Chapter 17

When Sauron strode through the door to the breakfast hall the next morning, the last thing he expected to see was her.

He almost literally skidded to a halt, ducking backwards into the shadow of the doorway before she could turn around and see him. His heart was suddenly beating a furious tattoo.

He'd known that Erenquaro was unlikely to be his only escort; that seemed a punishment too cruel for the Valar to inflict upon any single one of their darling, loyal Maiar (with the exception of Eönwë apparently, concerning whom Sauron was still trying to puzzle out what he could possibly have done to get on the Valar's bad side). But Eönwë aside, Sauron had figured there'd be a rotation of escorts. He'd just never thought the Valar would ever, ever, ever have subjected him to something quite as pointedly embarrassing as this.

Weren't the Valar just full of surprises? Lucky him.

He peeked back into the hall, hoping faintly that it was a mistake, but there was no doubt about it. She was the only Maia anywhere in sight, and she was lingering in roughly the same spot that Erenquaro had occupied the last two days. No, she was definitely intended to be his escort for today.

His mind was racing. How had she possibly gotten onto the escort rotation. Yavanna would never have volunteered her, of that Sauron was certain. Unless of course she was meant to spy on him… All right, that was a possibility. But then again, did any of the Valar even know about…their history? He ran a hand down his face. Oh Lord of Darkness, he hoped no one had spilled that particular mortifying piece of his past to the Valar, though to hope for that was probably whimsy. Perhaps though she'd been chosen totally at random, with no particular implications. He deeply hoped that to be the case. Because if it wasn't, the implications were ones that made his sick with disgust just to consider.

Surely the Valar aren't so stupid as to try to play that card on me.

He gathered his wits and composed himself with a few long, slow breaths. Regardless of what game the Valar think they're playing, I can play it back just as well. He smoothed down his ruffled emotions and plotted his entrance with a calculating eye, deciding just how he wanted to play his cards in this unexpected situation.

He joined the breakfast line as he had done the previous two mornings, ignoring both the Eldar who shied away from him and those who glared at him, keeping his stance casual and aloof. By this time, she had probably noticed him. He selected an apple from a tottering bowl full of fruit and polished it absently on his sleeve as he turned around and made his way towards his table where she was waiting, perched sideways on one corner. His face was a study in bored condescension as he slid his plate onto the table and seated himself languidly across from her.

"Well, well, well," he said in an oily voice, eyebrow quirked. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Shouldn't you be tending to your little fluttering friends, Wilwarien?"

She pursed her lips, lavender eyes predictably darting away from his. The corner of his own mouth twisted upwards wryly as he started on his breakfast. There'd been a time when he'd admired her for the…eccentric choices of her fána, a time when he'd thought that perhaps he'd found a kindred spirit who shared a wilder and broader vision of the world, but hadn't that blown up in his face? She was just like all the rest of them: blindly following the path she'd been dumped on, content with so very little, a pretty quirk with nothing of substance underneath.

He allowed his gaze to rake across her and watched with veiled satisfaction as she squirmed beneath his eyes, shifting her legs uncomfortably and keeping her own gaze lowered. Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his cordial, still eyeing her and enjoying her obvious discomfort. She was beautiful, he still had to admit to that, even if it no longer had any power over him beyond the lingering twinge of unpleasant memories she aroused.

She was dressed in a light tunic of burnt orange that hung bright and airy around her slip of a body, her feet bare as always, her long limbs thin and graceful. She was a thing of the air, Wilwarien was, light and wayward as a zephyr, and just as ephemeral, her hair a messy wash of brown curls, her heart-shaped face a sweet and open thing that spoke of a comfortable life of soft beds and open skies and happy, thoughtless days. Behind her, her most eccentric features fluttered softly, the huge violet and gold wings that draped from her shoulders all the way to the floor. There were few Maiar who had included such elements in their primary fána, but Wilwarien had always been oblivious to the opinions of others and she was nothing if not devoted to her little charges, in honor of whom she had shaped her own form.

