Chapter 9
The sky glowed an eerie yellow. He stood on a narrow bridge of land that stretched out in front of him into the distance. It was terribly narrow, barely wide enough for his feet placed one in front of the other, and it took almost all his energy to simply balance on the uneven earth. The ground itself was a sickly brown color and sent up puffs of choking dust with each tenuous step he took.
To either side, a dizzying drop plummeted into nothingness. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the swirling blackness that obscured the lower reaches of the abyss, something darker and more sinister than mere lack of light, a thick, tar-like blackness that he instinctively knew he would never be able to escape if he fell into it. He could feel its ethereal pull, tugging at his robes, legs, and arms, trying to overbalance him and suck him into its terrible embrace. Screams of those that had fallen rose to his ears: gut-wrenching pleas for help that would not be answered, shrieks of such agony and terror that it made his limbs tremble, eating away at his balance even further. Somehow, he knew it was the Void.
He took another step forward, the simple movement draining far more of his energy than it should. Far, far away, he could see the end of the bridge and the land rising up in a brown crag with a dark fortress perched at its top. Morgoth needed him to get to the fortress – that need filled Sauron with a galling impatience, even though he was not quite sure what his master wanted him to do once he was there. But it was important, important for the war, important for their survival, both his and Morgoth's, and Sauron was not about to fail his lord. The burning compulsion to reach the fortress tugged at his insides, forcing him to take another wobbling step forward, even though his fear of falling grew with every new pace.
Tendrils of that repulsive darkness crept upward, slithering along the abyss's walls and up over the top of the bridge. The thought of stepping in them, just touching them, filled him with loathing, making him want to shrink away, but the need to reach the opposite side and escape drove him forward again, doing his best to avoid the seeking tentacles of the Void.
He looked up at the fortress again. It seemed closer, but still terribly far away. The sky drew his gaze, and behind the fortress tower, he saw billowing darker clouds scudding through the unnaturally yellow cumulus that covered the heavens. These storm clouds flickered threateningly with lightning, surges of violent light that glowed in the dark underbelly. As he watched, the clouds seemed to gather in strength and swirl with ominous purpose, dipping down into a black funnel. Down, down, down it came until it touched the earth, sending up a spray of dust. He had seen such a thing a couple times before – whatever Morgoth had done in the burning of Anfauglith had made the conditions right for the powerful storms. Once, one had ripped across the dead plains from the north, taking out nearly half an army that Sauron had gathered there. After witnessing ten thousand orcs swept away along with their tents and weapons in a matter of minutes, Sauron had developed a healthy dread for such a phenomenon that could effortlessly wipe out everything in its path.
The tornado, canopied still by the flickering storm clouds that had conceived it, began to move steadily in his direction, towards the fortress. Sauron knew he had to get across the bridge before it arrived – there was no way he'd be able to keep his balance buffeted by those fierce winds and the driving rain of the thunderstorm. It would hurl him straight into the gaping pit that dropped away to either side of him. This new terrible urgency coupled with the compulsion to fulfill his mission was a maddening force that clawed at his gut and made his mind spin with fear.
As he stepped forward again, one careful foot after one careful foot, shuddering with aversion every time he had to step over one of those rivers of glutinous darkness spilling across his path, the screams of those trapped in the Void grew louder around him. He didn't dare look, terrified of what he might see but still aware of the flickers of movement to his lower left and right that he knew were the doomed fëar. Individual voices began to assail him, and with a sudden horror, he realized he knew them. Draugluin, Glaurung, Thuringwethil, Gothmog – all screamed out to him, simultaneously begging him for help and cursing him for having escaped their fate. Desolation settled over him at the thought that he had failed his mission – what point was there in reaching the fortress if all his cohorts were already doomed? But no, he thought, if he himself could still escape Doom, then he must press on.
Looking up again, he marked the progress of the storm. It was much closer now, looming over the fortress. He could see strips of the gabled roof already ripping away under the inexorable pull of the tornado. The flickering lightning and the eerie glow of the sky gave the swirling black mass a sinister impression of sentience, as if it had been sent to destroy him and somehow knew he was its target. Its terrifying roar competed with the agonized shrieks of his erstwhile peers.
