Gorthauro Estel

by Sauron Gorthaur

What if Sauron had not fled? In which Sauron takes Eonwe's advice and returns to Valinor to face judgment for his deeds.

11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Lost in thought, Aulë sat upon his bed, gazing out the window at the sun making her descent towards the western border of Aman. A deep sigh swelled up inside his chest and he leaned his head back against the bed post, unable to dispel the dejection that had settled itself like a lump of iron in his chest. Outside, the blazing glory of Arien's last light across the Blessed Realm was a magnificent sight, when the Gardens and the white height of Taniquetil in the distance turned to fire, like countless emeralds and diamonds in the light of his forges. It was a sight he had often enjoyed; as often as he had mourned the loss of Illuin and Ormal, he had to admit that the glory of the Sun and the Moon surpassed anything that had come before them. Even the Two Trees had not shed their light over all of Arda with such a fair and benevolent fire.

Yet, there were some Darknesses in the world that not even the sun could pierce.

Aulë shifted his gaze away from the window view and stared downward at his weathered hands as that internal iron weight shifted uncomfortably, pressing painfully deep into both his mind and his fëa. No matter how hard he tried to bend his thoughts elsewhere, his mind turned ever back to the reality in which he found himself helplessly bound. Every passing day was revealing to him ever more blatantly that he was failing.

Mairon was back, and yet, never before had his beloved child seemed so far away.

Ages had passed, long, sorrowful Ages, since his Fiery One had betrayed him and left to serve their Enemy, whose only delight seemed to be the destruction of all works created by his one-time compatriots. Aulë had not seen it coming; none of them had. That last day, Mairon had seemed as alive and passionate as ever he had been, seemingly delighted with his work, content with his lot, and as skilled in his role of master apprentice as the Smith could have ever desired. Aulë had seen nothing amiss in Mairon's eyes, no catch in his voice, no falter in his tasks. He had put his hand on his Nauron's shoulder, giving him a warm, pleased smile the way he always did and Mairon had smiled back confidently, assuring his lord that he would oversee the closing of the forges personally himself, and Aulë had gone to his chambers without the slightest worry. Never in his darkest nightmares had he even considered the possibility that Mairon might fall.

So it was that when he came to reopen the forges and could not find Mairon in any of the usual places, he had seen no cause for exorbitant worry. Doubtlessly, Mairon was seeing to some task that the rest of them had overlooked – he could always be counted upon to keep everything running smoothly – and would appear sooner or later to give Aulë a report on the store of gems that had been mined or to inform him that one of the flues needed cleaning out or to proudly produce a breath-taking choker set with emeralds that he'd been working on in secret diligence as a gift for Aulë to give Yavanna to celebrate the completion of her magnificent Garden, the Tuiletarwa. As such, Aulë had gone about his regular tasks, forging a great belt of gold for Tulkas, and the time had simply slipped away from him as it was wont to do when he immersed himself in his beloved work. It was only when Curumo had appeared beside him, informing him that still no one could find Mairon, that he had realized how far the hours had waned and that something perhaps was wrong.

But even so, betrayal had not crossed his mind, not yet. He knew of others who had been lost: those Maiar who had simply vanished and of whom nothing was heard tell from the darkness ever again, those whose names were no longer spoken by the Ainur who continued to do Eru's will in Eä. It was never known how Melkor had seduced them, whether he had somehow infiltrated the Valar's very strongholds and in person convinced their servants to follow him or whether the Maiar had been swayed from afar by the power and majesty that Melkor had seemed to wield in those early days. In the end, it mattered little. They were lost one way or the other. There had even been a few who would have been Aulë's own: fiery spirits who had been destined for Aulë's forges but who had been beguiled by Melkor's splendor during the Music and drawn into the Dark Vala's Discord, but they had vanished long before the days of Almaren and there had been little shock for any Ainu in their betrayal.

But Mairon, it did not seem possible that Mairon could have fallen, that he could have dishonored his oaths and thrown aside everything to follow the rebellious path of Melkor. True, it was clear from the beginning that Mairon enjoyed power, but Aulë had never been negligent in showering upon his prized apprentice all the status and power that his skill and loyalty had rightfully earned. Aulë had been genuinely proud of the young Maia, pleased at how quickly he learned the forge's skills, even if his fiery temper sometimes caused minor havoc here and there. The Spring was coming. In those first days of Almaren, Darkness seemed but a thing of the past, Melkor nothing but a lurking shadow on the very edge of thought. Betrayal had so far come only from those Maiar who had isolated themselves from the very beginning, whose Light had been tainted during the Music; a betrayal as intimate as Mairon's was something that Aulë dismissed as impossible. Only Melkor himself had betrayed them that deeply. But Mairon was not Melkor, could not ever be, with his bright eyes shining with Eru's Flame, his fascination with the world they were creating, his passionate love of watching everything fall into place under his will and his hand. And so Aulë had waited, fear only beginning to cast shadowy tendrils across his heart, but hopeful trust in his Maia still bright and strong.

They never did learn where the great fire started, but it swept down upon them from the north, a swift and relentless force that devoured everything in its path. The smoke of it had contained a thick, choking darkness, something that confused the minds and wills of those who breathed it in, draining the power from the Ainur who had rushed to fight it. Even Ulmo's waters had only caused it to hiss and pour forth spumes of its noxious smoke. Many Maiar had been consumed by it, either unable to outrun its leaping advance or overcome by the foul power of the darkness that it produced and sent before itself like carrion crows heralding the coming of an invading army.

Yavanna's new Garden had burned that day. The stench of it lingered long, but Yavanna's inconsolable sorrow lingered far longer, a scar across her fëa that no balm could soothe. And yet, the destruction might have been greater still; the wildfire was only stopped when finally it reached the bulwarks of Aulë's dwelling, where the Smith's folk had torn down everything green, leaving nothing but bare rock and soil. From the rock, Aulë had raised a wall imbued with his power to ward off the fire and its sorcerous smoke, and the other Valar had leant their aid in fortifying the wall against the dark powers that drove the flames onward. There had been a great battle of wills once the fire reached the wall, for the flames had driven against the rock with terrible heat and force, proving beyond a doubt that the fire was of no ordinary making. But finally, its power had been sapped and it retreated and at last failed. Yet the cloud of smoke remained for a long while yet, blocking off the light of the Lamps and covering Almaren in a haze of despair.

The Valar had begun their work anew, and as always, new life blossomed from the ashes. The smoke had cleared and the stench had faded, and soon the fire seemed but a little setback in the coming of the Valar's Spring. Yavanna had regrown the Tuiletarwa, and soon Almaren was once again a haven of all Good in Arda.

And yet, deep, deep down, Aulë now knew.

Melkor was not Fire. He had used the fire of the Valaraukar who had betrayed the Valar in the earliest days, but Aulë knew that not even they could have been behind that terrible conflagration. There was no doubt that Melkor's power had driven it, and that stinking, choking blackness that had spewed forth from the flames doubtlessly had its source in the Dark Vala. But the fire itself, the way it had so efficiently and swiftly destroyed everything in its path, had been terribly familiar to Aulë. When he and the other Valar defended his wall and fought back the flames, he had sensed a will in the fire's attack that he knew, a fiery will that he had often taught how to control the forge's flames, that he had always sought to temper with reason and compassion. If the other Valar had not been there to lend their power to his wall, he knew he would have failed, his own will overcome with darkness and despair at the knowledge of whom the attacker was.

Somehow, he knew Melkor had not sent the fire against them merely to destroy their work. The fire had been a message, a boast, a threat, and, he dreaded, a test – a test of the power of his newest, and most powerful, servant. Darkness was no longer the only tool Melkor wielded; Wildfire now served the Lord of Darkness, and together, the two had proven a force far more terrible than anything the Valar had yet faced. United, the fourteen Valar could still overcome whatever Melkor and his fiery new lieutenant threw at them, but Melkor had proven that he could stab deeper into their midst than any of them had dared imagine.

And so the years had passed. Curumo had taken the place of Mairon as master apprentice, and when the Lamps were destroyed and Almaren abandoned, all the Valar had begun anew once again in Valinor. The Halls and Forges of Aulë and the Gardens of Yavanna in the Blessed Realm were glorious and great, and when the Elves had awoken and come to dwell with the Ainur, for a while peace and prosperity had seemed to rule the lives of the Valar. Aulë had found he had much to do to keep himself occupied, and the Noldor and their love of his work had in some small measure filled a part of a deep hole that had been left in his spirit.

Yet no Elf could completely fill that hole, not Mahtan for all his craft nor Fëanor in the height of his glory. A deep, abiding sorrow followed Aulë no matter where he went or what he did to try to block out the pain. A thousand times and more his mind had conjured up that last day with Mairon and the days preceding it, ever searching for some hint as to why his Fiery One had betrayed him. Sometimes, he tried to convince himself that Melkor's sorcery had somehow Bound Mairon's will and that his Maia had not been willing in his betrayal; more often, he ridiculed and blamed himself for anything and everything that he himself might possibly have done wrong to lose Mairon so, even though he knew deep down that there was nothing he could have done. But helplessness was the worst feeling of all, and so as bitter as they were, guilt and self-blame were Aulë's companions for year after year.

