dwarven architecture he'd seen in Ered Luin. Windows high up shed light on the pale grey flagstones while dozens of crystal lanterns lined the walls closer to head level, casting their silvery glow. In the very center of the room was a hexagonal, open hearth, still smoldering and sending up spirals of aromatic smoke. The whole room smelled of roasting meat, baked goods, and aged wine, though there was no food currently to be seen. From this, and from the rows of long tables centered symmetrically around the hearth, Sauron determined he'd found the Great Hall where the communal meals were served. At the far end of the hall was a stone platform, raised perhaps three feet from the rest of the room, bearing a single long table where he supposed Aulë, Yavanna, and those of highest status in the Halls took their food.
Even though it was not currently mealtime, the room was far from deserted. Dozens of Elves lounged at the tables, some with chess or checker boards before them, others with books, still others chattering in their musical, mellifluous voices. Their laughter and good-natured camaraderie infected the room like a mist before Sauron.
However, at his approach, a gradual silence froze the chamber. One by one, all the Elves turned to stare at him, sensing his presence and malignant gaze. Dozens of curious eyes bored into him, prickling uncomfortably on his skin. Deathly silence was his only greeting.
A mixture of reactions rippled through the room. From some, he sensed a kind of fascinated fear; from many others, he sensed revulsion or downright hatred. But unanimously, he felt a morbid curiosity fixing every gaze on him. It took him several seconds before he realized he had just become some sort of sinister exhibition, a freak attraction for a bunch of Eruhini.
He took a step back in horror and anger. Something seemed to press against his ears, causing them to buzz unpleasantly in that dead silence he had wrought. Still the Elves gawked on. The feeling grew that he was some exotic, caged monster there for the sole purpose of being gaped at. Freed, unbound, he might be a terror to be feared and avoided, but he was reduced now to this freak sideshow, a pacing tiger behind bars that anyone could approach, while neither fearing for their safety nor caring what the caged beast might think of this invasion of his privacy and dignity. Sauron's cheeks grew hotter and hotter along with a sensation he grew to realize was shame.
Keeping his steps even and his back straight, though he longed to flee from those intrusive stares, he turned and walked stiffly from the Great Hall. He could almost sense the sighs of combined relief and disappoint from the Elves as their after-breakfast entertainment slunk back into his kennel, muzzled and proved harmless. He was shaking and his hands clenched into fists so tight that his fingernails cut into the soft flesh of his palms. He had to get away. If he stayed, who knew what action he would take: breaking and fleeing or wildly striking down everyone in his reach, regardless of any consequences. It was bad enough that the Halls displayed the Valar's power at every turn – he could not bear the thought of becoming himself a display of the Valar's all-conquering might.
But it did not stop there. He soon discovered the place was swarming with Elves, all of whom seemed eager to gape at the conquered enemy of their Valarin masters.
He'd known that many of the Eldar chose to live in the halls of various Valar and that Aulë was particularly popular among them, but he had not supposed there would be so many of them, or that they would be everywhere. He'd assumed they might have their own wing of the mansions, somewhere segregated from the galleries used by the Ainur, but this was clearly not the case. In fact, they seemed to have the run of the place from as far as he could tell. There seemed to be more of them than there were of actually Ainur!
It wasn't as if he wasn't used to being around Elves in general. There had been elven slaves in abundance in both Angband and Gaurhoth. But these Eldar were clearly not slaves. He saw some at work, cleaning and other such household chores, but from the way they chattered with each other cheerfully or stopped their work to watch him walk by, it was clear these were communal chores, not slave labor. It grated against his nerves that these creatures were being allowed to dwell alongside those of his own order, in the halls of a Vala, as if they were equals. These weak, pathetic beings were being allowed to pretend like they had some right to be there.
In fact, they seemed to have more right than he did. It was he who was the outsider, a fact made abundantly clear. Whenever he walked into a room, he felt that chill spread out from him, freezing any conversation and work that had been going on before he arrived. He did his best to ignore those intrusive, disrespectful stares, sweeping through each chamber and out again without deigning to give his spectators any attention. But as the scene from the Great Hall repeated itself again and again, the feeling of being an exotic monster on a leash grew. The crushing sense of his powerlessness magnified with each new pair of eyes that turned upon him and each new murmur that reached his ears. He knew what they whispered to one another as soon as his back was turned:
That's him, isn't it? The traitor Maia the Valar are punishing.
Ha, from all the stories of Morgoth's terrible servants, I expected a twelve-foot tall demon. He doesn't look like a Black Captain, does he?
