A/N: Greetings everyone and thank you for your inestimable patience in waiting (once again) for an update. However, the fantastic news is that I am now officially graduated and once again have something resembling a Life! Although I'm currently in the process of applying for full-time positions, interviewing, and all that fun jazz, no longer shall twelve-plus hours a day, six days a week be gobbled up by college work, meaning Gorthauro Estel will be getting much more of my attention once again.
A resounding thank you to all you wonderful anonymous folk who left reviews: Guest (1), Wee, Amalthea, Guest (2), BlueRaspberryJollyRancher, Tookloops, nonmnomnfox, Kayla-Bird, Guest (3), SomeoneElseWhoLikesIt, Just an Admirer, IncomingKarma, Guest (4), johnston, Guest (5), Guest (6), Guest (7), Kiki, and Guest (8).
Having never worked in a quarry myself, this chapter required a fair amount of research. Most of the terminology, processes, tools, and information I mention in this chapter came from a very helpful essay: "Stoneworking Tools and Toolmarks" by W. Wootton, B. Russell, and P. Rockwell from the London King's College website. This page on medieval quarrying techniques includes pictures of the tools in addition to descriptions of their uses in mining and dressing. I know FFN doesn't like links, but here's the URL for those interested in looking at where I got my information for this chapter: www . artofmaking . ac . uk /content/essays/2-stoneworking-tools-and-toolmarks-w-wootton-b-russell-p-rockwell/ (Apologies for the crappy formatting that FFN makes me use.)
Please enjoy!
Chapter 13
Mairon preferred working alone. He loved tucking himself away into some small, quiet, untouched part of the world they were building, alone with his mind and his metal, where he could weave his ideas into the intricacies of reality.
In those long ago days, there were no forges, no hammers, no tools save the raw materials of all that was to exist and the hands, minds, and fëar of those who had been sent down into Eä to create it. It was good work, hard and satisfying down to the very core of Mairon's being. And in those days, he – like all his fellow Powers – had delighted in the thought of the Children who would one day wake to marvel at all the wonders he and his kind were preparing for them.
Oh, and it would be worth marveling over. The velvet canvas of Manwë's sky, the vast wine-dark depths of Ulmo's oceans, the massive pinnacles of Yavanna's forests, the mottled foundation of Aulë's earth – harmony, order, and beauty made incarnate wherever he looked. And yet, this was all but the mere beginning to what they had seen in the visions, which were themselves only a promise of what Eru's themes and their songs would bring to pass.
Fire and gold – from the beginning, those were Mairon's beloved elements. Though it was Lord Aulë who first learned to bond together the raw particles into metal skeins, it was Mairon who first made them into art. Drawing from the Flame that burned always at the heart of Eä and also from that within his own blazing fëa, he discovered quickly how to entwine the molten ore into Aulë's stone, creating intricate patterns like a spider's web of sparkling golden light against the dark granite, quartz, and hematite into which they were set. There they hardened into rivers of solid metal, hidden deep, deep down in the depths of the earth, perhaps not to be seen by living eyes again until thousands of years had passed.
Sometimes Mairon wondered what the Children would think when they found them at last, those tapestries of precious metal threaded through the length and breadth of the earth. How soon would they learn to scrape back the stone to reveal the patterns he had so artfully hidden? Would they think it as beautiful and wondrous as he did when they finally did so? Would they catch a glimpse of his mind and power on the edge of thought when they ran their fingers across the glimmering surfaces, this testament of his unique work in Arda, the mark of Mairon the Admirable?
Such were the thoughts and dreams he cradled in his heart as he worked on his newest and greatest endeavor yet. Down through the foundations of the earth he had traveled, drawn to the heat glowing at the core of the forming world, and there he had found it: a massive pocket in the stone, an immense cavern with leagues of domed wall sparkling in the light of his fiery spirit. The glittering pinpoints scattered above, below, and to every side he discovered to be tiny crystals forming in the dark stone, and in delight he set to work creating a vast mosaic across those shining natural ramparts, threading his gold around the white crystals into the most intricate and beautiful pattern he had yet to form. He sang as he worked, and the pattern reflected the themes of his Song: splendor, order, power, hope. He sang of a coming time of innovation united with beauty, craft bonded with grace, dominion over the world coupled with wonder for all that lived and grew. He sang blessings for the Children to come, blessings of skill and craft and passion. Time had little meaning in the days before time could be measured, and save for the periods of rest that his physical form required him to take, he labored long and hard, dreaming of the day that the Children would find their own way into this place and see the hidden treasure he had eagerly prepared for them.
Another might have been disturbed to be so far and so separated from the rest of his kind, buried beneath miles of stone and earth, but as of yet Mairon had little experience with fear, and curiosity was a welcome and pleasurable sensation. Here, in this domain of his, this hall of stone and crystal and metal, he was lord over his own work, constrained only by the vast boundaries set by Eru through the visions the All-father had given them. The vast silence and glorious aloneness wrapped itself about him like a warm cloak and he delved deeper and deeper within his own being in search of new inspiration and themes to add to this magnificent work. The act of exploring his own fledglingSelf and discovering the talents Eru had hidden within his fëa (not unlike the way he himself was hiding his golden designs for the Children) was a joyful and fulfilling task that Mairon felt he would never tire of carrying out. And so the time flew past him like sparks from a fire as he reveled in his task and his solitude and his skill.
Uncounted time later, Mairon's seclusion was broken by the faintest sounds on the edge of his consciousness. He paused in his work, frowning, then stretched out his mind, pushing through the stone towards the echoes and the dim pulses of distant power from his visitor. Who else would be here, delving so deeply into the earth? He thought he had secreted himself away well beyond the territories of the other Maiar, where he was unlikely to be disturbed. For a moment he hesitated, remembering rumors he had heard of the Fallen One who had concealed himself somewhere in Eä after the Discord, lurking to destroy the works of his fellow Powers or ensnare those he could. But the flicker of power he felt was not nearly strong enough to belong to a Vala.
He pushed on with guarded thoughts and a moment later brushed against the mind of a fellow Maia. The next moment his thoughts twitched with annoyance. A Maia of Ulmo. There was no mistaking the flickering thought patterns or the aura of water surrounding the newcomer. Briefly, Mairon almost wished it had been one of the traitor servants of Melkor; in that case, he would have felt no guilt in driving away this invader of his solitude. But as it was, this world was not his alone, and the water Maia had as much right to go where he willed as Mairon did.
By now, the other Maia must have surely been aware of Mairon's presence, and not wishing to be mistaken himself for one of the fiery Valaraukar who had betrayed their order, he opened his mind to the newcomer and gently tapped against the other Maia's fëa, making no attempt to penetrate. It was the Maiarin equivalent of a soft knock on a closed door, both an announcement of his own presence here and an inquiry as to whether he could enter. In response, the other Maia amiably withdrew his own mental defenses, allowing Mairon to see the signature pattern of his fëa. Mairon quickly recognized the pattern – it was Sirenúr, a lesser Maia of Ulmo who loved bubbling springs and deep wells and whose personality tended to be as cheerfully animated as the clumsy underground streams he wrought. Mairon examined the themes of Sirenúr's work and saw he was running just such an subterranean river straight down towards Mairon's cavern.
Simultaneously, he could feel Sirenúr's mind searching his own, making the same sorts of deductions about his identity and his task, and when it came, he felt the eager question clearly.
May I join you?
