Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One: Trial and Tribulation

It was much too bright.

It wasn't that he hated and feared the light the way Melkor had or that it pained him the way it pained the orcs or even that he was unused to it like Gothmog or Ancalagan who had rarely been allowed to leave the caverns of Angband. He had walked beneath the Sun and the Moon many times, for his high position had required many tasks of him. His proficiency at blending and changing forms, as well as the fair face he could give himself when he wished, had allowed him to walk abroad without the shadow of Morgoth always swathing him as many of the Dark Vala's lesser servants had required. He adapted, light or dark, and it had never particularly bothered him before.

But seated now in the middle of the slim Telerin swan-boat with nothing but smooth ocean water and a burning sun to see, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the intensity of the light surrounding him. Everything seemed to glow: the white wood of the craft, the painfully blue sky, and the myriad of white diamond points that glistered across the entire ocean expanse. There was nowhere to hide from it; even the rippling shadow of the sail provided little relief. It was as if everything was made of the light…everything except for him, that was.

He knew he was being pointedly ignored by the crew. In the case of the Elves, it was probably out of fear. In the case of the few Maiar that accompanied them, it might be from anger, hatred, or even awkwardness. No one had spoken to him since they had left Middle-earth two weeks ago, but he hadn't exactly expected joyful greetings. Wrapped still in the black cloak and clothing that he'd worn as Morgoth's Black Captain, he knew he stood out like an ink stain on a white parchment. And so, he was left to his thoughts, though he couldn't decide yet whether this was a blessing or a curse.

He fidgeted uncomfortably, tugging at the embroidered hem of his sleeve and pulling his cloak tighter about himself to ward off the cool sea breeze. Squinting his eyes against the overpowering light, he watched the hurried activity as Elves tugged on ropes, readjusted the sails, and went about other sea tasks, the purposes of which he could not guess. Melkor had hated the sea, and Sauron had found that Melkor's hate was infectious. Not that Melkor's fear and hate hadn't been justified, for he had unfortunately been correct in guessing that his doom, and that of his servants, would come from the sea. And now here, he – Sauron – was, sailing across that very sea from which his enemies had come, and not only that, but straight into his enemies' hands. Melkor would call me an absolute fool, Sauron thought dejectedly. And maybe I am.

A young Elf, one of the Vanyar if his golden hair was any indication, was scrubbing the ship railing across from Sauron. As if it needed to be any brighter, Sauron thought. The Maia watched him out of boredom, and to keep his thoughts from straying to the ship's destination and his own fate. He curled his lip slightly at the menial task. Doubtlessly, this Elf would take great offense to be called a slave, and yet, Sauron could see little difference between him and the slaves that had labored at Angband. Could this Vanya have refused the one, Maia or Elf, who had given him his servile task any more than one of Melkor's slaves could have disobeyed the Dark Vala?

The Vanya fidgeted, glanced around, and saw Sauron watching him. The Elf quickly averted his eyes and scrubbed even harder at the spotless wood a few seconds before abandoning all dignity and hurrying to some part of the ship where Sauron's piercing gaze could not reach him. Sauron smirked a little. At least, he was not completely bereft of the power and dark aura that he had gained in Melkor's service. At least the Elves still knew to give him a wide berth and a healthy dose of respect. For now. Until the Valar dealt with him.

Dark thoughts closed in again at that. Frowning and dismissing all thoughts of the Elf, Sauron leaned his head against the railing and closed his eyes, but he could still see the sunlight blazing white through his eyelids. He sighed and pulled his hood over his face.

That was a little better. Darkness finally settled over his vision. The creak and moan of the ship, along with its unnerving movement, could not let him completely relax, though. Nor could his thoughts. As one of Melkor's chief servants, he had learned to control his thoughts, but everything that had happened over the last few months seemed to have chipped away at that particular ability. Now, when he wasn't agonizing over the decision he'd made only a few weeks ago in Middle-earth, he was agonizing over the fate that awaited him in Valinor.

He preferred the former, simply because he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, now that it was already behind him and set in the stone of history. He had made his decision, for better or worse, and Eönwë had supported him in it, though he wasn't sure whether that was a good or bad omen. If anyone wanted to see him run straight into his doom, surely it was the commander of his foes' army.

"There is some wisdom left in you," Eönwë had said, looking at him with eyes as piercingly blue as the sky of the Vala he served. "But you're still afraid."

Of course, I'm afraid, Sauron had thought with a mental sneer. He turned from Manwë's Herald and fiddled with the blue and gold curtains of the tent, running his fingers over the smooth silk. "The Valar were not exactly merciful to my…former…master," he said slowly in his practiced voice even smoother than the silk.

"You forget that Morgoth was already given an opportunity to repent once," came Eönwë's voice from behind him. It was hard and sharp, like one of the swords with which Eönwë had such skill.

Sauron smiled bitterly to himself at the words. Ironically, Eönwë's point was exactly what he feared. He would hardly call the fate Morgoth had originally suffered merciful. Humiliated, humbled, tossed in a dungeon for three ages. Sauron felt his stomach twist and his cheeks flare. As far as he was concerned, that was a living death. For not the first time, he wondered whether he really wanted to go through with this or not. He could slip out that night, blend into the shadows, and creep away into the rent world that was left from the war. But if they caught him then…

"The Valar learned their lesson with Morgoth," Eönwë said suddenly, and Sauron jerked around to face him. His breath caught as he first wildly thought that Eönwë meant that he would not be spared after all or granted any mercy as they had first done with Melkor. He looked around, half-expecting to see armed guards surrounding the tent, ready to drag him straight to the Void. A dungeon might be humiliating, but the Void… torn from the world he'd bound himself to, left as a meaningless scrap of life with no purpose, no real existence, no form… But Eönwë was shaking his head slowly, as if he could read Sauron's thoughts.

"Whether you believe it or not," the Herald continued, "the Valar were merciful to Melkor. But they didn't count on his rage and hate. All his punishment did was make him hate them all the more and make him angrier than he'd ever been. Leaving him alone to his own thoughts, letting him simmer in the dark for three ages, was no way to bring him back. They won't be making that mistake with you."

He eyed Sauron thoughtfully then beckoned to him. "I have something to give you," he said as he turned and drew back another tent flap leading into the inner room: his private chamber.

Sauron followed cautiously, still not convinced that other Maiar, or perhaps the Valar themselves, wouldn't show up to bind him in unbreakable chains and drag him off to Valinor in humiliation. But Eönwë was simply leaning over a chest by his bed, putting aside his few belongings as he looked for something. Sauron folded his arms, frowning, and waited impatiently.

Finally, Eönwë turned back to him, and as he did so, Sauron's breath caught. At first, he wasn't sure that the object in the Herald's hand was really what he thought it was, but as Eönwë approached, he recognized it beyond any doubt. A numbness crept over his heart, and he withdrew as if Eönwë was holding a poisonous snake. "I don't want that," he said in a choked voice, his sculptured composure finally crumbling for a moment.

Eönwë looked grim. "I was asked to give it to you when I met you here." Sauron gave him a shocked look, and Eönwë nodded. "Yes, the Valar knew we'd meet here. They didn't know whether you would be brought here captive or whether you'd come of your own will, but you're not as far from the Valar's thoughts as you think you are, Sauron. And hopefully that comforts you."

He set the object down on top of the chest but did not put it away again. "You may use my bed for the night, and you will not be disturbed until the ship leaves in the morning."

There was an unpleasant knot in Sauron's throat, and he had to swallow before he could answer, attempting to regain some of his nonchalance and dignity. "And I suppose I will be well-guarded," he sneered.

Eönwë gave him a long, steely look. "To keep others out, not to keep you in. You're not exactly popular in this camp, and the Elves are not as merciful as the Valar. They also have tendencies towards revenge, or didn't you learn that from the Noldor? If you chose to leave, you would not be stopped. But if you run, the truce is over, and we will hunt you down again."

Sauron let his lip curl slightly upward. The only card he had left at this point was clinging to his dark ambiance as the Black Captain and keeping up his pretense of cool arrogance. Despite the fact that he'd very nearly been caught that morning already and his fear of the howling dogs on his trail had been a large deciding factor in his decision to surrender, he wasn't going to admit that before Eönwë, the Valar, or any other opponent.

However, Eönwë's piercing look made Sauron feel uncomfortably certain that the Herald could tell his bravado was for show only. "There is spare clothing, as well," the Maia of Manwë added. "You might want to change out of that before the morning," he said, glancing over Sauron's dusty, torn garments.

Sauron folded his arms. "I am satisfied with what I have on, thank you very much," he snapped, casting a scornful eye over the blue, gold, and white (white!) articles of clothing that Eönwë had put to the side for him.

Eönwë rubbed his temples with slender fingers and closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long, audible sigh. He gave Sauron an aggravated look. "Listen, Sauron," he said exasperatedly. "You might want to ask yourself what you're doing here. If you think the Valar are going to let you just parade into Valinor and live there like the arrogant dark lord you're used to being, then you're going to be disappointed. If you really are sorry, even if you're just afraid, you've still got a home, but we're done with dark lords in Valinor. We're of the same order, and I can't punish you anymore than I can pardon you, but the Valar aren't going to put up with your insolence like I am. So, ask yourself, Sauron, what exactly do you want?"

He turned and vanished through the tent flap, and Sauron was left alone to brood for the first time over the decision he'd made. What exactly did he want? He could hear the sea and the faint creak of the Telerin ships moored there. He was glad he had not eaten the bread that Eönwë had offered him earlier as he wasn't sure he would have been able to keep it down now; his stomach was fluttering wildly. He lay down on Eönwë's bed, hoping that would keep his nausea at bay, but in that position he found himself looking at the top of the chest and the hammer that still lay there. He tried to ignore it, but he found his gaze glued to it as the red light of sunset slowly vanished from the tent. Three times he got up and walked to the entrance of the tent, the last time even putting his hand to the flap, each time telling himself that he would leave, that he had no place here and certainly not in Valinor, but the image of the hammer kept burning in his mind, and each time he returned and lay down again.

Finally, when it was perhaps midnight, he reached over and picked up the hammer.

He had never forgotten it, the hammer that Aulë himself had made for him and with which had taught him the skills of the forge. He had spent hours with that same hammer in his hand, toiling beside the fire, watching with delight as chunks of gold and silver and shapeless gems had turned into beautiful works of art. Morgoth had not wasted his Dark Captain's skills, but the cruel weapons, countless chains, and instruments of torture to which Morgoth had set his talents were hardly the same. He wondered how long it had been since he made a ring, a brooch, something, anything, beautiful. As he rubbed the rough, familiar wood, he remembered what it first had felt like to know he had a purpose in the world and that he was doing what he was created to do.

What exactly do you want, Sauron?

Why had he not fled yet? Why did he not slip away to some dark hole far away in the ruins of the world and hide until the Valar had forgotten that he ever existed? Eventually, they would. Why did he submit himself to this humiliation and mental anguish, why did he even consider returning to the land of his foes, when he could live on, unpunished, unhumbled, himself alone in some dark land?

In his heart, he knew the answers, and the sight and touch of the hammer simply made those answers bubble to the surface. Deep down, he knew he did not want to pass away: some dark, forgotten shadow on a breeze of a forgotten age, spending the rest of his existence merely cowering under a rock in fear. He wanted to think he was more than a rag tossed away after all use had been wrung from it. He wanted to know he still had a purpose in Arda.

Suddenly, he broke. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed on the strange bed, curling up upon himself and holding the hammer to his chest. The storm of emotions that had been building up inside of him over the last days and weeks and months and, perhaps, even longer – heart-rending fear, searing anger, numbing despair, empty loneliness – cracked and tears were suddenly running down his face into the soft pillow. Alone, exhausted physically and mentally, scared and angry and sick at heart, he wept long into the new morning.

And at the dawn, he had boarded the white Elven ship to sail to Valinor.

On the ship, lost in thought and memories, with his dark hood shading his face, Sauron's consciousness slipped further away from the present. Vaguely, on the very edge of his awareness, he could still feel the steady rock of the ship and hear the ghostly creak of wood. Darkness pressed down on his eyes, darker than the mere shadow of his hood. Through the darkness, he saw a pinpoint of light, and he moved towards it. His feet were unsteady though and the ground treacherously shifting, as if he were balancing on pieces of floating ice in a river. He struggled on towards the light, but it didn't seem to get any closer. He could see some of the landscape now: a bleak, desert-like plain. He realized it was Anfauglith, and then he saw that there were great cracks running through the burning plain and that underneath, the earth was still on fire from the long ago battle. Fumes and an evil red light rose from the cracks, which themselves suddenly seemed larger than they had been a moment ago. He knew that if he were to reach the light he would have to jump across what he now saw were gaping chasms. But he knew he could not stay here – why, he was not sure, but the burning plains and the fiery chasms terrified him.

He looked up and saw a tower rising in front of him now, and at its very top was the yellow light that he had first seen from a distance. It was close, but he was separated from it by the widest chasm of all. But his heart leapt, as looking down, he saw there was a bridge crossing the abyss. He ran for it, knowing somehow that his life counted on reaching it in time.

He stepped onto the bridge, a fleeting hope of survival passing through him, but the moment his foot touched the stone, he saw the dark shape lying in the middle of the bridge. His spine tingled.

The giant wolf, its fur pitch-black and its evil eyes blazing red like fire, rose and stared at him, and terror coursed through him. He suddenly recognized the bridge and the tower; it was his own Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He could not pull his eyes away from the wolf as it moved towards him, its hungry, cruel gaze boring into him. His voice was useless. His legs would not move. The tower was the only place where he could be safe, but the demonic wolf was stalking him. Its eyes filled his vision, and he tried to scream, but he could only make muted cries. He was afraid, utterly afraid and utterly alone.

He gagged, and his eyes flew open. Panic was still coursing through him, causing his limbs to shake violently, and his skin was hot and sticky as if he'd been trapped in a furnace. His throat felt strained and raw, and he realized he had woken himself up with his own strangled screams. He lifted a shaking hand to his neck, swallowing, and tried to regain his composure and adjust to the fact that he was awake and it had been nothing but a nightmare.

He squinted against the light – if anything, it had grown even brighter while he slept – and realized that several Elves and a couple Maiar, a dark-haired woman and a red-haired man, were looking at him oddly. Probably, they had heard his choked cries, but they made no move to help him. He snarled at them like a feral beast, and the Elves quickly turned away. The two Maiar watched him a few seconds longer, their faces unreadable, but then they too disappeared. Sauron huddled back down into his seat, completely miserable, an empty ache eating away at his insides.

But then he heard the cry from the swan prow of the ship in a clear Elven voice that was filled with the nauseating joy of homecoming. It was just about enough to make Sauron want to strike the voice's owner over the railing and into the sea.

"Land! Land!"

The emptiness was immediately coupled with the familiar knot in his sore throat. Sauron squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the pulse in his ears.

They had arrived at Valinor.

Chapter Text

All the Elves had hurried to the front of the ship as soon as land was sighted, leaving Sauron deserted in the middle of the vessel. Instinctively, he tugged his cloak close about his body, as if it could ward off his impending doom, whatever it would be. His throat still felt tight, and his stomach had gone from fluttering like a bird to feeling like it was weighed down with bricks. He let his head droop forward, and his long, black hair fell curtain-like around his face, blocking out the sight of the rejoicing Elves and Maiar and the land they had now reached. He resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands, as well.

A tremor ran through the entire keel of the shallow ship as the prow bumped against the quay. Sauron automatically put out his hands to steady himself, though in reality the vibration was hardly more dramatic than the waves they'd run into on the windier days out at sea. But with his nerves on edge, everything seemed heightened: every brush of wind across his skin, every bump of the ship as the Elves on shore flung ropes to the Teleri on board, every whisper of the sea against the boards beneath his feet. He'd been in this state before and recognized it, though usually previously he'd been in a battle or on the edge of a fight and had an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through him. Everything in him told him to run, to fight for his survival, to kill anything in his path that threatened him. But with the acute control he had taught himself over the years in Morgoth's service, he forced himself to remain seated and listened to each breath come shuddering out of his mouth.

"Sauron."

The two Maiar who had acted as commanders during the voyage were suddenly standing in front of him. Sauron slowly lifted his head and brushed back his hair, keeping his fingers steady. The dark-haired woman was tall and had a slight, hunter's form, an image completed by her forest-green attire and the hunting knife at her belt. Obviously, a Maia of Oromë, although he didn't know her name or remember her from the days before he had left. The man was stockier and had a strong, square face that Sauron had yet to see without a scowl on it. His red hair matched the sun-brown of his complexion. Sauron remembered his face vaguely from the early days, but no name came with it; but he figured this Maia had as little love for Morgoth's servants as did his master, Tulkas.

It was the man who had spoken and when Sauron looked up at him, he gave an unceremonial jerk of his head toward the plank that had been lowered between the ship and the quay. "You're to come with us."

Most of the Elves were already on shore, many greeting friends and laughing in their clear voices. A few were standing solemnly beside mourning Eldar who had evidently just received news of a loved one's fall. One golden-haired Vanya stood sobbing just to the right of the plank, holding to her chest a green scarf soiled with all-too-familiar dark stains while several men, including the young fellow Sauron had seen scrubbing the railing only a little while ago, stood around her with their heads bowed and their hands on her shoulders.

Sauron walked down the plank, the two Maiar following closely behind him, and as eyes began to fall on him, he scowled inwardly at how much he looked like a prisoner being flanked by guards. Not that it wasn't the closest thing to the truth. Sauron knew perfectly well why the Maiar had come along. The Telerin sailors were completely capable of sailing back to Valinor on their own without Maiarin overseers. Maybe he could have run back in Middle-earth, but that option was far behind him. There was nowhere to run in Valinor. Eönwë had said that the Valar would not be making the same mistakes with him as they had with Melkor, and Sauron assumed this probably included letting him slip out of their sight.

His presence washed over the Elves like an early frost sweeping across a field of flowers. As he passed, silence fell over everyone, revelers and mourners alike, and they drew apart before him as if afraid that they would fall over dead if so much as his cloak brushed against them. Hundreds of eyes bored into him, some angry, some shocked, some simply bewildered or curious. He had no doubt that news of his coming had proceded him, whether Ulmo himself had borne it or some other Maia of the sea or even the birds of Manwë, but he did not know what might have been said. He was not sure how much the Elves of Aman knew about the Wars that their cousins had been carrying out for hundreds of years in Beleriand or how many dark tales they knew about Morgoth and his Black Captain. But whether or not they knew him by name or by reputation, there could be no doubt among them about what he was, flanked as he was by the two stern-faced Maiar and clad still in his deviceless black garments, his face the darkly fair mask that he had worn as Morgoth's tempter and deceiver.

He could feel their anger. It was something he had grown used to sensing in the air. There was even hatred, its bitter heat and numbing cold biting him from every side. He could almost hear the accusations, threats, and abuses just waiting to slip off of every tongue in that hostile crowd. It did not bother him; he had been hated for far more years than he cared to count.

No, what bothered him was their lack of fear.

What he had first assumed was fear as they drew apart before them, he now saw in their eyes was loathing, as if the touch of his cloak might defile them. In and of itself, that too would not have bothered him, for he had little doubt that every servant under him at Angband or Gaurhoth had felt the same. But his servants had cringed away from him when he looked in their direction. They had groveled at his feet when he raised his voice in anger. His mere presence had been enough to set them trembling. He knew the smell of fear as well as that of anger or hatred. And it was completely absent now.

And worst of all, he knew the reason why.

It was not uttered until he had almost reached the edge of the crowd and could no longer hear the creak of ships or the slosh of water. Silence still held the Elves frozen, their glares burning into him. But as the last of the crowd parted to avoid his touch as one would avoid the touch of a plague-victim, he heard a shout from behind him.

"May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!"

The one voice unleashed the flood-gates. All the pent-up sorrow, rage, and hate boiled over, and suddenly Sauron's ears were ringing with the countless cries of the Elves. Taunts, insults, and an endless list of grievances crashed against him like some engine of war. They did not fear him now. He was a helpless prisoner, powerless before their victorious Valarin kings and queens. He was in their land. He was a doomed enemy, a vicious dog with its teeth ripped out who could now be kicked at will by those it had bitten. He looked up at the seething mass and silently hated them back with all his might.

He turned away, his back stiff, his heart roiling, even as he heard the commanding shouts of his guards telling the Elves to be quiet and go back to their own business. He hated them for it. He hated them for reminding him that he was no longer the one giving orders, for making it clear to the Elves that there was nothing he could do to them. Everything – everything that mattered for him – had changed.

~o~o~o~

Five hours had passed since Sauron arrived in Valinor. The day had brightened as afternoon drew on and the chariot of the Sun neared its resting place on the far side of Aman before it would begin its descent beneath the world. In that time, his "escorts" had brought him to the city of Valmar (or, more appropriately, to a small dwelling place on the outskirts of Valmar, as the Maiar probably did not want the entire Elven population of the capital making a similar scene to the one at the harbor.)

Instead, it was Sauron who had made a scene, if anyone had been around to see it, though at this point, he had thankfully been left to himself. Finally alone, he unleashed his considerable rage upon a collection of cooking utensils, a wall tapestry, and various pieces of furniture. As he smashed the dining room chairs one by one with his bare hands, he imagined them to be Elves and Maiar, and the snap of wood transformed to the all-too-familiar crack of bone in his ears. It was hardly satisfying – if anything, it only reminded him of his powerlessness to harm his real foes – but it released the overwhelming fury from his system and left him spent, with only a smoldering resentment heating his face.

He had been provided washing and drinking water, food, and new clothing, this time of a dark blue and deep gold material with no device. After he had regained his composure and began to think straight once again, Sauron took advantage of these comforts. It had been weeks since he'd washed properly, and he had a feeling that appearing well-groomed before the Valar would be better than playing the pathetic tramp, which at this point he doubted would earn him an ounce of pity.

Quite frankly, he was not sure how to handle his audience with the Valar, which his guards had informed him would take place that evening. He had played arrogant with Eönwë, but he knew the Herald's warnings had been justified. There were individual Valar that he might have taken a chance with – Aulë who had an legendary soft heart, Nienna who was known for her compassion, or even Irmo or Estë who might be more interested in healing him than punishing him for the moment. But Sauron had no doubt that he would warrant the attention of the full council of fourteen, and he was equally sure that Valar such as Oromë, Tulkas, and Námo would not be impressed or endeared by any show of power or pride from him.

But he had made up his mind with equal conviction that he was not going to grovel, scrape, or beg either.

He forced himself to eat the fresh fruit and bread that he found in the cupboard; he had not eaten well on the ship and did not want to be any more light-headed than he was already going to be. After that, he meandered into the bedroom and flopped across the bed dejectedly, letting one hand fall off the edge and trail against the floor in thoughtless circles. He wished he had been taken straight to the Valar upon arriving. It was something he had learned from Melkor: if you were going to be punished, it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later. Especially if you hadn't even the slimmest chance of escape. Which he knew he hadn't.

He found himself stroking his forefinger over the metal head of his hammer, which he'd kept with him, though carefully concealed under his loose outer robe, for the entire voyage. He pulled it out of the dark blue outer robe that draped over his shoulders and hung open in the front, revealing the matching tunic and black leggings underneath. He stared at the tool blankly, his fingers tracing the notches and scars that hundreds of blows had left on its surface. Properly, it should have been smoothed back down, polished and mended on a regular basis, but Sauron had no doubt that the Valar had sent it to him in this state on purpose. He was no fool. He read the symbolism and the message he had been sent as clearly as letters on a page. Angrily, he let the hammer slip out of his fingers and drop onto the bed at his side. Then he rolled over with his back to it.

He was fairly sure that the polishing process was no fun for the hammer.

A loud knock on the front door startled him out of his reverie.

He glanced out the window automatically and saw that it was not yet evening. Perhaps his trial had been moved. Maybe Ulmo actually showed up early for once and they decided to get it over with, he thought sardonically.

Even though he'd wanted just that, the thought sent up new flurries in his stomach, and he was suddenly not sure he could trust his legs to hold him. Wonderful, I'll look stunning crawling into the Ring of Doom on all fours or being carried by my escorts, he mentally derided himself. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the intricate lattice of knotting carved in the ceiling wood. If they want me, they can come in and get me themselves, he decided, letting his arrogant streak take control for the moment so that it could push down his fear.

The door opened, and he heard heavy footsteps pause briefly in the entry way, doubtlessly surveying the mess of broken crockery, shredded tapestry, and splintered wood that Sauron had left on the floor. But then the steps progressed onward, and the bedroom door creaked slightly as a hand pushed it open from the other side. In his peripheral, Sauron saw the figure standing in the doorway. His skin prickled, and he instantly knew that it was not one of his guards.

He sat up so fast that the blood rushed from his head, causing his vision to dance with red and black points of light.

The man standing in the doorway was tall, but few would have probably guessed that he was one of the seven lords of the Valar. His face was pleasant, noble, and etched with an infinite compassion, but distinctly plain. His mottled brown hair was tied back neatly from his square, strong features, but he had a full wiry beard, which was a hint darker than his hair, almost soot grey-black around his lips, sticking out in a cloud of several inches around his chin and cheeks. His skin was rough, fire-browned, and tight over his compactly muscled frame, and he had small wrinkles around his eyes as if from hours of squinting into bright light. His clothes were equally plain: a deep molten-red jerkin, granite-grey leggings, and brown boots.

Only his eyes showed him as something more. They were a striking combination of gold and silver as if both metals had been poured together and mixed thoroughly – the gold shone clear but was speckled with pinpoints of the silver that made his eyes gleam. It was what lay behind them though that revealed the man's true nature: an eternal flame of grandeur and gentle power that washed over Sauron like the heat of a fire. In short, Aulë, Lord of the Earth, looked exactly the same as when Sauron had last seen him.

Sauron stumbled to his feet, his tongue feeling dry and swollen against his teeth. His heart was beating much harder than he liked. He had not dreamed that he would have to face any of the Valar, let alone his first master, before his trial, and even though he didn't fear immediate retribution from Aulë the way he would if he had found Oromë or Tulkas suddenly standing in his doorway, he was not prepared, in body or mind, to face one of the fourteen most powerful beings in Arda and answer the uncomfortable questions and accusations that Aulë would undoubtedly have.

But Aulë neither questioned nor accused for the moment. Instead, the Vala of Earth just looked at him long and hard with his deep gold eyes flecked with silver, his mouth a thin, straight line amidst the tangle of his beard. Sauron did his best to look back, but the power radiating from the Vala's eyes soon forced him to look away. It made him want to crawl under the bed or shrink down to the size of an insect. He hated his own inferiority, the sense that this being could snap his power in half like a dry twig if he wanted, the terrible, terrible urge to bow down and submit himself to the lord he had been sent into this world to serve.

But yet, at the same time, he felt a flicker of scorn at the unassuming figure of his former master. Aulë had always preferred simplicity over flair; his lessons were continually of restraint and control. Even the jewels he made at the forge, though beautiful beyond the reckonings of most, had a signature austerity, as if their maker was simply doing what he loved to do, with no thought of showing off his talent. It was something that had always irked Sauron. It was part of the reason why the eyes of the young Maia had been drawn elsewhere…

For there had been nothing plain, nothing unassuming, about Melkor. The Dark Vala had a flair that Sauron had never seen matched, and his lessons were more pleasing to the ambitious, talented apprentice smith than those of Aulë.

"It is foolish to keep your powers at bay," Melkor had told him once. "How can you know the extent of your own skill if you do not use it, stretch it to its very limits, relish it, and watch it work? This is art, Mairon. There are no rules. Constraint is for fools who fear to press themselves, those who live in fear of others who might not approve. Why should you be ashamed to reveal yourself, fully and proudly, and let the world know exactly who you are?"

"Master Aulë says that raw talent and power must be tempered with training and control," Sauron – young Mairon then (though he did not remember it) – had answered, a puzzled frown on his face as he tried to reconcile the two conflicting lessons. "He says there must always be rules, or else everything will fall into chaos and return to the Void."

"Mairon, Mairon," Melkor purred softly. "Who makes those rules? That's the only question that matters. Either you make your own rules or someone else makes them for you. And who has any right to tell you how you should use your own talent? Your power is yours, to do whatever you want to with it."

And so Mairon the apprentice had abandoned his rightful master's lessons and submitted to the new tutelage of Melkor.

And now, here Sauron the Black Captain was, back face-to-face with the being he had scorned, abandoned, and betrayed, whose lessons he had ignored, and his fate was in that same Vala's hands. As he stared at the wood panels of the floor, Sauron considered what a thoroughly awkward situation he was in.

He had expected accusations, a lecture at the very least. He did not expect the word that Aulë finally spoke in a voice deeper than the caverns of Angband and more soft and gentle than the first warm breath of spring through the winter's chill.

"Nauron."

Sauron's head shot back up at the sound of the name. Fiery One. It had always been Aulë's personal name for him, an endearment perhaps and possibly a hint of a tease. He had no doubt that Aulë had always used it in reference to his somewhat intemperate tendencies just as much as it had been a reference to his skills with the flames and his abilities to shape them around his will. It was the name of the young smith who had burnt his fingers the first time he had seen molten gold and could not resist touching the shining, beautiful liquid; it was the name of the rash apprentice who had time and time again flung down his hammer in a fit of impatient rage when his grand projects did not go the way he had envisioned them in his mind. It was only when he heard Aulë speak it that the irony struck him of how much that name sounded like the one the Elves had given him.

Yet there was no anger or hatred in that word as there was in the name that had become his own, but moments later, Sauron wished there had been. Instead, there was that nauseatingly infinite compassion that Aulë had always possessed, that sickening trust that everyone had some good in them and that nothing could be wholly lost. Once Sauron – no, Aulë's Nauron – might have believed in something similar, but now such a belief seemed so quaint and antiquated that it made Sauron's scorn for this gentle, unlordly Vala blaze anew.

"My lord," he said stiffly, distantly, the tone of his voice making it clear that the "my" was simply a convention of grammar and in no way reflected Sauron's actual loyalties.

Aulë might have been plain, but he was no fool. His eyes deepened and saddened at Sauron's stiff formality, which only increased Sauron's disdain. Such a trick in front of Morgoth would have earned him a swift dagger of the Dark Vala's piercing mind ripping through his consciousness like a crueler version of a slap across the face. But at this point, Sauron knew that Aulë had come to neither punish nor gloat. He was here to pity, and Sauron hated that more than anything else the Vala of Earth could have done.

"Fiery One," Aulë said again softly, "so you have come back."

Sauron resisted the urge to scoff at such an obvious statement. Aulë was weak and soft among the Valar, but it would not do to anger him, especially with his trial mere hours away. Instead, he replied in the same distant voice. "So it would appear."

Aulë took a step into the room and half-closed the door behind him. "I heard of Eönwë's account of your surrender and journey," he continued. "I did not know whether you would come or not."

Sauron remained silent.

"I hoped you would," the Vala lord went on. "Not just for my sake, either. I hope you feel that you have made the right decision, Fiery One."

This time, Sauron could not resist the curl in his upper lip. "I have made many decisions that I considered right," he said in a low voice. "But that does not seem to be a guarantee that anyone else will view them as such."

"And do you still consider your decision to…leave…us to be right?" Aulë asked, audibly pausing by the word leave. A kinder word than 'betray', Sauron thought.

"Does that matter?" Sauron asked. "Now that I am here again?"

Aulë's eyes flickered with that strange inner flame of the Ainur. It had always been strong with Aulë, perhaps one of the many reasons that Morgoth had hated him especially. "I think it does," he said. "And so do many of the others. We know that the bonds of Morgoth are not easily thrown away, and nor is a desire for power and grandeur once such things have been tasted. You have drunk deep of both Morgoth's bondage and his gifts. Things will not be the same in Valinor – I trust that you already know this, and it gives me hope that you have come nevertheless. But still, a great many things will change depending on whether or not you view your past as a bondage and an evil – or not – and whether this journey of yours to Valinor is merely the lesser of two evils in your opinion, or whether it is truly a new beginning and a new hope."

Sauron's cheeks flushed as he listened the Aulë's slow, methodical words. His emotions stirred within him like seething water that has just been dipped with white-hot iron. His fiery temper bubbled up his throat until he could no longer contain himself. "Bondage and power!" he spat. "What would you know of either of those things? What do any of the Valar know of anything I have witnessed and known? Is that why you are here, Lord Aulë? To pity a fallen slave of Morgoth and to convince me before the trial that whatever sentence you place on my shoulders is a delight and a pleasure compared to my supposed agony in Middle-earth? I do not want your pity, or that of any living creature in Valinor!"

Aulë listened to Sauron's rant in silence, his face stone still. Only when angry words stopped spilling from the Maia's lips, leaving him breathing hard and trembling, did the Vala speak. "Then what do you want from us here, Sauron, if not our pity and our aid?"

Will the tiresome fool never leave me in peace? Sauron thought. He felt spent and weary, not what he wanted to feel right before his trial. Aulë's question, so similar to Eönwë's, was not what he wanted to hear right now either. What other choice did I have? he told himself. He had heard tales of the Noldor's exile from Valinor and the curse Námo had laid upon them for daring to challenge and disobey the Powers. He suddenly wondered if he was under a similar curse: forever doomed. To never find rest or happiness until the world ended. Did the choices he made really matter in the end, any more than Fëanor's had, or his cursed sons? Was he merely being yanked along by some cosmological string, and if so, why did it matter what he wanted? Why should he even bother figuring it out if it would only be yanked from under his nose the moment he laid his fingertip upon it?

Suspicions began to creep through his mind. Perhaps Aulë's visit was not as benign as it appeared. Perhaps the other Valar had sent him to eat away at Sauron's confidence and to undermine any rebellion he might still be harboring. Perhaps they meant to turn him into some drooling, pathetic lapdog, bereft of his will and powers, whining his thanks to them for sparing him from the evil fate that they themselves had driven him to.

For had they not done so? Melkor had told him as much far more times than he could count. "What choice do they leave you?" Melkor had crooned in his ear. "They have divvied up this world and all its power amongst themselves, and they are merely throwing you enough scraps to keep you satisfied and blind to what you might have. You were powerful among the Ainur. Your song, no less than theirs, brought forth the vision of Eä. By keeping your inheritance from you, they are driving you to reach out and seize it by force. Take it and become your own lord. Cast off the burden of the Valar and show them that you are not afraid to do what they are daring you to do. It is your fate, Mairon, your doom written from the beginning, to wear the grandeur of lordship. Who are they to keep it from you?"

Sauron pressed his hands over his ears, his head ringing. A thousand voices, his own, Melkor's, Aulë's, and a myriad others, reverberated inside his mind. He felt dizzy, as if the world were tilting crazily, and up and down and left and right seemed to have no meaning. A piercing stab of some mental agony tore through his mind and he cried out as if he had been physically injured. At least under Morgoth, there were certain incarnate truths that he had built his life upon and had known and trusted without fail: that there was no turning back from the choices he had made, that Gaurhoth and the iron of Angband were his home and the source of his glorious power and dominion, that there was only one Power in Eä that mattered and he sat on a black throne, crowned with the Silmarilli.

But these truths had failed him and left him shattered and broken. First Eönwë, and now Aulë, were slowly tearing down that fortress he had built about himself, telling him that it had been lies he'd lived upon for so long and that they could offer him something different. There were no truths for him here, no iron certainties he could find his footing on. If he disobeyed Morgoth, he had known without fail that he could expect the Vala's lash; if he proved faithful and useful, he had known without fail that he could expect that Vala's dark praise and gifts of power. There were no such certainties here. He did not know what to believe, what to expect, what he was supposed to do or feel. He was lost. And that, perhaps more than anything else, terrified him to his core.

"I don't know!" he screamed, at Aulë, at Morgoth, at Eönwë, at the voices in his head. "I don't know!" And then his carefully constructed control slipped again for the second time that day, for it too had been built upon those deceitful certainties under Morgoth, and he was cursing and raging and hating himself for it (how could he have never realized how much he hated himself?), and then somehow his body was crumpled, cowering against the wall and the unfamiliar bed that was not his, his mind reeling, his legs no longer able to hold him. Unsummoned, pictures flashed through his mind: Melkor leaning against the wall, holding a crown that Sauron had just made, smiling with the firelight reflecting from the gold into his dark eyes where it vanished; a Noldorin prisoner bound to some hideous contraption of which only Sauron knew the exact workings, screaming and crying as Valaraukar lashed his naked body with fiery whips while a dark shadow (Sauron's) questioned him from the edge of the room where the blood could not splatter him; the impenetrable towers of Thangorodrim buckling in upon themselves and falling, the motion seemingly slow from so far away, each rock hurling down the next until the greatest fortress of Arda collapsed upon the ground in a ruin that seemed to shake the foundations of the world; Elven eyes piercing him from every side, hate-filled but no longer afraid, chanting a crescendo of words in his ears: May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!

"I hate you!" Sauron heard himself shriek, though he did not know to whom he said it. Then he plunged into darkness, and his mind went blissfully blank.

Chapter Text

When Sauron returned to consciousness, the first thing he did was mentally curse himself. How could he have been so dreadfully stupid as to show such weakness before one of the Valar? Even before Morgoth's prying, piercing mind he had always been successful at keeping a tight lock on his thoughts and emotions. Was it not bad enough that he was already a helpless prisoner that he must sink lower and reveal his shattered reality to one that he least wished to see it.

And it had to be Aulë of all people, Aulë the Plain, Aulë the Unlordly, Aulë the One Who Pitied. It made him nauseous just to think about it. He had been through harder times and worse pain and yet he had managed to weather them with pride and dignity all the same. But to lose all control, to rant who knew what, and then to top it all by fainting: that was simply unforgiveable.

Once he had given himself a mental tongue-lashing that would have put the most virtuosic rhetorician among the Noldor to shame, he slowly began to grow aware of his surroundings. His eyes were still closed, but he could tell he was lying down and by the softness of the substance underneath him, he determined he was in a bed. There was a smell, herbal and fresh in a way that reminded him of unsullied mountain snow, but what caught his attention were the voices. They were not in the same room as he was, perhaps in the next, and he had been too busy deriding himself to properly attend to them. But now he turned the full attention of his keen hearing upon them and listened.

"I tell you, he is not well enough for such a strain now." The voice was female, quiet and almost musical, like a harp that has just had all its strings plucked in a long, sweet trill of sound. It had a sleepy quality to it as well, as if its owner never said anything too swiftly or too loudly or with too much vigor. "The journey has been hard on him. He has not taken in enough food nor drink nor sleep. There is no wisdom in forcing him to go further than he has already gone this day."

"Nor is he fit in mind," came another voice, this one a male tenor that reminded Sauron of things he had forgotten, like the echo of a harmony that one knows he has heard but cannot recall where or when, or like a flashing glimpse of a dream that is now fading. "The darkness I sense in his dreams is not due wholly to what lies behind him. He fears the future, and we cannot blame him for that. But most of all, I see great turmoil in his thoughts of the present. He has been thrown into a world where he has no place, and it will take time for him to find his footing again. He is not ready for yet another upheaval in the foundations of his world."

"I do not disagree with you, Brother, but it is my duty to consider the ramifications upon all of Valinor, all of Arda, and not just a single Maia." This voice was deep, deeper even than Aulë's, and although it was not cold, it did not have the gentle warmth of the Smith's voice. It was heavy and each word it spoke seemed to form a layer in the air that descended upon Sauron like a rain of ash that grown thick enough could choke and crush all it chose. "While I do not distrust Aulë's words or the evidence of my own eyes or your skills, I must reiterate the peril that his unrestrained presence creates here. He has many enemies here who would do him harm in a heartbeat, and if this wreckage speaks true, then he is not above wreaking havoc here himself. He was strong in power before he left, and through Melkor's sorcery, he has grown in it beyond what his order was ever meant to have. I do not trust him, and I will not rest easy until we see this through."

"It is not fair to him," said a fourth voice, and this one was unmistakably Aulë's, nurturing and pleading. "We have all heard Eönwë's report. He expressed his desire for reconciliation. He came of his own free will, when he could have fled. He accepted the gift and the message that we sent him. His actions thus far have been admirable for one in his position, and how can we ask blind trust of one to whom we are not willing to give it?"

"Blind trust proved no one beneficial with Melkor," said the deep, heavy voice.

"It is not blind trust I ask for," Aulë persisted. "I ask for him to be judged according to his merits, in how his actions thus far prove themselves. I believe that he has truly come to us in the hope of restoration, whatever that arrogant mask he wears compels him to tell us, and I would not deny it to him."

There was a heavy sigh. "You take after Manwë too much, my dear Smith."

There was a pause, then Aulë spoke again in a quieter, more urgent voice. "I fear that if we make our demands of him now, before he has time to recover and adjust, he will once again revert to the cornered wolf I saw this afternoon. His mind is fragile. If we give him time, he may see the wisdom and mercy in our judgment with more clarity and be less likely to behave in such a way that will only condemn him further. I would not see him destroy his own chances of redemption while he is afraid and blind to what we want for him."

"And what would we do with him in the meantime?" demanded the heavy voice, this time with the slightest hint of irritation. "If we are to use your own metaphor, he is no mewling kitten, but a ravenous, cornered wolf ready to bite. I have said it before: he cannot be left to roam Valinor freely. Do you think tossing him in a cell will heighten his gratitude towards us? He must be dealt with, immediately. We are all ready and waiting." There was a pause. "And I fear that until we pass his sentence, he cannot be forced to see any more wisdom or mercy in our judgment than he will let himself see at the moment. Do not let him deceive you again, Aulë."

There was another pause, but this one seemed darker and tinged with a deeper sadness that Sauron could almost taste. It was clear the heavy voice had touched a tender spot with the smith. Finally, the Vala of the Earth spoke again, resignedly. "Do as seems best to you, Námo."

Before Sauron could come to grips with the fact that the Doomsman of the Valar was in the adjacent room, the male tenor spoke again. "He is awake and listening to us."

Sauron suddenly felt four pairs of powerful eyes gazing at him, and he realized the four Valar were standing in the entry, but the door to his room was open so that they could still observe him. Realizing that keeping up a pretense of sleep was useless, he opened his eyes and looked back at them.

The Valar were all watching him keenly with differing expressions. Aulë looked dejected and as compassionate as ever; Námo, with his stern face and eyes so black that it was impossible to tell where his pupils ended, looked grave and as lacking in pity as Aulë was abundant in it; and the two remaining visitors, Irmo with his distant, grey eyes and silver-blonde hair and Estë with her almost ridiculously youthful face and form, like a teenage child of Men, both wore expressions Sauron found impossible to read.

Námo's lips tightened and his eyes narrowed, but it was Estë who first moved, gliding slowly forward on bare feet and bringing with her into the bedroom the fresh smell that Sauron had noticed upon waking. There was that uncanny flame of power in her eyes, perhaps not as strong as in Aulë, or Námo, or even Melkor, but it was unnerving all the same to have it bent on him, especially radiating from a girl who physically looked like someone he could rip in half if he had a mind to, but Sauron the Deceiver knew better than anyone that appearances were treacherous.

The smell aroused memories in him, flashes of pictures and thoughts: light, faces, a strange crawling feeling over his flesh like water trickling over his skin, but he could not place any of it. It seemed to enter into his mind rather than his nostrils, and where it touched his psyche, it illuminated thoughts and memories that he had thought buried or burned long ago.

Now that he was faced with it, it surprised him to find that he could barely remember what most of the Valar had looked or sounded like before he left, and looking upon them now, they seemed like strange and fuzzy memories from a long-ago dream. It was all dream-like, he realized suddenly, his life before Melkor and Angband. No, he could still remember many details with clarity, things that had happened, even individual jewels he had made, but it seemed strangely unreal, and over other things it was as if a veil had been cast. His memories of the Valar, except for Aulë and Melkor, were shrouded in shadow, just as other aspects were, like his old name, like the Halls from which he, and they all, had first come, like what exactly he had Sung in the Music. He had never really considered this before, this strange lapse of memory, but now that it confronted him, he felt disturbed – defiled, almost – by this web of forgetfulness and shadow in his mind. He had always considered his mind sharper than most and it bothered him to have it revealed as otherwise. He shuddered and withdrew from the Valië.

Estë, however, did not seem concerned with his reaction. He now saw she was holding a bowl in her hands, not one of the clay pieces of crockery that had survived his fury, but a wooden bowl overlaid with what Sauron instantly recognized as pure gold. From it rose a spiral of white steam and he felt its heat on his face as Estë brought it towards him. In a moment of panic, he thought she was going to make him drink it. For some reason, the smell – and with it, his realization of his own forgetfulness – repulsed him; he could not bear the thought of that liquid, and its smell and memories, inside of him, becoming part of him…

But the Valië of healing did nothing more than dip in her fingers and before he could withdraw further, brushed them over his forehead. The liquid was warm against his skin for a moment until it dried, and despite himself, he felt his facial muscles relax, as if they had been commanded to do so. Estë's large, pale grey-green eyes gazed innocently into his. "How does that feel?" she asked, her harp-voice sweet and sleepy.

"Nice," his tongue answered before his mind reacted. It had been so long since he truly relaxed. She had dipped in her fingers again and was stretching them towards his face before he compelled himself to pull away. "What is it?" he asked suspiciously, but his tongue felt heavy. He cursed this sluggishness and tried to pull himself out of it. Now, of all times, was not the time to drop his guard.

"It is a simple mixture of water and an herb that brings healing, rest, and light to dark minds," she replied. "The Eldar call it athelas."

At the mention of the elves, and the recent memories that followed the word, he scowled and pushed her hand away. "I don't like the smell – it makes me feel sick," he growled.

A confused, or perhaps simply sad, expression (he could not tell) crossed her girlish face. "It will do you good. There has been much strain on you, and it will allow you to find rest if you let it."

"I don't like it," he snarled, breaking away from the last foggy tendrils of tempting sleepiness that the Valië and her concoction cast over him. He withdrew as far as the bed would allow him from the spirals of pungent steam. "Leave me alone."

"I think he has had all he can take for now, Estë." The other Valar had moved into the room while Estë had attempted to administer her athelas brew. It was Irmo who had stepped forward and placed a pale hand on his wife's shoulder. She looked up into his eyes, something passed between them mentally, then she nodded slowly and stood, leaving Sauron crouched in the corner, watching her suspiciously like a wolf eyeing a hunter with a bow.

Sauron's gaze flickered to the other two Valar and finally came to rest on Námo. For a moment, he wondered if he should have let Estë continue her healing, for while she had been busy with him, the other Valar had seemed content to let her go about her work. Now that he had rejected her efforts, however, a chill had returned to the air, an icy atmosphere of justice that centered around the Doomsman of the Valar.

Námo's black eyes bored into him. They were hard, unwavering, but not cruel. Sauron knew cruelty when he saw it. He'd seen the mirth of it in Melkor's eyes when he condemned the red-haired Elf Prince of the Enemies, when he had tortured the proud grey-haired Man and cursed his family, when he had looked upon the beautiful, dancing Princess and told her his designs for her. He'd seen it in the eyes of Valaraukar and dragons and orcs. He had seen it in the hungering eyes of Draugluin. He had seen it in the sword blade that he had held up before his own face before he struck down the mortal traitor that he himself had seduced into treachery. Cruelty brought pleasure, but he saw neither joy nor pleasure in the Doomsman's eyes at the prospect of condemnation. It was not pity in Námo's eyes, but something just as foul to Sauron: righteousness.

I am doomed, Sauron thought. He remembered the words of Aulë that he had overheard: I ask for him to be judged according to his merits, in how his actions thus far prove themselves. Well, if he knew anything, it was that his actions had condemned him a thousand times over. He did not know what Aulë had hoped to gain for him with such a plea; if he were to be judged by his actions, nothing good would come to him.

Perhaps I was always doomed. The thought flickered through his mind, and for some reason, it was not wholly despairing. There was some strange comfort in believing that he was living out his destiny, that there was no other path to turn onto now, that he had reached an End set in stone. That all he could do now was to go down holding his head high. He had fought long and hard and the scars of his battles covered his spirit; it was almost restful to think that the fighting was over. At least in the Void, he would have his certainties back and none of his memories, forgotten or remembered, would matter. Strength seeped back into his limbs and standing, he met Námo's heavy gaze.

"What is the time?" Sauron asked, his voice once more silky and smooth.

He saw Aulë frown at the unexpected question, but Námo's countenance shifted no more than it would have had it been granite. "It is evening," the Doomsman replied.

Sauron held his gaze, even though it hurt. "I believe I have a trial scheduled for that time," he said.

Aulë stepped forward, his face etched with pain and that signature sympathy. "The trial can wait," he said. "There are more important things to be seen to now. You are not well, Nauron. We can help you prepare for what is to come better if your mind and body are strong. We want to help you, not hurt you further. Please, come with myself and Irmo and Estë and we can promise you a night of deep sleep and deeper rest, which is what we all know you need. Surely, Námo cannot object if we postpone other duties until the morning."

If Sauron had not already been determined in the course of action he was about to take, he would have been now. Aulë's words stirred his deep-set pride and he held himself a little straighter and taller. He turned his gaze to Aulë now, meeting the pleading, metallic eyes with the cold reserve he had learned from the iron will of Melkor. He would not forgive himself for his lapse before Aulë earlier, even if Aulë did, and he felt the familiar hard chill of indifference incase the fiery emotions that he could not risk freeing again. It was easier to face a hateful world with his emotions deadened.

"I believe I have a trial scheduled," he repeated, the icy words slipping between stony lips, the last hints of his fiery rage and his stormy fear locked hard in his heart, invisible once again to the world the way he preferred

He did not look at the Valar again. Instead, he walked straight past them, through the entry room where the last hints of his fury had been swept into small, neat, unnoticeable piles in the corner. He paused at the door, his fingers on the knob. "Do what you feel is best," he said, "but I shall be waiting for you, at the Ring of Doom."

There was a moment of surprised silence amongst the four Valar after the door closed behind the Maia. Then Námo's lips played upward in a hint of a grim smile. "Just as meek as he ever was, is he not?"

Aulë's shoulders slumped, but he couldn't help giving a small shake of his head. "I tell you, he was always brave," he said in a voice tinged with admiration.

"And bold," Irmo added with a small frown.

"As was Melkor," said Estë. She gazed down at the still steaming bowl of unused athelas broth in her hands. "Without compassion and restraint for balance, bravery and boldness are powerful weapons."

Námo squared his heavy shoulders. "And yet he is right," the Doomsman said. "The time has come. We have a trial to attend."

Chapter Text

Sauron had no idea how to get to the Máhanaxar.

His knowledge of Valinor consisted solely of the gleaned pieces of information he had gathered from Noldorin thralls and Morgoth himself, though the latter rarely had spoken of his time in Aman and his servants had all known better than to pry into what was clearly a sensitive subject for the Dark Vala. Therefore, Sauron's acquaintance with the Blessed Realm stretched little further than details that were vague at best: a sky-tall mountain that caught the light of the Sun's passing, a harbor that had once been filled with white ships before it had been filled with Telerin bodies, a dark hall of dead spirits and punishment on the edge of the world, beauty, bliss, entrapment, thralldom. He had heard many words to describe Valinor. But Sauron trusted words just about as little as he trusted appearances.

But one thing he could not yet deny was the beauty of Valinor. Despite himself, he had felt jealousy burning inside on the short walk that afternoon from the harbor to the outskirts of Valmar. Beleriand had been fair, mysterious, and wild, but its beauty had been dark and, Sauron knew, marred. That was the one thing in which Sauron had always been at odds with Melkor, though he never had spoken his dissent aloud. Melkor had lived under the conviction that if it could not be his, utterly and completely, then it must be destroyed beyond all recovery.

Sauron, on the other hand, had always acted under the principle of "waste not." Where he could adopt the usefulness or glory of another's design, he was not above melding it and improving it with his own work, even if he could not claim the result as unadulteratedly his. So what if Beleriand had been principally designed by his enemies? It had been beautiful, and he would have greatly preferred to become lord of an exquisite paradise – his own Land of Bliss to challenge the tales he heard of Valinor – rather than the burning, ravaged ruin he'd left, but Melkor would not hear of it. To Melkor, it seemed the only way something could be his was if he twisted it so far from its original form that it become unrecognizable. And Melkor, Sauron thought with a hint of a sigh, had not exactly been a connoisseur of beauty.

However, as he walked through the cool evening, the low-riding sun pouring its golden light over Taniquetil looming silently beyond the city, setting on fire the bright, unstained rivers, trees, slopes, and plains, Sauron came the closest he had ever felt to Melkor's burning hatred toward all things that were not and could not ever be his. As he gazed upon the shimmering, golden slopes of the Pelóri across the plains from him, he wished that such a land could have been his and he had a sudden desire to set real flames to this mocking land, this land that flaunted its beauty in his face, this land that could never, ever belong to him. It seemed better that it should burn than that it should exist beyond the grasp of his tantalized fingertips, a realm going to waste without his will to govern and shape it to absolute perfection.

It seemed pointless to walk when he had no idea where he was going, so he just stood on the lip of the hill, gazing down into the valley of Valmar at the feet of the mountain. His dramatic and arrogant exit from the house had been for nothing more than show, and if he knew one thing for certain, it was that the Valar wouldn't let him walk off into the evening unattended. In the spur of the moment, he had been proud to take his life into his own hands and demand his own trial, but looking back, he was already feeling queasy about it. He did not take back his determination to go down with his head held high, to show that he was not merely some pawn to be moved about a board at a game master's will, but he worried once again that perhaps his arrogance might work against him. It had been both Eönwë and Aulë's warnings, and he knew his pride had played significant roles in various low points in his life. He was not above the recognition that his position was precarious. Some doom awaited him, and while he was sure there was little he could do at this point to make it better, he was fairly sure it was still quite possible for him to dig himself a deeper grave. He hoped he had not just done so.

Fool, he thought to himself, when will you learn that your emotions are your enemy? It was only ever when Morgoth lost his iron control that he opened himself up to weakness and defeat. Do you wish to follow that same path, Sauron, that path straight to the Void?

Again, he cursed the unstable ground that he was metaphorically teetering on. What was it the Valar wanted of him? I suppose I shall discover that soon enough, he thought, and despite the perfect, warm weather of Aman, he shivered.

That was when the Valar chose to join him. Námo and Estë had vanished, perhaps going on ahead to the Ring of Doom to alert the other Valar that the trial was indeed going on as planned, but he felt the presences of Irmo and Aulë emerging from the golden evening behind him. Sauron knew the Máhanaxar lay somewhere on the outskirts of Valmar, so he began walking purposefully down the hill towards the city, as if that had been his plan all along. Soon, the uncomfortable sensation of being flanked by two Lords of Valinor settled over him though, and he dropped back just slightly, letting them do the guiding. Neither Vala commented on his refusal of Estë's healing, his demand to go ahead with the trial, or his abrupt exit from the house, for which Sauron was at least presently thankful. Talking, especially with Aulë, was not high on his list of priorities at the moment, and so they plodded on, silence wrapping around them even as the grey of twilight finally settled over the fair countryside.

~o~o~o~

"The Ring of Doom – a pretty name for the Valar's stocks where they will bind you, find every chink with which they can humiliate you, and then take their turns flinging their mud of accusations into your face, and for what crime? To rule? To create? No, for daring to oppose them and to reveal that there are other paths in the world to trod, paths apart from the one they have ordained. It was so for me, and it is so for all who succumb to the misfortune of entering that cursed ring of punishment and humiliation. Doom, hah! There is no worse doom than that!"

The night had been one late in the War of Wrath, when it was clear that the war was not going in the favor of Angband. His tongue loosened uncharacteristically by both rage and several bottles of dark wine, Morgoth had informed Sauron quite colorfully about what exactly awaited them all when the last line of defenses broke and the Valar dragged them out of their hiding like rats from a hole. That night Sauron had learned more about his master's stay in Valinor than he had heard in the hundreds of years leading up to it, and the combination of hate, rage, and terror in the Dark Vala's eyes was enough to freeze the Black Captain's heart.

For the beginning, Morgoth had shared a multitude of unpleasant memories from his own experience, but when the wine grew thicker on his breath, he had turned his attention to his lieutenant.

"If they treat their own flesh and blood as no more than a contemptible rat, than what do you think awaits you, fiery little traitor?" Morgoth had laughed, his voice horribly slurred by the wine and his own fearful despair. "They will strip you to the bone, leave your mind reeling, naked, and humiliated. Oh, they will enjoy you, Sauron, clip your wings and watch you pound yourself to death against the bars of their cage. Pretty little bird will never fly again."

Sauron, his own mind reeling from several more glasses of Morgoth's wine than were good for him, had just listened, horrified, the images seared bright in his mind. Morgoth's iron crown with its one empty socket like a disfigured eye seemed to grow in his vision until it was a ring big enough for him to stand in, surrounded on all sides by tall iron spikes, with no entrance and no exit, nothing but sheer metal walls all around him. He imagined himself forced to stand stark-naked in the middle of that terrible ring while shadowy figures pressed in all around him, clamping chains about his wrists, his ankles, his neck, then lastly and most terribly, over his mouth, and then leaving him, speechless, to stand in chains for the rest of eternity as an example to every living creature that passed by to mock him. Sauron's gorge rose violently, and aided by the alcohol and many sleepless nights of fear, he had emptied his stomach onto Morgoth's black marble floor.

The morning after, with a pounding head but a decidedly more stable mind, the Black Captain had decided that Morgoth might have exaggerated a little, but one thing stuck fast in his thoughts: the Ring of Doom was not somewhere he wanted to end up.