Why is he here? Shouldn't the Valar have thrown him in the Void?
It nauseated him how small it made him feel, both the vast halls and the staring eyes. It was the Elves who should feel cowed in his presence, an Ainu who had sung their very world into being and fought wars and lead armies before their grandfathers had awoken, not the other way round. It seemed intrinsically wrong that packs of weakling Elves should have more freedom, power, and influence in the Land of the Ainur than a Maia did. But they did, and he was incapable of doing a thing about it.
Sickened at heart, his face still burning from a contemptible combination of shame, envy, and despair, he finally found his way into a part of the mansions that was not so overrun with the Eruhini. He passed through a door and felt the sudden breath of cool air against his face, like a breeze of springtime back in Middle-earth, though it had been late summer when he left. But the Valar controlled all the weather of Aman, just as they controlled everything else in their lands.
He walked into a large square courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a colonnade, with four doors, one to each side, that opened into other wings of the mansions, and he realized he must have found his way to the center of the great collection of buildings. Above him, the sheer grey walls rose seven stories to the north and west, and two stories across from him to the south and to the east. The framed sky above was the deep cobalt of a clear, bottomless lake.
The extensive courtyard itself, a full acre, was partitioned with stone slab walkways, bordered at regular intervals with stone benches, that cut between beds of multihued flowers and those of smooth, colorful stones, with an artificial stream snaking among them. The water poured with a soft steady murmur from the carved beak of a Valinorean eagle, rippled steadily over its bed of pebbles and several small waterfalls, then wound away until it disappeared underneath a wide overhanging stone slab. Small, willowy trees with feathery leaves and draping blue tendrils of flowers stood like watchmen around the edges of the courtyard, brushing against the portico roof. From these came soft, whistling songs and the rustle of feathered wings.
Sauron wandered aimlessly, taking no more than a cursory interest in his beautiful surroundings but rather absorbing what satisfaction he could from the quiet and the absence of staring elven eyes. He let his mind slip back into a blank state where for the moment he didn't have to deal with his emotions or his situation. Absently, he wondered if that was what the Void was like and he smiled humorlessly to himself. If so, maybe he'd been cheated out of eternal oblivion after all. Right now, that option didn't sound so bad.
He continued to walk, not paying attention to where his feet led him, and gazed around with careless eyes that saw only enough to keep him from walking into anything. It was only when he found himself standing under the southern portico that he snapped out of his reverie. Before him, hanging on the wall, was a large painting. He'd seen such artwork previously: today, as he walked through the halls, and before. There had been paintings in Minas Tirith, grand, epic things showing cities and mountains and even two, shining trees, scenes that, he'd guessed correctly, were of Valinor. Of course, he'd had them removed and burned as soon as he conquered Orodreth's stronghold. It would not do for the Black Captain's sanctuary to be filled with scenes of his enemies' lands.
For some reason, the painting pulled his attention back from the dark recesses of his thoughts to focus upon it. Tipping his head slightly to the side, he gazed up at it, surprised at what he saw. It smacked of elvish influence – the gracefulness, the sweeping curved strokes, and the elven greys, blues, and greens – but it was definitely not a scene of Valinor, like all the other paintings in Aulë's Halls that he'd seen up to date.
It was much more familiar.
As the viewer, it was as if he stood high upon a mountain brink, gazing down over craggy slopes and breath-taking plunges into gloom. Dark pine trees reached up towards a stony, stormy sky, and from the left side of the painting, swirling skeins of grey mist crept around the rock pinnacles and trees, slowly, sinisterly almost, eating up the ground and obscuring it from his view.
He could not tear his eyes away. The scene was so distinctly Middle-earth, the cruel heights of Ered Gorgoroth perhaps or the lonely, mist-bound peaks of the Hithaeglir that he had only seen a few times. The scene had that breath-taking, wild, marred beauty that he had known so well, that was far more home to him than these perfect, controlled marches of Valinor. There was a darkness to the painting too that fascinated and surprised him – the Elves loved a certain type of darkness – midnight forest glades sparkling with moon and starlight or wild vastnesses of the ocean – but this was a darkness that did not seem elvish to him. That creeping, obscuring darkness of the mist, those cruel, sublime pinnacles that might break the body of any who was thrown upon them, the fearsome, raw power of the fall that seemed to loom before his toes – it was a dark scene that seemed more fitting to him than some delicate elven painter.