Mairon did not want company, least of all a young, extroverted Ulmean Maia, but he could think of no reason to deny the request save sheer antisociabilty. His answer was polite but succinct, yet Sirenúr's response was still child-like delight at the prospect of joining a talented, elder Maia in his labor.
Mairon returned to his work, but now with his mind unveiled and outstretched, allowing the lesser Maia to maintain their mental connection if he wished. As he approached, Sirenúr was quieter than expected, perhaps shy or awed in the presence of one of the most powerful Maiar, one who had been among the first to descend, or perhaps simply sensing that Mairon was not the garrulous type. The slippery, ever-shifting aura of water grew steadily stronger, slick and cool against Mairon's mind, until finally Mairon felt Sirenúr emerge into the cavern itself, though he did not turn from his work to observe the water Maia's arrival. Through their connection came sudden surprised wonder, then admiration, then enthusiastic aspiration. A flicker of amused satisfaction wove through Mairon's being at Sirenúr's combined awe at beholding Mairon's extraordinary artwork and his zeal to make his own matching contribution.
Just don't ruin it, Mairon sent, vaguely entertained by Sirenúr's buoyant enthusiasm bordering on hero worship.
No, no, of course not, Sirenúr replied, almost comically aghast at the very thought.
And so the two Maiar labored on together then, and Mairon turned his thoughts back to his own themes, though now Sirenúr's presence was a constant at the edge of his consciousness. He knew that many Maiar enjoyed working together, a Maia of Vána with a Maia of Varda, a team of Yavannan spirits with an Oromean and a Niennan, collaborating their differing skills and feeding directly off one another's themes and thoughts. He himself had never seen the attraction; though he'd engaged in such teamwork before, he found his best work came from the times when he could sink deepest into the recesses of his own soul, without the distractions that such company guaranteed. Nevertheless, he left his fëa accessible enough that Sirenúr could follow his train of thought if he wished, and he could sense the water Maia listening carefully to his Songs.
After a long while, he began to realize that Sirenúr was purposefully, if clumsily, matching his own Songs to Mairon's in a pretty harmony. For the first time, he withdrew from his single-minded focus to study Sirenúr's themes beside his own. Sirenúr must have sensed his companion's refocused attention upon him, for he offered up his themes before Mairon with all the shy excitement and exaggerated pride of a child showing off his work to a respected older sibling. And to his surprise, Mairon suddenly realized what Sirenúr was doing and he realized it was beautiful.
Mairon turned slowly and beheld the fruit of their combined labor.
Before him, the vast cavern arched like the hall of a magnificent giant king. The walls and ceiling glistened with the myriad pinpoints of crystal light woven round with his dancing patterns of gold veins embedded in the dark stone, and his firelight turned it all into a flashing spectacle of exquisite natural beauty. But in the center of the cavern, where before there had been only smooth rock floor, now there was a great, dark pool of crystalline water. Spread across its surface was a mirror image of those lovely patterns he had formed, now dancing, flickering, and shining from the obsidian liquid. It was his themes given life, magnified, reflected and rebounded from a thousand angles as the water lapped ceaselessly in the underground current that fed it.
Sirenúr had given Mairon's masterpiece the one thing it needed to surpass what it already was, something fiery Mairon would never, could never, have done on his own. It was perfect. It was Meant.
Mairon met Sirenúr's blue-green gaze and with a small smile, he inclined his head to the younger power in quiet acknowledgement of his gift. Then the two of them, a fire Maia and a water Maia, stood there side-by-side gazing out over the unified creation of their minds and Songs, taking silent pleasure in what they had accomplished together.
Perhaps, Mairon thought, perhaps I need not always work alone.
~o~o~o~
Eönwë was wearing an expression of such utter neutrality that Sauron could not help but strongly suspect that Manwë's Herald wished he was anywhere else but here in this quarry. The fact that he himself would apparently not be the only completely miserable individual here today lifted Sauron's spirits in some small measure. It was a minute comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
He had halted upon hearing his name called out so unexpectedly, but now he continued his descent down the ramp at a casual pace, both to keep Eönwë waiting and to give himself time to consider this unexpected turn of events. His mind was racing. What was the purport of the Herald's unlooked-for appearance? Surely if the Valar had a message for him, they would have sent it directly through Aulë. That, and the expression on Eönwë's face, implied that the sky Maia was to play a more significant role in Sauron's task of supposed penitence. What exactly that role was to be Sauron was not sure, but there seemed only one inevitable way of finding out.
He reached the bottom of the ramp and faced Eönwë, quirking up one eyebrow. "This seems like an odd place for a high king's herald," he drawled, allowing none of his curiosity or bemusement to show. "Shouldn't you be delivering important messages, or destroying hapless kingdoms of evil, or whatever it is you do in your time off? I wouldn't think a humble quarry worker such as myself would warrant a personal visit from the most powerful Maia in Valinor."
"Oh, lay off it, Sauron," Eönwë snapped, his expression shifting subtly from fake indifference to genuine annoyance. "I, for one, would like to make this as easy as possible. I can assure you I don't want to be here anymore than you do."
"Oh, I doubt that," Sauron said quietly, his eyes flaming.
Eönwë gave him a look that barely passed as tolerance. For several seconds, Sauron could see Eönwë physically struggling to restrain his tongue and shove down his repugnance for the Black Captain. But then the Herald shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Why don't we head over to the command tent and I'll explain everything as we go."
It wasn't a suggestion. Eönwë turned briskly with all the pageantry of a general, the long ends of his emblazoned blue tabard flapping like wings of a sea eagle, his long, straight hair glistening golden. Sauron fell into step with him, to the side and slightly behind, glancing around furtively as he did so. Inside the pit, the sound of ringing picks and hammers against stone was even louder, a cacophony of competing individual rhythms that nevertheless contained an oddly musical quality, not so unlike the discord of dozens upon dozens of hammers on anvils. Unlike the forges however, this place offered neither welcome nor comfort; these were not the sounds of skilled and careful masters crafting delicate trinkets and dainties of precious metal and gems, but the coarse clamor of unskilled labor, and to Sauron's ear, the sounds could not have been more disparate.
A few Elves glanced in their direction as the Maiar whisked past, but overall Sauron was thankful to see that the other workers seemed so engaged in their tasks that they were taking little notice of anything or anyone else. As yet, none of them seemed aware that Morgoth's wolf was in their midst, though there was still time enough for the information to work its way around, as it doubtlessly would. Moreover, Eönwë's rapid pace discouraged lingering stares, though Sauron suspected this had less to do with Eönwë's concern over Sauron's feelings or safety and more to do with the Herald's own mortification at being seen in the company of Public Enemy Number One.
"I'm to be your personal overseer here at the quarry." Eönwë was speaking again. Sauron turned his thoughts from his surroundings back to his companion, maintaining an air of suitable nonchalance at Eönwë's revelation, as interesting as it was. "Lord Manwë felt it would be wiser to pair you with a Maia than an Elf, considering the circumstances. Anyway, if you need water, or rest, or assistance of any kind, I'm here to step in and make sure you get it. I'll be in charge of your daily assignments, so if you have any questions about your schedule or your tasks you'll come to me first. If you run into any sort of complications, you'll report that to me as well. I'll be overseeing your daily work, making sure you finish your quotas, and reporting back to the head managers each evening."