~o~o~o~

Sauron looked up at the tall grey walls directly in front of him, not iron, but some elegant, smooth stone. A large pair of double doors made of wood stood directly in front of him. There was nothing innately intimidating about them, nothing more so than with any other structure in Valinor – in fact, their curved surface was graceful and lovely even, nothing like that cruel ring of iron torture he had envisioned that night with Morgoth. But all the same, he knew it was going to take every ounce of his will to step through those doors once they opened.

Aulë and Irmo had left him once they reached the gates, doubtlessly to join the other Valar before he was permitted to enter. He was thankful for it. He preferred not to show up looking like he needed two babysitters. Although he could not see anyone, he was sure he was being watched, though. Not only did he doubt that the Valar would leave him unsupervised at this crucial moment, but he could feel piercing eyes on the back of his neck. He remained stiff and unmoving, however, facing the gates, not submitting to the temptation to look around for his observers.

He saw little point in trying to corral his thoughts, now when all his doubts and fears of the last two weeks – and from farther back – were culminating in a single event that would probably determine what the rest of his life looked like. His mouth had gone bone dry and he had to fight to swallow. Everything terrible Morgoth had ever told him about his punishment and the fates that awaited any of his servants that had the misfortune of being captured were racing through his thoughts. Sauron's mind needed no prompting to conjure up images of horror; he had personally seen, and carried out, many of the tortures inflicted on his and Morgoth's own prisoners of war.

But you are not a prisoner, some small voice whispered in the back of his mind. You came to them.

A harsher voice laughed back. A prisoner of war is a prisoner of war regardless of whether he was captured or surrendered of his own free will. You should have run, you fool.

Sauron pushed both voices back, straightening his shoulders. Whatever awaited him beyond those doors, he was fairly sure, despite Morgoth's words, that it wouldn't be torture, not in the tradition sense. The Valar were just, but they were not cruel, of that he was sure. And that was the reason why he could not wrap his mind around what they might do to him. If their positions were reversed, he the conquering lord and they the defeated traitors, he knew exactly what he would do, and neither mercy nor kindness entered anywhere into the equation. But what might someone do to him who had no desire to see him writhe in anguish, shriek for mercy, and finally die a slow, painful death to compensate for his treachery? Námo had been plain enough – they could not let him wander Valinor freely – and he was fairly sure that they did not intend to condemn him to the Void just yet (why heal or care for him if his body was about to be annihilated?) and he was confident in ruling physical torture out of the picture. What then was left?

He wasn't sure what changed in his surroundings, but he was suddenly aware that there was a person standing behind him. He stiffened automatically and clenched his hands into fists, half-expecting to feel ropes being bound around him.

"Don't worry, I'm just your escort."

Sauron turned his head at the sight of golden hair in his peripheral as the blue-clad Maia came to stand beside him. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Eönwë?"

The Herald of Manwë looked grim and official, wearing a formal tabard of pale blue with the white eagle of the Vala King on his chest. He glanced sideways at Sauron. "So you made it all the way to the Ring of Doom," he said. "I still wasn't sure you wouldn't jump ship or make some bolt for it once you arrived in Valinor."

Sauron scowled, his eyes burning darkly. "I'm not in the Ring of Doom yet."

Eönwë gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Well, if you're going to run, Sauron, now is your only chance. They're ready to see you."

Before Sauron could process those words, Eönwë stepped forward and pushed open the doors of the Máhanaxar.

White light rushed over Sauron and with it, he felt the surge of power from the Ring. His gut tightened, his tongue grew so heavy he doubted he still retained the powers of speech, and his head and neck pounded with racing blood. His vision elongated until it looked as if he were standing at the mouth of a tunnel instead of under a simple arch. He was sure at any moment his heart would explode. All in all, it left the adrenaline rush he'd felt at the harbor far behind.

I can't do it, he thought in a panic. I can't go in there and let them tear what's left of my life apart. I can't face this kind of humiliation.

He turned to run.

As he did so, something crept through him, dispelling the momentary panic as it did, cold and familiar. Pride. It was humiliation he feared, was it not? And yet, what could be more humiliating than to come all this way only to collapse in a useless heap or to finally flee at the last moment? His fingernails dug into his palms painfully. He was no coward; he was no wounded animal that flees in panic before the hunter. He thought of Morgoth's tales that awful night and the whispers he overheard among the Noldorin slaves that the greatest of the Valar had been dragged, wrapped in magical chains, begging for mercy, into this Ring. Morgoth had never been quite the same after his experience in Valinor, hiding in his deep halls while others fought his wars, and Sauron realized that he had secretly scorned his master for that weakness. Suddenly, it seemed to Sauron that the worst thing he could do, the most humiliating option, was to run now, in the full sight of all the Valar. Maybe they were just waiting for him to do so, waiting for him to give them a final reason to toss him once and for all into the Void. Well, he would show them. He had come to Eönwë, he had boarded the Telerin ship, he had demanded that his trial be carried out now despite his fatigue, and he was going to walk into that Ring and take whatever they gave him with a will of iron that even Morgoth would envy. He realized that nothing they could do would take away his pride and dignity; the only way he could be humiliated was if he allowed himself to be.

Sauron turned to face the light and felt a grim sense of satisfaction flood through him as his racing blood turned to steel in his veins. He bared his teeth in a dark smile of pride at his own strength.

And then he walked straight to the middle of the Ring of Doom.

~o~o~o~

At first, the light was so blinding that he could see nothing. It was white, pure white, and it reminded him chillingly of the Silmarilli, but also of something else that was shrouded in that shadow-web that Estë's athelas brew had revealed. Still clinging for dear life to that determination to show the Valar his true mettle, he forced himself to pause and wait until his eyes adjusted.

They did so in less than thirty seconds, though to Sauron, it seemed to drag on for minutes before shapes became clear and the light around him took form.

The first thing he saw was the source of the light itself: a great lamp elevated on a pillar in the middle of the ring. The shadow in his mind shifted slightly and he remembered the design: the Two Lamps of Aulë that had lit the world during the Spring of Arda before he himself had openly joined Melkor. This lamp was of a lesser kin to Illuin and Ormal but itself glorious and pure, shining like starlight over the entire Máhanaxar.

The Máhanaxar. The Ring of Doom. He guessed that it was close to seventy-five feet across in a perfect circle with the lamp pillar directly in its center. All around him, a sheer grey wall rose about ten feet before flattening out into a circular platform on which were set, at even intervals, fourteen thrones. Behind the thrones, the walls rose as a grey-white back-drop of another twenty feet. It was distinctly plain with no unnecessary embellishments or features, but it was quite effective. Sauron felt like a rat who had just stepped into a trap and had it snap up around him.

He swallowed and tried not to look at the occupants of those fourteen thrones. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the task of getting to the middle of the Ring without losing all the control he was clinging to. The lamp pillar was itself elevated from the grass floor of the Ring by a circular platform of the same grey stone, perhaps ten feet across and four feet high with three shallow, curving steps leading up to it.

Eönwë was standing on the platform already, arms at his side, waiting. As Sauron steadily approached and reached the steps, he noticed the briefest flicker of surprise pass through the Herald's eyes. So, even up to this very moment, Eönwë had been expecting him to flee. He had not thought that Sauron could do it. Quite frankly, Sauron felt a little insulted, despite the fact that he had not been sure himself until a moment ago. It gave his pride that extra little prick he needed to mount the platform and turn to face the ones who would decide his doom.

They were all there: all fourteen of the most powerful beings of Arda. He could not help his eyes from roving now, flickering from face to face, as he attempted to discern the moods and perhaps even the thoughts of the Valar. Some of the expressions he noted were predictable: tall, handsome Oromë with his waves of flaming red hair looked as if he wouldn't hesitate for a moment to shoot Sauron with the giant bow clasped to his back; Tulkas with his mane and beard of gold already had his huge hands balled onto fists resting on his knees; and Ulmo, his cloudy blue-green eyes ever-changing and his pale skin as smooth and sleek as fish scales, was not trying to hide his glower. On the other hand, Nienna with her silver hair like spun moonlight streaked with black and her narrow, high-cheekboned face gazed compassionately down at him; Nessa, dressed in a simple green smock, with her knee-length sunrise-yellow hair loose, was sitting uncomfortably, clearly torn between the glares her brother and husband were shooting Sauron and her own feelings about the situation; and Aulë tried to give him a reassuring smile when Sauron's eyes passed over the Smith.

Eönwë cleared his throat officiously and announced in a loud, clearly-annunciated voice, "My Kings and Queens of the Valar, I present to you the Maia named Sauron Gorthaur, former Black Captain of Melkor the Morgoth in Beleriand and Middle-earth, who comes before you now in stated penitence to know your will and judgment and to accept your ruling concerning his doom on this the twelfth day of the second month of the Second Age of Arda under the Sun."

Thus finished, the Herald stepped briskly to the side and Sauron found himself at center stage with fourteen pairs of eyes unwaveringly fixed on him.

He looked up and found himself gazing at the three most powerful Valar. Námo was standing in the center at what looked like a lectern with an open book laid before him. On either side of him, still seated in their thrones with their hands linked between them, were the High King and Queen: Manwë dressed in his blue robes with a circlet of gold resting amid his curling yellow locks and Varda with her eyes of deepest blue in which her own stars seemed to dance and her hair so blonde it was a brilliant white. Although he tried, Sauron could determine nothing of their moods or feelings about seeing him there from their three smooth countenances. He shifted just slightly, uncomfortable under their piercing gazes but quickly stilled himself, lowering his gaze and simply waiting for them to have their say, knowing automatically that speaking first would do him no good.

The silence seemed to stretch on infuriatingly. Sauron had just finished counting all the stones that made up one row of the platform from one side to the other for the fourth time and was wondering if this was going to be his punishment after all – standing under that blinding lamp unable to move or speak under the end of Arda – when finally the Doomsman addressed him.

"Sauron Gorthaur," he said, and Sauron's head snapped up as if he'd had a string tied in his hair that was suddenly and forcefully yanked upward. "We are well acquainted with a list of your deeds that we do not believe needs uttering, as you yourself are, of all of us, most acquainted with it. And if Eönwë has spoken true that you came to him with the open desire for reconciliation, forgiveness, and justice, then it is our understanding that you recognize your deeds for what they are: heinous, treacherous, abhorrent, and evil."

Sauron flinched inwardly under every heavy word, his eyes dropping again. This was not a good beginning to a trial. Maybe they had deceived him after all. Maybe they had all lied to him in order to lure him here with the least amount of trouble on their part. Maybe they were going to throw him into the Void after all…

But Námo was still speaking. "And yet, we here recognize that though evil deeds may not be undone, other deeds may be done to counter and reconcile the evil done. Even Doom itself may not always be set in stone. We have offered pardon and the power and choice to be reconciled to many, even to those who were Cursed and banned from this land when their deeds proved worthy of forgiveness, yes, and even to the Dark Vala himself when he asked it of us."

Sauron's eyes lifted fractionally.

"Therefore, we also extend this choice to you, Sauron. Your treachery against us was bitter and deep, yet we did not fail to notice the loyalty with which you stood by your new master's side till the very end, whether out of fear, greed, or true faith, we do not know, but all the same, it spoke of some heart and spirit left in you. Now that Morgoth has fallen and a New Age has come upon Arda, we have agreed – though I warn you now that the decision was not unanimous – that you be given a second chance, if you truly seek it and if you will take it. It will not come without retribution and due pain, but we offer you this redemption in response to your request and in the belief that you are not wholly marred and that one day, you may be made whole and well again to the benefit of all of Arda."

There was a long pause while Námo allowed this information to sink into Sauron's brain. Then his deep voice rolled over the Ring of Doom. "Do you accept our offer, Sauron Gorthaur?"

It was not as if he could turn back from his choice now, not when the alternative at this point would clearly be a dungeon or the Void itself. Sauron felt his head bend slowly forward up and down, his voice coming out dry as a forest after a wildfire. "I accept."

There was a murmur like a small whirlwind spinning around him above in the Ring. Námo wrote something with a blackbird feather in his open book. "Then these are our stipulations for you if you wish to reside in peace and goodwill here in Valinor."

Manwë murmured something that Sauron could not hear, and Námo nodded before continuing. "We wish to make it clear that our stipulations are precautions, not punishments. When you earn our trust, adjustments shall be made to your situation accordingly. However, should you prove unruly or in any way seek to disrupt the peace of Valinor by breaking your word, appropriate actions will also be taken to discourage you from further misdemeanor. Do you understand?"

Sauron cursed his dry throat as he murmured his cracked reply. "I understand."

"Very good." Again the blackbird feather scratched against the parchment of Námo's book. "Our first stipulation is that you will remain here in Valinor under our complete supervision. You will be given freedom within the halls you are assigned, but if you leave them for any reason, you must inform us of your intentions and you must be accompanied by someone approved by ourselves at all times. There will be no exception to this condition until further notice. Any violation of this condition will lead to punishment that we feel fits the magnitude of the transgression." Another pause to let the information solidify for Sauron. "Do you understand?"

This request was no surprise to Sauron. Melkor had lived under a similar proviso and at least Sauron was skipping the three ages in a dungeon portion. He had been correct in guessing though that the Valar would be keeping a closer eye on him than they had with his former master; there'd be no slipping off quietly for him. But now that the actual words were in the air, Sauron felt like something was crushing down around his ribs making it difficult to breathe as the full scope of how he was going to be living now started to unfold before him. No, there would be no four walls pinning him in, but he already felt like a prisoner all the same. What was it Melkor had said to him? A wild bird beating itself to death against its cage? Sauron bit his lip, then felt his head slowly bend forward, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "I understand."

The scratching of that blackbird quill seemed absurdly loud in the quiet Ring. He was aware that the Valar were all watching him intently, as if none of them wanted to miss a single reaction from him. He swallowed painfully and waited for Námo to continue.

"Our second stipulation directly relates to your natural powers as a Maia, as well as those powers of sorcery that you gained under Morgoth's tutelage. It was never meant for one of your order to gain power to the extent to which you have done, and considering the uses to which you have been wont to put it in recent years, we currently consider your unbridled powers a direct threat to Valinor until we can trust you to use your powers for their original purposes. For the safety of all, and to remove any temptation from before you, your powers will be henceforth Bound. All unnatural powers beyond your order that you gained under Morgoth, including all magic of necromancy, sorcery, and the ability to Bind other souls, will be removed permanently, for they are a perversion of your original powers. Those powers that were originally granted to you by the will of Eru you will retain, but they shall be Bound until further notice and they shall be Unbound only when we see fit and you have proved yourself capable of wielding them responsibly. These powers include your ability to exert your will over others, all powers of illusion, the powers of Song, your control over fire, your ability to revert to spirit form, and your ability to change physical form."

At each new word, dread fell over Sauron and his heart sank lower and lower. By the end, his shock was such that he did not trust that he even still had the powers of speech left to him. He had assumed they would not allow him free reign with all his powers, especially the sorcery of Morgoth, but he had never guessed how completely they had planned to strip him. Panic began to set in; he could not even contemplate living so utterly bereft of the powers that he took for granted. It was as if they were telling him he was no longer going to be allowed to breathe.

Right on the heels of his panic came his anger. How dare they? He had been led to believe that by seeking pardon, he would be given leniency. Perhaps "leniency" simply meant not throwing him into the Void, but did they not know that this…this cursed condemnation was a living death for him all of its own? He had earned those powers under Morgoth, through toil and pain and centuries of service, and now in the blink of an eye, they would rip all his hard-earned rewards from him. They were not the ones who had toiled for those powers, they who had been granted their almighty abilities from the start just because they happened to be higher in Eru's favor. And of his true powers, the ones that made-up his very identity as a Maia, surely not even they had the right to steal that from him. What sort of life did they expect him to live? A slave's? Surely they could not be so arrogant as to take his very essence from him. He looked up at that ring of faces around him, so smug, so confident, and felt his hatred towards each and every one of them flaming inside of him so hot that it sent stabs of pain through his chest.

He had known all along that their only desire was to see him humiliated. I told you so," mocked the harsh voice that had told him to run. He decided he hated that little voice as much as he hated the Valar.

But Námo was not finished. Whether or not he could read the effects of his words on Sauron's face, he continued speaking in his even, unhurried voice.

"However, concerning the last of these powers listed, we realize it is unnatural for an Ainu to be Bound to a single form, and doubtlessly you will find your condition uncomfortable initially. Therefore, we have agreed that it is only right and fair that you be allowed to choose the form to which your spirit will be Bound."

His mind seething with hate and anger, Sauron's first inclination to this offer was to take one of his monstrous forms, just to spite them: the huge werewolf with poisonous breath and eyes that could smite down those of weaker will or a loathsome serpent with reeking venom dripping from its fangs. Let them play master to that! However, he soon dismissed such thoughts as he forced himself to contemplate his decision with a clearer mind. While seeing their initial shock to him taking a monster's form might be briefly satisfying, in the long run, it would do nothing for his position. He'd used such forms when necessarily, but he had never been fond of them, and he had no idea how long he might have to wear it. And taking such a form would probably not encourage the Valar to give him back his abilities sooner rather than later. He did not like the thought of being stuck on all fours or crawling on his belly for the next three ages.

That idea ruled out, his mind began to turn in other directions, ones more familiar and comfortable to him. For the moment, he laid aside his burning emotions to contemplate the life he was being told he was going to have to live. This was an important decision, probably one of the few he would be allowed to make concerning his new life, and he did not want to waste it. That considered, he realized there were more subtle and more useful ways to twist the Valar's offer. Ways more familiar to Sauron the Deceiver.

Morgoth might have personally preferred the threatening figure of a Dark Lord, but he had recognized the distinct use of having a lieutenant with a silver tongue and a beautiful form. And Sauron knew personally that flies were more easily snared with honey than with salt.

He closed his eyes. It took no more than a thought to change his form, as easy as slipping out of one garment and into another. His current form was fair, but nothing spectacular, the same one in which he had come to Eönwë two weeks ago in Middle-earth, but he would not be satisfied now with anything short of the best. He molded his body like a potter with his clay, smoothing out every imperfection, perfecting every feature. He had worn many fair forms, that of a Maia, Elf, or Human, but this one would be his crowning glory. No, he would not waste this opportunity.

He needed no mirror to know when he was done. He paused, mentally assessing his work and assuring himself that he was completely satisfied with the results. Then he opened his eyes.

The looks on the Valar's faces told him his work was successful.

The Valar were surrounded by beauty, they themselves fair as kings and queens of the Eldar, and yet even they were not completely immune to his powers. Caught off guard, many of them were staring at him as if they could not pull their eyes away, and even a few of the Valiër, notably Nienna, were gazing at him with unfeigned admiration. His fiery hatred and anger of moments ago was replaced by a cool confidence and a cocky pride at their expressions, but he did not let it show. Instead, he smoothed his face over with an innocent air, as if oblivious to the stares he was getting and their implications, and stretched his arms out, lowering his head slightly. When he spoke, he was glad to hear that his voice had recovered. "I choose this form."

There were several nods from around the Ring. Sauron smirked to himself, pleased that none of them apparently recognized his subtle flouting of their offer with such a form or the danger that he could present with it. Námo opened his mouth to speak, but before he could accept Sauron's choice, another voice cut across the silence in the Ring. "I protest!"

Sauron's head whipped around to find the speaker, just as the Valar did the same. He cursed inwardly at what he saw.

The Valië standing before her throne was the only one that Sauron had been pointedly avoiding eye contact with the entire trial. She was beautiful, stunningly beautiful, her flawless skin of olive hue, her rippling, hip-length waves of luscious brown hair woven through with flowering vines that seemed to need no other nourishment than their mistress's locks. Her eyes were spring green, her form straight and impressively tall, and she was clad in a dark green and gold robe belted flatteringly at her waist with a girdle of gold shaped like linked dandelions.

As she stepped forward, her presence washed over Sauron, like the first day of warm spring after a particularly long and cold winter. Her aura had always been powerful, and Sauron found himself not completely able to shake off the thrill and deep pulse of life that trembled through his entire body. Yavanna might hold her trees and plants of all kinds in highest honor, but it was no secret that it was from her that all living creatures had their life and flourished. However, noting the glower she was currently wearing, Sauron was fairly sure she was not interested in seeing him flourish in any way, shape, or form.

Námo frowned at the Valië of Flora and Fauna, and Manwë shifted in his throne to face her, leaning his chin on his propped fist, his deep blue-grey eyes intrigued by this turn of events. "Yes, Yavanna, you have a complaint?" Námo prompted, raising his dark, heavy eyebrow.

"I do indeed!" Yavanna replied passionately. Her flashing eyes swept scornfully over her peers. "Surely you do not mean to simply sit there and let him" – she indicated Sauron with a contemptuous flick of her fingers – "taunt you in this manner. I feared when the matter was brought up initially between us that he would do something of this sort, and I was against allowing him this choice from the start, and it appears I am justified.

"Do you not see?" She turned around to glare at Sauron who remained completely silent. "Have you heard nothing of the stories from Beleriand? Did you learn absolutely nothing from Melkor? Short of Aulë, I am sure I knew this Maia best of all of you. Do not think for a moment that he has chosen this form in innocence. He will use this power of his against all he meets: Elf, Maia, and Vala alike. Look at you. Look at her," she suddenly said, pointing at Nienna who was still gaping rather openly at Sauron. "Do you mean to allow him to go about Valinor as he went about Beleriand as Melkor's pet Tempter and Deceiver? Give him this form and you will give him a weapon which I do not doubt he would – and will – use against you all in a heartbeat!"

Manwë stood up, meeting the hot gaze of Yavanna. "What you say is fair, Yavanna, but we heard your arguments at the council. And I do not believe it is fair to compare Sauron to Melkor at this time. Just because Melkor used his fair-seeming form against us when we granted him leniency does not mean that Sauron will do the same. We cannot punish for deeds he has not yet done and still call ourselves just. Aulë has made it quite clear, and he is not alone, that he believes Sauron has come to us in true faith. He gave himself into our hands of his own will. Why would he wish to flout our will now in our land, in the very Ring of Doom?"

"And yet, Lord Manwë, is that not what you thought of Melkor?" Now it was Oromë who rose from his throne. "I think we all can agree that your heart has always been overly merciful. Mercy has its place, but justice and the safety of Arda must come first. We were sent into Eä to care first and foremost for the Children, and Yavanna is correct in suggesting that we must consider any dangers he might present to the Children under our protection."

There were murmurs of agreement from a number of the Valar. Yavanna took up her argument again. "Perhaps he does not have some plan to overthrow our power at the moment, but he is giving himself – no, you are giving him – the chance to do so if the opportunity arises. Can you not see? We agreed to remove his powers as a safety precaution, but he has just given himself back what you are trying to take. You cannot take away his silver tongue short of cutting it out, an option I would not be wholly against, but do not add another weapon to his collection, a weapon that he has an abundance of practice using!"

Aulë joined in the argument, standing up to face his wife. "Since he has arrived, he has done nothing to warrant our suspicion or our hate, Yavanna. I have spoken to him. He is damaged, injured – Eönwë has told us he asked directly for reconciliation. How are we supposed to reconcile with him if we cannot even extend this small gesture of trust to him?"

Yavanna glared at him. "We know how you feel about him, Aulë. Your personal emotions cloud your judgment, just as much as they clouded Lord Manwë's judgment when he was forced to sentence his brother. You are not capable of suggesting sound arguments in this matter."

"I am capable!" Aulë fired back, his powerful chest swelling. "Maybe it is you who is blinded by what he has done to you in the past. Maybe it is you who has no right to make suggestions in this matter!"

"Enough!" Námo roared, bringing silence back to the Ring. He looked decidedly exasperated when he glared at Aulë and Yavanna, and Sauron had the feeling that this was not the first argument between the couple that the Doomsman had been forced to end. Under the severe glare of Námo, all the standing Valar returned to their seats, many of them still looking flustered.

However, Yavanna was not willing to leave the matter quite yet. As she took her seat, she waved her hand around the Ring. "If you need any evidence of his powers of discord, you have just seen it with your own eyes. Allow him to choose this form and you have already relinquished your power over him."

Sauron had listened silently as the argument played out before him, knowing that breaking in and arguing his own case would do him no good. He cursed Yavanna (of course it would be her) to reveal his intentions to the rest of the Valar, who had seemed oblivious beforehand. If he argued, he was afraid it would only make it clearer to the Valar that he had not chosen this form arbitrarily. Instead, he hoped appearing unconcerned over Yavanna's accusations would make his innocence seem stronger. However, as the argument flew back and forth, his anger and agitation began to return as he saw his last chance of holding on to some remnant of control over his own life slipping out of his fingers.

But as Yavanna sat down, with her last statement hanging in the air, Sauron felt the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly upward. He turned to look back up at Námo and Manwë, raising his eyebrows questioningly, his voice slipping out smoothly. "My lords, I understand that not everyone agrees with your decision, and I am sure you have already considered their arguments. But if I understand, you granted me the choice to choose my own form, and this is the one I have chosen. Surely, you do not mean to go back on your word to me."

And easy as that, he had them. He saw it in both Námo and Manwë's eyes the instant he said it: they could not demand his trust and conformity to their stipulations if they themselves broke their word to him now.

Námo's lips pressed tightly together for a moment, then he nodded his head. "We do not intend to break our faith with you. It has been agreed that you would receive the choice, and that choice is yours. However, as with all choices, the responsibility of this choice, and how you use it, rests fully on you. Is this the form you chose to be Bound in?"

Sauron did not need to consider his answer. "It is," he replied, unruffled.

Námo's black eyes bored into him. "And do you understand completely the content of our second stipulation for your pardon and reconciliation?"

Sauron's fingers twitched just slightly, digging into the dark blue fabric of his robe. "I understand."

"Then, by the powers invested in me as the Doomsman of the Valar, I Bind your powers and your ëala, Sauron Gorthaur, until the time comes that we grant them back to you."

~o~o~o~

Mairon had been one of the first Ainur to descend into the new World That Is.

The fiery young spirit was curious, eager to see what their Songs had brought into being, rash and ready as ever to get to the heart of the task and begin work. His being still humming with the excitement and energy of the Ainulindalë and the unexpected discord, the lure of playing a significant role in the History that he'd just seen unfolded as a vision was too great to ignore or refuse.

Eru had been glad when so many of his Ainur had eagerly accepted His offer to go down into the world He'd created to play a part in its making and to guide the Children that would come. "But," He had told them, "it shall not be the same there as it is here, and there are many things that even you who have seen the vision shall neither foresee nor understand. Even some things which you have seen and believe to understand shall not be at all as you imagined them when you have entered into Eä."

Eru's words had proved true almost immediately. Eä was not like the Halls of Ilúvatar; Eä was physical, which meant that in order to do the task for which they had been sent, the Ainur that came down would have to be of the same substance as the world. They would need bodies.

Mairon had been sure he would never forget that moment, that first body in which his ëala had been clad. Being one of the first to descend, he'd had no idea what to expect, but even if he had formed a theory, it would have fallen far short. Even Mairon's quick mind and already skillful tongue could not find words for those first moments, when he drew in his first breath, when he first saw through the darkness to the World with physical eyes, felt his body and ëala intertwine and meld, his flesh warm, soft, real… He had thought he might go mad at first, his new senses assailed with so many unfamiliar sensations, his curious mind dragged every way at once. He had fallen onto his knees in the raw material of Eä, lifted his face to the dark skies, and laughed.

And yet there were limitations to being physical. At first the strange flesh had been awkward, even uncomfortable, chafing against an ëala unused to any such constraints. His physical senses were not as keen or all-encompassing as those of his spirit form, for when he wore his flesh, he no longer was able to see into the Spirit world, and he was restricted to a single place and a single form at any given time. And yet, that seemed a small price to pay to Mairon for the chance to play a part in this Story and to be a part of this physical World that held so many wonders.

Ages later, in the Ring of Doom as his powers were Bound, Sauron remembered that first day. It had been decades since he so much as gave it a thought, he realized faintly. There had been bad days when he cursed his physical form; there had been terrible days when he regretted his decision to come down into Eä altogether. But he had never felt anything like this before. Just as he had struggled to find words to describe that first time he had been clad in flesh, so he could not find words to adequately explain what was happening to him now.

The closest he had ever felt to it was that moment he had become physical, which was probably why that particular memory had surfaced in his mind so vividly. But this was worse. Much, much worse. That garment of flesh from long ago had been like slipping on a robe after going about naked for years; no matter how silky and well-fitting it had been, of course it had felt odd, cumbersome even, against a spirit unused to any such thing. But this was like being shoved into an unyielding garment that was far too small, one made of some unpleasant fabric. His ëala felt like it was being crushed, squeezed cruelly, a sensation that was the nonphysical equivalent to having his ribcage smashed in until every breath was agony.

He felt his powers of sorcery torn from him, and each passing moment left him with a more widely gaping hole in his being. He felt his natural powers withdrawn beyond his grasp, though still intact within him, lingering inside him like a locked chest with priceless treasures inside to which one has lost the key, inaccessible and tantalizing. He clung to each scrap of power like a drowning man to driftwood, but each one sank from under him and left him floundering in a black sea where he was naked, unprotected, and helpless.

Time lost meaning. It might have been seconds and it might have been hours since Námo spoke and Sauron would have been none the wiser. This was a torture for him completely unforeseen. He fought the waves of pain both physical and nonphysical and the helplessness as long as he could, but it was too much for him. The last thing he thought before he drowned was that Morgoth had been right: the only thing the Valar had wanted was to see him writhe in agony before them as punishment for his crimes. He had been wrong. The Valar were indeed cruel.

Chapter Text

Sauron fought his way out of a dream of destroying flames and searing ice and hunting wolves that hemmed him in on every side. His skin felt feverishly hot, and his mind struggled to begin working at its regular speed. Where was he? What had happened? His thoughts were fuzzy and distant, but underneath the haze of his drug-like stupor, he was vaguely aware of pain deep down inside himself.

The very effort of opening his eyes drained his energy, almost as if he had forgotten how to perform such a simple action. His vision wavered as he attempted to take in his surroundings and make sense of his situation. There was nothing to see but grey stones and it was very dark in the room, except for the flicker of some light off to his left.

It must be night, he thought, but then again, it was always dark in Gaurhoth. Or was he deep beneath the chambers of Angband? No, the air was clean and light here, unlike the hot, heavy air of Melkor's deep caverns that was so thick his chest would always hurt for days after staying there for any length of time. He greatly preferred his high tower in Gaurhoth where he could at least let in a breeze of fresh air when he wanted. That must be where he was now. But why did his mind refuse to shake away this fog that had settled on it and what was this pain that he felt deep on the edges of his consciousness, like something had been stabbed deep into his ëala?

Now he was starting to get annoyed with himself. He could not lie here forever. There were always things to do for the Black Captain. Reports to read and reply to if necessary, scouting forays to organize, duties to distribute among his officers, some Elven prisoners that he had captured that Melkor wanted broken for interrogation, supply carts to check to make sure nothing unregulated entered or left the fortress, messages to Angband that he needed to relay to Thuringwethil. How could he even think of lying here staring at the ceiling when there was so much to be done?

It was this cursed darkness that was causing it. He knew it was necessary, the shadow of Morgoth that shrouded all the northern lands of Beleriand nowadays, but he couldn't help thinking that if he had designed and created the orcs, he would have made sure they did not curl up like ants in a fire under the light of the sun. It seemed like a weakness that should have been rectified a long time ago.

But Sauron didn't create with flesh and blood. That was Melkor's craft: the shaping and twisting of limbs and skin and fëar. Melkor was the one who forged living forms from the torture chambers of Angband that were his beloved forges. Sauron stuck to metal: armor, weapons, and torture devices mostly in the recent years; his favorite elements were gold and silver rather than raw bodies and blood. Melkor was the master of that art, and Sauron had no plans to complain.

Of course, Melkor had imparted some of the skills of his trade to his chief lieutenant when he deemed it necessary. Sauron knew how to rip apart a body piece by piece and still keep the finished product breathing and perhaps even produce a useful slave by the end of it, but this was just another of his duties, not a pleasure of creation like such an act was for Melkor, like forging some exquisite diadem was for himself.

More pleasurable was the Binding of a soul to such a twisted form, creating one of his monstrous werewolves or a blood-thirsting vampire like Thuringwethil, but the pleasure was not from the act of creating a new creature itself. That pleasure came from the wielding of his powers. It came from knowing that he was the most powerful of all his order, for with the sorcery that Melkor gifted him, he had grown further than he ever could have dreamed of doing in some small forge of Almaren under Aulë…

Aulë. The Binding of fëar. His powers.

Everything crashed back over him like ice cold water suddenly dousing his body. And then he was wide awake, shaking uncontrollably, terrified of facing his new reality, wishing he could fall back into his dreams, even if they were only filled with fire and wolves. He was Bound. The Valar had taken all his precious powers, ripping from him every glimmer of Melkor's sorcery and locking away his innate abilities until, they claimed, he had earned them back.

Which will be never, a voice hissed in his mind. You were told they would not make the same mistakes with you as they did with Melkor. Why would they ever give you back your powers when they have you so neatly caged? You put your own neck in their noose and now there is no turning back. You fool. You deserve to go to the Void for being such a fool.

But they would not send him to the Void. Not now. He was helpless now, no longer a threat to them, just as they wanted. Just as Melkor had told him. They had clipped his wings, set him out as a trophy in their cage of Valinor, and he could already feel his heart fluttering madly in his chest, beating itself slowly and painfully to death.

Except that there was no escape through death. Not for a Maia whose spirit could never flee the confines of this world he had agreed to enter so long ago. He was trapped and at the complete mercy of his captors forever, until history ground to an end.

Was he really any better off than Melkor?

His breath rose in his throat as a strangled sob, but he choked it down, refusing to lose control yet again. His fingers wound into the fabric of whatever he was lying on, digging in so deep that it hurt. The tension in every muscle of his body was painful in and of itself. He fixed his eyes on the dark stones over his head, struggling to control the impulses of his strained body while simultaneously trying to come to grips with his situation and figure out how in Arda he was going to deal with the panic, fear, and horror at the idea of his new life as a powerless prisoner of the ones he and his master had defied. For a while, all his mind was capable of was a helpless fury and a nauseous emptiness as he wallowed, body, mind, and ëala, in the knowledge that he was nothing now.

Finally, the part of him that was the Black Captain of Morgoth began to take control of his mind and shove his thoughts in a more useful and restrained direction. As best he could, he blocked out all the reality that was causing him to panic, immersing his mind in a pool of blankness, and concentrated on every breath, following it from its beginning outside his nostrils, feeling it swell his lungs, then allowing it to slip back out his mouth. In and out. In and out. Every time his mind tried to stray away from his breath, he pulled it back, allowing himself to feel nothing save for that cool wash of air filling him and leaving him.

When he deemed himself sufficiently calm, he let his mind creep outward. Methodically, he began to assess himself to figure out exactly what shape he was in. He began with his physical form, permitting his conscious to slid its way over every inch like mental fingers probing his flesh. As those mental fingers touched each muscle, he forced it to go limp until he was wholly relaxed. What he found encouraged him. Physically, there was no damage whatsoever that he could find. He was still wearing the beautiful form he had convinced the Valar to give him, and it was pristine, unharmed, and pure as the body of a newborn child.

Satisfied with what he found, he moved on to his mind and made a similar, analytical assessment of his mental state. Again, no damage. He was stressed, but his mind was unscathed. He had not gone mad from the pain and shock of what he had just been through; he was tired and strained, but his thoughts still progressed in their normal logical fashion and gripped reality in a way that mollified him for the moment.

After coming to these conclusions for his body and mind, he took a deep breath, both physical and mental, then plunged into the last aspect of himself he needed to examine, the one he was dreading: his ëala.

Immediately, he had to call upon all the strength and the calmness that he'd been building up all this time as he took in the full ruin of what had been his spirit. The damage was sickening in and of itself, but knowing that it was his own spirit he was examining made it worse. Fighting down his panic, he forced himself to scrutinize his ëala in the same strict, impassive manner as he had done with his body and mind.

His ëala had been badly ripped and there were great gaping holes where his powers of sorcery had been. He had not realized how deeply grafted those particular powers had been in his spirit or how much he had come to rely on them. Now that he was directly confronting it, he was blasted with the full extent of the pain that he'd been holding at bay at the edge of his consciousness. It was not nearly as bad as it had been, more like a dull, throbbing burn now, not pleasant, but bearable in and of itself. Quite frankly, it did not hurt nearly as much as it had when Melkor had first grafted the powers into him. He had been incapacitated for days every time after Melkor had decided his lieutenant had earned a new reward of power. But he had borne that agony with complete willingness, and the pain was dulled by the ecstasy of his newest gain.

The exact opposite was true now, and he knew the pain of his spiritual wounds was doubled by the fact that his precious powers were now gone and would never be returned. Even if Melkor were not in the Void, Sauron knew he could not regain his sorcery. It would destroy his spirit beyond repair to attempt to graft the unnatural powers back into it now.

There was nothing that could be done, and stoically, Sauron forced his mind away from those gaping holes. His powers were gone, and it would do him no good to mourn them. He could only wait for his ëala to heal and try to forget that those powers had ever been his.

Venturing deeper into his ëala, he found there was significantly less damage. Deeper and deeper down into the core of his being, he was still whole; this he could sense, but every time he attempted to delve into the deepest recesses of his spirit, he was blocked from doing so, like some invisible barrier had been set up around the heart of his essence. Locked away inside were the remainder of his powers, completely safe and intact, but untouchable and unusable.

For some time, Sauron prodded his way around those barriers, searching for any nonexistent weaknesses or gaps, knowing the futility of his actions even as he performed them, and finally in frustration, he began flinging himself against them, his burning rage starting to creep back in around the edge of his thoughts. It was all in vain. The barriers remained, pressing uncomfortably around his ëala, cumbersome and unpleasant, like manacles that hindered his free movement. Finally, with a curse that had no power behind it, Sauron withdrew from his ëala and returned his thoughts to his room.

Despite what he had discovered, he felt considerably better. Now he knew the exact extent of his condition and that itself was calming. The horrible panic of not knowing what damage had been done had receded, leaving him able to contemplate his current situation with a clear mind.

He still balked at thinking too closely about what his Bound state meant for his future, but he finally allowed himself to begin examining the room in which he'd woken, doing so in the same slow, orderly manner with which he had assessed himself. It was not a large room, square, with perhaps twenty paces in any direction. It was constructed entirely of a pale grey stone with which he was not familiar, although he could tell it was well built, with hardly a gap between the precisely fitted blocks that formed a smooth, glossy surface. It was unfurnished, save for the single, slim cot on which he was lying, and across the room from him was a solid, wooden door with iron supports. All of it immediately unnerved Sauron further. It was several seconds though before he understood why.

It wasn't a room; it was a cell.

Instantly, Sauron found himself fighting back the panic again. After a vicious skirmish that lasted perhaps thirty seconds, he wrenched his mind back away from all the fearful thoughts that had immediately begun pouring in at his revelation. He gave himself a cruel, mental swat, deciding that he was really starting to hate that bubbling, maddening sensation of panic.

All right, so he was in a cell. But most likely they didn't intend to keep him here. He had no food or water, so obviously someone would have to show up sooner or later, and hopefully he would be able to get a few answers if nothing else. Nor was he chained like Melkor had been. Both those things were hopefully good signs.

Besides, the Valar had not acted like they were going to fling him in a dungeon. Why go to all the trouble of Binding him and removing his powers if they were going to keep him in a cell for the rest of eternity? And the provisos he had been forced to agree with certainly hadn't sounded like they meant to keep him in a cell.

For a moment, he was suspicious – he was not yet convinced that the Valar were not trying to deceive him or simply catch him off his guard – but he dismissed the idea that the Valar had lied to him in this matter and meant to imprison him all along. There was no need for the deception. He had already been in their power and was clearly helpless before them. If they had told him they were imprisoning him, there was little he could have done to fight his fate at that point. Sauron's mind ran on a highly practical track, and he could see no practicality in the Valar lying to him throughout the trial.

Which meant someone was going to come and get him eventually. He wasn't sure whether he hoped it would be sooner or later. For the moment, he was thankful at being left alone to gather and control his thoughts. He was not sure what fate awaited him next, but he was starting to feel thirsty and the four walls that pinned him in were unnerving. It was also completely silent, so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat and each soft breath gliding in and out of his body.

Where am I? he wondered. Melkor had been held prisoner in the Halls of Mandos, and it was certainly quiet enough to be the halls of the dead. The thought sent a chill running down his spine, causing him to shiver impulsively. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. He was also not sure about the size of Valinor or the placement of the Halls. He knew from Melkor that Mandos lay somewhere on the furthest western reaches of the Blessed Realm, but he had no idea how far that was or how long it would take to get there.

However, as he pondered this, something new sparked in his thoughts, an observation he had so far taken for granted: he was able to see. There was no torch on the walls and when he noticed the light, he realized it was a soft white instead of the yellow-red glow of flames.

He sat up from his cot which was set up right against the wall opposite the door. Still feeling weak, he took a few cautious steps out into the middle of the cell then turned to look up at the wall against which he'd been lying. High up, set deep in the stone wall, was a window. It was barred, but through it streamed both the flow of fresh air he had noticed early upon waking and that white light.

Then he realized where he was. He was still in the Máhanaxar.

It immediately made sense. The Valar would hardly have wanted to drag his unconscious body to wherever he was going to end up. The Ring of Doom was thick and large, and now he realized that was because it contained cells for any prisoners awaiting condemnation from the Valar. The window, he realized, opened up into the inside of the Ring itself, and the white light was the lamp he had stood under during the trial. Again, he felt slightly better at having figured this out, rather than blindly wondering where he was. He was sure he was not going to be kept here indefinitely.

But where would he be taken next?

He remembered Námo mentioning that he would be assigned a hall. That made sense. He was clearly going to be closely supervised, and it was reasonable to assume he'd be put under the care and watchful eye of one of the Valar.

He sat back down, frowning, and leaned his head back against the wall, running his fingers absently through his long hair. The question up in the air now was which hall he'd been assigned, if the decision had yet been reached at all. The most likely option seemed to him to be Estë. She'd asked to take him even before the trial, and from the bit of conversation he'd overheard, he'd gathered that she and Irmo were both eager to heal him. What exactly "healing him" entailed he was not completely sure. All the little that he'd heard of the Gardens of Lórien though did not sound unpleasant: rest, healing, and peace. It did sound rather dull however, and he was fairly sure he would not receive the type of peace and rest he wanted, namely being left alone. And now memories of that brew Estë had waved in his face began seeping back…

He shivered and moved on. Nienna seemed a fairly likely candidate as well. Compassion was probably something the Valar would like to see him learning a bit more about. Sauron wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought. He actually knew very little about Nienna herself or her halls – he had hardly ever seen her in Almaren and Melkor had never mentioned her as far as he could remember – but what he did know did not suit him. He had always scorned her as one of the weakest of the Valar and was not particularly afraid of her, and his observations of her at the trial had done nothing to raise his opinion. If he was going to be the slave of some Vala, he preferred not having to lick the feet of one that devoted her time to weeping and pitying. And if the Valar thought they were going to make him sob over his past deeds, they were in for disappointment. That at least had not been part of their conditions for his stay in Valinor.

And in perfect honesty, Sauron was not particularly sorry for what he suspected the Valar thought he should be sorry. They had called his deeds heinous, treacherous, abhorrent, and evil. Although he hadn't been about to say it at the trial, Sauron had been rather indignant, even frustrated and angry, at that. He supposed they meant his rebellion primarily, though rebellion was all a matter of perspective. Melkor had warned him of that. The Valar didn't take kindly to those who thought they could seek out a better path, Vala, Maia, Elf, or Man, those who wished to change the story from the one the Valar insisted they were supposed to be writing. This was one topic in which Sauron and Melkor had never been at odds; who were the Valar to set History in stone, to order his life at their convenience, to use him or not as if he were no more than a forging hammer? There had been times Sauron had regretted his rebellion, but not for the rebellion's sake. There were times that he wished he'd taken the easier path, standing in line with his head bowed like a good, little Maia, waiting for orders – a path that would have been dull, but painful only in its ache of restraining his powers.

He also realized that the Valar did not view his and Melkor's methods of the domination of Beleriand in any positive light, but again, wasn't that a matter of perspective? It wasn't as if the Valar hadn't desired to be lords of all Arda. They called their methods compassionate and Melkor's cruel. But perhaps their methods were merely weak and Melkor's were strong. Sauron sensed their anger centered around those cursed Eruhini. Melkor had certainly thought so. If it had not been for the Children, the Valar most likely would have given up and left Middle-earth to Melkor. In fact, they had done so – it was only when the Elves made their appearance that the Valar had begun showing interest in Melkor's domain once again.

That fact was enough to make Sauron hate the Elves in and of itself. It was not as if he'd been torturing and killing his own kind during his years as the Black Captain. The Valar were infatuated with their whining, weak, little Eldar; that was the only reason to explain why the Valar seemed blind to the fact that it had been the Elves who attacked Melkor and kept that long dreary war dragging on, not the other way round. And for what? Three shining Jewels? They had been amazing trinkets to be sure – Sauron could certainly not deny their exquisite craftsmanship – but had they really been worth all that pain, death, and suffering? The Elves had apparently thought so, but now he himself was facing the blame of that war. As he thought it over, Sauron decided he was even less sorry for what he had done to the Elves throughout the centuries.

He had told Eönwë that he repented and that was not wholly false. But what he was sorry for was how everything had fallen apart on him at the end. If he had known of the utter ruin to which Morgoth's realm would come, he did not know if he would have listened to Melkor in the first place. The anguish he had suffered since the War of Wrath began was a high price to pay for the powers he had wielded all those years. And did any of it really matter, if in the end, his powers had been stripped from him as if they had never been? Had he never known the glory and bliss of such power in the first place, he would never have known the pain of losing it.

Sauron shook away such thoughts. How many times did he have to remind himself that agonizing over the past would not change the future? Did it really matter now whether or not he regretted or repented of any of his choices, when his choices had led him here?

There seemed one other likely option for where he might end up now, he thought, drawing his mind back to its original track. There was the possibility that he would be sent back to the Vala under whom he'd first been placed. He might be sent back to the Halls of Aulë.

His initial reaction was scorn. He'd already had enough of Aulë's pity and compassion, and there had been a reason he'd deserted his rightful master in the first place. Aulë's fatherly concern and endless lessons constantly dogging him did not sound like a life Sauron could stand for long without going mad. And living in the Halls of Aulë would mean he'd get the bonus of Yavanna's suspicious, watchful eyes, as well. All in all, it sounded like a good situation to avoid.

He fingered the edge of his robe then let his hands stray restlessly to the stone walls. They were perfectly smooth and again he was impressed by their flawless craftsmanship. And as he thought this, a new idea began to form in his mind.

In the Halls of Aulë, there were sure to be forges.

Something sparked in Sauron and began to glow gently. Forges. Perhaps, if he were assigned with Aulë, he would be given the chance to use the forges. Perhaps he could even convince Aulë to give him his own, as he'd had in Almaren.

The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. He'd had a forge at Gaurhoth and another at Angband, but when he'd had the chance to actually use them during any spare moments amongst his other duties, it was always to make some weapon or tool of iron or steel, never the gems and finery and subtle artifacts of power that he truly loved making. Now that he thought of it, he could not remember the last time he had forged some crown or necklace or ring from gold, silver, and gems, some item that had no use in war but was merely a beautiful decoration. Melkor had no love of such a soft metal as gold and did not encourage its use. And other than his Silmaril-studded crown, he had just as little use for pretty trinkets.

Hunger awoke deep down in Sauron's heart. Now that his thoughts were turned to it, he realized it was no mere dry fancy with which he longed for a forge fire and his bands of gold; it was a consuming need. It was almost painful how much he missed the feeling of a hammer between his fingers and the heat of his fires on his face.

If…if he could convince Aulë to give him a forge, if he were allowed to spend his days there, if he could retreat away from his sorrows and worries and loss to his creations, then perhaps, perhaps, this life could be made bearable. Perhaps he could even bring himself one day to feel something like happiness.

There was no doubt now in Sauron's mind. He had to convince the Valar to assign him with Aulë. Once that was done, he was sure he could get his way with the Smith himself. That would be worth even Aulë's endless lessons and Yavanna's antagonism. Surely, there wasn't anything in his desire that the Valar could complain about. It had been the task he'd been assigned at the very beginning; surely, they would let him return to the work he'd been created to do. They might even see it as a sign of some healing in him.

For the first time since he'd met with Eönwë in Middle-earth, even for the first time since the downfall of Morgoth, Sauron felt the tiniest bit of hope that he actually had a future that might be worth living.

~o~o~o~

Some while later, he heard someone at his door. He'd been pacing, his strength returning and the pain of his wounded ëala and the discomfort of his Bound powers dulling slightly. Now that the idea had planted itself in him, now that he could almost see that forge, thousands of ideas were pouring into his mind, each begging for attention. Rings, circlets, bracelets, belts, sheaths, sword hilts – all the designs he'd never had the chance to see brought into reality. Suddenly, eternity didn't seem quite so long. What if he could get his own forge away from the other apprentices and smiths under Aulë and spend his days by himself, working away at all those beautiful pieces of art that he could already see so clearly in his mind? Maybe, if he devoted himself to his work wholly enough, the Valar would be convinced that he was no longer a threat and would even be willing to grant him back some of his powers in the future.

It was not until he heard a scrape at the door of a bar being lifted that Sauron realized someone had finally come to fetch him. He instantly turned to face the door, his back to the cot, his body stiffening again in response to a possible threat.

It was Eönwë. The golden-haired Maia had a thin wooden platter containing two flasks and a plate with bread. Sauron's thirst had grown considerably since he awoke and now that he saw and smelled fresh bread, he realized he was hungry as well. But at the sight of Eönwë, his bitterness and anger crept back in, and he became distinctly and uncomfortably aware of that hard, crushing barrier and those painful holes in his spirit.

With only a brief glance in Sauron's direction, Eönwë set down the platter on the cot. When Sauron made no move to partake of it, the Herald folded his arms and stepped back. "I'm not going to do anything with you until you eat and drink."

Sauron sat down cautiously, not sure whether Eönwë's words were meant to be a reassurance that he could eat in peace or a threat that he'd be given no information about his fate until he complied. He picked up the bread and found it soft and still surprisingly hot. Thankfully, he bit into it as he examined the two drinks.

One proved to be water which he drank greedily, washing down the bread and soothing his dry, hoarse throat. The other was some dark liquid that he did not recognize, but when he sniffed it, he determined that it was alcoholic to some extent.

"It's Valarin wine," Eönwë said, noting Sauron's hesitation.

Sauron looked up at him, his eyes flashing darkly. "And what will it do to me?" he said in a low voice. "Rip more holes in my ëala?"

Eönwë's brow creased. "If you are in any pain, it will help. It will also calm your nerves. From what happened in the Ring, I suggest you drink it."

Sauron curled his lip slightly but took a small sip. It was sweeter than any wine he'd had before and left a warm tingle all the way down his throat to his stomach. The warmth spread outward, and it was several seconds before he realized it was soothing his ëala as much as his body.

His eyes flickered back up to Eönwë. "How long have I been out?" he asked slowly.

Eönwë shifted his weight just slightly to one leg. "It has only been an hour and a half since the Valar Bound you."

Only an hour and a half. Sauron had expected it to have been hours at the most for that blazing agony he'd felt in the Ring to subside to this aching throb. He took another sip of the Valarin wine. "Did the Valar know what was going to happen to me?" he asked, looking straight into the Herald's eyes to search for the truth. Discerning between truth and lies was a tricky game, but Sauron had learned to play it better than most.

"They knew it would cause you pain," Eönwë replied steadily. "The extent of the pain overreached their expectations, however."

The cool tone of Eönwë's voice rankled Sauron further, as did the knowledge that the Valar had refrained from warning him about the pain he'd just been through. He knew it would be better if he kept his mouth shut, but his tongue had always had a way of making itself heard. "They are very gracious hosts, your masters," he said icily. "You failed to mention on the shores of Middle-earth that I would be robbed of my very dignity and essence. But I suppose that was all part of their plan: lure me in and snare me."

Eönwë tilted his head back slightly, jutting out his sharp chin, and his brows grew closer together. His nostrils flared angrily. "What did you expect, Sauron? A feast and a full pardon? I told you that you would not be allowed to go on living the life of a dark lord in Valinor."

"You didn't tell me they were going to take everything!" Sauron exploded, flinging the flask of wine to the floor suddenly. The liquid spilled out across the pristine, grey stones in a bloody, maroon stain.

Eönwë ignored the spill, but his blue eyes turned hard and cold, and when he spoke, there was tight anger barely harnessed in it. "There is only one person who you can blame for your pain, Sauron – you. It is not the Valar's fault that you allowed Melkor's sorcery to eat so deep into your ëala. Nor is it the Valar's fault that you cannot be trusted to use your powers for the benefit of any save yourself. They have done what you made it necessary for them to do."

"You told me that I would receive mercy if I came back," Sauron hissed, standing, his hands quivering into fists. "The Valar had no right to violate me in such a manner."

"They had every right!" Eönwë shot back, anger now blazing in his eyes. "They had the right to throw you into the Void. Do you have any idea how merciful they have been to you? You felt no qualms about mutilating the bodies and spirits of thousands of the Children. And now you dare to whine about a few rips in your own ëala, holes left from the unnatural powers you chose to allow to become part of you? I saw Elves and Men rotting in the dark prisons of Angband who were barely recognizable as such, who cowered away from me and cried like animals, unable to even remember their own tongues, and you complain about your precious Bound powers from a fána a king might envy!" The Herald clenched his teeth, his eyes as sharp as his sword. "Sauron, do you have any idea how despicable you have become?"

The two Maiar confronted each other, fury written on both their faces. Finally, Eönwë turned his back on Sauron. "You will follow me. The Valar have more to say to you," he said in his tight, clipped manner that made it clear he was done discussing this matter.

Still fighting to control his rage, Sauron followed stiffly to the door, but when he reached it, he hissed at the Herald. "You think me low, but what of you? Manwë's little slave runs his tasks well."

He saw Eönwë's shoulders stiffen, but the golden-haired Maia neither stopped nor replied.

~o~o~o~

They emerged back out into the Ring of Doom. The red tinge of evening had vanished completely from the sky by now and the only light was that brilliant lamp and the stars dotted throughout the black canopy. It was not yet late if he had only been in the cell a few hours, but this day felt like it had been dragging on forever already. Sauron hoped there was not much more that needed discussing and that he would then be left alone again to sleep for the night.

It was only when he stepped out into the Ring again, following in step with Eönwë, that he suddenly remembered the task he had set himself. He needed to make sure that he would be assigned to Aulë! He cursed himself inwardly. Eönwë had distracted him from the much more important task of figuring out a plan to ensure his desired place. Curse the Herald! he thought furiously.

But it was not the first time he'd had to use his wits on short notice. Improvisation was another skill that he'd found useful to nurture, and the times when he'd been called upon by Melkor to use his more theatrical talents were some of the few missions he had most enjoyed. Pure domination was thrilling and addicting, but subtle manipulation was often a sweeter and more lasting victory.

He knew Aulë well, his strengths and his weaknesses. And Sauron knew how to play on weaknesses.

He already knew where the Smith would be sitting from the beginning of the trial. As he and Eönwë marched towards the platform at the center of the Ring, Sauron turned his eyes to Aulë's throne. Sure enough, Aulë was watching him intently, a sad expression on his face. Sauron met his former master's eyes for no more than a moment, but that was all he needed. In that moment, he gave Aulë an anguished look of pain, sorrow, and deep betrayal. You let them do this to me, he let his eyes say. You could have stopped them. You told me I could trust you, that you loved me, but yet you let them hurt me like this. You betrayed me.

He did not wait to see the results of his look. He swept his eyes away and made his way to the platform, still feigning an air of injury and hurt feelings that he knew Aulë would be able to pick up on all too well.

He mounted the platform, again having to squint against that sheer, white light that poured around him. The Valar were all seated on their thrones again, or still – he had the distinct feeling they'd been discussing him right before he came in. Some of them still looked moody and angry, and he wondered if they'd been arguing again over the form he'd chosen.

This time, there was no introduction from Eönwë. As soon as the Valar saw that Sauron had taken his place, Námo rose from his throne and stared down gravely. "How do you feel, Sauron?" he asked, his black eyes flickering for a moment over the Maia.

Sauron stiffened automatically, but he was not about to repeat the accusations he'd fired at Eönwë minutes ago. Instead, he kept up that chilled detachment he'd shown Aulë. "I assume I am as well as can be expected in my circumstances," he replied coolly.

Námo nodded slowly, his eyes still boring into Sauron's. "It proved a weightier task than was expected, which is why you were given your reprieve," he said, as if he knew the charges of cruelty that Sauron had made. "But we have agreed to finish the trial this evening, and we guessed that you would be equally pleased to put it behind you."

Sauron made no reply, as it was true.

"There is still the matter of where you are to be assigned," Námo continued. "This decision must be reached before we discuss our final stipulation for your remaining in Valinor."

They want something else from me still, Sauron thought, his heart already sinking again. What more can they possibly take? He closed his eyes briefly, harnessing his thoughts. It doesn't matter. As long as I'm assigned with Aulë and they give me a forge, it doesn't matter. I have to be assigned with Aulë. He sent out a silent plea that the one look he'd given the Smith would be enough, though he was not sure who, if anyone, would receive a prayer from one such as him.

