So! I recently have been rather slow to update, but mostly because I've been writing a couple chapters ahead to help myself make more sense of the story, since I kept altering it. Now, however, I'm fairly confident I finally fell on the right track, and although yes, I did alter it again, it's mostly just small fixes that didn't have any purpose other than to make the reading experience more pleasurable. I also am about 87.65% sure I won't be altering what I've written again. Let's hope this is good enough for my delayed perfectionist beta-reader commonly known as "overthinking".

It was all foolish.

Everybody – man, dwarf, elf, Maia or Vala – sometimes experiences an existential crisis; even dark lords. And in those times, one cannot do much more than stare blankly at a wall, mind and body numb, letting the decay of self-condemnation spread through their very core, rotting away their heart, drowning them in the sticky, venomous shadows of the unsatiated Void…

That was Sauron's definition of an existential crisis as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him, mind and body numb.

What was he even doing?

He established long ago, though reluctantly, that regaining Melkor's favour wouldn't necessarily be the best course of action.

The main problem was: Melkor was most likely growing more and more furious at him by the second, so the chances of avoiding a punishment were very slim. Which led him to reconsider, which in turn led him to fall into the never-ending loop of misery.

Because, well... Eärendil sailed, and were he successful, it wouldn't be long before the Valar took some form of action.

Them threatening Melkor would be fruitless, them simply sending Tulkas and Oromë would not suffice, them sending an emissary with a warning would be dutifully ignored, them not taking action was doubtful since Ulmo himself decided to aid Eärendil, if Elwing turning into a bird was anything to go by…

Which meant that, fairly soon, Melkor would be dealing with a full Valian army at his gates, as ridiculous as that sounded.

And Sauron was a firm believer that aiding the losing side was counterproductive.

So rejoining the Dark Vala was out of the question, because then he'd be most likely captured and thrown into the Void alongside Melkor, seeing that he was once his active and devoted servant. While if he were to wait things out, he'd... what? Make his own visions true? He'd only end up like his master, or worse.

So in the end, everything would only seem like a fleeting moment, a fragile memory.

And in the end, those that stood against Ilúvatar would be turned into nothing.

Everything was pointless, everything was foolish. Everything was fleeting. Meaningless, fading, mortal.

Was he willing to sacrifice himself for a brief moment of satisfaction?

And that was not all! No, when it came specifically to him, problems lurked everywhere he looked! And where he didn't, which was even more depressing.

If he were to repent, would he even be given a second chance? He'd done so much evil; what would stop the Valar from condemning him to the Void?

Hence his crisis: no matter what he would do, the outcome would be, most likely, unpleasant.

He, the master-manipulator and a cunning deceiver, had run himself into a dead-end.

Outsmarted himself.

When he still was a loyal Maia of Aulë, the Vala would always laugh when Mairon plotted something passionately and meticulously, warning him with a mirthful voice that one of these days, he'd outwit himself. And... it finally happened.

Damn his luck.

With a growl, he pulled the cloak around his shoulders more tightly around himself. He was currently sat in a dark spacious cave he somewhat considered – not without much bitterness – his home.

He was homeless and without much money, and the clothes he wore made him grimace with disdain, since what he grew accustomed to were fine robes of dark colours.

Now he was sitting on bare stone, his clothing a simple traveller's wear.

To add insult to injury, there was a crack in the stone somewhere behind him, and the continuous 'splish-splash' of water was slowly driving him absolutely feral.

Before he could start pondering on best ways to torture water – perhaps, if he were lucky, he'd annoy the coward Ossë (not likely) – he heard footsteps.

Not close, but too near for his liking.

His golden eyes shot open; two glowing points in the dark, the pupils seeming like portals to an endless abyss, consuming all light that hit them.

He strained his ears and extended his senses, simultaneously checking whether his presence was still veiled.

Well, he'd be damned. It would seem the intruder from before had returned.

For what reason, he didn't know anymore when the Maia softly called his name.

When exactly did Melkor decide it was a good idea to recruit a spirit this... unimaginative? He–

Another call made him sigh irritably, and he tried to calm down by drumming his fingers idly against his knee.

It helped matters none, especially when the call was closely followed by a muffled curse and a quiet rolling of stones.

Was eye pain normal after rolling them so much...? With a growl, in sound bordering on savage, he sprung to his feet and stomped towards the exit.

The continuous calls were one drop too many in his metaphorical cup of irritation tolerance for the day.

He climbed onto the top of the small hill and maneuvered through the section of trees separating him from the valley the new annoyance had its source in.

His features morphed into an unimpressed scowl as soon as he spotted the intruder, now sitting with his hunched back to him, head resting on palms, humming quietly and incoherently.

As fun as shouting would be in this particular moment, seeing that he was no further than mere feet from the Maia, it would attract unwanted attention.

A hiss, however, was always a very satisfying form of expressing his discontent.

"What do you want?"

A smirk graced his lips when the Maia jumped to his feet and whirled around, eyes wide and lips parted in a surprised 'o'.

"Oh... there you are."

"Need I repeat the question?"

A heartbeat passed and Sauron noted, not without satisfaction, that the surprise faded and the other's eyes gained a decisive edge. Maybe he was too swift to mark the Maia as meek. Or overly meek.

"I come on my own accord, master doesn't know... can you stop giving me that look?"

"Not until you answer."

That, of course, wasn't the desired reply, and the silence was broken by a sigh.

"I wanted to talk, away from anyone. If that's alright."

"We are talking now," Sauron pointed out, if only to irritate the unwanted guest further. Maybe it would make him go away; he wasn't in the mood for visitors. "But come, if you have to. Last thing I need is for you to get spotted."

With this, he set off at a brisk pace, choosing a path leading away from his cave, and further into the woods. Perhaps the sight of the darkness that lurked in the forest would be enough to drive the visitor away.