Sauron mulled over this information silently. There was a final, unspoken aspect of Eönwë's duty for which Sauron found himself reluctantly thankful. What with his concern over the spy back in Aulë's Halls and the hostility with which he'd been met by Valinor's general elven population, spending his days alone with large groups of pick- and hammer-wielding Eldar was not a reassuring prospect, not that he would have ever mentioned his anxiety to Aulë or any of the Valar. As such, it was a relief that the Valar apparently possessed enough insight to at least refrain from dumping him completely alone with a bunch of Elves, many of whom would probably be more than happy to turn this pit into his grave. Though he'd no intention of rushing to Valar to thank them for it, it was a weight off his mind that he didn't mind losing.
That aside, he wasn't sure what to make of Eönwë's peculiar assignment, but already his mind was flickering back and forth amongst the various advantages and disadvantages that this unforeseen circumstance created.
The more he considered it, the more he realized the situation itself shouldn't have come as a surprise. Eönwë's presence was an absolute guarantee that his every action and word would be reported straight back to Manwë on a daily basis, and from Manwë probably to the other thirteen Valar. He would have to keep that in mind and watch his step. Of course, he would have had to do that anyway. In some ways, Eönwë's propensity for tattling might even prove a blessing in disguise. Now he knew exactly who would be reporting on him to the Valar. Better a wasp out in the open where I can see it than one lurking in the shadows to sting when and where I least expect it. After his stressful night agonizing over the unknown identity of the spy in Aulë's Halls, he found he significantly preferred this option, if his every move was going to be analyzed in either case.
As he contemplated this, he alighted upon a further potential benefit: if he knew Eönwë was the central source of the Valar's knowledge concerning himself, there was the possibility that he could actually control the Valar's view of him, to a certain extent. He'd used spies often enough during his long military career to know the dangers that came from gathering information secondhand, as necessary as it generally was, and had occasionally utilized that very danger to his advantage.
One such time was shortly after he had captured Minas Tirith. The Noldor had made a number of ill-conceived attempts to retake the island fortress in the following months, driven primarily by the rage for which they were infamous, Sauron suspected. The forces of newly christened Gaurhoth had little trouble repelling them, and watching from his high tower, Sauron had observed the reckless and disorganized movements of his foes, suggesting weak communication and leadership, if any, amongst the infuriated Eldar.
Working off this premise, Sauron had stationed a troop of orcs within clear view and shooting range of a hidden bluff across the river, which his scouts had discovered some weeks prior and with which he guessed the previous residents of the island would be familiar. Although he'd never seen them, he knew Noldorin spies had come and gone, for shortly after, the orc troop was viciously attacked from the bluff above. Of course, the troop was merely a decoy. Another much larger troop accompanied by Draugluin had descended upon the Noldor from behind, trapping them against the river and easily annihilating them. The Elves' angry desperation, the relative naiveté of their spies, and their glaring underestimation of his own knowledge of the area had done all his work for him; they had thrown themselves upon his sword of their own volition. An experienced commander would have recognized the decoy troop for exactly what it was, but crucial information had been lost or subtly changed during the exchange from spy to captain.
If he could do the same thing here – manipulating Eönwë's reports to Manwë – he could essentially control, or at least predict, the Valar's actions as he had done so successfully with the elven warriors at Minas Tirith. Of course, it was not quite that simple. As had become clear the previous night, Eönwë would not be the only person watching him and reporting; the Valar were not such fools as to make a cardinal mistake of espionage like relying on a sole source of information. But still, it would be foolish to throw away an opportunity like this, not when it had presented itself to him so neatly.
Besides, he had also just been handed the power to make Eönwë's life as miserable as he pleased for who knew how long, and really, what was the downside to that?
Eönwë may have simply been the messenger in the Valar's plot to lure him back to Valinor, but Sauron had no reservations about punishing the messenger, particularly when he couldn't yet lash out at the Valar themselves. And Eönwë had already committed the worst possible blunder in this situation: he had shown Sauron that his assignment was already getting to him.
Oh, Eönwë, Sauron thought, you will have to improve your game if you think you can play with me.
They arrived at the pavilion that Sauron had previously observed from the ramp and which he had evidently been correct in identifying as the command post. It was an elegant, peaked structure, white but embroidered all around with fluid, elven designs in a different weave, and staked into the stone on a low rise at the southern end of the quarry, from which point the occupants had a clear view of the various operations throughout the pit. Sauron had to give the Elves in charge some credit though in that they were not lounging in luxury while their kin toiled below. The interior was distinctly austere; except for the shade, there were no extra frills or indulgences, only a long table running down the center line which was pinned all over with maps and diagrams and surrounded by light wooden benches. At the back, against the sheer quarry wall, were a row of long cabinets, which at a guess Sauron imagined were filled with the various paperwork that an operation like this would require.
There was perhaps a score of Elves in the tent, some gathered about the maps, others working on what were probably reports and schedules, and a few gathered in groups talking and gesturing towards various areas of the quarry. As the Maiar entered, many of the Elves glanced up in a cursory manner, clearly expecting more of their own kind, but then they all did double takes, their gazes suddenly full of the intent, invasive curiosity that Sauron was now coming to expect. He ignored them and felt as their eyes slid away seconds later, as if they had decided they were above staring and did not want to be caught doing so by their peers.
Eönwë, authoritative and formal as always, wasted no time but made a beeline for the back of the tent, where a tall Elf woman was going over what appeared to be production charts. She looked up as they approached, her grey gaze appraising and cool, and laid aside her report. Her dark hair was pulled back into a single, long plait and she was clad in a belted leather jerkin and linen trousers tucked into tall boots, giving her the taut, poised air of one who knew exactly what she was doing and would take no nonsense from those under her command. She met Sauron's eyes fearlessly and held his fiery gaze undaunted, and looking back, he perceived that she was old and shrewd and had seen much in her years. Indeed, searching deeper, he found that hint of flickering light in the depths of her eyes, the same light that Melkor had worn upon his brow, that light which marked all of the Calaquendi. This Elf had seen the Two Trees.
Her eyes swept down then up, weighing him in a single, calculative glance that left him feeling curiously and uncomfortably exposed. A moment later, he realized why. It was the same way he had looked at prisoners brought before the throne of Gaurhoth, evaluating strengths and weaknesses, value and threat, all with the complete confidence of having power and control on his side. His jaw clenched and heat seeped up into his face, though he had long ago learned how to control his fána well enough to conceal the angry, shamed flush.
"So, this is our dark lord," the woman said, her voice low and husky.
Seeming to sense the tension clouding the air, Eönwë stepped forward to do what he did best. "My lady, this is the Maia Sauron Gorthaur of Aulë's Halls who has been assigned to work here at Corimendturë by the Valar. And Sauron," he said, turning to him, "this is Lady Yavairë of the Telerin folk who with her husband Sorohend of the Vanyar has been granted the task of managing this quarry in response to local requests to send succor to the peoples of Middle-earth."
Sauron inclined his head, smoothing his face into a serene mask. "My lady."
Yavairë continued to stare at him, her Tree-lit gaze unnervingly penetrating and inscrutable. "Tell me, Sauron Gorthaur, are the rumors true that you have come to Aman of your own will, seeking forgiveness for your ill deeds?"
Sauron gave a little polite smile. "They are," he replied easily.
Yavairë returned his smile with one of her own, polished and cold. "I see. And now you think that a few stones dug from a quarry is fair payment and proper restitution for gallons of blood spilled from my people?"
Sauron's face remained impeccably cool. "No, my lady, I believe it is the Valar who think such."
