A/N: Well, here it is at last. I feel terrible about how long I have kept all of you waiting for this chapter, but Life has been…draining. I've been trying to pull myself out of a particularly frustrating dry spell (in writing, in reading, in doing pretty much anything) for the last four months in particular, and this chapter decided it wanted to fight me every step of the way :/ But here it is, and I hope it is worthy :)
I do sincerely apologize to everyone who has been waiting. I truly feel terrible when you all have been such a loyal, wonderful, supportive reader base and I've wanted to get you the next chapter so much. All I can say is thank you for sticking with me and Sauron through fair weather and foul, and I hope you enjoy this installment.
A shout-out to all my anonymous reviewers – Tookloops, Amalthea, Orfi, Arvedui, Guest (1), Guest (2), Guest (3), Guest (4), Guest (5), and Al – all your reviews are appreciated!
A deep thank you once again, mellyn nin. Now go read the chapter!
Chapter 16
Sauron woke with a scream upon his lips that tasted of iron and salt.
He lurched upwards, breathing harsh and rapid, and attempted to make sense out of his quiet, darkened surroundings. Slowly, reality replaced the vestiges of the nightmare realm in which he'd been trapped. Trembling, his veins still coursing with unleashed adrenaline, he curled over and buried his face in his hands.
Upon doing so, he discovered his cheeks were slick with tears; well, that explained the salty tang in his mouth. Angrily, he scrubbed at the incriminating moisture, furious at the vulnerability of his nighttime self over which he clearly had no control.
He dropped his hands back to his lap, glancing downwards, and felt his heart leap momentarily back into his throat at the sight of red smears on his fingers. Jerking his hand back up to his face, he skimmed his fingertips over his skin until he found the source of the blood as nothing more than a small cut on his bottom lip. He must have bitten himself accidentally when he yanked himself out of the dream with that cry. He cursed and flopped back down onto his back.
There had been blood and tears in his dream as well, far more blood, far more tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, snatches of opaque memory flickering like lightning through the corridors of his mind, the oppressive nightmare atmosphere still clinging to him like cobwebs.
Grey walls. Mocking faces. Teeth like the flash of knives.
The Ring of Doom.
The humiliation and horror was still uncannily real and immediate, and he could feel the unpleasant lingering tingle of phantom pain at his throat. Even though he knew that none of it had been real, shame still burned in his face and chest, so vividly painful that it made him want to bury his face in the pillows and never emerge again. He could still sense the sear of the blazing lamplight in his eyes, feel the press of invasive, condemning minds pushing relentlessly into his innermost being, see the ring of faces, all furious, accusing, and completely devoid of mercy. The iron chains around his wrists, binding him to a stake in the center of the Ring, dug painfully into his flesh.
His mind was a whirlwind of confused thoughts. Had he somehow returned to his first trial or had he done something new? Had they discovered his plans to take revenge on them? He could not recall, and his mind seemed hazy as if with wine. He felt small and shrunken, exposed and frightened, his thoughts too sluggish to comprehend what was going on.
Námo's voice was like a drum, so deep and resonant that he could feel it pounding in the hollow of his chest, too deep to make out the words even though he strained to hear. But the tone of the voice and the unforgiving faces of the Valar ringed around him made the message clear. This time, he could expect no pity.
Námo's voice continued on, but now he realized it was a drum – though he did not know when the change had occurred – like the orc drums that had throbbed through the caverns of Angband in preparation for war. A gate before him slid ominously back with a grating clang and a single figure stepped into the Ring, facing him. Wild panic surged through him at the sight of rippling brown hair laced with coiling vines.
Yavanna held a single long vine in one hand like a whip and he could hear the threatening whisper of it as it slid along the ground. He twisted his hands against the chains, instinctively wanting to throw them up over his face to protect himself, his panic building as he realized the full helplessness of his position. The Tree Queen's gaze swept over him scathingly, as if he were a thing so low and vile and worthless that the mere sight of him was an offense. Her perfect lips, full and red as cherries, curled back into a smile as sweet as venom. "Do you want to go to the Void, Abhorred One?" she asked him, her voice half threat, half playful mockery.
He cowered back against the stake. "No," he whispered hoarsely, "please, no."
Her smile widened. "Then beg."
"Please, please, no," he gasped and hated himself for it.
The vine whip flickered out, lashing him across the cheek. The pain had seemed explosively real, burning brand-hot across his face. "Oh, Sauron, I know you can do better than that," Yavanna said cloyingly, her green eyes glimmering with relish. "We want to hear you beg."
Tears of fury and terror filled Sauron's eyes, spilled over, ran down his throbbing cheeks. "I'll do anything, anything you say, just please don't throw me into the Void. Please, please, please, please."
"Not good enough!"
This time the whip took away flesh as it ripped across his face and shoulders, the pain sharp, sudden, and unforgiving. He was sobbing now, tears choking his voice, but he continued to beg, abasing himself in whatever ways he could conceive to try to placate the wrath he had somehow incurred and to stave off the horrific threat of the Void looming over his head, even as he knew in the pit of his stomach that nothing he did nor said could save him now. A voice screamed in his mind to stop, to be silent, to not give them what they wanted, to stem the flow of humiliation so that he could at least go to the Void with his dignity intact. He did not understand why he could not tip back his head and take the pain and fear the way he'd been taught, but it was as if another creature had usurped his tongue. He listened to himself babble, his self-loathing agony in and of itself at the words spilling uncontrollably out of his mouth.
