Chapter 8

Aulë was gone, returned to whatever other daily tasks demanded the attention of a Vala, back to his elegant halls of stone and the mingled throngs of Maiar and Elves that he oversaw, leaving Sauron alone once again in the near-silence of the garden. The day had drawn on, and all he could see of the sun was a golden glow at the sharp line of the western roof against the sky, where the halls rose seven stories to block off the heavens from his view in that direction.

It had been a long and tiresome campaign – the will of the Smith set against the will of the Black Captain. Aulë had prattled on at length, extoling the healing virtues that Sauron would discover if he confronted his problems here and now, if they discussed these painful issues in the open and the light like sensible, rational people, if Sauron was willing to actively search for some reconciliation in this difficult situation in which they all found themselves. When benign lecturing had failed, Aulë had resorted to further cajoling, attempting to coax Sauron into re-opening his mind and heart with promises of privacy to everything he said, reassurances against any punishments, and nauseating attempts to understand what Sauron was feeling.

It was this last method that had irked Sauron the most, when Aulë had gone on blathering something about the dwarves, Eru, and forgiveness. Sauron knew the story – the incident had occurred before Sauron officially betrayed and abandoned the Valar, though at that time, Aulë and Yavanna had both kept rather mum about the issue. But still, Aulë's point was clear enough: that wrongs, even acts of defiance and rebellion, could be rectified and washed out like a dirty garment in clear water if properly addressed. Nothing could be marred beyond healing if humility and forgiveness were present and both sides were willing to come to an agreement. Sauron could still have what Aulë had found in the delightful gratification of Eru's boundless mercy.

Sauron had not given much consideration of late to his Maker, from whose thoughts his fëa had been woven. Ilúvatar had not shown any inclination to interfere, either on the side of Melkor or for his other Valarin children, and so Sauron had given Eru as much thought as he figured Eru probably gave him. When Aulë spoke of the All-father's forgiveness, his eyes lit up and his adoration was clear in his voice, but Sauron felt more inclined personally to roll his eyes. In his opinion, the less Eru thought about him, the better. He was quite all right with both of them continuing to ignore one another, for if Eru's thoughts strayed to him, Sauron was fairly sure forgiveness and compassion would not be at the top of Eru's list for how to deal with him.

And that was the heart of the matter. Even now, thinking back on Aulë's words, Sauron wasn't sure which he felt more strongly: angry contempt or scornful amusement. As if Aulë's brief dabbling at the very edge of the shadows, followed by his passionate wave of contrition and humility, could even begin to compare with Sauron's deep betrayal and long years of violent opposition against everything for which the Valar stood. It was truly ridiculous, made even more contemptible by the fact that Sauron knew this was Aulë's last-ditch effort at trying to find some way, any way, to relate him. If that was truly Aulë's intention, then it had had the exact opposite effect: it had only managed to show the true depth and width of the chasm that separated Sauron from every other being in this cursed paradise of Valinor. There were few beings less like Sauron than Aulë.

The Smith had spoken of Ossë's brief rebellion as well, which sent a flicker of the same amused scorn mingled with anger through Sauron. The water Maia, and his hasty pardon, were on the low end of Sauron's chain of respect. He himself had had a hand in the corruption of Ossë, though even then he had known the chaotic Maia's disposition well enough that he suspected it wouldn't be long before he went blubbering back to his former masters, apologies spilling from his lips as effusively as the waves crashing against his rocky beaches. Of course he had been forgiven. He had tossed the ocean about a bit, sloshed some of Ulmo's water up onto Aulë's lands, maybe knocked over one or two of Yavanna's precious trees – such deeds could hardly be compared to the treachery of Sauron. Any given day in the Black Captain's centuries-long career probably contained more darkness and violence than Ossë's entire rampage.

So Aulë and Ossë had been pardoned, forgiven, and redeemed. So what? He shared with them acts of rebellion – however pathetic the comparison might be – but there was one glaring difference in his situation with theirs. They had both come crawling back before their masters, weeping their remorse, begging to be forgiven and taken back in. Sauron had not.

Or had he? He didn't like thinking about his meeting with Eönwë, had tried his best to avoid wondering what might have happened if he'd run, and if he'd done what was best for himself in surrendering. His emotions, with fear at the foremost, had been running high that night, and his mind had been muddled at the best. He recalled that he had asked Eönwë for his pardon and that the sentiment had been sincere (as well as he had understood what "pardon" meant to him at the time), even if the tongue that fear had given him had done all the speaking. During that time, some old quality, some trait that might have better suited Mairon the apprentice smith, had made its appearance: a genuine exhaustion with the turmoil of his life and a yearning to find some peace, some gentle, long rest, after so many years of violence, pain, and endless struggles. In some moment of revelation, he had realized he'd never before lived in a world completely devoid of war or the threat of war. It had seemed almost wasteful.