Sauron halted, the desire for self-preservation taking a choke-hold on his sense of duty. There was no way he was going to beat the storm to the fortress. As this reality made itself clear in his mind, he realized he was going to have to turn around and go back, for if the storm caught him here on the bridge, there would be no escaping that worst of fates: a plunge into the abyss where he too would be ensnared in the black morass of that hateful oblivion.
But he faltered, afraid of making the turn on the narrow strip of solid ground that was just barely supporting him. The urgency of the situation made the proposition seem even more fearful, but somehow he did it, inching his way around as if he were wading through water, feeling the brown earth crumble away from his heel as he turned from the fortress. All too slowly. Dismay set in as he saw how far he still had to go to return to the near side of the bridge; he had not realized he'd come so far. A dark forest line met his eyes in contrast to the barren plain he'd previously been heading towards, and he saw that the murky pines came almost down to the bridge itself. He began to inch his way towards it, still excruciatingly aware of the howling storm closing in behind him and the deadly drop to either side.
That was when he saw the movement at the edge of the pines.
His eyes remained glued to the spot as a dark form materialized from the trees and stepped out onto the bridge, blocking his path forward. The giant, black wolf was as tall as he was, its eyes glowing coals of demonic red without pupils. It bared its fangs, its nape bristling, radiating menace and an aura of evil that chilled even Sauron. This was a thing that should never have been, an affront to every living creature, both servants of Manwë and of Morgoth. It was merely a devourer, as insatiable as the Void itself, and every bit as merciless and destructive as the storm carving its path towards him from behind.
The hair on Sauron's nape rose in terror, the chill of it freezing him to the spot. He was trapped: storm behind, Void to either side, and that beast, that monster that did not belong in any world, that Unbeing, before him. Unvoiced screams blocked his throat, building up racking pressure in his chest. The wolf stepped forward, its eyes filling his vision, its hungry mouth gaping in a smile that revealed the creature's chilling intelligence and dark intent. This was no mere witless beast. And it was here for the sole purpose of seeing him destroyed.
Sauron stumbled backwards.
For a moment of eternity, his foot slipped on the crumbling earth that gave way beneath his weight. He teetered on the edge of the bridge just long enough to realize he'd lost his balance.
Then he fell.
Agonizing moments slipped by as he plunged into the abyss that was the Void, sufficient time to realize the horrifying gravity of his plight as pain exploded through his body. A scream of despair and terror ripped from his throat as the noxious blackness pooled about him, dragging him further down, wrapping his arms and legs as tightly as ropes, filling his eyes and ears and nostrils and finally his mouth. Through the blackness, the only thing he could see was two hellish red eyes, glowing with sadistic, malevolent pleasure at his fate.
"Nooooooooo!"
Sauron bolted upright in his bed, the choked scream still on his lips, his body shaking so hard that it hurt. He flung off the covers and collapsed on all fours on the floor, retching violently. Still, it was several minutes before the feeling of the dream lifted from him, that his mouth and throat were not clogged with vile, viscous darkness.
Finally, his stomach stopped its reflexive heaving, leaving him quivering on his hands and knees, his head still bent forward. His sides hurt, his eyes were gummed with thick tears brought forth from the violence of his dry retching, and his body was sticky with sweat. For several more minutes, he remained in the same position, still shaking, just trying to keep his arms and legs from giving out under him.
Slowly, strength returned to his racked form as the terror and illusion of the dream gave way to the reality of the cool, quiet night. Through his open window, he felt the soft brush of fresh air over his bare shoulders and back, congealing the sweat into a clammy film over his skin. His muscles slowly relaxed as he listened to the normal night sounds of whirring insects and night birds and the soft swish-rustle of the wind in the tree tops. He sensed it was very late in the night (or rather very early in the new morning), late enough that his hasty dinner from the previous evening hadn't come back up during his attack of gagging anyway, for which he was thankful. The wholesome air flowed down his throat and nostrils, further clearing away the drowning sensation of the nightmare.