"Please, please. I'm sorry. I was wrong. I am nothing. I'm worthless. Please, I don't want to go to the Void. Please don't send me to the Void. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please, stop. Please, please, no. Please, please, please, please, please…"
He looked up desperately, searching through the haze of tears and pain for someone who might be able to make it stop, who might be able to close his mouth and end the flood of pleading sobs. His eyes alighted on the one person who might condescend to help him, frantic hope stirring for a second in his breast.
"Please, Master," he cried out, pulling against his bonds. "I'm sorry. Please make me stop, Master."
Aulë's face hardened like stone, hate and disgust radiating from his metallic eyes as he glared down at his apprentice. He folded his arms. "You should have taken your opportunity when you had it, Sauron. I tried to help you all this time, and what thanks did I ever get for it? There's only one place for you now and that is the Void. Were you really fool enough to think I valued you?"
They were all laughing at him now, a ring of laughing, mocking faces, and he felt the crush of it in his soul and the burn of it on his face. He felt as if the entire world were collapsing upon him, sucking him inward, erasing the space where he once had existed, cleansing the world of him forever. And he was still sobbing, sobbing and screaming and begging, and hating himself for it, hating forever, always, always, always…
Yavanna still stood before him, laughing, but now her form was shifting and blurring, and as the image cleared before his eyes, terror with the taste of bile rose up in his raw throat. It was no longer Yavanna, but a giant wolf, red-eyed, fangs dripping, fur so black it was like a hole in the universe. The wolf leapt at him in a single bound, teeth like the flash of knives, and he felt the moment that it ripped out his throat. He felt the choke of the blood, felt it gushing down his chest, felt the breathless gasp of empty lungs, felt the scream shoving its way up his mangled throat as if it were a living thing clawing its way free of his flesh…
And that was the moment in which his mind had reached its breaking point and released him from the unendurable torture of the nightmare.
He remained curled over in his bed, trying to shake that eerie sensation of reality, the abject humiliation still hot enough to set his cheeks aflame, the terror of the last moments of the dream still drenching his body with cold sweat. He drug a hand down his face. "It's not real," he whispered to himself. "It was just a dream, a dream, a dream, you idiot, a dream."
His mouth foul, he reached clumsily for the jug of water he kept at his bedside for this purpose and poured himself a glass, swigging it down in one gulp to wash away the bitter saltiness of his tears and the metallic trace of his blood. It briefly crossed his mind that he was getting far too used to waking in the middle of the night with vile nightmare aftertastes in his mouth if he was deliberately providing for it.
Slowly and gradually, he regained control of his body as the dream wore off. He tucked his arms around himself, still curled into a tight fetal position, his eyes squeezed shut, but he could not reclaim his sleep. He was thoroughly exhausted – his head pounded at the temples and his eyes felt dry and swollen – but sleep simply refused to take him back. After one nearly sleepless night already and the long, grueling, stressful day, he knew how desperately he needed a good rest, but a lingering miasma from the nightmare prevented him from relaxing enough to slip back into oblivion.
Even worse was the taunting knowledge that the dream had not been entirely untrue.
He turned his wrists over and found them laced with ugly purple blooms. He cursed beneath his breath, even though he'd known he'd wake with bruising. You idiot, he hissed in his mind. Of course you had to struggle. If you'd just stayed still, kept your wits, not panicked, you wouldn't have ended up like this. Now look and what you've gone and done!
Lovely. Long sleeves it was to be for the next few weeks. As if his work at the quarry was not miserable and embarrassing enough as it was… Still, it was preferable to the possibility of Eönwë noticing those unmistakable blemishes and sticking his persnickety nose where it was not wanted.
He turned over onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling, and ran his fingers through the hair at his scalp, frustration and a claustrophobic sense of cagedness hammering in his chest. His entire situation was already bad, threatening to tip him in over his head at any given moment, but this added a layer of complexity that made his head pound. Helpless rage warred for dominance in his heart with a nauseating dread.
Firstly, it meant he would have to proceed even more cautiously with his plans than he'd already thought he was. It disturbed him how quickly Yavanna had divined his thoughts. Even if it had been no more than a lucky guess based solely on prejudice and hate-driven suspicion, the Tree Queen's assumptions had hit far too close to the mark. How much did she actually know? She couldn't possibly discern the full extent of his plans…could she?
Secondly, it meant he would need to carry out his plans at an even more dawdling pace. And just when he'd put the first element of his scheme into action too. The thought made him want to grind his teeth and tear at the pillow in a seething, bitter rage. The moment of his revenge still seemed so far on the horizon that it was only a mild salve to his current humiliation, and the thought of postponing it even further made his stomach clench. How long could he truly endure? His nightmare might have been a shameless overexaggeration of reality, but it was not far enough removed from his waking life to provide true peace of mind. Every day that he had to live like this, he became a little less of himself, a little more of the mewling, cringing creature he was doomed to play in this wretched twist of fate. How long did he have before he forgot himself utterly and transformed into that vile, cowering thing of his dream that had sobbed for mercy at his captors' feet?