Her lips tightened, but otherwise she gave no indication of her emotions. Her eyes continued to flicker uncannily, like light seen far and distant through deep water, and for another moment longer they remained locked eye-to-eye. Then Yavairë swept her gaze away, as if she had fathomed all of Sauron's being that she currently required. "Lord Eönwë has your assignments and he will show you the way things are done here," she said, picking up her report again. "You will find that my people value hard work and a strong will, but we have little tolerance for disruption to our order or for those who spread ill will. I trust you are wise enough to do neither as long as you are here."
She turned her steely gaze back to him a final time. "And do not forget, Sauron Gorthaur, that the Eldar value the blood of their kindred above all else. Our memories run long, and we are not in the habit of forgetting."
Sauron bowed from the waist. "And neither am I, my lady. I can assure you that I will not forget."
~o~o~o~
"Essentially, everything boils down to three main divisions: mining, dressing, and transportation."
Sauron was in the process of getting a tour of the quarry and a run-down of the procedures from Eönwë, who had apparently himself only been briefed in the past few days. However, considering that they had both played the roles of commanders in their respective pasts, neither was unfamiliar with the running of such operations. Sauron was finding everything straightforward enough, if not exactly riveting.
"Each of the three divisions is broken down further into twenty to thirty units – the Elves call them maquati – which each consist of ten workers and an overseer. The mining maquati excavate the raw stone, the dressing maquati shape the blocks to their proper dimensions, and the transportation maquati move the raw stones down for dressing and deliver the finished blocks to their final destinations, here in Valinor at least. There are also the specialists – blacksmiths, wainwrights, hostlers, and the managers of course – but for the most part, they won't be affecting your work directly."
The Herald pulled a folded parchment out of his satchel and handed it to Sauron, who unfolded it to find it covered in a combination of letters and numbers ordered into three long columns. "That's the weekly maquati schedule. It's long, hard work and not particularly exciting, especially if you're in mining or dressing, so most maquati are on rotating schedules to avoid the monotony of performing the same task day after day."
He pointed to the top of the second column. "See, here's M1, Maquat One, who are working in the dressing division today." He shifted his finger lower, indicating a place further down the list in the third column. "Tomorrow, M1 is in the transportation division, and the next day they're in mining. Then they're back in dressing the next day, and so forth.
"Some maquati do opt as a team to remain in the same division indefinitely. Elves who prefer a particular division are grouped into special units and remain in the same slot on the schedule day to day." He pointed to one unit on the list. "M56, for example, is marked IM for imya: 'same.' As you can see, they're working in dressing the entire week. Schedules are developed on a weekly basis, so if anyone wants to switch from a regular unit to an imya unit, or vice versa, they have to inform their overseer by the final day in order to get on the correct schedule for the next week."
"So what schedule have I been graced with?" Sauron inquired in a bored monotone.
Eönwë gave him an annoyed scowl, which Sauron ignored. Just because he'd decided he was going to behave (mostly), it didn't mean he had plans to jump up and down in feigned enthusiasm over his obligatory labor.
Somewhat huffily, the sky Maia plucked the schedule from Sauron's grasp to refold and return it to his satchel. "For some unfathomable reason, the Valar in their great wisdom thought you might not mix well with the Elves yet, so you are a special case. You and I make up Maquat Seventy-three for the time being. The same general rules apply for you though. You're starting out this week on an imya dressing schedule, since dressing is the division that requires the smallest amount of necessary interaction with anyone else and the Valar thought you'd appreciate having a week to settle into the job with the same task each day. After this week however, you'll have the option of switching to a regular rotating schedule or staying on your imya schedule. It's up to you. Any given week you can switch schedules, just as long as you notify me by the end of the week, but once you're down that's what you'll be doing, even if you decide you don't like it after all. So choose wisely."
Tipping his head to the side, Eönwë gazed upwards thoughtfully. "I think that's all you need to know for now. I'll take you up to the blacksmiths to collect your tool set and then you've got a few hours to lunch to get yourself settled in."
~o~o~o~
Within half an hour, Sauron reported in at the dressing division command post at the west end of the quarry. The division commander at the makeshift post (little more than a chair and table under a lean-to roof) took down Sauron's maquat number on a long parchment and handed Eönwë another much shorter document with their daily assignment.
"Looks like we're over there by the southwest wall," Eönwë said, skimming the finely printed Tengwar on the sheet. "Sector Nine, Station Five. I believe they've set us up a special station to accommodate the fact that it's just the two of us rather than a full unit."
Allowing Eönwë to take the lead, Sauron surreptitiously scanned the area as they headed towards their station. By now, the activity in the pit had picked up considerably as the daily work got into full swing and the elven units fell into their well-established routines. As they wound their way between the other stations, Sauron eyed the working units in an attempt to glean what information he could about the labor and his neighboring coworkers. Within each dressing maquat, five Elves were working on large, unshaped slabs of raw stone, hammering and chiseling them into roughly rectangular shapes. The blocks were then passed off to the other five Elves, who were using finer chisels and rasps to smooth out the stone and rid them of remaining imperfections. At several stations, members of the transportation division were loading finished blocks onto sled-like contraptions, which were used to drag the blocks away to the eastern end of the quarry, from whence it appeared they were catalogued, loaded into larger, sturdier carts drawn by horses, and transported to the docks. A bitter melancholy settled over Sauron as he observed the fate of each block. Wrenched from your age-old place in the world, hammered and chiseled and battered and bruised, and shipped off across the sea to you know not what – I know how that feels.
Sector Nine, Station Five consisted of two small wooden benches, a wooden work table, and a large stone table, which was little more than a raised stone slab scored with straight groves into which each block would fit to hold it in place as he shaped it. Folded nearby was a light awning for once the sun rose high enough to become unpleasant. All in all, the station could not have been much more than fifteen square feet.
Beside the station was a tumble of misshapen stones, fresh pick and hammer scars clear across their surfaces. It was these stones that Sauron was required to turn into useable blocks by the end of the day, the stones that would eventually become part of new elven cities in Middle-earth. Fifty blocks according to the quota written in his daily assignment. Sauron bit his lip, breathed out a long, slow sigh, then gingerly slid onto his bench.
On the wooden table, he laid out his tool kit: a leather strip sewn with pockets containing the various devices needed to transform the ugly chunks of raw limestone into the finished blocks he'd observed being hauled out of the quarry. The tools ranged from chisels and rasps of various sizes to a long straight edge, a set square, and a plumb line, everything he'd need to properly dress the blocks. Although he'd never done such work himself or directly overseen the quarrying and building operations of Morgoth's kingdom, he still understood the basic principles of the task before him and had a fair idea of what he'd be doing all day.
One thing was for sure: it was a far, far cry from forging gold.
It was going to be a long day.
He turned to Eönwë, who was standing a few paces behind him, and caught the golden-haired Maia staring wistfully off in the direction of Taniquetil, the top of which was visible over the crest of the quarry. He coughed sardonically and the Herald gave a little twitch, looking almost guilty before he quickly recovered the bored expression that Sauron assumed was supposed to mean something along the lines of "I'm not at all bothered to be stuck in a quarry with the most hated being in Aman. Really, I'm not." Once again, Sauron found himself mentally sneering at what an amateur Eönwë truly was to this game. Not that Eönwë's life had provided him much reason to cultivate the skill of hiding his emotions and concealing his thoughts. The hardest thing Eönwë had probably done in his entire life was memorizing long-winded speeches for Manwë's Valarin feasts.