Luck, however, didn't seem to keep him company this day – or any day, really – as his keen hearing picked up the sound of hasty footsteps echoing his own. Surprisingly light footsteps, taking into account the previous 'clumsiness'.

The Maia quickly caught up, and though his feet were light, the glare he shot Sauron was anything but.

It seemed like he had more fire within him than the dark Maia originally gave him credit for.

"I'm not this useless. I'm Lord Melkor's spy, you know."

"Indeed," Sauron drawled, sparing him a long glance with a raised eyebrow.

It was moments like this when his impressive height came in handy, when it helped enhance the message as he stared down hard into the brown eyes.

"Look, I'm not good at those mind games that involve smart talking that you so enjoy. Though..." the Maia trailed off, and Sauron tilted his head slightly when what seemed like a myriad of emotions passed through the young-looking face, most prominent of which were scepticism and unease. "If you don't mind me asking, why did you choose the form of a cat? Don't you think it was a little obvious?"

"It seemed like a good idea then." The statement came out sounding like a harsh snap, but still gentler than what he was aiming for.

Perhaps it was the teacher side in him that smoothed his voice in the last moment. Maybe he'd manage to convince the Maia to take on a less... young form. Sometime in the future.

"It took me and master less than three minutes to figure out it was you."

"Because cats are sneaky," he cut in. How much more annoying could the Maia get? If much, he'd deem it an impressive feat. "I was planning on evading you and getting away. It didn't work due to a minor detail."

"Which was? You were master's chief strategist, surely your plan couldn't have failed this easily?"

"Because," he supplied condescendingly with a not-so-subtle edge of contempt, "I was forced to flee my tower with my throat ripped open and confidence shattered. I apologize deeply if I didn't quite live up to your expectations."

"Don't mock me. I already said I'm not good at that speaking... thing."

"Then how about you provide me with the enlightening revelation of why you think a cat was such a poor idea."

"Well, because you always seemed to have a soft spot for cats and didn't hide that fact, so it was fairly obvious. If you hadn't, um... scratched me and acted in such an undigni... odd manner, I'd have guessed it right away," he explained and yelped when a branch whipped his face.

"Undignified manner." Sauron repeated with a low, threatening hiss.

And the less powerful Maia seemed to catch the hint, but the tone suggested backing down wasn't a good idea now. It meant he better explain himself, preferably fast.

"Well... you see, whenever I saw you before, you always had this air of elegance and cool confidence around you. Your behaviour back... then... made me think that if it was, in fact, you, you might've gone mad. Because it was very unlike–"

"Point taken."

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to anger you."

"You failed your goal the moment you decided to call my name."

"Oh," sounded the very smart response.

Though short, it rang between them for a prolonged moment since no other sound dared to interrupt the silence that followed. Taking advantage of the glazed look in the Maia's eyes, Sauron shifted his path fractionally and led the unaware guest into a place deep within the forest; technically as he was requested, but he couldn't deny it provided him the upper hand. So much so, the other spirit could have just as well been tied up in a dungeon.

It was also a place so dark that he was only able to see due to his nature being one of fire, providing him with a sort of night vision.

At long last, he finally stopped, and noted the slightly weary flicker in the other's eyes, no longer absent.

"Well, since we are now in a desolate place void of any sentient life other than us, will you tell me why you came?" he posed the ominous-sounding question, lowering himself onto the grass to sit down. The Maia followed suit.

"Right. So, well, after you left–"

"Without unnecessary prologues, if you please."

"I'm sorry, but it is necessary."

Sauron sighed irritably.

"Get on with it, then."

"After you failed to come back, master got very... irritated, to put it simply. At first it was of course just the matter of his pride, but some time later news reached us about Eärendil sailing. You've heard, I presume?"

"I have, now get on with the story."

"It was a simple and quite valid question I asked, you needn't be this harsh. I've enough of it with the Lord."

Decently smart, but the Maia had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.

"Get. On. With–"

"You're even worse."

He moved to reprimand the other spirit, but was quickly talked over. As such, the growl that reverberated through his form went mostly unheard as well.

The story sounded like a report, though, and he quieted down in order to be able to focus. As they say, old habits die hard; and his unwanted guest – in a way he didn't quite solve the meaning of – seemed overwhelmed with relief when he saw Sauron was this attentive. Which, in turn, made the younger Maia sound progressively more eager and desperate, as if starved for that kind of attention.

He chose to keep the commentary to himself, even when it became apparent the report became more lengthy than what was appropriate. It was a few reports on various matters and problems, in fact; all mashed into one of monstrous proportions.

"... either way, ever since Thingol's daughter managed to get away with the Silmaril, master hasn't been in his right mind, I think," finally came the end.

"He hasn't been since returning from Valinor. This is no news."

"Yes, but now even more so. He recently got mad about there being no orcs assigned to feed Draugluin."

Sauron's expression froze, and he lifted his brow; not that the Maia could see it.

"... Draugluin has been dead for a while now."

"See, that's the issue. It sometimes seems as if he is still living in the past. But what causes this is most likely just stress, uncertainty and pain. And frustration probably, since his power is waning. Still, it's very much unpleasant," was the answer, but what made it all the more believable was an involuntary wince that followed.

"Sounds so as well," he had to agree.

"Right. Good, good..." The Maia now seemed to be mumbling to himself, and Sauron felt his eyelid twitch.

"And why are you telling me this?" he finally urged when silence stretched between them.

The Maia jumped.

"I'm sorry. I was merely wondering... would you be willing to return? It might placate him, or calm him. It would be one thing that has gone according to his thought."

"Stripping me of my powers and tying me to his fate would be according to his thought."

"He isn't powerful enough anymore."

At that, Sauron narrowed his eyes, which now seemed to drill into the other spirit.

"How do you know this?"

"It is glaringly obvious. For the Maiar, at least. The lesser beings he still allows in his presence, but he's reduced the meetings with us to none, almost. He knows we can sense it."

That was unbelievable, but explained perfectly why the Maia was this overjoyed when he listened carefully to the report.