Still, Aulë had always had a strong will, and hope is hard to completely crush. Every rumor from Middle-earth, every whisper concerning the Darkness, reached Aulë's ears and he listened fervently, despite the pain that such tales always brought. He longed to hear news of his Nauron, even as he dreaded it. Even though no lost Maia had ever returned, the Smith still dared to hope against hope that one day Mairon would come home. He had prayed for it, begging Eru to have mercy on Mairon's treachery as the All-father had forgiven Aulë's own reckless transgression. That agonizing hope had lingered ever on the edge of his thought, and every passing day in which Mairon remained lost seemed tinged in grey, incomplete for him on some innate level.

From outside the protective walls of the Pelóri, rumors of the Darkness came here and there. The Elves brought with them news of a malevolent Power that hunted them in the darkness and stole away those that strayed too far from the others. In many of these tales, Aulë saw the direct hand of Melkor, but sometimes the Elves spoke of another, a Power who appeared in a form of beguiling beauty at times and at other times took on the likenesses of those they thought they knew and thus persuaded some to stray. In his eyes was a dark fire, they said, and his voice was fair and seductive, but he was as cruel as the one he served and those that fell into his hands met terrible fates. The Elves had their own name for this being, a terrible name for a terrible enemy, and at first, Aulë had refused to believe that this powerful servant of Melkor was truly who he knew him in his heart to be, despite the dark irony of how the Elves had chosen a name for his former Maia that was but one letter different from the name of endearment by which he himself had always called him.

The tales continued to come, faint and faded most often but no less dreadful, and Aulë wept in secret, locked in his chambers, every time he heard of some new horror wrought by this Sauron, the dark and powerful sorcerer who bent fire and wolves to his will, who was so trusted by Morgoth that he had been left in charge of the wars against the Elves for a time while Melkor himself saw to the corruption of the Secondborn, of which the Valar did not learn until too late. At times, the Smith pleaded with his fellow Powers to go to Middle-earth and strike at Melkor, fashioning his arguments out loud around the single goal of saving the Children. Yet, though he indeed desired the deliverance of the Quendi whom he had grown to love deeply, his true hope rested in the possibility that if Morgoth were defeated and his kingdom shattered, the Black Captain might return to his former masters, seeking restoration and forgiveness, gifts Aulë would not hesitate to grant. But the other Valar feared such an outright war against the Dark Vala and the ruin it might wreak on the physical world, now that the Children had awoken and inhabited the lands. Or so they said, though Aulë suspected that Manwë wished to believe all could be kept well if they and their people simply remained behind their walls, thus blocking out all knowledge of the wars and the subsequent guilt they might feel if they were to learn too many of the details concerning the terror of Morgoth's reign. And Aulë found he could not fully blame the High King for such reluctance; his own grief over the loss of Mairon allowed him to empathize with the pain his fellow Vala must have suffered over the two-fold treachery of his brother.

Yet in the end, it had finally happened. Eärendil's valiance and beseeching message had at last convinced Manwë to sanction the mustering of the Host of the West and the War of Wrath. Many of the Valar themselves had gone – Oromë, Tulkas, Ulmo, and even Yavanna – but Aulë could not bring himself to accompany them. He was no warrior by the standards of any, and he knew that the dread of facing Sauron as an foe would overwhelm any attempts he made at the art of war. And so he remained in his halls, waiting for news, hoping, ever hoping that a message would arrive detailing Sauron's surrender, but dreading, ever dreading that a message should come instead bearing the news of Sauron's destruction, for it had been determined beforehand in the Máhanaxar that any enemy Maiar who opposed the Valar and whose bodies were destroyed in the struggle would be doomed to the Void. Only Melkor was to be captured alive at any cost. But any Maiar who surrendered were to be given a fair trial.

Perhaps no news was a worse fate than ill news however, for no news was all Aulë received day after day, and that sliver of hope, that Sauron might yet be saved, tormented the Vala of Earth like no other torment he yet had faced. It chiseled away at his stomach until he could no longer stand the sight of food and ground away at his thoughts until his nights were spent in sleepless doubt and worry. One by one, the Valar returned until only Oromë remained in Middle-earth to hunt down all of Morgoth's fell beasts that the Vala's hounds could find. Eönwë remained as well with the last regiment of the Host, camped by the sea as the Herald did his best to help the Men, Dwarves, and Moriquendi affected by the war and to make sure that no last skirmishes flared up. As day by day passed and less and less news came, Aulë's hope diminished and he began to fear that it was in vain that he had sent the hammer.

That hammer had been a last minute thought. From Almaren, Aulë had brought only two of Mairon's former possessions: a plain gold circlet – the first object Mairon had ever crafted in Eä – and Mairon's hammer. The latter was in poor shape, for it had gone unused and unpolished since the days when Mairon himself had wielded it. Though Aulë could not bear the thought of using it himself, he never could bring himself to throw it away or destroy it either.

It had been the same day the Host of the West set sail for Beleriand and the War of Wrath, a greater army than had ever been gathered in the history of Arda: Valar, Maiar, Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri all together, with Vingelot and the Silmaril shining from Eärendil's brow gliding above the tide. But Aulë could not go to see them off as the other Valar who were choosing to stay were doing – Nienna, Irmo, Estë, those whose skills would be required for those who returned. He could not look upon his fellow Powers and imagine what might come to pass: Eönwë's swift and bright sword piercing through Mairon's body, bringing forth a rush of blood as red as fire; a doomed arrow from Oromë's powerful bow felling the Black Captain whose once-flaming eyes would so quickly dim; or Námo's powers crushing the vibrant mind and will of which Aulë had once been so proud. He could not look upon his friends and fellow lords and ladies and wonder which of them might commit that act which, however just it might be, he knew in his heart he would never be able to forgive.

It was not often that he opened that small chest in the corner of his chambers; he brought out the hammer and ran his fingers over the dented surface only during those times when the strongest bouts of grief, despair, and pain took hold of him. In those times, the pain of seeing and touching his fallen child's abandoned possession was overcome by the yearning hope that Mairon would live to hold that hammer again. The hammer bore memories of a fond and fierce love, a father's love for an eldest child full of potential. It was a good hammer – he knew for he himself had made it personally for Mairon – a hammer fit for the head apprentice of the Smith, a symbol of Mairon's exalted place among the Maiar of Aulë.

That day, the day of the mustering of the Host, the Smith had opened that chest, cradling the tool as if it were Hope itself, trying to block out the horrible images of all the ways in which Mairon might meet his end once the war began, and trying instead to imagine the joy he would feel if – no, when – news came to him that Sauron had surrendered and was coming home, back to his proper place at Aulë's side.

The idea had sparked suddenly, spontaneously. Mightn't the sight of the hammer arouse in Mairon the same hope and memories of a better time long ago if he were to see it? When Aulë gazed upon the hammer, it was not the tales of Sauron the Black Captain that flooded his mind but thoughts of Nauron the fiery apprentice. When the war was waged and Sauron left with the decision of whether to surrender or fight, perhaps this hammer might send a more powerful message to the Maia than all other words he or any Vala might contrive to convince Mairon to return. Perhaps the hammer was enough to remind a dark lord of what he once had been.

Return would surely not be an easy choice for the fallen Black Captain, but a tangible symbol of Aulë's steadfast devotion and desire for reconciliation, a chance to return to what they both once had, might make all the difference. Mairon had always been clever – he would understand the import of that wordless message.

He had lost no time. Within minutes, the sea wind laced his tangled hair with salt and he saw the great fleet below him in the Bay of Eldamar like a bevy of swans dancing upon the high tide of noon. The army commanders had gathered upon Túna beside the crystal stairs leading up to the great gates of Tirion: the three elven kings, Ingwë, Olwë, and Finarfin, along with Eärendil, Eönwë and the other Maiarin generals, and the Valar themselves. Aulë found his eyes drawn outward, however, over the vast expanse of Belegaer. Somewhere across that dark sea lay Beleriand and Middle-earth, the realms he had never seen but which Mairon had called home for these last hundreds of years.

It was Manwë he had chosen to draw aside, feeling that the High King would better understand the importance of his message than any of the other Valar. "Please, if – when – Mairon comes, please make sure he sees this," Aulë asked wretchedly, his voice already hitching, pressing the hammer into Manwë's hand. "I…I want to make sure he knows he can come back, that it's a choice. That there's still something here for him. I can't stand the thought of him destroying himself because he thinks he doesn't have any other option. I want him to know–" But here his throat closed off and tears filled his eyes until the brilliance of the Host turned into a silver wash, like a glorious painting over which the sea has risen.

He had felt Manwë's gentle hand on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. "I will use my best judgment," the Vala of the Sky replied. "If Sauron comes, I vow to you, Smith, I will do everything in my power to see that this hammer reaches him."

The tears in Aulë's eyes had cleared enough to see the deep sincerity in Manwë's face, along with that familiar sadness on the High King's visage that Aulë knew all too well. Yet it was Manwë's vow that spoke the strongest; few in Arda, let alone the Valar, dared to swear any oath on a whim after witnessing the ruin of the House of Fëanor. He had clasped Manwë's hand tightly, and then the High King was gone, and Aulë began his long wait.