Carefully, keeping mental leashes tethered tightly around his thoughts, Sauron let his mind wander down a path he had not really contemplated since that night. What would happen if he did try? Not simply bowing his head and lying as low as he could until such a time that he could discover a means of revenge, but actually trying to fit into this new world? Accepting the Valar's words that he had done evil things and doing what he could to clean his slate before the eyes of everyone who mattered? Was it truly possible that he could ever be forgiven, redeemed, and re-assimilated as Aulë and Ossë had been? Was there any path that led indeed to that rest he had sought the day he came to Eönwë?

What a pretty fantasy, Sauron. Perhaps while you're feeling so sentimental, you should go smell the roses.

Sauron yanked on his mental leash, hauling his thoughts back as the mocking voice jabbed into him like a dagger of reason. He lashed out at the voice with his own thoughts. Of course I wasn't considering it as I path I might actually follow! I have my plan and I will stick to it. But am I not allowed to think whatever I want? To recognize all options and paths? Is that not what a good war leader does?

There was an eerie silence and Sauron suddenly realized he was having a mental argument with himself. If that cruel, mocking voice was truly just another part of himself… He could not help noticing how much it sounded like…

No, Melkor's gone. There's only me now.

And he had had no reason to lie to himself. Contemplation of such an option was simply no more than recognizing all possible paths forward, even the ridiculous ones that could be crossed off the list as soon as they had been conceived. That day with Eönwë he had allowed himself to be momentarily defeated by his own flight of fancy, further strengthened by the additional whim that he might have a chance to return to his apprenticeship, but his mind was adamant now. Aulë had not been able to shake his compass with all his words of forgiveness and healing, and Sauron had no thought of wavering from his set plans.

I'm going to get my powers back.

And, at any rate, Aulë was wrong. Even if Sauron was somehow able to curb his pride and temper enough to seek reconciliation as Aulë understood it, it would not matter. Yes, Aulë would accept him, but then again, Aulë already did. What was the point of abasing himself to gain from Aulë what he already had? There were others too, doubtlessly, that would be willing to move on to a fresh start with him if he somehow dredged up true remorse in his spirit – Manwë, Nienna, Este and Irmo, maybe even some of the other Maiar and Elves.

But they would be a pitiful minority. No matter what Sauron did, no matter how deeply and truly he felt it, he had long lost the chance to have what Aulë and Ossë had found. Yavanna had shown that, hadn't she, and the Elves at the docks? Most of the inhabitants of Valinor were as little ready to forgive Sauron as he was to forgive them. Even if everyone about him was someday able to keep their thoughts hidden from him and their faces and eyes closed from his piercing gaze, he would still know. He was irrevocably the traitor, the one who had betrayed Valar, Maiar, and Children alike, the Black Captain of the greatest enemy of Arda, a monstrous being that was the living stuff of elven nightmares. He bore the truth of it in his very name; as long as 'sauron' remained a part of the elven vocabulary, he would bear the mark of the Abhorred One like a brand on his forehead. As long as history was remembered, his place in it was set in stone.

In Gaurhoth, in Angband, carrying out Melkor's commands and living among others of a like mind, he had never wavered in his thought that he was on the right side and doing what needed to be done and should be done; here, surrounded by people who shunned him, hated him, or tried to get him to change his ages-long beliefs, it was impossible to escape the fact that he was the marked villain of this tale in the eyes of all around him and he always would be.

Any path of true redemption was no more than an illusion. Even if he truly sought it with all his heart, he would never be allowed to live anything like a normal life in Valinor, a life of peace, escape, rest…

Well, it appears it is fortunate that's not what I want.

Abruptly, Sauron pulled his thoughts back to the present; his mind had been meandering for long enough already. Aulë's fanciful ideas were not worth the time he had already spent thinking about them.

He was still standing at the low wall by the bed of lilies and irises where Aulë had spoken with him. Setting his feet to the path once again, he set his mind to the dilemma before him. How to get his powers back when the Valar were determined that they should be kept from him? It was an enigma to be sure, but he had faced challenging situations before that required both ingenuity and a healthy dose of creativity. The fact that he was perfectly willing to break the rules and play as dirty as needed helped the situation, as well. If he was the villain, he might as well take advantage of it.

The Valar had robbed him of his powers, but there were some things they could not take from him: the sharp mind that Melkor's various tasks had whetted for centuries, the innate curiosity mingled with his unique sense of artistic inventiveness, the piercing perceptiveness with which he could read the thoughts and moods of those around him, and the exquisite fána in which he was clothed coupled with the beguiling charm he could weave around a receptive victim. Any or all of those assets could still prove useful to him as long as he stepped carefully.