His face revealed a puzzled expression only few ever witnessed.

"But he needs to hear your reports, doesn't he?" he countered with incredulity, still not seeing sense in Melkor's doings. He never heard of the Vala acting this rashly.

"We report to his personal servants, and they report to him."

"But this hinders the accuracy of the message!" he raised his voice fractionally, disbelief clinging to every word that left his lips.

"He isn't taking any risks anymore."

When had Melkor gone this... stupid?! It nearly made him reconsider and storm back to the Vala's fortress to knock some sense into him.

"That is a risk in itself. It provides the perfect environment for a coup to sprout!"

Honestly! How could Melkor not see it?! That the Vala played everything by ear and preferred action over thinking he knew very well – which, be it as it may, never failed to irritate him. But that he could reach that kind of stage?!

"Are you suggesting something?"

Hearing the suspicion lacing his guest's voice, Sauron realised his mistake. Or what apparently was a mistake in this particular company.

"No," he assured, inwardly sighing exasperatedly. "I am merely voicing the obvious hazard in his new doings."

And finally, he caught sight of a nearly imperceptible slouch in the Maia's shoulders. He was beginning to wonder whether the other spirit was blind in his service. But so far, he was proving himself to be more potent by the second than Sauron originally believed.

And potentially useful, too.

"I know. I simply don't like what our conversation is starting to sound like."

"My apologies."

The other Maia said nothing, and instead drew in a calming breath as his finger absentmindedly traced the bark of the tree he was leaned against.

"My point is, if you were to return, it might improve his mood, and he won't be able to harm you... seeing as you'd be the most powerful being in Angband, then."

Against his better judgement, Sauron paused and mulled the words over. Before he got too many ideas, however, he slapped the thoughts away.

"As enticing as the thought is," he drawled, carefully picking his words, "I'd be fighting for a lost cause. Eärendil sailed, the Valian army is sure to come any day now. I do not wish to be seen still in his faithful service then."

"Sounds treacherous, don't you think?"

"Your mind appears to have no flexibility whatsoever if you can only see in black and white," he snapped back, noting with no small amount of satisfaction the flinch that caused. "I'm no traitor. But remaining by his side when he can't even think straight anymore and still carrying out his orders is madness."

"We will still be hunted down like hares. Lord Oröme might even come for that very reason! Void awaits, no matter the path we now choose. Do you not wish to at least stay true to one thing in your life and not be seen as a coward?" the Maia cried desperately. And in that moment, Sauron realised it wasn't Melkor calming down he so desired, but strong leadership.

Which did not dissuade him from reminding with a hiss: "Careful. We are in my territory."

"I apologise. But my point still stands."

"And I see it. But Lord Melkor had been taken and conquered once, and all the Valar came then, yet I slipped away. I intend to do so again. Think; do you wish to tie yourself to only one viewpoint and lose for something that is bound to collapse so early, or would you rather let this early attempt fail and adapt, and try to start the mission anew? Improve where it can be, alter it, shape it again, play your own part in it?"

"I don't know..."

He sighed irritably, and occupied his hands with drawing in the dirt with his forefinger.

"Look at it from a slightly simpler perspective. When you create something and make a mistake, do you abandon your idea, or do you try again with a different approach?" he tried from a different angle.

"But it is Lord Melkor's vision, and he wouldn't even be able to play his part in it. Doesn't this mean you'd be taking his vision for your own and shaping it according to your own desires? Is it still his vision then, or yours?"

"My vision was different, but I've forsaken everything I once held dear to ally with him. His vision is now my vision, and I've lost so much for it that I will not abandon it. But he tried twice, and failed. Perhaps if someone else were to start it and provided a different foundation, it might succeed where it failed before, and he'd return to a sturdier version that he could then reshape according to his own desire, without as much risk."

"You believe he'll return?" the Maia whispered, and Sauron frowned since the tremor with which it was spoken sounded like one caused by fear and hopelessness, not hope.

"I'm sure of it. Mighty once more, and of the right mind. I fear the being you serve now is but a mock of himself, a husk," he said slowly, observing the face for any clues.

"But that means that all is lost," was the answer, and it was stated in such a distant and dull voice he suspected the Maia wasn't actually responding to him, but rather trying his hardest to appear engaged in the conversation.

"Did you hear nothing of what I said? We may start anew once this is over, and the canvas is once again clear. Pay attention."

The Maia finally seemed to shake himself from the stupor.

"I've heard. But abandoning him..."

"I did not say you have to. I said I won't come back. I've been his chief servant for countless years, and I've done enough to ensure the Valar remember me, so going back would be too much of a risk. But you are just one of the fallen Maiar; you can slip away when you feel is right."

"Are you implying they don't remember me?" the Maia asked, voice sharper than usual and with a flicker of hurt in his eyes.

Sauron studied him wordlessly for a second, eyes narrowing into slits, and only when his guest shifted uncomfortably did he continue with a drawl: "No. I'm implying that you're not one of the first things that come to mind when you hear the word 'evil'. Consider my words, if you wish, and you can be sure I'll be waiting once this madness is over. In the meantime, however," he said, his hand twisting in odd patterns that could be shooing motions, that the Maia probably couldn't see, unless there were more surprises to him yet. "Go away and leave my old, wicked spirit to plot in peace."

"I have a name, you know."

"Which I cannot seem to recall, so perhaps you'd be gracious enough to remind me."

"It's–"

"I don't care. Fancy that."

"It was a pleasure to see you again, too. My name is Arathámo."

"Right," Sauron chuckled, eyes scanning him carefully with a small, nearly invisible twinkle in their depths. "Melkor surely let you keep it."

"I will not be sharing the name I have now," the Maia ground out.

"Then I'll simply address you as 'Namo's pet'. Does this sound appealing?"

His interest piqued again when he noticed a stiffening in the Maia's shoulders, and the matter from before was once again in the forefront of his mind.