A memory popped back into Sauron's mind from long ago, so tangible he could almost feel the cold metal lying in his palm. A little brooch, carved from a single amethyst stone, its butterfly wings unfurled. That same trinket in pieces on the ground, delicate wings crushed to shards, and the way it had felt under the sole of his boot as he pressed down and felt it crumble.

He crossed his legs casually, dabbing his lips with a napkin and pointedly wiping the grease from each of his fingers. "I must say, you're looking as lovely as ever, though I don't recall you being so quiet."

Her eyes flashed up towards his, her lips pursing into a perfect little bow that made him want to roll his eyes. "Don't," she said, her voice honey-sweet but with an unmistakable edge to it.

Sauron paused his work of meticulously cleansing his fingers, eyebrow raised. "I'm just trying to be polite, make conversation," he said innocently, giving her a doe-eyed look that he knew from experience clashed disturbingly with the dark fire of his eyes. "I'm trying to be decent." His smile turned wolfish. "I don't think you want to see me the other way."

A shiver ran through her wings. She looked away, staring at the wall, her jaw a thin, delicate curve. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and crossed her legs instead. The silence was an awkward emptiness pulsing in the air between them. "I know what you're doing," she said at long last. "Don't."

Sauron rose and cracked his neck nonchalantly. "Looks like everyone's moving out," he commented. "Guess it's time we got going, Wilwarien."

~o~o~o~

The trip to the quarry was every bit as unpleasant and awkward as the breakfast had been. Sauron made sure of it. Even though they exchanged no words, he kept his body language arrogant and disrespectful, displaying with every step just how little he cared. His pace was purposefully – uncomfortably – fast, forcing the smaller Maia to take to the air several times in order to keep up with him.

The wind danced over the meadow grass, and at one point, several butterflies came whirling up from the flowers to flutter around their mistress as if in greeting, one landing in her hair, another on the slope of her nose. Distracted, she gave a bell-like laugh and lifted a hand, gently transferring the insect from her nose to a slender finger. She proceeded to coo at it in a voice that made Sauron want to gag.

One of the butterflies made the ill-fated attempt of landing on Sauron's arm. He raised his hand to swat it and saw Wilwarien giving him a fierce glare that belied her tiny frame, daring him to do it. Locking his eyes with hers, he deliberately raised a hand, curled his fingers, and flicked the butterfly off, not enough to truly harm it but with just enough violence as to make it unnecessary. Hurt and anger filled those round, lavender eyes and he thought for a moment that she might try to hit him, but she turned stiffly away instead, refusing to look at him, her wings spreading to their full length, trembling, then furling again.

The butterflies abandoned them as they started the climb up the side of the mountain slope towards the quarry, leaving the meadows of undulating grass behind. Finally, they reached the top of the ridge and stood looking down over the familiar sight of Sauron's daily prison.

"S…Sauron?"

He'd already turned towards the ramp that led down into the quarry, not expecting anything else to pass between himself and Wilwarien, given that they had not exchanged a single word on the way there. Yet at her voice, he paused and turned, curling his lip and doing nothing to temper the fire of his eyes. She had stumbled on his name, as if the unpleasant syllables were a curse that her lips were too delicate to speak.

"My lady?" he responded in a mock courteous tone, spreading his arms in a matching little bow.

"Why did you leave?"

There was a haunted look in Wilwarien's eyes. She fidgeted uncomfortably with her fingers, not quite looking at him. "Did…did that evening play any part in your decision to leave? Ever since you left, I always wondered if I was any part of the reason you went down that path."

A vicious gleam entered Sauron's eyes, and his teeth gleamed in a predatorial smile, as he leaned towards her until he was uncomfortably close. "Which answer would hurt you more to hear? Let's just go with that one, shall we?"

Wilwarien pulled sharply away from him, both anger and distress registering simultaneously on her face. Tears glistened in her eyes. "How can you?" she said, her voice full of sweet, innocent hurt that made him want to tear her apart. "I've felt terrible for six thousand years, wondering what had happened to you and why you left us. I always cared about you very much."