It would be a dangerous dance, but danger had long ago become a part of daily life for one who infiltrated enemy strongholds, led armies and fought the battles of his master, rooted out traitors and spies, and bred monsters in wolf, dragon, and spider forms. If he strayed too far to the one side – keeping too low a profile and thereby arousing the Valar's suspicions – his plans might be discovered, but if he strayed too far in the opposite direction – challenging the Valar's authority – he was doomed to be punished for it eventually. But it was something to do, other than sitting about in flower gardens dreading his next encounter with an Elf or Yavanna.

Where to start? Where could he begin formulating a plan to regain his powers, be it breaking the Valar's Bindings or finding a way to artificially recreate or graft in new powers, when he was not even sure if such a thing was possible? When there was unquestionably no one he could go to who would possibly help him willingly?

No one who would help him willingly…

Maybe he didn't need someone who would help him willingly. Maybe he needed someone who would give him information regardless of whom he was and what he wanted it for. Someone neutral, someone who would never even know he had sought their intelligence, someone who could never reveal to others that he had come to them for help…

Books!

Instantly, the memory of that huge library gallery, filled to the ceiling with rows of books, sailed back into his mind. His heart leapt at the thought of all that knowledge ripe for the gathering, regardless of whom the gatherer might be, even a defeated dark lord.

Who knew what arcane knowledge such rows of tomes might hold? Minds of craft and power had labored here for ages now – Aulë, Mahtan, the maker of the Silmarilli, Fëanor, himself! It was doubtful whether such master smiths had written down their achievements and discoveries themselves, but who knew what others had recorded for them. He had been isolated from Valinor and any new knowledge gathered there since the Spring of Arda, except for any information he'd been able to glean from Noldorin prisoners. It had been a long time since his apprenticeship. He had learned much on his own in the forges of Melkor (much of which would probably be banned in Valinor) but he was not above learning new skills from the knowledge and talents of others. At this point, any knowledge gained could potentially prove useful.

It was not long before Sauron found his way back to the library. After only one wrong turn that took him back towards the dormitory wing, he found his way to the tall doors carved with Tengwar runes across the top – i Parmarmard – with a carving of a great tree beneath. Each of the fourteen branches were carved with smaller runes and a symbol: a crescent moon, a sea wave, a harp, an eagle, and many others. The fourteen branches of knowledge, each centered around one of the fourteen Valar.

The fourteen branches, not fifteen. Of course, it was no surprise that Melkor did not have an acknowledged branch on the Valar's tree. After all, there would probably be precious little knowledge in such a branch that the Valar would want available as general information to any who entered the library. They would hardly want the Elves to pass their time reading about black sorcery and how one created orcs, not that the Valar knew anything about such pursuits to begin with.

He opened the door and slipped quietly into the Hall of Books. The sun was coming in the opposite row of windows high above on the western wall now, illuminating the wall before him. He reached out and touched the symbol carved into the nearest pillar: the wave. He was in the gallery devoted to Ulmo's branch of knowledge: the waters, sailing, boatbuilding, the creatures of the ocean, and apparently everything else that had to do with Ulmo's domain. Not what he wanted at the moment.

He moved along the galleries, each a large square alcove in the Parmarmard, looking for the symbols on the pillars at the entrance to each alcove. The crescent moon of Varda's domain, the harp of music, memory, dream, and the fëa indicating Irmo's alcove, and the fist that marked Tulkas' domain of athletics, the hröa, and fánar – each Sauron paused to examine before moving steadily on.

There were a few Elves in some of the alcoves, though not nearly as many as there had been that morning. He noticed a distinct difference in most of their attitudes from the morning, however. When he passed by, most of them glanced up at him automatically from their books, their eyes caught by his movement, but as soon as they realized who he was, they quickly averted their gazes and hunched back over their tomes. A few gave him hostile stares before they ignored him and returned to their reading, and after he passed, he heard some get up and leave the library altogether, their feet pattering back down the hall towards the door. Either Aulë had spoken to all the Elves jointly as he had said he would at Sauron's bidding, or the Eldar had taken the hint for themselves. He still wished they could be restricted to only certain parts of the Halls, thus meaning he could stay clear of them altogether, but if they were going to be around, it felt better not having them staring unashamedly at him like he was an exotic animal – it was much easier to ignore them when they returned the favor.

He found what he was looking for at the northern end of the Parmarmard. The entire hall was essentially rectangular, but each end – north and south – fanned out into a semi-circular, extra-large gallery with a curved balcony half-way up the wall with wooden stairs winding up to it. Sauron skimmed his fingers over the symbol carved in the pillar – a mountain ridge. The gallery of Aulë. He guessed that the opposite end of the hall, the other larger gallery, was the one devoted to Yavanna's domain.

