A/N: A big thank you again to my anonymous reviewers: Anonymous, Amalthea, DrangySmallfoot, Tookloops, Guest (1), Guest (2), Incoming Karma, Guest (3), and Guest (4). I have read all your comments closely and appreciate all your feedback.
Anyone who can find my small nod to Tolkien's fellow fantasy writer and Inkling C. S. Lewis in this chapter gets brownie points and a chance to hug Sauron ;)
Chapter 12
Sauron lay awake long into the night, Aulë's words rotating through his mind again and again. It was one of the maddening conventions of the world that the times when one most desperately needed sleep to come, sleep was most reluctant to oblige. Even though rest continued to evade him as the hours dragged on, he did not dare to rise and venture down to the forges as he would have done previously during such a bout of insomnia. The thought produced a shiver down the length of his body, though he wasn't sure whether it was born of dread or rage.
Someone had been spying on him.
What purpose the person might have had for spying he did not know, but there were any number of possibilities, none of which he found remotely reassuring. Aulë evidently believed that the tattler had good intentions, but Aulë always believed that everyone had good intentions. Just because that was the impression Aulë had received did not mean it was the truth. And frankly, Sauron was confident there was not a single individual in these halls, besides Aulë himself, that had anything resembling good intentions towards him.
Not knowing the spy's identity was a major barrier to pushing past anything beyond conjecture. His first thought was Curumo, who would certainly have no qualms about snitching to Master Aulë, who would probably derive a vast amount of pleasure from doing so, and whose intentions would be fairly obvious in such a matter. Intuition, however, told him that Curumo was not responsible, if only from the fact that in such a case Curumo would have made an appearance to gloat over him. True, Sauron had provided few opportunities for the two of them to have crossed paths, but undoubtedly Curumo could have easily learned where he was staying and laid in wait for him. Curumo was not one to pass up such a golden opportunity to rile his opponent.
Yavanna was another possibility, but one that did not line up with the known facts satisfactorily. For one thing, Yavanna would have confronted him directly instead of complaining to her husband. Secondly, Yavanna had never liked the forges, with their heavy, smoky atmosphere, fierce heat, and devouring fires, and he doubted the Valië of Flora would linger long in such a place, even for the purposes of spying upon his despised self. Lastly, whatever else he may have perceived about Aulë, Sauron knew the Smith had been deliberately defending him against Yavanna's accusations since the beginning. Even if Aulë tended to turn a blind eye to obvious faults in loved ones, it was clear he was well aware of Yavanna's dislike for his former apprentice. Sauron did not think even Aulë was naïve enough to assume that Yavanna might have been spying out of good will.
After Curumo and Yavanna however, all other options essentially faded into one. Any of the Maiar had reason enough to hate him for his betrayal of their brotherhood, and any one of them might have deliberately spied on him in hopes of catching him at a self-condemning activity. Or, equally possible, any Maia might simply have come to the forges for his own reason, noticed Sauron's presence, and decided to snitch. Someone might even have noticed the evidence of use in the spare forge and automatically assumed Sauron was the culprit. Likewise, he had no lack of enemies among the Eldar in Aulë's halls, and the same reasoning could apply to any one of them.
The simple fact was, he had an enemy but no way of determining the level of threat. The spying that had led to informing Aulë about Sauron's presence in the forges might have been an isolated incident…or someone might be listening outside his door this very minute. He did not know. And that fact was deeply disturbing to say the least.
He burrowed himself deeper into the fluffy grey substance of the bed, closing his eyes determinedly and attempting to extinguish his racing thoughts. The patch of moonlight that had been crawling across his bedroom floor was now but a thin sliver of silver on his far wall, indicating that midnight had already passed. He had little more than five hours before he would need to rise and prepare for his long day at the quarry. On the best of days, it would take a treasure trove of willpower to keep himself under control in such an unpleasant situation; he did not like to think what a struggle it would be if he faced the day utterly devoid of rest.
But sleep has no respect for rank and authority. It flouted his commands with such an airy dismissiveness that he could not help but remember that he had no dominion here in Valinor. Even sleep mocked him with its insubordination, joining its voice to every other degrading experience he'd had so far in the Blessed Realm. He wondered absently if Námo, Estë, and Irmo had the power to deny sleep to those in their disfavor and if he had their influence to thank for this sleepless torment of an endless night.
