A/N: Content warning – this chapter contains a flashback to a scene involving torture. I do not consider the scene graphic, as it contains very little physical details, but if it works the way I intend, it should be disturbing. In case there is anyone who is bothered by this type of thing, I wanted to give fair warning.

And on that cheerful note – thanks to all my anonymous reviewers: Nightchildx, Anonymous, DrangySmallfoot, Guest, and Almedias!

Chapter 7

"Twenty-four hours, Aulë. The Sun has not yet traveled the full course of her journey once and already that monster you brought into our halls has stepped across the line. Do not presume that I shall stand aside idly and watch as he brings us to ruin!"

The slim shears in Yavanna's hands snipped fiercely at the young, potted date tree in front of her window. She cut off a dainty bloom with quick precision, letting it flutter to the floor where it joined other buds and blossoms and bits of pruned limbs at her bare feet. Her olive skin shimmered and morphed, taking on a bark-like texture before fading back into the smooth flesh of a woman in response to her strained nerves.

Aulë stood on the opposite side of their private chambers, his back to the stone wall and his arms folded across his chest as he watched his wife cautiously. "Don't make your tree suffer for your anger, Yavanna," he said in a placating voice as another large section of greenery rustled to the floor. "I'm sure it will give us some wonderful dates."

Yavanna continued clipping with furious energy. "It's needed pruning for days now. Don't pretend you know anything about my domain, Husband. And don't change the subject on me. We're discussing that seditious Maia of yours, not my date tree."

Aulë ran a hand across his face. "He's not seditious. He's troubled."

Yavanna stopped pruning for a moment to look at him with one eyebrow arched disparagingly. "Troubled? Is that the word we're using now?" She snorted. "I guess that's one way to describe it. Though personally, 'evil' is a word I think encompasses it slightly better."

Aulë let out an audible sigh and leaned his head back against the wall behind him.

"What, you do not believe I am right?" Yavanna demanded, a large patch of skin on her bare forearm flickering into a pattern like maple bark.

"I didn't say so," Aulë grunted through his beard.

"You don't need to," Yavanna answered curtly, returning to her ferocious pruning job.

The Smith scowled. "You provoked him," he growled. "You pushed him too far and he snapped, just like I said. I warned you what would happen if we backed him into a corner and–"

"And I suppose I forced him to treat the Elf like one of his cringing slaves! I suppose I put those malicious thoughts in his head!" Yavanna snapped back. "He's a monster, Aulë."

Aulë lifted his metallic eyes to the ceiling and followed the intricate patterns of the grainy granite slab to where it ended, several feet to his left. There, the ordinary room transformed into what looked like an indoor garden, with trellises covered in climbing roses and ivy for walls and ceiling. The stone floor faded into a living carpet of green moss, and several saplings, like the date tree, stood in pots beside the trellises. Blue sky peeped through the greenery curling around the ceiling. For a while, both Valar ignored each other and there was no sound but the snip-snap of the shears.

Finally, Aulë pushed himself up from the wall. "How long are we going to act like we're the enemies, my dear?" he asked wearily. "I don't want to fight you."

"And I do not wish to fight you," she answered, though without looking at him. "But I'm not backing down. The fight is your own creation. I did not wish him brought here."

Aulë sat down on the edge of their bed. "But he is here, and a day will not come when I change my belief that I did what was right. And even if he were not in our halls, he would still be in Valinor and he would still need to be dealt with."

He rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Do you know what he said to me this morning? He said we all would have been happier if he'd run in Middle-earth so that we wouldn't have had to show him mercy. Is that what you wish for, Yavanna? Do you wish he had run so that we could have condemned him straight to the Void?"

Yavanna paused, her back to him, slim and straight. "The decisions of the Valar are rarely unanimous," she replied in a low voice. "I think such a path would have been better."

Deep hurt etched itself in Aulë's face like chisel scars in stone. "Surely, you do not mean that, Yavanna," he pleaded. "I know you're angry at him. But we're in the dawn of a new Age. We've pardoned the Noldor who fought with us, we've gifted Númenór to the Edain, and Middle-earth is free for the first time since its creation. Why can't this be an Age of healing for old anger and older wounds between us and Sauron as well?"

"Healing comes from two sides. And I fear we cannot expect any help from one of those sides."

Aulë stood with a growl and began to pace, his heavy boots thumping loudly against the stone. "There will certainly be no healing if we don't give him a chance!"

Yavanna turned to face him, her knuckles white where she clutched the shears. "It is not our fault if he condemns himself. You are not bound to him, Aulë. When he betrayed you, he relinquished the bond between you, and you are not beholden in any way to him, whatever he may manipulate you into thinking. I do not trust him, not while my grass is green and the sky is blue. Yes, I see nothing but roiling evil and darkness behind his eyes, I will admit it. You have loosed a viper in these halls."