He spiraled a forefinger over the bruising, wincing at the tenderness of the discolored flesh as he chewed on his bottom lip. Yavanna's threat, both physical and verbal, gnawed at him more than he liked to admit. What had she meant: I am not blind to the secrets of what will strike you deepest and most surely? The threat had seemed neither idle nor speculative. Yet how could she know his deepest, darkest fear when at this point even he was not entirely sure what could currently claim that status after all the things he'd learned to fear these past few months? In any case, he was not wild about the idea of finding out what Yavanna thought the answer might be.
He touched his throat compulsively and shuddered. He had no idea whether Yavanna had been deliberately mimicking his encounter with Huan when she held him by the throat or if she'd chosen that attack purely by coincidence. He tried to nudge his mind into believing the latter, but the former clung to his thoughts as unshakably as the Hound himself. Regardless, it was clear Yavanna was weaving plans of her own.
How ironic. Last night, he'd lain awake in a sweat worrying over a stupid spy. Next to the dire implications of Yavanna's attack, he'd gladly take fretting over a silent, invisible shadow.
As much as Sauron knew he was hated, feared, and loathed, he realized that until this evening he had not truly thought anyone would physically hurt him, not without due provocation on his part anyway. Yes, the paranoia of the possibility had lurked at the back of his thoughts, but deep down he had not actually believed anyone would be stupid enough to defy the Valar and attack him. Now he saw just how naïve his assumption had been. Perhaps he'd needed to believe it to keep his paranoia from becoming an overwhelming, disabling force.
Well, he had no such luxury now. And it hadn't even been a stray rebellious Noldo or a self-righteous Maia who shattered his illusion. He wouldn't have been too deeply shocked by a random act of violence against him at the quarry nor frankly even a punch in the face from Eönwë. But he had been attacked in the very Halls of Aulë, under the nose of the one who was supposedly protecting him, and by one of the same beings who had witnessed his trial and agreed (however reluctantly) to his pardon.
Despite his cynical anger at the thought, deep down he realized he felt betrayed.
He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into his pillow, his rage and frustration forcing tears back into his eyes. He had been so monumentally stupid not to see this coming, not to have recognized the extent of Yavanna's hate. If he'd been on his guard, he would never have allowed himself to be cornered like that. If he'd been paying attention, he'd never have left his safety in the hands of those who couldn't care less what happened to him now that they'd neutralized him. You truly are a fool, Sauron.
In the aftermath of his encounter with the Mistress of the Halls, he'd waited just long enough to make sure Yavanna had truly gone and that no one else was watching, then he'd fled to his chambers, so choked with wrath, humiliation, and fear that he could hardly think straight. Still, the obvious question had almost immediately surfaced; he'd just been far too bothered to come to a conclusion as to how he should actually handle this turn of events. Now, as it rose again in his mind, he felt just as conflicted as he had before he'd somehow managed to drift off to sleep.
Should he tell anyone?
Aulë was the obvious candidate. On the one hand, Sauron could guarantee that Yavanna had acted outside the sanction and knowledge of most, if not all, of the other Valar. Alerting them to Yavanna's actions could gain him additional protections, or even a relocation to another Hall. More pleasing was the thought of seeing how Aulë would respond to the knowledge that his wife had manhandled and threatened his beloved redemption project; he could hardly see a downside to setting the two of them at each other's throats like wolves.
And who knew? Perhaps Manwë and Námo would consider Yavanna's actions severe enough to warrant a rebuke. He could hardly imagine the notoriously gentle-hearted High King approving of Yavanna's actions, and even Námo seemed to lean towards organized, approved discipline that had been voted on, signed, and stamped, rather than spontaneous correction.
On the other hand however, the thought of groveling before Aulë to beg for help made his skin crawl. The situation was humiliating enough as it was. It was more than he could bear to consider giving Yavanna the pleasure of knowing she had broken him. Furthermore, as amusing as Aulë's rage and horror might temporarily be, he didn't know if he could stand the additional coddling and pitying that he would undoubtedly end up receiving. He was defeated, Bound, enslaved, defanged – did he really want to be the tattling crybaby who was no longer strong enough to deal with his own problems?
And as much as he would love to see Yavanna receive payback, he didn't want the Valar to do it for him. No, if anyone was going to strike back at the Tree Queen for her actions, he wanted it to be no one other than himself.
And finally, such a choice might actually worsen his situation in the long run. Relocation was not what he wanted, yet it was the likeliest outcome of tattling. If nothing else, he had a forge here and Aulë was far more predictable for him than any other Vala. He'd already laid foundations for his plans here, and nor did he want to be viewed as the one who had stuck his tail between his legs and run when things got tough. Besides, ratting Yavanna out would only increase her wrath, especially if it resulted in a rebuke, and he had a feeling she'd get at him regardless, wherever he ended up. After all, he knew quite well himself how far one could be willing to go to achieve revenge.
But did he have a choice? Could he manage this on his own and still obtain his own vengeance on them all? He'd already learned all too keenly that sometimes the greater goal required the less desirable path. If it meant he could carry out his plans in the end, would he be willing to confide in Aulë about his troubles? His lord would help him – that was one of the few certainties in this scenario, even if he had no idea why Aulë bothered – but Aulë's help was not always the most, well, helpful.