There were seven tables with chairs, as well as long soft couches and single armchairs in which to curl up inside the gallery. Only one of these couches was occupied already, and Sauron scowled at the occupants – a youthful elven nér with dark hair that just curled around his ears sitting beside a nís with the long silvery-blonde hair that was common among the Teleri and Sindar. They both looked up in surprise at him as he came to stand in the entrance to the gallery, but the young man's scowl soon matched Sauron's. He took his companion by the wrist and both of them left abruptly, the man shooting Sauron a murderous look, bequeathing the Maia with the privacy he sought.

Ladders leaned against the wall to reach the books on the higher shelves. Sauron tilted his head back and spun in a slow circle, taking in the sight of all those books. He could not help the feeling of slow awe that crept through his chest. Melkor had not been particularly fond of books, and though Sauron had maintained a small library in Gaurhoth for his own personal use, all his tomes together would probably not have filled a single shelf in just one of the Parmarmard's galleries.

This might take a while, Sauron thought blankly, his mind still overwhelmed with the full impact of how much knowledge this single room contained. Who knew what he might learn! Suddenly, a rush of excitement flushed his cheeks with heat. Surely, somewhere in all these books, there had to be an answer to his question, a solution to his problem. Perhaps it would not be a direct answer, but he was sure he would know it when he saw it.

For the first time since he'd landed in Valinor the previous afternoon, for the first time since he'd left Middle-earth even, he felt a distinct sense of purpose and with it, a thrill of determination. His other woes were not gone, but now he had something tangible to do, the first step in his plan. He felt steady, stable in a way he had not known since Melkor's world crumbled beneath his feet. Happiness, even satisfaction, were yet beyond his reach, but he felt like he just might still be able to control his own destiny.

And when I find what I'm looking for, let the Valar beware!

He pulled the first book off the shelf, folded himself into one of the armchairs, and began to read, blocking out everything except the words in his hands.

~o~o~o~

Three hours had passed perhaps since Sauron entered the Hall of Books. In that time, he had skimmed his way through the same number of books, all on different methods of forging. There was little in them that he had not already known, and only the last one even touched on the concept of forging objects of power, though the author had made it clear that this could only truly be achieved through the power of the maker himself. This, Sauron had already surmised, but with his own powers Bound, he could not use his own abilities to enhance any object he forged in such a way. He had hoped there might be a way around this limitation as several ideas had been forming in his mind. Could he perhaps compensate for his own loss of powers by using the power of another Maia, or even a Vala, in some forged object? Or, could he somehow manipulate another person into forging some object of power for him while still Binding the final object's powers to his own fëa? None of the books had answered these questions, but he tried not to let himself feel discouraged or impatient, realizing there were still many, many books to go.

He slipped Of the Art of Metalcraft in Valinor back into its slot on the bottom shelf and began to reach for the next book – An Account of the Knowledge of Noldorin Jewelsmithing and the Making of White, Yellow, and Silver Gems – but with a sigh, he reclined in his chair instead, letting his head fall back until it rested on the chair top so that he was looking straight up at the ceiling. His neck hurt from craning over large books propped in his lap and his eyes felt dry. His throat was scratchy too, as if he'd swallowed a large portion of the dust coating each book. It was time to do something else for a while.

He stood up and stretched, noting that he could no longer see the sun through the western windows. The afternoon was waning, and he guessed there were probably only a few hours at the most left until supper was served at seven. That thought made his stomach curl into a knot. He might be feeling better than he had that morning, but he was still not looking forward to facing Yavanna and the other inhabitants of the Halls again. He kneaded his palms against his dry eyes and shook his head, loosening his neck. He'd deal with that when he got to it, but for now, he still had a few hours to himself.

And he knew what he wanted to do with them. There was still one very important place in the Halls of Aulë yet to be explored, and all the reading he'd been doing made him all the more determined to find it.

All he had to do was follow his nose.

It was not long before he caught a whiff of it: the pungent, heavy odor of smoke. He stood at one of the long colonnades that ringed and connected the wings of the mansions and which led out into the gardens of Yavanna that spread in a several mile radius around the entire interconnected structure. There would be plenty of time for exploring the grounds later, but for now, his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the northernmost wing of Aulë's Halls, a low, huge, dark structure with a wide, only slightly slanted A-frame roof through which thrust rows of tall chimneys, several of which poured out billowing dark clouds of the charcoal wood-scented smoke. The entire structure was easily half a mile long, nearly a quarter mile wide and it towered over his head, as tall as any of the trees around it.

The forges of Aulë.