"I do not trust him either," Aulë gritted, his voice growing louder. "No further than reason. But that is why we all agreed to Bind him. We've taken his powers. If he is a viper, he is one without fangs."

Yavanna gave a peal of bitter laughter. "Perhaps his fangs are gone, but we still have a snake among us, one with a mouth full of venom. And if he cannot use fangs, I suspect he will find other ways to infect everyone around him with his poison, if his fangs are truly gone, that is. And serpents often have more than one manner of killing their victims."

Aulë shook his head, causing tangled brown locks to fall about his face, his frustration obvious. "Will you refuse to look any deeper? Can you not see what I see? He is frightened, isolated, and deeply hurt, and not all by his doing. The darkness of Melkor has been suffocating him and ripping him apart for centuries. A snake will not bite if it feels safe and content. That is all I ask for: to give him a place he can feel safe so that any healing may begin."

"A wounded snake will still bite the hand that comes near it, regardless of whether the hand intends to kill or heal it."

Aulë's large hands clenched impulsively into fists. "I didn't say the metaphor was perfect, and you're the one who brought it up in the first place. No, he's not an animal! He's a person, a rational person, and I plan on treating him like one!"

"He doesn't deserve to be treated like a person when he refuses to show the same delineation to others!"

"If we do that, we're no better than Melkor. Are we to heal him by sinking to his level? He is not the only one holding grudges. You are angry with him for what he has done to you in the past, and now you cannot see past your own hatred. I will not be blinded in the same manner!"

Yavanna threw down the shears, causing them to clatter stringently. "I am not blinded!" she shouted, her skin blushing to a mahogany-red in anger. The vines in her hair wound into knots. "And I have every right to be angry with him. I have the right to hate him. You do not understand. You cannot understand, not you, or Manwë, or the others. Rock may be split and the Earth cratered, but your work cannot ever be utterly undone. The darkness of Morgoth can cover the sky, but it cannot destroy Manwë's domain or touch Varda's stars. A thousand gallons of blood may pour into the ocean, and still Ulmo's waters may remain untainted.

"But a tree that has grown a hundred years may be reduced to nothing with a single fire or one cruel axe. It is my domain that has suffered and suffered and suffered since the beginning. The most precious of all gifts, Life itself, is also the most fragile. Thousands of my children have by annihilated at the hand of your Nauron. Do not expect me to welcome Wildfire graciously into my realm and watch it continue to ravage all I hold dear."

"He has always been the Fiery One," Aulë retorted. "You did not think so harshly of his flames before he left. You loved him once as much as I did."

Yavanna turned to the window, her chest rising and falling heavily as she struggled to compose herself. She lifted her hands and drew them through her hair, smoothing out the writhing, knotted crown of living vines. "I am willing to sacrifice my wood for a good purpose: for food, for warmth, for the creation of something beautiful. I do not begrudge you the trees that fuel your forge fires, Aulë. But I will not watch fire devour my charges for no purpose other than wanton destruction."

She clutched the window sill tightly, as if she might fall without its support. "We have sought to cleanse Arda of evil, but we have brought it back into the heart of our realm. Again."

"This was the agreement we reached, the agreement of the fourteen Valar," Aulë said in a determined attempt at encouragement. "Manwë, Námo, this was the decision we came to, the best one for everyone involved. Surely, the will of Eru is still at work in us. We must believe it is Eru's will that Sauron has returned to us."

"And was it Eru's will that we brought Melkor into our midst? If we had cast him into the Void then, the Elves would never have been poisoned with his words, Fëanor would have never sworn his Oath, Beleriand would never have sunk beneath the waves, and my Two Trees would still stand at the gates of Valmar. Our decisions are not infallible." Yavanna paused, the profile of her face lit from behind by the high afternoon light. "Manwë's decisions err on the side of what he wishes were true, instead of what actually is. As do yours, too, I fear."

"Námo agreed to this, too," Aulë said firmly. "Judgment is his domain, and surely, you cannot accuse him of an overdose of sympathy. Námo would not have agreed to pass this judgment if he truly disagreed with it."

"Yes, but it was Námo's Halls that flourished most during the reign of Morgoth, was it not?"

"Yavanna!" Aulë cried in shock. "Surely you do not believe that Námo took pleasure in seeing his Halls swollen with elven fëa long before their time had come!"

"I did not say so," she answered. Before him, she seemed to bend like an old, weathered tree under the weight of ice. "Oh Aulë, I'm so weary of all this injury and death."