A muscle in his shoulder twitched suddenly, snapping open his eyes and bringing his consciousness fully back to the room. For a moment, his mind and vision swirled blearily until he looked at the wall and saw a thin ribbon of pale gold stretched across the stone, replacing the silver moonlight gleam that had been there what felt like mere seconds ago. With a small jolt of surprise, Sauron realized he had slept the remainder of the night, and dawn was now at hand.
Not that this fact brought any consolation with it, of course. His agonizing night might have finally come to its end, but the day that lay ahead of him promised all kinds of fresh torture, physical, mental, and social.
As Sauron had discovered in previous circumstances however, now that the dreaded day had arrived, he found himself strangely ready to face it. Waiting often constituted half the anguish of any experience for him, for uncertainty and the unknown delighted in preying upon an imaginative mind. Now that there was no escaping his fate or prolonging the inevitable, he was interested to see what the Valar had planned for him. Considering the Valar's specifications, the quarry would likely be a semi-permanent part of his existence from now on, and as a result, whatever plans he made to complete his revenge would probably need to take the quarry environment into account. With no idea of the geography, specific tasks, and supervision that would soon become critical parts of his existence, he'd had little options for concrete, long-term scheming. Once he had an idea of the general layout of his life as it would be for many, many years into his future, he would be able to take stock of his situation as a whole and plan accordingly.
It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, yet one more facet of the promise he'd made himself in the Ring of Doom. If he kept reconnaissance in the foreground of his thoughts, he trusted that would be enough to get him through this day at least. Not that he had any other options. It had to be enough.
And moreover, it was Sauron's opinion that facing the pain to come with squared shoulders and an unbroken heart was always better than cowering in his room to delay his fate until someone showed up to drag him off. Cowardice and pride were never comfortable bedmates. He did not intend to let anyone, Vala, Maia, or Elda, see that his slavery was getting under his skin as much as he was sure it would. Let them bend my shoulders under as much labor as they like, he thought, a snarl curling the very edge of his lips. Let them assign me under the basest of the Eldar, but I will not permit them to shatter my pride.
He rose and began dressing, glancing out the window as he did so. Aulë had told him that he needed to be at the quarry before the sun rose over the Pelóri. Through the Calacirya, he could see sunbeams spilling over the sea and between the tall mountains on either side, from whence they fanned out across the Valinorean plains and trickled through his open window, leaving that thread of gold on his wall that he had seen upon waking. He figured he had about an hour before he needed to be at the quarry, time enough to get a decent breakfast.
He scowled inwardly as he pulled on the plain brown shirt and hardy hempen trousers. The garments were not ill-made and as comfortable as to be expected, but they were clearly fashioned with the sole intent of being worked in. Wonderful, he thought sardonically. Yet another constant reminder of my brand new status in Valinor to literally chafe against me all day. They certainly are taking all the precautions to make sure I know I'm no longer a lord in their land. What a fine lesson in humility they must suppose they are teaching me. The irony of the situation, he mused, was that he was quite sure none of the Valar were humble enough to even consider taking a dose of their own medicine. He couldn't exactly see the great Lords Manwë and Námo walking around in hemp. With a bitter smile, Sauron considered that Lady Yavanna would probably chop down her own trees rather than be seen dead in such coarse laborer's clothing.
Briefly, he'd considered ignoring the work clothing and donning one of the silk shirts that were more fitting for his Maiarin status, refusing to let himself be degraded any more than necessary, but he'd quickly decided against it. Here was a crux of his situation on which he had to make sure he was solid before he began this day. Was he going to act in subtle rebellion against his position at every chance he got? Or was he going to bow his head, work as genuinely hard as he could, let everyone think he was contrite and willing in his labor, and wait until his plans came together to a point where he could deliver a blow that would truly mean something? As soon as he put the options before himself in such a way, it was obvious that he needed to choose the latter. Why squander his energy and efforts on petty acts of passive-aggressive rebellion? He needed to make the Valar, the Maiar, and even the Eldar at the quarry believe that he was no threat, that he was going to do as he was told without complaint. Fighting tooth and nail every step of the way would first of all only make things more difficult for himself (there was a practical reason why one did not quarry in silk shirts, after all) but such behavior was also the ideal way of keeping the Valar's eyes fixed on him relentlessly.