And what reason did gentlelord Eönwë have to learn? It wasn't as if Eönwë was the one condemned to wear himself out chiseling and chipping at blocks of stone. It wasn't Eönwë who was reduced to a pathetic state of powerlessness with a Bound fëa. It wasn't Eönwë who had nothing to look forward to at the end of the day except further revilement, segregation, and misery.
You would not have survived a single day in my life, he thought, scathing bitterness towards the Herald swelling up from his stomach. You are weaker than you even begin to imagine.
He raised an eyebrow, only letting a fraction of his contempt show. "I'm assuming your job consists of more than holding my paperwork and looking pretty. Or do I have to lift these stones all by myself? Of the two of us, I'm the one who's Bound after all."
Eönwë shot him a vicious glare then frowned down at the pristine blue and white tabard he was wearing, a somewhat regretful expression crossing his face that made Sauron all the more smug about the decision he'd made that morning to choose work clothes over his silken garments. Apparently no one was stocking Eönwë's wardrobe with appropriate quarry attire. That, or Eönwë couldn't bear the thought of leaving Taniquetil without Manwë's Eagle stamped across his chest for all and sundry to see and revere. However, to his credit, the Herald bent over without any verbal complaint and helped Sauron hoist the first limestone slab up onto the stone table.
The entire process was straightforward enough. The first task was to carve the slab into approximately the right shape and dimensions, three feet by two feet by two feet, which was accomplished with the most blunt chisel in his set and a wooden mallet. As the shape began to emerge, he worked his way down to the finer chisels, stopping regularly to use his straight edge, set square, and plumb line to ensure that the lines and angles were correct. Once he was satisfied with the basic shape, he moved on to the polishing process with the most abrasive rasp. Once the bumps and scrapes left by the chisels were worn down, he used the coarse emery rasp and lastly the finest pumice rasp to polish the block to a smooth and glisteningly sleek finish. After measuring the sides and angles a final time, he enlisted Eönwë's aid once more to move the completed block to the east end of the station, where it would be collected by members of the transportation division during their next round.
One block down, forty-nine blocks to go.
From what he could see, the one and only positive aspect of the work was that it was nearly mindless. Except for the measuring, the task took barely any thought, especially the second half which involved little more than rubbing the rasps back and forth methodically across the entire surface. After his muscle memory kicked in, allowing him to perform the repetitive motions by rote, his mind was afforded the opportunity to roam where it willed. For a while, he used the time to meditate on the books from Aulë's library, mulling over various ideas for supplementing his powers that had been sparked by information in the volumes he'd read, and discarding each in turn as he decided it wouldn't accomplish what he needed. From there, he pondered the quandary of how better to approach his mission, searching for that illusive key to speeding up the information-gathering process that he was sure he was missing. Yet still nothing presented itself to him within that sphere, and he began to grow irritated with himself and the seeming futility of his plans, a sentiment fortified by his current state, as he wasted minute after minute on these cursed stone blocks.
Before he could descend into a truly foul temper with that train of thought, he forced his mind back to the present. Fuming helplessly over what he could not change was pointless and he refused to lose his cool on his very first day. Instead, he examined the progress of his manual labor. He'd moved through four more blocks, but when he glanced upwards to the sun, further dismay struck him. Surely, he'd been here long enough that the sun should be nearing its zenith by now! It felt as if he'd been sitting there for hours chipping away at these blocks, but the sun's position announced the fact that he could barely have been there for more than an hour. His heart sank. Already, his arms were stiffening from the constant motion of chiseling and rasping, his fingers felt raw and worn, his back was cramping, and his nether regions ached from the flat, wooden seat. He let out a groan, bending backwards as far as he could without overbalancing to ease his backache and stretching his arms over his head in an attempt to get the blood flowing through them properly again.
All this time, Eönwë had interacted with him on a strictly minimal basis, helping him move each block to and from Sauron's working space, holding one particularly bothersome and wobbly limestone slab in place until Sauron chiseled it flat, periodically clearing away the debris that piled up at Sauron's feet, bringing buckets of water from a nearby mountain stream to pour over the blocks during the final polishing stages to wash away the fine dust, and any other random tasks that surfaced. When not performing such responsibilities, as now, the Herald paced nearby, blatantly bored but apparently not bored enough to attempt conversation with Sauron. Sauron did not mind. He found it something of a relief that neither of them was pretending to hold any amiable feelings for the other. One less layer of his mask to constantly maintain, he figured. It was as if they had made a silent, mutual agreement to do their respective tasks with relatively good grace but to hold one another in complete disdain all the while.
As he twisted his neck from side to side, trying to knead out a crick forming at his nape, Sauron wondered yet again how Eönwë of all people had ended up with this task. It seemed almost as much a punishment for the Herald as it did for himself. Surely there were other qualified Maiar (and ones with whom he had a less hostile history) who could have helped him move stones and stood watch over him just as easily. As much as he despised Eönwë, he recognized that this assignment was well beneath the Herald's rank; unless he had committed a serious offense against his masters, Sauron could not imagine what had led to such a degrading responsibility. Perhaps it's the Valar's twisted way of punishing him for showing me mercy in Middle-earth and causing them so much trouble by sending me here, he thought. I wouldn't put it past them. Still, the assignment must have come from Manwë though, and who really knew what went on in the Sky Vala's head. He was not exactly known for approaching matters in the most rational ways. It was Manwë who had pardoned both Melkor and Sauron, after all. Need one say more?
Eönwë noticed Sauron stretching and brought over his water canteen, from which Sauron took a long, grateful swig. Taking his work bucket, Sauron then proceeded to pour the remaining trickle of water over his head and sighed as the cool liquid ran down his neck. Even though the Valinorean weather remained perpetually balmy, the hard labor under the high sun upon the barren rock face was taking its toll.
"Take a short break," Eönwë said in a clipped voice. "Walk out the cramps and get yourself some food if you need it. I just recommend against straying far."
Though he sniffed at Eönwë's overbearing tone, Sauron availed himself of the opportunity by standing and pacing the perimeter of his station, bending backwards and forwards and twisting to the side as if trying to recall the moves to an exotic dance. Muscles burned from places he wouldn't have guessed he was even using. Morosely, he wondered if he would be capable of so much as getting out of bed the next morning.
While his work took little thought, it did monopolize his visual focus. When he'd first arrived, his attention had primarily been for the station itself and its fixings, but now he took the time to familiarize himself with his general surroundings. His station was at the far southwest extremity of the quarry, leaving him open on two sides, a fact which eased some of the paranoid claustrophobia with which he'd initially been struck upon entering the pit. Due to the slope of the mountain spur into which the quarry was gouged, the shallow western ridge of the quarry offered a fair view of the plains stretching out below to the horizon. He could even see a large patch of darker greenery against the yellow-green of the plains grass which he guessed must be Yavanna's Garden, although the quarry's higher southern wall hid Aulë's mansions themselves from his sight.
Eönwë had apparently taken the break as an opportunity to vacate the premises and escape his objectionable companion, though Sauron did not know and did not care where he had gone, just as long as he returned. He dug in his food satchel and began munching on a ripe peach, appreciating the cool sweetness of the fruit as it washed away the grit and fine film of dust that he'd been breathing in the past hour. As he did so, he leaned up against the quarry wall and turned his attention to his next-door neighbors, the elven unit working closest to his own.
They were perhaps thirty feet away, and the thuds of their mallets, the clacking of their chisels, and the low, annoying growl of their abrasives, along with the indistinct drone of conversation, was clear. One of the transportation sleds had just stopped at their station, and the dressing overseer, a tall, willowy Elf with plaited silver hair and pale eyes, was helping load the finished blocks.