She suddenly came and rested against him and he wrapped his arms about her, drawing his fingers through her brown hair. "We all are," he murmured, "that's why we've got to try. But I fear our job will not be complete until the last battle is fought and the Second Music comes. If we had cast Melkor into the Void at the first, another evil would have arisen to torment the world in his place. It is part of the fabric of Arda Marred. But just because evil preserves does not mean we should not persevere as well."

"It seems so long ago that we came down," Yavanna whispered into his neck. She shifted in his arms. "Did Sauron speak the truth, Aulë? We have not done well with the Children under our care and yet we ask for their love and devotion. Do they see us the same way Sauron does? As tyrants? Fëanor said the same thing."

"No, of course not," Aulë replied. "We granted the Children free will – we cannot control their decisions, not without becoming the tyrants Fëanor and Sauron have called us. We can love them, but we cannot force them to do what we wish. Neither the Children nor Sauron."

He kissed the top of her head. "But our work will not be in vain, I know it."

"How?" she asked. "Sometimes all I see are uprooted trees and burning flowers."

He drew her down to the bed and they sat, side by side, his arms still about her and her cheek pressed into his broad shoulder, her long hair spilling about them both. The vines in her hair caressed his arm, winding slowly over his sleeve and about his fingers. Her skin paled and took on a birch-like texture.

"Remember what Eru told us," he murmured to her. "He said that many things will not be as we imagined them when we glimpsed them in the vision and that we would not understand many things until after the fact. How shall we ask the Children to trust our judgments if we shall not trust Eru's? We cannot go back. And I will not stop until I am utterly successful or I utterly fail. Even if every other Vala mocks my efforts, I won't stop trying to help Sauron."

Yavanna gave a tired chuckle and traced strange circular patterns against his chest with her fingers. "Why should I expect anything less from you, Husband? I suspect you feel for him sometimes less from sympathy and more from the rebelliousness of your own heart, Dwarf-Father."

Aulë smiled slightly. "Perhaps."

There was a moment of almost light fondness between them, but then Yavanna's brow creased again. "Do what you will. I will not tell you to stop your pursuit, however foolish and in vain I may perceive it. It is your time to spend, not mine."

She lifted her head and drew back from him. "But where this matter crosses into my domain, I will not sit idly by. The Dwarves have your heart, but the Elves have mine. Of all the races of Arda, their understanding of my domain runs deepest, save only for my Onodrim, and they have even granted my trees the gift of speech. I speak for the Trees and for the Elves. And if Sauron raises his hand against either, it shall be me he answers to. Let this one offense slip past him and I promise you, we will see it repeated and magnified. If he is your charge, then it is your duty to reprimand him. And if you will not do it properly, I shall, and I shall not be gentle with him."

Aulë closed his eyes briefly. "All right, I will speak to him about the matter." When Yavanna raised her eyebrow skeptically, he sighed. "And it will be a stern talk, I promise."

~o~o~o~

Sauron had fled back to the courtyard in the center of the Halls.

At one point, almost in the middle of the garden, the stone pathway arced upward into a bridge that spanned the stream where it skipped over three shallow steps, creating a burble of rapid music; here, at the crown of the bridge, Sauron leaned against the railing, one hand full of pebbles which he slowly flicked at the stream, aiming at a smooth, exposed rock in the center of the middle step. When the pebbles struck it, they ricocheted off with a harsh clap.

He stood, flinging pebbles and waiting for someone to come punish him.

And that someone would be along sooner or later to do just that was doubtless in his mind.

His heart felt heavy enough that it might just tear a hole though him and fall out. Good riddance if it does, he thought moodily. You haven't even been here twenty-four hours and you've already doomed yourself. But that's what you're good at, isn't it? And why not? Failure was what Melkor excelled in. You'd feel left out if he hadn't passed that wonderful talent on to you. That's what your life is: a rubble heap of collapsed dreams of grandeur. I'll tell you what you are: a stupid, little child building a sandcastle beneath the tideline.

He watched his distorted reflection rippling and wavering underneath him in the shadow of the bridge. He flung the rest of his pebbles down, mangling the reflection even further until it was a swirling mess of colors. His heart burned. As the reflection cleared again, his mind formed a single, searing thought directed inward. I hate you.

He turned, putting his back to the stone railing and slid down until he was sitting, his legs straddling the bridge, the toes of his boots pressed against the opposite railing. He lowered his head and buried his face in his hands.

He had given up. For that moment in the Great Hall, he had completely given up.

A shudder racked him – he had never felt anything like this before. That crushing hopelessness threatened every second to drag him under. It sucked away his energy attempting to fight it; every second seemed to be a struggle to simply survive. To find the will to draw in his next painful breath.

It would be so much easier to despair and let an end come to his tale once and for all.