He lifted a hand and wiped away a thin trickle of combined saliva and bile that dangled from his lips. Coughing a little at the bitter burn of the taste, he pulled himself upright, using the windowsill for support. His legs felt uncommonly shaky, and he sat down quickly on the edge of his bed, kneading at his watery eyes. Afterwards, he huddled against the pillows for some time, taking slow sips from a jug of water on his bedside table until the foul taste had been washed away. He sloshed the remaining water over his face, rinsing away both sweat and tears.
The dream was not so easy to rinse away, however. Even as the calm night closed around him, every time he shut his eyes, his mental vision was assailed by a vivid image of those red, wolfish eyes, glowing with an obscene intelligence that was more than bestial. The feeling of falling would threaten to return and with it, his throat would seem to contract and clog until he had to fight for each breath. After lying there miserably for half an hour with no success at finding sleep or rest (not least for fear that sleep would only return him to the nightmare he'd escaped by waking), he abandoned that particular pursuit and rose to his feet.
He started by finding new clothes, tugging off the sweat-soaked leggings in exchange for a clean pair and pulling on one of the loose, comfortable working shirts with which his wardrobe had been stocked. Now that the initial heat of his panic had worn off, he found himself terribly cold as the breeze chilled his sweat-dampened skin, even after he'd changed. He found himself suddenly longing for both warmth and light, and with that desire, he knew instinctively where to go.
He did not care if he was not allowed. He was going to the forges.
With that thought, he looked down at the hammer lying on his bedside table. He recalled Aulë setting it there that morning (or yestermorning as it probably was now), but he had forgotten about it until this moment. Instinctively, he reached out for it until his fingertips brushed against the cold metal, sending an electric chill streaking through his hand. It was his hammer, crafted to the specific balance of his fingers, the shape of his palm. Of course, he'd had other hammers during his time under Morgoth, all of them suitable for their tasks, but they had never been the same. This was the hammer with which he had crafted his most beautiful works in the days before his talents were turned to chains and instruments of pain; this was the hammer that had taught him his skill and the meaning of his life in Eä; this was the hammer that had shaped who he truly was on some deeper level than either Aulë or Melkor could ever control. It represented some intimate part of him, something that Bound him to this physical realm, but something also, simultaneously, that reached beyond Eä and tied his fëa to the Halls from which he had originally come. This hammer was his lifeblood.
But this was also the hammer the Valar had used to lure him back here, here to this state of enslaved imprisonment and humiliation where the thought of the Void haunted and tormented him. Aulë had known what such a token would mean to a craftsman like Sauron, and they had used against him that intimacy, that promise of his lifeblood restored, the stuff of his fëa, the symbol of his creative power, to break his spirit for the moment they needed to draw him back here and ensnare him. It had been a thing of his old days offering him promises of the old days renewed, somewhere to go now that the annihilation of Morgoth and his new way of life had been utterly assured. In short, it had been the perfect bait to offer a terrified, broken Maia unsure what his future held and of how he could possibly keep moving forward now that his world had shattered.
Gazing at the hammer's unpolished, dented surface, Sauron knew it was in no shape now to create anything new and beautiful, and he was in no mood for the tedious task of grinding it down to its ideal smooth condition. But even if it had been pristine, not a single dent or scar on its head, he still would not have used it. It had become the material symbol of the Valar's lies. It was a mocking ensign of his own frailty, weaknesses, and failures. It was now nothing save a black reminder of everything, from both his previous lives, that he had lost and could not now reclaim. No, he could not – would not – use such a thing.
His fingers closed about the handle, but instead of lifting it tenderly, he flung it contemptuously across the room. It skidded over the floor in a trail of sparks with a harsh clatter, before sliding neatly underneath his wardrobe. There let it sit in the darkness and gather dust for all the Ages to come!
Pushing the now-worthless object out of his mind, he turned towards his door without a second glance.
~o~o~o~
The Halls of Aulë were eerily silent as he made his way through the dark corridors and chambers. Shrouded in the shadows of night with their deathly hush, it seemed almost a different world from the mansions he had explored only hours ago in the light. Under Morgoth, he'd been able to see in the dark as easily as a cat or other stalker of the night, but that power had been stripped from him along with so many others. He cursed this loss several times when he came across shallow stairs between chambers or a column base that stuck out further than expected. Again, he could only disdainfully compare himself to an cripple, a pathetic blind man stumbling about and cursing the loss of an innate power of which he should never have been robbed.