He stretched out his hand as if he could reach through and touch those stone heights but his fingers brushed against ridges of dry oil paint instead. A knot closed around his heart, producing a dull, tight ache, and his throat squeezed shut until he had to fight to swallow. It was a sensation he had felt only a few times before, but still he recognized the choking pain of homesickness. He turned his face away and closed his eyes.
"You decided to take my advice, I see."
Sauron's eyes snapped open and he turned quickly around, dropping his hand to his side. Aulë was standing in the doorway, one strong, brown hand resting on a marble column. When Sauron made no reply, the Vala of Earth stepped down onto the walkway and came to stand beside the Maia, turning his gaze to the painting, as well.
"I heard some rumors that you were out and about," Aulë said, and when Sauron scowled, he added, "It seems your presence here has made quite a stir among the Firstborn. You are something out of their legends."
Sauron let out a short, bitter laugh. "The bogeyman that they frighten their young with tales of, no doubt. But no, they did not seem nearly afraid enough for that. But I suppose stripped of his darkness and veil of mystery, even the most terrible monster of the night is much less frightening."
"You are no monster," Aulë said with a small frown.
Sauron gave him a sarcastic look with one eyebrow raised. "No, I suppose I am much too fair for that," he said caustically.
Aulë's frown deepened pensively but Sauron could not read what was happening behind the golden-silver eyes. Instead, the Smith looked up at the painting, scanning over it swiftly as if well-acquainted with its contents. The silence stretched on until it grew uncomfortable. Sauron finally broke it. "It is Endor, is it not?"
"Hmm, what?" Aulë said, his bushy eyebrows creasing as he was jolted from his thoughts.
Sauron indicated the painting with a jerk of his head. "It's Middle-earth."
"Yes and no," Aulë replied. "To the best of my knowledge, the painter has never been to Middle-earth. It is an artist's conception of what such a realm might be like. Does it hit near the mark?"
Faint surprise stirred in Sauron at the realization that Aulë had never been to the Middle-earth he had known and that after the destruction of the Lamps and the changing of the world during the first great War of the Powers, few of the Valar had ever even come to the dark lands of Endor. For some reason, the thought made him angry – that the Valar had not considered it worth their time to even see it before they destroyed it. But why would they, when they had crafted themselves this paradise? To them, it had been nothing but a realm of lonely darkness ruled by evil.
He looked back at the painting and wondered if that was all the artist thought of Middle-earth, as well. After all, shouldn't Sauron the Black Captain feel an affinity for such darkness and dread that the Elves doubtlessly associated with the realm of Morgoth? He followed the harsh brushstrokes in the lines of the precipices amidst the swirling mist until his keen eyes noted an irregularity at the bottom right-hand corner: two delicate black runes. MC.
His train of thought and any subsequent curiosity were interrupted by his stomach letting out a long, low groan, and he realized he hadn't eaten since that bread Eönwë had brought him the previous evening. It must be now nearing noon or perhaps past, and so far he had done a poor job with his decision to recover his strength and care for his body as best he could over these next few days of respite.
"It will be noon in a few minutes," Aulë said in answer to Sauron's stomach. "I take it you have not yet eaten. I was on my way to the Great Hall myself – perhaps you will join me?"
Without a word, the Smith turned and made his way across the courtyard towards one of the doors that Sauron had not yet explored. After his stomach rumbled again, Sauron set off after him, keeping a few steps behind to avoid any need Aulë might feel for striking up a conversation.
They passed through some chambers that Sauron recognized from earlier, though he doubted his ability to find his way back to the Great Hall on his own yet. But before they reached the Hall, his ears began picking up the sounds: light bursts of laughter or snatches of song interspersing the low hum of conversation. Sauron's gut tightened and he clenched his teeth unconsciously as he prepared himself, any tranquility he'd managed to acquire in the courtyard promptly abandoning him.
They entered the room through a huge set of oaken double doors carved with the now familiar geometric patterns that dominated the Halls of Aulë. He found himself at the opposite end of the Hall from before – he stood on the raised platform overlooking the rest of the tables. His eyes swept the scene.
Every table was crowded. Almost as if it were some odd ritual, every face turned to look in his direction as the doors thudded shut, and slowly the silence he always caused crept over the room as steadily as that dark mist in the painting. By now, the fact that he was a resident here must have made its way around the mansions, and he could sense the eagerness in those gazes to get their first glimpse of the ruined dark lord of Beleriand and to gloat. He could imagine a sign above his head painted in garish letters: Come see Sauron, the fallen servant of Morgoth the traitor.