She shook her head, forcing back the tears even as one slid down her pale cheek. "I wanted to find out what the infamous Sauron was like, if he really was as terrible a person as everyone was saying. I thought they were all overexaggerating, that their minds were too closed to give you a second chance. I came fully prepared to give you that second chance, but…"

She took a shaky breath. "I hoped for your sake that I'd find you were not half as cruel as the rest of them all claimed you were." She gave a bitter little shrug. "I guess they were right."

She turned abruptly and snapped open her wings. Without a backwards glance at him, she took off, gliding back down the path from whence they'd come.

~o~o~o~

Sauron and Eönwë got right to work. Even though it had only been three days, Sauron was a little disturbed by how he'd already fallen into the rhythm of the monotonous hours. It seemed as if Ages had passed since that first day when he'd walked down the ramp and seen Eönwë standing there at the bottom in his sky-blue tabard, not a mere forty-eight hours ago.

The morning passed slowly and uneventfully. Though hardly at his best, Sauron was nowhere near the low he'd been at the previous day, due to getting (what constituted for him) a decent night's sleep for once, unhaunted by nightmare wolves or whip-wielding Tree Queens. The previous evening, he'd hunted down several bandages as well, which he'd wrapped firmly around his bruised wrists this morning. It was not a perfect solution, but it gave his wrists enough support that they were not twinging and failing him every few strokes. Granted, they made his injuries all that much more conspicuous, but he'd tucked the ends of his long sleeves up around them to conceal the telltale fabric as best he could, and he was no worse off than he'd been yesterday. If his wrists had kept giving out on him throughout an entire second day, Eönwë would have eventually demanded to inspect his hands and arms, and that would have been that.

Sometime after the noon lunch break, their assigned transportation maquat arrived to load up the blocks Sauron had finished. Eönwë helped the Elves in the unit haul the blocks up the ramp onto the back of their horse-drawn cart while Sauron continued his own work. As the cart lumbered off to the next station, Eönwë sat down heavily under the awning, taking a swig of water. Sauron watched lazily out of the corner of his eye as the cart ground to a halt at the neighboring dressing maquat.

He'd noticed in passing the previous day that the adjacent group was the same as it had been his first day, though he'd been too distracted to give it much thought. It was the same maquat again today. Apparently, they were one of the imya maquati that Eönwë had described, one of the groups that did not rotate to the different quarry tasks. Absently, he watched Silver-Hair, the Telerin overseer, helping load blocks just as Eönwë had done. Letting his eyes slide sideways, he quickly located both Red-Hair and the defiant Noldorin hot head whom he'd mentally dubbed Black-Hair.

So far, he'd not had the amusement of witnessing any further rows between the Elves, nor had Black-Hair shown any continued interest in Sauron himself. Sauron watched him surreptitiously from his peripheral as he polished the block on the work table in front of him. The Elf was a piece of work, no question about that. Everything he did spoke of pent-up anger and ferocity, his movements sharp and violent. Sauron wondered if the Elf wanted to be here in this quarry just as little as he himself did, or if that was just the way he did everything.

His mind had been too full of other, more pressing thoughts to give any more attention to a plan as to how he might harness that passion for his own uses, and he was in no rush, particularly after Yavanna's threat. Still, a piece of information or two never hurt. He decided to try his luck with Eönwë.

He casually broached his topic after he and the Herald had hauled another block up onto his work table. "I suppose I'll have to inform you soon about whether I want to stay imya or not."

Eönwë glanced sideways at him. "Sometime within the next couple days, yes."

"I think I'll keep it the way it is for now. It's just so much fun."

Eönwë gave a little snort, but made no attempt at a response. He wiped the edge of his sleeve against his brow, clearing it of the little beads of perspiration and clinging dust.

"Looks like we're stuck with your best friends over at the next station too. Do you suppose they put the two of us here just so you can keep your eye on that Noldo?"

The sky Maia gave him a sour look at that. "This is going to turn into some sort of insulting commentary on Valinor or Elves or the Valar, isn't it? See, Manwë's bird-brained Herald isn't as stupid as he looks. Let's play a game instead: the Eönwë Figures Out What Snide Remark Sauron Is Trying To Set Him Up For game, and then I just think the snide remark for you and save you all the trouble."