Understandably, they were set apart from the rest of the Halls, where the noise, heat, and smoke would not disturb the rest of the population. Sauron could already hear the faint, familiar clear ringing of metal on metal coming from the depths of the forges as he walked across the grounds and came to stop in front of the gigantic doors, each set with a large metal ring. He took hold of the right one and pulled, and the forge door swung open before him with a grinding of metal on stone.

He found himself at the top of a flight of stairs with torchlight flickering on either side. He descended, feeling the heat grow on his face with each step downwards. At the bottom of the stairs was a long, dark corridor that echoed with the sounds he knew and loved so well: the pulsating whoosh of bellows, the clangs of different metals, each of which he could recognize instantly by the timbre, and a steady roar of hungry flames. Up ahead, he could see the hot glow of the huge forge fires dancing over the walls. A fierce exultation shivered its way through him at the atmosphere of raw power and sublime danger that pulsed at the very heart of the great forges.

He stepped out of the corridor and felt his breath suddenly sucked away in sheer awe at the sight, as he found himself standing on a long balcony with sweeping flights of stairs off to his left and his right. Instinctively, he reached out to clutch the ornate railing in front of him, overwhelmed by what he was seeing. The forges of Aulë were far larger than even he would have guessed. They stretched out beneath him, easily one hundred feet below and spreading away for what was probably half a mile. He realized what he'd seen aboveground had merely been the roof of this massive edifice.

Inside the gigantic room, there were perhaps fifty individual forges, every one in its own alcove. Each was set up with all the equipment a smith would need: tools, anvils, crucibles, casting molds, precious and semi-precious gems, and bars of metals of all kinds, from plain copper and steel to glittering silver and pure gold. At many workstations, there were finished or half-finished products lining rows of wooden shelves – everything from weapons to household tools to jewelry of exquisite craftsmanship. Many of the forges themselves lay in lifeless slumber, their coals dark and cold, while others glowed with recent use, their embers still sparking with barely contained power. Other forges were live, however, their furnaces roaring with orange and white flames that licked ferociously upward, fanned into a frenzy by pumping bellows that created the distinctive whoosh of air and leaping flames.

There were perhaps a dozen forges in use at the moment. Figures moved between himself and the billowing flames, appearing as black silhouettes to his eyes against the searing bright background. Apprentices manned the bellows, filled the barrels of water into which the master smiths would dip the white-hot metal, and stood ready with tools, while the master smiths themselves worked the bars of plain metal into specimens of use or high art.

At the sight of the majestic forges, the blast of heat against his face, and the ringing of hammers upon the anvils, Sauron felt himself transported back to his days on Almaren and even before – a time when this had been his life. He remembered himself, young and eager and talented, standing at Lord Aulë's side to do the duties of an apprentice smith as the Vala worked, and himself learning to wield the hammer and shape the metal into things of beauty and skill under his master's tutelage. Glistening rivers of molten gold, sparkling gems taking unique shapes under the blows of his hammer, the light of the forge fires turning his skin the color of bronze. Of all the numerous apprentices of Aulë, he had been the greatest, second only to his master, his skill the most renowned as a combination of unique passion and unmatched creativity. Never satisfied to settle for what had already been done, he had always wanted his next creation to outshine his last, hungering for some ultimate perfection that he had never quite been able to find.

But wasn't that the story of his life?

In a moment, the grand illusion and brief pleasure of memory came crashing down around him. No longer was he the celebrated chief apprentice of Lord Aulë the Smith. He wasn't even a smith at all, not in the eyes of the Valar anymore. He did not have a forge. He did not even know if he was supposed to be here or if he was going to be allowed any use of these beautiful forges. Doubtlessly, someone else had taken his place long ago, and there was little chance that he could ever achieve such combined status and privilege here ever again. Not with the stigma he now carried.

Instead, he was going to be sent to the quarry. To hit rocks with an ugly, awkward miner's pick and hammer all day long. To shape rough blocks of plain stone instead of enjoying the intricacy and engaging skill of crafting a bracelet or a diadem. To be merely one in a crowd instead of standing out as the head apprentice smith of the forges of Aulë. The brief emotional elevation he'd received from the sight of Aulë's magnificent forges fell away into a dark mood that put a bitter taste in his mouth.

Slowly, he descended the stairs to his right, trailing his fingers along the metal banister, keeping an eye on the nearest of the live forges where two apprentices worked around the master who was beginning to shape an elegant belt of twisted gold and silver on his anvil. He was not sure what would happen if and when he was noticed, but he could not help himself from drawing closer, savoring the searing heat on his skin and the smoky smell that permeated the room.