A balance would of course be necessary. He would need to maintain enough spitfire to avoid arousing suspicions about his delicately woven act. He was fairly sure that not even the Elves were dim-witted enough to not start questioning his sincerity if he showed up at the quarry with a beaming smile and nary a glare to give his fellow laborers. A certain level of sullenness, sarcasm, and aloofness was doubtlessly to be expected from him. However, that didn't mean he needed to stand on every boundary line that was drawn in the figurative sand before him.
It would not be easy, any of it, but this was a role he was going to have to play for now, as much as he loathed it. He would wear the worker's clothing, he would attend breakfast like a decent citizen of Valinor, he would keep his eyes lowered and defer to whatever Elves were put in charge of him (as much as the very thought made his blood boil), he would craft a thousand stone blocks as if they were golden diadems, and above all else, he would keep the Black Captain locked up in a darkness so thick no Elf or Maia would suspect what lurked within. Let them think his malice extended no further than a few barbed comments and well-placed glares. And then, when the time came, when he found what he needed to accomplish his promise of vengeance, he would strike from nowhere, leaving all those around him shocked and bewildered. It didn't matter whether he liked the role or not; that was the only plan there was and so he had to do everything in his power to not mess it up.
With all this in mind, Sauron headed to the Great Hall. As he passed through the now-familiar colonnade that linked the dormitory wing to the main halls, leaving the confines of the corridor for the open air, an uncomfortable sensation slid like ice down his spine. He couldn't help but glance around suspiciously at the trimmed hedges and stocky columns, half expecting to see a lurking figure gliding out of his sight. Now that he was aware that he might have an unwanted shadow, such exposure, without a readily available wall to which he could keep his back, was troubling. He found himself wanting to repeatedly glance over his shoulders in the hopes, or fear, of catching sight of whomever had decided to spy on him. It irked him, not just the paranoia (as if he needed yet another worry weighing on his mind), but the fact that he had always preferred the open over claustrophobic corridors and rooms. Even if it was unintentional, the spy had efficiently ruined any preference for openness Sauron might have had. Just in time for his work at the quarry, which would doubtlessly be as open as it could get. What a veritable paranoia fest that would be! For not the first time since Aulë's visit the previous evening, Sauron thought of some choice Orcish words for his loose-tongued shadow.
Breakfast was already well underway in the Great Hall. At the far end beneath the dais, a makeshift buffet had been assembled. The mouthwatering smell of bacon, eggs, and mushrooms all frying in a pan (which Sauron was rapidly deciding must be the most delightful smell in Eä) permeated the air, mingling with the sweet scent of the wood smoke coming from the low-burning fire glowing in the hearth. Around the buffet were perhaps a hundred or so Elves, some already heartily digging into full plates in front of them, others working their way through the buffet line, others depositing their used plates on a cart by the door and picking up small, portable packs, dozens of which were laid out on an adjacent table. These, Sauron assumed, were the lunches Aulë had mentioned. Other Elves who had apparently finished and were waiting on companions leaned against the walls, some talking to one another, some braiding back their hair, some passing the time by plinking at hand harps or twittering away on small pipes.
Sauron realized he was still standing in the shadows of the doorway, reluctant to take the step forward and draw attention to himself, despite the action's inevitability. He clenched his teeth, mentally preparing himself to use the self-control he had promised himself he would devotedly exercise today. He was going to be spending all day around these chattering, singing, harp-plinking, pipe-twittering creatures, so he figured he might as well take the plunge now. He took a breath and walked purposefully towards the buffet table, keeping his eyes forward and his shoulders squared.
As usual, his arrival swept outward like a tangible force, like fingers of frost spreading their icy chill over a field. By now though, whether he liked to admit it or not, he had grown relatively used to ignoring the stares, both those hostile and those curious, and conversely, he had noticed that the freezing effect he had on the Elves was lasting for shorter and shorter periods each time he made an appearance. A sight of me is no longer a prize commodity, it would seem, he thought to himself. Apparently even dark lords become commonplace and dull after a while. Perhaps with enough time, I will become so completely invisible I will no longer be worth the trouble of raising one's head in exchange for a simple glimpse of me.
It was not an altogether unpleasant thought, despite the implications. After these last five days, and especially after last night, he decided he would rather be the invisible single-person bottom class of Valinor than a sideshow freak.
After all, invisible, bottom-class scum was very rarely worth the bother of spying on.