But all the same, this was not a darkness that frightened him, that tried to ensnare his limbs or clog his throat and eyes with oblivion. As he adjusted slowly to his lack of night-vision, he even found himself enjoying the darkness that wrapped around him so invitingly, tasting its cool familiarity against his skin, reveling in its obscuring mist around his mind. It was as if he could almost imagine himself back at Gaurhoth if he chose, able to blot out all of Valinor and the Valar themselves. He was alone in a pool of night, and nothing had to exist beyond what he chose for the moment. He could immerse himself in a world where there was no Máhanaxar, no Manwë, no Aulë and Yavanna, no Void…
And yet, his dream was still too close to completely forget, especially with the darker shadows that pooled behind the columns and the wisps of darkness that flitted at the edges of his vision. Deep inside, some icy ball still remained in his breast, sending out chilling tendrils into his mind and body. He shivered, wishing he'd brought a cloak, even though he knew he'd have no need of it in the forges. The dream continued to bother him, like a biting fly at his neck. He'd had nightmares before, though they had congregated mostly in his early years of service to Melkor, back when the violence and horror he saw daily had not yet become commonplace, back before Melkor had imbued his Black Captain with his own hatreds, enjoyment of pain and destruction, and lust for power, the gaining of which justified any and all means. But the dreams had faded then, renewed only occasionally by some nightmare of an army from across the Sea coming to destroy the works of himself and his master, and to drag him away to humiliation and torment, nightmares that he had lived to see transformed to reality, at least in part.
But these new dreams that had begun to haunt him ever since the downfall of Thangorodrim… Dreams of the Void. Dreams of being hunted and caught. Dreams of that monstrous black wolf. It was not hard for him to discern from whence such dreams had come. Yet, all the same, they chilled him in a way that no nightmares ever had before, not the dreams of violence that had dominated his sleep when he first became the Black Captain, and not his mind's sporadic night-time envisionings of an ultimate downfall that had proved foreshadows of the truth.
These new nightmares terrified him in a way he could not even begin to articulate to himself. Perhaps it was merely the threat of the Void that loomed closer than it ever had before. Perhaps it was simply the newly discovered terror of being hunted rather than being the hunter. But whatever it was, it struck a particularly painful chord that filled him with a nameless loathing and horror. He tried to block the thought of it from his mind, but it lingered there like a heavy cloud, threatening to smother his senses with a type of fearful madness.
Yet it was not long before he emerged on the northern end of Aulë's Halls and stepped out under the long colonnade. As always in Valinor, the sky was clear and hard, shining with a million points of light from a million stars. Tilion's chariot drove in its usual, erratic path through those heights, shedding the glowing silver light of Telperion over the grounds, outlining the massive, dark structure that loomed before him, still smelling of smoke.
Sauron hesitated at the forge doors, his hand on the ring. Would he get in trouble for such a venture? Would he be punished for using the forges without permission if any discovered he'd come? His current plans depended on staying out of too much trouble for the present – it was not yet time to push his luck, especially after his recent confrontation with Yavanna. Even if he was not one wont to seek out permission, he wavered at the thought of incurring the Valar's wrath over what was, admittedly, a minor detail at the present.
After a moment, he shook away his doubt. The Valar had not directly banned him from using the forges, even if they had arranged his life so that it would soon become difficult for him to ply his true craft. He knew what he was doing, so safety was not a problematic issue. And if the Valar did intend to prohibit his use of the forge in order to punish him, it was the middle of the night, and the forges were far removed from the dormitories; unless he was being spied on, it was unlikely anyone would know he had come. And anyway, stripped of his powers and Bound, what real significance was he to the Valar at all? In the grand scheme of things, he knew he was nothing to them, just a conquered foe to keep an eye on, but only when it was not too much trouble for them. Why should they care if he visited the forges any more than they should mind a wasp buzzing in the corner? He pulled open the doors.