Sauron gave a short, humorless chuckle. "My dear Eönwë, your mind is not nearly twisted and tortured enough to successfully predict my thought patterns. However, fire away. I would take immense pleasure from seeing you try."

He wasn't quite sure, but for a moment Eönwë's face flashed with something that might have been veiled amusement. He struggled with it for a second before settling into a much more familiar expression of vague annoyance. "For once, I actually believe the whole truth of both those statements," he muttered.

Sauron paused his chiseling to take a sip of water. "You'd be shocked by how much truth comes out of my mouth, no doubt," he remarked. "Anyway, it's well enough for you that you didn't try to guess, because believe it or not, this time I was actually just attempting to have a conversation."

Eönwë snorted. "Oh, you're going to try to convince me that you've become a sophisticated conversationalist now?"

"Sophisticated? Hardly," Sauron responded with a snort of his own. "Bored out of my wits? Thoroughly."

Eönwë sat down on the completed block that he'd just helped Sauron move. "Something we can finally agree on, imagine that."

"So," Sauron said, guiding the conversation back to its original purpose. "Do all Noldor have the tendency to erupt like volcanoes, or just the ones I've had the ill luck of encountering?"

"All the Children of Ilúvatar are strong-willed, and I suppose that includes us." Eönwë smiled faintly. "But I'll admit the Noldor seem to have gotten an extra dose."

Sauron allowed his gaze to stray over to the neighboring Elves. "And our fiery-spirited friend next door? Is he a Fëanorian? He certainly acts like it."

"What? Saiwend Gilruinion?" Eönwë shook his head. "Not in blood, but in spirit certainly."

Sauron's head snapped up. "Wait, what? Say that again."

Eönwë looked puzzled and gave Sauron a look as if questioning whether the fire Maia had suddenly lost it. "What? Say what again? That he's Fëanorian in spirit, but not blood?"

"No, no, what was his name again?"

"Uh, Saiwend Gilruinion?" Eönwë repeated.

"Gilruinion." Sauron's thoughts were racing. "He's Gilruin's son."

"Um, yes?" Eönwë said, still eyeing Sauron as if he were a wild animal displaying signs of rabidness.

"Gilruin's son," Sauron repeated under his breath. In an Age he never would have guessed that the black-haired spitfire at the next station was related to that timid, simpering Elf lord whom he'd spilled wine over on his very first day. At least, that explained why Black-Hair – Saiwend – had looked at him like he wanted to tear Sauron's throat out personally.

This was the Elf he had promised to offer instruction at the Forges of Aulë.

Well, that made things interesting.

Sauron's mind snapped back to the present, aware that Eönwë was still watching him with growing wariness. "I had a brush with his father in the Halls of Aulë," Sauron said as way of explanation for his reaction. "I would not have guessed that was his son."

Eönwë relaxed a little. "Yes, I've met Gilruin a few times myself. Not exactly the most imposing Noldo, but Saiwend makes up for that three-fold."

"I'm surprised he didn't end up in Beleriand," Sauron remarked. "He seems like the type who would've hopped on a ship with Fëanor in a heartbeat."

"Oh, he wanted to, even though he was too young at the time and his father strictly forbade it. He and his cousin made an ill-fated attempt to follow after, even though neither was more than an elfling at the time, and they only made it back because Uinen dragged them to shore half-drowned after their craft was smashed to pieces on the rocks. He's never quite gotten over his bitterness at being left out."

"His cousin? Is that Red-Hair?"

"No…well, yes. Findeláro Gilnenion is his cousin too, but you wouldn't catch him sneaking off in a boat to stow away to Beleriand. Findeláro got his temperament from his uncle Gilruin."

"So, there's three of them?"

Eönwë absently circled his fingers over the block he was sitting on. "They all belong to the House of Áragil, not royal-blooded but one of the more important noble houses of the Noldor. Áragil himself followed his lord Fingolfin to Beleriand, out of loyalty more than a true desire to join the wars, I imagine." He glanced sideways at Sauron. "To put it simply, there are…mixed…feelings about Fëanor in the House of Áragil, and they don't tend to stay quiet about their opinions."