Many months later, when all fourteen of the Powers took their seats in the Máhanaxar and the High King and the Doomsman stood and pronounced Doom upon the defeated, broken figure in the center of the Ring wearing the twisted iron collar that had once been his crown, Aulë had seen the tears in Manwë's eyes and the anguish on his face as he turned his back upon his brother. And as Melkor screamed for mercy whilst Tulkas and Oromë hauled him towards the Doors of Night, Manwë's long sorrow was made absolute, with no hope left to temper the pain. As the High King seemed to shrink and bend under the immense weight that was his to bear the remainder of his existence in Eä, Aulë had known it was not right to ask him for news of the hammer or Mairon, not now. He trusted that Manwë had honored his vow and that wherever the hammer was, it was where it needed to be.

News came, sometimes by eagle, sometimes by creatures of the sea, sometimes by the Elves whose returning ships steadily arrived at the harbor nestled in the Calacirya. Celebrations filled the Blessed Realm with elven music and laughing voices, as the Eldar and the Maiar together rejoiced in the defeat of the greatest Enemy of Arda and the new Age that had dawned so brightly over them. Others did not rejoice; Finarfin's visage was sad and weary when he debarked, and Aulë learned that the Noldorin king's daughter, his only surviving child, had refused to come home and accept the pardon that the Valar had offered to any of the Exiles who had aided them in the War. Manwë remained distant and quiet, grieving inwardly over the fate of Melkor, and many Eldar sang laments for loved ones lost during the many battles. Little was seen of Námo, as he and his Maiar kept busy tending to the thousands of new fëar who had so recently been committed into Mandos. And Aulë himself watched and waited, glad for the Elves who were able to enjoy the coming of the Second Age but unable yet to truly rejoice himself.

But then, it had finally happened.

Drawn from these contemplations of past events, Aulë rose from his bed, shifting his gaze from the beautiful sunset to the oaken drawers in the corner of his chambers. He opened one of the top drawers and drew out the official-looking letter with the broken wax seal of Manwë's eagle. Sitting back down heavily with a grunt, the Smith carefully unfolded the message, his hands quivering slightly, and stared at Eönwë's elegant Tengwar cursive. The letter was addressed to Manwë and much of it was the commonplace information about refugees, supplies, and minor business that had dominated most of the Herald's previous correspondences. But there at the end were the sentences that Aulë had been waiting so long to read.

"It also concerns you to know that yesterday morning Morgoth's former Black Captain, he the Elves call Sauron, arrived at my tent. He came in peace and surrendered himself to me, seeking pardon and mercy. I informed him that it was not in my authority to grant him what he sought and I directed him to sail West and immediately seek the judgment of yourself and my other lords and ladies. As you directed, my lord, I provided him necessities, and I also left with him the hammer as you commanded. He remained the night with us, and in the morning, I personally saw him provided a place on the swan ship Eärlissë under the authority of Fiondis and Cánaquar. You may expect his arrival in Valinor within two weeks."

There was no more. It had irked Aulë that Eönwë had provided no clue as to what state Sauron might be in, physically or mentally. He realized it was the duty of the Herald to be official and concise in these reports, but over the two weeks that had followed the letter's arrival, he found himself poring over it until he had memorized every word, desperately seeking any hint about the undercurrents that had doubtlessly existed in Eönwë's encounter with the Black Captain. Had Sauron been frightened? Had it taken much to convince him to return to Valinor or had he gone easily? What had been his reaction upon receiving the hammer? How had he spoken of the Valar? Had Sauron mentioned Aulë himself? Yet the letter contained none of the answers Aulë sought and he had realized he would simply have to wait until Sauron arrived, though he found that was easier said than done.

Hardly an hour after receiving the letter, he had sent messengers to the harbor, informing the Harbormaster, a Maia of Ulmo named Falletinwë, that he wished to be notified immediately once the Eärlissë was sighted. Despite knowledge that Eönwë's two-week estimate was dependable, he still found himself lingering near the windows of his chambers, reluctant to go down to the forges, even though he knew distracting his mind with his craft would ease his anxiety.

Yavanna told him as much, but bitter warnings were also thick in his wife's speech. "Do not forget that it is Sauron who is coming, not your Nauron," she had said to him. "He's the Black Captain of Morgoth, not the apprentice smith of Aulë. Do not barricade your mind overmuch with sentimental memories that blind you to reality; this is the Maia who betrayed all of us, who deliberately broke your heart and his oaths, the one who maliciously set fire to my Gardens and would have destroyed all of Almaren had we not stopped him, the one about whom we have heard tales of horror from the Children for years. Have you forgotten everything you've heard? You're not waiting for news of a lost puppy; you're sitting like a statue, refusing to eat and sleep, sighing like some love-sick elven maiden over an individual who apparently decided that the best use for the Children was feeding them to his horrific master's equally horrific monsters. What do you think he's going to do, Aulë? Rush into your arms, sob, and tell you he's so very sorry for everything he's done? You're making a loon of yourself."

Aulë had quickly ceased any attempts at arguing with Yavanna. Ever since Manwë had sent them Eönwë's letter with the news of Sauron's coming, the Valië of Flora had become as belligerent as a bear safeguarding her cubs. The slightest reference to the Maia, even a furtive glance out the window with the hope of seeing an elven messenger from Falletinwë approaching, seemed enough to stir up her impressive store of wrath. Inside, he knew her ire was not altogether unjustified, for her domain had suffered far more from Melkor and his servants than his own had, yet he could not help but feel hurt by her lack of any outward compassion towards the Maia who once had been like their own child, especially during this time of eager anticipation on his part. He had hoped, in light of their recent victory and the fact that her new Gardens in Valinor were beautiful and unstained, that she might forgive or at least overlook Sauron's past evils and rejoice with her husband in the knowledge that Mairon had been saved, beyond hope and reason. That was what mattered, wasn't it?

"Sauron or Mairon, what is really the difference?" he had tried to reason with her on the first occasion she revealed her angry anxiety. "Is he not both? Just because he was lost to the darkness, does that mean we must now blot out all memory of when he served the light? Besides, he may no longer by the apprentice smith of Aulë, but he's not the Black Captain of Morgoth anymore either. This is a new start for all of us. This is our chance to imprint our names back on his heart and to blot out Melkor's. This is our chance to show him the future is not set in stone and he can return to the light just as he once left it."

Yavanna had given him a hard look. "I love you, Aulë, and I do not wish to see him hurt you any more than he already has. Take my warnings or leave them. But I warn you, Husband, whoever – whatever – arrives in that ship, it won't be your Nauron."

On the tenth day, the Valar had held council in the Máhanaxar. To his dismay, there Aulë learned that Yavanna was not alone in her mistrust and apprehension of their would-be guest. It quickly became evident that the fourteen Powers fell into two distinct camps of roughly equal sizes: those that wished to take no chances and considered it best to punish Sauron swiftly and justly to make sure Evil was as thoroughly eradicated from Eä as possible this time around, and those who wished to extend compassion and mercy to one who was now but a former foe, who had surrendered and now sought reconciliation with his erstwhile masters. The arguments had flown back and forth, growing rather heated at times, as the two parties haggled the exact terms that would be extended to Sauron, balancing justice, mercy, and the safety of Valinor on the delicate scales of their stipulations.

At last, the order of business for the upcoming trial was officially written down in Námo's book and there was nothing more to do until Sauron himself arrived. The Maia would not be assigned a hall until the trial itself, for none of the Valar had yet to see him and it was determined that it would be best to take stock of his condition before deciding where he should be placed. Likewise, it was agreed upon that Sauron be given a physical task, one that would lend some practical aid and simultaneously deter him from causing trouble, but the task itself could not be assigned until they knew where in Valinor he would be staying. Aulë had understand the practicality of the stipulations, given history, even as it grieved him that the other Valar considered them necessary. Yet his hope remained that if and when Sauron proved these stipulations needless, then the doubts of Yavanna, Oromë, Tulkas, Ulmo, and the other Valar who opposed his own lenient views would be overturned. And surely they would be proved needless. Sauron was coming back of his own free will, was he not? And if that were so, then surely it was Mairon, not truly Sauron, who would arrive in just a few days' time. And if Mairon was coming home, then what could possibly go wrong?

The sun was just rising above the Pelóri on the fourteenth day when Aulë had glanced out his window and seen the elven horseman pounding down the road towards the front gate of his halls. There was only one message he could be bearing. The Elf had pulled up his horse sharply, surprised when Aulë dashed out the front gate to meet him, still tugging on his outer jacket, his hair and beard as tangled as a briar patch, his clothes crumpled, and his eyes ablaze with a fiery passion. "What news? Where is the ship?" the Smith had demanded instantly, taking hold of the horse's reins.

"She was sighted this morning, my lord," the Elf replied respectfully. "The Harbormaster expects her to dock even as we speak. Upon landing, Sauron is to be taken to one of the guest houses on the far side of Valmar. He told me to tell you–"

But whatever additional information Falletinwë had wished to deliver, it was lost upon the Smith, who, the moment he heard the bare minimum of information he needed, had clothed himself in the form of golden eagle and taken flight to the south towards the shining city of the Valar.