Somebody missed their former master.

He stored this information for later, should he need it. All the while making sure his face was frozen in his signature derisive smile.

And – as it always seemed to have this effect – it made the other's gaze avert elsewhere, and his keen hearing picked up a quiet mumble.

"It's Ulundo."

"I don't care. Now go away."

When Ulundo finally left, leaving the fire Maia behind, Sauron straightened from his falsely bored pose and bore his eyes into the retreating back.

Among the many thoughts the Maia could've inspired in his mind, never would he have suspected he'd consider the weaker spirit a potential powerful ally.

During the many years that followed, not much happened; or, at least, nothing of interest to Sauron.

Ulundo never came to seek him out again, and Melkor finally seemed to have given up on finding him.

All was as good as could be, yet a certain anticipation hung in the air like a heavy cloud of dread, waiting for the moment it could finally unleash the storm brewing within. Everybody felt it, and the tension seemed to be growing by the day.

Until the thin thread holding it back snapped and the wrath of Aman fell upon Angband like a tidal wave, leaving in its wake everything the Valar claimed they condemned: destruction and slaughter.

Yet the dark Maia watched from afar, and during the long years that it lasted, not once had he joined the field that had become one giant riverbed for the outflow of blood, and a stage for ear-splitting screams and contortion of bodies.

For the innumerable days the war lasted – the War of Wrath they called it – Sauron was never free of the harrowing sounds and appalling sights he knew he would never forget. No matter how far he travelled or how well he covered his ears; every moment, a ghost of a scream would sound in his head akin to a whisper of forgotten agony, or an image of gore would flash in his mind.

He, who reveled in torture and thrived amidst howls of torment, who enjoyed inflicting pain upon others enough to refer to it as a form of art – now couldn't ward off the growing discomfort of being idle. Of forcing himself to stay idle. It was necessary, for he could take neither side at the moment; he knew the army of Aman wouldn't accept him – if he for some bizarre reason decided to join it – while making himself visible as Melkor's ally would be an idiotic move, because there was no more hope for the Dark Lord to win this. So he only watched, pacing restlessly.

And when silence finally graced his ears, it was the stillness and tranquility of death.

He wanted to turn away and hide, wait until the Valinorian army left, yet he found himself unable to.

Eyes that resembled a perfectly polished citrine scanned carefully the hustle below; the setting of tents, tending to the wounded, looking for bodies of loved ones, burials. Nothing escaped his scrutiny.

He knew he couldn't go down, yet a certain ache started to grow in his chest. With the fury of a dragon he tried to silence it, but…

Seeing all of the familiar faces that sometimes appeared among the many other, of the Maiar he once considered friends, made him feel things he thought he never would again.

Especially when, among the general chaos and grimness, he spotted a head full of silver hair.

Walking through the camp was none other than Eönwë, his great wings and aura of power and justice making everybody stay a few good feet away from him. For most, obviously, because the Maia seemed way too above them.

For Sauron, however?

It made him want to claw the image from his mind and pour ethyl alcohol in the blank spot, if it would permanently remove the bad aftertaste.

Quickly ridding his face of the grimace that overtook his features, he peeked down again, inspecting the figure intently.

Interestingly enough, Eönwë's shoulders were hunched, and hair didn't shine with the usual brilliance or dance in wild swirls in the wind.

The Herald was clearly tired and troubled, and Sauron felt a pang of... something he couldn't quite name.

... hope, maybe?

For what, he didn't know.

Perhaps...

Maybe he could go down and talk?

Just as quickly as the absurd thought appeared in his head, he pushed it away. Eönwë would remember how Melkor took advantage of Manwë's love, and would think Sauron was trying to do something similar.

Therefore, scenarios of getting bound in chains and dragged to Aman weren't that senseless.

And even if the Herald would be willing to talk, then what? Eönwë would want him to go back; something he absolutely would not do.

Sighing, he sat down on the rocks, dragging a palm down his face.

Why was it all so complicated?

Why was everything always so bloody complicated?!

The more he actually thought about it, the more he realised it was him that was, in all actuality, making the situation complicated. Or, well, more complicated than it should've been.

He fixed his eyes back on the camp, trying to catch sight of the wings again, but they were nowhere to be seen. Which meant the Herald was mostly likely in his tent.

Sauron sighed and took it as a sign to leave as well, but when he moved to head back to his temporary 'home', his feet decided to rebel and take a step towards the camp instead.

His brows furrowed, and he reached inside himself to find the reason.

Fear.

Again! Oh, Melkor would've called him a hopeless coward. And he would have been right; which Sauron, of course, would never have admitted to his master.

But honestly, what else was he supposed to feel? Now that the war ended, his logical mind was resurfacing, and he simply couldn't ignore the glaringly obvious fact that escaping wouldn't be as easy as he had told Ulundo.

No. Eönwë wouldn't forget him – or rather what he'd become – along with all his crimes; no matter how much time passed.

And the blasted Herald had a whole Valian army under his command now, among which Sauron discerned more than a few Maiar that belonged to Oröme.

And, if Eönwë still had as good of a memory as once – which was more than certain – he'd remember what happened when the Valar weren't thorough in searching for Melkor's servants when they raided Utumno, and he wouldn't repeat this mistake.

Furthermore, the Maiar of Oröme aside, there were also Aüle's, who – thanks to their connection to the matter of which Arda was created – wouldn't have that much difficulty in tracking him down.

In short, Sauron was in major trouble.

But, perhaps... Eönwë would listen? Fine, they weren't ever exactly close... alright, the Herald did remark once that he was a close friend, maybe even something akin to a brother, but...

But the person he was talking to then never exactly existed. It was merely his social, amicable facade; not really Sauron.

Or Mairon.

Because if Eönwë knew who Mairon really was, what he was like, he'd leave and life would've been simply unbearable. Being friends with the Herald of Manwë apparently was very advantageous, and it provided some measure of entertainment at the least.