Inside, the torches had been extinguished for the night and all was completely black. A shudder rippled down his spine, and his throat contracted as memories of his dream poured back into his mind. The pure blackness that consumed him as he stepped through the door reminded him too much of those inky rivers that had dragged him into the Void. Almost unconsciously, he flinched back, a sudden stab of fear taking root.
Don't be ridiculous, you idiot, he snarled at himself moments later. If you of all people are afraid of a little darkness, you really have lost your wits. Darkness has always been your tool. You served the Master of Darkness himself.
Master of all Darknesses save one, another voice whispered back. But even Melkor was never Lord of the Void…
Sauron hurriedly snatched one of the torches from its wall sconce, and the resulting clatter chased away the voice and thoughts of the Void. He fumbled around for a few seconds in an attempt to find the fire starter kit that he knew must be nearby, again cursing the Valar for taking his powers over the darkness and his ability to create fire without such menial tools. It was his toes that found the small, square box first, bringing forth a fresh round of expletives, but finally he lit the oil-damp material wrapped around the torch head, sending up a comforting blaze of fierce light. Darkness might have often been his tool, but fire was his element.
Hefting the torch before him, he started down the stairs and the long corridor towards the giant forge room. It was silent now and dark but still considerably hotter than the cool night air outside, and the smell of smoke hung in the air undissipated. Sauron felt his heart beating a strong, quick rhythm as he approached the forge room itself, each step echoing hollowly off the walls.
When he passed through the entryway onto the balcony, the light of his torch danced disconcertingly outwards, not strong enough to illuminate more than the empty space before him. Far away, he could just barely make out the looming darker shapes of the opposite walls and the forges, now slumbering along with the rest of Aulë's Halls, save for the faintest glow of coals here and there which still had not given up the last of their intense heat from their day's work. Sauron could not help but think of Morgoth's great Urulóki, coiled in silent yet threatening slumber, their bellies glowing faintly with a heat that, when stirred, could devastate the strongest of fortresses and the most doughty of warriors. Briefly, Sauron found himself wondering if any of Morgoth's magnificent wyrms had survived – they had been one of his favorites of Melkor's creations, their hearts of fire akin to his own – but he did not allow any nostalgia to linger. Purposely, he headed for the stairs.
Back in Almaren or in Morgoth's forges, it would have taken no more than a fleeting thought and a brief bending of his will to call up the flames and send his forge into roaring life, but now he found to his displeasure that he would have to do things the slower and more tedious way. He had chosen one of the smaller forges tucked in the back of the room, behind the balcony; although he had briefly considered using Curumo's own forge out of spite, he knew such an action was impractical at best. His goal was to come and go with none knowing he had been here, and this was not the time or the place to stir up any trouble with the new head smith.
There were not even coals in the forge he chose, indicating that it had gone unused for a lengthy time. Drawing from the stocks of wooden fagots that were piled at regular intervals throughout the chamber, he fueled the forge, letting his mind drift away as his body worked. Usually, he would have had at least one or two aides, but this was not the first time he'd worked alone. Even though the physical labor was hard, he did not see it as such; it was merely the necessary beginning to the task at hand, a task that he found himself anticipating with a feverish desire as the time drew near to actually begin the work that had been woven into the very fabric of his being before Arda itself had come into existence.
Finally, the time came. Sauron took one of the gold bars from the forge workshop next to his, holding it for a moment, feeling its weight and smoothness, soaking in its glittering beauty. The fire he'd started in the forge pulsed with life, shimmering across both his hands and the precious metal he held.
With a deep breath, Sauron went to work.
Time fell away from him in showers of sparks, in waves of heat that licked his flesh, in the elemental pulse that seemed to throb from the heart of the earth itself. Liquid gold bubbled and shone, stirring in sluggish currents within its crucible, as the bellows blasted surges of searing air and flames over the metal. And then, as the soft gold began to harden again, its purified surface as bright as shafts of sunlight, he began to shape it under the blows of his borrowed hammer against the anvil, each strike melding it slowly yet surely to the design of the vision in his mind's eye. His mind, his hand, and his hammer blended together into one tool, one focus, as he embraced his work. There was no Valinor. There was no quarry. There was no Void. There was neither Aulë nor Melkor. And for a time, there was almost no Sauron the Black Captain, but only a Maiarin smith, who once, so long ago, might have been called Mairon.