He took his place at the end of the line, which by now had dwindled to only a dozen or so Elves. The Elf in front of him shied away, glancing through his long, red-brown curtain of hair at Sauron and looking ready to step aside if the Maia so much as hinted at wanting his place in line. The nér in front of him however, a tall, young Noldo with black hair and forge-bronzed skin, tugged his companion's arm in a way that Sauron interpreted to mean get a grip, giving Sauron a decidedly hostile look as he did so. Red-Hair leaned over and whispered something that Sauron couldn't catch, but he heard fragments of Black-Hair's disdainful reply: "…can't hurt you…Valar will…Void…"
Sauron looked the other direction, quickly refocusing his bitter thoughts by grinding his back teeth and scratching at his rough shirt sleeve. As such, he found himself staring up at the deserted table on the dais at which he had taken lunch only five days ago, though it seemed much longer. The sight of it was like water on a mill wheel: slowly, heavily, almost reluctantly setting into motion a train of thought he had been fastidiously avoiding the last few days.
If he was going to start doing his best to play the role of a Valinorean citizen, however low, perhaps tonight was the time to steel his nerves and show up to supper, Yavanna or no Yavanna. Today was going to be miserable enough as it was – why not top it off with an encore public appearance where the Lady of the Halls would have her first real chance to vent any residual anger and hate she was still feeling for him? Whatever Aulë might have insinuated, Sauron still suspected Yavanna was going to find ways to make him pay for his disruption and ill-timed words at that last meal. Sauron was an expert in the art of holding grudges and he knew five days was not nearly enough time to erase hate. Not that hate could ever truly be erased, if the hate-holder did not wish it to be. Yavanna had clearly continued hating him vehemently enough over the last several thousand years. Of course, he had done the same. All the more reason to get the inevitable over with, he supposed, especially if he was already doomed for a day of misery. It was preferable to get it over with rather than leave it to conveniently ruin a hypothetical day when things were actually going his way, if such a thing ever were to happen.
As this decision took form, the line had moved up and Sauron was now in reach of the buffet table. Despite his dark mood, he had to admit the food looked and smelled thoroughly delicious. As he loaded his plate, he considered that though he might not be keen on his experience with Valinor in general, it was true that he was eating much better now than he'd ever eaten at Gaurhoth or Angband.
With his plate heaped with scrambled eggs, sautéed mushrooms and onions, spiced sausage and bacon, and toast topped with raspberry jam (Aulë apparently had an interesting view of what made for a "quick and easy affair"), he navigated for the closest unoccupied table, where he would be near enough to the Elves to create a façade of sociality but separate enough to retain whatever vestigial dignity he still possessed as a Maiarin lord.
However, as he approached, a Maia with shaggy silver hair rose from a nearby seat and looked at him expectantly. Sauron was so used to being either gaped at or ignored that he caught himself automatically glancing around, half expecting to find the real recipient of the Maia's gaze standing directly behind him. However, he then recalled Aulë's words from the previous night: 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. Sauron raised an eyebrow. The Maia looked like escort material, he supposed: deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and minimally intelligent. Sauron almost expected to see the Maia pull out a collar and leash and demand that he put them on.
"I'm your escort for today," the Maia stated blandly, confirming Sauron's guess. "Once you've eaten, we'll be right on our way."
Lucky you, Sauron thought sarcastically. I'm sure you had to scramble over everyone else to get first in line for such a highly prized job. With a hint of dark humor, he imagined that being put on Sauron-escorting duty was probably the current equivalent to what flue-cleaning duty had been back in his days as head apprentice. Some individuals had been known to offer hefty bribes to their peers in attempts to escape the dirty and unpleasant work of unclogging the sooty forge chimneys, though such tactics had rarely proved successful. Sauron wondered what this Maia might have offered his fellow Powers in a bid to pass off onto someone else the bother of taking two one-hour round trips back and forth to a quarry in the unsavory company of his perfidious self.
He slid onto the wooden bench, pushing his plate onto the table in front of him. His train of thought about traveling to the quarry led him to something Aulë had said the previous night that he had been too busy worrying about spies to remember until now. "Will we be walking or riding?" he asked, fervently hoping it would be the former. As a Maia capable of taking on numerous forms, he'd had little need to learn horseman skills, and he didn't fancy making a fool of himself on the back of a horse in front of this Maia, let alone all the Elves.