"I take it our hot-hearted friend over there is one of Fëanor's supporters?"

Eönwë grimaced. "It's a little more complicated than that." He swung his legs around so that he was facing Sauron, a thoughtful frown on his face. "You see, Vistagil, the eldest of Áragil's sons, married a Telerin woman and split his time between the Halls of Aulë with his own people and Alqualondë with his wife's folk. When the Kinslaying happened, he tried to defend his wife and daughter from his own kindred, but he was mortally wounded by a stray arrow in the process and died soon after. As you might imagine, that caused a bit of a rift in the House of Áragil towards Fëanor and the war in Beleriand. Neither Gilruin nor Gilnen had participated in the Kinslaying and they refused to follow either Fëanor or Fingolfin into Beleriand after what happened to their brother, denouncing Fëanor and his quest like many of the older Noldor who chose to remain behind with Finarfin.

"Saiwend was a child at the time, but the whole thing left quite an impression upon him. He was bitter and angry over what had happened to his uncle Vistagil, but at the same time he was frustrated with what he saw as inaction from his father and Gilnen. Despite holding onto a great deal of anger towards Fëanor for the Kinslaying itself, he adopted many of Fëanor's philosophies and beliefs, like many from his generation. He blamed and hated Melkor most of all, but he also blamed the Valar for not doing enough to stop the whole situation from happening: for not going after Melkor and for not providing Fëanor with the means to pursue him. He's also made his opinion clear that Olwë and the Teleri should have helped their brethren and lent ships to the Noldorin cause and that the Kinslaying would never have happened if they had helped." Eönwë shook his head. "Unfortunately, he's not the only one who thinks that way, and he's got a rather large group of supporters who have been causing problems for the Valar and stirring up the Elves with his ideas."

Sauron raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a truly delightful person, Saiwend does."

The Herald shrugged. "He drives his father and his uncle up a wall on a regular basis, and they strongly dislike his support of Fëanor's ideals. The Valar have tried to meet with him and some of the other leaders of his group to reason with them, but as far as I've seen they reason with just about as well as Fëanor himself did. They were actually one of the reasons the Valar suggested starting the work here at Corimendturë to begin with: hoping if Saiwend and his cohorts had some tangible project to work on, it would help cool them down."

Sauron gave a quiet laugh deep in his throat. "And that's been going swimmingly, I assume."

Eönwë massaged his brow and stared off across the quarry. "I'm pretty sure the only reason he's here is that his father told him to cooperate, and while his father might not be the most outspoken Noldo, he does have significant influence. I think everyone's hoping Saiwend will mellow down eventually."

Sauron glanced back over at the black-haired Elf with his chisel and hammer at the adjacent station, frowning slightly, then bent back over his own work. Eönwë's final words echoed in his mind.

Is that what they are all hoping for me too? That I'll 'mellow down' eventually?

He smiled darkly at the irony of it. Saiwend Gilruinion was either a like-minded spirit who understood the rage of an unfair world that would not listen, or else he was a dangerous foe who could destroy the last shreds of hope that Sauron still had to cling to.

Perhaps he was both.

Either way, Sauron knew what he needed to do when he got back to Aulë's Halls.

~o~o~o~

After he had bathed and dressed, Sauron headed straight to the Forges. He had not been back, in the daytime at least, since his second day in the Halls, when he had discovered Curumo at his work. The familiar red-gold light glowed against his skin as he descended the stairs, trailing his fingers along the rail and working through his plans in his mind. Aulë himself had said he was welcome here in the Forges anytime he desired, and it was time he took his former lord up on the offer, officially at least.

The wholesome warmth of fire and molten metal washed across his face as he reached the ground level and examined his surroundings. As the day wound down, most of the forges stood empty, some still flickering mournfully with dying embers from recent use. At a number of others, the smiths were clearly finishing up for the time being, putting away their tools and smothering the flames. Only five forges were still in full heat, their smiths laboring away at their projects. Sauron's lip curled slightly when he noted that one of the occupied furnaces was alongside the abandoned hearth he'd been using during his nighttime visits and had been planning to claim. Furthermore, the Maiarin smith at the forge was Curumo.