But usually, when one finds something better than what they had until then, the first thing is cast aside without a second thought.

Which doesn't mean it doesn't remain somewhere near to be used as an eventual substitute…

Maybe it was time to see if the substitute would still work.

"I see might and authority cling to you as well as ever".

Those were the words Sauron murmured when he leaned soundlessly against one of the tent posts when he managed to finally reach the tent, his fiery eyes ready to avert should the Maia standing with their back to him wish to lock gazes.

The Herald stiffened and straightened at the sound, slowly setting aside what he'd been doing and turning to regard him.

Once – millenias ago – those piercing, steady eyes brought him some amount of comfort; once, they made him feel as if he had a friend. Not a perfect one, but a friend nonetheless. Once, they were full of emotions that he himself played a part in coaxing out.

Not anymore.

Now, although as piercing as ever, they were cold. Distant.

The Maia standing in front of him, once reminding him of a warm summer breeze, now resembled a harsh, frosty gale in the mountains.

"Gorthaur," he finally acknowledged. "I see you've decided to come."

Under the intensity of the stare, the words he meticulously crafted together beforehand and memorised left him, and he couldn't do anything other than cast his eyes downwards.

But the tension prevailed. Swelled even, ready to explode any second.

He had to think of something to say. If he'd let Eönwë begin…

"It is a decent circlet you have."

Out of all the witty or repentant words he could've spoken…

And it would seem the Herald thought the exact same thing, if the now very visible remoteness in his features was anything to go by.

"I've yet to find somebody skilled enough to replace it with one of an equally good make."

Sauron deflated, focusing on the sensation of the post digging into his back.

Mixed signals were something he despised. Usually, it wasn't exactly hard to discern what the person was feeling, but with Eönwë it was never this simple, was it? If it weren't for the cool voice, the sentence could come off as neutral, slightly leaning to the sympathetic side.

But as it was, it could mean that either the Herald was willing to give him a chance, or that the chance was long gone and the Maia was trying to guilt-trip him.

He rubbed his head against the wood, trying hard to find his silver tongue.

But it was evading him, for some reason, so he decided to simply settle on continuing the conversation until something better came to mind.

"I daresay lord Aüle is more than skilled enough."

"A smith such as yourself should know that unique styles are not so easily imitated."

Well... it seemed Eönwë wasn't interested in playing courteous tonight.

In lack of proper words to utter, Sauron hung his head and pushed himself off the post to slowly sink to his knee. And he didn't even have to look up to know the other Maia was raising a brow at the action.

"Eönwë," he began lowly, clearing his throat when his voice cracked. "I have erred. I–"

"Really. I haven't noticed."

The dark Maia clenched his teeth.

"You need not begin a snide battle. The war has just ended, I imagine we're both equally tired."

"Hence the reason I cannot muster the energy needed to conceal my irritation behind a wall of courtesy. Besides, I haven't seen you among the forces."

He understood, but it still grated on his nerves. Slowly taking a breath, allowing the cool evening air to flow in between his teeth with a hiss, he collected himself enough to speak again.

"I see," was what he simply said. After a moment, though, he spoke again. "Regardless, can you at least listen while I speak?"

He kept his gaze lowered as the Herald regarded him with a calculating gaze. Finally, Eönwë nodded curtly.

"If you decide it's a good idea to attempt playing your mind games with me..."

"I won't."

"Very well, then. I'm listening."

Sauron opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

His mind was blank.

Eönwë was visibly tired and irritated, so reciting the entire speech he'd prepared might not be the best idea.

No, the tall Maia before him had always valued honesty, straightforwardness and simplicity over fancy speeches and meaningless words.

So he settled on simply saying: "I do not deny that my deeds as a servant of Morgoth were, indeed, evil and horrific. But I wish them undone. I repent of them, and... and I seek redemption. I do not wish to remain on this dark path."

When no words of response rang in the silence that followed, Sauron risked a glance at Eönwë's face, hoping against hope to see a flicker of relief or joy.

All he saw was distrust and suspicion.

"Is this one of your tricks, Deceiver? If so, I have to admit you've gotten better."

"It is not. I truly seek redemption."

"So you've said, because you think it'll be easy."

"I do not. And my decision will not waver, regardless of what you say."

"Then I will gladly accept your surrender and spare you all humiliation, if you willingly follow me to Valinor and plead your case before the Valar. As you doubtless recall, I'm but a Maia, of the same order as you; it is not my place to grant you pardon."

He knew it was coming, of course he did. Yet he had hoped... that maybe a simple but heartfelt apology and repentance would be enough?

Now, it sounded foolish and naive. What was he thinking?

"The Valar..." Sauron whispered, as if the mention of them alone could condemn him to the Void. Then his head snapped upwards, his blazing eyes meeting Eönwë's. And he felt a familiar surge of realisation, mixed with trepidation. "Do you wish to see me break?"

"That is you accepting your twisted interpretation of my words as the correct meaning. What did you expect, exactly? A full pardon and an easy way back to your old life as one of the Maiar?"

"One thing I did not expect was you actively trying to condemn me to the worst possible outcome," he mumbled absentmindedly, his head spinning. Perhaps he was misinterpreting Eönwë's words and missing the intended meaning entirely, but…

The Valar were all so powerful. And although many of the memories he had of them now eluded him, he remembered enough to feel dread. A paralysing fear that made cold sweat run down his back, causing him to shiver.

Manwë on his throne, not so dissimilar to Melkor, gusts of wind not so dissimilar to swirling shadows, regal upon his throne, mighty and powerful. Perhaps not look-wise, but the mannerism, the way he spoke, the body language, the way he built his sentences... the Elder King would surely be neutral, at best, or – more likely – cold and detached, like Eönwë now. Which would undoubtedly remind Sauron of all the times he'd disappointed Melkor, which would cause him to not be able to keep a composed facade and break.