The Maia seemed surprised by the question and gave him an odd look. "Walking, of course. Why–?" Mortified comprehension flashed across his face. "Well, w…walking," he tried to recover awkwardly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't think to get horses ready. Did you prefer to ride? There's still time if you'd rather–"
"Don't bother," Sauron snapped, and he turned his head away to shovel eggs and mushrooms into his mouth. He figured now was one of those times when it wasn't going to hurt him to be rude, and he had reason enough to be offended. Innocent as the Maia's momentary lapse of memory about Sauron's condition might have been, it was no less aggravating to have his deficiencies pointed out: that he was not currently capable of traveling with the ease of most Ainur, trapped in a single form as he was. Being reminded of his Valar-induced disability by a tactless Aulëan Maia did not exactly lift his already damp spirits.
To draw his attention away from the dark abyss into which such thoughts would doubtlessly lead, he decided to turn his mind to reconnaissance. As he ate the rest of his breakfast, he went back through his memories, trying to recall what he knew of the Maia sitting next to him, since he'd effectively squashed any potential for small talk. The Maia's build, coupled with his grey and brown clothing, marked him clearly enough as a fellow Maia of Aulë, but his face conjured up neither names nor memories. This came as a mild surprise to Sauron. Even if he recalled little of the Maiar from the other halls, he figured he should at least remember those who had been his closest kin in the thoughts of Eru. Not all Aulë's Maiar worked in the forges, true, but surely he must have been around this Maia at some point before he left with Melkor. Yet no memories surfaced.
It frustrated him, not being able to remember, even though he told himself it was merely a symptom of his poor night's sleep, combined with his new-found paranoia and topped with the stress and anxiety that had been his constant companions these last days. He had always been good with faces and names. As Aulë's head apprentice and as Melkor's Black Captain, being sharp with the names of those under his authority had been a necessary requirement. He would have been of marginal use to either Vala if he could not quickly and efficiently recall who had what assignment, which under apprentice was supposed to be taking care of the ruby inventory or which orc captain was supposed to reporting from a scouting mission in Hithlum. It was not a skill he'd ever bothered to take particular pride in, but all the same it was irksome at the best and disturbing at the worst to think his mental abilities might be slipping, even if insomnia and paranoia were the culprits, as he doggedly told himself they were.
Yet his self-reassurances were little more than skin deep. Ever since he had breathed in the athelas brew that Estë had waved under his face that first day in Valinor, he had remained vaguely aware of those clinging shadows that shrouded parts of his mind, like the poisonous nightshade that had lurked deep in the crags of Nan Dungortheb that even the servants of Morgoth had avoided at all cost. It was not the natural fading of memory, he sensed: simply erasing the minor details of his life that had been deemed irrelevant, like a sandy shoreline washed bare by the incoming tide. Where the shadows were, there was a void – non-memories – as if nothing at all had been there to begin with, as if he had ceased to exist at those moments. This feeling was complicated further now by the damage inflicted upon his fëa during the Trial, so that he could not definitively say whether the shadows were a figment of his overworked imagination or not. Between the shadows (real or supposed), the holes left from the removal of Melkor's powers, and the Binding, Sauron could not guess what parts of himself might be missing or damaged. It infuriated him, but it also left him with a strangely hollow sensation, the sort of mood that could make him want to simply curl up in a corner, close his eyes to the world, and numbly accept that his life was a gaping hole that meant nothing and had never truly mattered.
He looked down and realized he had nothing left but a bite of toast and that he had barely tasted any of the good food due to his self-absorption. After a moment of surprise and vague disappoint over the fact that he'd wasted what was likely to be the most pleasant part of his day, he ate his final bite and, with nothing left to forestall the inevitable, rose to dispose of his plate. The Maia followed silently after him a few steps behind, like a trained dog or a sinister shadow, Sauron was not quite sure which.
Almost all the Elves had left by now, so Sauron had no competition in choosing one of the few remaining satchels that he had rightly assumed were the packed lunches Aulë had mentioned, each one containing a water canteen and a variety of non-perishables. Swinging the pack over his shoulder, he turned to his hovering escort and raised an eyebrow, wordlessly communicating the concept of "Well, are we going or not?"
The journey to the quarry was distinctly uneventful. Since most of the Elves had a good head start and many of them had chosen to ride, there was no worry about overtaking them and being forced to abide their company. The Maia had made no attempt at conversation since Sauron had snapped at him in the Great Hall. Sauron had no problem with that. What would they discuss anyway?
My, my, what a beautiful day it's turning out to be.