Part of the struggle was the wounds in his damaged fëa, he knew. Another was the fight against that pressing bond around his essence that ensnared his powers and figuring out how to live without parts of himself that he had always taken for granted and had relied upon – perhaps too much, he was beginning to understand.

But it was more than that. It shouldn't be this hard, he thought fiercely. Infiltration, manipulation – such tools were not new to him. It had not seemed too hard a task: to keep his mouth shut and to acquiesce to the Valar's demands until such a time that he could find an advantage for his position. But how many times already had it proved beyond his control? First, he had let slip his mask in front of Aulë at the Valmar house, he had let his tongue get control of him with Eönwë in the Máhanaxar cell, words that doubtlessly Eönwë had relayed to his masters by now, and now he had lost himself and accused the Valar (however, true he believed his words to be) in front of Yavanna of all people, along with blatantly defying her. He had wished himself condemned to the Void in that moment. The thought that he could have despaired so completely as that terrified him.

He doubted he would be sent to the Void – punished, yes, but the Void seemed a harsh extreme for dousing an Elf in some wine. Though who knew… His arrogant words in accusation of the Valar and his defiance of Yavanna's direct command might be enough to condemn him completely. He had underestimated the Valar's cruelty once already. Maybe Melkor had not exaggerated about his punishments as much that night in the War of Wrath as Sauron had assumed…

A lump clogged his throat, making his still-dry tongue feel swollen, as if it were filling his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to control his composure. He did not want to go to the Void. But he did not want to live like this. He was terrified of the emptiness that had claimed his master. But he was equally terrified of the horrible humiliations the Valar were clearly bent on forcing him to suffer. If he were to repeat the scene in the Great Hall, he did not know if he could have made any other decision but the one he already had. If he was not condemned to the Void this time, the situation would only escalate until he finally did commit some offense great enough for that ultimate punishment. Unless something changed.

His mind and emotions continued to wander, aimlessly. He felt so lost. It was like being a castaway clinging to a piece of driftwood, floating along at the mercy of the ocean waves, but never able to see beyond the next white peak, only trusting to the cruelty of nature that he was heading towards something better and hopefully solid. His only hope was that vague promise of revenge he had made himself, but who was he fooling? He had no idea how he could ever achieve such a thing. Defeating the Valar, just hurting them even, seemed insurmountable tasks; in reality, there was little more chance of that than there might have been at him defeating Melkor and taking his place as Lord of Angband. And without hope for life, what was anyone more than a floundering fool just struggling to take his next breath?

Direction. He needed direction.

And suddenly, an old memory surfaced in his mind. He remembered the object clearly, a trinket his orcs had taken from a band of Elves who had scouted too close to his stronghold. The orcs had brought it to him dutifully, along with everything else looted from the Elves, just as they were always commanded to do, but the object clearly made them uneasy. 'Cursed Elf magic' his sharp ears heard them call it.

But Sauron was less superstitious and less easily daunted than his servants and he had quickly seen that the object was a work of science, not of magic.

It appeared as a medallion, perfectly round, with a smooth, glass dome over the front. Inside the dome, on the face, were four elven runes, evenly spaced, and a single needle attached at the center. Whenever Sauron turned, the needle would quiver and adjust itself to its changed position, so that it always pointed in the same direction.

It was many years before Sauron would learn to call that object a compass, but he had immediately seen the use of the small, strange medallion, even if he did not fully comprehend its workings. It was particularly useful to the servants of Morgoth who were constantly shrouded under a haze of darkness, where neither sun nor stars could be used to determine direction. With it, one could not lose his way, no matter how dark it grew or how confused he became with his surroundings. It was a powerful tool.

All of a sudden, Sauron realized he needed a compass.

Not a real compass, of course, for in Valinor, East, West, North, and South were clear as the blue sky itself. No, what he needed was a compass for his heart and mind.

He needed something he knew he could achieve. He needed to know without a doubt what he wanted. He needed a strategy that he could work steadily towards and bend all his actions and thoughts around. He needed a goal.

It made sense now. The horrible feeling of disorientation along with his inability to make proper choices, his bursts of panic and fierce emotion, his sense of hopeless entrapment, his despair. As long as he simply continued to flounder along, buffeted by the waves of Fate, there was little chance that he would ever find solid ground again. He needed a plan of action to focus all his burning energy, hate, rage, and pain upon. If he was not able to focus it on that, his emotions would find other outlets to release themselves, as he'd just learned at the lunch table. If he could not find something to set his hope upon, despair would be his only companion until it destroyed him utterly.