The Maia was alone, his elven assistants nowhere to be seen this time. The object upon his anvil was in the first stages of construction, but at a glance Sauron guessed it to be the beginnings of an ornamental decanter. Curumo had his back to the stairs, and subsequently Sauron, as he carefully removed a long cylinder from the fire with a pair of pliers. He failed to notice as Sauron smoothly approached the neighboring forge.

Curumo only noticed the newcomer as Sauron began to fill his hearth with coals. Out of his peripheral, he saw the other Maia straighten and turn and noted the telltale pause of movement that indicated that Curumo had seen him. Sauron did not bother to glance over or show that he had noticed Curumo, and the other Maia said nothing, but returned to his project as Sauron finished with the coals and worked on lighting his fire.

Sauron had nothing particular in mind for a project, so he began tinkering, letting his hands work however they willed. His wrists were still sore, even with the supporting bandages, and his fingers were scuffed and raw in places from the chiseling, but he ignored the pain and sank as best he could into that deeper place of his spirit where he could freely create whatever he willed. As the gold formed under each deliberate strike of his hammer, the raw shape of a circlet slowly emerged.

He was well aware when Curumo sauntered over and leaned against the column beside Sauron's forge, though Sauron took no notice of his fellow smith. For a while, Curumo merely watched him work, arms folded across his chest, his thick leather gloves hanging loosely from one hand. A little smile ghosted across Sauron's face. Still not turning from his anvil, he spoke. "Finished with your lord's belt, I see. And what did Aulë think of it?"

Curumo stiffened instantly. "It was well received," he replied shortly. He was silent for a while before he said, "I do hope you're not expecting to receive any commissions for your work, as stunningly impressive as it might be. I doubt there are many in Valinor who would wear jewelry forged by the same hands that wrought instruments of torture and who knows what else you produced for your lord."

Sauron's eerie smile remained fixed in place. "You needn't worry for me, Curumo. I'm going to be busy enough that commissions would only be a bother anyway."

"Ah yes, how is the quarry?" Curumo was not even trying to keep the sneer out of his voice today. "I've heard it's quite an impressive place, a nice view, I'm told. Not that I've had any reason to visit it myself, of course, but I've overheard some of the Elves speaking of it now and then when they return."

Sauron paused to incline his head. "A lovely view indeed." He resumed his work. "If you don't mind, now is not the best time to engage in conversation for me. I've quite a few techniques I'd like to touch up on before I start working with my apprentice."

That knocked Curumo off his emotional feet for a moment, though he quickly recovered and schooled his face into an impassive sneer. "An apprentice? Is this something Lord Aulë has been informed of, I wonder?"

"Your lord is the one who suggested it might be a good idea."

Anger flashed dark across Curumo's face. "And why exactly would Lord Aulë assign you such a task?" His voice was tight, but there was an undercurrent of bitter mockery that flowed like oil just below the surface. "I highly doubt you have anything of value to teach that could not be accomplished just as well and better by anyone else in this forge. Lord Aulë may not be aware, but we have little use for chains and devices of pain here in Valinor." His voice turned slick. "Not now that your master is in the Void and no longer needs restrained, that is. Unless the Valar would like something of that sort on reserve in case you should falter in this charming little game of pretend that you seem so insistent on playing and return to your more – how shall I say it delicately? – your more natural state."

Sauron refused to let Curumo fluster him, sensing the roiling emotions he'd managed to arouse in his rival and knowing he'd scored a point. "It's a game we both know how to play, eh?" he said with a little dry laugh. "I however never needed to use it to win Aulë's eyes and heart."

Curumo's voice turned bitter, soured honey, discordant music. "In the end, Lord Aulë will see who is truly loyal to him and who is only pretending," he sneered. "There's only so long that fair façade of yours can hold."

Sauron turned to face him directly, and his eyes flashed with twisted fire. "I'm most intrigued to see whose façade cracks first, Curumo," he said in a smooth, quiet voice. "You yourself have always known the right words to earn yourself a pat on the head, haven't you?"