He could not stem the rush of thoughts that flooded through his mind even as the wind rushed powerfully past beneath his wings. He had imagined his reunion with Nauron a thousand times, and now the thought that he was actually on his way, after so long, to fulfill that Age-long dream made him dizzy. What should he say first to Nauron? Or should he forgo words – how could words express what was in his heart anyway – and simply embrace his lost Maia? Sauron needed to know that he was safe and that the Valar weren't going to condemn him for what he had done. But maybe he should welcome him first, seeing as Sauron had never been to Valinor. Should he tell him immediately that he had forgiven him for his betrayal, or should that wait until later? Or would that help in putting him at ease? Maybe he should avoid mentioning the whole business with Morgoth for now – Sauron might take it as an accusation – and just stick with how delighted he was to see him and how glad he was that he had made it here safely. But his Nauron had always been direct; maybe purposefully avoiding the touchy matters would make the Maia more uncomfortable instead of the other way around.

Once at Valmar, he had found Fiondis and Cánaquar, Oromë's dark-haired huntress and Tulkas's red-haired warrior, the two Maiar who had accompanied Sauron on the Eärlissë, both of whom were enjoying glasses of foaming Vanyarin ale at the gate tavern and answering questions about Middle-earth, the War, and the voyage from a gathered crowd of Elves and Maiar. When Aulë asked about Sauron, a distinct scowl settled over Cánaquar's face and Fiondis's answer was respectful but reserved. "We left him little more than half an hour ago," she replied. "Of course, it is your decision, my lord, but I would give him some time to himself. He was left with food and water for bathing, and he made it clear that he wished to be left to himself for a while. We posted two guards outside the house with instructions that he is not to leave. I hope we have done as you desired."

Like fire in his veins, a powerful urge to immediately seek out Sauron had swept nigh irresistibly through Aulë, but he somehow managed to quell it. A voyage of two weeks across the Sundering Seas was no brief jaunt, especially for one unused to sea travel. Aulë would receive but one chance at this reunion; it was probably best to allow Sauron the opportunity to satisfy his basic needs without barging in on him. Even Mairon had had the propensity towards a foul temper of epic proportions when he was stressed, tired, and hungry.

So the Smith remained in the tavern, ordered a large mug of dark ale himself, and spent the next several hours questioning the two Maiar. To his disappointment, they had little information– they had neither witnessed the meeting between Eönwë and Sauron nor spoken much to the fallen Maia during the voyage. Sauron had evidently made no attempts at initiating conversation either, a fact that did not exactly shock Aulë. Even before, Mairon had never relished the art of socializing. After spending the last several Ages severed from any healthy relationships, surrounded by werewolves and orcs and Eru knew what, it was not truly astonishing that he would remain aloof in the company of two Maiar whom he had never known well. Although Aulë was mildly irritated at Fiondis and Cánaquar's own negligence in reassuring Sauron and making him feel welcomed, he let his annoyance go. After all, they had not known exactly what awaited Sauron in Valinor so any reassurances could only have been half-hearted at best. Neither had they known him any more than he knew them. And what was one to expect from a Maia of Oromë and a Maia of Tulkas anyway?

At last, Fiondis and Cánaquar had taken their leave and he was left alone with the dregs of his ale. When he glanced out the window, he saw that more hours had passed during his interrogation than he had assumed. Yet now that it finally came to it, he found himself lingering over the last few sips of his drink, suddenly reluctant to make the short journey over to the guest house. It was silly, he knew. After all, hadn't he waited Ages literally for this very day and hour?

Yet, a queer anxiety had stolen over him as he questioned the Maiar. It was no more than a flickering sensation, yet ever and anon, the unsettling feeling trembled through him that the two Maiar were not giving him a full account of events. Occasionally, they would avoid his eyes for a moment, exchange the briefest of glances with one another, or shift just slightly in a way that spoke of some discomfort. Once, he had inquired if Sauron had yet to speak of him or if the Maia had expressed any eagerness to return to the forges, and that clandestine glance had flashed between the huntress and the warrior before Cánaquar replied that he was not aware of Sauron having addressed these matters, a statement seconded by a nod from Fiondis. At another point, he had mentioned his regret at not having been at the docks to greet Sauron personally and his hope that others had taken the initiative to welcome him. At this, both Maiar had dropped their gazes fractionally from his and Fiondis had shifted in her place. Cánaquar cleared his throat then answered in his brusque manner that everything had been handled adequately. It was possible that the two were simply uncomfortable discussing a fallen brother, Aulë realized, yet he could not shake off the feeling that there had been deeper elements to the conversation that he was missing.

Finally, he had risen, paid for his drink, and plodded his way up the hill towards the guest house that Fiondis had indicated. It was obvious when he reached the right place, for the two Vanyarin guards outside the door stood to attention and bowed as he approached. He tried to smile at them, but the expression faltered when he noticed one of the guards unbarring the front door. "Let us know immediately if you need anything, my lord," the guard told him before rapping loudly on the door. Aulë nodded, wondering what sort of help the Elf thought he might need.

He stepped inside, his heart thudding so loudly that it felt like someone was forging a sword inside his skull. Nervously drawing his fingers through his beard, his boots feeling heavy and awkward in the silence, he slowly made his way into the main room. And froze.

Broken crockery, shattered glass, and splintered chairs lay strewn over the floor. Something cold and unpleasant jabbed itself into his pounding heart, freezing his throat, causing his tongue to grow heavy. They would not have left Sauron in a derelict house, not if they had taken the time to provide him bath water and fresh food (not that the mere passage of time could have ever caused this ruin anyhow). No, it was in the last few hours that this had happened, and in those hours, the house had had but one occupant.

He lifted his eyes and saw the half-closed door across the room from him. He could feel the faint pulse of power from a fellow Ainu issuing from the chamber, and for a moment, his nerve almost deserted him. Yet, he already blamed himself for many things and he could not add simply turning and leaving at this critical moment to that bitter list. So instead, he clenched his jaw, hardening his resolve in time with the physical gesture, and stepped forward, avoiding the shards of glass and earthenware.

The door swung open at a light touch, and for the first time since the beginning of the Spring of Arda, Aulë the Smith found himself looking upon the Maia who had once been his beloved apprentice.

At the sight of the figure sitting on the bed, words failed the Smith and it took all his restraint not to toss decorum to the wind and pull Mairon into his arms, embracing him as he had longed to do ever since the day he had left. Aulë had not been sure how Sauron would appear, but the fána his former apprentice currently wore was not so different from his old fána as Aulë had feared it might be. The Maia was certainly recognizable, not some dark, fearsome monster as some of the elven tales had described him. For a moment, the past thousands of years dissipated like cobwebs in fire and, as if it were yesterday, Aulë saw the same Maia who had smiled at him and assured him that the forges would be seen to, that last day in Almaren.

Then Sauron met his eyes.

It was all he could do not to stagger backwards in dismay and shock as those blazing eyes met his. Mairon's eyes had always been bright, but the unholy fire that raged in them now was so full of malice, destructive hate, and terrible fear that it shook Aulë's will. They were still Mairon's eyes, intelligent and fiery, but the intelligence was tempered now with dark cunning and calculating suspicion while the fire had become something that destroyed rather than that which formed beautiful works of art. He was still handsome as he always had been, but his fair face was marred by a harsh cruelty and unspeakable pain that seemed to have melded itself into his very flesh. His expression as he watched Aulë was one of cold wariness, and Aulë sensed an animal mistrust in him, like a cornered wolf that had taken humanoid form, betrayed only by the feral eyes which revealed the savage fëa within.

He had known deep down that Mairon would not be the same – how could anyone be the same after living under the Darkness of Morgoth for so long? – but even so, he had not been able to quite imagine Mairon, his Nauron, reduced to this appalling state. The malevolence that radiated off the Maia was so strong it was almost a tangible force, a black mist that hung between them. Aulë felt the hairs at his nape standing on end as goosebumps prickled across his arms. An instinctive horror pushed its way up his throat, a sickening nausea akin to what one might feel at the sight of the mangled corpse of a loved one, a deep, deep abhorrence, and for the first time, Aulë had fully understood the name by which the Elves called his Maia. This being, this creature Melkor had left behind, was evil.

Yet it was neither fear nor hate that Aulë felt as this realization dawned upon him. Instead, inconsolable pity welled up from the depth of his aching fëa, along with a helpless rage directed at the one who had created this monster. Despite the terrible things the Black Captain of Morgoth had done to the Children, despite all the wrongs Sauron had committed against Aulë himself, despite the bitter grief and horror he still felt at the moment, Aulë found that he nevertheless loved the frightened, broken person who was staring at him with the wary apprehension of a condemned prisoner. He could see Sauron sizing him up, hatred, scorn, and fear flickering through his eyes at a bewildering rate, and with a sudden chill, he realized Melkor's lieutenant was trying to determine whether the Vala had come to hurt him. The realization rent a raw gash across Aulë's heart.

That raw, aching heart went out to his child and at the same time, his tongue found the ability to speak again, a single word, the only word that summed up everything he was feeling.

"Nauron."

Mairon had changed, but he was still Nauron, under all those layers of Morgoth's lies and filth. He had to be. Yavanna was wrong. Oromë and Tulkas and Ulmo were wrong. They had to be. Aulë knew that nothing this Maia could do would ever completely mar the glory of the fiery spirit who had once served him so well and brought such wonder into the world once upon a time. More than anything, he wanted Mairon back, safe, never again to harm anyone else, never again to be harmed. He knew he would love his Nauron, no matter what name the Elves called him, until the end of all things. Now his only task was to make sure Sauron still knew that.