As he approached, it became clear to him that the two apprentices were Elves. Both had their long hair bound back from their faces, revealing their fine features which appeared ruddy in the close firelight. They were dressed in typical smith attire, their clothes covered by heavy grey aprons stitched with Aulë's hammer and long, thick gloves that protected their hands. One worked busily at pumping the bellows, sending waves of flames washing around a crucible set in the embers, inside which Sauron could see the glimmer of melting gold, while the other Elf hovered nearby, holding blacksmith's tongs in one hand and a spare hammer in the other, waiting for any commands from the master smith.

Dismissing the elven apprentices, Sauron turned his gaze upon the smith, whom he recognized as a fellow Maia from the aura of subtle power that filled the air around him in an almost visible glow. His skill was evident: each quick blow was precise and purposeful, melding the two bars of metal into a single twisting band that played in and out of the other in an intricate pattern. Sauron knew he could have easily replicated the design, but all the same, he also knew there could not be many who could do so with the ease that he or this Maia could.

It was the Elf with the tools that first noticed Sauron's presence. He glanced up in Sauron's direction and saw the Maia standing there at the edge of the shadows with the firelight casting weird flickering patterns over his dark clothes so that he seemed to melt into the background. The Elf stiffened instantly, watching Sauron with a mixture of trepidation and caution, as he said something to the master smith that Sauron couldn't quite catch. The smith paused in mid strike, the hammer half-raised, nodded, then set down the hammer and casually pulled off his gloves before turning to Sauron. The steady pulse of the bellows stilled as the other Elf paused his work, as well.

The Maia stepped away from his forge towards Sauron, wiping his fingers on the edge of his apron as he did so, even though his hands were not dirty. Sauron remained where he was, eyeing the smith in turn. He was tall, perhaps not as tall as Sauron himself, but more so than either of the Elves who now stood to the side to watch the confrontation that was about to take place. His eyes were deep brown, though shining with a curious grey light underneath his strong brow, and his high cheekbones created a long, refined profile. His slicked-back hair, held in place by a twisting silver circlet set with dark green gems, was a glossy black, a color carried to his even darker eyebrows and the narrow mustache he sported along his thin upper lip. These lips turned upwards into the faintest hint of a smile as he discerned the identity of his visitor.

"Well, well, my intuition proved correct I see," he said in a deep, mellifluous voice that belied his tall, thin frame, a sound as compelling and disconcertingly powerful as a long, distant roll of thunder. "I thought you might soon wander back here to your home turf in the forges, and I hoped I wouldn't miss your visit. From what I understand, a permanent welcome is in order. It has been far too long, old companion, and I am glad to receive the singular honor. Welcome to the forges of Lord Aulë the Smith in Valinor… Sauron – that's the name you go by nowadays, is it not?"

Sauron felt a bestial snarl tugging at his own mouth as he observed the other Maia. The words were friendly and the greeting warm, and to a bystander, one might have thought he was witnessing the meeting of two long-ago compatriots and friends, hardly guessing that one had betrayed the other or that there might be any ill will between them. The other Maia's smile was likewise genial, seemingly willing to brush aside whatever differences lay behind them as he welcomed a fellow smith.

But Sauron knew better. Although the other Maia wore a somewhat altered fána from the one he had previously seen him wear in Almaren, Sauron had recognized his former fellow apprentice of Aulë from the days when the two of them had done for the Vala of the Earth what these Elves now did for him. He inclined his head just slightly, forcing his face to remain smooth as he answered the others' eloquent greeting with a curt reply of his own. "Curumo."

Curumo folded his smith gloves and set them on the work table, still smiling with a quiet benignity that did not quite reach the glittering grey mist in his eyes. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the giant hall with his right hand. "What do you think of it? Truly magnificent, isn't it? Better than that small workspace we had in Almaren at least, eh? These are easily the greatest forges in all of Valinor, in all Arda, I imagine. It is a high honor to work one's craft in such…inspiring surroundings I must tell you. It took centuries to plan and create, as well it should, and Lord Aulë even granted me the privilege of assisting him in the design when we evacuated to Aman. I'm sure you must be looking forward to plying your trade in such a sublime monument to our craft; I know perfection was always your byword, and you will find nothing short of the best in the forges of Aulë, I can assure you. Have you already been assigned a forge or do I also have the pleasure of finding you one that will suit your meticulous tastes?"

The question was posed just a little too innocently. Again, there was nothing in Curumo's bearing or direct words that suggested mockery, but it was there all the same, somewhere in the undertones of that rich, flowing voice. Sauron's naturally hot temper bubbled in his chest, but he suppressed any outward show of anger with a quick repeat of his perpetual mantra and that his goal would not be achieved by taking Curumo's own hammer and stuffing it down his throat.

Instead, he returned Curumo's subtle smile with one of his own. "Not at the moment, Curumo. I'm sure when I desire a forge, I'll be able to find a suitable one on my own. As you note, I am quite particular about my workplace, and I have not been absent from our craft either, even if I cannot have claimed quite as awe-inspiring a workplace for my own as you have."