He leaned his head back against the bridge wall, staring straight up into the unclouded sky. He was the Black Captain of Morgoth, or had been. Strategy was second nature to him. He needed to think of this as just some new mission for Morgoth. He'd done it before. Infiltrated the dwellings of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, slipping on carefully constructed masks to help him fulfill whatever end he sought. Information, assassination, betrayal – he had achieved them all. Sometimes he'd had months to prepare, carefully going over reports from spies or spying himself in order to learn as much about his foes as he could before mingling with them; other times, he'd been forced to rely on his talents of improvisation. This needed to be no different. He just needed a goal he knew he could achieve.

He frowned, rubbing the back of his head gently against the smooth stones. That was easier said than done, which was probably the reason the thought had eluded him thus far. What was there still to achieve? At this point, what did he even want? His goal of vengeance was much too vague for his current purpose. He needed something tangible, even if it was just a step towards his larger goal, something to which he could immediately set his will.

His frown deepened and his eyes darkened. Overthrowing the Valar and taking Valinor in Morgoth's name, or even better, his own name was the most satisfying fantasy, but it was just that – a fantasy. There was nothing remotely achievable about it. Even Melkor had not attempted to go down that path. In Middle-earth, setting up his own rival Valinor might have been a viable option, but not here under the watchful eyes of the Valar themselves.

There was the option of returning to Middle-earth. He allowed his thoughts to slowly caress the idea. It would be terribly difficult, but nothing was going to be easy. It had been Melkor's ultimate goal when he'd been in a similar situation, but Melkor had had something waiting for him back in Middle-earth; Sauron had kept Angband alive and ready during those years, and multitudes of Melkor's lesser servants had survived the Valar's attack. Sauron knew better than to assume there was anything waiting for him back in Endor now; the Valar had been much more thorough this time in their destruction of Morgoth's realm. Sauron guessed he was not the only survivor – it was hard to believe the Valar had hunted and killed every single orc and demon that had fled the vast kingdom of Morgoth throughout Beleriand – but he had seen the ruin with his own eyes and it had not been good. Gothmog, Ancalagan – all Morgoth's most powerful servants – had fallen. He could not trust that any cowering orcs that might have escaped would be secretly rebuilding the power of Evil, especially with Morgoth gone for good and he himself out of the picture. If he returned to Middle-earth, he'd be starting from scratch.

Plus, he'd have all of Valinor after him. If he'd run at the first, instead of going to Eönwë, he might have had a chance to slip past Oromë's hunters and hide until the Valar forgot about him. Morgoth had been their main goal, and in the confusion of the war, they might have dismissed himself as either lost in action or not important enough to pursue through the wastes of Middle-earth.

Now, however, he'd shown himself to them and their focus had turned to him. Now that Morgoth had been removed, he was their biggest threat as Morgoth's Black Captain and most influential servant. If he ran, he had no doubt he'd be pursued, and it would be doubly hard to attempt rebuilding while being dogged by angry Valar. They would think twice about letting him slip from their grasp after Melkor had wreaked such havoc after doing the exact same thing. It would be nice if the Valar were stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, but he doubted they were.

And he'd have to do everything without the aid of his powers.

That thought increased the painful lump in his throat. He was already feeling steadier than he had yesterday, but he was a long way from adjusting to his Bound state. It was quite possible that he would never fully adjust. And why should he? It was not natural. It was as if he was dealing with an amputation, as if he'd just lost his right hand or perhaps his leg. He felt crippled just without the abilities of a normal Maia, not to mention without the extra powers he'd gained under Morgoth.

He pushed away the thought of escaping to Middle-Earth, but tucked it away in some corner of his mind. It was not a completely hopeless proposition. If he could find no better option, it might be worth returning to eventually.

He turned his mind back to this new thought. He wanted his powers back. That was something concrete, something there was no doubt he desired fiercely. He did not believe for a moment that the Valar had any intentions of giving them back to him of their own free will. He might bow and scrape at their feet for an age without presenting any kind of threat and he doubted they would return a single power. He wouldn't, if he were in their position. They'd seen what happened with Melkor when they'd been lenient with him. Surely, they wouldn't be foolish enough to grant his power back once they'd managed to wrench it away.

He carefully prodded that unmovable barrier deep in his fëa. He had no idea whether there was any chance of breaking it or removing it on his own. It seemed unlikely. The Valar were much more powerful than he was – that was a fact he was not about to dispute. Even a single one of the lesser Valar, Vána or Nessa, was probably more powerful than he was – especially right now in his Bound state.

The more intriguing question was whether or not he could regain them artificially without having to actually break that daunting barrier. Morgoth had been able to graft powers into him that were not naturally his; could he still do something of a similar nature, thus gaining new powers without having to actually access the old ones? Was there any way he could recreate, compensate, for what he had lost?

He drew his fingers thoughtfully through his hair. Now, that was something to think about. Of course, he did not have Morgoth to give him powers directly and he'd never achieved such a thing on his own without Morgoth's aid. But Morgoth was gone and there were no higher powers that would consider helping him with it now. But the fact that he did not know the answers to his questions was itself hopeful. There was at least a chance of a positive answer and subsequent success.