What was he to do?
He wiggled down into the bed, attempting to find a comfortable position, and hugged the pillow close to his body, digging his face into it. His wrists ached dully. He sighed and flipped over to the opposite position. Wonderful, now his leggings were riding up and he'd found the damp, sweaty spot where'd he been lying during his nightmare.
There were times when it truly felt like the universe itself was against you.
Ironically, in his case, it probably was.
Eventually, sometime deep in the dead of night, Sauron slipped back to sleep.
~o~o~o~
Scrish, scrish, scrish…thunk
Sauron let fly with several colorful phrases as his hammer slipped for the third time that day and connected with his fingers rather than the top of the chisel. He dropped the offending tools, wringing his reddened hand, and continued to spew obscenities that had more to do with his frustration than the pain.
"Maybe I'm missing something, but I'm pretty sure that 'Void-cursed dragon filth' isn't the problem," Eönwë commented from somewhere behind him, his tone loaded with wry sarcasm. "I think you're due for another break."
Sauron sat back with a huffing snort, giving the hammer an ill-tempered kick, though not too hard. The last thing he needed was sore toes to add to his ever-growing list of discomforts.
"Here," Eönwë said, offering him the water bucket. Sauron splashed his face with the lukewarm liquid, allowing it to run down the back of his shirt, providing a little relief from the relentless heat generated by his labor and the midday sun.
The Herald handed him his cup of drinking water, which Sauron took gingerly with his throbbing fingers. It was only when he lifted the cup to his lips that he noticed that his latest slip had left a gash down the side of his forefinger, which was oozing blood forlornly.
Eönwë noticed it too. "I've got a salve that will stop the bleeding if it's not too deep. Otherwise, I can fetch a bandage."
He started reaching for Sauron's hand to examine the injury, but Sauron jerked away so quickly that water slopped out of the cup onto his legs. "You leave well enough alone," he snarled, surreptitiously tugging the end of his sleeve closer around his wrist. "I don't need you prodding at it to make it worse."
"All right, all right," Eönwë said, a hint of exasperation entering his voice as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just trying to help."
"Well, try to help from over there in the corner where I don't have to look at you or hear you."
Eönwë took a very deep, steadying breath, staring upwards for several seconds. "Why don't I go refill the bucket then, shall I?" he answered in a clipped voice.
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode stiffly off. Sauron continued to sip his drink, glowering darkly at the half-finished block in front of him.
The combination of dogged weariness, aching wrists, and sweat dripping from his hands was rendering his task even more difficult, a fact attested to by all the fingers he'd managed to smash so far. It was even more maddening when he knew he was perfectly capable of carving the most intricate details into the most delicate ring. But today, the repetitive movement caused his bruised wrists to twinge and burn, robbing his hands of their exquisite precision.
Glancing around to make sure Eönwë was well out of sight, he carefully rolled up his sleeve far enough to glimpse the dark purple splotch on his flesh. It looked no worse than it had in the middle of the night, but his entire wrist had stiffened and even the slightest pressure caused it to throb miserably.
That morning, he'd discovered to his dismay that all his working shirts were short-sleeved, resulting in a moment of panic. He'd solved the problem by first donning one of the thin, long-sleeved undershirts meant to be worn with a doublet or tunic, then layering his hardier working shirt over the top. Not only was he cursed with not one but two layers to contribute to his already hot work, but he looked ridiculous.
Thankfully however, Eönwë had yet to comment. He suspected anyway that the Herald thought he was making fun of him with his wardrobe choice, mocking him for the impractical eagle tabard he'd been parading around in yesterday. If that was indeed the case, he certainly wasn't about to disillusion the sky Maia.
Overall though, Eönwë was being surprisingly tolerable. After the snit he'd left in yesterday at their parting, Sauron had expected an equal or worse temper from the Herald today. Though Sauron's snips and insults were still clearly getting under his skin, he seemed to be making a visible effort at tolerating his companion, as well as attempting to be helpful – something Sauron wasn't sure he appreciated. Moreover, he'd gone a step in the right direction with his own clothing: wearing a hemp shirt and thick work trousers under his tabard rather than the fine-mesh linen he'd showed up in the previous morning.
All Sauron could conclude was that apparently Eönwë had gotten a better night's sleep than he had.
Gritting his teeth, he picked up the hammer and chisel once again and went back to his work, hunching over the block and growling to himself as he attempted to keep his hands steady. He shook his head, trying to clear the aching fog from his mind and the heaviness from his eyelids, then he delved back in, finding his rhythm and returning to the familiar pattern of movement that he was fairly sure he'd soon be able to mindlessly repeat in his sleep.
He heard Eönwë return with a grunt and a scrape of the water bucket against rock. He didn't look up as the sky Maia took his seat behind him, waiting until Sauron was ready for his help with the next step. His eyes prickled on the back of Sauron's neck. Usually it didn't concern him, but today he was uncomfortably aware of the piercing gaze. How could Eönwë miss the blatant purple marrings on his wrist every time he raised the hammer? How could he fail to notice the way Sauron's hands were shaking and the twinges that jolted him each time he struck the chisel, sending uncomfortable ripples of pain from his injured wrist up his arm? And surely the eagle-eyed Herald could see the dark circles forming under Sauron's eyes, along with the myriad other signs of sleep deprivation that were beginning to show.