Oh yes, the weather here is much nicer than it was in Beleriand. Of course, you don't see much weather when your master keeps the skies perpetually covered in smog and darkness…
Ah yes, there were so many options for pleasant small talk that definitely wouldn't get awkward after one or two sentences. Off the top of his head, Sauron could think of a good dozen pleasantries that he could almost instantly ruin without even trying.
They traveled north on the main road for the first ten minutes or so, parallel to the Pelóri whose white peaks were visible over the treetops to their right, and passed out of the gardens of Yavanna and the domain of Aulë through a high stone arch in the garden wall. From there, they turned north-east, approaching the mountains at an angle. It soon become clear that they were heading for a large spur that thrust out from the main wall of the mountain range, perhaps forty leagues north of the Calacirya. It was yet early, with sunlight pouring in through the Gap, but the west-facing base of the mountains was still heavily cloaked in the shadows of night. The meadows through which they walked were patched with wildflowers, and the place was caught in that odd, quiet limbo of the early hours, when the night animals had ceased their chirruping and snuffling but the creatures of the day had yet to make their appearance in full force. It might have been peaceful, had Sauron been in a mood to appreciate Valinorean mornings or if his reason for being out at this early hour had been less unpleasant.
They soon drew near the spur, and the road (which was little more than a dirt path worn in the grass by the passing of many feet and hooves on their way to the quarry) rose at a steep incline. The meadow grass and patches of wildflowers gave way to purple heather that clung to the increasingly rocky ground as the path wound sideways up the ridged slope. Although they'd only been climbing for ten minutes, by the time they made it to the top of the first ridge, Sauron could feel his heart protesting zealously by pounding itself against his ribcage. Sourly, he considered that although he might have given himself a fána that was well-muscled and sturdy, he'd intended to use it for forging, not forced marches and mountain hiking, which were significantly different activities.
The still-healing gashes in his fëa also started making themselves known again as dull aches inside, and the strain on his Bound spirit was not helping matters either. His fëa automatically resisted the bonds that restrained it, chafing and stretching like a dog on a chain, his reflexive response being to use his powers to assist with the tension on his body, the same way a Man or Elf might respond to such circumstances by breathing harder. Unable to do so, Sauron found his strength draining much more quickly than he liked. However, he was consoled slightly by the fact that his companion was puffing just as hard as he was, evidently equally unused to traveling any particular distance in a humanoid form, and he did not have a Bound fëa.
After another five minutes of climbing, they reached another heather-spotted ridge which spread out into a stone-flecked plateau before them, now perhaps a quarter of the way up the southern side of the spur. Several feet from where Sauron stood, the ground dropped sharply away, and he found himself getting his first look at the quarry.
It was an impressive sight, he had to admit. Already, the Elves had dug a sizable hole in the side of the mountain spur, one that spanned perhaps five hundred feet from end to end and three hundred feet across. As yet it was still relatively shallow, two hundred feet down perhaps from where he currently stood. The path they'd been following wound downwards, zig-zagging across the wall in wide turns that would be able to accommodate the wagons that hauled the blocks of stone out of the crater. A similar ramp led out of the far end of the quarry, but beyond the crater's lip the ground dipped down steeply enough that Sauron could not see where the road led from there.
Had the place been deserted and dark, it would have been an oddly eerie sight, that massive pit gouged into the otherwise pristine surface of the mountain slope. However, currently it was anything but deserted. The quarry was already teaming with life, like an ant hill or beehive, in complex flows of activity that could only be described with the oxymoronic label of "organized chaos." There were Elves, in hundreds, if not thousands, as well as numerous horse-drawn carts, some already hard at work, others preparing to pick up where the work had been left off the previous day. The sound of pickaxes and chisels on stone echoed around the crater, the majority of the noise coming from the northern side of the quarry where a few dozen Elves were already busy carving away at the wall, which was pocked with staggered ridges, each one deeper in the wall than the one below it, like some cockeyed giant's staircase. The reason for this, Sauron figured, was to alleviate the need for large quantities of wooden scaffolding.
At the western end of the quarry, more Elves were dressing raw hunks of stone, chiseling them down into the proper dimensions and shapes, while others polished the rough blocks so that they would fit together smoothly. Still other Elves loaded the blocks into the wagons, from whence they were driven up the ramp, out of the quarry, and (Sauron supposed) to the docks where they would be loaded onto ships that would take them across to Middle-earth for all those poor, homeless Eruhini that were only poor and homeless because they'd meddled in affairs that were none of their business. Staring down at this loud industrious hive of Eldar that was to be his virtual prison for who knew how long, Sauron felt even less sorry for the homeless inhabitants of Middle-earth whom he was here to help than he had before.