That afternoon was now six days past. Aulë withdrew again from his contemplations, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He was still staring down blankly at Eönwë's letter, his eyes glazed over and no longer truly seeing the words written there, those words that had brought him more hope and joy than he had thought to ever feel again but a mere three weeks ago. How quickly everything can change, he thought with abnormal bitterness. Refocusing his eyes, he drew a hand down his face as through to rub away the dark thoughts, then he refolded the note and returned it to the drawer, before slumping once again onto his bed. A glance out the window told him the sun had nearly reached her harbor on the western end of the world. Soon the darkness of night would follow, creeping across all the lands.

It had seemed so easy that day in Valmar: to simply do as he had always done. He was no deceiver on any account; he had been told on numerous occasions that his face was as legible as an open book. He loved Nauron, even if he had returned in the guise of Sauron, and surely that truth was not something the ever-perceptive Maia could miss. Care, respect, love, forgiveness, safety – were those not the tools of healing? It was what he would have surely wanted for himself had he been in Sauron's place. And for six days, he had done everything he possibly could to give Sauron just that. Yet to no avail.

Sauron's emotional meltdown at the guest house in Valmar had grieved Aulë, but it failed to shake his will too deeply. Fiondis and Cánaquar had told him that the Maia had neither eaten nor slept well during the voyage, and Aulë knew that Sauron was no lover of the sea – few Maiar of Aulë were. Moreover, Sauron had not yet known what the future held for him and as such his fear had been grievously clear, magnified dangerously by that feral quality he had acquired. Sauron had lashed out verbally the way a viper would strike when cornered and injured. Additionally, Sauron's hot outburst of pure spleen had reminded Aulë strikingly of Mairon's fiery temper, which had actually given him some small hope in itself that Sauron had not changed as much as the Smith had begun to fear he had.

But now, ever since the showdown with Yavanna, something had changed in Sauron. Aulë could see it in his eyes every time he looked at him. It was as if the fire of Sauron's eyes was obscured with a black, choking mist, akin to that dreadful smoke that had billowed forth from Sauron and Melkor's fire in the days of Almaren. This darkness was of Melkor's making too, he feared, and he had yet to discover any method of combating it. Unlike that afternoon in the guest house, when Sauron's eyes had roiled with uncontrolled emotions, now gazing into his eyes was like staring at a sheer obsidian wall. As yet, the strongest emotion he'd managed to lure from the Maia was vague condescension. Otherwise, he might have been trying to interact with a statue, those cold, emotionless eyes revealing nothing of what lay behind them.

It was this that terrified Aulë more than anything else Sauron had yet to say or do. Had he believed that Sauron was merely exhausted from his trip or overwhelmed by his changed life, Aulë would not have worried overly about this new development. But Sauron's breakdown at the guest house, coupled with his explosive rant against Yavanna and the Valar at supper the following evening, had proven that Sauron was feeling anything but docile and spent. Aulë would in fact have felt more comfortable with a raging Sauron on his hands – that would have felt somehow natural. Rage, in its own way, would have drawn Sauron closer, giving Aulë a clear pathway into his Maia's heart and mind.

But instead, Aulë had watched these past five days in a panic as Sauron slipped further and further away. Such indifference, such cold reserve, was unnatural for such a fiery spirit, and Aulë sensed the iron of Melkor's will in Sauron's chilling detachment. Who knew what forms of rot Melkor had left to decay in Sauron's fëa, but whatever vileness existed was now festering inside him, slowly poisoning him in his dark and damp interior, now that he'd blocked off his sole outlet to the light. Aulë had tried every method that came to mind in a series of vain attempts to coax Sauron into opening up to him, but every plea, every argument, every promise was met with that same exact icy disinterest edged with the faintest scorn. Every time he spoke to Sauron, Aulë was seized with the nightmarish sensation that he was watching Sauron drowning, yet he himself was trapped behind a glass wall, pounding frantically upon the cursed glass but unable to reach out and pull his child to safety. Every excruciating moment that passed, he became more acutely aware that Sauron was still beyond his aid, and (he feared) falling further away.

Having Sauron at his fingertips but being unable to help him was in its own way far, far worse than when Sauron had been leagues away, separated from him by the entire Sundering Sea and all the darkness of Melkor.

Aulë kicked his bed post helplessly. The dull throbbing that immediately ensued in his toes alleviated some of the aching pain in his heart. He had never thought he could hurt more than he had the day of Mairon's betrayal or in the long, terrible years that followed it. But witnessing the transformation of his Fiery One in person, realizing daily how much he had changed from the eager-eyed spirit who had been his apprentice, was far more bitter than simply hearing tales of it. Trying to reach out and love a person who needed it so desperately and receiving only that black wall and icy reserve in return was much more agonizing than simply wondering what was happening to Sauron in a distant land.

This was to have been his redemption, as much as Sauron's. This was to have been his chance to show the other Valar, to show Eru, to show himself, that he was not a failure for having lost Mairon. This was to have been his proof that Mairon had never truly hated him, but that misunderstandings and the beguilement of Melkor had for a time simply separated them. This was to have been his opportunity to prove that in the end, Morgoth could not defeat them, could not defeat him, could not steal his Maia from him, could not rip out Mairon's hope and love and goodness, could not…could not…

Aulë brushed angrily at his eyes as his vision flickered with tears. With a touch of bitter humor, he considered that he'd probably shed more tears over Sauron than Manwë's clouds had shed over the earth. But tears did not move Sauron. Nothing moved Sauron.

Forcing his thoughts away from this whole shipwreck of a business, he stood and grabbed his jacket from where it lay crumpled over the back of a chair. Tugging it on, he swung up a satchel that clinked as he lifted it, and then he gave the window a final glance. Only a scarlet glow now illuminated the western horizon, and he decided it was time to go.

The halls were quiet and peacefully dark as he made his way to the north atrium. Here and there, Eldar and some of his Maiar greeted him with respect and good cheer. As he passed the Great Hall, he heard singing and the plucked notes of a harp as Mindocar Tánolind, the resident Noldorin minstrel, entertained a large group of the Smith's folk with music and tales, a favorite evening pastime for many of the hall's denizens. In another corridor with tall arched windows that opened into one of Yavanna's enclosed gardens, he passed two elven lovers, the man's head in the woman's lap as she gently stroked his hair and sang him a pretty song of the stars.

Once in the main courtyard, he changed to the form of a great stag with branching antlers and a soot-grey coat. It was a solid, dependable, swift fána, one he often took when traveling. His beloved earth seemed closer and more intimate under his hooves as he took off at a graceful gallop. He widened his nostrils to breathe in the cool, wholesome air of Valinor, then he simply ran, letting the motion's rhythm soothe him for a time.

The lights of Valmar glimmered beneath him like stars mirrored in a lake as he began the ascent of Taniquetil. His powerful stag's limbs rendered the climb effortless, as his hooves found every minute purchase in the white rock. Even so, by the time he mounted the topmost peak, his breathing was emerging bellow-like from his barrel lungs, and he gratefully reclad himself in his habitual fána, as he gazed upward at the shining palace of the High King and Queen.

Eönwë let him in at the front gate and ushered him into the crystal atrium where the clear roof admitted the fine sheen of the moon and stars that were now in full blossom above. Glancing upwards, Aulë saw the pristine light of Eärendil's Silmaril, though the star itself was beyond his view, hidden by the highest marble tower of Ilmaren. With a sigh, he thought of his wife's beautiful Telperion. But everything can be marred, his thoughts mocked him. And who can say whether it will ever then be unmarred?

He followed the Herald through the atrium and up a spiraling flight of stairs made from a crystalline substance so thin that it seemed the lacework steps would crack under his weight. Their feet made no sound upon them. At the top of the stairs, Eönwë bowed and indicated a room to their right. "My lord and lady await you," he said.

The inner chamber of the tower still possessed that ethereal feel, which always slightly unnerved the Vala of Earth, but the room was fashioned of white marble instead of the glass and crystal of the atrium and the stairs. As in many rooms of Manwë and Varda's palace, the roof was glass, allowing in the moon and starlight, and large windows dominated the walls for the same purpose. However, there was also the familiar and comfortingly earthy warm glow of a fire from the hearth across the room, and the deep blue rug spread across the floor was like moss under his boots.

Námo's black eyes met his first from across the room where the Doomsman was leaning beside the hearth, his arms folded. Nienna sat on the far side of the hearth from her brother, balancing delicately on the upraised edge of the marble foundation. The last of the three Fëanturi siblings rested on a lavish settee of the same azure as the rug and stitched with golden thread in a swirling pattern that reminded Aulë of the movement of the wind. Finally, on another couch across from Irmo, Manwë and Varda reclined together, their arms linked and the Star Queen's white hair shimmering about them both like a waterfall in the full moon.

"Greetings, Smith," Námo said solemnly.

Aulë took a seat beside Irmo as all five gazes of his fellow Powers turned upon him. He returned Námo's welcome with as much vigor as he could muster.