He reveled in the pure physicality of his work, aware of each muscle as his body responded perfectly to the tasks his mind gave it, pleased with the receptiveness and strength of the fána he'd chosen. The subtle shifts of his fingers around the hammer handle, the graceful flick of his wrist absorbing each strike, the shudder of power rippling up his forearm, the rhythmic tightening and loosening of muscles across his chest and stomach, down to the solid balance of his planted feet – his entire body gave itself to his task. His mind sank into an instinctive immediacy, and he allowed his thoughts to become one with his movements.
And yet, even in the midst of his creative passion, he found he could not completely block out what had been taken from him. Each hammer strike, each rush of flames, each glint of gold, as beautiful and exhilarating as they were, were completely ordinary. He could not escape the fact that his powers were Bound, even here, especially here. He could not shape the flames around his will as once he could, just as easily as he could command his own flesh. He could not infuse his art with the power that once had rushed like blood through the spiritual veins of his fëa. He could not express the deepest, truest, most raw aspects of his innately spiritual being in the physical band of gold forming under his care. True, the object taking shape upon his anvil was one of beauty, that Elves and Men alike might have envied; Mairon the apprentice smith would never have earned the renown he'd enjoyed if his skill had been only nonphysical and his talents merely in the shaping of his powers. But the more he labored, the more he realized what he lacked. Even if such a trinket might be considered a great work among Elves, Men, or Dwarves, as long as he was Bound, he could never achieve the highest reaches of artistry for his kind. Everything he created would be deficient, imperfect, lacking in its innermost workings.
To his surprise, he found that it was more grief than anger that swelled through him at this realization. Perhaps it was because his realization had not come with any logical progression of thought; it was a revelation that interacted on the same levels as the instinctive physical movement of his body and the subconscious stirrings of his fëa. For the most part, his mind was still enveloped in its work, blocking out all the world around him and that forge, still existing on a level where neither Valar nor Valinor were a reality. Instead he felt the lack of power through each bead of sweat, each tensing cord of muscle, each hot breath that swelled his lungs. A part of him was missing, and the very gold seemed to recognize the loss in its shaper's fabric.
And perhaps it was that the song came from the same place.
He was not aware of it until it was rising in his throat, a tangible pressure against his chest. The first note broke from his lips more like a visceral cry than song, but it tasted strangely comforting and familiar against his dry tongue. There was no true power behind it, none of the magic that had created the world in which he now stood, and yet it rose and swelled within him in a wordless expression of his emotions. Still it swelled, setting his veins trembling and his fëa reverberating to something that touched deeper and further back within himself than he even remembered. It simply felt right, like the bitter-sweet smell of the smoke or the color of gold or the pure ring of the hammer against the metal.
The Timeless Halls were not the last time he had given voice to such internal music that flowed through all the Ainur. He had sung songs before that wove together his powers and other songs that were simply from the pleasure of releasing the flowing music from his spirit, often in Almaren and sometimes in Middle-earth, though these occasions had grown rarer over the long years. But he could not recall the last time he had sung like this, unbridled to the fire and to the gold. Had any other Ainu heard it, they might have assumed it closely bound to Melkor's first Discord in the Great Music, both defiant and strangely – alluringly – beautiful, proud and angry, yet also sad. But it was not Melkor's Song. It was Sauron's own song, and there were many themes in it that Melkor would not have understood any more than Manwë.
The song Sauron had sung in the beginning had contained words, though Sauron could not recall what they had been nor the language in which he had sung; this song, however, remained wordless: woven notes and themes of his own devising. The music bound him, unquenchable, and so he worked and he sang and he sang and he worked, and the hours flowed past him towards the new dawn.
At last, the music and the passion of his work released him, and he fell silent and still. The flames had diminished to glowing embers, and the last rings of the hammer and notes of his song echoed away into the vast, empty chamber until they were lost. Sauron realized he was shaking.
Slowly, he reached out and picked up the ring.
It was nothing elaborate, certainly not by his own standards, yet fair all the same: a half-inch, solid band of gold with a delicate twist in the middle. The smooth surface showed no signs of the hundreds of blows that had bent it to its final shape. Just from holding it, he could tell the balance and shape was perfect. He gently slipped it onto his forefinger.