He stepped past Curumo towards the anvil, ignoring the two Elves who retreated as he approached, and examined the belt that Curumo was making. "A fine bit of work you have here, Curumo," he said. "I see your talents have improved over the last Age. Although, if it were under my own hammer, I would have added a bit of silver tracery here-" He indicated with an intricate swirl of his finger. "It would set off the interlacing of the gold and silver bands perfectly. Add just a bit of flair. I'm thinking a braid pattern, after the Nandorin style perhaps, a centimeter wide, woven in with the main twist."

He turned, just in time to catch the briefest flicker of annoyance in Curumo's eyes, and he allowed himself a mental smirk. Curumo was good at what he did, always had been, but he had never been Sauron. Curumo displayed a solid technical skill in every piece he created, but he had always lacked that natural eye for artistic creativity that had earned Sauron the place as head apprentice smith. It was something that could never be taught, an innate talent with which Sauron had been created and Curumo had not, and Sauron had never let the other Maia forget it.

But a second later, Curumo flashed Sauron that same smile that was just a little too friendly. "Yes, I'm sure that would be quite pretty," he concurred. "But I think I'll keep it as it is. Lord Aulë was just down here this morning and he said my design plans looked perfect to him for what he has in mind, and I don't see the need to change it if Lord Aulë is satisfied. Plus, there's no need for me to stray into your territory, Sauron. A master smith develops his own style, and I wouldn't want anyone to mistake my work for the work of another. I'm sure you of all people understand that."

Sauron gave a slight nod. "Of course."

As Sauron turned back away, he saw Curumo glance down at the half-finished belt with a small scowl, and it did not take the Black Captain's piercing perception to read the expression – Curumo was wishing he'd thought of that addition to the belt himself. There was no way he could use that ideal suggestion now. The smallest warm glow of vicious satisfaction nestled itself in Sauron's breast as he began picking up some of the tools from Curumo's work shelf, ignoring the fundamental courtesy expected of a craftsman, that one didn't handle the tools of another without permission from their owner.

He picked up a spare hammer, twirling it in his fingers to get a feel for its weight, pleased with its balance and ignoring Curumo who had now folded his arms and was no longer trying to hide his annoyance at Sauron's interference. As Sauron set down the hammer and reached for a pair of smith's pliers, Curumo intercepted him and lifted the pliers himself, standing between Sauron and the shelf.

"If you don't mind, I'm quite busy," Curumo said with a tight smile, pulling one of his heavy, leather gloves back on. "You should know all about it – the duties of a head smith, you know. We can't exactly stand around in sentimental conversation when we have a forge to run."

A small jolt, like an electric shock, instantly killed that brief warm glow in Sauron's chest as Curumo's words sunk in, even though it made perfect sense.

The raven-haired Maia pulled on his other glove then glanced at Sauron, his eyes gleaming. "Lord Aulë did tell you, didn't he? That I'm the new head smith here? Under Lord Aulë, of course. When you absconded with the late Dark Lord of Endor, Lord Aulë needed someone to replace you, and those duties naturally fell to me. I suppose I really should thank you for that at the very least, Sauron. Without your trinkets of exquisite golden wonder to salivate over, Lord Aulë was finally freed to appreciate my own style and skill. And from what I've heard, I apparently don't need to be worrying about your competition any time in the near future. I heard something about a…quarry…what that it? Apparently, Lord Aulë appreciates loyalty and years of steadfast service more than extraordinary, wild talent. I can't say I'm exactly shocked by that. I certainly wouldn't want a two-edged sword like you back in my forges if I were Lord Aulë."

Sauron could feel his face flushing with anger, the heat of it competing even with the waves of heat from the forge fire. His jaw locked painfully with the force with which his back teeth were grinding together. It was all he could do not to unleash his raging temper on the smug Curumo, who was now fussily choosing another hammer, the glitter in his dark eyes revealing that he knew exactly how biting his words had been. The Maiarin smith chose his tool then turned to look back at Sauron, this time making no attempt to conceal his mocking smile.

"It reminds me of something the Elves say. What is it? 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' It's actually a little bit amusing. You had so much, but you had to have everything perfect, just like you always do, so you abandoned it all to grasp at who knows what, the stars themselves. And now you've got nothing. I can't say it's not a fitting fate, one that's more than a little ironic."

The firelight glowed in Sauron's eyes. His voice was more of a deep growl than intelligent speech. "I have plenty, Curumo. I'll always have more than you, clinging to your Lord Aulë's apron skirts and cleaning up his soot. You'll never be my equal."