Revulsion filled him to the point where he did not know if he could remain in the room one second longer, but he forced himself forward, following Aulë to the head table, ignoring the hundreds of eyes. It was a hard task. Their gazes seemed to congeal into a tangible wall, a shimmering barrier in which to trap him. His throat tightened again with hatred. He fantasized some massive war engine crashing through those columns supporting the room, bringing down the stone roof on the heads of all these Elves, crushing them to dust and darkening those cursed eyes once and for all.
Either Aulë was oblivious to the silence or he was simply determined not to acknowledge that anything was wrong. So typically Aulë. Any enemies could be made friends if you tried hard enough. Any hurt could be smoothed over with the proper words. In Aulë's mind, it was probably simple curiosity that had brought this deathly silence to the Great Hall.
As if to cement this, Aulë turned to Sauron and beckoned with a hand. "Be seated, Nauron. We're ready to start."
Still followed by a myriad eyes, Sauron slowly lowered himself into the chair that Aulë had indicated. From his slight elevation, he stared down the rows of tables decked with candles and more food than he had ever seen in one place. The tables were covered in pale grey clothes and at various intervals there were bouquets of bright flowers in vases, no doubt Yavanna's personal touch. The fire at the center sent up licking flames and flying sparks. All in all, it had an air of festivity and plenty that was currently in direct opposition to the stiff, silent occupants of the tables.
However, as it become evident that Sauron was neither going to be an immediate threat nor put on a show like a trained bear, the conversation gradually returned and the tension in the air lessened, though there was still a distinctly uncomfortable aura in the room, like dry tinder that a single spark could transform into a blaze. But soon the clink of glass bottles and clay bowls chimed through the hall, and the fire snapped and crackled. Trails of elven song began to wind through the room as the general atmosphere relaxed further and everyone dug into the hearty fare.
At the head of the table, to Sauron's right, Aulë was carving meat from a hunk of venison while carrying on some conversation with an important-looking, dark-haired Elf lord. On the other side of Aulë, Yavanna was sipping from a glass of maroon Valarin wine. When Sauron glanced her way, her eyes flicked back in his direction, as if she'd been watching him out of her peripheral and waiting for him to notice her. Her dark expression implied that she could see the anger and hate in his eyes, and he had the feeling she was just waiting for him to step out of line. He swept his gaze away with an angry curl of his lip.
As he finally turned his attention to the individual table occupants, he discovered to his shock that they were not just Elves. True, the majority were Eldar, but there was a large quantity of Maiar too, not seated at their own tables but mingling with the Elves! Talking with them. Eating with them. Was it not bad enough that Aulë allowed the Eldar to roam through his halls as they willed? Had the Ainur truly degraded themselves so thoroughly that they now ceased to distinguish between the Powers of Ilúvatar and the Children? In some cases, it was hard to tell the two orders apart, so assimilated were they. The debasement he saw before him made his stomach lurch. And they had thought Melkor had indecent viewpoints?
At least that explained the insolence of the Elves, the way they'd gawked at him when he passed without any hint of deference towards his status as a Maia, not to mention how they'd dared to wage war against a Vala. He'd assumed their disrespect was because he was a prisoner of war, barely counting anymore as a Maia lord, but now it seemed they'd been taught to treat all his race in such an undignified manner, regardless of status. Sudden fury at all those other Maiar sitting in the room rose in him. It was he was having to pay for the Elves lack of respect just because the other Maiar clearly did not have the spine to put the Elves in their rightful places. Caring and guiding for the Children was one thing. Treating them like equals was another.
Now I understand why those cursed Noldor acted like they owned the world, Sauron thought with an angry snort as he reached for a bowl of bread rolls. Well, two can play at their game. He bit into the roll with vigor and began loading his plate with other delicacies from the table around him, scornfully ignoring the Eldar and his fellow Maiar with haughty disdain.
He looked back down over the throng of Elves and Maiar, eating, chatting, and singing together. It was the very picture of communal friendship, peace, and plenty: everything Valinor was supposed to stand for. His chest constricted and his latest bite of the fluffy, sweet bread stuck in his throat. There was all this…
…and then there was him. The outcast. The traitor. The one who could freeze a room just by walking into it. It was not that he wanted what they had – the thought of singing and making small talk with a bunch of Elves turned his stomach. It was what he'd lost that hurt. Under Morgoth, he had been aloof and untouchable, capable of bringing complete silence with a single flick of his fingers or the very power of his gaze. On the surface, it did not seem so different now – he had always been alone either way. But it was different being alone because one was a powerful and dangerous lord who all feared and who none dared disturb, remaining aloof by choice and bringing a room to silence through dread. It was very different to be avoided like a plague victim, to be an outcast that no one wanted to be seen speaking to or making any contact with, to bring a room to silence, not out of fear, but because he was an outlandish monster to which no one was sure how to react.