He remained still and quiet, refusing to look around at the Valar, hoping Aulë was squirming with guilt and pity and compassion at this point, enough to claim his former apprentice anyway.

It was not Aulë's voice that spoke, however. "He is welcome with us."

Sauron knew Estë's voice without even lifting his head and that little bit of hope he'd been cradling in his heart choked and sputtered.

"In the Gardens of Lórien, he will be well cared for and he will find the aid, rest, and healing, body, mind, and spirit, that he needs," Estë went on in her sleepy, gentle voice. "Both I and my husband agree that he needs all these things before he can be expected to meet his new life in Valinor."

There were murmurs of confirmation throughout the Ring. Sauron lifted his eyes fractionally again, just enough to see Námo. The Doomsman was nodding and opening his mouth to speak, and Sauron knew what he was going to say. Námo was going to agree with Estë, and Sauron would be shipped off to wherever Lórien was, away from any glimmer of getting to use a forge and the last hope he'd had of living a bearable life. He did not now have to feign the misery that he was sure was radiating off him.

"Sauron Gorthaur," Námo said in that imperious, doomsayer voice of his, "you shall be–"

"Stop! No! Please let him come with me!"

Sauron's head shot back up as everyone looked at Aulë who had risen from his throne. One look at his face and Sauron knew his ploy had caused its desired effect. Aulë looked nearly as miserable as Sauron at the prospect of him being sent to Lórien, and there was a look of terrible guilt on the Smith's face, though even Sauron knew he had not really been responsible for anything. But that was Aulë's weakness, that and his pity, and Sauron's dagger of a gaze had struck home. The Smith felt responsible for him now.

All the Valar were staring in surprise at Aulë. He gathered his composure and looked pleadingly at Námo and Manwë. "Please," he said in his deep, earnest voice. "Let him come back to my halls with me. He was my Maia at the beginning, and I know him the best of all of you. He will be better off amongst his own folk in a place familiar to him than he will in Lórien."

Yavanna was looking at her husband in shock. She stood and took hold of his arm. "What are you doing?" she asked. "It is clear that Estë is right and that he should be taken to Lórien for what healing he still has the ability to absorb. Your skills are not in healing, Aulë, and you know it."

Námo's brows knit together. "I fear, Aulë, that I am inclined to agree with Yavanna. The need to deal with Sauron's powers was the only reason he was not sent to Lórien immediately upon arrival, and I also think it will do him the most good to spend some time with Estë and Irmo."

Aulë pulled away from Yavanna's grip and faced the Doomsman stubbornly. "I tell you that none of you know him as I do. It will do him better good to return to the tasks he was sent into this world to complete. Please, assign him to my halls."

Yavanna tugged on his arm again, pulling him around to face her. "Listen to Námo," she said stiffly. "There is nothing you can do for Sauron at the moment. Do you really want the agony of having to watch over him? Do you really think it best for him? You have already lost him once."

The pain on Aulë's face at that last comment was clear. But instead of subduing him, it seemed to magnify his determination. Ignoring Yavanna, he stared intently at Námo, his jaw tightening visibly under his bushy beard. "I made a mistake," he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "I let him slip out of my grasp all those ages ago, and there is not a day that has passed when I have not mourned his loss and my own folly. Please, this is not just for him. I have longed for a day when I might have the chance to right my own wrongs and find forgiveness with Eru for allowing one of his spirits, my charge, to go astray. You never lost a Maia to the darkness, Lord Námo. I beg for this second chance, this one chance. It will be my redemption as much as his."

His metallic eyes flickered just to Námo's right, where Manwë was seated, watching the proceedings silently, leaning one elbow against the armrest of his throne with the back of his fist pressed to his lips. "Lord Manwë," Aulë said, "if you'd had the chance to heal your brother, would you have not taken him into your own hall and cared for him yourself? Would you have entrusted such a task to another?"

The Ring was completely silent, as Aulë stood, his fists quivering slightly at his side, a look of pleading on his face that would have cracked one of his diamonds in two.

At last, Manwë shifted and lifted his head from his hand. "Námo," he said quietly, "let the Maia go with Aulë."

Námo turned to look at the High King. "My lord," he said just as softly, "you do realize the dangers–"

Manwë's storm-grey eyes shone with Valarin power. "I realize many things, Námo. And I realize that we cannot deny this to the Smith."

Námo bowed his head briefly. "Very well, my lord." And before Sauron could quite process everything that had just happened, the Doomsman's voice boomed over the Ring. "Sauron Gorthaur, you shall be henceforth assigned to the Halls of Aulë, to remain under the supervision of the Lord Aulë and his folk, under his authority, not to leave the assigned halls unless given approved permission, from now forevermore unless you receive new orders from this council."

And then he was writing it down with his blackbird quill in his book and Sauron was left standing in shocked relief that his plan had actually worked. But then it sunk in and he had to control every limb to stop himself from shaking. He'd actually done it. He was going to be assigned with Aulë. He'd have his forge. He'd have back the one thing that he had truly and deeply regretted losing all those years under Morgoth. He might be bereft of his powers, no more than a prisoner in the land of his long-time foes, but he would be able to shut it all out, burn his memory away in the fires, beat out his anger and frustration with a hammer, lose himself in gold and silver and precious gems. He could already feel the heat soaking into his flesh, the hiss and whoosh of the bellows, the bitter tang of soot on his lips, the silky, cool smoothness of the metals… Everything had been going so wrong for him since the War of Wrath began that he could hardly wrap his mind around the concept that something, however small, had gone right for him.

He glanced up, the elation swelling in him even as he realized how desperate he must be for such a small detail to bring him such delight, and found himself looking right at Manwë. The High King of the Valar looked directly back at him, and his gaze was keen, piercing, and perceiving. He did not speak, just gazed, his expression immutable, and Sauron perceived that Manwë knew exactly what he had done, that he had manipulated Aulë to get what he wanted. But nonetheless, Manwë had let it happen. And there was something else in those powerful, grey eyes, some burning, relentless knowledge in Manwë's gaze, that it chilled Sauron to the bone. For a moment, Sauron was torn between a hungering lust to know what Manwë knew and a searing hatred and fear of that unknown doom. Finally, he looked away.

Námo drew his thoughts away again. The Doomsman had pulled out several sheets of paper and was inspecting them. Manwë had leaned forward and was discussing something with Námo in a low voice that Sauron could not hear. Finally, they seemed to reach a conclusion, and Námo folded up the parchment and turned back to Sauron.

"We have one final stipulation for your stay in Valinor. You have done much harm and evil to the Children and all the people of Middle-earth, but while those deeds can never be undone, other deeds may be done to bring healing. To show your true goodwill, not only to us, but to all Arda, we ask you to aid in the rebuilding of a world to which you and your master brought ruin for many years.

"Many of the Firstborn have chosen to come to Valinor and many of the Secondborn have been given the gift of Númenór to compensate for their losses, but many more yet remain in their home of Middle-earth. But it is a land ravaged by war, and in the War of Wrath, cities were razed and lands destroyed.

"This is the task that we assign to you. Near Aulë's halls, a stone quarry has already been created, and the Elves have already begun the labor of creating and dressing stone blocks which will be shipped to Middle-earth to the Elves and Men whose cities and homes must be rebuilt before they can begin to thrive once again. Every day, you will be escorted to the quarry and under supervision, you will daily fill out your quota of blocks to send to the harbors. In this way, you shall have a task to keep you occupied and you will be sending direct aid to those you have harmed in a gesture of goodwill. You will be assigned to this task until either we give you different instructions or there is no more need for it. Do you understand?"

Hope is a funny, treacherous, little thing. It can seize hold of a man with a grip of iron and keep one striving onward despite the most terrible of odds and yet it can be shattered with the lightest touch. Moments ago, hope had left Sauron feeling the closest he had ever believed he would feel to being happy again, but just as quickly, as Námo's message sank in, hope abandoned him and left him with an agony of despair far worse for having had that brief hope.

The full meaning of this last stipulation quivered through his veins. They were going to make him go to some quarry, surrounded by hard-working, charitable Elves laboring for the good of their suffering kindred, wasting his skills chipping away at rocks all day, proving his supposed "goodwill" towards the Elves and Men for whom he felt no such thing. He had won his victory with Aulë for nothing. He had no forge waiting for him.

It was the final hammer stroke of a long and terrible day. That cold, uncomfortable barrier in his ëala tightened and those agonizing rips burned. He looked at the Valar and hated them. They had robbed him of his one last hope. In that moment, he decided he was going to make them pay. He had no idea how, but someday, he was going to make them pay.

But for now, there was nothing he could do. That was a fact that had been made painfully obvious to him all this agonizing day. He continued to stare at them, his eyes blank and his heart churning, and nodded his head once. "I understand."

Námo closed his book with a thud. "Then this trial is concluded."

Mere minutes later, Sauron found himself slumped on the back of a white horse, a cloak tugged close around his shoulders to block out a light, cool breeze as he followed Aulë and Yavanna down a long path that gleamed white in the darkness, winding down from the Máhanaxar, past Valmar, and onward. Weariness, both from the long day and the darkness in his heart, closed in around Sauron like a fog, and he afterward had little memory of what happened as the darkness slipped by. But finally, he was aware that they had stopped and there were lights before him, yellow candle-light in myriad windows. He could faintly make out a looming dark shape of a gigantic building in front of him as he allowed himself to be led forward.

He had equally little memory of passing through arching corridors and massive halls that smelt faintly of wood smoke and charcoal and up many stairs before he found himself in a spacious private chamber. Aulë said something to him in a reassuring voice, but Sauron's mind was blank and it was not until some indeterminate time later that he realized he was alone. There was a closed window opposite to him and beneath it a small round table with a single candle burning on it. Beside this was a bed, not a simple cot like in the Máhanaxar cell, but a full bed with thick, brown sheets and large, fluffy, grey pillows. Without even bothering to undress, Sauron fell into it, wrapping himself deep in the smothering cloth, and let the thankful, blissful oblivion of sleep consume him.

~o~o~o~

Several miles away to the south, another trio of travelers, two Valar and a Maia, arrived back at Ilmarin on the summit of Taniquentil.

Manwë, Varda, and Eönwë had flown home in eagle forms, but they took once again their bodies in the likenesses of the Children as they entered into the open courtyard of the palace. With a quiet word to her husband, Varda slipped away to her own chambers, but Manwë paused in the entrance hall, gazing upward. The roof was a sheet of glass, through which the starlight and Tilion's first beams fell silver onto the white marble floor. In the very center of the hall was a ring of raised stone and a fountain bubbled up inside it, spraying water upward in a soft plume. Where the spray mingled with the starlight, it cast a silver glow that shimmered illusively in the air.

Eönwë remained dutifully several steps away, waiting to see if his lord had any more tasks for him before he retired for the night. The Herald was silent, his lips a tight line in his stern and stately face.

Manwë was silent too for a long while, but when he finally spoke, he did not look at his Herald. "What did you think of the trial, Eönwë?"

The Maia shifted his weight slightly, surprised by the question, but he did not let it show on his face. Instead, he assumed a proper grave expression. "I do not believe it is my place to comment."

Manwë slowly stepped in front of him. Behind the High King, the silver glitter of starlit water formed a glowing corona. "The outcome of the trial displeased you. Why?"

Eönwë swallowed and looked up into his lord's blue eyes. He was accounted the most powerful Maia in Valinor, and yet even he could not steadily meet the High King's gaze for long. He dropped his eyes fractionally. "I believe you were too merciful with Sauron, my lord," he replied stiffly.

Manwë made a small sound that might have been a sigh. "It was you yourself who sent him too us. Do you not wish to see him reconciled to his kindred?"

Eönwë bowed his head a little further in deference. "My lord, I hoped when he first came to me that his show of penitence was born of more than fear and self-preservation. If he in truth came with the hope of reconciliation and remorse for his past deeds, then I would be the first to desire his reinstatement among his kindred. But that is not why he is here."

"Is it not?" Manwë said, his voice as soft as one of his spring zephyrs.

Eönwë looked back up into his lord's compassionate face and swallowed again. "He is not sorry," he said, bitterness putting a steel edge in his voice. "He is ungrateful, arrogant, cruel."

Now that he finally saying it, he found his anger swelling up inside his throat. "You should have heard the things he said in his cell at the Máhanaxar," he went on hotly. "He blamed you and the other Valar for his pain and humiliation. He had the audacity to complain about your mercy, as if it was an insult to his cursed pride. He thinks of no one but himself." He shook his head, his cheeks burning with anger. "He has become a monster, my lord."

Manwë was silent for a moment, slowly turning a sapphire ring on his right forefinger with his other hand. "We cannot expect to see immediate results," he said, looking back at Eönwë. "He has long been lost in the darkness, and we cannot expect him to immediately adjust to the light."

Eönwë felt frustration building up inside of him. That was how Manwë had spoken of Melkor, and the Herald felt intense unhappiness at the thought that he would have to watch the painful cycle repeated with Sauron. "My lord," he said fervently, "we cannot trust that time will heal him. He is dangerous now. He feels no compassion, no regret, no sorrow. He is consumed by self-pity and hatred. Melkor's hatred. Can you not tell that from looking in his eyes? He deserves to be punished, my lord."

Now Manwë's eyes took on a sheen of subtle power flickering like lightning in their depths. "Deserves. A cruel word. And yet, is that not the definition of mercy: to lighten the burden of one who deserves to carry it?"

Eönwë's fists clenched. "You were not there, in Middle-earth, my lord. If you had been, you would not have been so quick to mercy. You didn't see the horrors I saw. I saw slaves in Angband that had been chained so long that we had to cut their manacles out of their flesh. I saw prisoners that had been tortured and mutilated beyond recognition, their skin hanging off their bodies in bloody strips, their hearts still beating underneath raw muscle. I saw beasts and monsters that looked at me with eyes that had once been Elven and human but their fëar had been twisted and shredded until they were no more than animals. I saw unspeakable devices of wood and metal made for the sole purpose of causing suffering, some of which still contained the rotting corpses of their last victims, which their captors had not even graced to remove and dispose of."

His breath choked in his throat now, half sobs of horror at the memories. "These were the Children, my lord. He did this to the Children. The Children that he swore in the beginning to protect and care for and love. And he doesn't care. He is drenched in the blood of the Children, and all he can think is to complain that you were not lenient enough with him and that you had no right to take his cursed powers."

Tears gathered in the Herald's eyes. "Lord Manwë, I cannot bear the thought that those innocent lives he destroyed, that he defiled, will go unavenged."

Manwë cupped the Maia's chin in his fingers, lifting his face. "They are not forgotten," he said in a deep, tender voice. "But paying for bloodshed with ever more bloodshed will never heal this world."

Eönwë looked down again despite Manwë's hand, his breathing hard, the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks any moment. "Everyone knows that you are too merciful, my lord. Sauron does not deserve to live."

The High King pulled Eönwë's head back up to meet his eyes, and this time his face was hard. "Eönwë," he said in a low, intense voice that commanded attention and respect, "I do not ever want you to say that again." His voice softened a little. "Do you understand me, my child?"

Eönwë nodded, not trusting his voice.

Manwë gently placed a hand on both of the Herald's shoulders, still holding his gaze with his powerful grey eyes. "Mercy always looks hollow when you are not the one receiving it. The Valar have made their ruling, and there will be no going back from it now. And even the eyes of the Valar, little Maia, even my eyes, do not see all of what is to come."

He touched Eönwë's cheek in a gentle, fatherly movement. "Do not be so eager to condemn when your eyes can only scratch the surface. We do not know what may be happening deep within your fellow Maia's heart or what he has experienced himself these long years."

He withdrew his hands and half-turned from Eönwë and for a while seemed lost in thought, gazing into the sparkling fountain. For a while there was no sound save the water's soothing patter, like falling rain on a lake, as Manwë's fingers strayed again to his sapphire ring, gently turning it back and forth on his finger.

Finally, his eyes flickered back to where Eönwë was still standing downcast, a mist still clouding his sky-blue eyes. The High King was smiling faintly now in a manner that made Eönwë uneasy, although he couldn't decide why.

"I have another task for you, Eönwë," Manwë said. "I think it will do you good."

Eönwë dipped his head briefly. "I am yours to command, my lord."

Manwë told him what he wanted.

The Herald gaped at his lord, before finally finding his voice which had acquired a distinct and undignified sputter. "But, m-my lord, surely that is no task for a herald or a Commander of Maiar. Are you sure, my lord?"

Now Manwë's lips had twitched into a deep smile that reached to his sparkling eyes. "I'm quite sure, Eönwë." His eyes flashed. "It seems that even you, my child, may become indignant when you feel your pride might have been touched and that you might be lowered beneath your perceived status." He took a step back, surveying his Maia with his keen, amused gaze. "Yes, I think it will be good for the both of you."

He turned, leaving Eönwë still standing in the middle of the hall. "Goodnight, Eönwë," he said before he vanished through the door into his private chambers.

Chapter Text

There was a soft knock on the door to Sauron's room. Partially awake already, his mind mired in the bleary state between dream and wakefulness, he dragged his eyelids open and realized it was later than he'd guessed. Light streamed into the room through the window to the right of his bed and his senses told him he'd slept long and deeply.

Too long and too deeply. His head throbbed, and it took him several seconds to figure out where he was, the usual procedure for him upon waking, ever since the upheaval in his life weeks ago. The truth came quicker than in the Máhanaxar cell however, and the realization did not overwhelm him with immediate despair and ravaging pain; instead, he was simply numb to his new reality. His mind was wiped of emotion for the moment, everything around him taking on an ethereal quality, as if nothing was worth the bother of really caring about. Facing the new day, just getting out of bed, seemed worthless tasks that did not deserve his concern. Despite the night's sleep, he still felt unexplainably exhausted, and even keeping his eyes cracked open proved too great a feat. He let them fall shut again, and with an involuntary moan, he wriggled deeper under the covers and tried to blot out his awareness of the world.

The knock came again, louder this time, and Sauron let out a low, animal snarl. He did not want to be bothered, to stir this blissful numbness in his heart back into a seething cauldron of hate, fear, and pain. It was better to simply not care.

But whoever was outside his door was not going to give him that luxury. Another knock reverberated through the room, this time accompanied by a familiar, deep voice. "Nauron, are you awake? May I come in?"

"No, and no," Sauron growled peevishly at the door, knowing any answer would do little to change the inevitable outcome.

Indeed, he had barely finished speaking when the door scraped softly open, followed by the heavy footfalls of Aulë's boots. He pushed his face down into the grey pillows and hunched his shoulders, all but disappearing into the bed, wishing he could smother himself away into oblivion. But he could not block out the rasp of Aulë pulling up a chair or that distinctive burn on his nape from powerful eyes gazing intently at him.

"Nauron, you really ought to consider getting up," Aulë said after a minute of staring at Sauron while Sauron pointedly ignored him.

The Maia was considering a sharp retort when something slipped back into his mind, something he'd thankfully repressed since waking but which now came prickling back into his thoughts like a thorny vine. The last stipulation for his pardon. The Valar would make him go to that quarry to hammer at rocks all day. It was one of the last things he'd want to do in any circumstance, but at the moment, it seemed a torture keener than anything else his mind could have contrived.

That did it. The fragile numb shell around his heart and mind shattered, and he felt the familiar biting pain of his anger and hate suffusing him. He hated the Valar. He hated the Elves back in Middle-earth that he was going to be forced to work for like a slave. He hated Aulë.

But deep, deep down, locked tight in his breast, he felt a single stabbing heat to warm the chilling hate, though it itself had a painfully sharp bite to it. But it was a pain that was somehow cathartic, like opening a blister, and he found himself fondling that single comfort, trusting himself to it to soothe the loathing, rage, and despair. It was that one flame that was going to keep him sane – the promise he'd made himself in the Máhanaxar, the promise that one day, somehow, he was going to take revenge on the Valar for what they had done to him.

"You shouldn't lie here all day. There's much to do," Aulë said, more firmly this time.

Sauron lifted his head fractionally but kept his back to the Smith. "Why bother talking then? Why don't you force me to do what you want?" he snarled in a low voice. "It is something for which the Valar clearly have a talent."

Aulë sighed, but this time it sounded more irritated than indulgent. "There is no being in Arda we have ever forced to do our will. The only Vala who did that is no longer in the Circles of the World."

Sauron gave a short, bitter laugh. "Melkor didn't force me to do anything."

"Yes, yes, I know. It would have been easier for us to deal with you now if he had." Aulë's voice was tinged with sorrow. "But perhaps not. Perhaps there is more hope for a free will than an enslaved one in the end."

Sauron's fingers curled into fists around clumps of the delicate, brown sheets. "And I suppose you see a vast difference between an enslaved will and a Bound one."

The chair creaked slightly as Aulë shifted. "We have not touched your will. You were always given a choice and the freedom to choose."

"To choose this or the Void!" Sauron finally sat up and turned to face the Smith, his eyes shining balefully. "Melkor too offered choices to those under him: servitude or unimaginable torture. You are not so different from him as you like to think. None of you."

Aulë actually lowered his eyes from Sauron's hate-seared gaze. "You put us all in a very difficult situation."

"Oh, I see," Sauron spat. "Your task would have been much simpler had I run in Middle-earth, would it not? Then Eönwë and Oromë could have hunted me down and disposed of me properly and easily. You would have had no qualms about throwing me in the Void then. But I made things difficult for you. I surrendered, so your laws of morality and mercy hindered you from finishing me off once and for all. I put you all in a lovely little dilemma, didn't I? Melkor would not have been caught in such a predicament."

"No, and had Melkor been your judge, you would be in the Void now!" Aulë snapped, standing suddenly. His voice was sterner than it had been, and the Valarin light in his eyes flickered like a stoked fire. "I know you do not respect me, but do not forget your place, Maia. By the judgment of Námo, you are under my lordship now. If you thought to come here to have your way with me, then I fear you will be disappointed. Just because I care for you does not mean I plan on letting you do and say whatever you wish. Whatever has passed and may yet pass, you are no longer the Black Captain of Morgoth. You are mine again."

Sauron was actually rather stunned and for a moment, he stared at Aulë. On the one hand, he sensed predictable anger and indignation, but he couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration as well. Perhaps he'd not given Aulë enough merit. Perhaps Aulë had a stronger will than he recalled.

He realized his mouth was hanging slightly open and shut it, clamping his jaws firmly together in a grimace. No, a strong-willed Aulë was not what he wanted. His eyes automatically flickered away to the window, giving him a view of morning sunlight and rippling treetops.

Aulë sat back down with a humph, recapturing Sauron's attention. "Listen," he said, his voice weary and gentle again, "this is not going to be easy for any of us. I do not believe you know, or can know, the extent of my gladness and relief that you returned instead of fleeing. Not yet. If your fate had rested fully in my hands, it would not have been this way, but I am not gifted in judgment, and Námo's wisdom stretches further than I can see. We must trust this is the best path for you.

"We have given you mercy, not because our laws of morality constrain us to do so, but because we all have hope that Arda's wounds can still be healed. Please, do not toss aside the gift you have been given, Nauron."

Sauron's eyes remained fixed on the hypnotic undulation of the treetops. "Don't call me that," he said, almost inaudibly.

Aulë frowned. "Then what would you have me call you?"

Sauron shrugged and shook his head. It was as if his burning passions of a moment ago had devoured his energy and will to fight. The numbness was starting to creep back and he welcomed it. "I don't know," he said in a parched voice. "I hate all my names."

Aulë was silent, as if he could not think of an answer to that. In his peripheral, Sauron could see him looking out the window as well, his worn face Ages old. "Perhaps, you need a new name then," he said finally.

"I have a feeling any name that could encompass my current state would be more hateful to me than anything I already have," Sauron replied.

"If you find yourself in such a hateful situation, then why did you come back?"

Sauron just stared out the window, his mouth clamped tightly shut. He let it seem his silence was due to stubbornness. Rather than the truth. That at the moment, he was not sure of the answer.

Aulë rose. "Perhaps this will help remind you." He took a step forward and laid something on the bedside table before turning away towards the door.

It was the hammer, the one Eönwë had given him in Middle-earth. Sauron realized he must have left it behind at the house outside Valmar when he'd marched off to the trial, and Aulë apparently saw it lying abandoned on the bed and brought it along. The sight of it now had a different effect on him than it had in Middle-earth, however. Then, it had given him some hope, painful though it was, a burning desire to pick up the shattered remnants of an old life and a longing to play his old role in Arda's history.

But this was not the role he had deluded himself, back in Middle-earth, into believing he might still achieve. In light of the Valar's decree and his newly broken hope, the forge hammer was a cruel mockery of what the Valar had torn from him. It had proven a will-o-the-wisp light, luring him off what had been a fractured but still solid path into this quagmire he found himself in now. And now it danced before his face as he sank, taunting him with the knowledge that he was to be denied using it as he had hoped, that he was going to be sent away to labor instead of crafting beauty. That hammer had promised him the prospect of returning as an apprentice, picking up his old life where he'd left off, but instead he found himself in a new role that seemed nothing but slavery.

He glanced up at Aulë, and for a moment, a ridiculous urge come over him: to tell Aulë his multitude of emotions. For that moment, he thought perhaps Aulë was indeed ignorant of the pain the Valar's ruling had caused him and maybe if he knew, the Smith could in some way change the verdict, at least a little, help him get the forge he longed for, or do something to ease the humiliating judgment.

His mouth was already open, his tongue forming the words of his plea, when he caught himself and shoved the ludicrous thoughts away. What was he thinking? Aulë was one of the Valar, one of the ones that had done this to him, one of the fourteen on whom he had sworn to take revenge. Aulë had sat in that Ring and condemned Melkor to eternity in the Void, and he had sat in the exact same place and condemned Sauron to a life of Bound toil. It took little imagination to guess he'd been instrumental in sending that treacherous hammer to Sauron in the first place. And even if Aulë had wanted to help him, it was clear there was nothing he could have done in the face of the other Valar's decision. Since when did you start wanting to spill your heart out to your enemies? Sauron sneered at himself. But then again, when did you become such a fool as to walk straight into your enemies' traps?

All this took mere seconds to pass through his mind. In that time, Aulë crossed the room and put his hand on the door. As Sauron realized the Smith really was leaving, a puzzled expression briefly knit his brows. "You're leaving?" he said before he could catch himself, still half-surprised that Aulë was not forcing him to rise. The final stipulation had certainly not sounded optional to him.

Aulë turned back, his dark eyebrows raised, perhaps in surprise that Sauron had spoken to him again. His metallic eyes were unblinking. "You have made it quite clear that you don't desire my company, and as I said, I do not plan to force you up. If you wish to spend the day commiserating with yourself, that is your decision to make."

Sauron scowled at the disdainful tone of Aulë's voice but his surprise got the better of him. "Don't I have to go to that quarry all day? Didn't you come to make me do it or punish me if I didn't?"

There was a brief flicker of what looked almost like amusement in Aulë's eyes. "Perhaps if you had not been so busy accusing us Valar of Melkorian cruelty, you might have liked to know about a small adjustment to your situation. You've had a hard time recently, and what happened to you at the trial was no small matter. We unanimously agreed to give you five days in order to recover and adjust yourself, as well as getting used to your new home before you will be required to report at the quarry.

"That was actually what I came to tell you. However, I recommend you use the time wisely – I will be glad to give you a tour of the mansions and grounds or you are welcome to explore on your own. Meals are served communally in the Great Hall at seven in the morning, at noon, and at seven in the evening. I encourage you to rest as much as you need, but locking yourself away in here and wallowing in self-pity for the next five days will not stand you in good stead. If you need or want me, have anyone direct you to my chambers. I hope to see you about, Nauron." Then he retired from the room, leaving Sauron to brood.

As loath as he might be to admit it, this news did lighten his heart, if only fractionally. Five days was adequate time to recover physically and mentally with a proper balance of food and sleep and to regain his strength and composure, if not to completely adjust to his new life and his Bound ëala.

Plus, he'd have the chance to get the lay of the land – he felt much too helpless now, a blind man stumbling about in the dark, with no concept of where he was, either in the Halls of Aulë itself or in Valinor as a whole. Any little thing he could do to better himself, even if it was just knowing his way around, sounded desirable at this point.

And quite frankly, Sauron had never been one to lie around. Now that he had a free day before him and a new goal, he found himself ready to rise and face the day. If there was one thing he knew, it was that "wallowing in self-pity" achieved no practical purposes.

He decided to start by simply exploring his room. He'd barely glanced around the previous night, but now in the morning sunlight, he had to admit it was quite nice, certainly no cell. True, it was generically decorated and rather sparsely furnished, signs that until now it had probably been a rarely-used guestroom, but it was spacious and luxurious enough to satisfy his lordly tastes. The designs of the room were simple and geometric, though not unlovely; he did not regret the absence of the effeminate swirling patterns that marked elvish influence, something it had taken him years to remove from his chambers in the newly-conquered Gaurhoth tower. A rug of deep gold and rich browns lay over the grey, hexagonal flagstones, and there was a complementary gold trim around both floor and ceiling.

In addition to the bed and bedside table, he had a small bookshelf (empty at the moment), a slim wooden wardrobe, and in the corner, a chest with a key, doubtlessly for personal belongings. It was only at the sight of the chest that he was suddenly struck by the fact that he had nothing to his name, save the hammer, and that was debatable seeing as how the Valar had recently granted it back to him simply as a cruel lure. He'd left his black clothing at the Valmar house, the only things he'd brought from Middle-earth. Not that he'd owned anything more when he came to Eönwë. Everything – his books, wealth, servants, weapons, jewels, and more – was long lost in the ruins of Gaurhoth and Angband. A sharp pang shot through his chest at the realization of his beggarly state, along with a burning resentment at the knowledge that everything, down to the very clothes on his back, he currently owed to the Valar.

There was a private washroom adjacent to his chamber which he found had been stocked with any personal toiletries he might need: combs, soaps, and washing clothes. A hand basin rested on a thin shelf below a simple mirror, also hexagonal. The washing basin was raised several inches from the floor and underneath was the coal bed and necessary tools for heating the water. He was thankful though to see a spout running up from the floor – when he twisted it, a thin stream of cold water trickled into the basin with a tinny splash. At least, he didn't have to run up and down the stairs with a bucket like a slave to fill the basin every time he wanted a bath.

And he was quite high up, perhaps eighty feet from the ground, which made this a relief. His window afforded him a good view of the eastern side of the mansion grounds: tree tops of all different kinds, more than he'd supposed existed, stretching for a good half-mile, crisscrossed with slender gaps that must be paths and larger gaps where he glimpsed open gardens. Beyond, the trees thinned out into plains stretching leagues into the distance before they sloped upward into the shining, unnaturally steep peaks of the Pelóri. To the east and several miles south was the gap of the Calacirya, through which streamed the rays of the rising sun. To the north and south, however, the majority of his view was blocked by sweeping wings of the mansions.

Having fallen asleep in his clothes, his indigo robes were a wrinkled mess, a problem rectified with a glance into the wardrobe, however. Apparently, someone had known ahead of time that the room would be occupied shortly, for the wardrobe had been stocked with a decent collection of garments. Many of them were purely practical: sturdy work trousers and unadorned shirts and tunics. Sauron scowled; whoever had provided those garments had known he'd be spending his days in physical labor.

Along with the work clothes, however, were various less practical but more elegant articles of clothing: robes, leggings, long tunics, and silken shirts more suited to the wardrobe of a Maiarin lord. The person responsible had possessed the intuition to provide him clothes of darker colors, as well. True, the clothes worn by Aulë's folk tended to be darker – earthy and sooty – but he was glad to see the majority of his new garments were deep blue, shades of dark grey, and even black. Though seemingly small in detail, the thought of having to run about in shining white or pale blue, green, or grey like some Elf or Maia of Manwë or Estë turned his stomach.

He chose an outfit and dressed in the knee-length tunic of deep mahogany with a silver filigree pattern stitched across it, with black leggings and soft boots underneath and a sleeveless robe of a complementary grey that slipped over his shoulders and hung open in the front. Upon opening a lower drawer, he discovered several pieces of jewelry, as well. There was a collection of rings, all of which he curled his lip at, though they were not poorly made. But he had always preferred his own style and jewelry solely of his making. It was not so much the beauty of any given piece he enjoyed but knowing he bore the work of his own hands, a piece of artistry straight from his own mind and through which he could display his own unique skill.

He did, however, also find a plain, gold circlet, unadorned but perfectly smooth and oval. He had always worn such an ornament, back in his days as an apprentice smith of Aulë and in the years under Morgoth. Not only was it an elegant symbol of his lordly status, but it held down his long hair and kept it from falling forward into his face when he was working. He lifted the circlet, admiring the flawless surface, and slipped it onto his brow. To his surprise, it was a perfect fit. Either it had been made directly for him or he had made it himself in some lost age. He suspected the latter, though he could not remember crafting it. But then, it seemed his memory had shrouded that time of his life in shadow, and so perhaps it was not so surprising he had forgotten a single circlet when he could not even remember his old name. He left it on; the cold smoothness against his brow was a familiar comfort, along with the knowledge that sometime long ago, his own hands had shaped it.

Turning, he looked into the mirror. It was a refined, noble reflection that met his gaze, one that showed little to nothing of the disarray underneath. But he had been slipping on masks for centuries now, and so long as his beautiful outward form showed no signs of the broken ëala and roiling heart inside to undiscerning bystanders, he would be satisfied. He quirked his lip upward in a bitter smile at the thought that he barely remembered a time when he freely showed his true self on any regular basis. Any form reflecting his true self now would hardly be welcomed. But for the moment, the monster underneath was adequately hidden.

He slipped quietly from the room into a long hallway lined with doors on either side, high on the east wing, the living quarters apparently. In the center of the hallway was a break in the doors, with a high stained-glass window, set with Aulë’s device of an anvil and flames, looming above a dark, downward flight of stairs.

For the next several hours, Sauron wandered the Halls of Aulë, his new home, as hard as it was to wrap his mind around that concept. As dark as his thoughts remained, he couldn't help but admire the combined grandeur and vast, organized design of the Halls that appealed to his sense of order. Its splendor surpassed anything he'd experienced before – this was truly the mansion of a Lord. But he couldn't stem the thought that flickered through his mind simultaneously: too bad that Lord is Aulë.

That thought grew steadily as he wandered through magnificent chambers with high vaulted roofs supported by sweeping trusses, arched doorways, and tall glass windows, hallways decorated with geometrical tracery, lined with columns, and ending in great oaken double doors, libraries filled to the roof with books while colored dust motes floated in streaming rays that flooded through the stained glass windows high above, and other rooms and galleries and winding stairwells that seemed endless. This was grander than his dark halls and soaring towers of Gaurhoth, greater even than the cavernous grandeur and unending labyrinths of Angband. Everywhere was visible the wealth and glory of Valinor: gold and silver gilding, jewels and crafted gems set in the cornices and corbels, crystal lanterns suspended in air which cast silver light over the chambers, shining glass, and feats of architectural wonder at every turn. It was a show of might and power that awed Sauron, as loath as he was to admit it.

But none of it was his.
Every new hall, every new glitter of gold, every new pulse of power drove it deeper and deeper: how he had nothing and the Valar had everything. Gaurhoth was covered in moss and dirt long since and Angband had been torn apart and the mighty towers of Thangorodrim hurled to the ground. Of all the might of Morgoth, there was now nothing but a shattered memory. Ever more, he suffered deep horror, shame, and anger at his own pitiful beggar's state. Ever more, he felt like a homeless wretch that some great lord had graciously supported and brought in out of pity, but instead of gratefulness, the comparison seared him with bitterness. It was like salt rubbed into his wounds, dirt ground into his face. It was as if the Valar were flaunting the fact that they had taken everything from him and there was nothing he could do about it.

Once again, as he'd experienced on the hilltop outside of Valmar, an intense desire consumed him to see this great mansion go up in flames, watch it floating away in ashes and collapsing in such utter ruin that everyone who gazed upon it would do so in dread. Once, such a fancy could have become reality for the Captain of Morgoth who had witnessed (and caused) the destruction of many great, proud kings' citadels – but no more. The Halls of Aulë stood in defiance of his fantasies, as untouchable as a mountain in the face of the wind's anger.

And yet, even the wind could slowly wear away at stone. The tiniest stream could gouge a scar in rock if given enough time. Sauron was clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. He cradled that bitter flame in his heart as his envy and ire tore at him. There was no point in living without hope. And the hope of revenge was all the Valar had left him. It's their own fault, his mind whispered. They stole everything from you. They lured you back here to ensnare you. They ripped from you the last hope of living here in a way that would make life bearable. They have left you one choice: revenge or despair.

And Sauron knew better than most how to play the waiting game of revenge.

~o~o~o~

Another aspect of his new home steadily infuriated him during his exploration.

Coming down through the dormitory east wing, he met no one, but that changed upon making his way into the central halls. Passing through a roofed, outdoor portico that marked the end of the east wing, he found himself in one of the huge, vaulted halls held up by two rows of columns that reminded him of dwarven architecture he'd seen in Ered Luin. Windows high up shed light on the pale grey flagstones while dozens of crystal lanterns lined the walls closer to head level, casting their silvery glow. In the very center of the room was a hexagonal, open hearth, still smoldering and sending up spirals of aromatic smoke. The whole room smelled of roasting meat, baked goods, and aged wine, though there was no food currently to be seen. From this, and from the rows of long tables centered symmetrically around the hearth, Sauron determined he'd found the Great Hall where the communal meals were served. At the far end of the hall was a stone platform, raised perhaps three feet from the rest of the room, bearing a single long table where he supposed Aulë, Yavanna, and those of highest status in the Halls took their food.

Even though it was not currently mealtime, the room was far from deserted. Dozens of Elves lounged at the tables, some with chess or checker boards before them, others with books, still others chattering in their musical, mellifluous voices. Their laughter and good-natured camaraderie infected the room like a mist before Sauron.

However, at his approach, a gradual silence froze the chamber. One by one, all the Elves turned to stare at him, sensing his presence and malignant gaze. Dozens of curious eyes bored into him, prickling uncomfortably on his skin. Deathly silence was his only greeting.

A mixture of reactions rippled through the room. From some, he sensed a kind of fascinated fear; from many others, he sensed revulsion or downright hatred. But unanimously, he felt a morbid curiosity fixing every gaze on him. It took him several seconds before he realized he had just become some sort of sinister exhibition, a freak attraction for a bunch of Eruhini.

He took a step back in horror and anger. Something seemed to press against his ears, causing them to buzz unpleasantly in that dead silence he had wrought. Still the Elves gawked on. The feeling grew that he was some exotic, caged monster there for the sole purpose of being gaped at. Freed, unbound, he might be a terror to be feared and avoided, but he was reduced now to this freak sideshow, a pacing tiger behind bars that anyone could approach, while neither fearing for their safety nor caring what the caged beast might think of this invasion of his privacy and dignity. Sauron's cheeks grew hotter and hotter along with a sensation he grew to realize was shame.

Keeping his steps even and his back straight, though he longed to flee from those intrusive stares, he turned and walked stiffly from the Great Hall. He could almost sense the sighs of combined relief and disappoint from the Elves as their after-breakfast entertainment slunk back into his kennel, muzzled and proved harmless. He was shaking and his hands clenched into fists so tight that his fingernails cut into the soft flesh of his palms. He had to get away. If he stayed, who knew what action he would take: breaking and fleeing or wildly striking down everyone in his reach, regardless of any consequences. It was bad enough that the Halls displayed the Valar's power at every turn – he could not bear the thought of becoming himself a display of the Valar's all-conquering might.

But it did not stop there. He soon discovered the place was swarming with Elves, all of whom seemed eager to gape at the conquered enemy of their Valarin masters.

He'd known that many of the Eldar chose to live in the halls of various Valar and that Aulë was particularly popular among them, but he had not supposed there would be so many of them, or that they would be everywhere. He'd assumed they might have their own wing of the mansions, somewhere segregated from the galleries used by the Ainur, but this was clearly not the case. In fact, they seemed to have the run of the place from as far as he could tell. There seemed to be more of them than there were of actually Ainur!

It wasn't as if he wasn't used to being around Elves in general. There had been Elven slaves in abundance in both Angband and Gaurhoth. But these Eldar were clearly not slaves. He saw some at work, cleaning and other such household chores, but from the way they chattered with each other cheerfully or stopped their work to watch him walk by, it was clear these were communal chores, not slave labor. It grated against his nerves that these creatures were being allowed to dwell alongside those of his own order, in the halls of a Vala, as if they were equals. These weak, pathetic beings were being allowed to pretend like they had some right to be there.

In fact, they seemed to have more right than he did. It was he who was the outsider, a fact made abundantly clear. Whenever he walked into a room, he felt that chill spread out from him, freezing any conversation and work that had been going on before he arrived. He did his best to ignore those intrusive, disrespectful stares, sweeping through each chamber and out again without deigning to give his spectators any attention. But as the scene from the Great Hall repeated itself again and again, the feeling of being an exotic monster on a leash grew. The crushing sense of his powerlessness magnified with each new pair of eyes that turned upon him and each new murmur that reached his ears. He knew what they whispered to one another as soon as his back was turned:

That's him, isn't it? The traitor Maia the Valar are punishing.

Ha, from all the stories of Morgoth's terrible servants, I expected a twelve-foot tall demon. He doesn't look like a Black Captain, does he?

Why is he here? Shouldn't the Valar have thrown him in the Void?

It nauseated him how small it made him feel, both the vast halls and the staring eyes. It was the Elves who should feel cowed in his presence, an Ainu who had sung their very world into being and fought wars and lead armies before their grandfathers had awoken, not the other way round. It seemed intrinsically wrong that packs of weakling Elves should have more freedom, power, and influence in the Land of the Ainur than a Maia did. But they did, and he was incapable of doing a thing about it.

Sickened at heart, his face still burning from a contemptible combination of shame, envy, and despair, he finally found his way into a part of the mansions that was not so overrun with the Eruhini. He passed through a door and felt the sudden breath of cool air against his face, like a breeze of springtime back in Middle-earth, though it had been late summer when he left. But the Valar controlled all the weather of Aman, just as they controlled everything else in their lands.

He walked into a large square courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a colonnade, with four doors, one to each side, that opened into other wings of the mansions, and he realized he must have found his way to the center of the great collection of buildings. Above him, the sheer grey walls rose seven stories to the north and west, and two stories across from him to the south and to the east. The framed sky above was the deep cobalt of a clear, bottomless lake.

The extensive courtyard itself, a full acre, was partitioned with stone slab walkways, bordered at regular intervals with stone benches, that cut between beds of multihued flowers and those of smooth, colorful stones, with an artificial stream snaking among them. The water poured with a soft steady murmur from the carved beak of a Valinorean eagle, rippled steadily over its bed of pebbles and several small waterfalls, then wound away until it disappeared underneath a wide overhanging stone slab. Small, willowy trees with feathery leaves and draping blue tendrils of flowers stood like watchmen around the edges of the courtyard, brushing against the portico roof. From these came soft, whistling songs and the rustle of feathered wings.

Sauron wandered aimlessly, taking no more than a cursory interest in his beautiful surroundings but rather absorbing what satisfaction he could from the quiet and the absence of staring Elven eyes. He let his mind slip back into a blank state where for the moment he didn't have to deal with his emotions or his situation. Absently, he wondered if that was what the Void was like and he smiled humorlessly to himself. If so, maybe he'd been cheated out of eternal oblivion after all. Right now, that option didn't sound so bad.

He continued to walk, not paying attention to where his feet led him, and gazed around with careless eyes that saw only enough to keep him from walking into anything. It was only when he found himself standing under the southern portico that he snapped out of his reverie. Before him, hanging on the wall, was a large painting. He'd seen such artwork previously: today, as he walked through the halls, and before. There had been paintings in Minas Tirith, grand, epic things showing cities and mountains and even two, shining trees, scenes that, he'd guessed correctly, were of Valinor. Of course, he'd had them removed and burned as soon as he conquered Orodreth's stronghold. It would not do for the Black Captain's sanctuary to be filled with scenes of his enemies' lands.

For some reason, the painting pulled his attention back from the dark recesses of his thoughts to focus upon it. Tipping his head slightly to the side, he gazed up at it, surprised at what he saw. It smacked of Elvish influence – the gracefulness, the sweeping curved strokes, and the Elven greys, blues, and greens – but it was definitely not a scene of Valinor, like all the other paintings in Aulë's Halls that he'd seen up to date.

It was much more familiar.

As the viewer, it was as if he stood high upon a mountain brink, gazing down over craggy slopes and breath-taking plunges into gloom. Dark pine trees reached up towards a stony, stormy sky, and from the left side of the painting, swirling skeins of grey mist crept around the rock pinnacles and trees, slowly, sinisterly almost, eating up the ground and obscuring it from his view.

He could not tear his eyes away. The scene was so distinctly Middle-earth, the cruel heights of Ered Gorgoroth perhaps or the lonely, mist-bound peaks of the Hithaeglir that he had only seen a few times. The scene had that breath-taking, wild, marred beauty that he had known so well, that was far more home to him than these perfect, controlled marches of Valinor. There was a darkness to the painting too that fascinated and surprised him – the Elves loved a certain type of darkness – midnight forest glades sparkling with moon and starlight or wild vastnesses of the ocean – but this was a darkness that did not seem Elvish to him. That creeping, obscuring darkness of the mist, those cruel, sublime pinnacles that might break the body of any who was thrown upon them, the fearsome, raw power of the fall that seemed to loom before his toes – it was a dark scene that seemed more fitting to him than some delicate Elven painter.

He stretched out his hand as if he could reach through and touch those stone heights but his fingers brushed against ridges of dry oil paint instead. A knot closed around his heart, producing a dull, tight ache, and his throat squeezed shut until he had to fight to swallow. It was a sensation he had felt only a few times before, but still he recognized the choking pain of homesickness. He turned his face away and closed his eyes.

"You decided to take my advice, I see."

Sauron's eyes snapped open and he turned quickly around, dropping his hand to his side. Aulë was standing in the doorway, one strong, brown hand resting on a marble column. When Sauron made no reply, the Vala of Earth stepped down onto the walkway and came to stand beside the Maia, turning his gaze to the painting, as well.

"I heard some rumors that you were out and about," Aulë said, and when Sauron scowled, he added, "It seems your presence here has made quite a stir among the Firstborn. You are something out of their legends."

Sauron let out a short, bitter laugh. "The bogeyman that they frighten their young with tales of, no doubt. But no, they did not seem nearly afraid enough for that. But I suppose stripped of his darkness and veil of mystery, even the most terrible monster of the night is much less frightening."

"You are no monster," Aulë said with a small frown.

Sauron gave him a sarcastic look with one eyebrow raised. "No, I suppose I am much too fair for that," he said caustically.

Aulë's frown deepened pensively but Sauron could not read what was happening behind the golden-silver eyes. Instead, the Smith looked up at the painting, scanning over it swiftly as if well-acquainted with its contents. The silence stretched on until it grew uncomfortable. Sauron finally broke it. "It is Endor, is it not?"

"Hmm, what?" Aulë said, his bushy eyebrows creasing as he was jolted from his thoughts.

Sauron indicated the painting with a jerk of his head. "It's Middle-earth."

"Yes and no," Aulë replied. "To the best of my knowledge, the painter has never been to Middle-earth. It is an artist's conception of what such a realm might be like. Does it hit near the mark?"

Faint surprise stirred in Sauron at the realization that Aulë had never been to the Middle-earth he had known and that after the destruction of the Lamps and the changing of the world during the first great War of the Powers, few of the Valar had ever even come to the dark lands of Endor. For some reason, the thought made him angry – that the Valar had not considered it worth their time to even see it before they destroyed it. But why would they, when they had crafted themselves this paradise? To them, it had been nothing but a realm of lonely darkness ruled by evil.

He looked back at the painting and wondered if that was all the artist thought of Middle-earth, as well. After all, shouldn't Sauron the Black Captain feel an affinity for such darkness and dread that the Elves doubtlessly associated with the realm of Morgoth? He followed the harsh brushstrokes in the lines of the precipices amidst the swirling mist until his keen eyes noted an irregularity at the bottom right-hand corner: two delicate black runes. MC.

His train of thought and any subsequent curiosity were interrupted by his stomach letting out a long, low groan, and he realized he hadn't eaten since that bread Eönwë had brought him the previous evening. It must be now nearing noon or perhaps past, and so far he had done a poor job with his decision to recover his strength and care for his body as best he could over these next few days of respite.

"It will be noon in a few minutes," Aulë said in answer to Sauron's stomach. "I take it you have not yet eaten. I was on my way to the Great Hall myself – perhaps you will join me?"

Without a word, the Smith turned and made his way across the courtyard towards one of the doors that Sauron had not yet explored. After his stomach rumbled again, Sauron set off after him, keeping a few steps behind to avoid any need Aulë might feel for striking up a conversation.

They passed through some chambers that Sauron recognized from earlier, though he doubted his ability to find his way back to the Great Hall on his own yet. But before they reached the Hall, his ears began picking up the sounds: light bursts of laughter or snatches of song interspersing the low hum of conversation. Sauron's gut tightened and he clenched his teeth unconsciously as he prepared himself, any tranquility he'd managed to acquire in the courtyard promptly abandoning him.

They entered the room through a huge set of oaken double doors carved with the now familiar geometric patterns that dominated the Halls of Aulë. He found himself at the opposite end of the Hall from before – he stood on the raised platform overlooking the rest of the tables. His eyes swept the scene.

Every table was crowded. Almost as if it were some odd ritual, every face turned to look in his direction as the doors thudded shut, and slowly the silence he always caused crept over the room as steadily as that dark mist in the painting. By now, the fact that he was a resident here must have made its way around the mansions, and he could sense the eagerness in those gazes to get their first glimpse of the ruined dark lord of Beleriand and to gloat. He could imagine a sign above his head painted in garish letters: Come see Sauron, the fallen servant of Morgoth the traitor.

Revulsion filled him to the point where he did not know if he could remain in the room one second longer, but he forced himself forward, following Aulë to the head table, ignoring the hundreds of eyes. It was a hard task. Their gazes seemed to congeal into a tangible wall, a shimmering barrier in which to trap him. His throat tightened again with hatred. He fantasized some massive war engine crashing through those columns supporting the room, bringing down the stone roof on the heads of all these Elves, crushing them to dust and darkening those cursed eyes once and for all.

Either Aulë was oblivious to the silence or he was simply determined not to acknowledge that anything was wrong. So typically Aulë. Any enemies could be made friends if you tried hard enough. Any hurt could be smoothed over with the proper words. In Aulë's mind, it was probably simple curiosity that had brought this deathly silence to the Great Hall.

As if to cement this, Aulë turned to Sauron and beckoned with a hand. "Be seated, Nauron. We're ready to start."

Still followed by a myriad eyes, Sauron slowly lowered himself into the chair that Aulë had indicated. From his slight elevation, he stared down the rows of tables decked with candles and more food than he had ever seen in one place. The tables were covered in pale grey clothes and at various intervals there were bouquets of bright flowers in vases, no doubt Yavanna's personal touch. The fire at the center sent up licking flames and flying sparks. All in all, it had an air of festivity and plenty that was currently in direct opposition to the stiff, silent occupants of the tables.

However, as it become evident that Sauron was neither going to be an immediate threat nor put on a show like a trained bear, the conversation gradually returned and the tension in the air lessened, though there was still a distinctly uncomfortable aura in the room, like dry tinder that a single spark could transform into a blaze. But soon the clink of glass bottles and clay bowls chimed through the hall, and the fire snapped and crackled. Trails of Elven song began to wind through the room as the general atmosphere relaxed further and everyone dug into the hearty fare.

At the head of the table, to Sauron's right, Aulë was carving meat from a hunk of venison while carrying on some conversation with an important-looking, dark-haired Elf lord. On the other side of Aulë, Yavanna was sipping from a glass of maroon Valarin wine. When Sauron glanced her way, her eyes flicked back in his direction, as if she'd been watching him out of her peripheral and waiting for him to notice her. Her dark expression implied that she could see the anger and hate in his eyes, and he had the feeling she was just waiting for him to step out of line. He swept his gaze away with an angry curl of his lip.

As he finally turned his attention to the individual table occupants, he discovered to his shock that they were not just Elves. True, the majority were Eldar, but there was a large quantity of Maiar too, not seated at their own tables but mingling with the Elves! Talking with them. Eating with them. Was it not bad enough that Aulë allowed the Eldar to roam through his halls as they willed? Had the Ainur truly degraded themselves so thoroughly that they now ceased to distinguish between the Powers of Ilúvatar and the Children? In some cases, it was hard to tell the two orders apart, so assimilated were they. The debasement he saw before him made his stomach lurch. And they had thought Melkor had indecent viewpoints?

At least that explained the insolence of the Elves, the way they'd gawked at him when he passed without any hint of deference towards his status as a Maia, not to mention how they'd dared to wage war against a Vala. He'd assumed their disrespect was because he was a prisoner of war, barely counting anymore as a Maia lord, but now it seemed they'd been taught to treat all his race in such an undignified manner, regardless of status. Sudden fury at all those other Maiar sitting in the room rose in him. It was he was having to pay for the Elves lack of respect just because the other Maiar clearly did not have the spine to put the Elves in their rightful places. Caring and guiding for the Children was one thing. Treating them like equals was another.

Now I understand why those cursed Noldor acted like they owned the world, Sauron thought with an angry snort as he reached for a bowl of bread rolls. Well, two can play at their game. He bit into the roll with vigor and began loading his plate with other delicacies from the table around him, scornfully ignoring the Eldar and his fellow Maiar with haughty disdain.

He looked back down over the throng of Elves and Maiar, eating, chatting, and singing together. It was the very picture of communal friendship, peace, and plenty: everything Valinor was supposed to stand for. His chest constricted and his latest bite of the fluffy, sweet bread stuck in his throat. There was all this…

…and then there was him. The outcast. The traitor. The one who could freeze a room just by walking into it. It was not that he wanted what they had – the thought of singing and making small talk with a bunch of Elves turned his stomach. It was what he'd lost that hurt. Under Morgoth, he had been aloof and untouchable, capable of bringing complete silence with a single flick of his fingers or the very power of his gaze. On the surface, it did not seem so different now – he had always been alone either way. But it was different being alone because one was a powerful and dangerous lord who all feared and who none dared disturb, remaining aloof by choice and bringing a room to silence through dread. It was very different to be avoided like a plague victim, to be an outcast that no one wanted to be seen speaking to or making any contact with, to bring a room to silence, not out of fear, but because he was an outlandish monster to which no one was sure how to react.

Pressure built behind his eyes, but before it could congeal into moisture, he pushed it back, instead viciously tearing into a leg of lamb with his teeth, ignoring any looks he might be getting for it. They already thought him a monstrous barbarian.

He looked back up after devouring the meat as ferociously as he might have done in his wolf form and indeed saw several Elves at the head table giving him cautious but daintily scandalized looks at his lack of manners. For some twisted reason, their expressions amused him. They were so prim and proper, their long hair combed, their clothing impeccable. And yet, he knew that if he were to take them all, starve them a while, torture them a bit, and then release them together with a single hunk of raw flesh, they would tear each other apart over it in seconds. Sophistication was all an fragile illusion of culture – they thought themselves so grand and noble, oblivious to how little it would take to revert them all back to beasts.

He bared his teeth at them in a mocking grin at the thought, and they flinched back from him in dismay, averting their eyes. The one closest to him, almost directly across the table, nervously refilled his goblet with wine from one of the glass bottles. At the sight of the trickling red stream, Sauron remembered the warmth that had soaked through him from the wine Eönwë had given him yesterday evening, and his mouth felt suddenly unbearably parched. For a second, his mind was distracted from his roiling thoughts, overwhelmed by a need to quench his thirst and soothe his emotions.

"Give me the bottle," Sauron demanded with casual, automatic authority, accompanied with a curt snap of his fingers, as he might have ordered any servant back in Gaurhoth.

The nér looked up, surprised and uncomfortable at being addressed by the pariah of the room, and then glanced around stupidly as if Sauron might have been addressing someone else, the bottle still clutched in his hand.

"I said, give me the bottle," Sauron snapped impatiently, his tongue dry and thick. "Do it now, Elf!"

The Elf's hand shot out fearfully, but before Sauron could seize the bottle, another hand intercepted it and snatched it back out of his reach. His brows knitting together in anger, Sauron whirled to see who had dared steal the drink from him and found Yavanna, beautiful and furious and holding his bottle. Aulë looked startled; apparently, he'd been oblivious to his surroundings until Yavanna had suddenly reached in front of him to grab the wine.

The Valië of Flora was holding the bottle so tightly it looked like it might shatter. She rose, still glaring at Sauron, drawing the attention of everyone at the head table. "How dare you!" she hissed at Sauron. "What do you think you are doing?"

A shiver of angry indignation ran the length of Sauron's spine. "I am thirsty. Am I not allowed to quench my thirst?"

"Then you will ask!"

"I just did!" Sauron grated, exasperated. A horrible notion flashed into his mind. He wasn't going to be forced to treat the Elves in the unnatural manner the rest of his kind had adopted, was he? That he would be successful at changing the behavioral choices of the other Maiar seemed unlikely, but he had not considered the possibility that he himself might be forced to join them in this perversion of order.

Aulë rose to his feet, looking confused. "Yavanna–" he began in a placating voice.