Suddenly, his nape prickled with the sensation of eyes fixed intently on him. Flicking his own eyes sideways, he met the fiery gaze of another Elf in the dressing unit, one of the chiselers shaping the raw slabs. He had paused in his work to glare at the Maia, his dark eyes burning and his hair a shaggy, black tangle about his angular face, which itself looked like the work of a chiseler's hand with its prominent cheekbones and raw jawline. The proud, angry face instantly summoned a memory in Sauron's mind, though it took him a moment to place it. Then he recalled the Elf whom he'd mentally dubbed Black-Hair at breakfast that morning, the one who had glared at him in the buffet line and muttered about the Void. Sure enough, shifting his gaze slightly to the next work space, he saw Black-Hair's timid companion Red-Hair, who was bent over his own slab, chipping away at a final knob with a thin chisel.
Returning his gaze to Black-Hair, he twisted his lip into a cool, dismissive sneer in face of the Elda's obvious hate. Elf, he thought, if you think giving me the evil eye will break me, then you are sorely mistaken.
Evidently, Black-Hair saw the sneer and interpreted Sauron's scornful expression, for his glare darkened even further and Sauron could just about read the threat off his face. Rather than deigning to give Sauron one more second of his time however, he tipped his chin back contemptuously and swept his imperious gaze away. He snapped something at Red-Hair, who glanced up sheepishly, said something in return, then went back to work with bowed head and hunched shoulders. Pushing himself upright once again, Sauron flicked away the peach pit and dismissed the Elf's existence just as quickly as Black-Hair had dismissed his.
Upon Eönwë's return, the two of them erected their awning, casting a small pool of shade over the stone table, and work resumed. For the next three hours, Sauron slowly and laboriously chiseled his way through seventeen more blocks, stopping briefly every hour or so to stretch and drink. If possible though, time seemed to limp along more and more slowly. While the first few blocks at the very least had some small measure of novelty on their side, by the time Sauron reached his half-way mark, he was so thoroughly sick of chisels, blocks, and dimensions that he felt he could scream. Then there was that blasted dust that had a way of getting everywhere, particularly into the nooks and crannies where it was least welcome. He'd quit pouring water over his head several hours back for fear it would simply congeal the dust into a disgusting sludge across his shoulders.
To make matters worse, in that time he seemed also to have exhausted his topics of mental contemplation. He'd spent a while thinking about the Maia Erenquaro, perusing their brief interaction in search of clues on how best to manipulate him, should he pursue his idea of converting him to unwitting minionship. That led to considering Eönwë and brainstorming various methods of getting under the Herald's skin, but even this fertile topic grew old as the time dragged itself sluggishly past. As physical exhaustion mixed with the mental fatigue of the deathly dull work, Sauron's mind slid into a blank state of waking vacancy. Every once in a while he'd give a little mental jerk and realize his mind had been absolutely devoid of any thoughts for the past who-knew-how-long, as if his inner self had simply withdrawn and left him as a hollow shell going through the repetitive motions. He shuddered, trying to regain some tangible train of thought, but inevitably emptiness would drift in again.
This is exactly what the Valar want, his mind insisted in those times when it actually seemed to be functioning. They want to wear you utterly down, mentally and physically, until you are useless, a slavering fool incapable of so much as forming a plan, let alone carrying one out. You idiot, you useless idiot, are you going to just sit here and let them win? You cannot let them win! But at the same time, a tight, choking sensation rose up in the back of his throat as he recognized the fact that he was struggling just to make it through the first half of his first day. Now he understood firsthand Lord Melkor's cunning in condemning his captives to lives of hard labor, not only in its practical function of providing his kingdom with necessary resources, but also in the mental and physical taxation on the slaves that must have rendered them nearly incapable of plotting escape or rebellion. Although he could not help but grudgingly respect the Valar for how neatly their plan was working, the knowledge burned like a hot iron in his chest. He might make it through today, but tomorrow it would begin again afresh, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after. He fought back the despairing misery pushing its way up his throat. He'd throw himself in the Void before breaking down in front of Eönwë, Yavairë, Black-Hair, and all his other adversaries in this quarry who would jump on his weakness like wolves on a lame deer. Still, it was putting a whole new meaning to the phrase 'bored to tears' for Sauron.
Truly, it was not the work itself that chafed him so deeply but rather the implications behind the work. He'd performed long, dull tasks before on many occasions, but never had his work seemed so pointless. The fact that there were countless other activities he could be doing at this very moment, ones helping him towards his revenge or improving his current condition, was what made the situation so torturous. That and the fact that this was simply the Valar's way of keeping him contained, controlled, and humiliated.
Finally, from the direction of the command tent, a long, low horn blast broke through the monotonous clamor of picks, chisels, and cart wheels. The immediate result was like watching water trickled onto an anthill; the Elves abruptly broke their ordered ranks, abandoned their tools, and scattered to collect their food packs and settle in for lunch and a welcome respite. Sauron slumped over, resting his elbows on the half-finished block in front of him, and kneaded his dry eyes. Despite the gurgling protests of his gut, he felt primarily like crawling into a corner, collapsing, and preferably never having to move again.
Eönwë had already commenced his meal. He eyed Sauron then nudged his companion's food pack towards him with his foot. "You eating?" he asked, with distinctly little compassion.
"No, I'm dying," Sauron groused back without lifting his head.
"Have it your way," Eönwë said with a little sniff, returning to his food.
At last, Sauron summoned the motivation to pull himself upright and open his pack. Even though he felt as if he'd consumed enough dust to survive on indefinitely, his appetite returned when he saw the biscuits, fruit, and strips of dried meat. He began to wolf it down ravenously as he realized just how much energy he'd been expending all morning.
Suddenly, raised voices broke through Sauron's single-minded focus on demolishing his lunch, causing him to look up and listen. From the angry tones, it was clear that whoever was doing the shouting was not engaged in friendly conversation. Well, well, Sauron thought, this may very well be the highlight of the day. About time.
The voices were coming from the adjacent station and when Sauron glanced over, he was not in the least surprised to see that it was Black-Hair who was doing the yelling.
The dark-haired Elf was on his feet, face twisted into a furious snarl, shouting violently and making angry gestures towards his unit overseer, the willowy Elf with silver hair fixed in long plaits. Despite his delicate appearance, Silver-Hair had also pushed himself to his feet and was yelling back at Black-Hair with every bit as much venom and fury. The other nine Elves in the unit seemed initially flustered and fell back, giving the two opponents space, but as the argument progressed, some of them joined in, siding with either Black-Hair or Silver-Hair and pressing towards the other side aggressively. Although the fight had yet to get physical, it was obvious this would not be the case much longer as the heated yelling and virulent gestures escalated.
"Stay here." Eönwë's voice was steely as he swept past Sauron, though Sauron found the command somewhat absurd. It wasn't as if he was itching to throw himself into the middle of an Elf fight. Let Eönwë handle the psychotic Eldar if he pleased and blessings be with him.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as the Herald marched into the neighboring station, pushing past the Elves until he was facing the two troublemakers, his back to Sauron. Though Sauron heard his angry voice as he jabbed his finger at both Elves, the specific words themselves were lost in the vast dome of the quarry, just as the Elves' words had been. Whatever he was saying seemed effective though, for the majority of the Elves retreated quickly and resumed their meals, averting their eyes and looking chastened for the most part. Even Silver-Hair abandoned the dispute and sat back down, sullen and agitated but with his fire mostly quenched.