"Miruvor?" Manwë asked, holding out a golden goblet to Aulë. "You look as if you could use it."

Aulë took the cup and sipped at the sweet drink. The refreshing warmth and comfort of the elven liquor slowly seeped through both his limbs and spirit, easing the ache in both.

The other Valar remained silent, allowing him to take a few more sips, but he could sense the expectancy and tension throughout the room. Nienna turned her gaze back to the fire, winding the single lock of black amidst her silver hair about her finger, then allowing it to unwind before repeating the process. The Smith set his cup on a low glass table between the two facing couches and sat back, fretfully rubbing his rough hands over his leather-clad knees.

Finally, Manwë broke the uncomfortable silence. "How goes it with your charge, Aulë? Why have you asked to see us here?"

Aulë had promised himself he would not break down and shed tears, but he found himself already fighting to keep back the choking sensation in his throat and the pressure building behind his eyes. Over the next hour, he haltingly explained to his fellow Valar everything that had been rushing through his thoughts like a swollen spring river these past five days. He told them of his conversation with Sauron that first morning after the trial and of Sauron's mistrust of their intentions. He told them of the violent argument between Yavanna and Sauron, as well as some of his own words with Yavanna that followed. He told them of the darkness in Sauron's eyes and of the disturbing coldness in Sauron's manner. He poured out his fears before them, his horror at the thought of losing his Maia a second time, his despair at seeing Sauron so close yet so far beyond his reach.

"It isn't right," he said brokenly. "I can feel him there, I can feel my Mairon in there, but nothing's going the way I imagined it. I knew he would need care, I knew he'd be angry and hurt and confused, but I never thought he'd just block me out the way he's doing. There's poison inside him, I know there is, and he's not doing anyone a favor by simply keeping it locked up, least of all himself. I don't understand what reason he has to barricade himself off from the world. I don't know if he's afraid he'll be punished for speaking what he feels, or if Melkor meddled with him somehow, tampered with his fëa so he wouldn't be able to talk to us about what he's been through. That darkness, that coldness – I know that's not of him; he was never that way before. I'm- I'm afraid there's some part of Melkor still left inside him, eating him away. We have to get it out of him. But I don't know how to do that if he refuses to interact with anyone around him. I'm afraid- I'm afraid… I fear…"

He hesitated, swallowing with difficulty. "I…fear he's doing to himself what we did to Melkor all those Ages ago. But Sauron's locking himself up. Yet I fear the result will be the same as with Melkor. As long as he cuts himself off from the world, all he's left with is his own hate and fear and evil. He's going to hurt himself by following this path more than he might on any other path he could choose."

He'd been staring down at his hands, but now he looked up, passing his eyes from gaze to gaze. "If this continues, we'll – I'll – lose him. The way he's refusing to eat with anyone else, the way he spends his days off alone, the way he won't talk to anyone: he's isolating himself. He's destroying what's left of Mairon, bit by bit – that's what I fear, at least." He searched the eyes of the other Valar desperately. "Why would he be doing this? What should I do?"

The other Valar were silent for several minutes, processing Aulë's information. Then Námo shook his head wearily. "I fear this proves what I believed at the trial. He should have gone to Lórien."

"And what would Irmo do that I am not doing?" Aulë burst out passionately. "I mean Irmo and Estë no offense-" he nodded to the Vala of Dreams "-but would Sauron not have done the same in Lórien? You saw that he would not take Estë's athelas. What would you have done – forced it down his throat? Do you think that would have ingratiated him to us? It was I who was his lord. I loved him. I still love him. And if it is not love he needs, than what is it? Eru knows he's had precious little of it for who knows how long!"

"And as such, smothering him in it may not be the best approach," Námo retorted. "Do not forget that he made the choice to leave you once already, Smith."

Aulë deflated, sinking back into the blue plush of the settee miserably.

"We knew when we agreed to extend mercy to Sauron that this would not be easy," Manwë said, casting Námo a warning glance. "It aids us little at this point to discuss what might have been and what should have happened. Wherever Sauron had ended up, I think we can safely conclude that whoever had charge of him would have had full hands in any circumstance. It matters little what he would have done had we sent him to Lórien, for that is not where he is. He is in Aulë's Halls, and to uproot him again to move him now would cause more damage than good, I fear. If there is anything he needs above all else, I suspect it is stability at this point. And I fear the message we would send him with such a change would bring him no good either. He does not need to see himself as an orphan who is too much trouble for any one of us to take in permanently. In the future, visits to Lórien may not be out of the question for him – in fact, I will support it when the right time comes – but for the present, we must do as we have told him we will do. He will never feel safe if we change our word and wrench him to and fro at our whims. Besides, it was his own desire to dwell in Aulë's Halls, and I am hopeful that this alone, allowing him his will in this, may prove beneficial in the end."

Aulë looked up in surprise at Manwë's last statement, a small flame of hope rekindling. "Sauron told you he wished to come to my Halls? How do you know this?"

Manwë gave him a long, calculating look that the Smith did not understand. "He wished to go to your Halls," he said at last. "That at the very least I read in his eyes, though his specific intentions remained veiled to me for the most part. Yet it is not so strange that he should seek the place that would hold the most familiarity for him in a foreign world. And he knows you well, Aulë, traitor though he may be. Beware of that, but be comforted by it, as well."

"Has he sought your forges, Aulë?" Varda asked.

Aulë swallowed, looking at the Star Queen. This was another matter that had been troubling him. "He has," the Smith replied, "but not as I had hoped. I have been informed that at least once in the past few nights he has gone in secret and worked in my forges. I do not think he knows that I am aware of his visits so I have hesitated to bring the matter up with him. With his powers Bound, I can see no harm in whatever he may be doing, so I have not stopped him, but I worry why he is not sleeping and why he feels the need to keep such a thing secret from me. I should gladly provide a forge for him if he asked it of me."

He ran his fingers through his beard distractedly. "I…I know you have said stability is central to his well-being, but- but what if he were given back his old job as one of my smiths? Instead of sending him to the quarry? He has not yet begun the task we assigned him, so if we were to make the change now, it would not disrupt his life. He is not happy with the idea and I do not blame him. Perhaps giving him back his old position in my halls would show more reconciliation with him on our part than anything else we might do."

Námo sighed heavily. "It is the Doom of the world that we cannot go backwards in time, Aulë. You know this as well as I do. Neither you nor Sauron can simply return to the way things were before his betrayal and expect everything to carry on as if nothing ever happened."

"I am not that naïve, Námo," Aulë answered, a little sharply. The Doomsman's lips tightened, but otherwise he gave no sign of annoyance. Aulë frowned slightly. Of all the Valar, Námo alone had remained silent on his personal views about Sauron during the pre-trial council they had held at the Máhanaxar. As the official judge, it was his place to stay as neutral as possible, at least outwardly, but Aulë suspected the Vala of Doom inwardly had fallen closer to Oromë and Tulkas's camp than his own.

The Smith turned back to the High King. "If Sauron still finds pleasure in his old craft, then I would give him the chance to ply it as often as he desires. I do not ask to place him back at the head of my forges as master apprentice, not yet anyway. I simply wish for him to feel that he belongs here and that he has a future in Valinor, a future he can enjoy. Perhaps things can never go back to the way they were completely, but if they could come close…"

"Mairon renounced his old place in the world when he betrayed you," Námo said with a hint of exasperation. "That time is over and gone and neither of you can return to it without severe consequences. Nostalgia will do none of us any good."

Manwë nodded, though his face was gentler than the Doomsman's. "If we could brush away the past Ages and make it as if his betrayal never had occurred, Aulë, then we would do so. And there may yet come a day when there is no need to remember that a betrayal ever took place between him and us. But, for now, this is what needs to be. It is not simply you yourself or we, the Valar, with whom he must be reconciled. The world is looking on, and he has done much evil in the world. The lives of those he has wronged are worthy of the penitence we have given him. And while he may not yet truly see the opportunity in the task we have assigned him, one day he may. That we did not do this, I fear, is another mistake we made with Melkor."

"This is not to say that you must keep him from your forges though," Varda put in. "It is good for him to find pleasure in life even yet, and if this is still where he finds contentment, then it is good for him to know that he is welcome in your forges at any time. Make sure he knows that you do not deny this to him, Smith."

Aulë inclined his head. "I will make that clear to him," he replied.

Until now, Irmo had been sitting quietly, his fingers pressed thoughtfully against his lips, his misty grey eyes staring out into the dark night. Now he shifted and spoke for the first time. "They speak wisely, Aulë. I have not seen Sauron's mind these past five days, yet when he first came to us, I sensed that he longed for a place. We destroyed his old role in the world and now he seeks a new one. And in the end, is that not what we all desire? What are we without a role that reveals to each of us our path forward through Arda? Find his place and you will find him. Learn his dreams and you will find his heart of hearts."

"But how am I to do that?" Aulë asked. "I do not have your gift and he refuses to speak to me."

Nienna spoke then, looking up for the first time from the fire. "You love him, Aulë, none of us doubt this. But Námo spoke the truth – too much love may turn him away as quickly as too little. Compassion is not simply giving him what you think he wants or needs; it is about taking into account who he is now and understanding him for it. It is not about living in some nostalgic past nor about living in some idyllic future. It is about being there for him, at his side, in each present moment. This is how he may be reached, not through some contrivance of yours to lay his heart bare but by walking his life with him and being there to give him hope in the darkness."