Yavanna cut her husband off by raising a single hand, palm outward, the fingers pressed so tightly together and so straight that they were trembling. "He does not need your protection, Aulë. Do not attempt to stand in front of him and protest that he does not know better or whatever other foolishness you're planning to say. He knows perfectly well what he does and I hold him fully accountable. We have granted him mercy, but on the condition that he shows some sign of repentance for the vile deeds he and his master have done. I will not stand by idly while he mistreats the Children in our care."

Sauron rose to his feet now. He was not quite as tall as Yavanna even then, but it was more a position of power than to remain seated at the table. Vaguely, he was aware that between them, he and Yavanna had attracted the attention of the entire room. "Mistreat? Are we the slaves of these Eldar now?" he protested, still shocked and horrified at this turn of events, the edges of his vision blurring in red. "Let them earn their keep. They should be filling our goblets as well as bringing them to us. They should feel honored to serve us. We are Ainur, created from the direct thoughts of Eru. We created this world. Do they not owe us everything?"

He looked around, seeking some agreement, someone who saw the same sense he did, anyone that might be moved by his smooth tongue, but every gaze that met his was hostile. He began to feel cornered, floundering, and a heavy hammerfall began beating in his chest. "What is it you ask of me? To debase myself in the same way my kindred appear to have adopted?" he demanded, anger mingling with his shock as he realized no one was going to step forward to support him. He knew why, too. It was because it was he who was saying it. If Yavanna or Aulë, or any one of the Maiar (or probably any Elf), had spoken such sentiments, they probably would have been met with instant approval. The thought that he was black-marked thus – that he would be ignored no matter how logical his words – stung like a knife in his side, even if he'd known this would happen all along. A snarl began to tug at his lips. "And you think I have been the one corrupting the order of the world?"

"How dare you? How dare you?" Yavanna's voice rose in pitch and strength. "The Eldar are not our slaves or servants. If anything, it is the other way round. Have you fallen so far as to forget the very reason for which you accepted a physical form and descended into Eä? Have you forgotten why we built this world? Our task is to guide, care for, protect, and teach the Children, not enslave them. It is you who has debased your place in Eä."

She stood, tall and fierce, and pointed her hand at the Maia. "You are not a dark lord here, Sauron. You are living on the mercy of the Valar, but Eru help me, if you refuse to bend your will, I will see to it that it is done for you!"

Her hand trembled. "Get down on your knees, beg the pardon of Lord Gilruin, and then ask for the wine like a civilized Maia. Do it immediately!"

Aulë tried to put his hand on her arm. "Yavanna, don't push him. We can discuss this later. It's not–"

Yavanna pulled her arm away, cutting him off. Her eyes were fixed on Sauron. "No, Aulë, he shall do it or face the consequences. Do it now, Abhorred One." She spat the name with such loathing that it might have been poison.

Every single eye in the hall was fixed on Sauron, waiting. He looked around at them, his chest rising and falling heavily, his breath rushing through his nostrils. His choices flashed through his mind.

Abasement was not a wholly new sensation to him. He had not been forced to fake the awe and fearful admiration with which he had served Lord Melkor, even when failure had brought him to his knees in penitence to accept his master's harsh punishments, humbling his natural pride in a cloak of dread reverence before a being a hundred times greater than himself. It had been harder to bow his head and beg the pardon of Eönwë in Middle-earth, a being of his own order, but the state of desperate terror that Oromë's howling and pursuing dogs had cast over his heart had made his obeisance easier to stomach, though even then it had been a hard-fought internal battle.

But to be asked to abase himself to a being so infinitely lesser than himself, before a roomful of Elves and Maiar; to have his pride ripped violently from him by the Valië upon whose domain he had wreaked such destruction for ages, in this her own abhorrent revenge upon him; to kneel before this Elda and ask his pardon, thus cementing the fact that he was nothing, a slave of slaves, before every other inhabitant of these Halls, who he would be forced to live among for who knew how long… In a moment of horror, rage, and terrible, boiling humiliation, he decided that the Void – oblivion itself – was better than this.

He laughed suddenly, a ringing, cruel sound of despair that echoed in the dark vault of the room and made those listening shiver as his fair mask slipped off. "Aye, the Valar have done such a fine job, my lady, with their charges," he snarled. "Is that why you banished and cursed the Noldor? Allowed the Eldar to massacre each other? Watched them die over three idiotic jewels for five hundred years without lifting a finger? Your love for them must have been so great. Why not admit it, Yavanna? The Eldar are the Valar's pampered, little pets, but it is no great loss to you if they should turn wild, at which point you kick them back out into the wilderness to tear each other apart."

He saw Aulë's mortified expression in his peripheral along with the shocked looks of the Elves and Maiar around him. His hand flickered out, quicker than lightning, and the back of his fingers caught the rim of the bottle that Yavanna still held. It flew out of her hand and smashed on the table in front of the Elf from whom he'd originally demanded it. The Elda gave a loud gasp as red liquid splattered across the front of his grey silk tunic and laced his dark hair with sticky crimson.

Sauron swept into a scornful bow directed at the nér. "Eat, drink, and be merry, Master Elf. And do enjoy your wine, my lord."

Before anyone could react, he turned on his heel and marched out the door.

Let them send him to the Void then. At least he'd do so with his dignity still intact.

Chapter Text

"Twenty-four hours, Aulë. The Sun has not yet traveled the full course of her journey once and already that monster you brought into our halls has stepped across the line. Do not presume that I shall stand aside idly and watch as he brings us to ruin!"

The slim shears in Yavanna's hands snipped fiercely at the young, potted date tree in front of her window. She cut off a dainty bloom with quick precision, letting it flutter to the floor where it joined other buds and blossoms and bits of pruned limbs at her bare feet. Her olive skin shimmered and morphed, taking on a bark-like texture before fading back into the smooth flesh of a woman in response to her strained nerves.

Aulë stood on the opposite side of their private chambers, his back to the stone wall and his arms folded across his chest as he watched his wife cautiously. "Don't make your tree suffer for your anger, Yavanna," he said in a placating voice as another large section of greenery rustled to the floor. "I'm sure it will give us some wonderful dates."

Yavanna continued clipping with furious energy. "It's needed pruning for days now. Don't pretend you know anything about my domain, Husband. And don't change the subject on me. We're discussing that seditious Maia of yours, not my date tree."

Aulë ran a hand across his face. "He's not seditious. He's troubled."

Yavanna stopped pruning for a moment to look at him with one eyebrow arched disparagingly. "Troubled? Is that the word we're using now?" She snorted. "I guess that's one way to describe it. Though personally, 'evil' is a word I think encompasses it slightly better."

Aulë let out an audible sigh and leaned his head back against the wall behind him.

"What, you do not believe I am right?" Yavanna demanded, a large patch of skin on her bare forearm flickering into a pattern like maple bark.

"I didn't say so," Aulë grunted through his beard.

"You don't need to," Yavanna answered curtly, returning to her ferocious pruning job.

The Smith scowled. "You provoked him," he growled. "You pushed him too far and he snapped, just like I said. I warned you what would happen if we backed him into a corner and–"

"And I suppose I forced him to treat the Elf like one of his cringing slaves! I suppose I put those malicious thoughts in his head!" Yavanna snapped back. "He's a monster, Aulë."

Aulë lifted his metallic eyes to the ceiling and followed the intricate patterns of the grainy granite slab to where it ended, several feet to his left. There, the ordinary room transformed into what looked like an indoor garden, with trellises covered in climbing roses and ivy for walls and ceiling. The stone floor faded into a living carpet of green moss, and several saplings, like the date tree, stood in pots beside the trellises. Blue sky peeped through the greenery curling around the ceiling. For a while, both Valar ignored each other and there was no sound but the snip-snap of the shears.

Finally, Aulë pushed himself up from the wall. "How long are we going to act like we're the enemies, my dear?" he asked wearily. "I don't want to fight you."

"And I do not wish to fight you," she answered, though without looking at him. "But I'm not backing down. The fight is your own creation. I did not wish him brought here."

Aulë sat down on the edge of their bed. "But he is here, and a day will not come when I change my belief that I did what was right. And even if he were not in our halls, he would still be in Valinor and he would still need to be dealt with."

He rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Do you know what he said to me this morning? He said we all would have been happier if he'd run in Middle-earth so that we wouldn't have had to show him mercy. Is that what you wish for, Yavanna? Do you wish he had run so that we could have condemned him straight to the Void?"

Yavanna paused, her back to him, slim and straight. "The decisions of the Valar are rarely unanimous," she replied in a low voice. "I think such a path would have been better."

Deep hurt etched itself in Aulë's face like chisel scars in stone. "Surely, you do not mean that, Yavanna," he pleaded. "I know you're angry at him. But we're in the dawn of a new Age. We've pardoned the Noldor who fought with us, we've gifted Númenór to the Edain, and Middle-earth is free for the first time since its creation. Why can't this be an Age of healing for old anger and older wounds between us and Sauron as well?"

"Healing comes from two sides. And I fear we cannot expect any help from one of those sides."

Aulë stood with a growl and began to pace, his heavy boots thumping loudly against the stone. "There will certainly be no healing if we don't give him a chance!"

Yavanna turned to face him, her knuckles white where she clutched the shears. "It is not our fault if he condemns himself. You are not bound to him, Aulë. When he betrayed you, he relinquished the bond between you, and you are not beholden in any way to him, whatever he may manipulate you into thinking. I do not trust him, not while my grass is green and the sky is blue. Yes, I see nothing but roiling evil and darkness behind his eyes, I will admit it. You have loosed a viper in these halls."

"I do not trust him either," Aulë gritted, his voice growing louder. "No further than reason. But that is why we all agreed to Bind him. We've taken his powers. If he is a viper, he is one without fangs."

Yavanna gave a peal of bitter laughter. "Perhaps his fangs are gone, but we still have a snake among us, one with a mouth full of venom. And if he cannot use fangs, I suspect he will find other ways to infect everyone around him with his poison, if his fangs are truly gone, that is. And serpents often have more than one manner of killing their victims."

Aulë shook his head, causing tangled brown locks to fall about his face, his frustration obvious. "Will you refuse to look any deeper? Can you not see what I see? He is frightened, isolated, and deeply hurt, and not all by his doing. The darkness of Melkor has been suffocating him and ripping him apart for centuries. A snake will not bite if it feels safe and content. That is all I ask for: to give him a place he can feel safe so that any healing may begin."

"A wounded snake will still bite the hand that comes near it, regardless of whether the hand intends to kill or heal it."

Aulë's large hands clenched impulsively into fists. "I didn't say the metaphor was perfect, and you're the one who brought it up in the first place. No, he's not an animal! He's a person, a rational person, and I plan on treating him like one!"

"He doesn't deserve to be treated like a person when he refuses to show the same delineation to others!"

"If we do that, we're no better than Melkor. Are we to heal him by sinking to his level? He is not the only one holding grudges. You are angry with him for what he has done to you in the past, and now you cannot see past your own hatred. I will not be blinded in the same manner!"

Yavanna threw down the shears, causing them to clatter stringently. "I am not blinded!" she shouted, her skin blushing to a mahogany-red in anger. The vines in her hair wound into knots. "And I have every right to be angry with him. I have the right to hate him. You do not understand. You cannot understand, not you, or Manwë, or the others. Rock may be split and the Earth cratered, but your work cannot ever be utterly undone. The darkness of Morgoth can cover the sky, but it cannot destroy Manwë's domain or touch Varda's stars. A thousand gallons of blood may pour into the ocean, and still Ulmo's waters may remain untainted.

"But a tree that has grown a hundred years may be reduced to nothing with a single fire or one cruel axe. It is my domain that has suffered and suffered and suffered since the beginning. The most precious of all gifts, Life itself, is also the most fragile. Thousands of my children have by annihilated at the hand of your Nauron. Do not expect me to welcome Wildfire graciously into my realm and watch it continue to ravage all I hold dear."

"He has always been the Fiery One," Aulë retorted. "You did not think so harshly of his flames before he left. You loved him once as much as I did."

Yavanna turned to the window, her chest rising and falling heavily as she struggled to compose herself. She lifted her hands and drew them through her hair, smoothing out the writhing, knotted crown of living vines. "I am willing to sacrifice my wood for a good purpose: for food, for warmth, for the creation of something beautiful. I do not begrudge you the trees that fuel your forge fires, Aulë. But I will not watch fire devour my charges for no purpose other than wanton destruction."

She clutched the window sill tightly, as if she might fall without its support. "We have sought to cleanse Arda of evil, but we have brought it back into the heart of our realm. Again."

"This was the agreement we reached, the agreement of the fourteen Valar," Aulë said in a determined attempt at encouragement. "Manwë, Námo, this was the decision we came to, the best one for everyone involved. Surely, the will of Eru is still at work in us. We must believe it is Eru's will that Sauron has returned to us."

"And was it Eru's will that we brought Melkor into our midst? If we had cast him into the Void then, the Elves would never have been poisoned with his words, Fëanor would have never sworn his Oath, Beleriand would never have sunk beneath the waves, and my Two Trees would still stand at the gates of Valmar. Our decisions are not infallible." Yavanna paused, the profile of her face lit from behind by the high afternoon light. "Manwë's decisions err on the side of what he wishes were true, instead of what actually is. As do yours, too, I fear."

"Námo agreed to this, too," Aulë said firmly. "Judgment is his domain, and surely, you cannot accuse him of an overdose of sympathy. Námo would not have agreed to pass this judgment if he truly disagreed with it."

"Yes, but it was Námo's Halls that flourished most during the reign of Morgoth, was it not?"

"Yavanna!" Aulë cried in shock. "Surely you do not believe that Námo took pleasure in seeing his Halls swollen with Elven fëa long before their time had come!"

"I did not say so," she answered. Before him, she seemed to bend like an old, weathered tree under the weight of ice. "Oh Aulë, I'm so weary of all this injury and death."

She suddenly came and rested against him and he wrapped his arms about her, drawing his fingers through her brown hair. "We all are," he murmured, "that's why we've got to try. But I fear our job will not be complete until the last battle is fought and the Second Music comes. If we had cast Melkor into the Void at the first, another evil would have arisen to torment the world in his place. It is part of the fabric of Arda Marred. But just because evil preserves does not mean we should not persevere as well."

"It seems so long ago that we came down," Yavanna whispered into his neck. She shifted in his arms. "Did Sauron speak the truth, Aulë? We have not done well with the Children under our care and yet we ask for their love and devotion. Do they see us the same way Sauron does? As tyrants? Fëanor said the same thing."

"No, of course not," Aulë replied. "We granted the Children free will – we cannot control their decisions, not without becoming the tyrants Fëanor and Sauron have called us. We can love them, but we cannot force them to do what we wish. Neither the Children nor Sauron."

He kissed the top of her head. "But our work will not be in vain, I know it."

"How?" she asked. "Sometimes all I see are uprooted trees and burning flowers."

He drew her down to the bed and they sat, side by side, his arms still about her and her cheek pressed into his broad shoulder, her long hair spilling about them both. The vines in her hair caressed his arm, winding slowly over his sleeve and about his fingers. Her skin paled and took on a birch-like texture.

"Remember what Eru told us," he murmured to her. "He said that many things will not be as we imagined them when we glimpsed them in the vision and that we would not understand many things until after the fact. How shall we ask the Children to trust our judgments if we shall not trust Eru's? We cannot go back. And I will not stop until I am utterly successful or I utterly fail. Even if every other Vala mocks my efforts, I won't stop trying to help Sauron."

Yavanna gave a tired chuckle and traced strange circular patterns against his chest with her fingers. "Why should I expect anything less from you, Husband? I suspect you feel for him sometimes less from sympathy and more from the rebelliousness of your own heart, Dwarf-Father."

Aulë smiled slightly. "Perhaps."

There was a moment of almost light fondness between them, but then Yavanna's brow creased again. "Do what you will. I will not tell you to stop your pursuit, however foolish and in vain I may perceive it. It is your time to spend, not mine."

She lifted her head and drew back from him. "But where this matter crosses into my domain, I will not sit idly by. The Dwarves have your heart, but the Elves have mine. Of all the races of Arda, their understanding of my domain runs deepest, save only for my Onodrim, and they have even granted my trees the gift of speech. I speak for the Trees and for the Elves. And if Sauron raises his hand against either, it shall be me he answers to. Let this one offense slip past him and I promise you, we will see it repeated and magnified. If he is your charge, then it is your duty to reprimand him. And if you will not do it properly, I shall, and I shall not be gentle with him."

Aulë closed his eyes briefly. "All right, I will speak to him about the matter." When Yavanna raised her eyebrow skeptically, he sighed. "And it will be a stern talk, I promise."

~o~o~o~

Sauron had fled back to the courtyard in the center of the Halls.

At one point, almost in the middle of the garden, the stone pathway arced upward into a bridge that spanned the stream where it skipped over three shallow steps, creating a burble of rapid music; here, at the crown of the bridge, Sauron leaned against the railing, one hand full of pebbles which he slowly flicked at the stream, aiming at a smooth, exposed rock in the center of the middle step. When the pebbles struck it, they ricocheted off with a harsh clap.

He stood, flinging pebbles and waiting for someone to come punish him.

And that someone would be along sooner or later to do just that was doubtless in his mind.

His heart felt heavy enough that it might just tear a hole though him and fall out. Good riddance if it does, he thought moodily. You haven't even been here twenty-four hours and you've already doomed yourself. But that's what you're good at, isn't it? And why not? Failure was what Melkor excelled in. You'd feel left out if he hadn't passed that wonderful talent on to you. That's what your life is: a rubble heap of collapsed dreams of grandeur. I'll tell you what you are: a stupid, little child building a sandcastle beneath the tideline.

He watched his distorted reflection rippling and wavering underneath him in the shadow of the bridge. He flung the rest of his pebbles down, mangling the reflection even further until it was a swirling mess of colors. His heart burned. As the reflection cleared again, his mind formed a single, searing thought directed inward. I hate you.

He turned, putting his back to the stone railing and slid down until he was sitting, his legs straddling the bridge, the toes of his boots pressed against the opposite railing. He lowered his head and buried his face in his hands.

He had given up. For that moment in the Great Hall, he had completely given up.

A shudder racked him – he had never felt anything like this before. That crushing hopelessness threatened every second to drag him under. It sucked away his energy attempting to fight it; every second seemed to be a struggle to simply survive. To find the will to draw in his next painful breath.

It would be so much easier to despair and let an end come to his tale once and for all.

Part of the struggle was the wounds in his damaged ëala, he knew. Another was the fight against that pressing bond around his essence that ensnared his powers and figuring out how to live without parts of himself that he had always taken for granted and had relied upon – perhaps too much, he was beginning to understand.

But it was more than that. It shouldn't be this hard, he thought fiercely. Infiltration, manipulation – such tools were not new to him. It had not seemed too hard a task: to keep his mouth shut and to acquiesce to the Valar's demands until such a time that he could find an advantage for his position. But how many times already had it proved beyond his control? First, he had let slip his mask in front of Aulë at the Valmar house, he had let his tongue get control of him with Eönwë in the Máhanaxar cell, words that doubtlessly Eönwë had relayed to his masters by now, and now he had lost himself and accused the Valar (however, true he believed his words to be) in front of Yavanna of all people, along with blatantly defying her. He had wished himself condemned to the Void in that moment. The thought that he could have despaired so completely as that terrified him.

He doubted he would be sent to the Void – punished, yes, but the Void seemed a harsh extreme for dousing an Elf in some wine. Though who knew… His arrogant words in accusation of the Valar and his defiance of Yavanna's direct command might be enough to condemn him completely. He had underestimated the Valar's cruelty once already. Maybe Melkor had not exaggerated about his punishments as much that night in the War of Wrath as Sauron had assumed…

A lump clogged his throat, making his still-dry tongue feel swollen, as if it were filling his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to control his composure. He did not want to go to the Void. But he did not want to live like this. He was terrified of the emptiness that had claimed his master. But he was equally terrified of the horrible humiliations the Valar were clearly bent on forcing him to suffer. If he were to repeat the scene in the Great Hall, he did not know if he could have made any other decision but the one he already had. If he was not condemned to the Void this time, the situation would only escalate until he finally did commit some offense great enough for that ultimate punishment. Unless something changed.

His mind and emotions continued to wander, aimlessly. He felt so lost. It was like being a castaway clinging to a piece of driftwood, floating along at the mercy of the ocean waves, but never able to see beyond the next white peak, only trusting to the cruelty of nature that he was heading towards something better and hopefully solid. His only hope was that vague promise of revenge he had made himself, but who was he fooling? He had no idea how he could ever achieve such a thing. Defeating the Valar, just hurting them even, seemed insurmountable tasks; in reality, there was little more chance of that than there might have been at him defeating Melkor and taking his place as Lord of Angband. And without hope for life, what was anyone more than a floundering fool just struggling to take his next breath?

Direction. He needed direction.

And suddenly, an old memory surfaced in his mind. He remembered the object clearly, a trinket his orcs had taken from a band of Elves who had scouted too close to his stronghold. The orcs had brought it to him dutifully, along with everything else looted from the Elves, just as they were always commanded to do, but the object clearly made them uneasy. 'Cursed Elf magic' his sharp ears heard them call it.

But Sauron was less superstitious and less easily daunted than his servants and he had quickly seen that the object was a work of science, not of magic.

It appeared as a medallion, perfectly round, with a smooth, glass dome over the front. Inside the dome, on the face, were four Elven runes, evenly spaced, and a single needle attached at the center. Whenever Sauron turned, the needle would quiver and adjust itself to its changed position, so that it always pointed in the same direction.

It was many years before Sauron would learn to call that object a compass, but he had immediately seen the use of the small, strange medallion, even if he did not fully comprehend its workings. It was particularly useful to the servants of Morgoth who were constantly shrouded under a haze of darkness, where neither sun nor stars could be used to determine direction. With it, one could not lose his way, no matter how dark it grew or how confused he became with his surroundings. It was a powerful tool.

All of a sudden, Sauron realized he needed a compass.

Not a real compass, of course, for in Valinor, East, West, North, and South were clear as the blue sky itself. No, what he needed was a compass for his heart and mind.

He needed something he knew he could achieve. He needed to know without a doubt what he wanted. He needed a strategy that he could work steadily towards and bend all his actions and thoughts around. He needed a goal.

It made sense now. The horrible feeling of disorientation along with his inability to make proper choices, his bursts of panic and fierce emotion, his sense of hopeless entrapment, his despair. As long as he simply continued to flounder along, buffeted by the waves of Fate, there was little chance that he would ever find solid ground again. He needed a plan of action to focus all his burning energy, hate, rage, and pain upon. If he was not able to focus it on that, his emotions would find other outlets to release themselves, as he'd just learned at the lunch table. If he could not find something to set his hope upon, despair would be his only companion until it destroyed him utterly.

He leaned his head back against the bridge wall, staring straight up into the unclouded sky. He was the Black Captain of Morgoth, or had been. Strategy was second nature to him. He needed to think of this as just some new mission for Morgoth. He'd done it before. Infiltrated the dwellings of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, slipping on carefully constructed masks to help him fulfill whatever end he sought. Information, assassination, betrayal – he had achieved them all. Sometimes he'd had months to prepare, carefully going over reports from spies or spying himself in order to learn as much about his foes as he could before mingling with them; other times, he'd been forced to rely on his talents of improvisation. This needed to be no different. He just needed a goal he knew he could achieve.

He frowned, rubbing the back of his head gently against the smooth stones. That was easier said than done, which was probably the reason the thought had eluded him thus far. What was there still to achieve? At this point, what did he even want? His goal of vengeance was much too vague for his current purpose. He needed something tangible, even if it was just a step towards his larger goal, something to which he could immediately set his will.

His frown deepened and his eyes darkened. Overthrowing the Valar and taking Valinor in Morgoth's name, or even better, his own name was the most satisfying fantasy, but it was just that – a fantasy. There was nothing remotely achievable about it. Even Melkor had not attempted to go down that path. In Middle-earth, setting up his own rival Valinor might have been a viable option, but not here under the watchful eyes of the Valar themselves.

There was the option of returning to Middle-earth. He allowed his thoughts to slowly caress the idea. It would be terribly difficult, but nothing was going to be easy. It had been Melkor's ultimate goal when he'd been in a similar situation, but Melkor had had something waiting for him back in Middle-earth; Sauron had kept Angband alive and ready during those years, and multitudes of Melkor's lesser servants had survived the Valar's attack. Sauron knew better than to assume there was anything waiting for him back in Endor now; the Valar had been much more thorough this time in their destruction of Morgoth's realm. Sauron guessed he was not the only survivor – it was hard to believe the Valar had hunted and killed every single orc and demon that had fled the vast kingdom of Morgoth throughout Beleriand – but he had seen the ruin with his own eyes and it had not been good. Gothmog, Ancalagan – all Morgoth's most powerful servants – had fallen. He could not trust that any cowering orcs that might have escaped would be secretly rebuilding the power of Evil, especially with Morgoth gone for good and he himself out of the picture. If he returned to Middle-earth, he'd be starting from scratch.

Plus, he'd have all of Valinor after him. If he'd run at the first, instead of going to Eönwë, he might have had a chance to slip past Oromë's hunters and hide until the Valar forgot about him. Morgoth had been their main goal, and in the confusion of the war, they might have dismissed himself as either lost in action or not important enough to pursue through the wastes of Middle-earth.

Now, however, he'd shown himself to them and their focus had turned to him. Now that Morgoth had been removed, he was their biggest threat as Morgoth's Black Captain and most influential servant. If he ran, he had no doubt he'd be pursued, and it would be doubly hard to attempt rebuilding while being dogged by angry Valar. They would think twice about letting him slip from their grasp after Melkor had wreaked such havoc after doing the exact same thing. It would be nice if the Valar were stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, but he doubted they were.

And he'd have to do everything without the aid of his powers.

That thought increased the painful lump in his throat. He was already feeling steadier than he had yesterday, but he was a long way from adjusting to his Bound state. It was quite possible that he would never fully adjust. And why should he? It was not natural. It was as if he was dealing with an amputation, as if he'd just lost his right hand or perhaps his leg. He felt crippled just without the abilities of a normal Maia, not to mention without the extra powers he'd gained under Morgoth.

He pushed away the thought of escaping to Middle-Earth, but tucked it away in some corner of his mind. It was not a completely hopeless proposition. If he could find no better option, it might be worth returning to eventually.

He turned his mind back to this new thought. He wanted his powers back. That was something concrete, something there was no doubt he desired fiercely. He did not believe for a moment that the Valar had any intentions of giving them back to him of their own free will. He might bow and scrape at their feet for an age without presenting any kind of threat and he doubted they would return a single power. He wouldn't, if he were in their position. They'd seen what happened with Melkor when they'd been lenient with him. Surely, they wouldn't be foolish enough to grant his power back once they'd managed to wrench it away.

He carefully prodded that unmovable barrier deep in his ëala. He had no idea whether there was any chance of breaking it or removing it on his own. It seemed unlikely. The Valar were much more powerful than he was – that was a fact he was not about to dispute. Even a single one of the lesser Valar, Vána or Nessa, was probably more powerful than he was – especially right now in his Bound state.

The more intriguing question was whether or not he could regain them artificially without having to actually break that daunting barrier. Morgoth had been able to graft powers into him that were not naturally his; could he still do something of a similar nature, thus gaining new powers without having to actually access the old ones? Was there any way he could recreate, compensate, for what he had lost?

He drew his fingers thoughtfully through his hair. Now, that was something to think about. Of course, he did not have Morgoth to give him powers directly and he'd never achieved such a thing on his own without Morgoth's aid. But Morgoth was gone and there were no higher powers that would consider helping him with it now. But the fact that he did not know the answers to his questions was itself hopeful. There was at least a chance of a positive answer and subsequent success.

It would greatly improve his lot; he was much too helpless in his current state. If he could somehow get his powers back, then he could really start considering other options, a great deal more of which would open themselves up to him. It was a viable plan for striking back at the Valar, whatever way he decided to achieve it, in addition to bettering and protecting himself. Plus, if he figured out a way, it would be highly satisfying on multiple levels.

If he knew that he was working on a plan to regain his powers, that revenge could and would be his, he was confident that he would be able to choke down his pride and emotions enough to get along. He replayed the scene from the Great Hall in such a scenario. There was almost enough twisted irony in the situation – begging the pardon of an Elf while secretly knowing that shortly he himself would be bringing said Elf to ruin – that the scene took on an almost pleasurable glow.

He stood and slowly walked down the bridge, continuing on along the path, his eyes flickering across the colorful beds of flowers without really looking at them. He was already feeling better, stronger, more confident in himself. Now that he had something to do with his mind, to focus his energy upon, something to distract him from the humiliations of his painful present, he felt like he might be able to cope. He just needed a plan.

Work with what you know, he told himself. And what he knew was strategy, war, and battle plans, things that had filled his life for thousands of years. This is all just a game, he chanted to himself. A game of war. I am not going to lose. A contest of wills. A contest of wills…

A memory flickered through his thoughts and with it, a streak of phantom pain. It was from a collection of memories he did not often allow into his mind – lingering on it overlong was not safe – but it had its uses all the same.

A contest of wills. The price of losing. A will of iron.

He suspected that every servant of Melkor had faced the same experience at some time or another, but it was not something that was discussed outside of that single dark room in Utumno, early in Melkor's reign. No one asked and no one told. But Sauron had been able to look into the eyes of his peers and see it there, though he guessed that he himself had been subjected to far more than any other servant of the Dark Vala. Sauron, after all, had been Melkor's prize Captain. And Melkor had always had odd, and usually painful, ways of showing his favor.

A shudder rippled through his body. He remembered, perhaps better than was good for him.

His hands were chained with black iron, his legs shackled in a similar manner. A band of cold metal pressed around his ribs, holding him immobile. It was freezing in that dark room, more of a cave, deep underground in the recesses of Utumno, but he was not sure whether he was shivering from that, fear, pain, or a combination of all three.

He felt vulnerable, more vulnerable than he had ever felt in his life before. How absurd the ease with which this physical form could be rendered so helpless.

"Please." His sob was raspy. "Please, Master, no more. I can't take any more."

"No more?" Melkor's soft, deep voice sifted through the darkness to his right. "I know you don't understand now, little Maia, but you will later on. You will understand the gift that I am granting to you. You will thank me then for pressing you to your limits and beyond."

The Dark Vala stepped forward again, and the ruddy light of the torches behind him fell on the slim, curved blade he held in his hand as he touched the tip of it to Sauron's flesh, causing the Maia to attempt flinching back from the sharp coldness. But it was useless, just as useless as it had been every time he'd tried it for this last immeasurable length of time.

His voice had gone hoarse from screaming already, but that did not stop him from continuing to do so again as the blade resumed its terrible work. It danced patterns in his flesh, painted swirling designs that might have been beautiful if they were not done in his own blood. His panic and loathing were magnified by his awareness of Melkor's pleasure, that he was the Dark Vala's newest masterpiece in this black form of Melkor's art. He screamed, pleaded for the end, begged, tried to twist away from the agony, offered anything and everything to his master's service in exchange for release. He was still young and his life in Almaren had not been particularly strenuous; never before had he been forced to face anything like this. Even the dreams of innocent Mairon could not have conjured a world that contained this much pain.

But he had always been a quick learner. It was not long before he discovered that when he cried out, the blade bit deeper, when he pleaded for his agony to lessen, it doubled, when he screamed for the end, the sessions dragged on. He learned to choke back his screams, no matter how badly it hurt. He learned never to plead, to keep his emotions locked tight inside himself, to never trust to mercy, to hate and fear in silence, to bend all his will towards reaching the end of this with his sanity still intact. He made himself mental promises of grandeur and extravagant pleasures, he sang himself silent songs of power, he imagined his position with Melkor reversed and that cruel blade in his own hand – whatever it took to survive the next second.

Melkor had been pleased. "Good, good," he said, lifting the knife momentarily. "You will do well, the best, in my service."

Sauron closed his eyes, hoping that this lesson was finished, but not allowing his hope to show on his face or penetrate into his heart.

Melkor leaned over him, placing the very tip of the long knife against Sauron's stomach. He pressed down, almost gently, just piercing the skin and causing a trickle of blood to slide over the Maia's pale skin. An automatic tremor ran through Sauron that he could not quite hide – there was just something so terribly vulnerable about that soft flesh of his belly.

"I will teach you to fight," Melkor purred, his voice still incongruously calm and quiet. "I will give you the gift of a will of iron. You will be strong, stronger than ever you imagined under that fool, Aulë. No one shall break you. In a contest of wills, you will be the victor."

The blade twisted.

Rank sweat beaded Sauron's brow. His fingers twitched impulsively as he fought to maintain his control, as he struggled not to let his will break.

"Fight," Melkor hissed. "Pain will make you strong. You have only yourself to hate. You have only yourself to defeat you."

A ritual, this had become a ritual of silence and pain, a contest against himself. But the knife continued its horrific dance through his flesh, and finally a single sound burst from his lips to break the silence of that room in a soft sob.

Melkor paused and lifted the blade, then reached out and cupped the side of Sauron's face as the Maia's head lulled sideways, exhausted. "Sauron," he said, gently almost, "remember, you will thank me later for this. This is our little personal contest of wills, to make you what you are meant to be. You must never back down. You must never give up. If you already know who the victor is, you cannot lose. Who will win? Tell me, who will win, Sauron?"

Sauron struggled to keep his breathing steady, but his voice shook. "You will win, Master."

Melkor removed his hand and chuckled. "A good answer. A very good answer. You've learned well. Yes, I will always win our little contests. That is only right. But should you go up against any other than me, there will be no one who can defeat you, my wolf, my dark one, if you do not defeat yourself. You will be my Black Captain. You will be strong and cruel, and I will have made you so."

"Nauron?"

The voice snapped Sauron back to the present. He realized his heart was pounding a little too swiftly and his eyes were pressed closed. He was bending over something, his hands gripping stone. Quickly, he opened his eyes and straightened, finding himself clinging to one of the decorative walls of stone lining the paths. Turning, he saw Aulë walking towards him with a concerned expression.

Sauron smoothed out his countenance. It was not a pleasant memory he had recalled, but Melkor had been right. Sauron had within himself a will of iron to call upon. It was time he did so. Melkor had said that no other would be able to defeat him in a contest of wills; now it was time to put that promise to the test. It was time to see if his new compass worked.

This was his new battle plan. He needed to seek a way that he could regain his powers and in the meantime, he needed to put his mind to reconnaissance. It was the first thing one did when infiltrating an enemy stronghold: figuring out where each person fit into his strategy. The biggest threats, potential allies, minions who could be conveniently ignored or used as his plans demanded. Until he figured out where each and every person around him fell into his schemes, he needed to remain aloof and cautious. He must lock everything away inside until he knew how to use it. He must not let his will be broken again, least of all by himself.

As Aulë walked the last few steps towards him, Sauron delved deep inside his will, finding that same strength he had constructed so long ago in the dark room in Utumno. He summoned the iron resolve Melkor's blade had cut into him, deeper simply than his flesh. He blocked off the world, this world of pain that Melkor had taught him to see and fight, and set his mind on the goal he had given himself. I am going to get my powers back. And then they all will pay.

Perhaps Aulë saw that some barrier had gone up in Sauron's eyes for he did not speak immediately, instead leaning his forearms against the top of the stone wall and gazing across the bed of deep purple irises, sunset-orange lilies, and tulips as red as blood. Sauron set his back against the same wall, his arms folded, his eyes gazing blankly in the opposite direction.

Aulë glanced at his former apprentice then let out a long heavy sigh. "Yavanna wants me to deal with you."

Sauron gave him a look out of the corner of his eyes but did not move his head.

"I'm not going to punish you, not at the moment," Aulë continued. "I sincerely hope none of us ever have to. I realize that you have been living very…differently…from us for a long time now, and I don't expect you to get everything perfect your first time, even if Yavanna expects otherwise. But, since I am granting you leniency, I do expect you to learn from your mistakes. The first time is just that – a mistake – but it will be on your head if it happens again."

He tipped his head slightly to the side, trying to gauge Sauron's reaction. "Do you understand me, Nauron?"

Sauron jerked his head in a quick nod of affirmation.

Aulë nodded as well, though still watching the Maia closely. "I know Melkor taught you to treat the Children as no more than animals, as less than animals, and I don't expect you to shake off that notion in a day. We're not asking you to befriend any of them, we're not even asking you to interact with them if you don't want to. If you like, I can make sure they all leave you alone for the time being, though I don't think that should be a problem now. But we do ask that you recognize them as the Children of Eru. We are the work of Eru's thoughts, and they are the work of Eru's hands. We are bound to them as long as we are bound to Eä itself."

He paused, giving Sauron the chance to speak, but when Sauron continued to stare silently into the middle distance, he went on. "In four days, you're going to start working at the quarry. I know it must seem lowly work for a goldsmith, but see it as an opportunity. You'll be given the chance to work by yourself, if that is what you wish, but there will be many Eldar present, working as well. All we ask is that you give them a chance, observe them, get used to being around them, not as slaves, but as citizens of Valinor and people, real people."

He gave a quiet chuckle. "I know some of them can be quite stubborn and quite frankly, annoying, but they really aren't that bad." He glanced again into Sauron's face. "They are not always so different from us. In fact, I truly believe that if there comes a time when you can give them a chance, there are many of them that would suit your company extraordinarily well," he ended with a smile, his tone purposefully light.

The smile melted away in the face of Sauron's continued unresponsiveness. Aulë turned fully to face him, a frown tugging at the edges of his beard. "So, are you not talking to me now, Sauron? You had plenty to say at the table."

"And I saw how well it was received," Sauron replied without looking at him, his face still an emotionless mask.

Aulë drew his fingers once through the tangled bramble of his beard. His eyes followed the flight of a bluebird as it flitted between two of the trees lining the garden before his gaze returned to his Maia. "Sauron," he said seriously, "I want to make this clear: I'm not here to reprimand you for what you said about us at the table, only how you treated the Elf. How you treated Lord Gilruin was one thing, but speaking what is in your mind and heart is another. No, perhaps in front of the entire population of my Halls was not perfect timing, but you have the right to tell us what you think, to tell me. In fact, I want you to tell me.

"You're angry, you're bitter – I understand that. I would be suspicious if you weren't, considering recent circumstances. We've been on enemy sides for centuries, and I realize we just destroyed your home and everything you had and knew. Of course, you're angry with us. I expect you to be. But we can all get over that if we handle this properly."

He reached out and put his hand on Sauron's forearm. Sauron tensed visibly, but he did not shake him off. "I'd rather you ranted and raved to me then closed up to us. We're not the enemy anymore, Nauron. We allowed Melkor to simmer in his own hatred and anger with no outlet for it for three ages and the results tore open the very foundations of Arda. We don't want that for you. Please, tell me. If you're angry, tell me. If you hate me, tell me. You won't be punished for anything you say or believe. We can't say we want you to get rid of those feelings and then punish you for not keeping them bottled up. You can say anything you need to say to me without fear. Scream if you like, rant, accuse – I will listen to every word and answer as best I can."

His hand tightened fractionally around Sauron's arm and his gaze intensified. "Do you have anything you want to say? Anything at all? I'm listening."

Sauron looked back at him, allowing himself for a moment to sink in the swirl of silver-gold eyes. The offer was violently tempting: to unleash his storm of emotions and pain. They were built up in his chest and throat almost like some tangible matter, and the thought of releasing them seemed like it might be as relieving as vomiting a bellyful of poisoned food. He believed the sincerity of Aulë's offer, as well – the Smith was neither subtle nor cruel enough to deceive him in this manner. Just looking into Aulë's eyes, he could see the flicker of hopefulness and innocent yearning for all to be made well. Aulë truly wanted to help him.

But the contest was still on. The battle plans were laid. Defeat was inevitable when one strayed from his set strategy. Even if Aulë did not mean him direct harm, who knew what damage could come from spilling his heart? Aulë was but one piece in this intricate game of war, and even if the Smith was not aware of the game being played, it would still be a grievous loss if Sauron let his will crack now.

He was not going to defeat himself again.

So instead, he hardened the wall around his will between himself and Aulë, just as he had done in the face of Melkor's torture. It had been just as tempting to cry out then as it was to let loose his emotions now. But what had he learned from Melkor? When he screamed, when he pleaded, when he showed his weakness, the knife always bit deeper and crueler.

The shifting ground, the tossing waves, on which he stood hardened just a little.

There were still truths he could trust to. This was the same world he had always lived in, even if its foundations had been uprooted, and some things were immutable, regardless of whether or not Melkor was here to drive them home.

I'm going to get my powers back, he chanted in his mind like a mantra. I have to find a way to get my powers back. Those words slowly drowned out everything else.

He looked back at Aulë who was still gazing at him with that hopeful, attentive expression, inviting Sauron to break, tempting him to lose. A flicker of almost amused scorn flashed through his mind. Melkor had been right, as usual. He, Sauron, was going to win this contest of wills. To give up now was to lose everything. And he had a goal now.

There was another thing Melkor had been right about: in a whisper of thought, Sauron mentally thanked his former master for this gift, this strength born of pain to fight.

He met Aulë's eyes, his face smooth. "No," he said in a voice equally smooth, "no, there is nothing I wish to say."

Chapter Text

Aulë was gone, returned to whatever other daily tasks demanded the attention of a Vala, back to his elegant halls of stone and the mingled throngs of Maiar and Elves that he oversaw, leaving Sauron alone once again in the near-silence of the garden. The day had drawn on, and all he could see of the sun was a golden glow at the sharp line of the western roof against the sky, where the halls rose seven stories to block off the heavens from his view in that direction.

It had been a long and tiresome campaign – the will of the Smith set against the will of the Black Captain. Aulë had prattled on at length, extoling the healing virtues that Sauron would discover if he confronted his problems here and now, if they discussed these painful issues in the open and the light like sensible, rational people, if Sauron was willing to actively search for some reconciliation in this difficult situation in which they all found themselves. When benign lecturing had failed, Aulë had resorted to further cajoling, attempting to coax Sauron into re-opening his mind and heart with promises of privacy to everything he said, reassurances against any punishments, and nauseating attempts to understand what Sauron was feeling.

It was this last method that had irked Sauron the most, when Aulë had gone on blathering something about the dwarves, Eru, and forgiveness. Sauron knew the story – the incident had occurred before Sauron officially betrayed and abandoned the Valar, though at that time, Aulë and Yavanna had both kept rather mum about the issue. But still, Aulë's point was clear enough: that wrongs, even acts of defiance and rebellion, could be rectified and washed out like a dirty garment in clear water if properly addressed. Nothing could be marred beyond healing if humility and forgiveness were present and both sides were willing to come to an agreement. Sauron could still have what Aulë had found in the delightful gratification of Eru's boundless mercy.

Sauron had not given much consideration of late to his Maker, from whose thoughts his ëala had been woven. Ilúvatar had not shown any inclination to interfere, either on the side of Melkor or for his other Valarin children, and so Sauron had given Eru as much thought as he figured Eru probably gave him. When Aulë spoke of the All-father's forgiveness, his eyes lit up and his adoration was clear in his voice, but Sauron felt more inclined personally to roll his eyes. In his opinion, the less Eru thought about him, the better. He was quite all right with both of them continuing to ignore one another, for if Eru's thoughts strayed to him, Sauron was fairly sure forgiveness and compassion would not be at the top of Eru's list for how to deal with him.

And that was the heart of the matter. Even now, thinking back on Aulë's words, Sauron wasn't sure which he felt more strongly: angry contempt or scornful amusement. As if Aulë's brief dabbling at the very edge of the shadows, followed by his passionate wave of contrition and humility, could even begin to compare with Sauron's deep betrayal and long years of violent opposition against everything for which the Valar stood. It was truly ridiculous, made even more contemptible by the fact that Sauron knew this was Aulë's last-ditch effort at trying to find some way, any way, to relate him. If that was truly Aulë's intention, then it had had the exact opposite effect: it had only managed to show the true depth and width of the chasm that separated Sauron from every other being in this cursed paradise of Valinor. There were few beings less like Sauron than Aulë.

The Smith had spoken of Ossë's brief rebellion as well, which sent a flicker of the same amused scorn mingled with anger through Sauron. The water Maia, and his hasty pardon, were on the low end of Sauron's chain of respect. He himself had had a hand in the corruption of Ossë, though even then he had known the chaotic Maia's disposition well enough that he suspected it wouldn't be long before he went blubbering back to his former masters, apologies spilling from his lips as effusively as the waves crashing against his rocky beaches. Of course he had been forgiven. He had tossed the ocean about a bit, sloshed some of Ulmo's water up onto Aulë's lands, maybe knocked over one or two of Yavanna's precious trees – such deeds could hardly be compared to the treachery of Sauron. Any given day in the Black Captain's centuries-long career probably contained more darkness and violence than Ossë's entire rampage.

So Aulë and Ossë had been pardoned, forgiven, and redeemed. So what? He shared with them acts of rebellion – however pathetic the comparison might be – but there was one glaring difference in his situation with theirs. They had both come crawling back before their masters, weeping their remorse, begging to be forgiven and taken back in. Sauron had not.

Or had he? He didn't like thinking about his meeting with Eönwë, had tried his best to avoid wondering what might have happened if he'd run, and if he'd done what was best for himself in surrendering. His emotions, with fear at the foremost, had been running high that night, and his mind had been muddled at the best. He recalled that he had asked Eönwë for his pardon and that the sentiment had been sincere (as well as he had understood what "pardon" meant to him at the time), even if the tongue that fear had given him had done all the speaking. During that time, some old quality, some trait that might have better suited Mairon the apprentice smith, had made its appearance: a genuine exhaustion with the turmoil of his life and a yearning to find some peace, some gentle, long rest, after so many years of violence, pain, and endless struggles. In some moment of revelation, he had realized he'd never before lived in a world completely devoid of war or the threat of war. It had seemed almost wasteful.

Carefully, keeping mental leashes tethered tightly around his thoughts, Sauron let his mind wander down a path he had not really contemplated since that night. What would happen if he did try? Not simply bowing his head and lying as low as he could until such a time that he could discover a means of revenge, but actually trying to fit into this new world? Accepting the Valar's words that he had done evil things and doing what he could to clean his slate before the eyes of everyone who mattered? Was it truly possible that he could ever be forgiven, redeemed, and re-assimilated as Aulë and Ossë had been? Was there any path that led indeed to that rest he had sought the day he came to Eönwë?

What a pretty fantasy, Sauron. Perhaps while you're feeling so sentimental, you should go smell the roses.

Sauron yanked on his mental leash, hauling his thoughts back as the mocking voice jabbed into him like a dagger of reason. He lashed out at the voice with his own thoughts. Of course I wasn't considering it as I path I might actually follow! I have my plan and I will stick to it. But am I not allowed to think whatever I want? To recognize all options and paths? Is that not what a good war leader does?

There was an eerie silence and Sauron suddenly realized he was having a mental argument with himself. If that cruel, mocking voice was truly just another part of himself… He could not help noticing how much it sounded like…

No, Melkor's gone. There's only me now.

And he had had no reason to lie to himself. Contemplation of such an option was simply no more than recognizing all possible paths forward, even the ridiculous ones that could be crossed off the list as soon as they had been conceived. That day with Eönwë he had allowed himself to be momentarily defeated by his own flight of fancy, further strengthened by the additional whim that he might have a chance to return to his apprenticeship, but his mind was adamant now. Aulë had not been able to shake his compass with all his words of forgiveness and healing, and Sauron had no thought of wavering from his set plans.

I'm going to get my powers back.

And, at any rate, Aulë was wrong. Even if Sauron was somehow able to curb his pride and temper enough to seek reconciliation as Aulë understood it, it would not matter. Yes, Aulë would accept him, but then again, Aulë already did. What was the point of abasing himself to gain from Aulë what he already had? There were others too, doubtlessly, that would be willing to move on to a fresh start with him if he somehow dredged up true remorse in his spirit – Manwë, Nienna, Este and Irmo, maybe even some of the other Maiar and Elves.

But they would be a pitiful minority. No matter what Sauron did, no matter how deeply and truly he felt it, he had long lost the chance to have what Aulë and Ossë had found. Yavanna had shown that, hadn't she, and the Elves at the docks? Most of the inhabitants of Valinor were as little ready to forgive Sauron as he was to forgive them. Even if everyone about him was someday able to keep their thoughts hidden from him and their faces and eyes closed from his piercing gaze, he would still know. He was irrevocably the traitor, the one who had betrayed Valar, Maiar, and Children alike, the Black Captain of the greatest enemy of Arda, a monstrous being that was the living stuff of Elven nightmares. He bore the truth of it in his very name; as long as 'sauron' remained a part of the Elven vocabulary, he would bear the mark of the Abhorred One like a brand on his forehead. As long as history was remembered, his place in it was set in stone.

In Gaurhoth, in Angband, carrying out Melkor's commands and living among others of a like mind, he had never wavered in his thought that he was on the right side and doing what needed to be done and should be done; here, surrounded by people who shunned him, hated him, or tried to get him to change his ages-long beliefs, it was impossible to escape the fact that he was the marked villain of this tale in the eyes of all around him and he always would be.

Any path of true redemption was no more than an illusion. Even if he truly sought it with all his heart, he would never be allowed to live anything like a normal life in Valinor, a life of peace, escape, rest…

Well, it appears it is fortunate that's not what I want.

Abruptly, Sauron pulled his thoughts back to the present; his mind had been meandering for long enough already. Aulë's fanciful ideas were not worth the time he had already spent thinking about them.

He was still standing at the low wall by the bed of lilies and irises where Aulë had spoken with him. Setting his feet to the path once again, he set his mind to the dilemma before him. How to get his powers back when the Valar were determined that they should be kept from him? It was an enigma to be sure, but he had faced challenging situations before that required both ingenuity and a healthy dose of creativity. The fact that he was perfectly willing to break the rules and play as dirty as needed helped the situation, as well. If he was the villain, he might as well take advantage of it.

The Valar had robbed him of his powers, but there were some things they could not take from him: the sharp mind that Melkor's various tasks had whetted for centuries, the innate curiosity mingled with his unique sense of artistic inventiveness, the piercing perceptiveness with which he could read the thoughts and moods of those around him, and the exquisite fána in which he was clothed coupled with the beguiling charm he could weave around a receptive victim. Any or all of those assets could still prove useful to him as long as he stepped carefully.

It would be a dangerous dance, but danger had long ago become a part of daily life for one who infiltrated enemy strongholds, led armies and fought the battles of his master, rooted out traitors and spies, and bred monsters in wolf, dragon, and spider forms. If he strayed too far to the one side – keeping too low a profile and thereby arousing the Valar's suspicions – his plans might be discovered, but if he strayed too far in the opposite direction – challenging the Valar's authority – he was doomed to be punished for it eventually. But it was something to do, other than sitting about in flower gardens dreading his next encounter with an Elf or Yavanna.

Where to start? Where could he begin formulating a plan to regain his powers, be it breaking the Valar's Bindings or finding a way to artificially recreate or graft in new powers, when he was not even sure if such a thing was possible? When there was unquestionably no one he could go to who would possibly help him willingly?

No one who would help him willingly…

Maybe he didn't need someone who would help him willingly. Maybe he needed someone who would give him information regardless of whom he was and what he wanted it for. Someone neutral, someone who would never even know he had sought their intelligence, someone who could never reveal to others that he had come to them for help…

Books!

Instantly, the memory of that huge library gallery, filled to the ceiling with rows of books, sailed back into his mind. His heart leapt at the thought of all that knowledge ripe for the gathering, regardless of whom the gatherer might be, even a defeated dark lord.

Who knew what arcane knowledge such rows of tomes might hold? Minds of craft and power had labored here for ages now – Aulë, Mahtan, the maker of the Silmarilli, Fëanor, himself! It was doubtful whether such master smiths had written down their achievements and discoveries themselves, but who knew what others had recorded for them. He had been isolated from Valinor and any new knowledge gathered there since the Spring of Arda, except for any information he'd been able to glean from Noldorin prisoners. It had been a long time since his apprenticeship. He had learned much on his own in the forges of Melkor (much of which would probably be banned in Valinor) but he was not above learning new skills from the knowledge and talents of others. At this point, any knowledge gained could potentially prove useful.

It was not long before Sauron found his way back to the library. After only one wrong turn that took him back towards the dormitory wing, he found his way to the tall doors carved with Tengwar runes across the top – i Parmarmard – with a carving of a great tree beneath. Each of the fourteen branches were carved with smaller runes and a symbol: a crescent moon, a sea wave, a harp, an eagle, and many others. The fourteen branches of knowledge, each centered around one of the fourteen Valar.

The fourteen branches, not fifteen. Of course, it was no surprise that Melkor did not have an acknowledged branch on the Valar's tree. After all, there would probably be precious little knowledge in such a branch that the Valar would want available as general information to any who entered the library. They would hardly want the Elves to pass their time reading about black sorcery and how one created orcs, not that the Valar knew anything about such pursuits to begin with.

He opened the door and slipped quietly into the Hall of Books. The sun was coming in the opposite row of windows high above on the western wall now, illuminating the wall before him. He reached out and touched the symbol carved into the nearest pillar: the wave. He was in the gallery devoted to Ulmo's branch of knowledge: the waters, sailing, boatbuilding, the creatures of the ocean, and apparently everything else that had to do with Ulmo's domain. Not what he wanted at the moment.

He moved along the galleries, each a large square alcove in the Parmarmard, looking for the symbols on the pillars at the entrance to each alcove. The crescent moon of Varda's domain, the harp of music, memory, dream, and the fëa indicating Irmo's alcove, and the fist that marked Tulkas' domain of athletics, the hröa, and fánar – each Sauron paused to examine before moving steadily on.

There were a few Elves in some of the alcoves, though not nearly as many as there had been that morning. He noticed a distinct difference in most of their attitudes from the morning, however. When he passed by, most of them glanced up at him automatically from their books, their eyes caught by his movement, but as soon as they realized who he was, they quickly averted their gazes and hunched back over their tomes. A few gave him hostile stares before they ignored him and returned to their reading, and after he passed, he heard some get up and leave the library altogether, their feet pattering back down the hall towards the door. Either Aulë had spoken to all the Elves jointly as he had said he would at Sauron's bidding, or the Eldar had taken the hint for themselves. He still wished they could be restricted to only certain parts of the Halls, thus meaning he could stay clear of them altogether, but if they were going to be around, it felt better not having them staring unashamedly at him like he was an exotic animal – it was much easier to ignore them when they returned the favor.

He found what he was looking for at the northern end of the Parmarmard. The entire hall was essentially rectangular, but each end – north and south – fanned out into a semi-circular, extra-large gallery with a curved balcony half-way up the wall with wooden stairs winding up to it. Sauron skimmed his fingers over the symbol carved in the pillar – a mountain ridge. The gallery of Aulë. He guessed that the opposite end of the hall, the other larger gallery, was the one devoted to Yavanna's domain.

There were seven tables with chairs, as well as long soft couches and single armchairs in which to curl up inside the gallery. Only one of these couches was occupied already, and Sauron scowled at the occupants – a youthful Elven nér with dark hair that just curled around his ears sitting beside a nís with the long silvery-blonde hair that was common among the Teleri and Sindar. They both looked up in surprise at him as he came to stand in the entrance to the gallery, but the young man's scowl soon matched Sauron's. He took his companion by the wrist and both of them left abruptly, the man shooting Sauron a murderous look, bequeathing the Maia with the privacy he sought.

Ladders leaned against the wall to reach the books on the higher shelves. Sauron tilted his head back and spun in a slow circle, taking in the sight of all those books. He could not help the feeling of slow awe that crept through his chest. Melkor had not been particularly fond of books, and though Sauron had maintained a small library in Gaurhoth for his own personal use, all his tomes together would probably not have filled a single shelf in just one of the Parmarmard's galleries.

This might take a while, Sauron thought blankly, his mind still overwhelmed with the full impact of how much knowledge this single room contained. Who knew what he might learn! Suddenly, a rush of excitement flushed his cheeks with heat. Surely, somewhere in all these books, there had to be an answer to his question, a solution to his problem. Perhaps it would not be a direct answer, but he was sure he would know it when he saw it.

For the first time since he'd landed in Valinor the previous afternoon, for the first time since he'd left Middle-earth even, he felt a distinct sense of purpose and with it, a thrill of determination. His other woes were not gone, but now he had something tangible to do, the first step in his plan. He felt steady, stable in a way he had not known since Melkor's world crumbled beneath his feet. Happiness, even satisfaction, were yet beyond his reach, but he felt like he just might still be able to control his own destiny.

And when I find what I'm looking for, let the Valar beware!

He pulled the first book off the shelf, folded himself into one of the armchairs, and began to read, blocking out everything except the words in his hands.

~o~o~o~

Three hours had passed perhaps since Sauron entered the Hall of Books. In that time, he had skimmed his way through the same number of books, all on different methods of forging. There was little in them that he had not already known, and only the last one even touched on the concept of forging objects of power, though the author had made it clear that this could only truly be achieved through the power of the maker himself. This, Sauron had already surmised, but with his own powers Bound, he could not use his own abilities to enhance any object he forged in such a way. He had hoped there might be a way around this limitation as several ideas had been forming in his mind. Could he perhaps compensate for his own loss of powers by using the power of another Maia, or even a Vala, in some forged object? Or, could he somehow manipulate another person into forging some object of power for him while still Binding the final object's powers to his own ëala? None of the books had answered these questions, but he tried not to let himself feel discouraged or impatient, realizing there were still many, many books to go.