He hated the feeling of hyper-awareness prickling through his entire body, making it even harder to concentrate on his task. Even hidden, his bruises felt like beacons, relentlessly drawing the gazes of all those around him. It made him feel small and helpless, trapped, caught up in a maelstrom of events that he could neither predict nor control. He hated the thought that if Eönwë caught so much as a whiff of what had happened, he'd prance off to Manwë without a second thought, robbing Sauron of what precious little power he still retained for himself. He had not yet decided whether he would approach Aulë about his predicament, but the one point in which he was adamant was that he, and he alone, would make that decision.
The horn blast that signaled the midday break rang out across the quarry, causing Sauron to clench his teeth as the brassy sound cut through his lack-of-sleep-induced headache. Setting down his tools, he leaned back and rubbed at his bleary eyes with the heel of his palms.
Still aware of Eönwë's watchful gaze, he pulled out his food pack and set into a pear like a wolf. He slid down and lounged back against his working table, allowing his stiffening muscles to finally stretch and relax. From the corner of his eye, he noted that the Herald was still eyeing him pensively as he munched on a pasty, his head tipped slightly to the side as if he were pondering some deep philosophical question about his place in the universe.
Sauron took a large bite out of the fruit in his hand and gave Eönwë a lopsided snarl of bared teeth. "I don't know what they teach here nowadays, but Morgoth made sure all his Maiar knew it's impolite to stare. So unless you're enjoying the scenery just too much to resist…"
Eönwë gave Sauron an irritated look that might have meant something like "oh go toss yourself off a cliff" but then he sighed, lowering his pasty to rest his hand against his knee. "Look, Sauron," he said in that clipped, matter-of-fact voice that Sauron was coming to despise, "I can't help but notice that you seem a bit off today."
"Because I'm such a shining beam of sunlight on a regular day," Sauron responded with a fixed, over-the-top smile that came nowhere near his eyes.
Eönwë ignored him. "You're obviously not functioning your best, not when you're smashing your hand every other minute. Is everything all right? Have you been sleeping well?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sauron replied, "like a cozy little bird in a nest."
Eönwë gave him a raised eyebrow coupled with a disbelieving curl of his lip.
Sauron took another nonchalant bite from the pear. "Because, obviously, I have nothing whatsoever going on in my current stage of life that would cause disruption to my sleep," he said with fluid snide grace.
Eönwë touched his forehead in a brief gesture of summoning patience before glancing back at his companion. "You need to be getting proper sleep." He motioned vaguely at the quarry. "This is…hard work, and if you're not getting proper sleep and food, you're going to eventually collapse."
Sauron's eyes went cold and hard. "And if I did, who would care?" he said with a hint of a snarl, ripping a vicious chunk out of his pear.
Eönwë's jaw twitched. "The Valar would care. I would care."
Sauron laughed then, a short, cruel burst of sound. "Yes, I'm sure all of you would throw quite the festival."
"I know what you're doing," Eönwë said, sweeping his eyes away to focus on his food. He picked at the pasty but didn't take a bite, his shoulders a taut, harsh line. "Needle, goad, mock. Because that way you don't have to face your problems."
"Who fed you that line? Estë? Nienna? High King Manwë?"
Eönwë glared back at him. "I'm aware that you're diverting the conversation, Sauron."
Sauron lounged to the side to dig in his pack. "Am I?"
"Yes." Eönwë took a deliberate bite from his pasty, then glanced back at Sauron, a flash of piercing blue. "You're not getting the rest you need, when the goldsmith can't even hit the head of a chisel properly."
Sauron started in on his pasty, ignoring Eönwë's comment.
"I mean it," Eönwë continued, undeterred. "If you're having any sort of problems, we'll help. That's why I'm here. Are you having problems, Sauron?"
Sauron turned a searing stare onto Eönwë and actually saw the Herald flinch as his eyes burned into him. He curled his lip, angry flames coiling and writhing in his chest. "Let's see. Am I having any problems? Well, other than the whole my kingdom was overthrown and my master tossed in the Void and my army slaughtered before my eyes and I've been Bound and I'm spending my days in grueling manual labor, no, I can't think of anything."
"But that's what I'm talking about!" Eönwë said, gesturing sharply towards him. "These last few years have been traumatizing, and we understand that. I understand that, Sauron. We've seen horrible things, we've done horrible things. I know. The Valar don't want you suffering needlessly from what you've been through, and they understand what we've faced better than we think they do. There is help for you if you want it."
Sauron sneered at the earnest expression on Eönwë's face. "The Valar! The Valar don't care about me, Eönwë," he snarled. "Why in the world would they care? As long as I'm able to chip these rocks for them and kiss their feet for the world to see, why would they care? Dead, alive, half-alive – they've made the example of the Black Captain that they needed to make, and I know I'm not worth one iota to them past that."
Several emotions seemed to be warring in Eönwë's face – frustration, pity, surprised indignation – and Sauron hated them all, hated being the recipient of any of them, hated the stupid naiveté of the Herald that he could even be caught off guard by such sentiments. What sort of a dream world were they all living in?