Aüle he betrayed, and for a Maia to abandon their Vala the way he did... he didn't particularly desire to meet his old master after what he'd done.

The other Valar would simply add to his, putting it mildly, unease.

So in the state he was now, what Eönwë was saying sounded like the Herald was trying to deal him justice, or rather – in his mind – injustice.

Meanwhile, the better-built of the two was getting fed up with Sauron's paranoia and sighed with exasperation, gazing upwards as if asking Eru for patience and mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like 'all I asked for was a calm and reasonable conversation, and even that was too much'.

An explosion was bound to happen, rather sooner than later.

And happen it did.

"How much more unreasonable can you get?! I am actively trying to get you to go back and face the consequences of your actions like the admirable Maia you once were!"

Sauron's eyes snapped into focus and flared with fire, lava meeting ice.

Oh, how he'd like to see how Eönwë would react to the prospect of facing the Valar if their roles were reversed.

And the topic of his old name was a very touchy one.

"If you'd known my reasons, you wouldn't consider me vile."

"Then tell me!" Eönwë cried, something reminiscent of desperation crossing his features, wings flaring instinctively before furling tightly against his sides once more. "Or show me! Put your dark thoughts aside for once, and reassume the role of Mairon. Be honest with me, as you once were."

Honest? As he once were?!

"You," Sauron drawled and rose from his knees, never breaking eye contact, "would not be able to view one day of my life and handle it."

"If this is you telling me that you've suffered more than I could imagine and trying to make me crumble, I regret to inform you that you won't succeed. This was your choice, and your choice alone. I never wished to lose somebody I grew to consider a good friend. I think it is within my rights to say I faced my own share of misery."

Oh, but he wasn't speaking about his suffering... but he'd play along, if that would make Eönwë a bit more cooperative.

"You're downplaying my experiences."

"Don't twist my words!"

"Oh, but I'd never! It is you that is actively trying to keep the truth between the lines, no matter how poorly concealed."

"Now you're just being–"

"Unreasonable? Closed-minded? I know you may view my words as such, but I perceive your words for what they are." The heated words were spat with hate and spite. "We both know I am not twisting your words; it is merely you trying to voice something while keeping everyone oblivious to it!"

Eönwë heaved a frustrated sigh, clenching his fists and visibly attempting to keep his wings from flaring and tearing through the material of the tent.

"Truly, even the purest and most innocent of souls would be seen as the vilest liar to ever walk this land when talking with you."

"Why, you–"

"You're not called the Deceiver for naught, Gorthaur. Yet I've always tried to push this truth away from my conscience."

"And you are this 'purest, most innocent soul' you spoke of, I presume?"

"When have I even hinted at considering myself as such?!"

"Oh, so you're not? How then do I know you are not attempting to twist my words?"

"That's not what I–!" the Herald deflated suddenly, and looked about ready to collapse onto the nearest chair. "Look, this has been a rough day; I expect for you as much as for me. Why don't we leave this argument for a later date."

"Right. After my trial?"

In this moment, Sauron was reminded that out of the two of them, Eönwë had always been stronger; precisely when he felt his back slam against the tent-post he'd been leaning on previously, causing the entire structure to shake.

But the angry Maia didn't seem to particularly care, panting heavily, eyes filled with ire.

"Do you ever know when to let go? I'd think a great strategist as yourself would know better than to make unnecessary enemies in your circumstances."

"Ah, but considering my wild life story, would that not be perceived as a manipulation attempt?"

"You know well it's not that easy to manipulate me," Eönwë growled.

Sauron wisely pursed his lips, his blank, stubborn gaze fixed somewhere behind the Herald.

"I do," he finally spoke up. "I've never succeeded, and I've given up trying. Why then are you acting as if I'm attempting to ensnare you in a web of lies?"

There!

A flicker of hesitation. Barely noticeable, but still there.

He pounced on the chance like a starving cat would on a mouse. Or a werewolf on an elf…

"Think, Eönwë. If you're this cold and suspicious, what reasons do I have to believe the Valar won't punish me in the worst way possible?"

He suddenly gasped and fell to his knees when the hand holding him by his collar let go, releasing him from the iron grip as if burned.

Sending an irritated glare in Eönwë's direction, he coughed a couple times and waited for the now lost in thought Maia to reply.

"If..." Sauron lifted his eyes a fraction, only to see the one he'd once called friend trying hard to not let his conflicted emotions show, and failing miserably. "If I were to promise I would be with you every step of the way and would stand by you when you face them, would you come with me?"

The dark Maia hung his head, bent on avoiding the other's pleading gaze.

A small bead of blood appeared on his lip as he considered his options.

Having the Herald's support – the support of the chief of all Maiar – would certainly help…

Were he to return. But as of now, he hardly felt inclined to accept this idea.

It would help, and perhaps he'd be given another chance, but... although true that he came to ask for forgiveness on his own accord, he'd done things that he knew the Valar considered to be despicable. For so many years; whole millenias! He'd be a fool if he thought they would simply permit him to run around, once again become Aüle's Chief Maia, and have access to all of his powers.

It simply had no right to happen.

The process of climbing back to his long-lost position would be agonisingly long and painful. He'd have to give up so many things, remake himself again for another's sake–

"Lord Aüle expressed his hopes for seeing you return among us," Eönwë added, seemingly not caring about keeping his voice firm and authoritative anymore; for the first time in so long, Sauron heard the voice of who he knew the Herald was: vulnerable, honest and hopeful. "He said he'd be on the lookout for our ships. He... he misses you. And wishes to see you come home."

Home.

Not a cave filled with the smell of mold and irritating sound of droplets splashing on stone, but a proper home. His old home. Grand, elegant and beautiful.

The Maia of fire let out a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

He could go back. It would only take getting on the ship – probably under Eönwë's constant watch – and facing the Valar's judgement. And then slowly work his way up, until he once again reached the rank he'd lost. Maybe.