He slipped Of the Art of Metalcraft in Valinor back into its slot on the bottom shelf and began to reach for the next book – An Account of the Knowledge of Noldorin Jewelsmithing and the Making of White, Yellow, and Silver Gems – but with a sigh, he reclined in his chair instead, letting his head fall back until it rested on the chair top so that he was looking straight up at the ceiling. His neck hurt from craning over large books propped in his lap and his eyes felt dry. His throat was scratchy too, as if he'd swallowed a large portion of the dust coating each book. It was time to do something else for a while.

He stood up and stretched, noting that he could no longer see the sun through the western windows. The afternoon was waning, and he guessed there were probably only a few hours at the most left until supper was served at seven. That thought made his stomach curl into a knot. He might be feeling better than he had that morning, but he was still not looking forward to facing Yavanna and the other inhabitants of the Halls again. He kneaded his palms against his dry eyes and shook his head, loosening his neck. He'd deal with that when he got to it, but for now, he still had a few hours to himself.

And he knew what he wanted to do with them. There was still one very important place in the Halls of Aulë yet to be explored, and all the reading he'd been doing made him all the more determined to find it.

All he had to do was follow his nose.

It was not long before he caught a whiff of it: the pungent, heavy odor of smoke. He stood at one of the long colonnades that ringed and connected the wings of the mansions and which led out into the gardens of Yavanna that spread in a several mile radius around the entire interconnected structure. There would be plenty of time for exploring the grounds later, but for now, his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the northernmost wing of Aulë's Halls, a low, huge, dark structure with a wide, only slightly slanted A-frame roof through which thrust rows of tall chimneys, several of which poured out billowing dark clouds of the charcoal wood-scented smoke. The entire structure was easily half a mile long, nearly a quarter mile wide and it towered over his head, as tall as any of the trees around it.

The forges of Aulë.

Understandably, they were set apart from the rest of the Halls, where the noise, heat, and smoke would not disturb the rest of the population. Sauron could already hear the faint, familiar clear ringing of metal on metal coming from the depths of the forges as he walked across the grounds and came to stop in front of the gigantic doors, each set with a large metal ring. He took hold of the right one and pulled, and the forge door swung open before him with a grinding of metal on stone.

He found himself at the top of a flight of stairs with torchlight flickering on either side. He descended, feeling the heat grow on his face with each step downwards. At the bottom of the stairs was a long, dark corridor that echoed with the sounds he knew and loved so well: the pulsating whoosh of bellows, the clangs of different metals, each of which he could recognize instantly by the timbre, and a steady roar of hungry flames. Up ahead, he could see the hot glow of the huge forge fires dancing over the walls. A fierce exultation shivered its way through him at the atmosphere of raw power and sublime danger that pulsed at the very heart of the great forges.

He stepped out of the corridor and felt his breath suddenly sucked away in sheer awe at the sight, as he found himself standing on a long balcony with sweeping flights of stairs off to his left and his right. Instinctively, he reached out to clutch the ornate railing in front of him, overwhelmed by what he was seeing. The forges of Aulë were far larger than even he would have guessed. They stretched out beneath him, easily one hundred feet below and spreading away for what was probably half a mile. He realized what he'd seen aboveground had merely been the roof of this massive edifice.

Inside the gigantic room, there were perhaps fifty individual forges, every one in its own alcove. Each was set up with all the equipment a smith would need: tools, anvils, crucibles, casting molds, precious and semi-precious gems, and bars of metals of all kinds, from plain copper and steel to glittering silver and pure gold. At many workstations, there were finished or half-finished products lining rows of wooden shelves – everything from weapons to household tools to jewelry of exquisite craftsmanship. Many of the forges themselves lay in lifeless slumber, their coals dark and cold, while others glowed with recent use, their embers still sparking with barely contained power. Other forges were live, however, their furnaces roaring with orange and white flames that licked ferociously upward, fanned into a frenzy by pumping bellows that created the distinctive whoosh of air and leaping flames.

There were perhaps a dozen forges in use at the moment. Figures moved between himself and the billowing flames, appearing as black silhouettes to his eyes against the searing bright background. Apprentices manned the bellows, filled the barrels of water into which the master smiths would dip the white-hot metal, and stood ready with tools, while the master smiths themselves worked the bars of plain metal into specimens of use or high art.

At the sight of the majestic forges, the blast of heat against his face, and the ringing of hammers upon the anvils, Sauron felt himself transported back to his days on Almaren and even before – a time when this had been his life. He remembered himself, young and eager and talented, standing at Lord Aulë's side to do the duties of an apprentice smith as the Vala worked, and himself learning to wield the hammer and shape the metal into things of beauty and skill under his master's tutelage. Glistening rivers of molten gold, sparkling gems taking unique shapes under the blows of his hammer, the light of the forge fires turning his skin the color of bronze. Of all the numerous apprentices of Aulë, he had been the greatest, second only to his master, his skill the most renowned as a combination of unique passion and unmatched creativity. Never satisfied to settle for what had already been done, he had always wanted his next creation to outshine his last, hungering for some ultimate perfection that he had never quite been able to find.

But wasn't that the story of his life?

In a moment, the grand illusion and brief pleasure of memory came crashing down around him. No longer was he the celebrated chief apprentice of Lord Aulë the Smith. He wasn't even a smith at all, not in the eyes of the Valar anymore. He did not have a forge. He did not even know if he was supposed to be here or if he was going to be allowed any use of these beautiful forges. Doubtlessly, someone else had taken his place long ago, and there was little chance that he could ever achieve such combined status and privilege here ever again. Not with the stigma he now carried.

Instead, he was going to be sent to the quarry. To hit rocks with an ugly, awkward miner's pick and hammer all day long. To shape rough blocks of plain stone instead of enjoying the intricacy and engaging skill of crafting a bracelet or a diadem. To be merely one in a crowd instead of standing out as the head apprentice smith of the forges of Aulë. The brief emotional elevation he'd received from the sight of Aulë's magnificent forges fell away into a dark mood that put a bitter taste in his mouth.

Slowly, he descended the stairs to his right, trailing his fingers along the metal banister, keeping an eye on the nearest of the live forges where two apprentices worked around the master who was beginning to shape an elegant belt of twisted gold and silver on his anvil. He was not sure what would happen if and when he was noticed, but he could not help himself from drawing closer, savoring the searing heat on his skin and the smoky smell that permeated the room.

As he approached, it became clear to him that the two apprentices were Elves. Both had their long hair bound back from their faces, revealing their fine features which appeared ruddy in the close firelight. They were dressed in typical smith attire, their clothes covered by heavy grey aprons stitched with Aulë's hammer and long, thick gloves that protected their hands. One worked busily at pumping the bellows, sending waves of flames washing around a crucible set in the embers, inside which Sauron could see the glimmer of melting gold, while the other Elf hovered nearby, holding blacksmith's tongs in one hand and a spare hammer in the other, waiting for any commands from the master smith.

Dismissing the Elven apprentices, Sauron turned his gaze upon the smith, whom he recognized as a fellow Maia from the aura of subtle power that filled the air around him in an almost visible glow. His skill was evident: each quick blow was precise and purposeful, melding the two bars of metal into a single twisting band that played in and out of the other in an intricate pattern. Sauron knew he could have easily replicated the design, but all the same, he also knew there could not be many who could do so with the ease that he or this Maia could.

It was the Elf with the tools that first noticed Sauron's presence. He glanced up in Sauron's direction and saw the Maia standing there at the edge of the shadows with the firelight casting weird flickering patterns over his dark clothes so that he seemed to melt into the background. The Elf stiffened instantly, watching Sauron with a mixture of trepidation and caution, as he said something to the master smith that Sauron couldn't quite catch. The smith paused in mid strike, the hammer half-raised, nodded, then set down the hammer and casually pulled off his gloves before turning to Sauron. The steady pulse of the bellows stilled as the other Elf paused his work, as well.

The Maia stepped away from his forge towards Sauron, wiping his fingers on the edge of his apron as he did so, even though his hands were not dirty. Sauron remained where he was, eyeing the smith in turn. He was tall, perhaps not as tall as Sauron himself, but more so than either of the Elves who now stood to the side to watch the confrontation that was about to take place. His eyes were deep brown, though shining with a curious grey light underneath his strong brow, and his high cheekbones created a long, refined profile. His slicked-back hair, held in place by a twisting silver circlet set with dark green gems, was a glossy black, a color carried to his even darker eyebrows and the narrow mustache he sported along his thin upper lip. These lips turned upwards into the faintest hint of a smile as he discerned the identity of his visitor.

"Well, well, my intuition proved correct I see," he said in a deep, mellifluous voice that belied his tall, thin frame, a sound as compelling and disconcertingly powerful as a long, distant roll of thunder. "I thought you might soon wander back here to your home turf in the forges, and I hoped I wouldn't miss your visit. From what I understand, a permanent welcome is in order. It has been far too long, old companion, and I am glad to receive the singular honor. Welcome to the forges of Lord Aulë the Smith in Valinor… Sauron – that's the name you go by nowadays, is it not?"

Sauron felt a bestial snarl tugging at his own mouth as he observed the other Maia. The words were friendly and the greeting warm, and to a bystander, one might have thought he was witnessing the meeting of two long-ago compatriots and friends, hardly guessing that one had betrayed the other or that there might be any ill will between them. The other Maia's smile was likewise genial, seemingly willing to brush aside whatever differences lay behind them as he welcomed a fellow smith.

But Sauron knew better. Although the other Maia wore a somewhat altered fána from the one he had previously seen him wear in Almaren, Sauron had recognized his former fellow apprentice of Aulë from the days when the two of them had done for the Vala of the Earth what these Elves now did for him. He inclined his head just slightly, forcing his face to remain smooth as he answered the others' eloquent greeting with a curt reply of his own. "Curumo."

Curumo folded his smith gloves and set them on the work table, still smiling with a quiet benignity that did not quite reach the glittering grey mist in his eyes. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the giant hall with his right hand. "What do you think of it? Truly magnificent, isn't it? Better than that small workspace we had in Almaren at least, eh? These are easily the greatest forges in all of Valinor, in all Arda, I imagine. It is a high honor to work one's craft in such…inspiring surroundings I must tell you. It took centuries to plan and create, as well it should, and Lord Aulë even granted me the privilege of assisting him in the design when we evacuated to Aman. I'm sure you must be looking forward to plying your trade in such a sublime monument to our craft; I know perfection was always your byword, and you will find nothing short of the best in the forges of Aulë, I can assure you. Have you already been assigned a forge or do I also have the pleasure of finding you one that will suit your meticulous tastes?"

The question was posed just a little too innocently. Again, there was nothing in Curumo's bearing or direct words that suggested mockery, but it was there all the same, somewhere in the undertones of that rich, flowing voice. Sauron's naturally hot temper bubbled in his chest, but he suppressed any outward show of anger with a quick repeat of his perpetual mantra and that his goal would not be achieved by taking Curumo's own hammer and stuffing it down his throat.

Instead, he returned Curumo's subtle smile with one of his own. "Not at the moment, Curumo. I'm sure when I desire a forge, I'll be able to find a suitable one on my own. As you note, I am quite particular about my workplace, and I have not been absent from our craft either, even if I cannot have claimed quite as awe-inspiring a workplace for my own as you have."

He stepped past Curumo towards the anvil, ignoring the two Elves who retreated as he approached, and examined the belt that Curumo was making. "A fine bit of work you have here, Curumo," he said. "I see your talents have improved over the last Age. Although, if it were under my own hammer, I would have added a bit of silver tracery here-" He indicated with an intricate swirl of his finger. "It would set off the interlacing of the gold and silver bands perfectly. Add just a bit of flair. I'm thinking a braid pattern, after the Nandorin style perhaps, a centimeter wide, woven in with the main twist."

He turned, just in time to catch the briefest flicker of annoyance in Curumo's eyes, and he allowed himself a mental smirk. Curumo was good at what he did, always had been, but he had never been Sauron. Curumo displayed a solid technical skill in every piece he created, but he had always lacked that natural eye for artistic creativity that had earned Sauron the place as head apprentice smith. It was something that could never be taught, an innate talent with which Sauron had been created and Curumo had not, and Sauron had never let the other Maia forget it.

But a second later, Curumo flashed Sauron that same smile that was just a little too friendly. "Yes, I'm sure that would be quite pretty," he concurred. "But I think I'll keep it as it is. Lord Aulë was just down here this morning and he said my design plans looked perfect to him for what he has in mind, and I don't see the need to change it if Lord Aulë is satisfied. Plus, there's no need for me to stray into your territory, Sauron. A master smith develops his own style, and I wouldn't want anyone to mistake my work for the work of another. I'm sure you of all people understand that."

Sauron gave a slight nod. "Of course."

As Sauron turned back away, he saw Curumo glance down at the half-finished belt with a small scowl, and it did not take the Black Captain's piercing perception to read the expression – Curumo was wishing he'd thought of that addition to the belt himself. There was no way he could use that ideal suggestion now. The smallest warm glow of vicious satisfaction nestled itself in Sauron's breast as he began picking up some of the tools from Curumo's work shelf, ignoring the fundamental courtesy expected of a craftsman, that one didn't handle the tools of another without permission from their owner.

He picked up a spare hammer, twirling it in his fingers to get a feel for its weight, pleased with its balance and ignoring Curumo who had now folded his arms and was no longer trying to hide his annoyance at Sauron's interference. As Sauron set down the hammer and reached for a pair of smith's pliers, Curumo intercepted him and lifted the pliers himself, standing between Sauron and the shelf.

"If you don't mind, I'm quite busy," Curumo said with a tight smile, pulling one of his heavy, leather gloves back on. "You should know all about it – the duties of a head smith, you know. We can't exactly stand around in sentimental conversation when we have a forge to run."

A small jolt, like an electric shock, instantly killed that brief warm glow in Sauron's chest as Curumo's words sunk in, even though it made perfect sense.

The raven-haired Maia pulled on his other glove then glanced at Sauron, his eyes gleaming. "Lord Aulë did tell you, didn't he? That I'm the new head smith here? Under Lord Aulë, of course. When you absconded with the late Dark Lord of Endor, Lord Aulë needed someone to replace you, and those duties naturally fell to me. I suppose I really should thank you for that at the very least, Sauron. Without your trinkets of exquisite golden wonder to salivate over, Lord Aulë was finally freed to appreciate my own style and skill. And from what I've heard, I apparently don't need to be worrying about your competition any time in the near future. I heard something about a…quarry…what that it? Apparently, Lord Aulë appreciates loyalty and years of steadfast service more than extraordinary, wild talent. I can't say I'm exactly shocked by that. I certainly wouldn't want a two-edged sword like you back in my forges if I were Lord Aulë."

Sauron could feel his face flushing with anger, the heat of it competing even with the waves of heat from the forge fire. His jaw locked painfully with the force with which his back teeth were grinding together. It was all he could do not to unleash his raging temper on the smug Curumo, who was now fussily choosing another hammer, the glitter in his dark eyes revealing that he knew exactly how biting his words had been. The Maiarin smith chose his tool then turned to look back at Sauron, this time making no attempt to conceal his mocking smile.

"It reminds me of something the Elves say. What is it? 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' It's actually a little bit amusing. You had so much, but you had to have everything perfect, just like you always do, so you abandoned it all to grasp at who knows what, the stars themselves. And now you've got nothing. I can't say it's not a fitting fate, one that's more than a little ironic."

The firelight glowed in Sauron's eyes. His voice was more of a deep growl than intelligent speech. "I have plenty, Curumo. I'll always have more than you, clinging to your Lord Aulë's apron skirts and cleaning up his soot. You'll never be my equal."

Curumo chuckled quietly, turning his back on Sauron and giving a nod to his Elven assistants. The bellows resumed their pulsing and the fire blazed up again, casting dancing patterns of shadow and bronze light across the two Maiar. "Well, we're certainly not equals now, Sauron, though perhaps I was mistaken to say that you have nothing," Curumo said casually. "That's quite a fána the Valar let you have at the very least. I'm surprised they gave it to you."

"I chose it," Sauron growled.

Curumo gave him a jaundiced look over his shoulder. "Indeed. And who exactly are you planning on seducing with it?" When Sauron scowled, he raised an eyebrow. "If it's the Lady Yavanna you've got your eyes set on, I'm terribly afraid you're going to be disappointed. I don't think she's taking much to your charm, if that little display at lunch speaks any truth. But I suppose you're used to it. When one constantly strives above his reach, I suppose disappointment is inevitable."

Before Sauron could reply, Curumo began hammering at the belt again with his precise, quick blows. "You must excuse me now," he said over the heavy groans of the bellows. "I do have a great deal of work that Lord Aulë is counting on me to finish. But I imagine I'll be seeing you around. Welcome to the Blessed Realm of the Valar, Sauron."

~o~o~o~

An hour later, Sauron was still fuming. Although he was able to silently congratulate himself on successfully keeping his temper this round and not committing his first murder in Valinor within a record twenty-four hours of arriving, it did little to soothe the roiling combination of anger and pain Curumo's words had slashed across his heart. The other Maia's mockery had struck far too close to the pit of angst in which Sauron had already been wallowing. As much as he wanted to scoff and dismiss what Curumo had said, he couldn't. For it was far too true. Sauron had reached for the stars and had ended up empty-handed. Seeing Curumo as the head smith of those magnificent forges (a position that would undoubtedly have been his someday) fanned a flame hotter than any bellows could create. As envy, anger, and hatred gnawed away at his insides, Sauron decided to add another item to his agenda of revenge. He was going to take Curumo down. If he could subsequently raise himself back up to Curumo's platform, so much the better. But if all he could do was grind Curumo into his own sooty floor, that would be satisfaction enough.

Behind him, from where he was sitting on the colonnade steps at the entrance to the south wing where he couldn't see the bitter plume of forge smoke, he heard the loud clang of a gong being struck in the depths of the central halls. That must be the signal for supper. The sun was now just dipping down towards her resting place on the western horizon, casting brilliant light over the Blessed Realm. Hmph, Sauron thought caustically. The Blessed Realm? It's seemed more like the Cursed Realm so far.

His stomach felt hollow. The little he'd eaten that day hardly compensated for the weeks he'd neglected the care of his physical form. But all the same, he knew with absolute certainty that he couldn't face that roomful of Elves and Maiar, not to mention Yavanna, right now. There was certain to be some type of confrontation the next time they met, and he knew he simply couldn't handle it at the moment, not with his anger already stirred up and the painful stabs that Curumo's bitingly true words had left in his heart still oozing and fresh. He was as emotionally and mentally drained as his stomach. Any confrontations needed to wait until he was back to his full strength, his mind sharpened and wary, his emotions collected and controlled, his outward mask groomed and set solidly in place. Part of the success of his reconnaissance mission lay in his perception of when he was ready for a challenge and when he was not. And right now, he just desperately needed some food and some sleep, with as little conflict as possible.

He slipped into the central halls, keeping to the shadows as no more than a shadow himself, avoiding the groups of conversing Elves and Maiar flocking towards the Great Hall. The smell of rich food set Sauron's stomach to growling as he sneaked past the hall itself and tucked himself in a niche between two columns where he had a view of the door.

It was not long before his waiting was rewarded. The doors swung open and two Elves emerged, pushing a trolley that was laden with empty pots and trays. They were laughing and talking with each other as they pushed the cart and so did not notice the shadow that slipped behind them and trailed them until they reached the kitchens where they deposited their cart and accepted a new one, this one laden with full dishes. They stopped to exchange some banter with the one of the Elves on kitchen duty who was scrubbing at a used cauldron, elbow-deep in white foam. When the two companions returned to their new trolley and pushed it onward back towards the Great Hall, neither of them noticed that it was missing several items of food.

Alone, back in his room, Sauron tore ravenously into the food he'd swiped from the cart, taking no notice of manners. His back to the wall underneath his open window, he devoured the loaf of bread, hunk of blue cheese, slices of roasted game, and crisp red apples, while gulping down his stolen bottle of wine. If he was to be the villain of this story, he decided he might as well make the most of it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sauron reclined beneath the spreading branches of a hazelnut tree, reading another one of the books from Aulë's library. Several more, these already finished, lay stacked at his side. The day was clear, bright, and pleasant – in other words, identical to every other wearisome day in Valinor.

It was not the fair weather that had drawn him out to the Gardens of Yavanna that spread in a good thirty league radius around the Halls of Aulë nor did the typical Valinorean climate hold any particular interest for him. He would have preferred in fact to stay indoors and read in the comfort of the library itself, but this was safer. Above all else, he did not want to grow predictable and he knew the importance of not allowing himself to fall into habit. Habit was not conducive for keeping a sharp and wary mind, and Sauron knew the dangers of presenting an unbroken pattern to an enemy, unless of course the pattern was established with the specific purpose of breaking it to the consternation and downfall of any who might be spying. It was best if he was not seen reading in the library every day at the same time.

With this in mind, so far he'd found a different place to read each day and he'd staggered his visits to the library so that they fell at different, random times. It was not that he was particularly worried about actually being discovered reading or that he could be found culpable for such an activity – at the moment, there was not much else for him to be doing, and reading was not the strangest or most dubious of pastimes. Considering his background as a smith, there was nothing odd in his choice of reading material either. There was absolutely no proof to be brought forward that he was doing anything inappropriate.

But he knew that once he formed one habit, others were sure to follow. It was simply easier to go through a day by rote, easier to adopt an attitude of acceptance rather than active choice, especially in a situation such as his, but when such complacency began to form, that was when he would be exposed to any who wished to attack him. It had become so with Morgoth. The war against the Elves, the constant pushes back and forth across Beleriand, the long periods of watchfulness interrupted by brutal eruptions of battle – they had all become commonplace, and Morgoth (and all of his servants) had grown used to the way of things and neglectful of the full scope of their enemies. Sometimes, Sauron wondered if the War of Wrath would have gone differently if they had been fully alert and ready for a potential attack from across the sea. He suspected not – neither he nor Morgoth had envisioned anything nearly as vast and destructive as the Host of the West that had uprooted the very land – but there was little point wondering either way. There was nothing he could do about it now. Even he knew he could not free Melkor from the Void.

He skimmed to the end of the chapter and then with a sigh let the book drop open to his chest. He folded an arm behind his head, using it as a pillow, and stared upward though not truly looking at the branches or patches of open sky above him. Five full days had passed now since he'd arrived at the Halls of Aulë. Tomorrow morning he was to report in at the quarry before the Sun rose over the Pelóri. And so far, he had found nothing to aid him in his quest for revenge.

A second mantra had joined his first, this one a constant self-appeal for patience. It did not make it particularly easier. Even though he'd known that the task before him would be long and mostly fruitless, it was still rankling to finish each day feeling as if he had accomplished nothing concrete, especially with the clock ticking steadily down towards an indefinite period where his free time would be severely constricted. In the back of his mind, he had hoped to find at least some small measure of information early on to indicate that he was on the right track. So far, the books he'd read had contained little he did not know and nothing that had sparked his imagination. If there had been no greater purpose to the reading than entertainment and the gathering of simple facts that might be of use to a smith, he might have been satisfied; so far, he'd learned a number of different ways to cut gems to produce optimum brightness and there had been a fairly lengthy section in one book from two days prior about a completely new method of casting silver jewelry. He tried to take interest in these tidbits of knowledge, as he usually did when faced with something novel, conceding that he never knew when some knowledge might prove useful in the future, but all the same, each time he shut another book and laid it aside, a significant piece of him felt disappointment, gnawing impatience, and even angry frustration.

Yet every time he felt the urge to give vent to that frustration and throw the offending book into the nearest body of water (and there seemed to be plenty of these in Yavanna's Gardens, all so crystalline that it took a prodigious amount of self-control not to hurl dirt clods into their pristine depths), he'd repeat his mantra until his mind calmed. Patience, he told himself repeatedly. There is no rush. The Valar will grow complacent with time, and as long as you remain alert and keen, you will gain the advantage over them when that time comes. Watch and listen. Stalk your prey with skill and leap when the best chance, not the first chance, shows itself. Be patience, and you know you will be rewarded.

He told himself that again and again: if he worked steadily and slowly, he must achieve his goal. Sooner or later, he would find something that would be of use to his plans. The concept that all this was in vain was simply not an option. For now, he needed to observe his surroundings, learning the strengths and weaknesses of all those around him, all the while gleaning information. There were only two things he simply could not do: let anyone guess his intentions or submit to despair in his mission.

And yet, every once in a while, he had the troubling sensation that he was missing something. He told himself it was nothing but the various other levels of stress and impatience that threatened to settle upon him, but that doubt itched away at the back of his mind despite his mental reassurances. He could not think of anything more to do other than what he was already doing, and yet… He could not shake off the feeling that he was somehow missing the bigger picture that he needed to see in order to succeed. Under Morgoth, he had learned the value of efficiency and honed it to a skill – surely, there was a more efficient way to go about this than reading every single book on every single shelf and trudging through this plethora of information that he had probably known before it was ever written down. There was something else he needed to be seeing and acknowledging, he sensed, but the matter eluded him, flickering away from him like wisps of smoke the moment he felt its touch. Perhaps it was this that drove his intense desire to find some clue in his reading that he was on the right track, to prove these doubts but a figment of his stressed mind. But at the moment, he had no better battle plan than to sift his way slowly through each tome as he came to it. At best, it was irksome. With his luck, the first book he skipped would be the one to contain some vital bit of knowledge he needed.

That ticking clock in the back of his mind did not help either. If this was all his existence was to consist of for the rest of Time, being relatively ignored and allowed to fill his time as he pleased with reading or other Valar-approved, benign activities, it might be a dull existence but one that was comparatively desirable to the fate that actually awaited him. However, knowing that his slave work in the quarry was to begin in less than twenty-four hours sank his heart into a black pit. The very thought of that impending doom fanned up the furious, indignant flame that had blazed into life at his trial and motivated him to swear his oath of vengeance in the first place. Every passing day – no, every passing moment – that the Valar continued to reign unchallenged, unscathed after what they had done to him, what they were doing to him every second, and what they planned to do to him in the near future was a nigh unbearable humiliation inflicted upon him.

He suspected as well that condemning him to the quarry had a double purpose. Even though he had no doubt that the Valar were going to enjoy themselves immensely watching him fulfill their stipulation under the virtuous pretense of allowing him to show his goodwill by aiding those in Middle-earth, he guessed this task of physical labor had also been contrived to keep him contained, to weary him daily, and to control most of his time rather than leaving him to his own devices. This last suspicion, perhaps more than anything else, fueled his craving, his need, to discover something that would transform his oath into reality, something he could slap in the Valar's faces to show them that despite their best efforts, they could not defeat him utterly.

Absently, he drew his fingers through his hair, combing it back around his ears, his face revealing none of his inner turmoil, except for a slight purse of his lips as he stared up into the hazelnut canopy and watched the thin branches bounce in the slight Valinorean breeze. The day was already waning; these past five days had sped by far too quickly, even as each individual one had paradoxically seemed to drag on indefinitely. At least it was not yet the morrow. He wrenched his thoughts away from the quarry. It was best not to linger on a matter that was only guaranteed to stir up his ire.

Instead, he gently played with the ring on his forefinger, admiring its smoothness as he turned it. It fit perfectly, but that was a matter of inconsequence to him; whenever he changed humanoid forms, he always kept his ring size the same. It would probably be no great feat for him to fit a band of gold to his finger even in his sleep, he considered with a hint of amused pride.

Thrice in the past five nights he had sneaked to the forges. He had not returned during the day, neither desiring to cross paths with Curumo again nor wanting to be seen lingering around the forges when he was still not sure whether his night-time visits would be banned if they were discovered. He could see no practical reason why he'd be denied such a pleasure, but at this point, he had a feeling the Valar would deny it to him simply to rob him of the privilege and the joy. The very fact that he desired the opportunity to ply his craft and took pleasure in it was a weakness, and he knew better than most that even the smallest weakness could be exploited. If the Valar remained ignorant of his desires, so much the better. Why would they bother to steal something from him for which they did not know he yearned?

Consequently, all three nights he had taken the greatest care to cover up the evidence of his visits: meticulously cleaning the new soot out of the unused forge and replacing any gold he used with new bars from the storehouse adjacent. He was fairly sure at this point that his visits had gone unnoticed. The amount of gold he had used was inconsequential. True, if someone with a skilled eye looked carefully at the forge, they would be able to tell that it had been used recently, a fact about which he could do nothing, but there was no proof that he had been the user and he was confident by now that the forge he had chosen was a spare, ignored unless all the other forges were occupied. A fitting companion for one such as I, he'd thought to himself in a mood of dark humor.

In those three nights, he had made himself three rings, which he now kept in his wardrobe unless he was wearing one, as he had done today. It was a small matter, the rings plain and nothing in which he would have ever boasted, but he felt distinctly protective of the small gold bands. They were the only pieces of his work that he knew undoubtedly to still exist. And not only that, but they were the only items that were not on loan to him from the Valar, the only trinkets he could truly call his (though even they were made with Aulë's gold). It was some small measure of comfort, however miniscule, to feel the warm metal against his finger and to know that he was not completely bereft of personal possessions now, some beggar that the Valar had graciously housed. He was still a smith, the rings the evidence of his continued skill. The rings brought him hope, that faint hope that he could still regain what he had lost, the hope that he had not been completely defeated, not yet.

He slipped the ring from his hand, running the tip of his forefinger over the flawless yellow surface, following the thread of red gold that he had skillfully woven into it. It glittered invitingly in the brilliant Valinorean light, and he permitted himself to sink into the sight of his beautiful creation. Flipping it up, he allowed it to make a single, slow, glittering rotation before he caught it again. It felt good admiring his work, a simple pleasure to be sure, but anything that felt remotely positive was a remarkably welcome feeling of late. With a sigh, he laid the ring on the top of his small pile of books, continuing to run his forefinger around its rim, absently admiring it, as his mind drifted back to reflection.

Over the past five days, he had learned his way about the halls and grounds as well as might be expected. He had met no opposition in his exploration, save for the occasional hostile glares from those of the Eldar with whom he crossed paths, but these he had learned to ignore for now. He could bide his time. He could wait for the opportune occasion to teach them who truly was a lord by right.

Though in truth, he had made a point of avoiding contact with any other inhabitants of the Halls as best he could: steering clear of the Great Hall around mealtimes and avoiding the main lounges and gathering places where the Eldar and Maiar seemed to enjoy hording, especially during the evenings. He had yet to make a reappearance at any meal. This rankled him considerably – he felt as though by his avoidance, he was acknowledging Yavanna and the Elves the victory for the time being, that they had managed to chase him away – but he did not want to risk another confrontation, and if no one was going to stop him from taking his meals in private, he was not going to complain about the arrangement.

True, Aulë had noticed his absence at meals almost immediately and come to investigate the matter on the second evening. At first, he had half-heartedly tried to convince Sauron to rejoin them at meals, but after the scene with Yavanna, it was not hard for Sauron to sway the Smith to begrudgingly acknowledge that perhaps it was better this way for now.

However, Aulë had then insisted on having regular meals personally set aside for the Maia, apparently feeling that letting Sauron skulk around the kitchens pinching random items of food from the carts en route to the Great Hall was not healthy behavior (Imagine that! Sauron had thought to himself with a mental eye-roll) even though it was not quite stealing when he was going to be eating it one way or another, either served to him at a table or snatched off a cart. It had been the principle of the matter though and, Sauron suspected, Aulë's natural and prodigious mother-henning quality that had led to his insistence. Eru forbid that Aulë's poor, little Nauron should have to fend for himself after all!

Sauron had given a non-committal shrug to the suggestion, which Aulë took as acceptance, and for the past three nights, the Smith had ordered some items of food prepared and set aside for him. If there was anything he still wanted that was missing from the meals (or if he simply felt like flouting Aulë's wishes), he had taken whatever he fancied from the carts, as well.

However, he had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be left in peace about this matter forever. Eventually, he was going to have to face Yavanna and his fellow inhabitants of the Halls again, but the longer as he could stave off the encounter, the better, in his opinion.

A rustle in the treetops too loud and irregular to be the wind interrupted Sauron's thoughts and prompted him to sit up, peering upwards into the branches. The soft whisper of movement came again from above, and this time Sauron caught a glimpse of a small, brown form skittering down a branch. The squirrel paused at the end of the tree limb, flicking its tail and peering down curiously at the Maia. The slender branch bobbed under its weight.

Sauron glared irritably back up at the animal. There seemed to be a good deal of vermin in the area, and he guessed Lady Yavanna and her exquisite Gardens were probably to blame for that. The Gardens were said to contain at least one of every kind of flora, from moss to trees, or so he'd heard, though Sauron did not know the truth of the claim and guessed anyway that the count only included those items of vegetation that Yavanna had personally caused to grow. He had certainly not seen here any of the brambles and thorns that had been plentiful in Taur-nu-Fuin, nor even the deadly but fairer nightshades, mistletoes, and poison ivies that had come from the mingling of Melkor's corruption with Yavanna's earliest experiments in Arda.

There had been animals in Beleriand of course, but they had been skittish, dark things for the most part that rarely showed themselves. The animals here were annoyingly bold. In the south of Valinor, where Oromë and his hunters ranged, he supposed the animals might have learned to fear his kind, but the animals in Yavanna's Gardens generally seemed to be expecting food rather than arrows.

The squirrel made a soft chattering sound, still staring unabashedly at Sauron. The Maia felt his thin patience fraying. Anger and aversion for this plump, simple little creature, happy and content with its life of undoubted luxury in the Gardens of Yavanna, free to run were it willed without a care, bubbled up inside Sauron. As if the Elves were not bad enough, even the animals here seemed to find him a spectacle!

"What?" he snapped at the small creature. "I don't have any food, you stupid little beast. I wouldn't give you any if I did. Now go on, find something else to stare at."

The squirrel uttered its chatter again, bouncing on the limb slightly, apparently undeterred by his harsh tone.

With a snort of disgust, Sauron resumed his former, prostrate position, picking the book up from his lap and flipping back open to the next chapter, pointedly ignoring the squirrel. Hopefully, it was not stupid enough to miss his message, though one could never underestimate the dim-wittedness of anything that fell under the domain of Yavanna, he reflected snidely.

As he attempted to re-focus his attention on the introductory passage about purifying gold, he heard the leaves rustling again. At first, he thought the animal must have got the hint that he had no intention of giving it either food or notice and was consequently leaving, but then there came the distinctive skittering sound of the squirrel's claws on the bark of the tree trunk. In his peripheral, he saw it hop down into the grass and sit up, twitching its nose and watching him in a way that would have been almost idiotically comical had he not already decided he thoroughly hated the obnoxious, little creature. He glanced sideways at it, letting a low, threatening snarl rumble up through his throat.

For such a fat little beast, the squirrel moved much more quickly than he had anticipated, dashing at him in a series of quick, flying leaps. His first thought was that it was trying to attack him, as idiotic as that seemed, and he brought his book up aggressively, ready to smash it over the squirrel's head as soon as it was within range. However, just as it reached him, its momentary, senseless courage or aggression, whichever it was, seemed to fail it, for it turned tail and fled back towards the tree. Sauron lowered the book, scowling, but just a tad confused by the rodent's erratic behavior. Perhaps it was not simply stupid but really and truly mad. As it darted back up the tree trunk, he rolled his eyes and leaned back again. Yavanna had certainly not gifted her creations with inordinate intellect. Not that she had much herself to begin with to give them, he thought sourly.

He'd just found his place on the page again when the squirrel started up its chattering once more from the original branch right above him. He knew that all creatures had their own secret tongues and he had learned a few of the more useful ones – wolves, crows, serpents – but he did not understand the squirrel's quick gibbering. However, something in its tone alerted him to the fact that it was highly pleased about something or other. That in and of itself disturbed him. Automatically, he glanced upward.

And saw the gleam of gold between its paws.

His heart shot into his throat as his eyes simultaneously snapped down to the pile of books at his side, even as his left hand uselessly groped at his right forefinger. He'd completely forgotten that he had taken off his ring and set it beside him while admiring it, distracted as he had been by the squirrel's arrival and his own contemplations. The squirrel hadn't been interested in attacking him or even in food. Its greedy little eyes had only seen the alluring glitter of gold. His gold. His ring.

Blind rage erupted white-hot throughout his entire body. The Valar had stripped him bare, and now even the smallest of their beasts saw no qualms in taking anything they pleased from him. In his eyes, it was suddenly not a squirrel sitting there holding his beautiful ring in its filthy paws, but Yavanna herself, smirking at how easily she'd robbed him, how they'd all robbed him, how they continued to rob him every second. Of his physical possessions, of his powers, of his dignity. It didn't matter to them. The Valar didn't mean to just humiliate him once and be done with it – they were determined to keep him in humiliation and destitution for the remainder of his existence. He was not even allowed to keep a tiny ring, forged by his very own hand, created by the sweat of his own brow, born from no one's mind but his own.

Fury and sudden intense agony at the thought of losing the small band of gold in such a humiliating way leant strength to Sauron's arm. Before his mind even caught up with his emotions and actions, he had picked up a fallen hazelnut and hurled it straight at the squirrel, screaming a foul orcish curse at it as he did so.

He was a good shot. The nut hit the squirrel directly in its side, almost knocking it off the branch. It gave a high-pitched squeal of fright and pain, nearly losing its footing in its panicked retreat. As its brown tail hurtled out of his sight into the neighboring tree, falling gold flashed in the afternoon sunlight.

Sauron made an impulsive dive for the ring and snatched it up just as it hit the ground. He dropped backward then onto his haunches, his heart still pounding uncomfortably hard as he clutched the gold tightly in his hands which he now realized were red, sweaty, and trembling. Crooning mental reassurances to himself, trying to regain his calm, he brushed the ring off gently with his fingertips, sinking into the soothing motion, then he fit it snugly back onto his hand. It was safe. And woe betide anyone who dared so much as to touch his possessions again.

He glanced around the nearby trees, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. There was no sign of movement in any of them. Just as well. Hopefully, that squirrel at the very least would now have a healthy dose of respect for any Maiar, or their possessions, that it happened across. Or even better, maybe he'd damaged some internal organs properly enough that it would die in some miserable, forsaken corner of the Gardens. Either way, at least something was a little more right in the world.

Sauron picked up his book once again and resumed reading.

~o~o~o~

The Lady Yavanna knelt on a patch of recently overturned earth, her eyes closed. She was clad in a knee-length smock of cloverleaf green, her arms bare, and her legs sheathed in thigh-high, brown boots, while her long hair was bound back and up in an elaborate braid that wound itself around and around her head. Beside her was a basket containing a number of large, pale golden bulbs.

Gently, the Valië stretched out her hand and laid it on top of the disturbed earth, her fingers outspread. Underneath, she could feel the soil, not just the grainy physical touch of it, but also its richness, its essence, the intricacies of the hundreds of individual elements that made up that single piece of ground. She allowed her ëala's consciousness to creep outward from the confines of her fána, sensing the complex root systems of the grass all about her, the flowers, and even the powerful pulse of life in the large oak tree that rose some twenty paces behind her. Each of the plants greeted her spiritual touch in their own way, murmuring to her in their soft voices, humming snatches of their quiet themes that each had been part of her own Song in the Ainulindalë and that continued to fill the earth with her gift of Life. Similarly, she could sense the life of the kelvar around her: the grasshopper crawling beside her right knee, the crickets hiding in the cracks of the oak and chorusing their own version of her Song, and the lark that touched her mind in passing as it swooped past overhead.

But it was none of these things that drew her immediate attention. Instead, she pressed her ëala downward, digging her fingers physically into the earth as she did so. She felt her fingers elongate and taper at a thought, themselves becoming root-like as she soaked in the information that the ground readily gave her.

Several feet down, she sensed the sleeping life, its young hum like the heartbeat of an unborn child. Tenderly, she brushed her ëala's consciousness against it, a warm thrill of joy spreading through her spirit as it responded with a faint croon that she knew would eventually blossom into yet another melody of the Song that she always heard throughout Valinor, a new strain of her theme that she had not yet expressed in physical Arda.

She could already envision her new creation: it would be a flower of the lily family, seven-petaled, the color of mingled gold and silver. She did not like quarreling with her husband, even if it was justified and he was being a stubborn and foolish loon. But he was her Aulë, her lord, her husband, and Life was her domain. She could think of no finer gift of reconciliation between them than this new glorious flower that would arise from her powers. Tánolótë, it would be called, the Smith's flower, strong and sturdy, proud in its own quiet way, as bright and metallic as Aulë's own eyes. A soft, fond smile turned the corners of Yavanna's lips as with her mind she gently caressed the sleeping bulb in its bed of soil.

A low hum vibrated in her throat, her own strain of the Music that was older than Arda itself. It was slow, barely audible, and yet contained a steady, captivating rhythm, strong and irresistible as the call of life itself. Around her, the grass dug its roots deeper, soaking in her music and growing in response. The daisies and dandelions in the grass blossomed, and underneath her fingers, the bulb stirred, its own hum louder as it responded to its mistress' life-giving aura.

"My lady, my lady Yavanna– Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting, my lady."

Yavanna's eyes flickered open, her hum fading, and she withdrew her hand from the soil, allowing her fingers to return to their humanoid shape once again before turning. "It is all right, Aiwendil. What is it you need?"

The Maia standing several paces behind her, holding a basket of birdseed in one hand and another of fresh tomatoes in the other, had wide, honest features. Aiwendil was one of the few Maiar who had chosen a fána closer in form to the Secondborn than the Firstborn; chestnut-brown hair curled erratically about his rounded ears and full cheeks, the latter of which were layered in fine, boyish down. His wide, hazel eyes were almost childish, and there was a similar youthful air of curiosity and wonder at his mistress's world that hung about him. He wore simple, well-used gardener's attire at the moment, with grass stains on his trouser knees and dirt on his smock elbows, as if he'd been leaning forward on the ground to peer into a hole or examine some small creature. With Aiwendil, neither were particularly unlikely scenarios.

The Maia glanced inquisitively at the disturbed patch of earth in front of his mistress before seeming to remember what it was that he had come to say. His face brightened, and the small dimples on his round cheeks deepened as he grinned. He held up the basket of red vegetables. "My lady, our new tomatoes are ripe. This is the very first batch," he said eagerly. "I thought you'd like to be the first to try one."

Yavanna stood and brushed the dirt from her knees in a small, quick gesture before stepping towards Aiwendil, smiling faintly at his enthusiasm. She took one of the tomatoes, holding it up to examine it. The flesh was a deep scarlet, the skin firm but yielding. Its rich smell was inviting, and Yavanna took a bite from it, closing her eyes as her senses were flooded with a taste that contained the watery flavor of a traditional tomato, but which also was laced with a distinctively sweetness, almost akin to a ripe grape. She nodded slowly in pleasure, pleased with the result of the experiment on which she and Aiwendil had been collaborating for the last few months.

"Well done, Aiwendil," she said, giving her Maia her thin smile once she had swallowed. "As usual, your judgment is impeccable."

Aiwendil grinned broadly and popped one of the smaller vegetables into his mouth whole. His cheek bulged out like a chipmunk's. "Thank you, my lady. Shall I take them to Vorimanor in the kitchens for supper tonight? There's plenty more to gather if you'd like me to. I was thinking–"

He stopped abruptly, switching his gaze to the oak tree standing behind her, a small confused frown replacing his former smile. "Excuse me, just a moment, my lady," he said, setting his baskets on the ground and giving Yavanna a wary glance. She frowned in turn as he took a few steps forward, craning his neck back to look up into the dense foliage before making a series of chattering sounds by clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Moments later, an answering string of squeaks and chatters emanated from the tree. The perpetrator revealed itself as a well-fed, brown squirrel who darted into sight down a low-hanging branch before dropping gracefully onto Aiwendil's shoulders. It circled the Maia fitfully, flicking its tail and keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Yavanna, who spent more of her time with her olvar than the kelvar, could not quite follow the rapid words, but the creature's indignant tone was obvious. However, from the grim expression that rapidly fixed itself on Aiwendil's face, it was obvious too that he understood the squirrel's message clearly.

The Maia stroked his fingers sympathetically along the squirrel's spine. "I think you'll be all right, Ratatosk," he told the little animal. He gently pressed two fingers to the creature's ribs. "See, there, all fine. No damage done." He prodded the plump stomach. "You've got more than enough padding, I think, my little friend. But I suggest you keep your distance in the future, all right?" He bent down, scooping up a handful of birdseed from his basket and presented it to the squirrel, who immediately began stuffing it into its cheeks, apparently appeased for the moment. Aiwendil, however, lowered his eyes and avoided Yavanna's gaze.

Yavanna's frown deepened. Even though she had not understood the squirrel's chatter, she had a sneaking suspicion concerning who had caused its distress. Aiwendil's sudden silence and innocent discomfort only solidified that suspicion. She folded her arms and her skin rippled darker. "Aiwendil," she said, her voice low, "would you care to explain?"

Aiwendil kept his eyes lowered sheepishly, still holding his open hand up to his shoulder for Ratatosk to eat from. "My lady, it seems- well, it seems that he was hit in the side with a hazelnut." He blanched a little, then added in a barely audible voice: "By Sauron."

Yavanna's good mood evaporated instantaneously, and her skin flared mahogany. The fact that the squirrel was evidently unharmed and most of the injury had been merely dealt to its pride did little to placate the abhorrence and anger that the very name of the hated Maia aroused. His presence here in the Halls was like a constant thorn pressing into her thoughts. He was a poison seeping through the peaceful stream of life in Valinor, a nipping, hissing fire surrounded by dry kindle that had to be constantly watched and worried over. Each morning since his arrival, she had woken with an unpleasant weight in her stomach, the knowledge that something was amiss, that something distasteful had to be dealt with that day. Then she would remember. That cruel, arrogant face with eyes that blazed with roiling hatred and anger. That snarling voice full of accusations and venom.

She cursed the fallen Maia aloud, disregarding the fact that had Aulë been there, he would have given her a thoroughly scandalized look. Aiwendil shrank back, uncomfortable in the suddenly hostile atmosphere, as her righteous anger verbalized itself further in a passionate string of threats directed against Morgoth's former Black Captain.

She had looked into Sauron's eyes and, despite herself, searched for a glimmer of the Maia she once had loved, whose delight with life, whose intricate sense of order, whose passion to create, had oftentimes made her wish that he had been given to her, instead of to Aulë. But all she could find there was the same blazing Wildfire that had consumed the Spring of Arda and the glory of the Valar. She had looked into his eyes and seen an image that had haunted her dreams for the past Age. Her Gardens on fire, blazing, blazing as far as her eyes could see, the smoke of her children boiling upward into the soiled sky.

She had looked into his eyes and seen Melkor reflected there.

He had brought back to her all the pain and sorrow of Arda Marred, ages of suffering and death dealt to the heart of her domain. He had re-opened the wounds of the early wars between Melkor and the Valar, when time and time again she had watched her beautiful new creations destroyed with such violence that it seemed to rend gashes across her very ëala. He was a reminder that not even Valinor was completely whole and safe; in his eyes was darkness, the same Darkness that had defiled the Blessed Realm once before when it cloaked the land in shadows and swallowed the Light of her two most precious creations. He was a reminder that it could happen again.

She closed her eyes, trying to gain control over her seething thoughts and words and the bitter pain that had lingered deep in her ëala ever since the death of the Two Trees. Despite herself, frustration towards Aulë welled up in her again, along with anger towards the other Valar whose decrees had allowed this vicious beast to come dwell in the same halls in which she must live. It was clear to her that he had no intention of changing his ways. It was his nature now. He was evil, through and through, a being whose noxious darkness stained and poisoned and destroyed everything he touched.

Mairon was long since dead, and Sauron was nothing but a monster.

"My lady…?" Aiwendil's soft voice cut through her anger and fear. She looked down to see her Maia staring at her with cautious concern, the squirrel still perched upright on his shoulder nibbling birdseed from its tiny paws. She felt a flicker of affection for the gentle Ainu, but that was quickly followed by the thought that innocent Aiwendil was yet another prime victim for Sauron's cruelty and seemingly boundless malice. What could a squirrel, a little fat squirrel, possibly have done to earn such treatment from any being?

No, she reminded herself, Sauron does not need a reason to be cruel.

"Where is he, Aiwendil?" she asked in a hard, low voice.

Aiwendil glanced at the squirrel and shifted uncomfortably. "Ratatosk says he's in the garden, not too far away." He shifted his weight again. "But, my lady, er, I don't think Ratatosk meant to get him in trouble or anything like that. Ratatosk can be a little, well, intrusive sometimes, and maybe, maybe Sauron didn't mean to hit him."

"Sauron meant to hit him all right, you can trust to that," Yavanna replied, her face a grim mask. "That's about the only thing you can trust him to do. After I'm finished with him, I can assure you he won't be harming my creatures again."

Aiwendil looked around, still visibly uncomfortable with the newly dark atmosphere of Yavanna's fierce justice and Sauron's wanton cruelty. "My lady, wait," he said sheepishly. "Maybe letting Sauron have his distance for now is better. I'll make sure all the animals know not to mess with him. Maybe he just needs time to adjust, to find where he fits in, to, well, remember what it's like to not be evil. Somehow, I don't think punishing him over this is going to help. No offense meant, my lady."

Yavanna looked at Aiwendil shrewdly, her affection from a moment ago turning to vague condescension. Aiwendil's love of nature and his innate gentleness served him well as a Maia of the Valië of Flora and Fauna, but sometimes Yavanna thought his naiveté and insistence on always seeing the best in everyone was better suited to her husband's service than to hers. "You give that monster more credit than he deserves," she said coldly.

A flicker of sadness passed over Aiwendil's face. "Do you really think so, my lady?"

"Yes," Yavanna replied.

Ratatosk chattered, curling his tail around Aiwendil's neck, but when the Maia offered him no more birdseed, the little animal gave a flying leap into the oak tree. The branches rustled, and the skittering of small claws rapidly diminished. Aiwendil remained standing, the basket of forgotten tomatoes still beside him as he stared at the tree, lost in thought and giving off a distinctly plaintive aura. Finally, he hesitantly met Yavanna's eyes again. "He wasn't always like that," he murmured in a voice that sounded almost apologetic. "What do you think happened to him?"

His eyes flickered away from hers again and she could sense his troubled air. A twinge of regret over her outburst of anger and her threats touched Yavanna; she knew Aiwendil hated such conflict and preferred to think that everyone could just get along if there were enough tomatoes to go around. He was much too peaceful for the world he found himself living in. But a single Maia's gentleness was not going to fix everything that was wrong in Arda Marred.

However, as he continued to frown, the Maiarin light of his eyes dimmed, she sensed there was more to his disturbance than mere upset over her anger. Gently, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll let this go for now, this time," she said, keeping her voice calm and devoid of the anger that still bubbled inside. "I'll leave it to you to make sure all the animals know to stay away from him. That is if you're quite sure little Ratatosk is all right."

Aiwendil offered her a nod and a half-hearted smile, but his brown eyes remained troubled. "What is it, Aiwendil?" Yavanna prodded.

The Maia swallowed then said in a hollow voice. "I…I was just thinking, what if…what if Morgoth had taken me instead of Mairon? What would I have turned into? Would you have thought I was a monster when I came back, too?"

There was a look in Aiwendil's eyes like a child that has just awoken from a vivid nightmare and is still struggling in its grip. Pain showed on his soft, round face, and she could see a mist just beginning to form over his eyes. His lip quivered a little and he bit it. Yavanna tightened her hand on his shoulder. "No, Aiwendil," she said firmly. "Morgoth would never have won you over. He didn't take you because he knew you would never have cooperated with all the terrible things he was doing."

"He didn't take me because I'm not powerful," Aiwendil answered. "Why would he want a Maia who grows tomatoes and feeds the birds when he could have Mairon?" He gave a small smile, but there was none of his usual mirth behind it. "If I had been as powerful as Mairon, maybe he would have taken me."

Yavanna pressed on his shoulder, turning him fully to face her. "You are much more powerful than Mairon ever was," she said with firm assurance. "You have proved that to me and the Valar with every passing day. I would rather have a loyal gardener than an arrogant lord to serve me in any circumstance. And power is not simply about how many people you can force onto their knees before you."

Aiwendil gave her that small smile again, one that was somehow childish and yet gravely discerning all the same. "But Mairon wasn't like that before. You liked how he was before he left, what he was able to do then with his powers." Yavanna pursed her lips at the knowing tone in Aiwendil's voice when he said that; she had always assumed that she had kept to herself any jealousy she might have felt over Mairon's allotment to Aulë and did not like the thought that any might have guessed at it. Aiwendil continued though, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Yavanna's sudden discomfort. "He was one of us, and now…now he's…not. He always seemed so clever, smart. If he could fall, any of us could have fallen, you know. I…I can't help thinking he could have been any one of us. He was one of us."

A shiver made its way down Yavanna's spine as she considered Aiwendil's quiet words. It was easy for her, a Vala, to despise Sauron's obvious weakness, how easily he'd been sucked into Melkor's darkness, and how drastically he'd changed. But what effect must such a dark metamorphosis be having on the other Maiar of Valinor, to see a brother, one of their own order, transformed before their eyes into a ghastly beast spewing poison and darkness? For the first time, she found herself viewing Sauron through the eyes of another Maia, one who had always been of lesser power than Mairon, one who had looked up to Aulë's master apprentice the way every Maia in Aulë's household had. It was not the same as herself and Melkor. Melkor had set himself apart almost from the very beginning, from his first Discord in their Music, and she had always been foremost in opposing him. But what if Oromë had fallen, or Námo, or Varda… Someone she respected… Someone she could barely imagine falling into the Darkness…

Aiwendil was still talking, his halting words indicating that he was thinking out loud more than anything else. "It's just, well, when animals are hurt and afraid and angry, they bite, and we don't punish them for biting then, and well, I'd bite if I was afraid and angry, too. Aulë thinks if can we can figure out what's wrong and keep him from feeling afraid and angry, maybe he'll get better."

He gave her a sideways glance at that, clearly aware that she did not share Aulë's views on that matter. However, as she remained silent, he went on as if he hadn't halted. "So, maybe he's not a monster all the way through. Maybe…maybe Mairon is still in there somewhere. Maybe we can help him. Maybe he'll never be a loyal gardener, but maybe he can be a lord again." He looked up at her and gave her another smile, this one hinting of hopefulness and humor. "I think he was always better as a lord anyway. He was pretty hopeless as a gardener."

And at Aiwendil's words, despite herself, Yavanna felt the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips. An old memory surfaced in her mind, one that she had not thought about in more years than she cared to count, and somewhere inside all the pain and anger that Sauron's presence aroused, a small bubble of warmth and amusement blossomed. Whether or not it was this particular memory to which Aiwendil had been alluding, she did not know, but she found herself glancing down at her basket of golden bulbs all the same.

Oh Mairon. No, she never had been successful in making a gardener out of him, even if she had tried…

"No, no, you're putting it in the wrong way, you loon. It's upside down."

She laughed as he blinked at her, those huge, bright eyes of his radiating confusion and mild annoyance. He had never liked being out of his element, but at her request, Aulë had agreed to lend her many of his Maiar as she began work on what was to become the greatest of all Gardens in Arda, the Tuiletarwa, her grand work on Almaren in the height of the Spring.

He was holding a bulb in one hand, kneeling in front of the shallow hole in the rich, dark soil. At her reprimand, he pulled it back from the hole where he'd been trying to stuff it, holding it awkwardly, and she hid her amused smile from him. How strange that one whose hands were so nimble and clever with heavy chunks of metal could become so graceless when handling something as simple and pure as a tulip's bulb. He could transform a lifeless lump of gold into an exquisite bracelet, but he could not seem to properly put to rest a young plant thrumming with life, who would readily tell him all he needed to know if he simply listened to its low, quiet Song.

She could tell he was annoyed, and she smiled to herself. It amused her seeing him disoriented like this, as bewildered and tongue-tied as a young man in the presence of a particularly fair maiden . He was always so confident, so slick and self-assured in Aulë's forges, keeping everything running as smoothly as a clear, spring stream. There was no doubt that he was brilliant at what he did, but that just made it doubly entertaining to see him so flustered at the moment. Aulë would probably have scolded her for ruffling his prize apprentice's feathers in such a manner if he knew of it, but she could not help teasing the fiery young Maia a little. It was good for him to slow down, to taste her rich, unhurried domain for once, to sip in some small measure from the well of her powers, instead of breathing in Aulë's soot all day long. Perhaps it was part of her nature, along with the burgeoning Spring and the passion of Life that everywhere was taking hold now that the Enemy was held at bay, but she found herself enjoying the crimson flush that was creeping across his cheeks as he continued to hold the bulb, clearly clueless about what to do with it.

She picked up another bulb from the basket and held it before him. "You put it in this way," she said, demonstrating with her own bulb by placing it upright in the hole. "In the dark, it does not know in which direction the light lies. So it must trust us, Mairon." She began to scoop dirt back over it tenderly with gently sweeping motions of her long fingers. "If we have failed it, it will smother in the dark, and all its long toil, and ours, will be for naught. But if we have not failed it, then it will find the light waiting for it, and it shall blossom."

A last sweep of her hands and the bulb vanished, put to rest until the Lamps' warmth and her powers brought its sprout forth. She indicated the next hole. "Now it's your turn."

The very tip of Mairon's tongue emerged, clenched between his teeth, as he examined the bulb in his hands. His face still sporting an exquisite blush of embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic ineptitude, he came to a decision and began lowering the bulb towards the hole, the slow movement making it clear he was still not sure about his choice.