He turned back to his anvil, not waiting to see Curumo's response. There was a silence rife with the other Maia's rage. When Curumo spoke again, his voice had returned to the meticulous, cultured flow of honeyed words that could bewilder minds, the gracious speech of a worthy friend. "My apologies, and here I am still chattering away to you when you requested time to yourself to prepare for your grand return as a master smith with an apprentice at your side. Do let me know if there's anything you might need from me by way of preparation, any tips, any guidance in some of the more advanced techniques that we developed while you were gone. I imagine it would be terribly embarrassing for the teacher to find that his apprentice already knows more about the subject than he does, but I suppose it's not your fault that your learning has been, well, stunted." Curumo gave a harsh laugh. "Well, I suppose it is your fault, but fellow smiths have a duty to look out for one another, don't we? Just say the word, and I'd be happy to give you an overview of some of the more innovative advancements we've made in the craft over the past few Ages."

Sauron bit back a snarl at the condescending tone in Curumo's voice, but managed to keep his cool. Something niggled illusively in the back of his thoughts again, as it had when Aulë had sat beside him on the bench in the garden and spoken to him about "Valinorean advances" in much the same way, if with less pointed intent than Curumo's deliberate jabs. The thought flickered away from his grasp however and he dismissed it for the time being, turning his focus fully back to his work as the circlet took glorious form underneath his administrations.

~o~o~o~

Sauron decided to brave the great hall and supper once again, despite how the thought of seeing Yavanna made his insides curl up in a combination of anger, shame, and dread. But he had worked too hard on cultivating his courage and public image enough to return after the first incident with Gilruin to put his tail between his legs and cede to Yavanna once again. It was a battle of wits and strength of will, and it was not one he was willing to yield up to the Tree Queen on a silver platter just yet. A game of bluff, and Sauron had bluffed his way through situations like this before. Act bolder than you felt and it made the other person doubt their power over you.

Once again, he found himself sandwiched at the table with Erenquaro and Aiwendil, the only two in the entire hall who didn't seem to have the mental wherewithal to understand that they were not doing themselves any favors by choosing his company. The rest of their table remained conspicuously empty. Sauron rolled a strip of sauced meat up in a slice of heavily buttered herb bread and ate quietly, keeping a watchful eye on the bustling activity of the room.

Aulë and Yavanna were both at their places at the head table. Towards the beginning of the meal, Yavanna's vivid green eyes swept the room imperiously and briefly met his own. Sauron's instinct was to immediately lower his gaze, his stomach twisting, but he refused to give in to her intimidation. She raised one delicate eyebrow, her mouth twisting for a moment into a mocking, knowing smile, then turned back to her table, raising a goblet to her cherry lips, one of her vines lightly caressing the slope of her neck. The phantom tingle of vines squeezing around his wrists and fingers pressing against his pulsing throat returned, and Sauron snarled and roughly tore off another bite, even though his tongue suddenly felt thick in his mouth and his esophagus felt as if it were strangling itself. Unsurprisingly, neither Erenquaro nor Aiwendil seemed to notice; both were deeply engrossed in a conversation about tomatoes.

Continuing his perusal of the hall, Sauron noticed Curumo seated near the head table on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by a group of other Maiarin smiths. He was talking, though Sauron couldn't hear any of the words, gesturing languidly at points, and the other Maiar were nodding enthusiastically in ostentatious agreement to whatever he was saying. Curumo wore a thin smile, his dark eyes flashing, and Sauron looked away with an eye roll. Nothing made Curumo happier than everything thinking he was a sage, whether or not he had any clue what he was talking about.

That little itch of a thought flashed through his mind again, brushing against the edge of his consciousness like the fleeting glimpse of a dream that is all but faded. He snatched at it as it passed, but it was already too late. He frowned, eyes narrowed, watching inwardly for any sign of the evasive thought's return. His mind was obviously up to something, and he knew sooner or later he'd be able to snare the fluttering idea in his claws. For now, he'd have to play the patient predator and wait.