Aulë pondered the quiet words of the Valië of Sorrow and Hope for a brief while and it seemed to him that strength came slowly back into his fëa, for her words came like a light and drove back a darkness in his spirit that he had not even realized was there. Melkor's malice and lies linger in Arda Marred and seek to work in us still, he thought, and he shivered inwardly. He bowed his head to Nienna. "I thank you for your advice, my lady. As I thank each of you for your advice," he said, raising his head and including the other Valar with his gaze. "But I fear I still feel lost. My skills lie in the earth and in strong foundations and in the brightness of gems, not in compassion or dreams or judgement. What would you ask me to do?"

"I know you have not found my advice pleasing so far, Aulë, but there is a matter to which I have given thought of which I would speak," Námo said. Manwë gave the Doomsman a slight nod when everyone's attention had turned to him and Námo continued, keeping his dark eyes on the Smith.

"It is concerning the matter you have just now named, Aulë. It was the will of Eru that no single one of us should wield all gifts or understand all parts of Eru's mind. Thus, it is all fourteen of us together that provides balance in the world."

"Of course," Aulë said, scratching his beard and frowning slightly. "We all know this. But how does this concern Sauron?"

Námo held up a hand, palm outward, in a gesture calling for patience. "It concerns Sauron in that he cannot receive everything he needs for his healing from a single Vala. Right now, he has access to only yourself and Yavanna, and I do not think that is good for him in the long run. Now, wait and listen. It is, of course, only practical that he should have been assigned to a single hall that he may call home, and I make no dispute over that decision. But I think he should have the opportunity to meet with more of us on a regular basis."

Manwë was nodding and Irmo tapped his lips in thought. The Vala of Dreams looked up, his eyes shimmering and deep. "Your judgement is good, Námo. I agree that we should all have the chance to speak with the Maia, but not all together and not at the Máhanaxar. I fear that would defeat our purpose by unnerving him."

Námo inclined his head in agreement. "That was my thought. We should achieve more than one purpose with this arrangement, as well. He would grow more accustomed to Valinor and hopefully find our realm less daunting when he is familiar with it and our halls. And he will not be isolated from any part of our balance in that way. It may be that he will respond best to one of us that we do not expect."

"I agree," the High King said, still nodding. "He should be permitted, I think, to come to each of our halls in turn, perhaps a single, different hall on a regular day of each month, during which time he would have leave of his duties at the quarry. I think he would find such regularity comforting. I will speak to the others about this matter and see if they find it to their liking. If some of the others do not wish for him to come to their halls at the present then we can still rotate him between the halls of those who are willing. And it is probably not best to send him to Oromë or Tulkas first in any case. What think you of all this, Aulë?"

Aulë nodded. "I am certainly willing to give it a try. I have realized too clearly these past five days that my own skills are not enough. This is the work of Melkor in him, and it took all fourteen of us to fight Melkor when he was in Eä. I was a fool to think I could fight that malice and darkness alone. I…I think I was not ready to admit at the trial that Sauron was as full of darkness as I now fear he is. I am ready to try whatever you think may help him."

"There is something else we would all do well not to forget," said Nienna. "If the things inside him are as I suspect, they will burn in him with a torment that will one day be too great for him to continue bearing. When that day comes, he will have a choice. Either he will go mad with the pain of the fury of his heart or he will find someone to whom he will open himself. We cannot force this choice upon him. It must be fully upon him to decide when and with whom he will share his confidence.

"Yet he may never feel truly comfortable with any of us, or if he ever does, I suspect it will not be in the near future. He is angry at us, and that may in itself keep him from revealing his thoughts fully to any one of us for a long, long time. However, those of his own order may seem less daunting to him than we do. It is often the way of the world that the unlikeliest people may hold the keys to the world's greatest problems. It is my recommendation that you keep an eye on him, but beware of interfering too much in this process. If you observe him beginning to open up to any of his peers, resist your urge to meddle or you may trample on any budding shoots by accident and thus destroy what hope we have for him. He may choose the path to madness, but I find it far more likely that he will eventually seek out someone in whom to place his trust, even if he himself is not aware that he is doing so."

"Tomorrow, he will have the opportunity to begin work at the quarry," Manwë said. "Out of necessity, he will need to interact with others on some level at this time, and that may be enough to pull him from his recalcitrance. Let us see how he responds to his work. As for his self-isolation, he may simply be going through a stage – he's doubtlessly overwhelmed, and withdrawal may simply be his method of coping. If you make sure he has stability and the opportunity to interact if he wishes, let us see how he progresses. He has only been here six days after all. And in the meantime, we will arrange for him to visit our other halls and see how he reacts to meeting individually in person with more of us."

There was silence for a long minute as the Valar contemplated what had been said. Then Námo moved from the hearth. "I must take my leave," he said. "I fear there is always work to be done in the Halls of Mandos, work that does not grow easier over time." As he moved towards the door, he stopped and placed his hand on Aulë's shoulder. "I regret my harsh words of earlier," he said. "These last few months have worn upon us all. But while I regret the harshness, I do not regret the message itself. Your Mairon has changed, more than any of us might have guessed, I think, but he may yet change again. But do not let him prey upon your love for him." The Doomsman's lips turned up the tiniest fraction. "And if showering him with love proves in vain, you might see if some well-placed provocation may bring him out of his shell. But if you choose to do such, I suspect you should be ready to fight fire."

Aulë returned the small smile with one of his own. "I will keep that in mind."

The two Fëanturi and their sister left together, and Aulë finished his goblet of miruvor. Manwë and Varda stood as he walked to the chamber door. He turned at the entrance. "Thank you, my lord and lady," he said. "I…I have needed the advice of others, and Yavanna-" he smiled wryly "-Yavanna's advice runs only in much the same direction as it always has. I have a feeling I shall be seeking advice in this matter on a regular basis."

"Do so freely," Manwë replied. "Námo spoke wisely that it is our balance together that brings us closer to Eru's thoughts. You are not alone in bearing this burden, even if you have chosen to take on the heaviest portion of the load."

"It is no burden," Aulë said, squaring his shoulders. "It would be a burden for me to see another taking on what I feel I must do. But Nauron…Nauron is no burden."

He turned towards the door then paused and turned back. "I almost forgot, my queen." He rummaged for the satchel he had brought, and opening it, produced a beautiful belt of woven strands of gold and silver which he presented to the Star Queen. "Curumo finished your belt. He says it is a pleasure as always to craft an ornament that shall grace the fairest of the queens of the Valar. And I assure you, those were his exact words."

Varda laughed and took the belt. "It is best that Yavanna does not hear him with such flattery on his tongue for another lady. Yet I thank your apprentice for his fine work."

She lifted the belt, tracing her fingers along the woven bands, then stopped. "I do not recall this in the designs you showed me," she said, indicating an intricate addition, an extra strand braided in which provided a graceful counterbalance to the main twist.

"Ah yes, an addition Curumo decided to include at the end, a bit of last minute inspiration if you will. It is lovely, is it not?" Aulë said with a proud smile.

Varda's eyes twinkled just a little. "Entirely between us of course, but I think Curumo continues to improve. Not that I would ever suggest that he has not been perfect at his craft from the very beginning," she said with a somewhat unqueenly quirk in her lips.

Aulë smiled a little broader as he thought about his egotistical head apprentice.

"Give him my thanks," Varda said. "And tell him I think highly of his creative work. Please do tell him I love the addition. His design is beautiful."

Aulë inclined his head to her. "I will do so, my lady. I'm sure he will be delighted to hear his work is appreciated."

"What craftsman is not?" Varda replied with her soft smile.

~o~o~o~

The evening had drawn on to the depths of night when Aulë arrived back at his halls. Everything was quiet and still now, most of the occupants having long since retired to their beds. At first, Aulë thought his own feet would also carry him to his private chambers and thence to his own bed, which was sounding more delightful by the moment, yet to his surprise, he found himself walking in the opposite direction: towards the west wing and the dormitories.

By the time he reached the colonnade that led up into the west wing, he knew where he was going. The realization came with little shock, though he felt his throat tighten and a stiff tension crept through his limbs. Slowly, he ascended the stairs, running his fingers tenderly along the stone banister, thinking over his conversation with the other Valar and the advice he had received.

He stopped at Sauron's door. There was no sound from within and he wondered whether, at this late hour, the Maia would be sleeping as well. For a moment, he nearly turned and left without knocking for fear of disturbing Sauron's rest, but something within him urged him to gently tap at the door, quietly enough that if Sauron were sleeping, it would not waken him, but loudly enough that if he were awake, he would hear.

There was no answer and again Aulë considered leaving, but instead he gently tried the door. It was not locked so he opened it a crack and peeked inside.

A single candle burned on the window sill. Beside it, gazing out over the darkened landscape, Sauron stood, tall and straight, a black profile against the starlit night outside. His hair fluttered faintly and the long dark grey nightshirt he wore stirred in the slight breeze, but otherwise he might have been an obsidian statue with his back to Aulë. The lines of his shoulders were proud and strong, and it flashed suddenly through Aulë's mind that in that moment, Sauron seemed to him like a lordly yet caged hawk with clipped wings that gazes out upon a world it can see but can no longer take pleasure in.