Pressure built behind his eyes, but before it could congeal into moisture, he pushed it back, instead viciously tearing into a leg of lamb with his teeth, ignoring any looks he might be getting for it. They already thought him a monstrous barbarian.
He looked back up after devouring the meat as ferociously as he might have done in his wolf form and indeed saw several Elves at the head table giving him cautious but daintily scandalized looks at his lack of manners. For some twisted reason, their expressions amused him. They were so prim and proper, their long hair combed, their clothing impeccable. And yet, he knew that if he were to take them all, starve them a while, torture them a bit, and then release them together with a single hunk of raw flesh, they would tear each other apart over it in seconds. Sophistication was all an fragile illusion of culture – they thought themselves so grand and noble, oblivious to how little it would take to revert them all back to beasts.
He bared his teeth at them in a mocking grin at the thought, and they flinched back from him in dismay, averting their eyes. The one closest to him, almost directly across the table, nervously refilled his goblet with wine from one of the glass bottles. At the sight of the trickling red stream, Sauron remembered the warmth that had soaked through him from the wine Eönwë had given him yesterday evening, and his mouth felt suddenly unbearably parched. For a second, his mind was distracted from his roiling thoughts, overwhelmed by a need to quench his thirst and soothe his emotions.
"Give me the bottle," Sauron demanded with casual, automatic authority, accompanied with a curt snap of his fingers, as he might have ordered any servant back in Gaurhoth.
The nér looked up, surprised and uncomfortable at being addressed by the pariah of the room, and then glanced around stupidly as if Sauron might have been addressing someone else, the bottle still clutched in his hand.
"I said, give me the bottle," Sauron snapped impatiently, his tongue dry and thick. "Do it now, Elf!"
The Elf's hand shot out fearfully, but before Sauron could seize the bottle, another hand intercepted it and snatched it back out of his reach. His brows knitting together in anger, Sauron whirled to see who had dared steal the drink from him and found Yavanna, beautiful and furious and holding his bottle. Aulë looked startled; apparently, he'd been oblivious to his surroundings until Yavanna had suddenly reached in front of him to grab the wine.
The Valië of Flora was holding the bottle so tightly it looked like it might shatter. She rose, still glaring at Sauron, drawing the attention of everyone at the head table. "How dare you!" she hissed at Sauron. "What do you think you are doing?"
A shiver of angry indignation ran the length of Sauron's spine. "I am thirsty. Am I not allowed to quench my thirst?"
"Then you will ask!"
"I just did!" Sauron grated, exasperated. A horrible notion flashed into his mind. He wasn't going to be forced to treat the Elves in the unnatural manner the rest of his kind had adopted, was he? That he would be successful at changing the behavioral choices of the other Maiar seemed unlikely, but he had not considered the possibility that he himself might be forced to join them in this perversion of order.
Aulë rose to his feet, looking confused. "Yavanna–" he began in a placating voice.
Yavanna cut her husband off by raising a single hand, palm outward, the fingers pressed so tightly together and so straight that they were trembling. "He does not need your protection, Aulë. Do not attempt to stand in front of him and protest that he does not know better or whatever other foolishness you're planning to say. He knows perfectly well what he does and I hold him fully accountable. We have granted him mercy, but on the condition that he shows some sign of repentance for the vile deeds he and his master have done. I will not stand by idly while he mistreats the Children in our care."
Sauron rose to his feet now. He was not quite as tall as Yavanna even then, but it was more a position of power than to remain seated at the table. Vaguely, he was aware that between them, he and Yavanna had attracted the attention of the entire room. "Mistreat? Are we the slaves of these Eldar now?" he protested, still shocked and horrified at this turn of events, the edges of his vision blurring in red. "Let them earn their keep. They should be filling our goblets as well as bringing them to us. They should feel honored to serve us. We are Ainur, created from the direct thoughts of Eru. We created this world. Do they not owe us everything?"