It would greatly improve his lot; he was much too helpless in his current state. If he could somehow get his powers back, then he could really start considering other options, a great deal more of which would open themselves up to him. It was a viable plan for striking back at the Valar, whatever way he decided to achieve it, in addition to bettering and protecting himself. Plus, if he figured out a way, it would be highly satisfying on multiple levels.

If he knew that he was working on a plan to regain his powers, that revenge could and would be his, he was confident that he would be able to choke down his pride and emotions enough to get along. He replayed the scene from the Great Hall in such a scenario. There was almost enough twisted irony in the situation – begging the pardon of an Elf while secretly knowing that shortly he himself would be bringing said Elf to ruin – that the scene took on an almost pleasurable glow.

He stood and slowly walked down the bridge, continuing on along the path, his eyes flickering across the colorful beds of flowers without really looking at them. He was already feeling better, stronger, more confident in himself. Now that he had something to do with his mind, to focus his energy upon, something to distract him from the humiliations of his painful present, he felt like he might be able to cope. He just needed a plan.

Work with what you know, he told himself. And what he knew was strategy, war, and battle plans, things that had filled his life for thousands of years. This is all just a game, he chanted to himself. A game of war. I am not going to lose. A contest of wills. A contest of wills…

A memory flickered through his thoughts and with it, a streak of phantom pain. It was from a collection of memories he did not often allow into his mind – lingering on it overlong was not safe – but it had its uses all the same.

A contest of wills. The price of losing. A will of iron.

He suspected that every servant of Melkor had faced the same experience at some time or another, but it was not something that was discussed outside of that single dark room in Utumno, early in Melkor's reign. No one asked and no one told. But Sauron had been able to look into the eyes of his peers and see it there, though he guessed that he himself had been subjected to far more than any other servant of the Dark Vala. Sauron, after all, had been Melkor's prize Captain. And Melkor had always had odd, and usually painful, ways of showing his favor.

A shudder rippled through his body. He remembered, perhaps better than was good for him.

His hands were chained with black iron, his legs shackled in a similar manner. A band of cold metal pressed around his ribs, holding him immobile. It was freezing in that dark room, more of a cave, deep underground in the recesses of Utumno, but he was not sure whether he was shivering from that, fear, pain, or a combination of all three.

He felt vulnerable, more vulnerable than he had ever felt in his life before. How absurd the ease with which this physical form could be rendered so helpless.

"Please." His sob was raspy. "Please, Master, no more. I can't take any more."

"No more?" Melkor's soft, deep voice sifted through the darkness to his right. "I know you don't understand now, little Maia, but you will later on. You will understand the gift that I am granting to you. You will thank me then for pressing you to your limits and beyond."

The Dark Vala stepped forward again, and the ruddy light of the torches behind him fell on the slim, curved blade he held in his hand as he touched the tip of it to Sauron's flesh, causing the Maia to attempt flinching back from the sharp coldness. But it was useless, just as useless as it had been every time he'd tried it for this last immeasurable length of time.

His voice had gone hoarse from screaming already, but that did not stop him from continuing to do so again as the blade resumed its terrible work. It danced patterns in his flesh, painted swirling designs that might have been beautiful if they were not done in his own blood. His panic and loathing were magnified by his awareness of Melkor's pleasure, that he was the Dark Vala's newest masterpiece in this black form of Melkor's art. He screamed, pleaded for the end, begged, tried to twist away from the agony, offered anything and everything to his master's service in exchange for release. He was still young and his life in Almaren had not been particularly strenuous; never before had he been forced to face anything like this. Even the dreams of innocent Mairon could not have conjured a world that contained this much pain.

But he had always been a quick learner. It was not long before he discovered that when he cried out, the blade bit deeper, when he pleaded for his agony to lessen, it doubled, when he screamed for the end, the sessions dragged on. He learned to choke back his screams, no matter how badly it hurt. He learned never to plead, to keep his emotions locked tight inside himself, to never trust to mercy, to hate and fear in silence, to bend all his will towards reaching the end of this with his sanity still intact. He made himself mental promises of grandeur and extravagant pleasures, he sang himself silent songs of power, he imagined his position with Melkor reversed and that cruel blade in his own hand – whatever it took to survive the next second.

Melkor had been pleased. "Good, good," he said, lifting the knife momentarily. "You will do well, the best, in my service."

Sauron closed his eyes, hoping that this lesson was finished, but not allowing his hope to show on his face or penetrate into his heart.