Curumo chuckled quietly, turning his back on Sauron and giving a nod to his elven assistants. The bellows resumed their pulsing and the fire blazed up again, casting dancing patterns of shadow and bronze light across the two Maiar. "Well, we're certainly not equals now, Sauron, though perhaps I was mistaken to say that you have nothing," Curumo said casually. "That's quite a fána the Valar let you have at the very least. I'm surprised they gave it to you."

"I chose it," Sauron growled.

Curumo gave him a jaundiced look over his shoulder. "Indeed. And who exactly are you planning on seducing with it?" When Sauron scowled, he raised an eyebrow. "If it's the Lady Yavanna you've got your eyes set on, I'm terribly afraid you're going to be disappointed. I don't think she's taking much to your charm, if that little display at lunch speaks any truth. But I suppose you're used to it. When one constantly strives above his reach, I suppose disappointment is inevitable."

Before Sauron could reply, Curumo began hammering at the belt again with his precise, quick blows. "You must excuse me now," he said over the heavy groans of the bellows. "I do have a great deal of work that Lord Aulë is counting on me to finish. But I imagine I'll be seeing you around. Welcome to the Blessed Realm of the Valar, Sauron."

~o~o~o~

An hour later, Sauron was still fuming. Although he was able to silently congratulate himself on successfully keeping his temper this round and not committing his first murder in Valinor within a record twenty-four hours of arriving, it did little to soothe the roiling combination of anger and pain Curumo's words had slashed across his heart. The other Maia's mockery had struck far too close to the pit of angst in which Sauron had already been wallowing. As much as he wanted to scoff and dismiss what Curumo had said, he couldn't. For it was far too true. Sauron had reached for the stars and had ended up empty-handed. Seeing Curumo as the head smith of those magnificent forges (a position that would undoubtedly have been his someday) fanned a flame hotter than any bellows could create. As envy, anger, and hatred gnawed away at his insides, Sauron decided to add another item to his agenda of revenge. He was going to take Curumo down. If he could subsequently raise himself back up to Curumo's platform, so much the better. But if all he could do was grind Curumo into his own sooty floor, that would be satisfaction enough.

Behind him, from where he was sitting on the colonnade steps at the entrance to the south wing where he couldn't see the bitter plume of forge smoke, he heard the loud clang of a gong being struck in the depths of the central halls. That must be the signal for supper. The sun was now just dipping down towards her resting place on the western horizon, casting brilliant light over the Blessed Realm. Hmph, Sauron thought caustically. The Blessed Realm? It's seemed more like the Cursed Realm so far.

His stomach felt hollow. The little he'd eaten that day hardly compensated for the weeks he'd neglected the care of his physical form. But all the same, he knew with absolute certainty that he couldn't face that roomful of Elves and Maiar, not to mention Yavanna, right now. There was certain to be some type of confrontation the next time they met, and he knew he simply couldn't handle it at the moment, not with his anger already stirred up and the painful stabs that Curumo's bitingly true words had left in his heart still oozing and fresh. He was as emotionally and mentally drained as his stomach. Any confrontations needed to wait until he was back to his full strength, his mind sharpened and wary, his emotions collected and controlled, his outward mask groomed and set solidly in place. Part of the success of his reconnaissance mission lay in his perception of when he was ready for a challenge and when he was not. And right now, he just desperately needed some food and some sleep, with as little conflict as possible.

He slipped into the central halls, keeping to the shadows as no more than a shadow himself, avoiding the groups of conversing Elves and Maiar flocking towards the Great Hall. The smell of rich food set Sauron's stomach to growling as he sneaked past the hall itself and tucked himself in a niche between two columns where he had a view of the door.

It was not long before his waiting was rewarded. The doors swung open and two Elves emerged, pushing a trolley that was laden with empty pots and trays. They were laughing and talking with each other as they pushed the cart and so did not notice the shadow that slipped behind them and trailed them until they reached the kitchens where they deposited their cart and accepted a new one, this one laden with full dishes. They stopped to exchange some banter with the one of the Elves on kitchen duty who was scrubbing at a used cauldron, elbow-deep in white foam. When the two companions returned to their new trolley and pushed it onward back towards the Great Hall, neither of them noticed that it was missing several items of food.

Alone, back in his room, Sauron tore ravenously into the food he'd swiped from the cart, taking no notice of manners. His back to the wall underneath his open window, he devoured the loaf of bread, hunk of blue cheese, slices of roasted game, and crisp red apples, while gulping down his stolen bottle of wine. If he was to be the villain of this story, he decided he might as well make the most of it.

A/N: For those who may not be as familiar with Tolkien's more obscure works, Curumo is the original name of Saruman. In The Unfinished Tales, in the chapter concerning the Istari, we're told that Curumo/Saruman was also a Maia of Aulë, so it made sense to me that he and Sauron would probably have known each other prior to LOTR.