Mentally, she rolled her eyes. It was the fifth task she had tried to give him that day and Mairon was still wrong.

"My lady?"

She looked up to find Aiwendil watching her with curious apprehension, his face still revealing his worry over her recent anger. She gave him a soft smile. "You're right, Aiwendil. The squirrel is all right, and why should we let that Maia ruin such a beautiful day? Let's go to the kitchens and see if Vorimanor can't serve a lovely tomato soup for supper tonight."

Aiwendil's bright smile flashed back on immediately. "And maybe you can take a look at the new swallow houses I've made for the Lindonal. I think I've finally gotten the proper combination of mud and clay but I wanted you to approve them before I put them up…"

Yavanna followed the cheerfully chattering Maia, listening to his plans for bird house designs as if there was no darkness in the entire world, let alone in these very Gardens, and she tried to keep her own thoughts just as light. She was not going to let the darkness of a defeated enemy destroy her life a second time.

Chapter Text

Lost in thought, Aulë sat upon his bed, gazing out the window at the sun making her descent towards the western border of Aman. A deep sigh swelled up inside his chest and he leaned his head back against the bed post, unable to dispel the dejection that had settled itself like a lump of iron in his chest. Outside, the blazing glory of Arien's last light across the Blessed Realm was a magnificent sight, when the Gardens and the white height of Taniquetil in the distance turned to fire, like countless emeralds and diamonds in the light of his forges. It was a sight he had often enjoyed; as often as he had mourned the loss of Illuin and Ormal, he had to admit that the glory of the Sun and the Moon surpassed anything that had come before them. Even the Two Trees had not shed their light over all of Arda with such a fair and benevolent fire.

Yet, there were some Darknesses in the world that not even the sun could pierce.

Aulë shifted his gaze away from the window view and stared downward at his weathered hands as that internal iron weight shifted uncomfortably, pressing painfully deep into both his mind and his ëala. No matter how hard he tried to bend his thoughts elsewhere, his mind turned ever back to the reality in which he found himself helplessly bound. Every passing day was revealing to him ever more blatantly that he was failing.

Mairon was back, and yet, never before had his beloved child seemed so far away.

Ages had passed, long, sorrowful Ages, since his Fiery One had betrayed him and left to serve their Enemy, whose only delight seemed to be the destruction of all works created by his one-time compatriots. Aulë had not seen it coming; none of them had. That last day, Mairon had seemed as alive and passionate as ever he had been, seemingly delighted with his work, content with his lot, and as skilled in his role of master apprentice as the Smith could have ever desired. Aulë had seen nothing amiss in Mairon's eyes, no catch in his voice, no falter in his tasks. He had put his hand on his Nauron's shoulder, giving him a warm, pleased smile the way he always did and Mairon had smiled back confidently, assuring his lord that he would oversee the closing of the forges personally himself, and Aulë had gone to his chambers without the slightest worry. Never in his darkest nightmares had he even considered the possibility that Mairon might fall.

So it was that when he came to reopen the forges and could not find Mairon in any of the usual places, he had seen no cause for exorbitant worry. Doubtlessly, Mairon was seeing to some task that the rest of them had overlooked – he could always be counted upon to keep everything running smoothly – and would appear sooner or later to give Aulë a report on the store of gems that had been mined or to inform him that one of the flues needed cleaning out or to proudly produce a breath-taking choker set with emeralds that he'd been working on in secret diligence as a gift for Aulë to give Yavanna to celebrate the completion of her magnificent Garden, the Tuiletarwa. As such, Aulë had gone about his regular tasks, forging a great belt of gold for Tulkas, and the time had simply slipped away from him as it was wont to do when he immersed himself in his beloved work. It was only when Curumo had appeared beside him, informing him that still no one could find Mairon, that he had realized how far the hours had waned and that something perhaps was wrong.

But even so, betrayal had not crossed his mind, not yet. He knew of others who had been lost: those Maiar who had simply vanished and of whom nothing was heard tell from the darkness ever again, those whose names were no longer spoken by the Ainur who continued to do Eru's will in Eä. It was never known how Melkor had seduced them, whether he had somehow infiltrated the Valar's very strongholds and in person convinced their servants to follow him or whether the Maiar had been swayed from afar by the power and majesty that Melkor had seemed to wield in those early days. In the end, it mattered little. They were lost one way or the other. There had even been a few who would have been Aulë's own: fiery spirits who had been destined for Aulë's forges but who had been beguiled by Melkor's splendor during the Music and drawn into the Dark Vala's Discord, but they had vanished long before the days of Almaren and there had been little shock for any Ainu in their betrayal.

But Mairon, it did not seem possible that Mairon could have fallen, that he could have dishonored his oaths and thrown aside everything to follow the rebellious path of Melkor. True, it was clear from the beginning that Mairon enjoyed power, but Aulë had never been negligent in showering upon his prized apprentice all the status and power that his skill and loyalty had rightfully earned. Aulë had been genuinely proud of the young Maia, pleased at how quickly he learned the forge's skills, even if his fiery temper sometimes caused minor havoc here and there. The Spring was coming. In those first days of Almaren, Darkness seemed but a thing of the past, Melkor nothing but a lurking shadow on the very edge of thought. Betrayal had so far come only from those Maiar who had isolated themselves from the very beginning, whose Light had been tainted during the Music; a betrayal as intimate as Mairon's was something that Aulë dismissed as impossible. Only Melkor himself had betrayed them that deeply. But Mairon was not Melkor, could not ever be, with his bright eyes shining with Eru's Flame, his fascination with the world they were creating, his passionate love of watching everything fall into place under his will and his hand. And so Aulë had waited, fear only beginning to cast shadowy tendrils across his heart, but hopeful trust in his Maia still bright and strong.

They never did learn where the great fire started, but it swept down upon them from the north, a swift and relentless force that devoured everything in its path. The smoke of it had contained a thick, choking darkness, something that confused the minds and wills of those who breathed it in, draining the power from the Ainur who had rushed to fight it. Even Ulmo's waters had only caused it to hiss and pour forth spumes of its noxious smoke. Many Maiar had been consumed by it, either unable to outrun its leaping advance or overcome by the foul power of the darkness that it produced and sent before itself like carrion crows heralding the coming of an invading army.

Yavanna's new Garden had burned that day. The stench of it lingered long, but Yavanna's inconsolable sorrow lingered far longer, a scar across her ëala that no balm could soothe. And yet, the destruction might have been greater still; the wildfire was only stopped when finally it reached the bulwarks of Aulë's dwelling, where the Smith's folk had torn down everything green, leaving nothing but bare rock and soil. From the rock, Aulë had raised a wall imbued with his power to ward off the fire and its sorcerous smoke, and the other Valar had leant their aid in fortifying the wall against the dark powers that drove the flames onward. There had been a great battle of wills once the fire reached the wall, for the flames had driven against the rock with terrible heat and force, proving beyond a doubt that the fire was of no ordinary making. But finally, its power had been sapped and it retreated and at last failed. Yet the cloud of smoke remained for a long while yet, blocking off the light of the Lamps and covering Almaren in a haze of despair.

The Valar had begun their work anew, and as always, new life blossomed from the ashes. The smoke had cleared and the stench had faded, and soon the fire seemed but a little setback in the coming of the Valar's Spring. Yavanna had regrown the Tuiletarwa, and soon Almaren was once again a haven of all Good in Arda.

And yet, deep, deep down, Aulë now knew.

Melkor was not Fire. He had used the fire of the Valaraukar who had betrayed the Valar in the earliest days, but Aulë knew that not even they could have been behind that terrible conflagration. There was no doubt that Melkor's power had driven it, and that stinking, choking blackness that had spewed forth from the flames doubtlessly had its source in the Dark Vala. But the fire itself, the way it had so efficiently and swiftly destroyed everything in its path, had been terribly familiar to Aulë. When he and the other Valar defended his wall and fought back the flames, he had sensed a will in the fire's attack that he knew, a fiery will that he had often taught how to control the forge's flames, that he had always sought to temper with reason and compassion. If the other Valar had not been there to lend their power to his wall, he knew he would have failed, his own will overcome with darkness and despair at the knowledge of whom the attacker was.

Somehow, he knew Melkor had not sent the fire against them merely to destroy their work. The fire had been a message, a boast, a threat, and, he dreaded, a test – a test of the power of his newest, and most powerful, servant. Darkness was no longer the only tool Melkor wielded; Wildfire now served the Lord of Darkness, and together, the two had proven a force far more terrible than anything the Valar had yet faced. United, the fourteen Valar could still overcome whatever Melkor and his fiery new lieutenant threw at them, but Melkor had proven that he could stab deeper into their midst than any of them had dared imagine.

And so the years had passed. Curumo had taken the place of Mairon as master apprentice, and when the Lamps were destroyed and Almaren abandoned, all the Valar had begun anew once again in Valinor. The Halls and Forges of Aulë and the Gardens of Yavanna in the Blessed Realm were glorious and great, and when the Elves had awoken and come to dwell with the Ainur, for a while peace and prosperity had seemed to rule the lives of the Valar. Aulë had found he had much to do to keep himself occupied, and the Noldor and their love of his work had in some small measure filled a part of a deep hole that had been left in his spirit.

Yet no Elf could completely fill that hole, not Mahtan for all his craft nor Fëanor in the height of his glory. A deep, abiding sorrow followed Aulë no matter where he went or what he did to try to block out the pain. A thousand times and more his mind had conjured up that last day with Mairon and the days preceding it, ever searching for some hint as to why his Fiery One had betrayed him. Sometimes, he tried to convince himself that Melkor's sorcery had somehow Bound Mairon's will and that his Maia had not been willing in his betrayal; more often, he ridiculed and blamed himself for anything and everything that he himself might possibly have done wrong to lose Mairon so, even though he knew deep down that there was nothing he could have done. But helplessness was the worst feeling of all, and so as bitter as they were, guilt and self-blame were Aulë's companions for year after year.

Still, Aulë had always had a strong will, and hope is hard to completely crush. Every rumor from Middle-earth, every whisper concerning the Darkness, reached Aulë's ears and he listened fervently, despite the pain that such tales always brought. He longed to hear news of his Nauron, even as he dreaded it. Even though no lost Maia had ever returned, the Smith still dared to hope against hope that one day Mairon would come home. He had prayed for it, begging Eru to have mercy on Mairon's treachery as the All-father had forgiven Aulë's own reckless transgression. That agonizing hope had lingered ever on the edge of his thought, and every passing day in which Mairon remained lost seemed tinged in grey, incomplete for him on some innate level.

From outside the protective walls of the Pelóri, rumors of the Darkness came here and there. The Elves brought with them news of a malevolent Power that hunted them in the darkness and stole away those that strayed too far from the others. In many of these tales, Aulë saw the direct hand of Melkor, but sometimes the Elves spoke of another, a Power who appeared in a form of beguiling beauty at times and at other times took on the likenesses of those they thought they knew and thus persuaded some to stray. In his eyes was a dark fire, they said, and his voice was fair and seductive, but he was as cruel as the one he served and those that fell into his hands met terrible fates. The Elves had their own name for this being, a terrible name for a terrible enemy, and at first, Aulë had refused to believe that this powerful servant of Melkor was truly who he knew him in his heart to be, despite the dark irony of how the Elves had chosen a name for his former Maia that was but one letter different from the name of endearment by which he himself had always called him.

The tales continued to come, faint and faded most often but no less dreadful, and Aulë wept in secret, locked in his chambers, every time he heard of some new horror wrought by this Sauron, the dark and powerful sorcerer who bent fire and wolves to his will, who was so trusted by Morgoth that he had been left in charge of the wars against the Elves for a time while Melkor himself saw to the corruption of the Secondborn, of which the Valar did not learn until too late. At times, the Smith pleaded with his fellow Powers to go to Middle-earth and strike at Melkor, fashioning his arguments out loud around the single goal of saving the Children. Yet, though he indeed desired the deliverance of the Quendi whom he had grown to love deeply, his true hope rested in the possibility that if Morgoth were defeated and his kingdom shattered, the Black Captain might return to his former masters, seeking restoration and forgiveness, gifts Aulë would not hesitate to grant. But the other Valar feared such an outright war against the Dark Vala and the ruin it might wreak on the physical world, now that the Children had awoken and inhabited the lands. Or so they said, though Aulë suspected that Manwë wished to believe all could be kept well if they and their people simply remained behind their walls, thus blocking out all knowledge of the wars and the subsequent guilt they might feel if they were to learn too many of the details concerning the terror of Morgoth's reign. And Aulë found he could not fully blame the High King for such reluctance; his own grief over the loss of Mairon allowed him to empathize with the pain his fellow Vala must have suffered over the two-fold treachery of his brother.

Yet in the end, it had finally happened. Eärendil's valiance and beseeching message had at last convinced Manwë to sanction the mustering of the Host of the West and the War of Wrath. Many of the Valar themselves had gone – Oromë, Tulkas, Ulmo, and even Yavanna – but Aulë could not bring himself to accompany them. He was no warrior by the standards of any, and he knew that the dread of facing Sauron as an foe would overwhelm any attempts he made at the art of war. And so he remained in his halls, waiting for news, hoping, ever hoping that a message would arrive detailing Sauron's surrender, but dreading, ever dreading that a message should come instead bearing the news of Sauron's destruction, for it had been determined beforehand in the Máhanaxar that any enemy Maiar who opposed the Valar and whose bodies were destroyed in the struggle would be doomed to the Void. Only Melkor was to be captured alive at any cost. But any Maiar who surrendered were to be given a fair trial.

Perhaps no news was a worse fate than ill news however, for no news was all Aulë received day after day, and that sliver of hope, that Sauron might yet be saved, tormented the Vala of Earth like no other torment he yet had faced. It chiseled away at his stomach until he could no longer stand the sight of food and ground away at his thoughts until his nights were spent in sleepless doubt and worry. One by one, the Valar returned until only Oromë remained in Middle-earth to hunt down all of Morgoth's fell beasts that the Vala's hounds could find. Eönwë remained as well with the last regiment of the Host, camped by the sea as the Herald did his best to help the Men, Dwarves, and Moriquendi affected by the war and to make sure that no last skirmishes flared up. As day by day passed and less and less news came, Aulë's hope diminished and he began to fear that it was in vain that he had sent the hammer.

That hammer had been a last minute thought. From Almaren, Aulë had brought only two of Mairon's former possessions: a plain gold circlet – the first object Mairon had ever crafted in Eä – and Mairon's hammer. The latter was in poor shape, for it had gone unused and unpolished since the days when Mairon himself had wielded it. Though Aulë could not bear the thought of using it himself, he never could bring himself to throw it away or destroy it either.

It had been the same day the Host of the West set sail for Beleriand and the War of Wrath, a greater army than had ever been gathered in the history of Arda: Valar, Maiar, Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri all together, with Vingelot and the Silmaril shining from Eärendil's brow gliding above the tide. But Aulë could not go to see them off as the other Valar who were choosing to stay were doing – Nienna, Irmo, Estë, those whose skills would be required for those who returned. He could not look upon his fellow Powers and imagine what might come to pass: Eönwë's swift and bright sword piercing through Mairon's body, bringing forth a rush of blood as red as fire; a doomed arrow from Oromë's powerful bow felling the Black Captain whose once-flaming eyes would so quickly dim; or Námo's powers crushing the vibrant mind and will of which Aulë had once been so proud. He could not look upon his friends and fellow lords and ladies and wonder which of them might commit that act which, however just it might be, he knew in his heart he would never be able to forgive.

It was not often that he opened that small chest in the corner of his chambers; he brought out the hammer and ran his fingers over the dented surface only during those times when the strongest bouts of grief, despair, and pain took hold of him. In those times, the pain of seeing and touching his fallen child's abandoned possession was overcome by the yearning hope that Mairon would live to hold that hammer again. The hammer bore memories of a fond and fierce love, a father's love for an eldest child full of potential. It was a good hammer – he knew for he himself had made it personally for Mairon – a hammer fit for the head apprentice of the Smith, a symbol of Mairon's exalted place among the Maiar of Aulë.

That day, the day of the mustering of the Host, the Smith had opened that chest, cradling the tool as if it were Hope itself, trying to block out the horrible images of all the ways in which Mairon might meet his end once the war began, and trying instead to imagine the joy he would feel if – no, when – news came to him that Sauron had surrendered and was coming home, back to his proper place at Aulë's side.

The idea had sparked suddenly, spontaneously. Mightn't the sight of the hammer arouse in Mairon the same hope and memories of a better time long ago if he were to see it? When Aulë gazed upon the hammer, it was not the tales of Sauron the Black Captain that flooded his mind but thoughts of Nauron the fiery apprentice. When the war was waged and Sauron left with the decision of whether to surrender or fight, perhaps this hammer might send a more powerful message to the Maia than all other words he or any Vala might contrive to convince Mairon to return. Perhaps the hammer was enough to remind a dark lord of what he once had been.

Return would surely not be an easy choice for the fallen Black Captain, but a tangible symbol of Aulë's steadfast devotion and desire for reconciliation, a chance to return to what they both once had, might make all the difference. Mairon had always been clever – he would understand the import of that wordless message.

He had lost no time. Within minutes, the sea wind laced his tangled hair with salt and he saw the great fleet below him in the Bay of Eldamar like a bevy of swans dancing upon the high tide of noon. The army commanders had gathered upon Túna beside the crystal stairs leading up to the great gates of Tirion: the three Elven kings, Ingwë, Olwë, and Finarfin, along with Eärendil, Eönwë and the other Maiarin generals, and the Valar themselves. Aulë found his eyes drawn outward, however, over the vast expanse of Belegaer. Somewhere across that dark sea lay Beleriand and Middle-earth, the realms he had never seen but which Mairon had called home for these last hundreds of years.

It was Manwë he had chosen to draw aside, feeling that the High King would better understand the importance of his message than any of the other Valar. "Please, if – when – Mairon comes, please make sure he sees this," Aulë asked wretchedly, his voice already hitching, pressing the hammer into Manwë's hand. "I…I want to make sure he knows he can come back, that it's a choice. That there's still something here for him. I can't stand the thought of him destroying himself because he thinks he doesn't have any other option. I want him to know–" But here his throat closed off and tears filled his eyes until the brilliance of the Host turned into a silver wash, like a glorious painting over which the sea has risen.

He had felt Manwë's gentle hand on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. "I will use my best judgment," the Vala of the Sky replied. "If Sauron comes, I vow to you, Smith, I will do everything in my power to see that this hammer reaches him."

The tears in Aulë's eyes had cleared enough to see the deep sincerity in Manwë's face, along with that familiar sadness on the High King's visage that Aulë knew all too well. Yet it was Manwë's vow that spoke the strongest; few in Arda, let alone the Valar, dared to swear any oath on a whim after witnessing the ruin of the House of Fëanor. He had clasped Manwë's hand tightly, and then the High King was gone, and Aulë began his long wait.

Many months later, when all fourteen of the Powers took their seats in the Máhanaxar and the High King and the Doomsman stood and pronounced Doom upon the defeated, broken figure in the center of the Ring wearing the twisted iron collar that had once been his crown, Aulë had seen the tears in Manwë's eyes and the anguish on his face as he turned his back upon his brother. And as Melkor screamed for mercy whilst Tulkas and Oromë hauled him towards the Doors of Night, Manwë's long sorrow was made absolute, with no hope left to temper the pain. As the High King seemed to shrink and bend under the immense weight that was his to bear the remainder of his existence in Eä, Aulë had known it was not right to ask him for news of the hammer or Mairon, not now. He trusted that Manwë had honored his vow and that wherever the hammer was, it was where it needed to be.

News came, sometimes by eagle, sometimes by creatures of the sea, sometimes by the Elves whose returning ships steadily arrived at the harbor nestled in the Calacirya. Celebrations filled the Blessed Realm with Elven music and laughing voices, as the Eldar and the Maiar together rejoiced in the defeat of the greatest Enemy of Arda and the new Age that had dawned so brightly over them. Others did not rejoice; Finarfin's visage was sad and weary when he debarked, and Aulë learned that the Noldorin king's daughter, his only surviving child, had refused to come home and accept the pardon that the Valar had offered to any of the Exiles who had aided them in the War. Manwë remained distant and quiet, grieving inwardly over the fate of Melkor, and many Eldar sang laments for loved ones lost during the many battles. Little was seen of Námo, as he and his Maiar kept busy tending to the thousands of new fëar who had so recently been committed into Mandos. And Aulë himself watched and waited, glad for the Elves who were able to enjoy the coming of the Second Age but unable yet to truly rejoice himself.

But then, it had finally happened.

Drawn from these contemplations of past events, Aulë rose from his bed, shifting his gaze from the beautiful sunset to the oaken drawers in the corner of his chambers. He opened one of the top drawers and drew out the official-looking letter with the broken wax seal of Manwë's eagle. Sitting back down heavily with a grunt, the Smith carefully unfolded the message, his hands quivering slightly, and stared at Eönwë's elegant Tengwar cursive. The letter was addressed to Manwë and much of it was the commonplace information about refugees, supplies, and minor business that had dominated most of the Herald's previous correspondences. But there at the end were the sentences that Aulë had been waiting so long to read.

"It also concerns you to know that yesterday morning Morgoth's former Black Captain, he the Elves call Sauron, arrived at my tent. He came in peace and surrendered himself to me, seeking pardon and mercy. I informed him that it was not in my authority to grant him what he sought and I directed him to sail West and immediately seek the judgment of yourself and my other lords and ladies. As you directed, my lord, I provided him necessities, and I also left with him the hammer as you commanded. He remained the night with us, and in the morning, I personally saw him provided a place on the swan ship Eärlissë under the authority of Fiondis and Cánaquar. You may expect his arrival in Valinor within two weeks."

There was no more. It had irked Aulë that Eönwë had provided no clue as to what state Sauron might be in, physically or mentally. He realized it was the duty of the Herald to be official and concise in these reports, but over the two weeks that had followed the letter's arrival, he found himself poring over it until he had memorized every word, desperately seeking any hint about the undercurrents that had doubtlessly existed in Eönwë's encounter with the Black Captain. Had Sauron been frightened? Had it taken much to convince him to return to Valinor or had he gone easily? What had been his reaction upon receiving the hammer? How had he spoken of the Valar? Had Sauron mentioned Aulë himself? Yet the letter contained none of the answers Aulë sought and he had realized he would simply have to wait until Sauron arrived, though he found that was easier said than done.

Hardly an hour after receiving the letter, he had sent messengers to the harbor, informing the Harbormaster, a Maia of Ulmo named Falletinwë, that he wished to be notified immediately once the Eärlissë was sighted. Despite knowledge that Eönwë's two-week estimate was dependable, he still found himself lingering near the windows of his chambers, reluctant to go down to the forges, even though he knew distracting his mind with his craft would ease his anxiety.

Yavanna told him as much, but bitter warnings were also thick in his wife's speech. "Do not forget that it is Sauron who is coming, not your Nauron," she had said to him. "He's the Black Captain of Morgoth, not the apprentice smith of Aulë. Do not barricade your mind overmuch with sentimental memories that blind you to reality; this is the Maia who betrayed all of us, who deliberately broke your heart and his oaths, the one who maliciously set fire to my Gardens and would have destroyed all of Almaren had we not stopped him, the one about whom we have heard tales of horror from the Children for years. Have you forgotten everything you've heard? You're not waiting for news of a lost puppy; you're sitting like a statue, refusing to eat and sleep, sighing like some love-sick Elven maiden over an individual who apparently decided that the best use for the Children was feeding them to his horrific master's equally horrific monsters. What do you think he's going to do, Aulë? Rush into your arms, sob, and tell you he's so very sorry for everything he's done? You're making a loon of yourself."

Aulë had quickly ceased any attempts at arguing with Yavanna. Ever since Manwë had sent them Eönwë's letter with the news of Sauron's coming, the Valië of Flora had become as belligerent as a bear safeguarding her cubs. The slightest reference to the Maia, even a furtive glance out the window with the hope of seeing an Elven messenger from Falletinwë approaching, seemed enough to stir up her impressive store of wrath. Inside, he knew her ire was not altogether unjustified, for her domain had suffered far more from Melkor and his servants than his own had, yet he could not help but feel hurt by her lack of any outward compassion towards the Maia who once had been like their own child, especially during this time of eager anticipation on his part. He had hoped, in light of their recent victory and the fact that her new Gardens in Valinor were beautiful and unstained, that she might forgive or at least overlook Sauron's past evils and rejoice with her husband in the knowledge that Mairon had been saved, beyond hope and reason. That was what mattered, wasn't it?

"Sauron or Mairon, what is really the difference?" he had tried to reason with her on the first occasion she revealed her angry anxiety. "Is he not both? Just because he was lost to the darkness, does that mean we must now blot out all memory of when he served the light? Besides, he may no longer by the apprentice smith of Aulë, but he's not the Black Captain of Morgoth anymore either. This is a new start for all of us. This is our chance to imprint our names back on his heart and to blot out Melkor's. This is our chance to show him the future is not set in stone and he can return to the light just as he once left it."

Yavanna had given him a hard look. "I love you, Aulë, and I do not wish to see him hurt you any more than he already has. Take my warnings or leave them. But I warn you, Husband, whoever – whatever – arrives in that ship, it won't be your Nauron."

On the tenth day, the Valar had held council in the Máhanaxar. To his dismay, there Aulë learned that Yavanna was not alone in her mistrust and apprehension of their would-be guest. It quickly became evident that the fourteen Powers fell into two distinct camps of roughly equal sizes: those that wished to take no chances and considered it best to punish Sauron swiftly and justly to make sure Evil was as thoroughly eradicated from Eä as possible this time around, and those who wished to extend compassion and mercy to one who was now but a former foe, who had surrendered and now sought reconciliation with his erstwhile masters. The arguments had flown back and forth, growing rather heated at times, as the two parties haggled the exact terms that would be extended to Sauron, balancing justice, mercy, and the safety of Valinor on the delicate scales of their stipulations.

At last, the order of business for the upcoming trial was officially written down in Námo's book and there was nothing more to do until Sauron himself arrived. The Maia would not be assigned a hall until the trial itself, for none of the Valar had yet to see him and it was determined that it would be best to take stock of his condition before deciding where he should be placed. Likewise, it was agreed upon that Sauron be given a physical task, one that would lend some practical aid and simultaneously deter him from causing trouble, but the task itself could not be assigned until they knew where in Valinor he would be staying. Aulë had understand the practicality of the stipulations, given history, even as it grieved him that the other Valar considered them necessary. Yet his hope remained that if and when Sauron proved these stipulations needless, then the doubts of Yavanna, Oromë, Tulkas, Ulmo, and the other Valar who opposed his own lenient views would be overturned. And surely they would be proved needless. Sauron was coming back of his own free will, was he not? And if that were so, then surely it was Mairon, not truly Sauron, who would arrive in just a few days' time. And if Mairon was coming home, then what could possibly go wrong?

The sun was just rising above the Pelóri on the fourteenth day when Aulë had glanced out his window and seen the Elven horseman pounding down the road towards the front gate of his halls. There was only one message he could be bearing. The Elf had pulled up his horse sharply, surprised when Aulë dashed out the front gate to meet him, still tugging on his outer jacket, his hair and beard as tangled as a briar patch, his clothes crumpled, and his eyes ablaze with a fiery passion. "What news? Where is the ship?" the Smith had demanded instantly, taking hold of the horse's reins.

"She was sighted this morning, my lord," the Elf replied respectfully. "The Harbormaster expects her to dock even as we speak. Upon landing, Sauron is to be taken to one of the guest houses on the far side of Valmar. He told me to tell you–"

But whatever additional information Falletinwë had wished to deliver, it was lost upon the Smith, who, the moment he heard the bare minimum of information he needed, had clothed himself in the form of golden eagle and taken flight to the south towards the shining city of the Valar.

He could not stem the rush of thoughts that flooded through his mind even as the wind rushed powerfully past beneath his wings. He had imagined his reunion with Nauron a thousand times, and now the thought that he was actually on his way, after so long, to fulfill that Age-long dream made him dizzy. What should he say first to Nauron? Or should he forgo words – how could words express what was in his heart anyway – and simply embrace his lost Maia? Sauron needed to know that he was safe and that the Valar weren't going to condemn him for what he had done. But maybe he should welcome him first, seeing as Sauron had never been to Valinor. Should he tell him immediately that he had forgiven him for his betrayal, or should that wait until later? Or would that help in putting him at ease? Maybe he should avoid mentioning the whole business with Morgoth for now – Sauron might take it as an accusation – and just stick with how delighted he was to see him and how glad he was that he had made it here safely. But his Nauron had always been direct; maybe purposefully avoiding the touchy matters would make the Maia more uncomfortable instead of the other way around.

Once at Valmar, he had found Fiondis and Cánaquar, Oromë's dark-haired huntress and Tulkas's red-haired warrior, the two Maiar who had accompanied Sauron on the Eärlissë, both of whom were enjoying glasses of foaming Vanyarin ale at the gate tavern and answering questions about Middle-earth, the War, and the voyage from a gathered crowd of Elves and Maiar. When Aulë asked about Sauron, a distinct scowl settled over Cánaquar's face and Fiondis's answer was respectful but reserved. "We left him little more than half an hour ago," she replied. "Of course, it is your decision, my lord, but I would give him some time to himself. He was left with food and water for bathing, and he made it clear that he wished to be left to himself for a while. We posted two guards outside the house with instructions that he is not to leave. I hope we have done as you desired."

Like fire in his veins, a powerful urge to immediately seek out Sauron had swept nigh irresistibly through Aulë, but he somehow managed to quell it. A voyage of two weeks across the Sundering Seas was no brief jaunt, especially for one unused to sea travel. Aulë would receive but one chance at this reunion; it was probably best to allow Sauron the opportunity to satisfy his basic needs without barging in on him. Even Mairon had had the propensity towards a foul temper of epic proportions when he was stressed, tired, and hungry.

So the Smith remained in the tavern, ordered a large mug of dark ale himself, and spent the next several hours questioning the two Maiar. To his disappointment, they had little information– they had neither witnessed the meeting between Eönwë and Sauron nor spoken much to the fallen Maia during the voyage. Sauron had evidently made no attempts at initiating conversation either, a fact that did not exactly shock Aulë. Even before, Mairon had never relished the art of socializing. After spending the last several Ages severed from any healthy relationships, surrounded by werewolves and orcs and Eru knew what, it was not truly astonishing that he would remain aloof in the company of two Maiar whom he had never known well. Although Aulë was mildly irritated at Fiondis and Cánaquar's own negligence in reassuring Sauron and making him feel welcomed, he let his annoyance go. After all, they had not known exactly what awaited Sauron in Valinor so any reassurances could only have been half-hearted at best. Neither had they known him any more than he knew them. And what was one to expect from a Maia of Oromë and a Maia of Tulkas anyway?

At last, Fiondis and Cánaquar had taken their leave and he was left alone with the dregs of his ale. When he glanced out the window, he saw that more hours had passed during his interrogation than he had assumed. Yet now that it finally came to it, he found himself lingering over the last few sips of his drink, suddenly reluctant to make the short journey over to the guest house. It was silly, he knew. After all, hadn't he waited Ages literally for this very day and hour?

Yet, a queer anxiety had stolen over him as he questioned the Maiar. It was no more than a flickering sensation, yet ever and anon, the unsettling feeling trembled through him that the two Maiar were not giving him a full account of events. Occasionally, they would avoid his eyes for a moment, exchange the briefest of glances with one another, or shift just slightly in a way that spoke of some discomfort. Once, he had inquired if Sauron had yet to speak of him or if the Maia had expressed any eagerness to return to the forges, and that clandestine glance had flashed between the huntress and the warrior before Cánaquar replied that he was not aware of Sauron having addressed these matters, a statement seconded by a nod from Fiondis. At another point, he had mentioned his regret at not having been at the docks to greet Sauron personally and his hope that others had taken the initiative to welcome him. At this, both Maiar had dropped their gazes fractionally from his and Fiondis had shifted in her place. Cánaquar cleared his throat then answered in his brusque manner that everything had been handled adequately. It was possible that the two were simply uncomfortable discussing a fallen brother, Aulë realized, yet he could not shake off the feeling that there had been deeper elements to the conversation that he was missing.

Finally, he had risen, paid for his drink, and plodded his way up the hill towards the guest house that Fiondis had indicated. It was obvious when he reached the right place, for the two Vanyarin guards outside the door stood to attention and bowed as he approached. He tried to smile at them, but the expression faltered when he noticed one of the guards unbarring the front door. "Let us know immediately if you need anything, my lord," the guard told him before rapping loudly on the door. Aulë nodded, wondering what sort of help the Elf thought he might need.

He stepped inside, his heart thudding so loudly that it felt like someone was forging a sword inside his skull. Nervously drawing his fingers through his beard, his boots feeling heavy and awkward in the silence, he slowly made his way into the main room. And froze.

Broken crockery, shattered glass, and splintered chairs lay strewn over the floor. Something cold and unpleasant jabbed itself into his pounding heart, freezing his throat, causing his tongue to grow heavy. They would not have left Sauron in a derelict house, not if they had taken the time to provide him bath water and fresh food (not that the mere passage of time could have ever caused this ruin anyhow). No, it was in the last few hours that this had happened, and in those hours, the house had had but one occupant.

He lifted his eyes and saw the half-closed door across the room from him. He could feel the faint pulse of power from a fellow Ainu issuing from the chamber, and for a moment, his nerve almost deserted him. Yet, he already blamed himself for many things and he could not add simply turning and leaving at this critical moment to that bitter list. So instead, he clenched his jaw, hardening his resolve in time with the physical gesture, and stepped forward, avoiding the shards of glass and earthenware.

The door swung open at a light touch, and for the first time since the beginning of the Spring of Arda, Aulë the Smith found himself looking upon the Maia who had once been his beloved apprentice.

At the sight of the figure sitting on the bed, words failed the Smith and it took all his restraint not to toss decorum to the wind and pull Mairon into his arms, embracing him as he had longed to do ever since the day he had left. Aulë had not been sure how Sauron would appear, but the fána his former apprentice currently wore was not so different from his old fána as Aulë had feared it might be. The Maia was certainly recognizable, not some dark, fearsome monster as some of the Elven tales had described him. For a moment, the past thousands of years dissipated like cobwebs in fire and, as if it were yesterday, Aulë saw the same Maia who had smiled at him and assured him that the forges would be seen to, that last day in Almaren.

Then Sauron met his eyes.

It was all he could do not to stagger backwards in dismay and shock as those blazing eyes met his. Mairon's eyes had always been bright, but the unholy fire that raged in them now was so full of malice, destructive hate, and terrible fear that it shook Aulë's will. They were still Mairon's eyes, intelligent and fiery, but the intelligence was tempered now with dark cunning and calculating suspicion while the fire had become something that destroyed rather than that which formed beautiful works of art. He was still handsome as he always had been, but his fair face was marred by a harsh cruelty and unspeakable pain that seemed to have melded itself into his very flesh. His expression as he watched Aulë was one of cold wariness, and Aulë sensed an animal mistrust in him, like a cornered wolf that had taken humanoid form, betrayed only by the feral eyes which revealed the savage ëala within.

He had known deep down that Mairon would not be the same – how could anyone be the same after living under the Darkness of Morgoth for so long? – but even so, he had not been able to quite imagine Mairon, his Nauron, reduced to this appalling state. The malevolence that radiated off the Maia was so strong it was almost a tangible force, a black mist that hung between them. Aulë felt the hairs at his nape standing on end as goosebumps prickled across his arms. An instinctive horror pushed its way up his throat, a sickening nausea akin to what one might feel at the sight of the mangled corpse of a loved one, a deep, deep abhorrence, and for the first time, Aulë had fully understood the name by which the Elves called his Maia. This being, this creature Melkor had left behind, was evil.

Yet it was neither fear nor hate that Aulë felt as this realization dawned upon him. Instead, inconsolable pity welled up from the depth of his aching ëala, along with a helpless rage directed at the one who had created this monster. Despite the terrible things the Black Captain of Morgoth had done to the Children, despite all the wrongs Sauron had committed against Aulë himself, despite the bitter grief and horror he still felt at the moment, Aulë found that he nevertheless loved the frightened, broken person who was staring at him with the wary apprehension of a condemned prisoner. He could see Sauron sizing him up, hatred, scorn, and fear flickering through his eyes at a bewildering rate, and with a sudden chill, he realized Melkor's lieutenant was trying to determine whether the Vala had come to hurt him. The realization rent a raw gash across Aulë's heart.

That raw, aching heart went out to his child and at the same time, his tongue found the ability to speak again, a single word, the only word that summed up everything he was feeling.

"Nauron."

Mairon had changed, but he was still Nauron, under all those layers of Morgoth's lies and filth. He had to be. Yavanna was wrong. Oromë and Tulkas and Ulmo were wrong. They had to be. Aulë knew that nothing this Maia could do would ever completely mar the glory of the fiery spirit who had once served him so well and brought such wonder into the world once upon a time. More than anything, he wanted Mairon back, safe, never again to harm anyone else, never again to be harmed. He knew he would love his Nauron, no matter what name the Elves called him, until the end of all things. Now his only task was to make sure Sauron still knew that.

That afternoon was now six days past. Aulë withdrew again from his contemplations, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He was still staring down blankly at Eönwë's letter, his eyes glazed over and no longer truly seeing the words written there, those words that had brought him more hope and joy than he had thought to ever feel again but a mere three weeks ago. How quickly everything can change, he thought with abnormal bitterness. Refocusing his eyes, he drew a hand down his face as through to rub away the dark thoughts, then he refolded the note and returned it to the drawer, before slumping once again onto his bed. A glance out the window told him the sun had nearly reached her harbor on the western end of the world. Soon the darkness of night would follow, creeping across all the lands.

It had seemed so easy that day in Valmar: to simply do as he had always done. He was no deceiver on any account; he had been told on numerous occasions that his face was as legible as an open book. He loved Nauron, even if he had returned in the guise of Sauron, and surely that truth was not something the ever-perceptive Maia could miss. Care, respect, love, forgiveness, safety – were those not the tools of healing? It was what he would have surely wanted for himself had he been in Sauron's place. And for six days, he had done everything he possibly could to give Sauron just that. Yet to no avail.

Sauron's emotional meltdown at the guest house in Valmar had grieved Aulë, but it failed to shake his will too deeply. Fiondis and Cánaquar had told him that the Maia had neither eaten nor slept well during the voyage, and Aulë knew that Sauron was no lover of the sea – few Maiar of Aulë were. Moreover, Sauron had not yet known what the future held for him and as such his fear had been grievously clear, magnified dangerously by that feral quality he had acquired. Sauron had lashed out verbally the way a viper would strike when cornered and injured. Additionally, Sauron's hot outburst of pure spleen had reminded Aulë strikingly of Mairon's fiery temper, which had actually given him some small hope in itself that Sauron had not changed as much as the Smith had begun to fear he had.

But now, ever since the showdown with Yavanna, something had changed in Sauron. Aulë could see it in his eyes every time he looked at him. It was as if the fire of Sauron's eyes was obscured with a black, choking mist, akin to that dreadful smoke that had billowed forth from Sauron and Melkor's fire in the days of Almaren. This darkness was of Melkor's making too, he feared, and he had yet to discover any method of combating it. Unlike that afternoon in the guest house, when Sauron's eyes had roiled with uncontrolled emotions, now gazing into his eyes was like staring at a sheer obsidian wall. As yet, the strongest emotion he'd managed to lure from the Maia was vague condescension. Otherwise, he might have been trying to interact with a statue, those cold, emotionless eyes revealing nothing of what lay behind them.

It was this that terrified Aulë more than anything else Sauron had yet to say or do. Had he believed that Sauron was merely exhausted from his trip or overwhelmed by his changed life, Aulë would not have worried overly about this new development. But Sauron's breakdown at the guest house, coupled with his explosive rant against Yavanna and the Valar at supper the following evening, had proven that Sauron was feeling anything but docile and spent. Aulë would in fact have felt more comfortable with a raging Sauron on his hands – that would have felt somehow natural. Rage, in its own way, would have drawn Sauron closer, giving Aulë a clear pathway into his Maia's heart and mind.

But instead, Aulë had watched these past five days in a panic as Sauron slipped further and further away. Such indifference, such cold reserve, was unnatural for such a fiery spirit, and Aulë sensed the iron of Melkor's will in Sauron's chilling detachment. Who knew what forms of rot Melkor had left to decay in Sauron's ëala, but whatever vileness existed was now festering inside him, slowly poisoning him in his dark and damp interior, now that he'd blocked off his sole outlet to the light. Aulë had tried every method that came to mind in a series of vain attempts to coax Sauron into opening up to him, but every plea, every argument, every promise was met with that same exact icy disinterest edged with the faintest scorn. Every time he spoke to Sauron, Aulë was seized with the nightmarish sensation that he was watching Sauron drowning, yet he himself was trapped behind a glass wall, pounding frantically upon the cursed glass but unable to reach out and pull his child to safety. Every excruciating moment that passed, he became more acutely aware that Sauron was still beyond his aid, and (he feared) falling further away.

Having Sauron at his fingertips but being unable to help him was in its own way far, far worse than when Sauron had been leagues away, separated from him by the entire Sundering Sea and all the darkness of Melkor.

Aulë kicked his bed post helplessly. The dull throbbing that immediately ensued in his toes alleviated some of the aching pain in his heart. He had never thought he could hurt more than he had the day of Mairon's betrayal or in the long, terrible years that followed it. But witnessing the transformation of his Fiery One in person, realizing daily how much he had changed from the eager-eyed spirit who had been his apprentice, was far more bitter than simply hearing tales of it. Trying to reach out and love a person who needed it so desperately and receiving only that black wall and icy reserve in return was much more agonizing than simply wondering what was happening to Sauron in a distant land.

This was to have been his redemption, as much as Sauron's. This was to have been his chance to show the other Valar, to show Eru, to show himself, that he was not a failure for having lost Mairon. This was to have been his proof that Mairon had never truly hated him, but that misunderstandings and the beguilement of Melkor had for a time simply separated them. This was to have been his opportunity to prove that in the end, Morgoth could not defeat them, could not defeat him, could not steal his Maia from him, could not rip out Mairon's hope and love and goodness, could not…could not…

Aulë brushed angrily at his eyes as his vision flickered with tears. With a touch of bitter humor, he considered that he'd probably shed more tears over Sauron than Manwë's clouds had shed over the earth. But tears did not move Sauron. Nothing moved Sauron.

Forcing his thoughts away from this whole shipwreck of a business, he stood and grabbed his jacket from where it lay crumpled over the back of a chair. Tugging it on, he swung up a satchel that clinked as he lifted it, and then he gave the window a final glance. Only a scarlet glow now illuminated the western horizon, and he decided it was time to go.

The halls were quiet and peacefully dark as he made his way to the south atrium. Here and there, Eldar and some of his Maiar greeted him with respect and good cheer. As he passed the Great Hall, he heard singing and the plucked notes of a harp as Mindocar Tánolind, the resident Noldorin minstrel, entertained a large group of the Smith's folk with music and tales, a favorite evening pastime for many of the hall's denizens. In another corridor with tall arched windows that opened into one of Yavanna's enclosed gardens, he passed two Elven lovers, the man's head in the woman's lap as she gently stroked his hair and sang him a pretty song of the stars.

Once in the main courtyard, he changed to the form of a great stag with branching antlers and a soot-grey coat. It was a solid, dependable, swift fána, one he often took when traveling. His beloved earth seemed closer and more intimate under his hooves as he took off at a graceful gallop. He widened his nostrils to breathe in the cool, wholesome air of Valinor, then he simply ran, letting the motion's rhythm soothe him for a time.

The lights of Valmar glimmered beneath him like stars mirrored in a lake as he began the ascent of Taniquetil. His powerful stag's limbs rendered the climb effortless, as his hooves found every minute purchase in the white rock. Even so, by the time he mounted the topmost peak, his breathing was emerging bellow-like from his barrel lungs, and he gratefully reclad himself in his habitual fána, as he gazed upward at the shining palace of the High King and Queen.

Eönwë let him in at the front gate and ushered him into the crystal atrium where the clear roof admitted the fine sheen of the moon and stars that were now in full blossom above. Glancing upwards, Aulë saw the pristine light of Eärendil's Silmaril, though the star itself was beyond his view, hidden by the highest marble tower of Ilmaren. With a sigh, he thought of his wife's beautiful Telperion. But everything can be marred, his thoughts mocked him. And who can say whether it will ever then be unmarred?

He followed the Herald through the atrium and up a spiraling flight of stairs made from a crystalline substance so thin that it seemed the lacework steps would crack under his weight. Their feet made no sound upon them. At the top of the stairs, Eönwë bowed and indicated a room to their right. "My lord and lady await you," he said.

The inner chamber of the tower still possessed that ethereal feel, which always slightly unnerved the Vala of Earth, but the room was fashioned of white marble instead of the glass and crystal of the atrium and the stairs. As in many rooms of Manwë and Varda's palace, the roof was glass, allowing in the moon and starlight, and large windows dominated the walls for the same purpose. However, there was also the familiar and comfortingly earthy warm glow of a fire from the hearth across the room, and the deep blue rug spread across the floor was like moss under his boots.

Námo's black eyes met his first from across the room where the Doomsman was leaning beside the hearth, his arms folded. Nienna sat on the far side of the hearth from her brother, balancing delicately on the upraised edge of the marble foundation. The last of the three Fëanturi siblings rested on a lavish settee of the same azure as the rug and stitched with golden thread in a swirling pattern that reminded Aulë of the movement of the wind. Finally, on another couch across from Irmo, Manwë and Varda reclined together, their arms linked and the Star Queen's white hair shimmering about them both like a waterfall in the full moon.

"Greetings, Smith," Námo said solemnly.

Aulë took a seat beside Irmo as all five gazes of his fellow Powers turned upon him. He returned Námo's welcome with as much vigor as he could muster.

"Miruvor?" Manwë asked, holding out a golden goblet to Aulë. "You look as if you could use it."

Aulë took the cup and sipped at the sweet drink. The refreshing warmth and comfort of the Elven liquor slowly seeped through both his limbs and spirit, easing the ache in both.

The other Valar remained silent, allowing him to take a few more sips, but he could sense the expectancy and tension throughout the room. Nienna turned her gaze back to the fire, winding the single lock of black amidst her silver hair about her finger, then allowing it to unwind before repeating the process. The Smith set his cup on a low glass table between the two facing couches and sat back, fretfully rubbing his rough hands over his leather-clad knees.

Finally, Manwë broke the uncomfortable silence. "How goes it with your charge, Aulë? Why have you asked to see us here?"

Aulë had promised himself he would not break down and shed tears, but he found himself already fighting to keep back the choking sensation in his throat and the pressure building behind his eyes. Over the next hour, he haltingly explained to his fellow Valar everything that had been rushing through his thoughts like a swollen spring river these past five days. He told them of his conversation with Sauron that first morning after the trial and of Sauron's mistrust of their intentions. He told them of the violent argument between Yavanna and Sauron, as well as some of his own words with Yavanna that followed. He told them of the darkness in Sauron's eyes and of the disturbing coldness in Sauron's manner. He poured out his fears before them, his horror at the thought of losing his Maia a second time, his despair at seeing Sauron so close yet so far beyond his reach.

"It isn't right," he said brokenly. "I can feel him there, I can feel my Mairon in there, but nothing's going the way I imagined it. I knew he would need care, I knew he'd be angry and hurt and confused, but I never thought he'd just block me out the way he's doing. There's poison inside him, I know there is, and he's not doing anyone a favor by simply keeping it locked up, least of all himself. I don't understand what reason he has to barricade himself off from the world. I don't know if he's afraid he'll be punished for speaking what he feels, or if Melkor meddled with him somehow, tampered with his ëala so he wouldn't be able to talk to us about what he's been through. That darkness, that coldness – I know that's not of him; he was never that way before. I'm- I'm afraid there's some part of Melkor still left inside him, eating him away. We have to get it out of him. But I don't know how to do that if he refuses to interact with anyone around him. I'm afraid- I'm afraid… I fear…"

He hesitated, swallowing with difficulty. "I…fear he's doing to himself what we did to Melkor all those Ages ago. But Sauron's locking himself up. Yet I fear the result will be the same as with Melkor. As long as he cuts himself off from the world, all he's left with is his own hate and fear and evil. He's going to hurt himself by following this path more than he might on any other path he could choose."

He'd been staring down at his hands, but now he looked up, passing his eyes from gaze to gaze. "If this continues, we'll – I'll – lose him. The way he's refusing to eat with anyone else, the way he spends his days off alone, the way he won't talk to anyone: he's isolating himself. He's destroying what's left of Mairon, bit by bit – that's what I fear, at least." He searched the eyes of the other Valar desperately. "Why would he be doing this? What should I do?"

The other Valar were silent for several minutes, processing Aulë's information. Then Námo shook his head wearily. "I fear this proves what I believed at the trial. He should have gone to Lórien."

"And what would Irmo do that I am not doing?" Aulë burst out passionately. "I mean Irmo and Estë no offense-" he nodded to the Vala of Dreams "-but would Sauron not have done the same in Lórien? You saw that he would not take Estë's athelas. What would you have done – forced it down his throat? Do you think that would have ingratiated him to us? It was I who was his lord. I loved him. I still love him. And if it is not love he needs, than what is it? Eru knows he's had precious little of it for who knows how long!"

"And as such, smothering him in it may not be the best approach," Námo retorted. "Do not forget that he made the choice to leave you once already, Smith."

Aulë deflated, sinking back into the blue plush of the settee miserably.

"We knew when we agreed to extend mercy to Sauron that this would not be easy," Manwë said, casting Námo a warning glance. "It aids us little at this point to discuss what might have been and what should have happened. Wherever Sauron had ended up, I think we can safely conclude that whoever had charge of him would have had full hands in any circumstance. It matters little what he would have done had we sent him to Lórien, for that is not where he is. He is in Aulë's Halls, and to uproot him again to move him now would cause more damage than good, I fear. If there is anything he needs above all else, I suspect it is stability at this point. And I fear the message we would send him with such a change would bring him no good either. He does not need to see himself as an orphan who is too much trouble for any one of us to take in permanently. In the future, visits to Lórien may not be out of the question for him – in fact, I will support it when the right time comes – but for the present, we must do as we have told him we will do. He will never feel safe if we change our word and wrench him to and fro at our whims. Besides, it was his own desire to dwell in Aulë's Halls, and I am hopeful that this alone, allowing him his will in this, may prove beneficial in the end."

Aulë looked up in surprise at Manwë's last statement, a small flame of hope rekindling. "Sauron told you he wished to come to my Halls? How do you know this?"

Manwë gave him a long, calculating look that the Smith did not understand. "He wished to go to your Halls," he said at last. "That at the very least I read in his eyes, though his specific intentions remained veiled to me for the most part. Yet it is not so strange that he should seek the place that would hold the most familiarity for him in a foreign world. And he knows you well, Aulë, traitor though he may be. Beware of that, but be comforted by it, as well."

"Has he sought your forges, Aulë?" Varda asked.

Aulë swallowed, looking at the Star Queen. This was another matter that had been troubling him. "He has," the Smith replied, "but not as I had hoped. I have been informed that at least once in the past few nights he has gone in secret and worked in my forges. I do not think he knows that I am aware of his visits so I have hesitated to bring the matter up with him. With his powers Bound, I can see no harm in whatever he may be doing, so I have not stopped him, but I worry why he is not sleeping and why he feels the need to keep such a thing secret from me. I should gladly provide a forge for him if he asked it of me."

He ran his fingers through his beard distractedly. "I…I know you have said stability is central to his well-being, but- but what if he were given back his old job as one of my smiths? Instead of sending him to the quarry? He has not yet begun the task we assigned him, so if we were to make the change now, it would not disrupt his life. He is not happy with the idea and I do not blame him. Perhaps giving him back his old position in my halls would show more reconciliation with him on our part than anything else we might do."

Námo sighed heavily. "It is the Doom of the world that we cannot go backwards in time, Aulë. You know this as well as I do. Neither you nor Sauron can simply return to the way things were before his betrayal and expect everything to carry on as if nothing ever happened."

"I am not that naïve, Námo," Aulë answered, a little sharply. The Doomsman's lips tightened, but otherwise he gave no sign of annoyance. Aulë frowned slightly. Of all the Valar, Námo alone had remained silent on his personal views about Sauron during the pre-trial council they had held at the Máhanaxar. As the official judge, it was his place to stay as neutral as possible, at least outwardly, but Aulë suspected the Vala of Doom inwardly had fallen closer to Oromë and Tulkas's camp than his own.

The Smith turned back to the High King. "If Sauron still finds pleasure in his old craft, then I would give him the chance to ply it as often as he desires. I do not ask to place him back at the head of my forges as master apprentice, not yet anyway. I simply wish for him to feel that he belongs here and that he has a future in Valinor, a future he can enjoy. Perhaps things can never go back to the way they were completely, but if they could come close…"

"Mairon renounced his old place in the world when he betrayed you," Námo said with a hint of exasperation. "That time is over and gone and neither of you can return to it without severe consequences. Nostalgia will do none of us any good."

Manwë nodded, though his face was gentler than the Doomsman's. "If we could brush away the past Ages and make it as if his betrayal never had occurred, Aulë, then we would do so. And there may yet come a day when there is no need to remember that a betrayal ever took place between him and us. But, for now, this is what needs to be. It is not simply you yourself or we, the Valar, with whom he must be reconciled. The world is looking on, and he has done much evil in the world. The lives of those he has wronged are worthy of the penitence we have given him. And while he may not yet truly see the opportunity in the task we have assigned him, one day he may. That we did not do this, I fear, is another mistake we made with Melkor."

"This is not to say that you must keep him from your forges though," Varda put in. "It is good for him to find pleasure in life even yet, and if this is still where he finds contentment, then it is good for him to know that he is welcome in your forges at any time. Make sure he knows that you do not deny this to him, Smith."

Aulë inclined his head. "I will make that clear to him," he replied.

Until now, Irmo had been sitting quietly, his fingers pressed thoughtfully against his lips, his misty grey eyes staring out into the dark night. Now he shifted and spoke for the first time. "They speak wisely, Aulë. I have not seen Sauron's mind these past five days, yet when he first came to us, I sensed that he longed for a place. We destroyed his old role in the world and now he seeks a new one. And in the end, is that not what we all desire? What are we without a role that reveals to each of us our path forward through Arda? Find his place and you will find him. Learn his dreams and you will find his heart of hearts."

"But how am I to do that?" Aulë asked. "I do not have your gift and he refuses to speak to me."

Nienna spoke then, looking up for the first time from the fire. "You love him, Aulë, none of us doubt this. But Námo spoke the truth – too much love may turn him away as quickly as too little. Compassion is not simply giving him what you think he wants or needs; it is about taking into account who he is now and understanding him for it. It is not about living in some nostalgic past nor about living in some idyllic future. It is about being there for him, at his side, in each present moment. This is how he may be reached, not through some contrivance of yours to lay his heart bare but by walking his life with him and being there to give him hope in the darkness."

Aulë pondered the quiet words of the Valië of Sorrow and Hope for a brief while and it seemed to him that strength came slowly back into his ëala, for her words came like a light and drove back a darkness in his spirit that he had not even realized was there. Melkor's malice and lies linger in Arda Marred and seek to work in us still, he thought, and he shivered inwardly. He bowed his head to Nienna. "I thank you for your advice, my lady. As I thank each of you for your advice," he said, raising his head and including the other Valar with his gaze. "But I fear I still feel lost. My skills lie in the earth and in strong foundations and in the brightness of gems, not in compassion or dreams or judgement. What would you ask me to do?"

"I know you have not found my advice pleasing so far, Aulë, but there is a matter to which I have given thought of which I would speak," Námo said. Manwë gave the Doomsman a slight nod when everyone's attention had turned to him and Námo continued, keeping his dark eyes on the Smith.

"It is concerning the matter you have just now named, Aulë. It was the will of Eru that no single one of us should wield all gifts or understand all parts of Eru's mind. Thus, it is all fourteen of us together that provides balance in the world."

"Of course," Aulë said, scratching his beard and frowning slightly. "We all know this. But how does this concern Sauron?"

Námo held up a hand, palm outward, in a gesture calling for patience. "It concerns Sauron in that he cannot receive everything he needs for his healing from a single Vala. Right now, he has access to only yourself and Yavanna, and I do not think that is good for him in the long run. Now, wait and listen. It is, of course, only practical that he should have been assigned to a single hall that he may call home, and I make no dispute over that decision. But I think he should have the opportunity to meet with more of us on a regular basis."

Manwë was nodding and Irmo tapped his lips in thought. The Vala of Dreams looked up, his eyes shimmering and deep. "Your judgement is good, Námo. I agree that we should all have the chance to speak with the Maia, but not all together and not at the Máhanaxar. I fear that would defeat our purpose by unnerving him."

Námo inclined his head in agreement. "That was my thought. We should achieve more than one purpose with this arrangement, as well. He would grow more accustomed to Valinor and hopefully find our realm less daunting when he is familiar with it and our halls. And he will not be isolated from any part of our balance in that way. It may be that he will respond best to one of us that we do not expect."

"I agree," the High King said, still nodding. "He should be permitted, I think, to come to each of our halls in turn, perhaps a single, different hall on a regular day of each month, during which time he would have leave of his duties at the quarry. I think he would find such regularity comforting. I will speak to the others about this matter and see if they find it to their liking. If some of the others do not wish for him to come to their halls at the present then we can still rotate him between the halls of those who are willing. And it is probably not best to send him to Oromë or Tulkas first in any case. What think you of all this, Aulë?"