Melkor leaned over him, placing the very tip of the long knife against Sauron's stomach. He pressed down, almost gently, just piercing the skin and causing a trickle of blood to slide over the Maia's pale skin. An automatic tremor ran through Sauron that he could not quite hide – there was just something so terribly vulnerable about that soft flesh of his belly.

"I will teach you to fight," Melkor purred, his voice still incongruously calm and quiet. "I will give you the gift of a will of iron. You will be strong, stronger than ever you imagined under that fool, Aulë. No one shall break you. In a contest of wills, you will be the victor."

The blade twisted.

Rank sweat beaded Sauron's brow. His fingers twitched impulsively as he fought to maintain his control, as he struggled not to let his will break.

"Fight," Melkor hissed. "Pain will make you strong. You have only yourself to hate. You have only yourself to defeat you."

A ritual, this had become a ritual of silence and pain, a contest against himself. But the knife continued its horrific dance through his flesh, and finally a single sound burst from his lips to break the silence of that room in a soft sob.

Melkor paused and lifted the blade, then reached out and cupped the side of Sauron's face as the Maia's head lulled sideways, exhausted. "Sauron," he said, gently almost, "remember, you will thank me later for this. This is our little personal contest of wills, to make you what you are meant to be. You must never back down. You must never give up. If you already know who the victor is, you cannot lose. Who will win? Tell me, who will win, Sauron?"

Sauron struggled to keep his breathing steady, but his voice shook. "You will win, Master."

Melkor removed his hand and chuckled. "A good answer. A very good answer. You've learned well. Yes, I will always win our little contests. That is only right. But should you go up against any other than me, there will be no one who can defeat you, my wolf, my dark one, if you do not defeat yourself. You will be my Black Captain. You will be strong and cruel, and I will have made you so."

"Nauron?"

The voice snapped Sauron back to the present. He realized his heart was pounding a little too swiftly and his eyes were pressed closed. He was bending over something, his hands gripping stone. Quickly, he opened his eyes and straightened, finding himself clinging to one of the decorative walls of stone lining the paths. Turning, he saw Aulë walking towards him with a concerned expression.

Sauron smoothed out his countenance. It was not a pleasant memory he had recalled, but Melkor had been right. Sauron had within himself a will of iron to call upon. It was time he did so. Melkor had said that no other would be able to defeat him in a contest of wills; now it was time to put that promise to the test. It was time to see if his new compass worked.

This was his new battle plan. He needed to seek a way that he could regain his powers and in the meantime, he needed to put his mind to reconnaissance. It was the first thing one did when infiltrating an enemy stronghold: figuring out where each person fit into his strategy. The biggest threats, potential allies, minions who could be conveniently ignored or used as his plans demanded. Until he figured out where each and every person around him fell into his schemes, he needed to remain aloof and cautious. He must lock everything away inside until he knew how to use it. He must not let his will be broken again, least of all by himself.

As Aulë walked the last few steps towards him, Sauron delved deep inside his will, finding that same strength he had constructed so long ago in the dark room in Utumno. He summoned the iron resolve Melkor's blade had cut into him, deeper simply than his flesh. He blocked off the world, this world of pain that Melkor had taught him to see and fight, and set his mind on the goal he had given himself. I am going to get my powers back. And then they all will pay.

Perhaps Aulë saw that some barrier had gone up in Sauron's eyes for he did not speak immediately, instead leaning his forearms against the top of the stone wall and gazing across the bed of deep purple irises, sunset-orange lilies, and tulips as red as blood. Sauron set his back against the same wall, his arms folded, his eyes gazing blankly in the opposite direction.

Aulë glanced at his former apprentice then let out a long heavy sigh. "Yavanna wants me to deal with you."

Sauron gave him a look out of the corner of his eyes but did not move his head.

"I'm not going to punish you, not at the moment," Aulë continued. "I sincerely hope none of us ever have to. I realize that you have been living very…differently…from us for a long time now, and I don't expect you to get everything perfect your first time, even if Yavanna expects otherwise. But, since I am granting you leniency, I do expect you to learn from your mistakes. The first time is just that – a mistake – but it will be on your head if it happens again."

He tipped his head slightly to the side, trying to gauge Sauron's reaction. "Do you understand me, Nauron?"

Sauron jerked his head in a quick nod of affirmation.

Aulë nodded as well, though still watching the Maia closely. "I know Melkor taught you to treat the Children as no more than animals, as less than animals, and I don't expect you to shake off that notion in a day. We're not asking you to befriend any of them, we're not even asking you to interact with them if you don't want to. If you like, I can make sure they all leave you alone for the time being, though I don't think that should be a problem now. But we do ask that you recognize them as the Children of Eru. We are the work of Eru's thoughts, and they are the work of Eru's hands. We are bound to them as long as we are bound to Eä itself."