Only Black-Hair remained undaunted. He shot something back at the Herald angrily, still standing belligerently close to the Maia, fire-browned skin taut over his muscles and his jaw rigid. Rather than backing down, Eönwë swelled out his chest, brandishing the white Eagle stitched upon his tabard, and made a curt, unyielding reply which, Sauron had a sneaking suspicion, probably contained the words "or I'll tell the Valar" or some close variation.
Whatever it was, it had its desired effect, in essence at least. Although he hardly looked mollified, Black-Hair returned to his seat, still glaring at both Eönwë and Silver-Hair but no longer looking completely homicidal.
Sauron swiftly refocused on the remainder of his meal as Eönwë returned, his breathing quick and tense. Risking a glance at the Herald, he saw that Eönwë's face was flushed as he dropped back down onto his bench beside his discarded food. Sauron tore off a strip of salty jerky and chewed the tough meat pensively. He was intensely curious about the nature of the quarrel. At the moment, Eönwë was obviously irate and bothered, a combination that often led to lowered defenses and loose tongues, which could provide Sauron with just the opening he needed. Of course, if Eönwë sensed he was being milked for information, the opportunity could just as easily backfire, but Sauron decided to give it a go.
"What was that about?" he inquired innocently, his mouth still half-full of jerky.
Eönwë heaved a long sigh, though for once Sauron sensed that it wasn't directed at him, and looked sideways at the fire Maia. For a good thirty seconds, Eönwë stared silently at him as if trying to gauge whether Sauron had trouble on his mind or was asking from simple, harmless curiosity. He apparently concluded the latter, or else the temptation to vent was too strong, for he gave another irritated sigh and shook his head.
"You know about the Kinslaying, I presume?" he said.
Sauron nodded. That was one story from Valinor about which he knew most of the gruesome details, along with the resulting Curse and Exile. The event had been a source of general amusement for Morgoth (save for the fact that it had dumped a horde of enraged Noldor into the middle of his kingdom), and Sauron himself could hardly complain about the strife it had caused over the years amongst the various elven factions. In fact, Sauron was willing to admit that the Kinslaying and the ensuing rifts it had caused was likely one of the primary reasons for Morgoth's overall success in the Wars; had the Elves remained united, he suspected the forces of Angband would have had a tougher time keeping them at bay. However, he had the presence of mind to refrain from airing these particular sentiments in Eönwë's presence.
Instead, he glanced at the neighboring Elves from under his eyelids, keeping his head lowered and his attention on the food in his lap. "I assume there's some lingering bad feelings then?" He paused a beat then added, "I suppose one can hardly blame them to some extent though."
Eönwë seemed to relax, almost imperceptibly, placated by Sauron's reasonable tone and mild manner. Sauron allowed himself a small mental smirk. Faced with a sympathetic façade and a silver voice (particularly one coming from a fair form), it was amazing how quickly an honest soul could forget the true nature of a less morally upright conversation partner.
"I suppose, but it's been a full Age, by Eru," the Herald replied, rubbing his temples wearily. "Fëanor's been committed to Mandos for centuries now, and you'd think they could work out their differences in some reasonable fashion. For most of the First Age, the Valinorean Noldor and Teleri seemed basically satisfied with ignoring each other's existence, and the Vanyar ignored them both. We hoped the War of Wrath would unite them and mend their hostilities, but instead it seems to have stirred them up against one another all over again."
Though Sauron flinched inwardly as Eönwë casually referenced the war that had destroyed his life, he didn't let his feelings show. Instead, he peeled off another ribbon of dried meat then paused, a small, puckering frown crossing his face. "That's odd – it certainly seems like they were fighting together from what I saw."
"Oh, they were. One thing that none of them ever disagreed on was their hatred of Morgoth. The problems haven't been so much in Middle-earth as here in Valinor." Eönwë stared at the biscuit in his hand as if contemplating whether to take a bite or not, then set it back down, gazing off over the quarry, his brows still drawn. "When the Valar decided to go to war, the Noldor joined in right away, of course. I suspect Finarfin had been eager for a war in Beleriand ever since his brothers left, and considering everything, he was adamant about the Noldor participating wholeheartedly. The Vanyar were less enthusiastic but willing enough to lend their aid to our cause."
The Herald picked at the biscuit distractedly, still staring off into the middle distance. "Then there were the Teleri. We didn't expect any help from them, and as far as I know the Valar weren't going to ask for it. But Olwë made the executive decision to provide his aid in the form of ships and sailors. He said it was time all the Eldar recognized they had a single enemy and that it was their duty to help their kindred in Beleriand, Sindar, Laiquendi, and Noldor alike. It was a noble resolution on his part, but it didn't go over well amongst his people."
Sauron continued to eat, still displaying mildly sympathetic interest but listening intently.
"Most of the Teleri are furious that their people provided any aid in the War of Wrath, since as far as they're concerned, it was poetic justice for the Noldor to die forsaken in Beleriand. Sending the Noldor any kind of assistance was equal to kin-treason in their opinion, from what I can tell."
Eönwë swept his hand towards Black-Hair's unit in an irritated gesture. "So now the Valar have these fires popping up across Valinor as the Teleri and Noldor go at each other's throats, and at the Valar. The Teleri are smoldering from Olwë's ruling and being forced (as they see it) to lend their aid to foes, and rumors have been spread that the Valar were going to force them to send ships anyway. The Noldor are smoldering at the fact that they had to be rescued, not that they'd admit anything of the sort of course, and that the Teleri helped. The Vanyar are treating the Teleri and the Noldor like idiots who should grow up some time in the next Age, which of course only infuriates the Teleri and Noldor all the more. The Valar have encouraged different projects, like Corimendturë, to get the three kindreds working together, but so far there's been only moderate improvement." The Herald shook his head and made a wordless sound of frustration. "Ugh! The Children! They're certainly living up to the name. You'd think they were all fifty years old!"
Sauron allowed a small smirk to twist the corner of his lips, hidden by his lowered head. He'd gathered more than enough information for the moment, and it was best to stop while he was ahead: before Eönwë recognized just how much leverage he'd given freely away to the former lieutenant of Morgoth. Now for an exit strategy… It was critical that when Eönwë recalled this conversation later, his focus would not be on just how much he'd blabbed to the Black Captain.
Now the fun part of the process: some good old Herald-goading.
"In other words," he said nonchalantly, putting an mocking edge back into his voice, "this little paradise of the Valar's isn't quite the utopia they'd like everyone to believe."
Eönwë took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. "The Valar have never claimed that Valinor was perfect," the sky Maia shot back, immediately going rigid and angry once again. "Why do you have to twist everything we say? Valinor was created as a safe haven from your master, and it served its purpose well for many years. Our land may never have been a utopia, but it has always been better than that accursed dystopia that Morgoth created in Beleriand."
Sauron picked idly at breadcrumbs under his fingernails, not looking at the Herald. "A dystopia? You wouldn't have caught any Elves going at one another's throats in any of Morgoth's quarries. At least his kingdom ran smoothly."
Eönwë gave a bitter, incredulous laugh. "Ran smoothly? Is that the difference between a dystopia and a utopia to you, Sauron? Whether it runs smoothly or not?" He gave that little laugh again, his hands clenching. "Why should I be surprised? Of course that's what you'd think. Why should I be shocked at how twistedly your mind works?"