Even though Sauron gave no sign of acknowledgment at his presence, Aulë slowly made his way into the room and sat down upon the edge of the bed, little more than a foot from the Maia. Sauron still refused to look at him, the profile of his face immobile, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the darkness outside. Finally, Aulë coughed a little and asked, "Have you eaten, Nauron?"

A single nod.

Walk his life. Learn his dreams.

"I…I know you're worrying about the quarry," Aulë said, watching Sauron closely for any reaction. There was none. "I suppose you probably think it's beneath you, a goldsmith, a former head apprentice of one of the Valar, the former lieutenant of another. No, it's not glorious work, it's not even particularly exciting work, but you will be doing great good with it. Homes will be rebuilt, families will be together again, cities will flourish anew, and you will know that you had a hand in it. Please, I ask you only to see the opportunity in the work we're expecting of you. This is the chance to heal the hurts caused at Melkor's hands. That's why you're back here, isn't it, not lost in some wasteland of Middle-earth?"

No reply.

Find his place.

"I know we haven't given you the choice about whether or not you will do the work, but then again, we all have duties we are required to tend to, whether we truly desire to do them or not. The choice we've given you lies in how you will decide to do it. Will this task be a joy or a burden? That is what we leave for you to decide. To one willing to show his goodwill, this is an opportunity to do so, and I hope dearly that you will take it."

Still nothing. Sauron gazed out the window, motionless.

Aulë sighed then leaned over and put his hand on Sauron's shoulder. The faintest tremor ran through Sauron's body, but otherwise he did not react to the contact. "You're required to be at the quarry by the time the sun rises over the Pelóri. It's little over a half-hour walk from here, though you're welcome to borrow a horse if that's how you'd prefer to travel. You're not the only one from my halls who goes; there's a number of my elven folk who have been spending their days there to help their kindred in Middle-earth. As such, we hold an early breakfast, just a quick and easy affair, before sunrise for those who will be leaving. The cooks usually prepare ready-made lunches in the morning that you can pick up there at the breakfast table, as well.

"The Elves usually travel to the quarry in a group – you don't have to join them, if you don't want to. However, every morning and evening you will have an escort so that our stipulation will be met. Your escort will meet you in the Great Hall at the tail end of breakfast. Of course, if you have any questions, I will be happy to discuss them with you, now or whenever they may arise. Is there anything you have to ask, Nauron?"

Sauron finally turned his head and looked at Aulë. In the candlelight, Aulë saw that uncanny, feral gleam in his eyes, along with the obscuring darkness that hid the Black Captain's thoughts from the Smith. That now-familiar prickle of instinctive abhorrence shuddered down his spine, though the feeling did not come from Sauron himself, Aulë had come to sense. It was instead a horrified knowledge that the being in front of him should never have been, a gut-reaction to this twisted mutant of Melkor's hideous craft, this unbeing for whom no place had been ordained in the Great Music as it should have been before the Discord. It was his nausea at the thought that somewhere deep within, choking in its vile prison, whatever was left of Mairon was gasping for breath and crying out for help that he did not know how to give.

Give him hope in the darkness.

"Do you hate me, Nauron?" Oh Eru, who knew five words could ever sting so deeply. That it could be so painful to ask such a question and not know the answer.

Sauron's eyes flickered away from his. "I do not know what I feel anymore," he said, almost imperceptibly. "I do not know what I am supposed to feel anymore."

Aulë tightened his hand on the Maia's shoulder. He longed to put his arms around him, pull him close, tell him everything was going to be all right now, like a father brushing away his child's nightmares. But even Mairon from before had never been particularly affectionate, and he remembered Námo and Nienna's warnings all too clearly.

"I'm not demanding that you feel anything, Nauron," the Smith replied, trying to recall the advice of his fellow Valar. "Not anything that you aren't yet comfortable feeling, anyway. I want you to find your place in this new world and I hope that someday that place, whatever it may be, will bring you as much joy as having you back brings to me. I…I want you to be yourself, whatever that means at the moment."

Sauron gave him a look of barely harnessed, jaundiced scorn. "No, you don't," he said in a low voice with an edge of sharp danger in it.

Aulë suppressed the shudder that threatened to ripple through his body at Sauron's threatening malice and the evil that hung on his voice like corrosive poison. Simultaneously, he felt the instinct to pull his hand away, as if he were holding it in the snarling mouth of a wolf. Yet, at the same time, he hated himself for it, for fearing the cruelty and evil in which he knew Melkor had garbed his Nauron. He forced himself to look deeper, to see the shreds of Mairon like the sunlight glimpsed through roiling storm clouds. Instead of withdrawing his hand, he tightened it further, wishing he had the power to pour his thoughts and feelings directly into Sauron's heart through the contact instead of trusting to such a fickle and deceptive method of communication as the spoken word.

"What you may feel tempted to do and who you truly are deep down are two different things," Aulë replied steadily. "I do not hate who you were created to be. And I know you are not so different from the Maia I once knew as you'd like all of us, and you yourself, to believe."

"Do you indeed?" Sauron said, that oily condescension still staining his words.

It is good for him to find pleasure in life even yet.

"You are still a smith, and one of great skill, or so I hear. My forges still draw you, so why should I not think that other aspects of my apprentice yet remain whole in you, as well?"

Finally, a statement that earned Aulë a reaction. Sauron hid it a moment after it appeared, but for a split second, fearful surprise registered on the Maia's face and his body stiffened with sudden potency. The next instant however, he tightened his lips, pressing his mouth into a thin, harsh line, and his body relaxed, though Aulë guessed that any relaxation was merely a carefully crafted façade. The black mist swirled back in around his eyes. Yet his gaze remained fixed on Aulë's face with more attention than before, and his eyes pierced the Smith like a searching ray of fire.

"Who told you that?" Sauron's voice was cool but there was a level of lancing concentration and an undercurrent of anger in the outwardly composed words.

He knows you well, Aulë. Beware of that, but be comforted by it, as well.

At the most basic level, Aulë recognized the warning signs. He smiled faintly and shook his head. "I don't think it is necessary for you to know where I received my information, but I trust the source. You can rest assured: no one told me anything with the intention of getting you into trouble. Concern for your well-being was the primary interest of the message."

He withdrew his hand, stepping back, but Sauron still watched him with his hawk-like gaze. The Smith looked back at his erstwhile apprentice. "You should know that you are welcome in my forges. You are a citizen of Valinor and a Maia of my Halls now, and you are granted all the privileges my folk are given without exception, should you so desire it. I hear you have been making use of my library already, and my forges are equally open to you." He tried to penetrate the darkness in Sauron's eyes with his own will but found only resistance. Sauron merely continued to stare at him, that calculating, relentless gaze burning from his cruel, beautiful face.

Aulë made his way to the door, stopping with his fingers on the handle. He turned back to Sauron one last time, his heart heavy as iron in his chest.

"Nauron, all you have to do is ask."

~o~o~o~

The faint aroma of Yavanna's flora filled Aulë's nostrils as he opened the door to his private chambers and discarded his jacket and satchel on the chest by the door. The moonlight poured softly over the floor in bands, seeping through the trellises built into the roof. Yavanna herself already lay slumbering, her deep brown hair pooled upon the pillow.

As Aulë quietly changed into his night attire, something upon the bedside table caught his eye. Moving closer, he discovered a golden vase sitting elegantly on the granite slab. From it rose a single lily which glowed faintly in the dark like smoldering coal embers. Yet even in the dark, he could tell the flower was a pure gold color, with flecks of brilliant silver like stars. He reached out his hand, cupping the large, slender petals, a wave of affection sweeping over him. He knew his wife well enough to discern the meaning of this blossom, which was so strikingly familiar even though he knew nothing of its kind had been seen in the world before today.

He lay down and wrapped his arms about his wife, pulling her gently to him, and kissed her cheek. She sighed in her sleep, relaxing back into his arms as he allowed his own eyes to finally close in much needed rest.

Reconciliation was still within his grasp. He knew it had to be. This whole confounded business had gone on far too long for him to fail now. Somehow, somehow, he knew everything would turn out all right.

---

A/N: Thank you everyone for your vast patience and continued (and much appreciated) support while waiting for this chapter, which I know was a long time in coming. Please, do not fear about the life of this story just because these last few updates have been slow! I know sporadic updates are often a sign of an author growing tired of their story and when such happens, stories often get abandoned; that is not the case with this story. Not only am I still deeply involved in writing this and enthusiastic about the story itself, but it is my philosophy as a writer, my personal code if you will, that I will never abandon a story, short of being rendered physically unable to continue writing (i.e. dying). I would never disrespect such a wonderful group of readers as you by discontinuing this, nor would I abandon my dear Sauron, Aulë, Yavanna, Eönwë and the rest to such a dreadful fate. And now that I am officially half-way through my graduate program, hopefully it will not be too terribly long before I return to a more regular updating schedule.

A special thanks to my anonymous reviewers from the previous chapter, as well. DrangySmallfoot, Tookloops, Almedias, Kiki, Guest, Guest (2), Amalthea, Charisasori, Anonymous, and Guest (3): thanks for all the wonderful comments. Cheers!