He paused, giving Sauron the chance to speak, but when Sauron continued to stare silently into the middle distance, he went on. "In four days, you're going to start working at the quarry. I know it must seem lowly work for a goldsmith, but see it as an opportunity. You'll be given the chance to work by yourself, if that is what you wish, but there will be many Eldar present, working as well. All we ask is that you give them a chance, observe them, get used to being around them, not as slaves, but as citizens of Valinor and people, real people."

He gave a quiet chuckle. "I know some of them can be quite stubborn and quite frankly, annoying, but they really aren't that bad." He glanced again into Sauron's face. "They are not always so different from us. In fact, I truly believe that if there comes a time when you can give them a chance, there are many of them that would suit your company extraordinarily well," he ended with a smile, his tone purposefully light.

The smile melted away in the face of Sauron's continued unresponsiveness. Aulë turned fully to face him, a frown tugging at the edges of his beard. "So, are you not talking to me now, Sauron? You had plenty to say at the table."

"And I saw how well it was received," Sauron replied without looking at him, his face still an emotionless mask.

Aulë drew his fingers once through the tangled bramble of his beard. His eyes followed the flight of a bluebird as it flitted between two of the trees lining the garden before his gaze returned to his Maia. "Sauron," he said seriously, "I want to make this clear: I'm not here to reprimand you for what you said about us at the table, only how you treated the Elf. How you treated Lord Gilruin was one thing, but speaking what is in your mind and heart is another. No, perhaps in front of the entire population of my Halls was not perfect timing, but you have the right to tell us what you think, to tell me. In fact, I want you to tell me.

"You're angry, you're bitter – I understand that. I would be suspicious if you weren't, considering recent circumstances. We've been on enemy sides for centuries, and I realize we just destroyed your home and everything you had and knew. Of course, you're angry with us. I expect you to be. But we can all get over that if we handle this properly."

He reached out and put his hand on Sauron's forearm. Sauron tensed visibly, but he did not shake him off. "I'd rather you ranted and raved to me then closed up to us. We're not the enemy anymore, Nauron. We allowed Melkor to simmer in his own hatred and anger with no outlet for it for three ages and the results tore open the very foundations of Arda. We don't want that for you. Please, tell me. If you're angry, tell me. If you hate me, tell me. You won't be punished for anything you say or believe. We can't say we want you to get rid of those feelings and then punish you for not keeping them bottled up. You can say anything you need to say to me without fear. Scream if you like, rant, accuse – I will listen to every word and answer as best I can."

His hand tightened fractionally around Sauron's arm and his gaze intensified. "Do you have anything you want to say? Anything at all? I'm listening."

Sauron looked back at him, allowing himself for a moment to sink in the swirl of silver-gold eyes. The offer was violently tempting: to unleash his storm of emotions and pain. They were built up in his chest and throat almost like some tangible matter, and the thought of releasing them seemed like it might be as relieving as vomiting a bellyful of poisoned food. He believed the sincerity of Aulë's offer, as well – the Smith was neither subtle nor cruel enough to deceive him in this manner. Just looking into Aulë's eyes, he could see the flicker of hopefulness and innocent yearning for all to be made well. Aulë truly wanted to help him.

But the contest was still on. The battle plans were laid. Defeat was inevitable when one strayed from his set strategy. Even if Aulë did not mean him direct harm, who knew what damage could come from spilling his heart? Aulë was but one piece in this intricate game of war, and even if the Smith was not aware of the game being played, it would still be a grievous loss if Sauron let his will crack now.

He was not going to defeat himself again.

So instead, he hardened the wall around his will between himself and Aulë, just as he had done in the face of Melkor's torture. It had been just as tempting to cry out then as it was to let loose his emotions now. But what had he learned from Melkor? When he screamed, when he pleaded, when he showed his weakness, the knife always bit deeper and crueler.

The shifting ground, the tossing waves, on which he stood hardened just a little.

There were still truths he could trust to. This was the same world he had always lived in, even if its foundations had been uprooted, and some things were immutable, regardless of whether or not Melkor was here to drive them home.

I'm going to get my powers back, he chanted in his mind like a mantra. I have to find a way to get my powers back. Those words slowly drowned out everything else.

He looked back at Aulë who was still gazing at him with that hopeful, attentive expression, inviting Sauron to break, tempting him to lose. A flicker of almost amused scorn flashed through his mind. Melkor had been right, as usual. He, Sauron, was going to win this contest of wills. To give up now was to lose everything. And he had a goal now.

There was another thing Melkor had been right about: in a whisper of thought, Sauron mentally thanked his former master for this gift, this strength born of pain to fight.

He met Aulë's eyes, his face smooth. "No," he said in a voice equally smooth, "no, there is nothing I wish to say."