He scanned the room with more deliberate interest, looking for one head in particular amidst the sea of Elves and Maiar. It was not long before he located Saiwend. The black-haired Noldo was towards the back of the room, surrounded by a knot of other Elves that included his red-haired cousin Findeláro. Sauron took a sip of wine, watching curiously. Despite his boasts to Curumo, he wasn't sure how this whole apprenticeship thing would likely go – not that "giving some forging tips" counted as an apprenticeship anyway – but the only guarantee seemed to be that it would prove interesting. Whether "interesting" meant successfully replicating a Melkorian manipulation for his own purposes or being stabbed in the gut by a wrathful Elf, Sauron wasn't sure.

Only one way to find out.

The meal wound down. Having sated his appetite and turned down another invitation for fun and games with Erenquaro and Aiwendil, Sauron was on the verge of leaving when he felt a powerful presence at his side. Sensing the aura of Ainurin power brushing against his own fëa, he flinched instinctively before recognizing the earth-and-stone touch. Slowly letting out the breath that had unconsciously stuck in his throat, Sauron turned to look at Aulë as the Vala sat down across the table from him.

Aulë smiled, patting Sauron's arm, his metallic eyes a mix of gentle concern and relief. "I'm glad to see you were able to join us again tonight. I was worried when I couldn't find you for supper yesterday."

Sauron resisted the urge to jerk his arm backwards out of Aulë's reach and scrub his touch off the offending spot. "I'm very sorry for worrying you, my lord. I fell asleep out in the gardens while I was reading and didn't wake until the meal was over." He gave a yawn. "In fact, I think I'll be heading to bed now, if you don't mind. Who would have thought that knocking a chisel against a stone could wear one out so thoroughly?"

Aulë's expression hovered between a smile at Sauron's amiable tone and doubt as to whether that amiability was genuine. Sauron just continued to smile, with no intention of letting Aulë see anything underneath. Finally, the Smith nodded and rose. "Of course, of course. I don't want to keep you from a good night's sleep. I just had one message to deliver to you."

Sauron was instantly on the wary alert. "Yes?"

Aulë's smile held a hint of gentle amusement. "Nothing for you to be worried about, I promise. Manwë instructed me to let you know that Nienna will be happy to have you visit her Halls. They've made all the necessary arrangements for you to go next week."

Sauron's surprise remained carefully concealed; he hadn't expected them to move forward on this matter quite so soon. But having a day off from the quarry next week wasn't something he was going to complain about.

"I'm glad everything went smoothly," he replied tonelessly. He pretended to hide a second yawn behind his hand. "I appreciate the information, but I had best head to my chambers. I'd prefer not keeling over in the middle of the venison pie."

Aulë gave a short laugh and patted Sauron's arm again. "No, no, we don't want any of that. Have a good night's sleep, Nauron."

Once back in his room, Sauron propped himself up in his bed and flipped open his next book, even though his mind was elsewhere. Butterfly wings, black hair, dark eyes and a mocking voice, and the empty unknown of Nienna's halls occupied his thoughts. At one point, he realized he'd read the same sentence three times and still had no idea what it actually said, and with a frustrated sigh, he closed the book with a sharp clap. He stared out the window instead, fingers absently tracing the rough binding of the volume still lying in his lap. The various conversations he'd had throughout the day played in a loop through his mind.

"I hoped for your sake that I'd find you were not half as cruel as the rest of them all claimed you were."

"You'd be shocked by how much truth comes out of my mouth."

"Lord Aulë may not be aware, but we have little use for chains and devices of pain here in Valinor."

His fingers skipped over the embossed title on the book's cover. And then, suddenly, it was there: the thought that had been eluding him the last several days, fermenting in his mind ever since that afternoon two days ago when Aulë had spoken to him. He swallowed, turning the unexpected idea over in his mind several times, testing the make and metal of it. It was…not the sort of brainchild he usually anticipated from his own mind, but it captured his attention nonetheless.

A Treatise on the Mind and Spirit of the Traitor-folk: the Memoirs of a Dark Lord, he had facetiously thought to himself that day with Aulë.

Yet, with Curumo's taunts fresh in his mind, perhaps it was not such a facetious notion after all.

He should write down the all-but-lost knowledge and learnings of Angband.