He gazed at it for a long, long time, unable to gauge his own emotions. Anger was there, yes, rage against the Valar that they would seek to keep him from his rightful task, Binding his powers to diminish his work, robbing him of the only thing left that he could now imagine bringing him any pleasure or sense of accomplishment in life, save revenge. But that was only part of what the song and the sight of his creation had left with him. Pride glowed inside him, and defiance against the Valar, that after so many centuries and even with his powers lost, he had not lost his skill, and nor could it be stolen from him utterly, no matter what the Valar did to him. Some small measure of delight touched him as well, something that might have almost been innocent had it not been tainted by his darker emotions. And yet, looking at the ring, he felt also a deep, stabbing pain, a grief he could not quite give a name to, the same sorrow that had melded itself into his song.
He found this last emotion rising heavily in his throat, unpleasantly thick and clogging. His breath caught and the sound forced its way out in a quiet sob that quickly faded. He didn't bother to curse himself for it; there was no one here but him. There could not be. He realized he was suddenly exhausted, and he fell back against the wall behind him and slid down until he was sitting, still holding his hand in front of his face. The ring shimmered in his vision as sweat and a film of tears mixed in his eyes.
The great, dark emptiness of that vast room pressed down upon him, a small figure in the corner by the dying forge. Hopelessness pressed around him as well, not that black despair that had threatened to destroy him yester-afternoon, but a hollowness that seemed to eat away at his insides. If he achieved everything he had ever wanted, if he lived to see the Valar groveling at his feet and their precious Valinor burning, if he destroyed every cursed Elf in Arda, if he gained back every power he had lost and more, in the end, what would he truly have and would it not all be taken from him yet again? What was the point of a single golden ring to grace his hand? His kind had no place in Eä, and he knew deep down that he was doomed to live a cursed existence in any outcome, that he would never belong, either as slave of the Valar or Lord of all Arda.
He bent his head, his hair falling as a curtain about his beautiful face, and closed his eyes, allowing the tears trapped there to trickle out down his sooty cheeks.
No matter what he did, the Void would never cease to haunt his steps.
A sound caught his ear, or more like the echo of a sound. His head snapped up and around, his heart suddenly pounding, his eyes wildly darting around the darkness about him for some source of movement, but there was nothing. All was eerily still and quiet now that he had completed his work.
For several minutes though he remained tense and perfectly still, straining to catch any other noises out of place, even though he knew there was nothing. In such a place as this, complete silence was a fanciful concept – there were doubtlessly any number of things that could have caused a small creak or groan. After a long enough period had passed to make his watchfulness seem ridiculous even in his own eyes, he huddled against the warm wall again, still overly aware of the harsh pounding in his chest.
Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps that was the true import of his nightmare. The thought frightened him. He wrapped his arms about himself and curled up miserably, lowering his face again until his curtain of hair hid him from the forges around him. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He'd seen the effects of madness many times before. Elves, Men, and animals alike turned mad after too much torture, a screaming, clawing madness, at which point, they were generally considered useless for anything besides werewolf and dragon fodder. There was a madness too that overcame Elves that had spent centuries in the dungeons without a glimpse of sunshine, an empty, muttering madness, which usually gave way to death sooner or later. Perhaps the first madness had already taken him, brought on by the pain of his ravaged fëa, but now that second madness was overtaking him as well, Melkor's little bird trapped in the Valar's cage. He knew what a madman looked like: something went out in their eyes and something new, a wild darkness, a Nothingness, came on in its place. He wondered if the madness was already showing in his eyes.
He rocked himself slowly forward and backward, his deep weariness finally overcoming him, his arms wrapped about his legs, pulling them tightly to his chest. Moisture squeezed out of the corners of his eyes and trickled down over his sticky, hot cheeks. He did not want to go mad. To lose his faculties, the power of his mind, his very dignity, was a thought too horrible to contemplate. He was terrified of it.
Cages. Humiliation. The Void. Wolves that stalked him in the night. Madness.
He had never known he was frightened of so many things.