Perhaps he'd even have a better relationship with Aüle, if the Vala was truly so hopeful he'd return. Maybe his master would want to work on more projects with him than before, maybe he'd even participate in Sauron's experiments the Maia always enjoyed. Maybe he'd accept them.

Maybe the Valar have learned that imprisoning someone for three ages doesn't help in their repentance, and would actually try to accept him.

But…

He'd arrive in shame, and probably find himself on the receiving end of a big amount of incredulousness, contempt and downright aggression.

Would people throw things at him? Chant 'throw him into the Void?'

It seemed highly probable, and though it wouldn't necessarily make him berate himself, it would make him very annoyed and much more prone to lashing out; which would help him none in his goal of reaching the desired position.

Still, the pleasant scenarios that for some reason bombarded him were too enticing to simply push aside.

"I..." he trailed off, suddenly taking great interest in the patterns of the tent's floor. "I need time to think about it. I'll come back and inform you of my decision tomorrow, before the ships–"

"Ruivë–"

"I promise I'll come back," he assured earnestly, trying to appear unbothered by the Herald's use of his old nickname. "Have I ever lied to you in such a direct manner? I will come back, and inform you of the choice I made."

"And if you don't? What will happen to me, if you run away and everybody finds out I simply let you go?"

"I will return. I promise you I will. Look at me and answer for yourself whether I'm lying or not."

His gaze left a particularly interesting pattern he was inspecting and despite his words, he felt himself go rigid and an overwhelming desire to flee flooded his senses when Eönwë's eyes locked with his, searching for the smallest traces of deceit.

Finally, when Sauron thought he might just give in to his temptation and run, the Herald sighed and closed his eyes briefly, breaking the tension.

"I can't trust you. Not anymore."

Sauron's shoulders slumped as he deflated.

What was he thinking? Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

"Eönwë, I cannot make this decision in such a short amount of time," he tried again, softly this time.

"And I cannot let you leave, not when Morgoth has just been defeated. You'll be the only evil that remained if I were to let you go. If you need time, stay here. I'll wait."

He knew going down to talk with Eönwë was a bad idea. He knew, and yet... a small part of him wished the Herald would believe him as easily as during Almaren.

But that wasn't the case.

"I..."

This was wrong. It wasn't supposed to go like this. He wasn't supposed to be left with no choice!

No... no, no.

He tried to prevent desperation from seeping into his expression, simultaneously looking everywhere that wasn't Eönwë. Looking for a way out.

And just then, when the silence was starting to become too much, a call from outside was heard, and both heads snapped to the direction of the entry.

"My lord Eönwë?"

He looked hesitantly at the Herald, and their gazes locked momentarily.

"What is it?"

"Lord Finarfin wishes to speak with you."

Eönwë sighed exasperatedly.

"Tell him I'll await him in ten minutes."

As the footsteps of the messenger quieted down, Sauron started to wonder. Specifically about what the near future would now hold.

Needless to say, it was a problematic situation. Yet, for the first time in years, not for him.

If Eönwë was indeed intending to meet the elf, he'd have to tie Sauron up in unbreakable bonds – which he most likely did not currently have – to ensure the dark Maia didn't run off, because he'd be damned if he stayed obediently in the tent.

But maybe, just maybe…

"Go, then," Eönwë whispered, though without hope. And his fair and radiant face was contorted by grief Sauron himself played a part in coaxing out.

The dark Maia looked at him with shock, as if the expression was etched into his face with the use of acid.

Eönwë's eyes were closed, and Sauron realised with a crawling sensation in his spine that he had just reopened an old wound. One that he himself inflicted upon his friend when he left with no warning.

The Herald must've felt the disbelieving eyes boring into him, and he met Sauron's gaze with apprehension and relentlessness in equal measures.

"But if you run and I hear of your further misdeeds..."

"Understood," he finally forced out. "Should I come to your tent?"

"No," Eönwë responded after a moment. "You were fortunate to even happen upon a moment when I was alone. I will be awaiting you at the two great boulders by the forest's entry at dawn."

It sounded as if Eönwë was lying to himself, clinging to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright. That everything would go according to plan, to their agreement.

He also appeared stiff and very much unsure; but at least he was cooperative. Which, actually, was a lot more than Sauron had hoped for. So, with an expression that could pass for a smile, he answered: "I will be there."

"You better."

With his spirits raised fractionally – though he still wasn't all that sure about what he should make of Eönwë's face, which made him look about ready to bolt after him – performed a polite bow and – was that a snort the Herald let out at the action? – left the tent, alert eyes darting in every possible direction as he prowled back to his... to his 'home'.

Well, what do you know? The substitute might even work.

Home.

His home.

Warm forges filled with the comforting sounds of precise strikes of hammers, scraping of tools, bright bursts of flames in the hearths accompanied by a hollow rumble and hiss, fire illuminating the stone walls and numerous stations. Firm yet gentle voices of teachers passing their knowledge to eager minds. Light reflecting off perfectly polished surfaces of gems and metal, casting a whole array of coloured light on every possible object to decorate the vast chamber. Humorous banters, meticulous pointing out of imagined mistakes, stealing of tools, fondly exasperated yells of Aüle's head smith.

Once that had been him.

The great dining hall, and in it large windows providing a stunning view of Yavanna's gardens, from which a few unruly branches reached into the hall to offer fresh fruit to any who desired. Colourful birds flying inside to beg for food with eyes like sparkling onyx before being gently shooed away.

The cozy, warm and dimly lit living rooms, with couches pushed flush against the walls, comfortable chairs waiting for anybody to collapse into them and relax, pillows littering almost the entire floor, a soft carpet peeking from underneath them. Lanterns hanging from the ceiling, always lit. The smell of wood, forest and fire filling the entire space.

The pastures, gardens, lakes, ponds, forests and meadows waiting outside. The animals eager to accompany everybody on their daily adventures, no matter how ordinary.

Home.

He missed it.