"That's not true," Eönwë said in a tight voice. "The Valar care very much about you."
Sauron laughed and heard the craziness in the sound, the mad cackle of sleepless nights and helpless wrath and wrists blooming purple. "The Valar don't care, not about me. I know the Valar don't care about me." He leaned forward, teeth flashing in a bitter grin. "You were there at the Ring of Doom. Tell me, did Oromë seem happy to see me? What about Tulkas? Ulmo? Yavanna? Námo? Don't tell me I'm anything but an unfortunate burden that Valinor has been saddled with. Don't tell me you haven't thought the same."
"If the Valar didn't care about you, you'd be in the Void," Eönwë shot back, heat rising in his voice. "And if I hadn't cared about you, I'd have left you for the dogs. Literally. I get it if you don't want to talk to me about all of this, but for Eru's sake, go to Aulë about whatever's happening with you. He's your lord; it is his duty to you, and you can't accuse him of not wanting you back. Go to your lord, and I promise you'll feel better. He loves you, Sauron."
"Like Manwë loves you?" Sauron answered, his voice low and slick. "Did you feel his love when you were fighting his wars, when you were covered in Maiarin blood in his battles? Did you feel the Valar's love when you were retching alone on the edge of that battlefield, or perhaps when you tried to cut out my heart because that's what they'd commanded you to do? Do you feel Manwë's love here in this quarry forced to watch over the Maia you hate and despise more than you care to admit?"
Eönwë shook his head stiffly, lips tight. "I'm not playing this game with you. This is about you and your lord, not me and mine."
"He's not my lord," Sauron said. "I betrayed him. He's not my lord."
Eönwë gave Sauron a long look, his eyes dark and sad. "He's your lord all the more for the fact that you betrayed him."
Sauron turned his head away coolly and ripped another bite out of his pasty.
"You don't have to suffer through all this craziness alone," Eönwë said quietly. "None of us do."
Sauron's eyes flashed. There seemed to be two halves of his soul, one a raging furnace of scorching heat, the other a pit of numbing frost, and he was caught between the two, both burning and freezing all at once. "In Melkor's dungeons, when we brought in new prisoners, they'd scream for their loved ones," he hissed. "Some of them would scream for days. But their loved ones never, ever came, and finally they'd realize no one was coming for them and they'd fall silent. Some of them never spoke a word again. Why bother when there was no one who cared, no one who was going to come, no one left who loved them?"
He stared at the Herald, eyes like molten fire. "Each of us is facing this world alone, and the sooner you realize it, the better off you are."
~o~o~o~
The garden was quiet and still as the shadows lengthened across the lilacs and junipers. The soft burble of water cascading gently over stones and the hum of dragonfly wings and the wind-rustle of leaves melded into a peaceful harmony. Supper was over, and faint sounds of laughter and song drifted between the colonnades out from the main halls as the Elves and Maiar transitioned to the various evening activities of storytelling, amusements, and companionship after the labor of the day.
Aulë sat on a stone bench by the stream that wound through the garden's center, listening to the soothing watersong and idly twirling the stem of a purple gladiolus growing beside the pathway. He closed his eyes, breathing in the wholesome mingling of the myriad scents rising from the garden, even though it only partially soothed his worry.
Sauron had not come to supper.
After the encouraging progress of the previous evening, Aulë had looked forward all day to seeing his Maia at the table and learning how his second day had gone. Yet, as the seats filled and the meal commenced, it had become more and more obvious that Sauron was not going to be making an appearance.
Aulë had checked Sauron's room, the library, and the garden, all the likeliest haunts for the fire Maia, but his search had proved in vain. Sauron was nowhere to be found, and no one else had seen him since he returned from the quarry, though Erenquaro promised he'd walked into the Halls with Sauron himself. He hoped desperately that Sauron hadn't decided to sneak out, though he'd already formed a wide variety of excuses in his mind to keep Sauron out of trouble if he had. There were enough corners and niches in the Halls and the Gardens, Aulë kept reminding himself, that Sauron could easily tuck himself away for several hours and go unnoticed. He had probably found a nice, cozy spot to curl up in with one of those books, maybe even fallen asleep and missed supper accidentally.
Yes, that was probably what had happened.
Still, Aulë found himself reluctant to leave the garden and retire back to his own chambers for the evening. He couldn't shake the persistent itch that he might just miss Sauron if he left now, that if he waited but a few more minutes, his patience would be rewarded.
The sound of footsteps coupled with the distinct nearby ripple of an Ainurin will caused Aulë to look up expectantly, his heart lifting with hope. But it was not Sauron, but Curumo who was watching him, hands folded behind his back and his dark eyes inscrutable.
"Curumo," Aulë greeted him, hiding his brief flare of disappointment.
The Maia bowed elegantly. "My lord, I was wondering if you had a moment to spare to examine my progress on this diadem."
"Of course, Curumo." Aulë patted the spot on the bench beside him and Curumo sat stiffly, his back ramrod straight and his hands tucked on his lap. Aulë took the diadem and turned it slowly in his hands, gauging its weight and balance and the element of Rightness to it that his many Ages of work at the forges had given him the innate ability to sense.