Aulë nodded. "I am certainly willing to give it a try. I have realized too clearly these past five days that my own skills are not enough. This is the work of Melkor in him, and it took all fourteen of us to fight Melkor when he was in Eä. I was a fool to think I could fight that malice and darkness alone. I…I think I was not ready to admit at the trial that Sauron was as full of darkness as I now fear he is. I am ready to try whatever you think may help him."

"There is something else we would all do well not to forget," said Nienna. "If the things inside him are as I suspect, they will burn in him with a torment that will one day be too great for him to continue bearing. When that day comes, he will have a choice. Either he will go mad with the pain of the fury of his heart or he will find someone to whom he will open himself. We cannot force this choice upon him. It must be fully upon him to decide when and with whom he will share his confidence.

"Yet he may never feel truly comfortable with any of us, or if he ever does, I suspect it will not be in the near future. He is angry at us, and that may in itself keep him from revealing his thoughts fully to any one of us for a long, long time. However, those of his own order may seem less daunting to him than we do. It is often the way of the world that the unlikeliest people may hold the keys to the world's greatest problems. It is my recommendation that you keep an eye on him, but beware of interfering too much in this process. If you observe him beginning to open up to any of his peers, resist your urge to meddle or you may trample on any budding shoots by accident and thus destroy what hope we have for him. He may choose the path to madness, but I find it far more likely that he will eventually seek out someone in whom to place his trust, even if he himself is not aware that he is doing so."

"Tomorrow, he will have the opportunity to begin work at the quarry," Manwë said. "Out of necessity, he will need to interact with others on some level at this time, and that may be enough to pull him from his recalcitrance. Let us see how he responds to his work. As for his self-isolation, he may simply be going through a stage – he's doubtlessly overwhelmed, and withdrawal may simply be his method of coping. If you make sure he has stability and the opportunity to interact if he wishes, let us see how he progresses. He has only been here six days after all. And in the meantime, we will arrange for him to visit our other halls and see how he reacts to meeting individually in person with more of us."

There was silence for a long minute as the Valar contemplated what had been said. Then Námo moved from the hearth. "I must take my leave," he said. "I fear there is always work to be done in the Halls of Mandos, work that does not grow easier over time." As he moved towards the door, he stopped and placed his hand on Aulë's shoulder. "I regret my harsh words of earlier," he said. "These last few months have worn upon us all. But while I regret the harshness, I do not regret the message itself. Your Mairon has changed, more than any of us might have guessed, I think, but he may yet change again. But do not let him prey upon your love for him." The Doomsman's lips turned up the tiniest fraction. "And if showering him with love proves in vain, you might see if some well-placed provocation may bring him out of his shell. But if you choose to do such, I suspect you should be ready to fight fire."

Aulë returned the small smile with one of his own. "I will keep that in mind."

The two Fëanturi and their sister left together, and Aulë finished his goblet of miruvor. Manwë and Varda stood as he walked to the chamber door. He turned at the entrance. "Thank you, my lord and lady," he said. "I…I have needed the advice of others, and Yavanna-" he smiled wryly "-Yavanna's advice runs only in much the same direction as it always has. I have a feeling I shall be seeking advice in this matter on a regular basis."

"Do so freely," Manwë replied. "Námo spoke wisely that it is our balance together that brings us closer to Eru's thoughts. You are not alone in bearing this burden, even if you have chosen to take on the heaviest portion of the load."

"It is no burden," Aulë said, squaring his shoulders. "It would be a burden for me to see another taking on what I feel I must do. But Nauron…Nauron is no burden."

He turned towards the door then paused and turned back. "I almost forgot, my queen." He rummaged for the satchel he had brought, and opening it, produced a beautiful belt of woven strands of gold and silver which he presented to the Star Queen. "Curumo finished your belt. He says it is a pleasure as always to craft an ornament that shall grace the fairest of the queens of the Valar. And I assure you, those were his exact words."

Varda laughed and took the belt. "It is best that Yavanna does not hear him with such flattery on his tongue for another lady. Yet I thank your apprentice for his fine work."

She lifted the belt, tracing her fingers along the woven bands, then stopped. "I do not recall this in the designs you showed me," she said, indicating an intricate addition, an extra strand braided in which provided a graceful counterbalance to the main twist.

"Ah yes, an addition Curumo decided to include at the end, a bit of last minute inspiration if you will. It is lovely, is it not?" Aulë said with a proud smile.

Varda's eyes twinkled just a little. "Entirely between us of course, but I think Curumo continues to improve. Not that I would ever suggest that he has not been perfect at his craft from the very beginning," she said with a somewhat unqueenly quirk in her lips.

Aulë smiled a little broader as he thought about his egotistical head apprentice.

"Give him my thanks," Varda said. "And tell him I think highly of his creative work. Please do tell him I love the addition. His design is beautiful."

Aulë inclined his head to her. "I will do so, my lady. I'm sure he will be delighted to hear his work is appreciated."

"What craftsman is not?" Varda replied with her soft smile.

~o~o~o~

The evening had drawn on to the depths of night when Aulë arrived back at his halls. Everything was quiet and still now, most of the occupants having long since retired to their beds. At first, Aulë thought his own feet would also carry him to his private chambers and thence to his own bed, which was sounding more delightful by the moment, yet to his surprise, he found himself walking in the opposite direction: towards the east wing and the dormitories.

By the time he reached the colonnade that led up into the east wing, he knew where he was going. The realization came with little shock, though he felt his throat tighten and a stiff tension crept through his limbs. Slowly, he ascended the stairs, running his fingers tenderly along the stone banister, thinking over his conversation with the other Valar and the advice he had received.

He stopped at Sauron's door. There was no sound from within and he wondered whether, at this late hour, the Maia would be sleeping as well. For a moment, he nearly turned and left without knocking for fear of disturbing Sauron's rest, but something within him urged him to gently tap at the door, quietly enough that if Sauron were sleeping, it would not waken him, but loudly enough that if he were awake, he would hear.

There was no answer and again Aulë considered leaving, but instead he gently tried the door. It was not locked so he opened it a crack and peeked inside.

A single candle burned on the window sill. Beside it, gazing out over the darkened landscape, Sauron stood, tall and straight, a black profile against the starlit night outside. His hair fluttered faintly and the long dark grey nightshirt he wore stirred in the slight breeze, but otherwise he might have been an obsidian statue with his back to Aulë. The lines of his shoulders were proud and strong, and it flashed suddenly through Aulë's mind that in that moment, Sauron seemed to him like a lordly yet caged hawk with clipped wings that gazes out upon a world it can see but can no longer take pleasure in.

Even though Sauron gave no sign of acknowledgment at his presence, Aulë slowly made his way into the room and sat down upon the edge of the bed, little more than a foot from the Maia. Sauron still refused to look at him, the profile of his face immobile, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the darkness outside. Finally, Aulë coughed a little and asked, "Have you eaten, Nauron?"

A single nod.

Walk his life. Learn his dreams.

"I…I know you're worrying about the quarry," Aulë said, watching Sauron closely for any reaction. There was none. "I suppose you probably think it's beneath you, a goldsmith, a former head apprentice of one of the Valar, the former lieutenant of another. No, it's not glorious work, it's not even particularly exciting work, but you will be doing great good with it. Homes will be rebuilt, families will be together again, cities will flourish anew, and you will know that you had a hand in it. Please, I ask you only to see the opportunity in the work we're expecting of you. This is the chance to heal the hurts caused at Melkor's hands. That's why you're back here, isn't it, not lost in some wasteland of Middle-earth?"

No reply.

Find his place.

"I know we haven't given you the choice about whether or not you will do the work, but then again, we all have duties we are required to tend to, whether we truly desire to do them or not. The choice we've given you lies in how you will decide to do it. Will this task be a joy or a burden? That is what we leave for you to decide. To one willing to show his goodwill, this is an opportunity to do so, and I hope dearly that you will take it."

Still nothing. Sauron gazed out the window, motionless.

Aulë sighed then leaned over and put his hand on Sauron's shoulder. The faintest tremor ran through Sauron's body, but otherwise he did not react to the contact. "You're required to be at the quarry by the time the sun rises over the Pelóri. It's little over a half-hour walk from here, though you're welcome to borrow a horse if that's how you'd prefer to travel. You're not the only one from my halls who goes; there's a number of my Elven folk who have been spending their days there to help their kindred in Middle-earth. As such, we hold an early breakfast, just a quick and easy affair, before sunrise for those who will be leaving. The cooks usually prepare ready-made lunches in the morning that you can pick up there at the breakfast table, as well.

"The Elves usually travel to the quarry in a group – you don't have to join them, if you don't want to. However, every morning and evening you will have an escort so that our stipulation will be met. Your escort will meet you in the Great Hall at the tail end of breakfast. Of course, if you have any questions, I will be happy to discuss them with you, now or whenever they may arise. Is there anything you have to ask, Nauron?"

Sauron finally turned his head and looked at Aulë. In the candlelight, Aulë saw that uncanny, feral gleam in his eyes, along with the obscuring darkness that hid the Black Captain's thoughts from the Smith. That now-familiar prickle of instinctive abhorrence shuddered down his spine, though the feeling did not come from Sauron himself, Aulë had come to sense. It was instead a horrified knowledge that the being in front of him should never have been, a gut-reaction to this twisted mutant of Melkor's hideous craft, this unbeing for whom no place had been ordained in the Great Music as it should have been before the Discord. It was his nausea at the thought that somewhere deep within, choking in its vile prison, whatever was left of Mairon was gasping for breath and crying out for help that he did not know how to give.

Give him hope in the darkness.

"Do you hate me, Nauron?" Oh Eru, who knew five words could ever sting so deeply. That it could be so painful to ask such a question and not know the answer.

Sauron's eyes flickered away from his. "I do not know what I feel anymore," he said, almost imperceptibly. "I do not know what I am supposed to feel anymore."

Aulë tightened his hand on the Maia's shoulder. He longed to put his arms around him, pull him close, tell him everything was going to be all right now, like a father brushing away his child's nightmares. But even Mairon from before had never been particularly affectionate, and he remembered Námo and Nienna's warnings all too clearly.

"I'm not demanding that you feel anything, Nauron," the Smith replied, trying to recall the advice of his fellow Valar. "Not anything that you aren't yet comfortable feeling, anyway. I want you to find your place in this new world and I hope that someday that place, whatever it may be, will bring you as much joy as having you back brings to me. I…I want you to be yourself, whatever that means at the moment."

Sauron gave him a look of barely harnessed, jaundiced scorn. "No, you don't," he said in a low voice with an edge of sharp danger in it.

Aulë suppressed the shudder that threatened to ripple through his body at Sauron's threatening malice and the evil that hung on his voice like corrosive poison. Simultaneously, he felt the instinct to pull his hand away, as if he were holding it in the snarling mouth of a wolf. Yet, at the same time, he hated himself for it, for fearing the cruelty and evil in which he knew Melkor had garbed his Nauron. He forced himself to look deeper, to see the shreds of Mairon like the sunlight glimpsed through roiling storm clouds. Instead of withdrawing his hand, he tightened it further, wishing he had the power to pour his thoughts and feelings directly into Sauron's heart through the contact instead of trusting to such a fickle and deceptive method of communication as the spoken word.

"What you may feel tempted to do and who you truly are deep down are two different things," Aulë replied steadily. "I do not hate who you were created to be. And I know you are not so different from the Maia I once knew as you'd like all of us, and you yourself, to believe."

"Do you indeed?" Sauron said, that oily condescension still staining his words.

It is good for him to find pleasure in life even yet.

"You are still a smith, and one of great skill, or so I hear. My forges still draw you, so why should I not think that other aspects of my apprentice yet remain whole in you, as well?"

Finally, a statement that earned Aulë a reaction. Sauron hid it a moment after it appeared, but for a split second, fearful surprise registered on the Maia's face and his body stiffened with sudden potency. The next instant however, he tightened his lips, pressing his mouth into a thin, harsh line, and his body relaxed, though Aulë guessed that any relaxation was merely a carefully crafted façade. The black mist swirled back in around his eyes. Yet his gaze remained fixed on Aulë's face with more attention than before, and his eyes pierced the Smith like a searching ray of fire.

"Who told you that?" Sauron's voice was cool but there was a level of lancing concentration and an undercurrent of anger in the outwardly composed words.

He knows you well, Aulë. Beware of that, but be comforted by it, as well.

At the most basic level, Aulë recognized the warning signs. He smiled faintly and shook his head. "I don't think it is necessary for you to know where I received my information, but I trust the source. You can rest assured: no one told me anything with the intention of getting you into trouble. Concern for your well-being was the primary interest of the message."

He withdrew his hand, stepping back, but Sauron still watched him with his hawk-like gaze. The Smith looked back at his erstwhile apprentice. "You should know that you are welcome in my forges. You are a citizen of Valinor and a Maia of my Halls now, and you are granted all the privileges my folk are given without exception, should you so desire it. I hear you have been making use of my library already, and my forges are equally open to you." He tried to penetrate the darkness in Sauron's eyes with his own will but found only resistance. Sauron merely continued to stare at him, that calculating, relentless gaze burning from his cruel, beautiful face.

Aulë made his way to the door, stopping with his fingers on the handle. He turned back to Sauron one last time, his heart heavy as iron in his chest.

"Nauron, all you have to do is ask."

~o~o~o~

The faint aroma of Yavanna's flora filled Aulë's nostrils as he opened the door to his private chambers and discarded his jacket and satchel on the chest by the door. The moonlight poured softly over the floor in bands, seeping through the trellises built into the roof. Yavanna herself already lay slumbering, her deep brown hair pooled upon the pillow.

As Aulë quietly changed into his night attire, something upon the bedside table caught his eye. Moving closer, he discovered a golden vase sitting elegantly on the granite slab. From it rose a single lily which glowed faintly in the dark like smoldering coal embers. Yet even in the dark, he could tell the flower was a pure gold color, with flecks of brilliant silver like stars. He reached out his hand, cupping the large, slender petals, a wave of affection sweeping over him. He knew his wife well enough to discern the meaning of this blossom, which was so strikingly familiar even though he knew nothing of its kind had been seen in the world before today.

He lay down and wrapped his arms about his wife, pulling her gently to him, and kissed her cheek. She sighed in her sleep, relaxing back into his arms as he allowed his own eyes to finally close in much needed rest.

Reconciliation was still within his grasp. He knew it had to be. This whole confounded business had gone on far too long for him to fail now. Somehow, somehow, he knew everything would turn out all right.

Chapter Text

Sauron lay awake long into the night, Aulë's words rotating through his mind again and again. It was one of the maddening conventions of the world that the times when one most desperately needed sleep to come, sleep was most reluctant to oblige. Even though rest continued to evade him as the hours dragged on, he did not dare to rise and venture down to the forges as he would have done previously during such a bout of insomnia. The thought produced a shiver down the length of his body, though he wasn't sure whether it was born of dread or rage.

Someone had been spying on him.

What purpose the person might have had for spying he did not know, but there were any number of possibilities, none of which he found remotely reassuring. Aulë evidently believed that the tattler had good intentions, but Aulë always believed that everyone had good intentions. Just because that was the impression Aulë had received did not mean it was the truth. And frankly, Sauron was confident there was not a single individual in these halls, besides Aulë himself, that had anything resembling good intentions towards him.

Not knowing the spy's identity was a major barrier to pushing past anything beyond conjecture. His first thought was Curumo, who would certainly have no qualms about snitching to Master Aulë, who would probably derive a vast amount of pleasure from doing so, and whose intentions would be fairly obvious in such a matter. Intuition, however, told him that Curumo was not responsible, if only from the fact that in such a case Curumo would have made an appearance to gloat over him. True, Sauron had provided few opportunities for the two of them to have crossed paths, but undoubtedly Curumo could have easily learned where he was staying and laid in wait for him. Curumo was not one to pass up such a golden opportunity to rile his opponent.

Yavanna was another possibility, but one that did not line up with the known facts satisfactorily. For one thing, Yavanna would have confronted him directly instead of complaining to her husband. Secondly, Yavanna had never liked the forges, with their heavy, smoky atmosphere, fierce heat, and devouring fires, and he doubted the Valië of Flora would linger long in such a place, even for the purposes of spying upon his despised self. Lastly, whatever else he may have perceived about Aulë, Sauron knew the Smith had been deliberately defending him against Yavanna's accusations since the beginning. Even if Aulë tended to turn a blind eye to obvious faults in loved ones, it was clear he was well aware of Yavanna's dislike for his former apprentice. Sauron did not think even Aulë was naïve enough to assume that Yavanna might have been spying out of good will.

After Curumo and Yavanna however, all other options essentially faded into one. Any of the Maiar had reason enough to hate him for his betrayal of their brotherhood, and any one of them might have deliberately spied on him in hopes of catching him at a self-condemning activity. Or, equally possible, any Maia might simply have come to the forges for his own reason, noticed Sauron's presence, and decided to snitch. Someone might even have noticed the evidence of use in the spare forge and automatically assumed Sauron was the culprit. Likewise, he had no lack of enemies among the Eldar in Aulë's halls, and the same reasoning could apply to any one of them.

The simple fact was, he had an enemy but no way of determining the level of threat. The spying that had led to informing Aulë about Sauron's presence in the forges might have been an isolated incident…or someone might be listening outside his door this very minute. He did not know. And that fact was deeply disturbing to say the least.

He burrowed himself deeper into the fluffy grey substance of the bed, closing his eyes determinedly and attempting to extinguish his racing thoughts. The patch of moonlight that had been crawling across his bedroom floor was now but a thin sliver of silver on his far wall, indicating that midnight had already passed. He had little more than five hours before he would need to rise and prepare for his long day at the quarry. On the best of days, it would take a treasure trove of willpower to keep himself under control in such an unpleasant situation; he did not like to think what a struggle it would be if he faced the day utterly devoid of rest.

But sleep has no respect for rank and authority. It flouted his commands with such an airy dismissiveness that he could not help but remember that he had no dominion here in Valinor. Even sleep mocked him with its insubordination, joining its voice to every other degrading experience he'd had so far in the Blessed Realm. He wondered absently if Námo, Estë, and Irmo had the power to deny sleep to those in their disfavor and if he had their influence to thank for this sleepless torment of an endless night.

A muscle in his shoulder twitched suddenly, snapping open his eyes and bringing his consciousness fully back to the room. For a moment, his mind and vision swirled blearily until he looked at the wall and saw a thin ribbon of pale gold stretched across the stone, replacing the silver moonlight gleam that had been there what felt like mere seconds ago. With a small jolt of surprise, Sauron realized he had slept the remainder of the night, and dawn was now at hand.

Not that this fact brought any consolation with it, of course. His agonizing night might have finally come to its end, but the day that lay ahead of him promised all kinds of fresh torture, physical, mental, and social.

As Sauron had discovered in previous circumstances however, now that the dreaded day had arrived, he found himself strangely ready to face it. Waiting often constituted half the anguish of any experience for him, for uncertainty and the unknown delighted in preying upon an imaginative mind. Now that there was no escaping his fate or prolonging the inevitable, he was interested to see what the Valar had planned for him. Considering the Valar's specifications, the quarry would likely be a semi-permanent part of his existence from now on, and as a result, whatever plans he made to complete his revenge would probably need to take the quarry environment into account. With no idea of the geography, specific tasks, and supervision that would soon become critical parts of his existence, he'd had little options for concrete, long-term scheming. Once he had an idea of the general layout of his life as it would be for many, many years into his future, he would be able to take stock of his situation as a whole and plan accordingly.

It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, yet one more facet of the promise he'd made himself in the Ring of Doom. If he kept reconnaissance in the foreground of his thoughts, he trusted that would be enough to get him through this day at least. Not that he had any other options. It had to be enough.

And moreover, it was Sauron's opinion that facing the pain to come with squared shoulders and an unbroken heart was always better than cowering in his room to delay his fate until someone showed up to drag him off. Cowardice and pride were never comfortable bedmates. He did not intend to let anyone, Vala, Maia, or Elda, see that his slavery was getting under his skin as much as he was sure it would. Let them bend my shoulders under as much labor as they like, he thought, a snarl curling the very edge of his lips. Let them assign me under the basest of the Eldar, but I will not permit them to shatter my pride.

He rose and began dressing, glancing out the window as he did so. Aulë had told him that he needed to be at the quarry before the sun rose over the Pelóri. Through the Calacirya, he could see sunbeams spilling over the sea and between the tall mountains on either side, from whence they fanned out across the Valinorean plains and trickled through his open window, leaving that thread of gold on his wall that he had seen upon waking. He figured he had about an hour before he needed to be at the quarry, time enough to get a decent breakfast.

He scowled inwardly as he pulled on the plain brown shirt and hardy hempen trousers. The garments were not ill-made and as comfortable as to be expected, but they were clearly fashioned with the sole intent of being worked in. Wonderful, he thought sardonically. Yet another constant reminder of my brand new status in Valinor to literally chafe against me all day. They certainly are taking all the precautions to make sure I know I'm no longer a lord in their land. What a fine lesson in humility they must suppose they are teaching me. The irony of the situation, he mused, was that he was quite sure none of the Valar were humble enough to even consider taking a dose of their own medicine. He couldn't exactly see the great Lords Manwë and Námo walking around in hemp. With a bitter smile, Sauron considered that Lady Yavanna would probably chop down her own trees rather than be seen dead in such coarse laborer's clothing.

Briefly, he'd considered ignoring the work clothing and donning one of the silk shirts that were more fitting for his Maiarin status, refusing to let himself be degraded any more than necessary, but he'd quickly decided against it. Here was a crux of his situation on which he had to make sure he was solid before he began this day. Was he going to act in subtle rebellion against his position at every chance he got? Or was he going to bow his head, work as genuinely hard as he could, let everyone think he was contrite and willing in his labor, and wait until his plans came together to a point where he could deliver a blow that would truly mean something? As soon as he put the options before himself in such a way, it was obvious that he needed to choose the latter. Why squander his energy and efforts on petty acts of passive-aggressive rebellion? He needed to make the Valar, the Maiar, and even the Eldar at the quarry believe that he was no threat, that he was going to do as he was told without complaint. Fighting tooth and nail every step of the way would first of all only make things more difficult for himself (there was a practical reason why one did not quarry in silk shirts, after all) but such behavior was also the ideal way of keeping the Valar's eyes fixed on him relentlessly.

A balance would of course be necessary. He would need to maintain enough spitfire to avoid arousing suspicions about his delicately woven act. He was fairly sure that not even the Elves were dim-witted enough to not start questioning his sincerity if he showed up at the quarry with a beaming smile and nary a glare to give his fellow laborers. A certain level of sullenness, sarcasm, and aloofness was doubtlessly to be expected from him. However, that didn't mean he needed to stand on every boundary line that was drawn in the figurative sand before him.

It would not be easy, any of it, but this was a role he was going to have to play for now, as much as he loathed it. He would wear the worker's clothing, he would attend breakfast like a decent citizen of Valinor, he would keep his eyes lowered and defer to whatever Elves were put in charge of him (as much as the very thought made his blood boil), he would craft a thousand stone blocks as if they were golden diadems, and above all else, he would keep the Black Captain locked up in a darkness so thick no Elf or Maia would suspect what lurked within. Let them think his malice extended no further than a few barbed comments and well-placed glares. And then, when the time came, when he found what he needed to accomplish his promise of vengeance, he would strike from nowhere, leaving all those around him shocked and bewildered. It didn't matter whether he liked the role or not; that was the only plan there was and so he had to do everything in his power to not mess it up.

With all this in mind, Sauron headed to the Great Hall. As he passed through the now-familiar colonnade that linked the dormitory wing to the main halls, leaving the confines of the corridor for the open air, an uncomfortable sensation slid like ice down his spine. He couldn't help but glance around suspiciously at the trimmed hedges and stocky columns, half expecting to see a lurking figure gliding out of his sight. Now that he was aware that he might have an unwanted shadow, such exposure, without a readily available wall to which he could keep his back, was troubling. He found himself wanting to repeatedly glance over his shoulders in the hopes, or fear, of catching sight of whomever had decided to spy on him. It irked him, not just the paranoia (as if he needed yet another worry weighing on his mind), but the fact that he had always preferred the open over claustrophobic corridors and rooms. Even if it was unintentional, the spy had efficiently ruined any preference for openness Sauron might have had. Just in time for his work at the quarry, which would doubtlessly be as open as it could get. What a veritable paranoia fest that would be! For not the first time since Aulë's visit the previous evening, Sauron thought of some choice Orcish words for his loose-tongued shadow.

Breakfast was already well underway in the Great Hall. At the far end beneath the dais, a makeshift buffet had been assembled. The mouthwatering smell of bacon, eggs, and mushrooms all frying in a pan (which Sauron was rapidly deciding must be the most delightful smell in Eä) permeated the air, mingling with the sweet scent of the wood smoke coming from the low-burning fire glowing in the hearth. Around the buffet were perhaps a hundred or so Elves, some already heartily digging into full plates in front of them, others working their way through the buffet line, others depositing their used plates on a cart by the door and picking up small, portable packs, dozens of which were laid out on an adjacent table. These, Sauron assumed, were the lunches Aulë had mentioned. Other Elves who had apparently finished and were waiting on companions leaned against the walls, some talking to one another, some braiding back their hair, some passing the time by plinking at hand harps or twittering away on small pipes.

Sauron realized he was still standing in the shadows of the doorway, reluctant to take the step forward and draw attention to himself, despite the action's inevitability. He clenched his teeth, mentally preparing himself to use the self-control he had promised himself he would devotedly exercise today. He was going to be spending all day around these chattering, singing, harp-plinking, pipe-twittering creatures, so he figured he might as well take the plunge now. He took a breath and walked purposefully towards the buffet table, keeping his eyes forward and his shoulders squared.

As usual, his arrival swept outward like a tangible force, like fingers of frost spreading their icy chill over a field. By now though, whether he liked to admit it or not, he had grown relatively used to ignoring the stares, both those hostile and those curious, and conversely, he had noticed that the freezing effect he had on the Elves was lasting for shorter and shorter periods each time he made an appearance. A sight of me is no longer a prize commodity, it would seem, he thought to himself. Apparently even dark lords become commonplace and dull after a while. Perhaps with enough time, I will become so completely invisible I will no longer be worth the trouble of raising one's head in exchange for a simple glimpse of me.

It was not an altogether unpleasant thought, despite the implications. After these last five days, and especially after last night, he decided he would rather be the invisible single-person bottom class of Valinor than a sideshow freak.

After all, invisible, bottom-class scum was very rarely worth the bother of spying on.

He took his place at the end of the line, which by now had dwindled to only a dozen or so Elves. The Elf in front of him shied away, glancing through his long, red-brown curtain of hair at Sauron and looking ready to step aside if the Maia so much as hinted at wanting his place in line. The nér in front of him however, a tall, young Noldo with black hair and forge-bronzed skin, tugged his companion's arm in a way that Sauron interpreted to mean get a grip, giving Sauron a decidedly hostile look as he did so. Red-Hair leaned over and whispered something that Sauron couldn't catch, but he heard fragments of Black-Hair's disdainful reply: "…can't hurt you…Valar will…Void…"

Sauron looked the other direction, quickly refocusing his bitter thoughts by grinding his back teeth and scratching at his rough shirt sleeve. As such, he found himself staring up at the deserted table on the dais at which he had taken lunch only five days ago, though it seemed much longer. The sight of it was like water on a mill wheel: slowly, heavily, almost reluctantly setting into motion a train of thought he had been fastidiously avoiding the last few days.

If he was going to start doing his best to play the role of a Valinorean citizen, however low, perhaps tonight was the time to steel his nerves and show up to supper, Yavanna or no Yavanna. Today was going to be miserable enough as it was – why not top it off with an encore public appearance where the Lady of the Halls would have her first real chance to vent any residual anger and hate she was still feeling for him? Whatever Aulë might have insinuated, Sauron still suspected Yavanna was going to find ways to make him pay for his disruption and ill-timed words at that last meal. Sauron was an expert in the art of holding grudges and he knew five days was not nearly enough time to erase hate. Not that hate could ever truly be erased, if the hate-holder did not wish it to be. Yavanna had clearly continued hating him vehemently enough over the last several thousand years. Of course, he had done the same. All the more reason to get the inevitable over with, he supposed, especially if he was already doomed for a day of misery. It was preferable to get it over with rather than leave it to conveniently ruin a hypothetical day when things were actually going his way, if such a thing ever were to happen.

As this decision took form, the line had moved up and Sauron was now in reach of the buffet table. Despite his dark mood, he had to admit the food looked and smelled thoroughly delicious. As he loaded his plate, he considered that though he might not be keen on his experience with Valinor in general, it was true that he was eating much better now than he'd ever eaten at Gaurhoth or Angband.

With his plate heaped with scrambled eggs, sautéed mushrooms and onions, spiced sausage and bacon, and toast topped with raspberry jam (Aulë apparently had an interesting view of what made for a "quick and easy affair"), he navigated for the closest unoccupied table, where he would be near enough to the Elves to create a façade of sociality but separate enough to retain whatever vestigial dignity he still possessed as a Maiarin lord.

However, as he approached, a Maia with shaggy silver hair rose from a nearby seat and looked at him expectantly. Sauron was so used to being either gaped at or ignored that he caught himself automatically glancing around, half expecting to find the real recipient of the Maia's gaze standing directly behind him. However, he then recalled Aulë's words from the previous night: every morning and evening you will have an escort so that our stipulation will be met. Your escort will meet you in the Great Hall at the tail end of breakfast. Sauron raised an eyebrow. The Maia looked like escort material, he supposed: deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and minimally intelligent. Sauron almost expected to see the Maia pull out a collar and leash and demand that he put them on.

"I'm your escort for today," the Maia stated blandly, confirming Sauron's guess. "Once you've eaten, we'll be right on our way."

Lucky you, Sauron thought sarcastically. I'm sure you had to scramble over everyone else to get first in line for such a highly prized job. With a hint of dark humor, he imagined that being put on Sauron-escorting duty was probably the current equivalent to what flue-cleaning duty had been back in his days as head apprentice. Some individuals had been known to offer hefty bribes to their peers in attempts to escape the dirty and unpleasant work of unclogging the sooty forge chimneys, though such tactics had rarely proved successful. Sauron wondered what this Maia might have offered his fellow Powers in a bid to pass off onto someone else the bother of taking two one-hour round trips back and forth to a quarry in the unsavory company of his perfidious self.

He slid onto the wooden bench, pushing his plate onto the table in front of him. His train of thought about traveling to the quarry led him to something Aulë had said the previous night that he had been too busy worrying about spies to remember until now. "Will we be walking or riding?" he asked, fervently hoping it would be the former. As a Maia capable of taking on numerous forms, he'd had little need to learn horseman skills, and he didn't fancy making a fool of himself on the back of a horse in front of this Maia, let alone all the Elves.

The Maia seemed surprised by the question and gave him an odd look. "Walking, of course. Why–?" Mortified comprehension flashed across his face. "Well, w…walking," he tried to recover awkwardly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't think to get horses ready. Did you prefer to ride? There's still time if you'd rather–"

"Don't bother," Sauron snapped, and he turned his head away to shovel eggs and mushrooms into his mouth. He figured now was one of those times when it wasn't going to hurt him to be rude, and he had reason enough to be offended. Innocent as the Maia's momentary lapse of memory about Sauron's condition might have been, it was no less aggravating to have his deficiencies pointed out: that he was not currently capable of traveling with the ease of most Ainur, trapped in a single form as he was. Being reminded of his Valar-induced disability by a tactless Aulëan Maia did not exactly lift his already damp spirits.

To draw his attention away from the dark abyss into which such thoughts would doubtlessly lead, he decided to turn his mind to reconnaissance. As he ate the rest of his breakfast, he went back through his memories, trying to recall what he knew of the Maia sitting next to him, since he'd effectively squashed any potential for small talk. The Maia's build, coupled with his grey and brown clothing, marked him clearly enough as a fellow Maia of Aulë, but his face conjured up neither names nor memories. This came as a mild surprise to Sauron. Even if he recalled little of the Maiar from the other halls, he figured he should at least remember those who had been his closest kin in the thoughts of Eru. Not all Aulë's Maiar worked in the forges, true, but surely he must have been around this Maia at some point before he left with Melkor. Yet no memories surfaced.

It frustrated him, not being able to remember, even though he told himself it was merely a symptom of his poor night's sleep, combined with his new-found paranoia and topped with the stress and anxiety that had been his constant companions these last days. He had always been good with faces and names. As Aulë's head apprentice and as Melkor's Black Captain, being sharp with the names of those under his authority had been a necessary requirement. He would have been of marginal use to either Vala if he could not quickly and efficiently recall who had what assignment, which under apprentice was supposed to be taking care of the ruby inventory or which orc captain was supposed to reporting from a scouting mission in Hithlum. It was not a skill he'd ever bothered to take particular pride in, but all the same it was irksome at the best and disturbing at the worst to think his mental abilities might be slipping, even if insomnia and paranoia were the culprits, as he doggedly told himself they were.

Yet his self-reassurances were little more than skin deep. Ever since he had breathed in the athelas brew that Estë had waved under his face that first day in Valinor, he had remained vaguely aware of those clinging shadows that shrouded parts of his mind, like the poisonous nightshade that had lurked deep in the crags of Nan Dungortheb that even the servants of Morgoth had avoided at all cost. It was not the natural fading of memory, he sensed: simply erasing the minor details of his life that had been deemed irrelevant, like a sandy shoreline washed bare by the incoming tide. Where the shadows were, there was a void – non-memories – as if nothing at all had been there to begin with, as if he had ceased to exist at those moments. This feeling was complicated further now by the damage inflicted upon his ëala during the Trial, so that he could not definitively say whether the shadows were a figment of his overworked imagination or not. Between the shadows (real or supposed), the holes left from the removal of Melkor's powers, and the Binding, Sauron could not guess what parts of himself might be missing or damaged. It infuriated him, but it also left him with a strangely hollow sensation, the sort of mood that could make him want to simply curl up in a corner, close his eyes to the world, and numbly accept that his life was a gaping hole that meant nothing and had never truly mattered.

He looked down and realized he had nothing left but a bite of toast and that he had barely tasted any of the good food due to his self-absorption. After a moment of surprise and vague disappoint over the fact that he'd wasted what was likely to be the most pleasant part of his day, he ate his final bite and, with nothing left to forestall the inevitable, rose to dispose of his plate. The Maia followed silently after him a few steps behind, like a trained dog or a sinister shadow, Sauron was not quite sure which.

Almost all the Elves had left by now, so Sauron had no competition in choosing one of the few remaining satchels that he had rightly assumed were the packed lunches Aulë had mentioned, each one containing a water canteen and a variety of non-perishables. Swinging the pack over his shoulder, he turned to his hovering escort and raised an eyebrow, wordlessly communicating the concept of "Well, are we going or not?"

The journey to the quarry was distinctly uneventful. Since most of the Elves had a good head start and many of them had chosen to ride, there was no worry about overtaking them and being forced to abide their company. The Maia had made no attempt at conversation since Sauron had snapped at him in the Great Hall. Sauron had no problem with that. What would they discuss anyway?

My, my, what a beautiful day it's turning out to be.

Oh yes, the weather here is much nicer than it was in Beleriand. Of course, you don't see much weather when your master keeps the skies perpetually covered in smog and darkness…

Ah yes, there were so many options for pleasant small talk that definitely wouldn't get awkward after one or two sentences. Off the top of his head, Sauron could think of a good dozen pleasantries that he could almost instantly ruin without even trying.

They traveled north on the main road for the first ten minutes or so, parallel to the Pelóri whose white peaks were visible over the treetops to their right, and passed out of the gardens of Yavanna and the domain of Aulë through a high stone arch in the garden wall. From there, they turned north-east, approaching the mountains at an angle. It soon become clear that they were heading for a large spur that thrust out from the main wall of the mountain range, perhaps forty leagues north of the Calacirya. It was yet early, with sunlight pouring in through the Gap, but the west-facing base of the mountains was still heavily cloaked in the shadows of night. The meadows through which they walked were patched with wildflowers, and the place was caught in that odd, quiet limbo of the early hours, when the night animals had ceased their chirruping and snuffling but the creatures of the day had yet to make their appearance in full force. It might have been peaceful, had Sauron been in a mood to appreciate Valinorean mornings or if his reason for being out at this early hour had been less unpleasant.

They soon drew near the spur, and the road (which was little more than a dirt path worn in the grass by the passing of many feet and hooves on their way to the quarry) rose at a steep incline. The meadow grass and patches of wildflowers gave way to purple heather that clung to the increasingly rocky ground as the path wound sideways up the ridged slope. Although they'd only been climbing for ten minutes, by the time they made it to the top of the first ridge, Sauron could feel his heart protesting zealously by pounding itself against his ribcage. Sourly, he considered that although he might have given himself a fána that was well-muscled and sturdy, he'd intended to use it for forging, not forced marches and mountain hiking, which were significantly different activities.

The still-healing gashes in his ëala also started making themselves known again as dull aches inside, and the strain on his Bound spirit was not helping matters either. His ëala automatically resisted the bonds that restrained it, chafing and stretching like a dog on a chain, his reflexive response being to use his powers to assist with the tension on his body, the same way a Man or Elf might respond to such circumstances by breathing harder. Unable to do so, Sauron found his strength draining much more quickly than he liked. However, he was consoled slightly by the fact that his companion was puffing just as hard as he was, evidently equally unused to traveling any particular distance in a humanoid form, and he did not have a Bound ëala.

After another five minutes of climbing, they reached another heather-spotted ridge which spread out into a stone-flecked plateau before them, now perhaps a quarter of the way up the southern side of the spur. Several feet from where Sauron stood, the ground dropped sharply away, and he found himself getting his first look at the quarry.

It was an impressive sight, he had to admit. Already, the Elves had dug a sizable hole in the side of the mountain spur, one that spanned perhaps five hundred feet from end to end and three hundred feet across. As yet it was still relatively shallow, two hundred feet down perhaps from where he currently stood. The path they'd been following wound downwards, zig-zagging across the wall in wide turns that would be able to accommodate the wagons that hauled the blocks of stone out of the crater. A similar ramp led out of the far end of the quarry, but beyond the crater's lip the ground dipped down steeply enough that Sauron could not see where the road led from there.

Had the place been deserted and dark, it would have been an oddly eerie sight, that massive pit gouged into the otherwise pristine surface of the mountain slope. However, currently it was anything but deserted. The quarry was already teaming with life, like an ant hill or beehive, in complex flows of activity that could only be described with the oxymoronic label of "organized chaos." There were Elves, in hundreds, if not thousands, as well as numerous horse-drawn carts, some already hard at work, others preparing to pick up where the work had been left off the previous day. The sound of pickaxes and chisels on stone echoed around the crater, the majority of the noise coming from the northern side of the quarry where a few dozen Elves were already busy carving away at the wall, which was pocked with staggered ridges, each one deeper in the wall than the one below it, like some cockeyed giant's staircase. The reason for this, Sauron figured, was to alleviate the need for large quantities of wooden scaffolding.

At the western end of the quarry, more Elves were dressing raw hunks of stone, chiseling them down into the proper dimensions and shapes, while others polished the rough blocks so that they would fit together smoothly. Still other Elves loaded the blocks into the wagons, from whence they were driven up the ramp, out of the quarry, and (Sauron supposed) to the docks where they would be loaded onto ships that would take them across to Middle-earth for all those poor, homeless Eruhini that were only poor and homeless because they'd meddled in affairs that were none of their business. Staring down at this loud industrious hive of Eldar that was to be his virtual prison for who knew how long, Sauron felt even less sorry for the homeless inhabitants of Middle-earth whom he was here to help than he had before.

"This is where I leave you," his escort said, jerking him out of his thoughts. "I'll be here around four o' clock to take you back to the Halls."

There was an awkward pause, during which the Maia hesitated as if unsure whether he should say anything else or not, even though Sauron could not imagine what else there was to say. Finally however, to Sauron's mild surprise, the Maia added, "Good luck."

Sauron glanced at the Maia suspiciously, trying to discern whether he was being made fun of or not, but the sentiment seemed genuine. Once again, he scrutinized his companion, trying to excavate any memory of him. The Maia had started to turn away, clearly expecting no reply, but Sauron found himself speaking. "Wait, what is your name?"

The Maia turned back around, brief surprise flickering over his face. "Erenquaro," he answered simply.

Sauron frowned. The name rang no bells. "Do you work in the forges?"

"Only sometimes. Mostly I transport the gold and silver to the storehouses."

If he spoke any more, I'd be simply drowning in words, Sauron thought. He couldn't exactly blame his companion though for his lack of sociability though, considering how their previous conversation had ended. Bearing in mind the stigma he carried, he was probably lucky the Maia was willing to answer any questions from him at all. However, interestingly Sauron did not sense any particular hostility or undue distrust from the Maia; more and more, Sauron was mostly getting the feeling that his escort was of the simple and stolid sort that were not uncommon among Aulë's folk.

Erenquaro's response might be able to explain why he was having such trouble remembering the Maia anyway. But still, as head apprentice, he would have interacted with the transportation unit enough that he should remember. He realized this issue was going to be a constant itch in the back of his mind all day unless he figured it out. His brain had turned it into a contest, one that he was determined not to let the shadows in his memory win. Also, keeping the Maia talking was the only way at this point to avoid going down into the quarry, which, now that he was here, he found himself once again not wanting to do in the least.

Then he had a sudden flash of inspiration. "When did you come down to Arda?" he asked, casting Erenquaro a calculating look and hoping he was right about his guess.

Erenquaro looked puzzled, not surprisingly considering that up until a moment ago Sauron had been all but ignoring him. "At the end of the Spring," he answered amiably enough though. "I came down to help Lord Aulë after the Lamps..." He trailed off, apparently recognizing that mentioning Melkor's destruction of Aulë's greatest accomplishments would be uncomfortable at best, all things considered.

Sauron let the matter slide, though in a different mood he might have taken advantage of the other Maia's blundering broach of the topic to put in a few cruel jabs. However, currently he was more interested in pondering the information he had just learned than tormenting the Maia. He was pleased to have solved the little mystery. If Erenquaro had not come down until after the destruction of the Lamps, then Sauron would have been long gone from Almaren by that time. It also explained Erenquaro's awkward but not particularly hostile attitude towards him, since Erenquaro had no reason to feel personally betrayed by him in the same way those Maiar with whom he had worked in Almaren surely did. To Erenquaro, he was probably nothing much more than a name, just a servant of Morgoth who had been lost long, long ago, rather than a brother apprentice of Aulë who had turned traitor.

With the settling of the matter came the vague formulations of an idea. Although Sauron had devoted the majority of his time the past five days to reading and searching for information to jumpstart a plan, he had not completely neglected the reconnaissance part of his preliminary battle strategy. He had watched those around him, mentally creating a hierarchy of the inhabitants of the Halls as he encountered them and placing individuals into appropriate categories based on their reactions to him. Those who glared at him and hissed his name with hatred dripping off their lips, those who cringed away from him with fear in their eyes, those who stared unabashedly at him with perverse curiosity: each received a place in his mental catalogue. Each group could become useful in different situations and with different strategies; each could prove susceptible to different methods of temptation and manipulation. It was good to have a list of who was most likely to stab him in the back or who might have an open enough mind for him to successfully turn it to his own purposes without arousing suspicion from outside forces. So far, however, his list of the former was absurdly more lengthy than the list of the latter.

Here was someone with potential, however. Erenquaro had been polite if not overtly friendly, and Sauron's first impression of the Maia was holding true: that thinking was not his strong suit. In addition to being adequate escort material, he might prove fairly decent unwitting minion material, not a bad combination, particularly if he held no specific grudges against Sauron as a person and was unfamiliar with the subtleties of Sauron's personality. Sauron filed all this information away for later contemplation. For now, he figured it might be worth his while to be civil to Erenquaro, even if it took himself down a notch or two.

"Thank you, Erenquaro," he said, putting enough stiffness into his voice to avoid seeming suspiciously friendly. "I'll see you this afternoon."

Erenquaro nodded, still seeming vaguely bewildered with the whole conversation, and turned once again to the downward slope that led back to the Halls of Aulë. Sauron watched him go, his mood fractionally lifted. See, he told himself, there's nothing wrong with your memory. There's no reason why you should remember someone you've never met. And you were all worked up that your mind was slipping. Shadows, bah! Why, it's probably just your cursed imagination trying to play with you. Your memory is fine. And the other things you've forgotten? Why should I remember my old name, or the words of my Song? My mind cleared them out because I had no more use for them, just the way it's supposed to. Stop working yourself up over nothing, you idiot.

But still, an insidious voice deep inside had to have the final say. Of course, Sauron, of course. If you say so… He could almost hear the cruel chuckle that followed.

Sauron snorted, dismissing the voice, and turned back around. Whatever emotional boost he might have received from considering Erenquaro's potential for minionship was quickly shattered at the sight of his impending doom laid out before him in all its wretchedness. He took in a deep breath and let it out in a long, controlled sigh, surrendering whatever inner turmoil he could. There was absolutely nothing for it now. If he delayed any longer, he would risk getting in trouble and that was the very last thing he wanted to happen on his first day.

He started down the shallow incline of the wagon ramp, eyes skimming the activity below him. Though no one seemed to have noticed his arrival, an uncomfortable feeling of being watched crept up on him all the same. That sensation he'd felt earlier of wanting his back to a wall returned. There was no Aulë here to protect him should the Elves decide they did not like his company. As he scanned the working Eldar below, all he could think of was that each one was a potential enemy: a spy for the Valar, a malicious bully, a rebel who would drive a pick through his heart despite what had been decided at his trial. Who knew who might be watching his every move? All his fears and worries that had kept him up the previous night poured back in through the hole of uncertainty. Even if his personal spy was not at the quarry, there were surely any number of others here who would be glad to take over the job. He shuddered despite himself, part angry with himself, part trying to shake the paranoia that had been dogging him these last twelve hours.

Instead, he tried to focus on more immediate and practical concerns. Although he was not completely sure for what or whom he should be looking, he figured there had to be someone in charge of the whole operation. And if so, there would most likely be some type of command tent, probably in a central or elevated location. He saw several makeshift shelters, mostly at the eastern end of the quarry, but from what he could see these seemed to be storage sheds for the carts and equipment when they were not being used.

However, as he rounded another turn in the ramp, he saw what he'd been searching for: a large, white pavilion erected against the south wall and only slightly lower than his current elevation. Until now, it had been hidden from his view by the previous bend in the ramp, but as he came level with it, it was impossible to miss. Three flags flew from the peak of the tent with three different emblems: a five-pointed star, a swan boat, and a golden sun: the crests of the three Houses of the Elves of Valinor – Noldor, Teleri, and Vanyar. Inside, he could see a long table with Elves gathered around it, all pointing at large sheets of parchment laid flat before them, which Sauron guessed were maps and diagrams of how to excavate the stone without collapsing the mountain on their heads. If a figure of command existed, this was undoubtedly where he would be.

There were only two more turns before he reached the floor of the quarry. Occupied as he was with examining the command tent and scrutinizing the Elves within, he was paying little attention to what awaited him at the bottom of the ramp. And so it was that his heart leapt into his throat when someone suddenly and unexpectedly called his name.

"Sauron!"

Paranoia gripped him. He spun around, eyes narrowed as he scanned the nearby Elves, searching for anyone who might have both recognized him and deigned to call out to him. He half expected to see someone about to hurl a mallet at his head or lob a rock at him, and his body tensed accordingly, ready to protect himself, dodge, or run as the situation called for. But his eyes widened as instead he caught sight of an unmistakable shock of hair like spun gold and vivid blue and white garments. He did a double take. His eyes were not deceiving him.

Sure enough, standing there waiting with his arms folded and a dispassionately bored expression stamped across his face was none other than Eönwë, the Herald of Manwë.

Chapter Text

Mairon preferred working alone. He loved tucking himself away into some small, quiet, untouched part of the world they were building, alone with his mind and his metal, where he could weave his ideas into the intricacies of reality.

In those long ago days, there were no forges, no hammers, no tools save the raw materials of all that was to exist and the hands, minds, and ëalar of those who had been sent down into Eä to create it. It was good work, hard and satisfying down to the very core of Mairon's being. And in those days, he – like all his fellow Powers – had delighted in the thought of the Children who would one day wake to marvel at all the wonders he and his kind were preparing for them.

Oh, and it would be worth marveling over. The velvet canvas of Manwë's sky, the vast wine-dark depths of Ulmo's oceans, the massive pinnacles of Yavanna's forests, the mottled foundation of Aulë's earth – harmony, order, and beauty made incarnate wherever he looked. And yet, this was all but the mere beginning to what they had seen in the visions, which were themselves only a promise of what Eru's themes and their songs would bring to pass.

Fire and gold – from the beginning, those were Mairon's beloved elements. Though it was Lord Aulë who first learned to bond together the raw particles into metal skeins, it was Mairon who first made them into art. Drawing from the Flame that burned always at the heart of Eä and also from that within his own blazing ëala, he discovered quickly how to entwine the molten ore into Aulë's stone, creating intricate patterns like a spider's web of sparkling golden light against the dark granite, quartz, and hematite into which they were set. There they hardened into rivers of solid metal, hidden deep, deep down in the depths of the earth, perhaps not to be seen by living eyes again until thousands of years had passed.

Sometimes Mairon wondered what the Children would think when they found them at last, those tapestries of precious metal threaded through the length and breadth of the earth. How soon would they learn to scrape back the stone to reveal the patterns he had so artfully hidden? Would they think it as beautiful and wondrous as he did when they finally did so? Would they catch a glimpse of his mind and power on the edge of thought when they ran their fingers across the glimmering surfaces, this testament of his unique work in Arda, the mark of Mairon the Admirable?

Such were the thoughts and dreams he cradled in his heart as he worked on his newest and greatest endeavor yet. Down through the foundations of the earth he had traveled, drawn to the heat glowing at the core of the forming world, and there he had found it: a massive pocket in the stone, an immense cavern with leagues of domed wall sparkling in the light of his fiery spirit. The glittering pinpoints scattered above, below, and to every side he discovered to be tiny crystals forming in the dark stone, and in delight he set to work creating a vast mosaic across those shining natural ramparts, threading his gold around the white crystals into the most intricate and beautiful pattern he had yet to form. He sang as he worked, and the pattern reflected the themes of his Song: splendor, order, power, hope. He sang of a coming time of innovation united with beauty, craft bonded with grace, dominion over the world coupled with wonder for all that lived and grew. He sang blessings for the Children to come, blessings of skill and craft and passion. Time had little meaning in the days before time could be measured, and save for the periods of rest that his physical form required him to take, he labored long and hard, dreaming of the day that the Children would find their own way into this place and see the hidden treasure he had eagerly prepared for them.

Another might have been disturbed to be so far and so separated from the rest of his kind, buried beneath miles of stone and earth, but as of yet Mairon had little experience with fear, and curiosity was a welcome and pleasurable sensation. Here, in this domain of his, this hall of stone and crystal and metal, he was lord over his own work, constrained only by the vast boundaries set by Eru through the visions the All-father had given them. The vast silence and glorious aloneness wrapped itself about him like a warm cloak and he delved deeper and deeper within his own being in search of new inspiration and themes to add to this magnificent work. The act of exploring his own fledgling Self and discovering the talents Eru had hidden within his ëala (not unlike the way he himself was hiding his golden designs for the Children) was a joyful and fulfilling task that Mairon felt he would never tire of carrying out. And so the time flew past him like sparks from a fire as he reveled in his task and his solitude and his skill.

Uncounted time later, Mairon's seclusion was broken by the faintest sounds on the edge of his consciousness. He paused in his work, frowning, then stretched out his mind, pushing through the stone towards the echoes and the dim pulses of distant power from his visitor. Who else would be here, delving so deeply into the earth? He thought he had secreted himself away well beyond the territories of the other Maiar, where he was unlikely to be disturbed. For a moment he hesitated, remembering rumors he had heard of the Fallen One who had concealed himself somewhere in Eä after the Discord, lurking to destroy the works of his fellow Powers or ensnare those he could. But the flicker of power he felt was not nearly strong enough to belong to a Vala.

He pushed on with guarded thoughts and a moment later brushed against the mind of a fellow Maia. The next moment his thoughts twitched with annoyance. A Maia of Ulmo. There was no mistaking the flickering thought patterns or the aura of water surrounding the newcomer. Briefly, Mairon almost wished it had been one of the traitor servants of Melkor; in that case, he would have felt no guilt in driving away this invader of his solitude. But as it was, this world was not his alone, and the water Maia had as much right to go where he willed as Mairon did.

By now, the other Maia must have surely been aware of Mairon's presence, and not wishing to be mistaken himself for one of the fiery Valaraukar who had betrayed their order, he opened his mind to the newcomer and gently tapped against the other Maia's ëala, making no attempt to penetrate. It was the Maiarin equivalent of a soft knock on a closed door, both an announcement of his own presence here and an inquiry as to whether he could enter. In response, the other Maia amiably withdrew his own mental defenses, allowing Mairon to see the signature pattern of his ëala. Mairon quickly recognized the pattern – it was Sirenúr, a lesser Maia of Ulmo who loved bubbling springs and deep wells and whose personality tended to be as cheerfully animated as the clumsy underground streams he wrought. Mairon examined the themes of Sirenúr's work and saw he was running just such an subterranean river straight down towards Mairon's cavern.

Simultaneously, he could feel Sirenúr's mind searching his own, making the same sorts of deductions about his identity and his task, and when it came, he felt the eager question clearly.

May I join you?

Mairon did not want company, least of all a young, extroverted Ulmean Maia, but he could think of no reason to deny the request save sheer antisociabilty. His answer was polite but succinct, yet Sirenúr's response was still child-like delight at the prospect of joining a talented, elder Maia in his labor.

Mairon returned to his work, but now with his mind unveiled and outstretched, allowing the lesser Maia to maintain their mental connection if he wished. As he approached, Sirenúr was quieter than expected, perhaps shy or awed in the presence of one of the most powerful Maiar, one who had been among the first to descend, or perhaps simply sensing that Mairon was not the garrulous type. The slippery, ever-shifting aura of water grew steadily stronger, slick and cool against Mairon's mind, until finally Mairon felt Sirenúr emerge into the cavern itself, though he did not turn from his work to observe the water Maia's arrival. Through their connection came sudden surprised wonder, then admiration, then enthusiastic aspiration. A flicker of amused satisfaction wove through Mairon's being at Sirenúr's combined awe at beholding Mairon's extraordinary artwork and his zeal to make his own matching contribution.

Just don't ruin it, Mairon sent, vaguely entertained by Sirenúr's buoyant enthusiasm bordering on hero worship.

No, no, of course not, Sirenúr replied, almost comically aghast at the very thought.

And so the two Maiar labored on together then, and Mairon turned his thoughts back to his own themes, though now Sirenúr's presence was a constant at the edge of his consciousness. He knew that many Maiar enjoyed working together, a Maia of Vána with a Maia of Varda, a team of Yavannan spirits with an Oromean and a Niennan, collaborating their differing skills and feeding directly off one another's themes and thoughts. He himself had never seen the attraction; though he'd engaged in such teamwork before, he found his best work came from the times when he could sink deepest into the recesses of his own soul, without the distractions that such company guaranteed. Nevertheless, he left his ëala accessible enough that Sirenúr could follow his train of thought if he wished, and he could sense the water Maia listening carefully to his Songs.

After a long while, he began to realize that Sirenúr was purposefully, if clumsily, matching his own Songs to Mairon's in a pretty harmony. For the first time, he withdrew from his single-minded focus to study Sirenúr's themes beside his own. Sirenúr must have sensed his companion's refocused attention upon him, for he offered up his themes before Mairon with all the shy excitement and exaggerated pride of a child showing off his work to a respected older sibling. And to his surprise, Mairon suddenly realized what Sirenúr was doing and he realized it was beautiful.

Mairon turned slowly and beheld the fruit of their combined labor.

Before him, the vast cavern arched like the hall of a magnificent giant king. The walls and ceiling glistened with the myriad pinpoints of crystal light woven round with his dancing patterns of gold veins embedded in the dark stone, and his firelight turned it all into a flashing spectacle of exquisite natural beauty. But in the center of the cavern, where before there had been only smooth rock floor, now there was a great, dark pool of crystalline water. Spread across its surface was a mirror image of those lovely patterns he had formed, now dancing, flickering, and shining from the obsidian liquid. It was his themes given life, magnified, reflected and rebounded from a thousand angles as the water lapped ceaselessly in the underground current that fed it.

Sirenúr had given Mairon's masterpiece the one thing it needed to surpass what it already was, something fiery Mairon would never, could never, have done on his own. It was perfect. It was Meant.

Mairon met Sirenúr's blue-green gaze and with a small smile, he inclined his head to the younger power in quiet acknowledgement of his gift. Then the two of them, a fire Maia and a water Maia, stood there side-by-side gazing out over the unified creation of their minds and Songs, taking silent pleasure in what they had accomplished together.

Perhaps, Mairon thought, perhaps I need not always work alone.