"This is where I leave you," his escort said, jerking him out of his thoughts. "I'll be here around four o' clock to take you back to the Halls."
There was an awkward pause, during which the Maia hesitated as if unsure whether he should say anything else or not, even though Sauron could not imagine what else there was to say. Finally however, to Sauron's mild surprise, the Maia added, "Good luck."
Sauron glanced at the Maia suspiciously, trying to discern whether he was being made fun of or not, but the sentiment seemed genuine. Once again, he scrutinized his companion, trying to excavate any memory of him. The Maia had started to turn away, clearly expecting no reply, but Sauron found himself speaking. "Wait, what is your name?"
The Maia turned back around, brief surprise flickering over his face. "Erenquaro," he answered simply.
Sauron frowned. The name rang no bells. "Do you work in the forges?"
"Only sometimes. Mostly I transport the gold and silver to the storehouses."
If he spoke any more, I'd be simply drowning in words, Sauron thought. He couldn't exactly blame his companion though for his lack of sociability though, considering how their previous conversation had ended. Bearing in mind the stigma he carried, he was probably lucky the Maia was willing to answer any questions from him at all. However, interestingly Sauron did not sense any particular hostility or undue distrust from the Maia; more and more, Sauron was mostly getting the feeling that his escort was of the simple and stolid sort that were not uncommon among Aulë's folk.
Erenquaro's response might be able to explain why he was having such trouble remembering the Maia anyway. But still, as head apprentice, he would have interacted with the transportation unit enough that he should remember. He realized this issue was going to be a constant itch in the back of his mind all day unless he figured it out. His brain had turned it into a contest, one that he was determined not to let the shadows in his memory win. Also, keeping the Maia talking was the only way at this point to avoid going down into the quarry, which, now that he was here, he found himself once again not wanting to do in the least.
Then he had a sudden flash of inspiration. "When did you come down to Arda?" he asked, casting Erenquaro a calculating look and hoping he was right about his guess.
Erenquaro looked puzzled, not surprisingly considering that up until a moment ago Sauron had been all but ignoring him. "At the end of the Spring," he answered amiably enough though. "I came down to help Lord Aulë after the Lamps..." He trailed off, apparently recognizing that mentioning Melkor's destruction of Aulë's greatest accomplishments would be uncomfortable at best, all things considered.
Sauron let the matter slide, though in a different mood he might have taken advantage of the other Maia's blundering broach of the topic to put in a few cruel jabs. However, currently he was more interested in pondering the information he had just learned than tormenting the Maia. He was pleased to have solved the little mystery. If Erenquaro had not come down until after the destruction of the Lamps, then Sauron would have been long gone from Almaren by that time. It also explained Erenquaro's awkward but not particularly hostile attitude towards him, since Erenquaro had no reason to feel personally betrayed by him in the same way those Maiar with whom he had worked in Almaren surely did. To Erenquaro, he was probably nothing much more than a name, just a servant of Morgoth who had been lost long, long ago, rather than a brother apprentice of Aulë who had turned traitor.
With the settling of the matter came the vague formulations of an idea. Although Sauron had devoted the majority of his time the past five days to reading and searching for information to jumpstart a plan, he had not completely neglected the reconnaissance part of his preliminary battle strategy. He had watched those around him, mentally creating a hierarchy of the inhabitants of the Halls as he encountered them and placing individuals into appropriate categories based on their reactions to him. Those who glared at him and hissed his name with hatred dripping off their lips, those who cringed away from him with fear in their eyes, those who stared unabashedly at him with perverse curiosity: each received a place in his mental catalogue. Each group could become useful in different situations and with different strategies; each could prove susceptible to different methods of temptation and manipulation. It was good to have a list of who was most likely to stab him in the back or who might have an open enough mind for him to successfully turn it to his own purposes without arousing suspicion from outside forces. So far, however, his list of the former was absurdly more lengthy than the list of the latter.