He grumbled when the position he was in became uncomfortable, shifting his head and cursing when it lolled to the side when the memories caused him to doze off. He rubbed it lightly against the surface his back was leaned against, imagining the feeling of a soft pillow instead of the damp bark.

Slowly, his eyes opened to be met, again, with the sight of a dark, dull forest. Lifeless and uninteresting.

He could wish, he could hope, he could fantasise, but was going back to his old life even possible? From the way Eönwë talked about the Smith, it was easy enough to conclude Aüle missed him, even if just a little.

But that was Aüle. The Maiar and elves would be a whole different matter. And probably the other Valar as well.

Also... it really wouldn't even have to be that much about him. His old lord could just be feeling responsible for all his Maiar that Melkor had managed to sway to his side, and wanted a redemption of some kind for himself. To prove to himself that he hasn't erred that much. That it was merely a temporary mishap, nothing that would pin the blame to the Vala permanently.

And yet... a dark fire flared in Sauron's chest, and his eyes flashed in the darkness.

Was it not Aüle that forbade him to delve into specific topics, entertain certain questions and experiment? The Vala knew well of his curious nature, yet barred that path from him. It was just innocent wondering! Was it really such a crime to pursue knowledge?

It was this that Melkor tempted him with back then; held it just near enough for him to touch, but not fully grasp. He understood why the Vala would take such precautions; after all, it would be counterproductive to give the 'curious, little Maia' everything and, in doing so, deprive himself of a good bartering tool. Everything came at a price. And the price Melkor offered wasn't too steep. At the time.

A sigh left his lips as he sat more upright, a grimace contorting his features when the dampness of the tree managed to seep through the few layers he was wearing.

And again his mind wandered to better times, this time to how insistent Aüle always was on him wearing warm, multi-layered yet elegant and simple clothes, even going as far as providing him with a large variety of them. He would sometimes go into his room to find a new set of clothes specifically for work, casual clothes, festive clothes, formal clothes, all of them warm and in such colours it was still beyond Sauron how Aüle could come up with compositions that matched his appearance perfectly. The Smith always seemed determined that his Maia of fire was kept warm.

He'd have a stroke if he ever saw his precious Nárine in wet clothes, especially in such a cold weather, and with dull red strands clinging to his stiff face.

"My lord?"

He jumped, caught off guard, and his eyes flew open to see who dared disturb his moment of ponderings.

The rude reprimand he was about to hiss out died on his tongue the moment it became apparent the shaken Maia standing a few paces away was in a much worse condition than him.

Before the pitiful sight coaxed out his softer side, he closed his eyes before once more resting his head against the tree.

"How have you managed to take me by surprise twice already?"

Then something stirred in his still slightly hazed mind, and after a moment he pinpointed what felt different.

He opened his eyes and scrutinised Ulundo attentively, squinting.

"'My lord'?" he repeated, studying the bashful face with curiosity.

The Maia managed a nod, shifting slightly.

"You had once told me to seek you out after the war, and here I am. I will aid you on your quest to rebuild our lord's empire."

Rebuild...? Melkor sought only to destroy, crushing and shattering as much as he could, tainting the very earth they stood on.

But 'rebuilding' was a concept that plucked a string in his perfectionist mind, and was something that sounded much closer to his vision than Melkor's.

And the dark Vala wasn't there to crush his dreams by dumping another workload of paperwork on him to keep him occupied.

But when an eager spark of a new idea appeared in his head, a memory smothered it with significant force.

Go, then. But if you run and I hear of your further misdeeds…

But home...

Now that he actually thought about it, it was an appealing thought. The comforts, the warmth…

And yet he promised Ulundo that–

Then again, his promises didn't mean much when the outcome would be displeasing to his person.

Besides, the Maia really did seem to want to return to better times.

Yet…

Was there even a home to return to? Would a wolf consider his old cage a home after living free for so long?

... alright, that wasn't that good of a comparison; he never had been free. Perhaps one cage was bigger than the other, but they were both still cages.

But now... now the door to the old one was open, and the more recent one was no more. Now, he was outside, and it was up to him to either turn and flee, or obediently walk back into…

No. The very word 'obedience' was repulsive. Fire was not that; fire was defiance. The refusal to be tamed.

He forced a smile onto his face, though even Ulundo could tell it was strained.

"And rebuild it we shall," he said, and coughed to cover up the crack in his voice.

The Herald would never forgive him, and old history was again repeating itself. And Eönwë will have to learn anew how to live normally, with his old wound reopened and deepened.

"But do tell me, what happened to all of Melkor's forces?" he added after a moment.

Ulundo sighed and directed his eyes at his feet.

"Killed. Scattered. Confused."

"How many orcs remained?"

"I suspect just above fifty. But they fled, and will not come back easily."

"Dragons?"

"Only the small one, Smaug."

"Maiar?"

"Only me. And one balrog, but he will listen to nobody but lord Melkor."

He leaned back his head and closed his eyes, before moving a little to make space beside him.

"Come, sit with me."

Ulundo gave him a surprised look.

"For what purpose?"

A tired sigh escaped him, and he opened his eyes momentarily, for the first time in a long time void of sterness.

"You're shaken, and cold. And besides, I have some of my own ponderings to complete. We cannot do anything until the Valian army leaves, and even then we'll have to act slowly. Right now... right now we have all the time in the world."

Arathámo – noble helper. Ar- – noble, Sámo(þ) – helper. I could write it as Araþámo, but for clarity's sake I will refrain from doing so. No, I will not write it as Arasámo. It sounds weird. Also, quoting Fëanor (from "The Shibboleth of Fëanor"):

"We speak as is right, and as King Finwë himself did before he was led astray. We are his heirs by right and the elder house. Let them sá-sí, if they can speak no better."

No, I will not be writing "þauron" or "Thauron" instead of "Sauron", even if that means I'm inconsistent. I'm a nerd, yes, but not to the degree of sounding deranged or obsessed.