"It's a good piece," he said after a minute. "The balance is excellent, and a wonderful execution of a Vanyarin knot. I might suggest less tracery here; it draws attention away from the central gem and the setting. Otherwise, a fine work."
Curumo took the diadem back. "Thank you, my lord." He remained seated however and cast a sideways glance at Aulë. "If it is not too bold of me to say, my lord, I can't help but notice that you've been absent from the forge a great deal recently. The last week in particular? Your Maiar have missed your guidance and encouraging presence."
Aulë gave a little smile and patted the Maia on his shoulder. "I am truly sorry about that, but other duties have been calling my name. I'm sure though that you've done spectacularly in keeping everything running for me in my absence."
Curumo frowned pensively then flashed Aulë a smooth smile. "Of course, my lord, but perhaps we'll be seeing you in the forges again soon? Tomorrow perhaps?"
Aulë gave him another fond pat. "I can't make any promises about tomorrow, but yes, I'll see what I can do about joining you again soon."
The Maia shifted, looking for a moment as if he might rise, but then he said, "All of us in your Halls, we've noticed that a very large portion of your time has been preoccupied with Sauron. Some of us might even say most of your time."
Sauron's name settled lead-like in Aulë's heart. "Yes, he is in need of a great deal of care and attention at the moment, as he adjusts and as we work everything out around his return."
Curumo pressed his lips tightly together, his fingers curling around the diadem in his lap, then he said, "Forgive me if I am too brash, my lord, but is it possible that Sauron is perhaps receiving more of your time and energy than is properly warranted?"
The Smith looked directly at Curumo then, his lips curved into a perplexed frown. "Sauron needs all the time and energy I can give him right now, Curumo. In the future, once his position and life are stable again, he will not need as much as he needs now. But for the time being, I do not believe a moment of my attention to him goes astray or unneeded."
Curumo did not look back at him, but stared straight ahead, his dark eyes veiled. "I mean, my lord, does he deserve it? You are exhausting yourself – we all see it – pouring your heart into the Maia who betrayed you; do you think it wise to grant him so much of your valuable time and resources?"
Aulë squeezed Curumo's shoulder gently. "Yes, I do," he answered simply. "Sauron may have betrayed me, but he has returned in good faith and deserves nothing less than everything I have at my disposal to help him."
"But at what cost?" Curumo finally turned to face Aulë, and the grey light of his eyes flickered uncannily. "Sauron is not your only Maia, my lord. You have many Maiar who have never once betrayed your faith and who have served you loyally their entire existence. And yet, it is Sauron, always Sauron, who seems to receive the lion's share of your love and approval. There are some who might feel slighted by the fact that you pour out everything for the one who betrayed you and yet seem to have no time for the ones who remained loyal at your side. You act as though Sauron's return is a festival, yet you cannot spare a day at the forge with your own Maiar who have never once wavered in their faith to you."
Something glistened in Curumo's eyes that was more than the fey silver of his gaze. The Maia turned his head away, lips tight and shoulders rigid again. A swell of affection rose in Aulë's chest, and he reached out a weathered hand to cup Curumo's face. "For the past Age, Curumo, you have had all my resources, my attention, and my time at your disposal as you wished. Your fellow Maia has returned to us in a precarious position, and he needs all of our love and help if he is ever to be reclaimed for the Light. If it seems that he is receiving more of my love for the time being, know that it is only because it has been withheld from him for a very long and dark Age. Don't forget that what love I have for Sauron, however deep, does not steal from my love for you. There is enough for you both."
Curumo swallowed, his pristine composure balanced precariously. Aulë put an arm around the Maia's shoulders. "Curumo," he said gently, "I would do all of this for you if you had been the one to fall."
The Maia looked up, his eyes searching deeply. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else, but instead he just inclined his head in an acknowledging bow. Aulë squeezed him a little tighter. "I love you very much, Curumo," he said. "Yes, Sauron's return is a thing to celebrate, even if it may seem hard at the moment, and I would have us rejoice in his return from beyond the edge of Hope. I would have us all celebrate the joy of this together, even as we labor together to do what each of us can to welcome him home."
Curumo met his eyes again and smiled, his teeth flashing white. "Thank you for your explanation, my lord. I am sure we are all grateful to have our brother returned rather than lost to the eternal darkness."
A little of the weight in Aulë's chest withdrew, leaving it easier to breathe. "And I appreciate your understanding. I know it's hard right now, but we can all make it through this time of trial together."
He leaned over and hugged Curumo tightly to his chest. The Maia stiffened momentarily, then awkwardly returned the hug, patting his Vala's shoulder. Aulë smiled and squeezed him a little tighter still, and Curumo leaned his head on his shoulder, submitting to the warm embrace of his lord with a little sigh.
"I will always love you, Curumo," Aulë said again. "Don't ever forget that, child."
~o~o~o~
From the shadows of the colonnade at the far end of the garden, Sauron silently observed the exchange between Aulë and Curumo. Though he could not hear any of the words spoken, he watched until the conversation culminated in a tight embrace. He curled his lip into a tiny amused sneer. Was this the Vala he was truly considering running to for help? The Vala who thought anything and everything could be solved with a heartfelt hug?