Here was someone with potential, however. Erenquaro had been polite if not overtly friendly, and Sauron's first impression of the Maia was holding true: that thinking was not his strong suit. In addition to being adequate escort material, he might prove fairly decent unwitting minion material, not a bad combination, particularly if he held no specific grudges against Sauron as a person and was unfamiliar with the subtleties of Sauron's personality. Sauron filed all this information away for later contemplation. For now, he figured it might be worth his while to be civil to Erenquaro, even if it took himself down a notch or two.
"Thank you, Erenquaro," he said, putting enough stiffness into his voice to avoid seeming suspiciously friendly. "I'll see you this afternoon."
Erenquaro nodded, still seeming vaguely bewildered with the whole conversation, and turned once again to the downward slope that led back to the Halls of Aulë. Sauron watched him go, his mood fractionally lifted. See, he told himself, there's nothing wrong with your memory. There's no reason why you should remember someone you've never met. And you were all worked up that your mind was slipping. Shadows, bah! Why, it's probably just your cursed imagination trying to play with you. Your memory is fine. And the other things you've forgotten? Why should I remember my old name, or the words of my Song? My mind cleared them out because I had no more use for them, just the way it's supposed to. Stop working yourself up over nothing, you idiot.
But still, an insidious voice deep inside had to have the final say. Of course, Sauron, of course. If you say so… He could almost hear the cruel chuckle that followed.
Sauron snorted, dismissing the voice, and turned back around. Whatever emotional boost he might have received from considering Erenquaro's potential for minionship was quickly shattered at the sight of his impending doom laid out before him in all its wretchedness. He took in a deep breath and let it out in a long, controlled sigh, surrendering whatever inner turmoil he could. There was absolutely nothing for it now. If he delayed any longer, he would risk getting in trouble and that was the very last thing he wanted to happen on his first day.
He started down the shallow incline of the wagon ramp, eyes skimming the activity below him. Though no one seemed to have noticed his arrival, an uncomfortable feeling of being watched crept up on him all the same. That sensation he'd felt earlier of wanting his back to a wall returned. There was no Aulë here to protect him should the Elves decide they did not like his company. As he scanned the working Eldar below, all he could think of was that each one was a potential enemy: a spy for the Valar, a malicious bully, a rebel who would drive a pick through his heart despite what had been decided at his trial. Who knew who might be watching his every move? All his fears and worries that had kept him up the previous night poured back in through the hole of uncertainty. Even if his personal spy was not at the quarry, there were surely any number of others here who would be glad to take over the job. He shuddered despite himself, part angry with himself, part trying to shake the paranoia that had been dogging him these last twelve hours.
Instead, he tried to focus on more immediate and practical concerns. Although he was not completely sure for what or whom he should be looking, he figured there had to be someone in charge of the whole operation. And if so, there would most likely be some type of command tent, probably in a central or elevated location. He saw several makeshift shelters, mostly at the eastern end of the quarry, but from what he could see these seemed to be storage sheds for the carts and equipment when they were not being used.
However, as he rounded another turn in the ramp, he saw what he'd been searching for: a large, white pavilion erected against the south wall and only slightly lower than his current elevation. Until now, it had been hidden from his view by the previous bend in the ramp, but as he came level with it, it was impossible to miss. Three flags flew from the peak of the tent with three different emblems: a five-pointed star, a swan boat, and a golden sun: the crests of the three Houses of the Elves of Valinor – Noldor, Teleri, and Vanyar. Inside, he could see a long table with Elves gathered around it, all pointing at large sheets of parchment laid flat before them, which Sauron guessed were maps and diagrams of how to excavate the stone without collapsing the mountain on their heads. If a figure of command existed, this was undoubtedly where he would be.
There were only two more turns before he reached the floor of the quarry. Occupied as he was with examining the command tent and scrutinizing the Elves within, he was paying little attention to what awaited him at the bottom of the ramp. And so it was that his heart leapt into his throat when someone suddenly and unexpectedly called his name.
"Sauron!"
Paranoia gripped him. He spun around, eyes narrowed as he scanned the nearby Elves, searching for anyone who might have both recognized him and deigned to call out to him. He half expected to see someone about to hurl a mallet at his head or lob a rock at him, and his body tensed accordingly, ready to protect himself, dodge, or run as the situation called for. But his eyes widened as instead he caught sight of an unmistakable shock of hair like spun gold and vivid blue and white garments. He did a double take. His eyes were not deceiving him.
Sure enough, standing there waiting with his arms folded and a dispassionately bored expression stamped across his face was none other than Eönwë, the Herald of Manwë.