He looked around, seeking some agreement, someone who saw the same sense he did, anyone that might be moved by his smooth tongue, but every gaze that met his was hostile. He began to feel cornered, floundering, and a heavy hammerfall began beating in his chest. "What is it you ask of me? To debase myself in the same way my kindred appear to have adopted?" he demanded, anger mingling with his shock as he realized no one was going to step forward to support him. He knew why, too. It was because it was he who was saying it. If Yavanna or Aulë, or any one of the Maiar (or probably any Elf), had spoken such sentiments, they probably would have been met with instant approval. The thought that he was black-marked thus – that he would be ignored no matter how logical his words – stung like a knife in his side, even if he'd known this would happen all along. A snarl began to tug at his lips. "And you think I have been the one corrupting the order of the world?"
"How dare you? How dare you?" Yavanna's voice rose in pitch and strength. "The Eldar are not our slaves or servants. If anything, it is the other way round. Have you fallen so far as to forget the very reason for which you accepted a physical form and descended into Eä? Have you forgotten why we built this world? Our task is to guide, care for, protect, and teach the Children, not enslave them. It is you who has debased your place in Eä."
She stood, tall and fierce, and pointed her hand at the Maia. "You are not a dark lord here, Sauron. You are living on the mercy of the Valar, but Eru help me, if you refuse to bend your will, I will see to it that it is done for you!"
Her hand trembled. "Get down on your knees, beg the pardon of Lord Gilruin, and then ask for the wine like a civilized Maia. Do it immediately!"
Aulë tried to put his hand on her arm. "Yavanna, don't push him. We can discuss this later. It's not–"
Yavanna pulled her arm away, cutting him off. Her eyes were fixed on Sauron. "No, Aulë, he shall do it or face the consequences. Do it now, Abhorred One." She spat the name with such loathing that it might have been poison.
Every single eye in the hall was fixed on Sauron, waiting. He looked around at them, his chest rising and falling heavily, his breath rushing through his nostrils. His choices flashed through his mind.
Abasement was not a wholly new sensation to him. He had not been forced to fake the awe and fearful admiration with which he had served Lord Melkor, even when failure had brought him to his knees in penitence to accept his master's harsh punishments, humbling his natural pride in a cloak of dread reverence before a being a hundred times greater than himself. It had been harder to bow his head and beg the pardon of Eönwë in Middle-earth, a being of his own order, but the state of desperate terror that Oromë's howling and pursuing dogs had cast over his heart had made his obeisance easier to stomach, though even then it had been a hard-fought internal battle.
But to be asked to abase himself to a being so infinitely lesser than himself, before a roomful of Elves and Maiar; to have his pride ripped violently from him by the Valië upon whose domain he had wreaked such destruction for ages, in this her own abhorrent revenge upon him; to kneel before this Elda and ask his pardon, thus cementing the fact that he was nothing, a slave of slaves, before every other inhabitant of these Halls, who he would be forced to live among for who knew how long… In a moment of horror, rage, and terrible, boiling humiliation, he decided that the Void – oblivion itself – was better than this.
He laughed suddenly, a ringing, cruel sound of despair that echoed in the dark vault of the room and made those listening shiver as his fair mask slipped off. "Aye, the Valar have done such a fine job, my lady, with their charges," he snarled. "Is that why you banished and cursed the Noldor? Allowed the Eldar to massacre each other? Watched them die over three idiotic jewels for five hundred years without lifting a finger? Your love for them must have been so great. Why not admit it, Yavanna? The Eldar are the Valar's pampered, little pets, but it is no great loss to you if they should turn wild, at which point you kick them back out into the wilderness to tear each other apart."
He saw Aulë's mortified expression in his peripheral along with the shocked looks of the Elves and Maiar around him. His hand flickered out, quicker than lightning, and the back of his fingers caught the rim of the bottle that Yavanna still held. It flew out of her hand and smashed on the table in front of the Elf from whom he'd originally demanded it. The Elda gave a loud gasp as red liquid splattered across the front of his grey silk tunic and laced his dark hair with sticky crimson.
Sauron swept into a scornful bow directed at the nér. "Eat, drink, and be merry, Master Elf. And do enjoy your wine, my lord."
Before anyone could react, he turned on his heel and marched out the door.
Let them send him to the Void then. At least he'd do so with his dignity still intact.
Thank you to my anonymous reviewers for Chapter 5: Myself, and falcon277. I appreciate all the wonderful comments!
The painting in this chapter is actually (loosely) based on my own favorite painting Traveler looking over the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich. The architectural terminology from this chapter I acquired from David Macaulay's excellent books. They are written for children and therefore are easy 15-minute reads with tons of helpful illustrations but contain everything you'd want to know about architecture and how various structures are built. The two books I referred to for this chapter were his Cathedral and Castle.