Heh, you don't know the half of it, Sauron thought, amused by Eönwë's display of spleen. The Herald must be in fine form indeed to already be resorting to blunt insults. He stretched out his legs casually, maintaining his unflappable exterior. "If we're speaking of twisted minds, at least I have never seen fit to slaughter a group of my own kindred," he commented in a dismissive voice. "And if I have never even done it once, how twisted does that make someone who does it three times?"
Eönwë made a strangled sound that Sauron guessed was his attempt to repress a yell of frustration and simultaneously refrain from tearing out his own golden hair. Sauron's smirk widened just a little.
"Why do I even try?" Eönwë gritted with a voice that sounded like he was choking on his own tongue. "Dear Manwë, why do I even try?"
That was the end of lunch. For the next several hours, neither Maia deigned to acknowledge the other, except to move limestone slabs on and off the stone table.
Sauron, however, found himself with ample new material for contemplation.
The last thing he'd ever considered was that the Elves could prove potential accomplices to his schemes, yet now that he thought about it, Lord Melkor had essentially made them so, however unwitting, when he himself was a prisoner here. Of course, the Eldar had hated and reviled his old master every bit as much as they surely hated and reviled Sauron now, but Melkor had been successful at using their discontent, anger, and even their hatred of himself, for his own purposes. In fact, they had played right into his hand. And if Lord Melkor had been able to accomplish it, surely Sauron had the skill to succeed as well.
Until now, Sauron realized he'd had a false picture of the Eldar as a whole since his arrival in Aman, though understandably so. The unified front of his enemies during the War of Wrath, which had swept so relentlessly through Morgoth's kingdom, had given Sauron the impression that all his foes had put aside their differences and at last reconciled, to Angband's detriment. From his perspective, all he'd seen was the mingled wrath of Valar, Maiar, and Quendi crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. From this decidedly inconvenient vantage point, he'd been blind to the cracks still running through his foes' ranks.
And indeed, perhaps during the War of Wrath itself, the Elves had been willing to temporarily put aside their grievances to defeat a mutually hated enemy. However, in the wake of Morgoth's sentence and Sauron's containment, it would seem the Elves were turning back to old enmities, having no shared opponent towards whom to direct their anger now. From his new vantage point, as a harmless prisoner of war rather than a public enemy at large, now he was able to see those cracks.
And like his master, Sauron knew how to get into the cracks.
Once again, Sauron blessed the Herald's naiveté, loose tongue, and obvious ignorance of the ways a mind such as Sauron's functioned. He could still hardly believe Eönwë had spilled such a perfect scenario to him, and with little prompting. Knowing not only that the Elves were still quarreling viciously over a long ago debacle, but that they were also angry with the Valar themselves, discontent with current management, and bitter about recent decisions, and that the Valar apparently had their hands full dealing with it, was nothing short of delicious. It was just such a situation as this upon which Melkor had preyed. Melkor had simply needed the proper firebrand to set it all ablaze, and the Elves had done almost all his work for him. Sauron looked up from his work covertly and glanced at the adjacent station from underneath lidded eyes. From where he sat, he could see Black-Hair hammering viciously away at his block, as if the lifeless stone was the offending skull of some hapless Teler. Sauron smiled to himself. He might not have Fëanor, but he had a feeling that he had ready access to just the sort of firebrand he needed all the same.
And do not forget that the Eldar value the blood of their kindred above all else. Our memories run long, and we are not in the habit of forgetting, Yavairë had said to him only that morning. He suspected she'd meant it as a threat, and yet with an irony he could never have planned, it appeared that sentiment might be the very thing that worked perfectly in his favor.
Slowly, the rest of the day bled out, but the display at lunch and Eönwë's information gave him the fuel to keep his mind ignited as he gradually made his way through the pile of raw slabs. The sun hung over the western ridge of the quarry, still several hands high over the horizon, when he completed the final touches on the fiftieth block and, with Eönwë, moved it onto the transportation route. He had officially survived his first day.
They reported out at the dressing division command post, where Sauron's daily assignment sheet received a wax seal as evidence that he'd completed his quota. Then he and Eönwë headed back up the winding ramp out of the quarry, which he'd descended what seemed like an Age ago.
Eönwë was clearly still peeved at Sauron for his comments about Valinor and the Kinslayings, but he didn't fuss when Sauron asked for the schedule to verify his tasks for the remainder of the week. As he skimmed the lists of unit numbers, Sauron was suddenly struck by the fact that only five days were listed. He paused, then his heart lifted fractionally. Until this moment, he'd not even considered the fact that he might be given days off. It made sense, though; he could hardly imagine the spoiled little Valinorean Elves working non-stop seven days a week.
Still, in recent days, too many times already he'd hoped only to have his hopes cruelly crushed.
However, when he pointed out the missing days to Eönwë, the sky Maia gave him a scathing look. "The Valar aren't slave-drivers, Sauron," he said, his tone dripping haughty contempt. "Their intention is to give you the opportunity to right some of the wrongs you've done and show the world the goodwill you claim to have, not to kill you. The work might not be enjoyable, but it isn't meant to be torture or punishment. Operations at Corimendturë run five full days a week. The sixth day is a half day for those who need or wish it. The only time you'd be required to come on the sixth day is if you fall behind on your quota. There are generally at least a few Elves who will opt to work a few hours any given sixth day, and on any occasion that you're so overwhelmed with benevolence that you just can't contain it, you're welcome to join in."
"Hmph," Sauron snorted under his breath, deciding he'd earned the indulgence of another goad at the Herald, "who in their right mind would want to spend one second longer in this place than they had to? Of course, we've already determined where the Elves stand in regards to right minds…"
Eönwë glared at him in disgust. "Some people in this world actually care about others and are willing to sacrifice their time to aid them, but I wouldn't expect you to have any concept of that."
"I have people I care about," Sauron sniffed.
Eönwë gave a humorless laugh. "Oh right, and who would they be?"
"Hmm, let me see." Sauron sarcastically mimed thinking, one forefinger resting on his chin. "Oh, figure that, it seems I can't think of anyone after all. Now why would that be? Oh yes, because you and your army killed everyone I cared about when you attacked Beleriand."
Eönwë's contempt gave way to a brief flash of startled surprise, followed rapidly by something that might have been consternation, but he quickly returned to the neutral glare he'd been wearing most of the day. The muscles along his jaw clenched and he turned away from Sauron without another word. A moment later, there was a rush of wind as the Herald took to the form of an eagle and launched himself up and away.
Erenquaro the Stolid was waiting for him at the ridge where they'd parted ways that morning. As Sauron trudged up the last steps of the ramp, he wondered whether his wobbling legs and the aching muscles that twinged with every move would last him all the way back to Aulë's Halls. Once again, he cursed the Binding on his fëa that reduced him to this state, little better than a mortal.
Lifting his eyes, he watched the blurry golden form of Eönwë's eagle fading into the distance towards the great thorn of Taniquetil rising up from the plains. Bitterness swelled back in, familiar and sulfurous in his mouth, to replace the brief sense of encouragement from his afternoon contemplations. This was not how it was supposed to be. He should have had a forge, a well-crafted goldsmith's hammer, precious materials to weave and shape, his mind and his metal to send the hours flying past. He should have been a lord, untroubled and undisturbed, alone with himself, the only person left in the world to whom he could devote any trust or admiration. He should have had a task he would never tire of carrying out, a place in this world that meant more than scraping at rocks in the midst of quarreling Elves and self-righteous Maiar. This was not how it was supposed to be…
If only, Sauron thought as he turned to follow Erenquaro back to the Halls, if only this had all been different.