He picked at the sleeve over his wrist, rolling the hem between his thumb and forefinger. Curumo had wriggled his way back out of Aulë's embrace, looking mildly flustered, but he said something back to Aulë that made the Smith smile and pat his shoulder again. Sauron could have rolled his eyes at the sentimental display. Curumo had always had a particular talent for sucking up to their lord, one that had apparently not faded during the last couple Ages.
He slipped backwards quietly, fading deeper into the shadows of the colonnade. He had a feeling Aulë had been here on purpose, waiting for him, but Sauron did not want to be found, not today. Today, he could not bear the thought of enduring another saccharine conversation with someone so naïve and clueless.
Of course, he doesn't know there is anything wrong, one voice murmured in the back of his thoughts. You haven't told him that anything is wrong.
He should know, another voice answered bitterly. If he was truly your lord, he should know.
Aulë wanted his precious Nauron back. Aulë had never wanted Sauron.
Were you really fool enough to think I valued you?
He turned, eyes narrowed, watching the mawkish scene for a second longer, his mouth a harsh, hard line, but then he shook his head disgustedly. It was as he had told Eönwë; in the end, only one person could ever understand him and walk in his steps. The sooner he faced the fact that he was in this by himself, the better off he would be.
In the end, everyone was alone, and those like Eönwë and Aulë who thought differently would one day learn that bitter lesson to their detriment.
Sauron was going to make sure of it.
He slipped down the hallway, keeping to the shadows as he made his way back to his chambers. Most of the Hall's occupants had settled into their evening routines by now, leaving the corridors quiet and still as the evening wore on. Uneasiness stirred in his stomach, invisible spies and choking vines winding ceaselessly through his thoughts. Each shadow felt like a tendril of the Void reaching out to snare him and drag him into its depths. He paused under an arch, waiting for a group of Elves to pass through, their voices annoyingly lilting, and the image of Aulë and Curumo flashed again through his mind. He snarled and pushed it away. Aulë had not been able to help him before, not when he was an innocent Maia wrestling with the doubts and dark thoughts that Melkor's whispers were putting in his mind, not when he was bound to a slab of stone with Melkor's knife carving a bloody painting in his body, not when Huan's teeth were crushing the life out of him through his throat, not when he was fleeing Oromë's hounds in a frenzy of terror, everything in his life coming apart at the seams and shattering into millions of shards that were now lodged in jagged disarray in his heart.
Not when Námo had condemned him to this living misery and he had screamed in agony as they Bound him.
Not when vines had made his wrists blush purple and the Tree Queen had held him by the throat and promised destruction upon him.
When had anyone ever been there for him before?
A small knot of Maiar were chatting in a corner of the entrance hall when he slipped through towards the dormitories. He paused for a second, eyeing them suspiciously, and caught fragments of conversation about how so-and-so had been assigned such-and-such. There was laughter, and Sauron scowled, hardly able to remember a time when he had been part of such a world. He turned his back to them and continued his way up the stairs towards the east wing, his feet soundless on the wide granite stairs.
"Sauron?"
Sauron nearly jumped out of his skin as someone said his name behind him, and he whirled around with fists covertly clenched at his sides.
It was only a Maia though, one of the ones who had been talking in the entrance hall, the mousy, brown-haired Maia who had been with Erenquaro last night at supper. Aiwendil.
Sauron relaxed his tensed muscles, irritation overtaking his panic. "What?" he said flatly, a smooth mask slipping over his features.
Aiwendil fiddled with his hands, eyes unable to keep contact with Sauron's fiery gaze. "Oh, it's nothing really. It's just – I saw you coming through the hall just now, and I wanted you to know that, well, you could join us. If you like. If you don't have something else to do." His eyes sank even lower. "I just wanted you to know, in case you didn't know."
Sauron eyed the Maia until he squirmed like a worm on a hook. He scanned the corridor furtively without moving his head, then glanced back at the fidgeting Aiwendil. He turned back to the stairs. "I'm good."
"Oh, well maybe some other time," Aiwendil stammered. "Have a…have a nice night, I guess. But you're invited to join us anytime. Just wanted to let you know, since you don't seem to get many invitations. I mean, not that that's bad, but sometimes it's nice to get invitations…? Well, uh, have a nice night. See you some other time."
Sauron did not reply as he continued his way up the stairs until Aiwendil's awkward babble ceased, the Maia having apparently given up on whatever it was he'd been attempting to do. His lips curled into a sardonic sneer as he wondered if Aiwendil's companions would be quite so eager to have him along as Aiwendil seemed to be.
He frowned and glanced around the stairway again, the hairs on his nape prickling. Did Yavanna know that one of her Maiar seemed strangely keen on making friends with the Black Captain? Or, had she sicced that oblivious little earth Maia on him for her own purposes, to snare herself a dark lord? Sauron had no problem believing that she would.
It would probably be for the best to keep his distance from Aiwendil. Even if he himself was as harmless as a patch of daisies, he was a direct link to Yavanna, and that was dangerous.
Not that he was jumping to take Aiwendil up on his invitation anyway.
The sun had vanished behind the rim of the world by the time Sauron reached his chambers. Changing into his night clothes and sinking down into his bed, Sauron closed his eyes and let the darkness take him once again.