~o~o~o~

Eönwë was wearing an expression of such utter neutrality that Sauron could not help but strongly suspect that Manwë's Herald wished he was anywhere else but here in this quarry. The fact that he himself would apparently not be the only completely miserable individual here today lifted Sauron's spirits in some small measure. It was a minute comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

He had halted upon hearing his name called out so unexpectedly, but now he continued his descent down the ramp at a casual pace, both to keep Eönwë waiting and to give himself time to consider this unexpected turn of events. His mind was racing. What was the purport of the Herald's unlooked-for appearance? Surely if the Valar had a message for him, they would have sent it directly through Aulë. That, and the expression on Eönwë's face, implied that the sky Maia was to play a more significant role in Sauron's task of supposed penitence. What exactly that role was to be Sauron was not sure, but there seemed only one inevitable way of finding out.

He reached the bottom of the ramp and faced Eönwë, quirking up one eyebrow. "This seems like an odd place for a high king's herald," he drawled, allowing none of his curiosity or bemusement to show. "Shouldn't you be delivering important messages, or destroying hapless kingdoms of evil, or whatever it is you do in your time off? I wouldn't think a humble quarry worker such as myself would warrant a personal visit from the most powerful Maia in Valinor."

"Oh, lay off it, Sauron," Eönwë snapped, his expression shifting subtly from fake indifference to genuine annoyance. "I, for one, would like to make this as easy as possible. I can assure you I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

"Oh, I doubt that," Sauron said quietly, his eyes flaming.

Eönwë gave him a look that barely passed as tolerance. For several seconds, Sauron could see Eönwë physically struggling to restrain his tongue and shove down his repugnance for the Black Captain. But then the Herald shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Why don't we head over to the command tent and I'll explain everything as we go."

It wasn't a suggestion. Eönwë turned briskly with all the pageantry of a general, the long ends of his emblazoned blue tabard flapping like wings of a sea eagle, his long, straight hair glistening golden. Sauron fell into step with him, to the side and slightly behind, glancing around furtively as he did so. Inside the pit, the sound of ringing picks and hammers against stone was even louder, a cacophony of competing individual rhythms that nevertheless contained an oddly musical quality, not so unlike the discord of dozens upon dozens of hammers on anvils. Unlike the forges however, this place offered neither welcome nor comfort; these were not the sounds of skilled and careful masters crafting delicate trinkets and dainties of precious metal and gems, but the coarse clamor of unskilled labor, and to Sauron's ear, the sounds could not have been more disparate.

A few Elves glanced in their direction as the Maiar whisked past, but overall Sauron was thankful to see that the other workers seemed so engaged in their tasks that they were taking little notice of anything or anyone else. As yet, none of them seemed aware that Morgoth's wolf was in their midst, though there was still time enough for the information to work its way around, as it doubtlessly would. Moreover, Eönwë's rapid pace discouraged lingering stares, though Sauron suspected this had less to do with Eönwë's concern over Sauron's feelings or safety and more to do with the Herald's own mortification at being seen in the company of Public Enemy Number One.

"I'm to be your personal overseer here at the quarry." Eönwë was speaking again. Sauron turned his thoughts from his surroundings back to his companion, maintaining an air of suitable nonchalance at Eönwë's revelation, as interesting as it was. "Lord Manwë felt it would be wiser to pair you with a Maia than an Elf, considering the circumstances. Anyway, if you need water, or rest, or assistance of any kind, I'm here to step in and make sure you get it. I'll be in charge of your daily assignments, so if you have any questions about your schedule or your tasks you'll come to me first. If you run into any sort of complications, you'll report that to me as well. I'll be overseeing your daily work, making sure you finish your quotas, and reporting back to the head managers each evening."

Sauron mulled over this information silently. There was a final, unspoken aspect of Eönwë's duty for which Sauron found himself reluctantly thankful. What with his concern over the spy back in Aulë's Halls and the hostility with which he'd been met by Valinor's general Elven population, spending his days alone with large groups of pick- and hammer-wielding Eldar was not a reassuring prospect, not that he would have ever mentioned his anxiety to Aulë or any of the Valar. As such, it was a relief that the Valar apparently possessed enough insight to at least refrain from dumping him completely alone with a bunch of Elves, many of whom would probably be more than happy to turn this pit into his grave. Though he'd no intention of rushing to Valar to thank them for it, it was a weight off his mind that he didn't mind losing.

That aside, he wasn't sure what to make of Eönwë's peculiar assignment, but already his mind was flickering back and forth amongst the various advantages and disadvantages that this unforeseen circumstance created.

The more he considered it, the more he realized the situation itself shouldn't have come as a surprise. Eönwë's presence was an absolute guarantee that his every action and word would be reported straight back to Manwë on a daily basis, and from Manwë probably to the other thirteen Valar. He would have to keep that in mind and watch his step. Of course, he would have had to do that anyway. In some ways, Eönwë's propensity for tattling might even prove a blessing in disguise. Now he knew exactly who would be reporting on him to the Valar. Better a wasp out in the open where I can see it than one lurking in the shadows to sting when and where I least expect it. After his stressful night agonizing over the unknown identity of the spy in Aulë's Halls, he found he significantly preferred this option, if his every move was going to be analyzed in either case.

As he contemplated this, he alighted upon a further potential benefit: if he knew Eönwë was the central source of the Valar's knowledge concerning himself, there was the possibility that he could actually control the Valar's view of him, to a certain extent. He'd used spies often enough during his long military career to know the dangers that came from gathering information secondhand, as necessary as it generally was, and had occasionally utilized that very danger to his advantage.

One such time was shortly after he had captured Minas Tirith. The Noldor had made a number of ill-conceived attempts to retake the island fortress in the following months, driven primarily by the rage for which they were infamous, Sauron suspected. The forces of newly christened Gaurhoth had little trouble repelling them, and watching from his high tower, Sauron had observed the reckless and disorganized movements of his foes, suggesting weak communication and leadership, if any, amongst the infuriated Eldar.

Working off this premise, Sauron had stationed a troop of orcs within clear view and shooting range of a hidden bluff across the river, which his scouts had discovered some weeks prior and with which he guessed the previous residents of the island would be familiar. Although he'd never seen them, he knew Noldorin spies had come and gone, for shortly after, the orc troop was viciously attacked from the bluff above. Of course, the troop was merely a decoy. Another much larger troop accompanied by Draugluin had descended upon the Noldor from behind, trapping them against the river and easily annihilating them. The Elves' angry desperation, the relative naiveté of their spies, and their glaring underestimation of his own knowledge of the area had done all his work for him; they had thrown themselves upon his sword of their own volition. An experienced commander would have recognized the decoy troop for exactly what it was, but crucial information had been lost or subtly changed during the exchange from spy to captain.

If he could do the same thing here – manipulating Eönwë's reports to Manwë – he could essentially control, or at least predict, the Valar's actions as he had done so successfully with the Elven warriors at Minas Tirith. Of course, it was not quite that simple. As had become clear the previous night, Eönwë would not be the only person watching him and reporting; the Valar were not such fools as to make a cardinal mistake of espionage like relying on a sole source of information. But still, it would be foolish to throw away an opportunity like this, not when it had presented itself to him so neatly.

Besides, he had also just been handed the power to make Eönwë's life as miserable as he pleased for who knew how long, and really, what was the downside to that?

Eönwë may have simply been the messenger in the Valar's plot to lure him back to Valinor, but Sauron had no reservations about punishing the messenger, particularly when he couldn't yet lash out at the Valar themselves. And Eönwë had already committed the worst possible blunder in this situation: he had shown Sauron that his assignment was already getting to him.

Oh, Eönwë, Sauron thought, you will have to improve your game if you think you can play with me.

They arrived at the pavilion that Sauron had previously observed from the ramp and which he had evidently been correct in identifying as the command post. It was an elegant, peaked structure, white but embroidered all around with fluid, Elven designs in a different weave, and staked into the stone on a low rise at the southern end of the quarry, from which point the occupants had a clear view of the various operations throughout the pit. Sauron had to give the Elves in charge some credit though in that they were not lounging in luxury while their kin toiled below. The interior was distinctly austere; except for the shade, there were no extra frills or indulgences, only a long table running down the center line which was pinned all over with maps and diagrams and surrounded by light wooden benches. At the back, against the sheer quarry wall, were a row of long cabinets, which at a guess Sauron imagined were filled with the various paperwork that an operation like this would require.

There was perhaps a score of Elves in the tent, some gathered about the maps, others working on what were probably reports and schedules, and a few gathered in groups talking and gesturing towards various areas of the quarry. As the Maiar entered, many of the Elves glanced up in a cursory manner, clearly expecting more of their own kind, but then they all did double takes, their gazes suddenly full of the intent, invasive curiosity that Sauron was now coming to expect. He ignored them and felt as their eyes slid away seconds later, as if they had decided they were above staring and did not want to be caught doing so by their peers.

Eönwë, authoritative and formal as always, wasted no time but made a beeline for the back of the tent, where a tall Elf woman was going over what appeared to be production charts. She looked up as they approached, her grey gaze appraising and cool, and laid aside her report. Her dark hair was pulled back into a single, long plait and she was clad in a belted leather jerkin and linen trousers tucked into tall boots, giving her the taut, poised air of one who knew exactly what she was doing and would take no nonsense from those under her command. She met Sauron's eyes fearlessly and held his fiery gaze undaunted, and looking back, he perceived that she was old and shrewd and had seen much in her years. Indeed, searching deeper, he found that hint of flickering light in the depths of her eyes, the same light that Melkor had worn upon his brow, that light which marked all of the Calaquendi. This Elf had seen the Two Trees.

Her eyes swept down then up, weighing him in a single, calculative glance that left him feeling curiously and uncomfortably exposed. A moment later, he realized why. It was the same way he had looked at prisoners brought before the throne of Gaurhoth, evaluating strengths and weaknesses, value and threat, all with the complete confidence of having power and control on his side. His jaw clenched and heat seeped up into his face, though he had long ago learned how to control his fána well enough to conceal the angry, shamed flush.

"So, this is our dark lord," the woman said, her voice low and husky.

Seeming to sense the tension clouding the air, Eönwë stepped forward to do what he did best. "My lady, this is the Maia Sauron Gorthaur of Aulë's Halls who has been assigned to work here at Corimendturë by the Valar. And Sauron," he said, turning to him, "this is Lady Yavairë of the Telerin folk who with her husband Sorohend of the Vanyar has been granted the task of managing this quarry in response to local requests to send succor to the peoples of Middle-earth."

Sauron inclined his head, smoothing his face into a serene mask. "My lady."

Yavairë continued to stare at him, her Tree-lit gaze unnervingly penetrating and inscrutable. "Tell me, Sauron Gorthaur, are the rumors true that you have come to Aman of your own will, seeking forgiveness for your ill deeds?"

Sauron gave a little polite smile. "They are," he replied easily.

Yavairë returned his smile with one of her own, polished and cold. "I see. And now you think that a few stones dug from a quarry is fair payment and proper restitution for gallons of blood spilled from my people?"

Sauron's face remained impeccably cool. "No, my lady, I believe it is the Valar who think such."

Her lips tightened, but otherwise she gave no indication of her emotions. Her eyes continued to flicker uncannily, like light seen far and distant through deep water, and for another moment longer they remained locked eye-to-eye. Then Yavairë swept her gaze away, as if she had fathomed all of Sauron's being that she currently required. "Lord Eönwë has your assignments and he will show you the way things are done here," she said, picking up her report again. "You will find that my people value hard work and a strong will, but we have little tolerance for disruption to our order or for those who spread ill will. I trust you are wise enough to do neither as long as you are here."

She turned her steely gaze back to him a final time. "And do not forget, Sauron Gorthaur, that the Eldar value the blood of their kindred above all else. Our memories run long, and we are not in the habit of forgetting."

Sauron bowed from the waist. "And neither am I, my lady. I can assure you that I will not forget."

~o~o~o~

"Essentially, everything boils down to three main divisions: mining, dressing, and transportation."

Sauron was in the process of getting a tour of the quarry and a run-down of the procedures from Eönwë, who had apparently himself only been briefed in the past few days. However, considering that they had both played the roles of commanders in their respective pasts, neither was unfamiliar with the running of such operations. Sauron was finding everything straightforward enough, if not exactly riveting.

"Each of the three divisions is broken down further into twenty to thirty units – the Elves call them maquati – which each consist of ten workers and an overseer. The mining maquati excavate the raw stone, the dressing maquati shape the blocks to their proper dimensions, and the transportation maquati move the raw stones down for dressing and deliver the finished blocks to their final destinations, here in Valinor at least. There are also the specialists – blacksmiths, wainwrights, hostlers, and the managers of course – but for the most part, they won't be affecting your work directly."

The Herald pulled a folded parchment out of his satchel and handed it to Sauron, who unfolded it to find it covered in a combination of letters and numbers ordered into three long columns. "That's the weekly maquati schedule. It's long, hard work and not particularly exciting, especially if you're in mining or dressing, so most maquati are on rotating schedules to avoid the monotony of performing the same task day after day."

He pointed to the top of the second column. "See, here's M1, Maquat One, who are working in the dressing division today." He shifted his finger lower, indicating a place further down the list in the third column. "Tomorrow, M1 is in the transportation division, and the next day they're in mining. Then they're back in dressing the next day, and so forth.

"Some maquati do opt as a team to remain in the same division indefinitely. Elves who prefer a particular division are grouped into special units and remain in the same slot on the schedule day to day." He pointed to one unit on the list. "M56, for example, is marked IM for imya: 'same.' As you can see, they're working in dressing the entire week. Schedules are developed on a weekly basis, so if anyone wants to switch from a regular unit to an imya unit, or vice versa, they have to inform their overseer by the final day in order to get on the correct schedule for the next week."

"So what schedule have I been graced with?" Sauron inquired in a bored monotone.

Eönwë gave him an annoyed scowl, which Sauron ignored. Just because he'd decided he was going to behave (mostly), it didn't mean he had plans to jump up and down in feigned enthusiasm over his obligatory labor.

Somewhat huffily, the sky Maia plucked the schedule from Sauron's grasp to refold and return it to his satchel. "For some unfathomable reason, the Valar in their great wisdom thought you might not mix well with the Elves yet, so you are a special case. You and I make up Maquat Seventy-three for the time being. The same general rules apply for you though. You're starting out this week on an imya dressing schedule, since dressing is the division that requires the smallest amount of necessary interaction with anyone else and the Valar thought you'd appreciate having a week to settle into the job with the same task each day. After this week however, you'll have the option of switching to a regular rotating schedule or staying on your imya schedule. It's up to you. Any given week you can switch schedules, just as long as you notify me by the end of the week, but once you're down that's what you'll be doing, even if you decide you don't like it after all. So choose wisely."

Tipping his head to the side, Eönwë gazed upwards thoughtfully. "I think that's all you need to know for now. I'll take you up to the blacksmiths to collect your tool set and then you've got a few hours to lunch to get yourself settled in."

~o~o~o~

Within half an hour, Sauron reported in at the dressing division command post at the west end of the quarry. The division commander at the makeshift post (little more than a chair and table under a lean-to roof) took down Sauron's maquat number on a long parchment and handed Eönwë another much shorter document with their daily assignment.

"Looks like we're over there by the southwest wall," Eönwë said, skimming the finely printed Tengwar on the sheet. "Sector Nine, Station Five. I believe they've set us up a special station to accommodate the fact that it's just the two of us rather than a full unit."

Allowing Eönwë to take the lead, Sauron surreptitiously scanned the area as they headed towards their station. By now, the activity in the pit had picked up considerably as the daily work got into full swing and the Elven units fell into their well-established routines. As they wound their way between the other stations, Sauron eyed the working units in an attempt to glean what information he could about the labor and his neighboring coworkers. Within each dressing maquat, five Elves were working on large, unshaped slabs of raw stone, hammering and chiseling them into roughly rectangular shapes. The blocks were then passed off to the other five Elves, who were using finer chisels and rasps to smooth out the stone and rid them of remaining imperfections. At several stations, members of the transportation division were loading finished blocks onto sled-like contraptions, which were used to drag the blocks away to the eastern end of the quarry, from whence it appeared they were catalogued, loaded into larger, sturdier carts drawn by horses, and transported to the docks. A bitter melancholy settled over Sauron as he observed the fate of each block. Wrenched from your age-old place in the world, hammered and chiseled and battered and bruised, and shipped off across the sea to you know not what – I know how that feels.

Sector Nine, Station Five consisted of two small wooden benches, a wooden work table, and a large stone table, which was little more than a raised stone slab scored with straight groves into which each block would fit to hold it in place as he shaped it. Folded nearby was a light awning for once the sun rose high enough to become unpleasant. All in all, the station could not have been much more than fifteen square feet.

Beside the station was a tumble of misshapen stones, fresh pick and hammer scars clear across their surfaces. It was these stones that Sauron was required to turn into useable blocks by the end of the day, the stones that would eventually become part of new Elven cities in Middle-earth. Fifty blocks according to the quota written in his daily assignment. Sauron bit his lip, breathed out a long, slow sigh, then gingerly slid onto his bench.

On the wooden table, he laid out his tool kit: a leather strip sewn with pockets containing the various devices needed to transform the ugly chunks of raw limestone into the finished blocks he'd observed being hauled out of the quarry. The tools ranged from chisels and rasps of various sizes to a long straight edge, a set square, and a plumb line, everything he'd need to properly dress the blocks. Although he'd never done such work himself or directly overseen the quarrying and building operations of Morgoth's kingdom, he still understood the basic principles of the task before him and had a fair idea of what he'd be doing all day.

One thing was for sure: it was a far, far cry from forging gold.

It was going to be a long day.

He turned to Eönwë, who was standing a few paces behind him, and caught the golden-haired Maia staring wistfully off in the direction of Taniquetil, the top of which was visible over the crest of the quarry. He coughed sardonically and the Herald gave a little twitch, looking almost guilty before he quickly recovered the bored expression that Sauron assumed was supposed to mean something along the lines of "I'm not at all bothered to be stuck in a quarry with the most hated being in Aman. Really, I'm not." Once again, Sauron found himself mentally sneering at what an amateur Eönwë truly was to this game. Not that Eönwë's life had provided him much reason to cultivate the skill of hiding his emotions and concealing his thoughts. The hardest thing Eönwë had probably done in his entire life was memorizing long-winded speeches for Manwë's Valarin feasts.

And what reason did gentlelord Eönwë have to learn? It wasn't as if Eönwë was the one condemned to wear himself out chiseling and chipping at blocks of stone. It wasn't Eönwë who was reduced to a pathetic state of powerlessness with a Bound ëala. It wasn't Eönwë who had nothing to look forward to at the end of the day except further revilement, segregation, and misery.

You would not have survived a single day in my life, he thought, scathing bitterness towards the Herald swelling up from his stomach. You are weaker than you even begin to imagine.

He raised an eyebrow, only letting a fraction of his contempt show. "I'm assuming your job consists of more than holding my paperwork and looking pretty. Or do I have to lift these stones all by myself? Of the two of us, I'm the one who's Bound after all."

Eönwë shot him a vicious glare then frowned down at the pristine blue and white tabard he was wearing, a somewhat regretful expression crossing his face that made Sauron all the more smug about the decision he'd made that morning to choose work clothes over his silken garments. Apparently no one was stocking Eönwë's wardrobe with appropriate quarry attire. That, or Eönwë couldn't bear the thought of leaving Taniquetil without Manwë's Eagle stamped across his chest for all and sundry to see and revere. However, to his credit, the Herald bent over without any verbal complaint and helped Sauron hoist the first limestone slab up onto the stone table.

The entire process was straightforward enough. The first task was to carve the slab into approximately the right shape and dimensions, three feet by two feet by two feet, which was accomplished with the most blunt chisel in his set and a wooden mallet. As the shape began to emerge, he worked his way down to the finer chisels, stopping regularly to use his straight edge, set square, and plumb line to ensure that the lines and angles were correct. Once he was satisfied with the basic shape, he moved on to the polishing process with the most abrasive rasp. Once the bumps and scrapes left by the chisels were worn down, he used the coarse emery rasp and lastly the finest pumice rasp to polish the block to a smooth and glisteningly sleek finish. After measuring the sides and angles a final time, he enlisted Eönwë's aid once more to move the completed block to the east end of the station, where it would be collected by members of the transportation division during their next round.

One block down, forty-nine blocks to go.

From what he could see, the one and only positive aspect of the work was that it was nearly mindless. Except for the measuring, the task took barely any thought, especially the second half which involved little more than rubbing the rasps back and forth methodically across the entire surface. After his muscle memory kicked in, allowing him to perform the repetitive motions by rote, his mind was afforded the opportunity to roam where it willed. For a while, he used the time to meditate on the books from Aulë's library, mulling over various ideas for supplementing his powers that had been sparked by information in the volumes he'd read, and discarding each in turn as he decided it wouldn't accomplish what he needed. From there, he pondered the quandary of how better to approach his mission, searching for that illusive key to speeding up the information-gathering process that he was sure he was missing. Yet still nothing presented itself to him within that sphere, and he began to grow irritated with himself and the seeming futility of his plans, a sentiment fortified by his current state, as he wasted minute after minute on these cursed stone blocks.

Before he could descend into a truly foul temper with that train of thought, he forced his mind back to the present. Fuming helplessly over what he could not change was pointless and he refused to lose his cool on his very first day. Instead, he examined the progress of his manual labor. He'd moved through four more blocks, but when he glanced upwards to the sun, further dismay struck him. Surely, he'd been here long enough that the sun should be nearing its zenith by now! It felt as if he'd been sitting there for hours chipping away at these blocks, but the sun's position announced the fact that he could barely have been there for more than an hour. His heart sank. Already, his arms were stiffening from the constant motion of chiseling and rasping, his fingers felt raw and worn, his back was cramping, and his nether regions ached from the flat, wooden seat. He let out a groan, bending backwards as far as he could without overbalancing to ease his backache and stretching his arms over his head in an attempt to get the blood flowing through them properly again.

All this time, Eönwë had interacted with him on a strictly minimal basis, helping him move each block to and from Sauron's working space, holding one particularly bothersome and wobbly limestone slab in place until Sauron chiseled it flat, periodically clearing away the debris that piled up at Sauron's feet, bringing buckets of water from a nearby mountain stream to pour over the blocks during the final polishing stages to wash away the fine dust, and any other random tasks that surfaced. When not performing such responsibilities, as now, the Herald paced nearby, blatantly bored but apparently not bored enough to attempt conversation with Sauron. Sauron did not mind. He found it something of a relief that neither of them was pretending to hold any amiable feelings for the other. One less layer of his mask to constantly maintain, he figured. It was as if they had made a silent, mutual agreement to do their respective tasks with relatively good grace but to hold one another in complete disdain all the while.

As he twisted his neck from side to side, trying to knead out a crick forming at his nape, Sauron wondered yet again how Eönwë of all people had ended up with this task. It seemed almost as much a punishment for the Herald as it did for himself. Surely there were other qualified Maiar (and ones with whom he had a less hostile history) who could have helped him move stones and stood watch over him just as easily. As much as he despised Eönwë, he recognized that this assignment was well beneath the Herald's rank; unless he had committed a serious offense against his masters, Sauron could not imagine what had led to such a degrading responsibility. Perhaps it's the Valar's twisted way of punishing him for showing me mercy in Middle-earth and causing them so much trouble by sending me here, he thought. I wouldn't put it past them. Still, the assignment must have come from Manwë though, and who really knew what went on in the Sky Vala's head. He was not exactly known for approaching matters in the most rational ways. It was Manwë who had pardoned both Melkor and Sauron, after all. Need one say more?

Eönwë noticed Sauron stretching and brought over his water canteen, from which Sauron took a long, grateful swig. Taking his work bucket, Sauron then proceeded to pour the remaining trickle of water over his head and sighed as the cool liquid ran down his neck. Even though the Valinorean weather remained perpetually balmy, the hard labor under the high sun upon the barren rock face was taking its toll.

"Take a short break," Eönwë said in a clipped voice. "Walk out the cramps and get yourself some food if you need it. I just recommend against straying far."

Though he sniffed at Eönwë's overbearing tone, Sauron availed himself of the opportunity by standing and pacing the perimeter of his station, bending backwards and forwards and twisting to the side as if trying to recall the moves to an exotic dance. Muscles burned from places he wouldn't have guessed he was even using. Morosely, he wondered if he would be capable of so much as getting out of bed the next morning.

While his work took little thought, it did monopolize his visual focus. When he'd first arrived, his attention had primarily been for the station itself and its fixings, but now he took the time to familiarize himself with his general surroundings. His station was at the far southwest extremity of the quarry, leaving him open on two sides, a fact which eased some of the paranoid claustrophobia with which he'd initially been struck upon entering the pit. Due to the slope of the mountain spur into which the quarry was gouged, the shallow western ridge of the quarry offered a fair view of the plains stretching out below to the horizon. He could even see a large patch of darker greenery against the yellow-green of the plains grass which he guessed must be Yavanna's Garden, although the quarry's higher southern wall hid Aulë's mansions themselves from his sight.

Eönwë had apparently taken the break as an opportunity to vacate the premises and escape his objectionable companion, though Sauron did not know and did not care where he had gone, just as long as he returned. He dug in his food satchel and began munching on a ripe peach, appreciating the cool sweetness of the fruit as it washed away the grit and fine film of dust that he'd been breathing in the past hour. As he did so, he leaned up against the quarry wall and turned his attention to his next-door neighbors, the Elven unit working closest to his own.

They were perhaps thirty feet away, and the thuds of their mallets, the clacking of their chisels, and the low, annoying growl of their abrasives, along with the indistinct drone of conversation, was clear. One of the transportation sleds had just stopped at their station, and the dressing overseer, a tall, willowy Elf with plaited silver hair and pale eyes, was helping load the finished blocks.

Suddenly, his nape prickled with the sensation of eyes fixed intently on him. Flicking his own eyes sideways, he met the fiery gaze of another Elf in the dressing unit, one of the chiselers shaping the raw slabs. He had paused in his work to glare at the Maia, his dark eyes burning and his hair a shaggy, black tangle about his angular face, which itself looked like the work of a chiseler's hand with its prominent cheekbones and raw jawline. The proud, angry face instantly summoned a memory in Sauron's mind, though it took him a moment to place it. Then he recalled the Elf whom he'd mentally dubbed Black-Hair at breakfast that morning, the one who had glared at him in the buffet line and muttered about the Void. Sure enough, shifting his gaze slightly to the next work space, he saw Black-Hair's timid companion Red-Hair, who was bent over his own slab, chipping away at a final knob with a thin chisel.

Returning his gaze to Black-Hair, he twisted his lip into a cool, dismissive sneer in face of the Elda's obvious hate. Elf, he thought, if you think giving me the evil eye will break me, then you are sorely mistaken.

Evidently, Black-Hair saw the sneer and interpreted Sauron's scornful expression, for his glare darkened even further and Sauron could just about read the threat off his face. Rather than deigning to give Sauron one more second of his time however, he tipped his chin back contemptuously and swept his imperious gaze away. He snapped something at Red-Hair, who glanced up sheepishly, said something in return, then went back to work with bowed head and hunched shoulders. Pushing himself upright once again, Sauron flicked away the peach pit and dismissed the Elf's existence just as quickly as Black-Hair had dismissed his.

Upon Eönwë's return, the two of them erected their awning, casting a small pool of shade over the stone table, and work resumed. For the next three hours, Sauron slowly and laboriously chiseled his way through seventeen more blocks, stopping briefly every hour or so to stretch and drink. If possible though, time seemed to limp along more and more slowly. While the first few blocks at the very least had some small measure of novelty on their side, by the time Sauron reached his half-way mark, he was so thoroughly sick of chisels, blocks, and dimensions that he felt he could scream. Then there was that blasted dust that had a way of getting everywhere, particularly into the nooks and crannies where it was least welcome. He'd quit pouring water over his head several hours back for fear it would simply congeal the dust into a disgusting sludge across his shoulders.

To make matters worse, in that time he seemed also to have exhausted his topics of mental contemplation. He'd spent a while thinking about the Maia Erenquaro, perusing their brief interaction in search of clues on how best to manipulate him, should he pursue his idea of converting him to unwitting minionship. That led to considering Eönwë and brainstorming various methods of getting under the Herald's skin, but even this fertile topic grew old as the time dragged itself sluggishly past. As physical exhaustion mixed with the mental fatigue of the deathly dull work, Sauron's mind slid into a blank state of waking vacancy. Every once in a while he'd give a little mental jerk and realize his mind had been absolutely devoid of any thoughts for the past who-knew-how-long, as if his inner self had simply withdrawn and left him as a hollow shell going through the repetitive motions. He shuddered, trying to regain some tangible train of thought, but inevitably emptiness would drift in again.

This is exactly what the Valar want, his mind insisted in those times when it actually seemed to be functioning. They want to wear you utterly down, mentally and physically, until you are useless, a slavering fool incapable of so much as forming a plan, let alone carrying one out. You idiot, you useless idiot, are you going to just sit here and let them win? You cannot let them win! But at the same time, a tight, choking sensation rose up in the back of his throat as he recognized the fact that he was struggling just to make it through the first half of his first day. Now he understood firsthand Lord Melkor's cunning in condemning his captives to lives of hard labor, not only in its practical function of providing his kingdom with necessary resources, but also in the mental and physical taxation on the slaves that must have rendered them nearly incapable of plotting escape or rebellion. Although he could not help but grudgingly respect the Valar for how neatly their plan was working, the knowledge burned like a hot iron in his chest. He might make it through today, but tomorrow it would begin again afresh, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after. He fought back the despairing misery pushing its way up his throat. He'd throw himself in the Void before breaking down in front of Eönwë, Yavairë, Black-Hair, and all his other adversaries in this quarry who would jump on his weakness like wolves on a lame deer. Still, it was putting a whole new meaning to the phrase 'bored to tears' for Sauron.

Truly, it was not the work itself that chafed him so deeply but rather the implications behind the work. He'd performed long, dull tasks before on many occasions, but never had his work seemed so pointless. The fact that there were countless other activities he could be doing at this very moment, ones helping him towards his revenge or improving his current condition, was what made the situation so torturous. That and the fact that this was simply the Valar's way of keeping him contained, controlled, and humiliated.

Finally, from the direction of the command tent, a long, low horn blast broke through the monotonous clamor of picks, chisels, and cart wheels. The immediate result was like watching water trickled onto an anthill; the Elves abruptly broke their ordered ranks, abandoned their tools, and scattered to collect their food packs and settle in for lunch and a welcome respite. Sauron slumped over, resting his elbows on the half-finished block in front of him, and kneaded his dry eyes. Despite the gurgling protests of his gut, he felt primarily like crawling into a corner, collapsing, and preferably never having to move again.

Eönwë had already commenced his meal. He eyed Sauron then nudged his companion's food pack towards him with his foot. "You eating?" he asked, with distinctly little compassion.

"No, I'm dying," Sauron groused back without lifting his head.

"Have it your way," Eönwë said with a little sniff, returning to his food.

At last, Sauron summoned the motivation to pull himself upright and open his pack. Even though he felt as if he'd consumed enough dust to survive on indefinitely, his appetite returned when he saw the biscuits, fruit, and strips of dried meat. He began to wolf it down ravenously as he realized just how much energy he'd been expending all morning.

Suddenly, raised voices broke through Sauron's single-minded focus on demolishing his lunch, causing him to look up and listen. From the angry tones, it was clear that whoever was doing the shouting was not engaged in friendly conversation. Well, well, Sauron thought, this may very well be the highlight of the day. About time.

The voices were coming from the adjacent station and when Sauron glanced over, he was not in the least surprised to see that it was Black-Hair who was doing the yelling.

The dark-haired Elf was on his feet, face twisted into a furious snarl, shouting violently and making angry gestures towards his unit overseer, the willowy Elf with silver hair fixed in long plaits. Despite his delicate appearance, Silver-Hair had also pushed himself to his feet and was yelling back at Black-Hair with every bit as much venom and fury. The other nine Elves in the unit seemed initially flustered and fell back, giving the two opponents space, but as the argument progressed, some of them joined in, siding with either Black-Hair or Silver-Hair and pressing towards the other side aggressively. Although the fight had yet to get physical, it was obvious this would not be the case much longer as the heated yelling and virulent gestures escalated.

"Stay here." Eönwë's voice was steely as he swept past Sauron, though Sauron found the command somewhat absurd. It wasn't as if he was itching to throw himself into the middle of an Elf fight. Let Eönwë handle the psychotic Eldar if he pleased and blessings be with him.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the Herald marched into the neighboring station, pushing past the Elves until he was facing the two troublemakers, his back to Sauron. Though Sauron heard his angry voice as he jabbed his finger at both Elves, the specific words themselves were lost in the vast dome of the quarry, just as the Elves' words had been. Whatever he was saying seemed effective though, for the majority of the Elves retreated quickly and resumed their meals, averting their eyes and looking chastened for the most part. Even Silver-Hair abandoned the dispute and sat back down, sullen and agitated but with his fire mostly quenched.

Only Black-Hair remained undaunted. He shot something back at the Herald angrily, still standing belligerently close to the Maia, fire-browned skin taut over his muscles and his jaw rigid. Rather than backing down, Eönwë swelled out his chest, brandishing the white Eagle stitched upon his tabard, and made a curt, unyielding reply which, Sauron had a sneaking suspicion, probably contained the words "or I'll tell the Valar" or some close variation.

Whatever it was, it had its desired effect, in essence at least. Although he hardly looked mollified, Black-Hair returned to his seat, still glaring at both Eönwë and Silver-Hair but no longer looking completely homicidal.

Sauron swiftly refocused on the remainder of his meal as Eönwë returned, his breathing quick and tense. Risking a glance at the Herald, he saw that Eönwë's face was flushed as he dropped back down onto his bench beside his discarded food. Sauron tore off a strip of salty jerky and chewed the tough meat pensively. He was intensely curious about the nature of the quarrel. At the moment, Eönwë was obviously irate and bothered, a combination that often led to lowered defenses and loose tongues, which could provide Sauron with just the opening he needed. Of course, if Eönwë sensed he was being milked for information, the opportunity could just as easily backfire, but Sauron decided to give it a go.

"What was that about?" he inquired innocently, his mouth still half-full of jerky.

Eönwë heaved a long sigh, though for once Sauron sensed that it wasn't directed at him, and looked sideways at the fire Maia. For a good thirty seconds, Eönwë stared silently at him as if trying to gauge whether Sauron had trouble on his mind or was asking from simple, harmless curiosity. He apparently concluded the latter, or else the temptation to vent was too strong, for he gave another irritated sigh and shook his head.

"You know about the Kinslaying, I presume?" he said.

Sauron nodded. That was one story from Valinor about which he knew most of the gruesome details, along with the resulting Curse and Exile. The event had been a source of general amusement for Morgoth (save for the fact that it had dumped a horde of enraged Noldor into the middle of his kingdom), and Sauron himself could hardly complain about the strife it had caused over the years amongst the various Elven factions. In fact, Sauron was willing to admit that the Kinslaying and the ensuing rifts it had caused was likely one of the primary reasons for Morgoth's overall success in the Wars; had the Elves remained united, he suspected the forces of Angband would have had a tougher time keeping them at bay. However, he had the presence of mind to refrain from airing these particular sentiments in Eönwë's presence.

Instead, he glanced at the neighboring Elves from under his eyelids, keeping his head lowered and his attention on the food in his lap. "I assume there's some lingering bad feelings then?" He paused a beat then added, "I suppose one can hardly blame them to some extent though."

Eönwë seemed to relax, almost imperceptibly, placated by Sauron's reasonable tone and mild manner. Sauron allowed himself a small mental smirk. Faced with a sympathetic façade and a silver voice (particularly one coming from a fair form), it was amazing how quickly an honest soul could forget the true nature of a less morally upright conversation partner.

"I suppose, but it's been a full Age, by Eru," the Herald replied, rubbing his temples wearily. "Fëanor's been committed to Mandos for centuries now, and you'd think they could work out their differences in some reasonable fashion. For most of the First Age, the Valinorean Noldor and Teleri seemed basically satisfied with ignoring each other's existence, and the Vanyar ignored them both. We hoped the War of Wrath would unite them and mend their hostilities, but instead it seems to have stirred them up against one another all over again."

Though Sauron flinched inwardly as Eönwë casually referenced the war that had destroyed his life, he didn't let his feelings show. Instead, he peeled off another ribbon of dried meat then paused, a small, puckering frown crossing his face. "That's odd – it certainly seems like they were fighting together from what I saw."

"Oh, they were. One thing that none of them ever disagreed on was their hatred of Morgoth. The problems haven't been so much in Middle-earth as here in Valinor." Eönwë stared at the biscuit in his hand as if contemplating whether to take a bite or not, then set it back down, gazing off over the quarry, his brows still drawn. "When the Valar decided to go to war, the Noldor joined in right away, of course. I suspect Finarfin had been eager for a war in Beleriand ever since his brothers left, and considering everything, he was adamant about the Noldor participating wholeheartedly. The Vanyar were less enthusiastic but willing enough to lend their aid to our cause."

The Herald picked at the biscuit distractedly, still staring off into the middle distance. "Then there were the Teleri. We didn't expect any help from them, and as far as I know the Valar weren't going to ask for it. But Olwë made the executive decision to provide his aid in the form of ships and sailors. He said it was time all the Eldar recognized they had a single enemy and that it was their duty to help their kindred in Beleriand, Sindar, Laiquendi, and Noldor alike. It was a noble resolution on his part, but it didn't go over well amongst his people."

Sauron continued to eat, still displaying mildly sympathetic interest but listening intently.

"Most of the Teleri are furious that their people provided any aid in the War of Wrath, since as far as they're concerned, it was poetic justice for the Noldor to die forsaken in Beleriand. Sending the Noldor any kind of assistance was equal to kin-treason in their opinion, from what I can tell."

Eönwë swept his hand towards Black-Hair's unit in an irritated gesture. "So now the Valar have these fires popping up across Valinor as the Teleri and Noldor go at each other's throats, and at the Valar. The Teleri are smoldering from Olwë's ruling and being forced (as they see it) to lend their aid to foes, and rumors have been spread that the Valar were going to force them to send ships anyway. The Noldor are smoldering at the fact that they had to be rescued, not that they'd admit anything of the sort of course, and that the Teleri helped. The Vanyar are treating the Teleri and the Noldor like idiots who should grow up some time in the next Age, which of course only infuriates the Teleri and Noldor all the more. The Valar have encouraged different projects, like Corimendturë, to get the three kindreds working together, but so far there's been only moderate improvement." The Herald shook his head and made a wordless sound of frustration. "Ugh! The Children! They're certainly living up to the name. You'd think they were all fifty years old!"

Sauron allowed a small smirk to twist the corner of his lips, hidden by his lowered head. He'd gathered more than enough information for the moment, and it was best to stop while he was ahead: before Eönwë recognized just how much leverage he'd given freely away to the former lieutenant of Morgoth. Now for an exit strategy… It was critical that when Eönwë recalled this conversation later, his focus would not be on just how much he'd blabbed to the Black Captain.

Now the fun part of the process: some good old Herald-goading.

"In other words," he said nonchalantly, putting an mocking edge back into his voice, "this little paradise of the Valar's isn't quite the utopia they'd like everyone to believe."

Eönwë took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. "The Valar have never claimed that Valinor was perfect," the sky Maia shot back, immediately going rigid and angry once again. "Why do you have to twist everything we say? Valinor was created as a safe haven from your master, and it served its purpose well for many years. Our land may never have been a utopia, but it has always been better than that accursed dystopia that Morgoth created in Beleriand."

Sauron picked idly at breadcrumbs under his fingernails, not looking at the Herald. "A dystopia? You wouldn't have caught any Elves going at one another's throats in any of Morgoth's quarries. At least his kingdom ran smoothly."

Eönwë gave a bitter, incredulous laugh. "Ran smoothly? Is that the difference between a dystopia and a utopia to you, Sauron? Whether it runs smoothly or not?" He gave that little laugh again, his hands clenching. "Why should I be surprised? Of course that's what you'd think. Why should I be shocked at how twistedly your mind works?"

Heh, you don't know the half of it, Sauron thought, amused by Eönwë's display of spleen. The Herald must be in fine form indeed to already be resorting to blunt insults. He stretched out his legs casually, maintaining his unflappable exterior. "If we're speaking of twisted minds, at least I have never seen fit to slaughter a group of my own kindred," he commented in a dismissive voice. "And if I have never even done it once, how twisted does that make someone who does it three times?"

Eönwë made a strangled sound that Sauron guessed was his attempt to repress a yell of frustration and simultaneously refrain from tearing out his own golden hair. Sauron's smirk widened just a little.

"Why do I even try?" Eönwë gritted with a voice that sounded like he was choking on his own tongue. "Dear Manwë, why do I even try?"

That was the end of lunch. For the next several hours, neither Maia deigned to acknowledge the other, except to move limestone slabs on and off the stone table.

Sauron, however, found himself with ample new material for contemplation.

The last thing he'd ever considered was that the Elves could prove potential accomplices to his schemes, yet now that he thought about it, Lord Melkor had essentially made them so, however unwitting, when he himself was a prisoner here. Of course, the Eldar had hated and reviled his old master every bit as much as they surely hated and reviled Sauron now, but Melkor had been successful at using their discontent, anger, and even their hatred of himself, for his own purposes. In fact, they had played right into his hand. And if Lord Melkor had been able to accomplish it, surely Sauron had the skill to succeed as well.

Until now, Sauron realized he'd had a false picture of the Eldar as a whole since his arrival in Aman, though understandably so. The unified front of his enemies during the War of Wrath, which had swept so relentlessly through Morgoth's kingdom, had given Sauron the impression that all his foes had put aside their differences and at last reconciled, to Angband's detriment. From his perspective, all he'd seen was the mingled wrath of Valar, Maiar, and Quendi crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. From this decidedly inconvenient vantage point, he'd been blind to the cracks still running through his foes' ranks.

And indeed, perhaps during the War of Wrath itself, the Elves had been willing to temporarily put aside their grievances to defeat a mutually hated enemy. However, in the wake of Morgoth's sentence and Sauron's containment, it would seem the Elves were turning back to old enmities, having no shared opponent towards whom to direct their anger now. From his new vantage point, as a harmless prisoner of war rather than a public enemy at large, now he was able to see those cracks.

And like his master, Sauron knew how to get into the cracks.

Once again, Sauron blessed the Herald's naiveté, loose tongue, and obvious ignorance of the ways a mind such as Sauron's functioned. He could still hardly believe Eönwë had spilled such a perfect scenario to him, and with little prompting. Knowing not only that the Elves were still quarreling viciously over a long ago debacle, but that they were also angry with the Valar themselves, discontent with current management, and bitter about recent decisions, and that the Valar apparently had their hands full dealing with it, was nothing short of delicious. It was just such a situation as this upon which Melkor had preyed. Melkor had simply needed the proper firebrand to set it all ablaze, and the Elves had done almost all his work for him. Sauron looked up from his work covertly and glanced at the adjacent station from underneath lidded eyes. From where he sat, he could see Black-Hair hammering viciously away at his block, as if the lifeless stone was the offending skull of some hapless Teler. Sauron smiled to himself. He might not have Fëanor, but he had a feeling that he had ready access to just the sort of firebrand he needed all the same.

And do not forget that the Eldar value the blood of their kindred above all else. Our memories run long, and we are not in the habit of forgetting, Yavairë had said to him only that morning. He suspected she'd meant it as a threat, and yet with an irony he could never have planned, it appeared that sentiment might be the very thing that worked perfectly in his favor.

Slowly, the rest of the day bled out, but the display at lunch and Eönwë's information gave him the fuel to keep his mind ignited as he gradually made his way through the pile of raw slabs. The sun hung over the western ridge of the quarry, still several hands high over the horizon, when he completed the final touches on the fiftieth block and, with Eönwë, moved it onto the transportation route. He had officially survived his first day.

They reported out at the dressing division command post, where Sauron's daily assignment sheet received a wax seal as evidence that he'd completed his quota. Then he and Eönwë headed back up the winding ramp out of the quarry, which he'd descended what seemed like an Age ago.

Eönwë was clearly still peeved at Sauron for his comments about Valinor and the Kinslayings, but he didn't fuss when Sauron asked for the schedule to verify his tasks for the remainder of the week. As he skimmed the lists of unit numbers, Sauron was suddenly struck by the fact that only five days were listed. He paused, then his heart lifted fractionally. Until this moment, he'd not even considered the fact that he might be given days off. It made sense, though; he could hardly imagine the spoiled little Valinorean Elves working non-stop seven days a week.

Still, in recent days, too many times already he'd hoped only to have his hopes cruelly crushed.

However, when he pointed out the missing days to Eönwë, the sky Maia gave him a scathing look. "The Valar aren't slave-drivers, Sauron," he said, his tone dripping haughty contempt. "Their intention is to give you the opportunity to right some of the wrongs you've done and show the world the goodwill you claim to have, not to kill you. The work might not be enjoyable, but it isn't meant to be torture or punishment. Operations at Corimendturë run five full days a week. The sixth day is a half day for those who need or wish it. The only time you'd be required to come on the sixth day is if you fall behind on your quota. There are generally at least a few Elves who will opt to work a few hours any given sixth day, and on any occasion that you're so overwhelmed with benevolence that you just can't contain it, you're welcome to join in."

"Hmph," Sauron snorted under his breath, deciding he'd earned the indulgence of another goad at the Herald, "who in their right mind would want to spend one second longer in this place than they had to? Of course, we've already determined where the Elves stand in regards to right minds…"

Eönwë glared at him in disgust. "Some people in this world actually care about others and are willing to sacrifice their time to aid them, but I wouldn't expect you to have any concept of that."

"I have people I care about," Sauron sniffed.

Eönwë gave a humorless laugh. "Oh right, and who would they be?"

"Hmm, let me see." Sauron sarcastically mimed thinking, one forefinger resting on his chin. "Oh, figure that, it seems I can't think of anyone after all. Now why would that be? Oh yes, because you and your army killed everyone I cared about when you attacked Beleriand."

Eönwë's contempt gave way to a brief flash of startled surprise, followed rapidly by something that might have been consternation, but he quickly returned to the neutral glare he'd been wearing most of the day. The muscles along his jaw clenched and he turned away from Sauron without another word. A moment later, there was a rush of wind as the Herald took to the form of an eagle and launched himself up and away.

Erenquaro the Stolid was waiting for him at the ridge where they'd parted ways that morning. As Sauron trudged up the last steps of the ramp, he wondered whether his wobbling legs and the aching muscles that twinged with every move would last him all the way back to Aulë's Halls. Once again, he cursed the Binding on his ëala that reduced him to this state, little better than a mortal.

Lifting his eyes, he watched the blurry golden form of Eönwë's eagle fading into the distance towards the great thorn of Taniquetil rising up from the plains. Bitterness swelled back in, familiar and sulfurous in his mouth, to replace the brief sense of encouragement from his afternoon contemplations. This was not how it was supposed to be. He should have had a forge, a well-crafted goldsmith's hammer, precious materials to weave and shape, his mind and his metal to send the hours flying past. He should have been a lord, untroubled and undisturbed, alone with himself, the only person left in the world to whom he could devote any trust or admiration. He should have had a task he would never tire of carrying out, a place in this world that meant more than scraping at rocks in the midst of quarreling Elves and self-righteous Maiar. This was not how it was supposed to be…

If only, Sauron thought as he turned to follow Erenquaro back to the Halls, if only this had all been different.

Chapter Text

Sauron stumbled into his room, shoved the door shut, and collapsed against the wall with a groan, finally able to voice the discomfort that had been steadily growing during his half hour trek back from the quarry. The muscles of his limbs and torso had found sufficient time to realize just how much work they'd been put to, and the result was an agonizing combination of dull aches and lightning flashes of sharp torture.

He leaned his head back against the wall and stared dismally up at the hexagonal pattern of his ceiling, taking large, deep breaths. One day down – the quarry portion anyway.

Still, he was far more drained, physically and mentally, than he liked to admit, especially since his goals for the day were far from complete. He had sacrificed the majority of his day to the Valar's whims, but the rest of his time was his own and he planned not to waste it, even if the very thought of how he intended to spend his evening made his insides squirm uneasily.

But hadn't he experienced much worse than all this? He'd lived through the administrations of Lord Melkor's most brutal moments of training in that dark room of Utumno. He'd survived the crush of canine jaws around his windpipe and the choke of clotting blood in his lungs and the searing abject horror of his disgrace upon the bridge of Gaurhoth. He'd endured the Valar's mutilation of his spirit and the imprisonment of his powers only a week ago at the Máhanaxar. He'd had worse days than this one.

But he also wasn't going to complain if he found a way to bring this delightful new life of his to an end sooner rather than later.

He pushed himself off the wall and received the physical equivalent of a protesting moan from his biceps and flanks as he did so. The lion's share of his will wanted to collapse across the beautiful, soft, warm, fluffy bed reclining invitingly only a few steps away, but any pleasure of allowing himself to sink onto that forgiving surface would be ruined by the foul slime of sweat and quarry dust still coating him.

Glad he had no audience to witness his painful gait, he shambled to the washroom where he turned on the waterspout and lit the coal bed with stiff fingers that resisted every movement, prompting more than one curse before the simple tasks were completed. Once ready though, stripping off the clammy work clothes and slipping into the warm water restored some small portion of Sauron's faith in the world.

Sliding down until only his mouth and nostrils remained above water, he closed his eyes and sank into a soothing, dark oblivion. His mind finally relaxed along with his fána as he embraced these few precious moments of pain-lack, not because there were any fewer things to agonize over but because he knew both body and mind desperately needed this brief respite before he faced the rest of his day.

His resolve from that morning still held: he was going to supper in the Great Hall, and if doing so caused the world to cave in and implode, so be it. At least he wouldn't have to go back to the quarry tomorrow.

In the meantime however, there were arrangements that needed making to ensure his evening went according to plan. And unfortunately, he was looking forward to the arrangement-making just about as much as he was looking forward to the evening plans themselves.

After a while, he reluctantly ended the refreshing bath but exchanged his work linens for familiar silks, which were nearly as soothing against his rock-chafed, sun-scorched skin as the warm water had been. Lastly, he slipped his gold circlet around his brow, restoring some veneer of the dignity that had been stripped from him so far this day, then he glided out into the hallway as silent and dark as a shadow.

Originally, he'd planned to garrison himself the next few hours in the library with Aulë's books, but upon arriving he found a large cluster of Eldar in the alcove of the Smith's domain. Bitter indignation rose in his throat at seeing the Elves lounging across what he'd come to consider one of his places, one of the few niches in this new world where he felt…not safe, but not immediately threatened either. The few times he'd arrived previously to find an Elf or two nearby, the miasma of his hated presence coupled with a burning glare had been enough to clear the alcove, but there was no way now to claim the space for himself without making a scene, and that was the last thing he needed. So instead, he slipped a book quietly from the shelf and ghosted away, leaving his place to the Elves.

How well you are falling into the role the Valar have given you, said that insidious voice in his mind. How long before you forget that you ever were a lord? That a time existed when you when you were not so meek? When Elves would have cringed to find themselves in your way? Look how quickly Melkor's cringing cur learns his place. What, shall we bend the knee and lick their feet for them next? Ah, but you already have plans for that, don't you?

I do only what I must, he snapped back with a mental snarl. Until the time comes when I need do so no longer. And you know I'm only planning what's necessary for my future, for the lord I once was and will someday be again. I would never consider this path otherwise.

With this thought echoing through his mind, he sought out the second place in this World-That-Was-Not-His that provided some elusive feeling of protection, however artificial, where he could find the power to block out the worst of his reality and believe there was a best he could yet attain, no matter what lengths it took.

The garden courtyard was quiet and fragrant and, better yet, free of unwanted company. Sauron settled down in the corner he liked best, across the walkway from the mysterious painting of Middle-earth. Here the colonnade shaded him from direct sunlight at any given hour but the breeze from the open veranda wafted across him, bringing with it the rich scent of flowers and fruit and the pleasing tickle of invisible fingers across his face. There was no reason why this place should ease the turmoil of his spirit more so than any other place, but for some arbitrary flight of fancy it did. As he settled lengthwise onto a wide, padded bench, he glanced up at the painting. Perhaps it was the watching gaze of his one-time home, even rendered in lifeless brushstrokes, which made it easier to cling to hope in this hostile, alien place. Or perhaps in those beshadowed peaks he could sense some distant echo of Melkor's will and believe that his old master was still looking on and trusting in his faithful lieutenant to prevail. He did not know.

He dismissed the thought, and for the next hour he sank into A Treatise on the Mind and Spirit of the Smith-folk.

Yet soon, all too soon, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching upon the cobblestone broke through his reading trance, as he had known they eventually would, like the inevitability of the coming tide. He breathed a deep sigh. He'd known all along that there would be no avoiding the coming conversation, but his tactics were set on how to steer this predictable, irritating discussion to his own ends.

He lowered his book as Aulë approached but did not draw up his legs, forcing the Smith to take a seat at the adjacent bench. Nowadays, the Smith habitually looked worried and uncomfortable, though Sauron had no way of knowing whether his own return was the particular culprit or if this emotional deterioration was the general proof of how the troubled Ages had worn upon the Lord of Earth. If possible though, Aulë looked even more anxious now than he usually did; his powerful hands clenched and unclenched with nervous energy and the usually straight line of his broad shoulders did not seem as solid as it normally did. Something was afoot.

Long seconds of awkward silence hung between them as Aulë continued to fidget with his hands and Sauron continued to eye him with bored disdain. Inside, his chest tightened unpleasantly. He didn't need any more distasteful surprises today, particularly from the Valar, but waiting for he-knew-not-what was even worse.

Oh, let's get on with it, Sauron's mind grumbled, but just as he opened his mouth to give the Smith a verbal prod, Aulë finally looked up, yet his gaze rested on the book in Sauron's lap.

"I know that book – A Treatise on the Mind and Spirit of the Smith-folk, is it not?" Aulë said. He looked up and off across the garden, the distant glaze in his metallic eyes the very picture of nostalgic reflection. "I remember when it was written, not long after we fled Almaren and founded Valinor. There was so little we were able to salvage from Almaren: jewels, forges, my Lamps…all gone in what felt like a heartbeat. It was the first time we'd felt our bereavement like that, so keenly, so… so bounded to this world. There was so much we'd lost after the most abundant and peaceful Age we'd ever seen since coming down from the Timeless Halls. I guess you could say we'd grown complacent and we'd forgotten too easily how vulnerable and fragile we and our work in the world was."

He shook his head briefly and a tired chuckle escaped him. "It was a time of confusion, doubt, and darkness after a long and bright Spring, and deep down, I think each and every one of us found ourselves questioning our purposes within Eä. What was the reason for our labor if everything we did was doomed to be unmade? And what of the Children who were to come, who would never now know the wisdom and glory of our work in Almaren or the shape of the world as it should have been? We'd never thought of preserving our knowledge in any manner beside its constant utilization, for ourselves or for those to come who would never now directly know what we had known or see what we had seen. Nor had we ever thought of trying to express the essence of our work in a tangible manner. But our grief and doubt had left us in uncertainty."

Glancing back to the book, he indicated it with a vague sweep of his hand. "Thus the volume you hold came into existence, the earnest labor of many of my folk in their attempt to capture the essence of my people's work in the world and to find some comfort in the seeming futility of all they'd accomplished in Almaren. They came to me for advice several times – well, more than several – and I aided them as best I could, though I always wondered if such a thing could truly be written down. But I was not going to discourage them, not if it brought them some peace or helped them find answers for the questions we were all asking."

Finally, he met Sauron's eyes. "When you finish it, I would be interested in hearing your thoughts on the subject. You were always wise in the lore of my domain and had such talent in your labor before Almaren." He breathed a nearly inaudible sigh and rubbed a hand wearily in his beard, his eyes still fixed unnerving on Sauron, and his face cracked into a pained expression that Sauron guessed meant he was thinking about everything that had happened after.

Skirting the sensitive topic of how exactly Sauron had used his wisdom and talents in the later Ages, Aulë continued, a strained quality entering his deep voice. "I'm pleased my folk had some prescience in this at least: to provide a restored brother with the knowledge and wisdom we have gained in these Ages. It gladdens my heart to see you making use of our knowledge store and I hope your brothers' work on such a volume proves useful to you. There have been great advances in our craft since… since Almaren that I imagine you will find most enlightening."

Sauron's eyebrow rose fractionally in misshapen amusement at the slight (and undoubtedly unintentional) condescension in the assumptions behind Aulë's rambling. If only you know that Valinor wasn't the only realm where "great advances" were being made, he thought. Oh, the volumes I could fill with my own learnings and the "knowledge store" of Utumno and Angband that now itself lies lost forever in the ruins of Beleriand. I am not so ignorant and primitive in my learning as you think me, oh my wise lord Aulë. Believe me, I could single-handedly make a good start on a fifteenth alcove to your library. Hah! And I can just imagine how that would be received.

His lips quirked in dark humor at the thought. A Treatise on the Mind and Spirit of the Traitor-folk: the Memoirs of a Dark Lord. I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts on that, my lord.

Another uncomfortable silence dragged itself between them like a living thing, wounded and limping. Sauron recognized Aulë's small talk as a method of stalling as much as a desperate attempt to bond with his former apprentice, which did more to pique his interest than any commentary on Valinorean literature. Anything that could make the Smith dither and fidget like a child expecting a scolding had to have some level of intrigue to it, though whether it would prove good or ill for himself, Sauron couldn't say.

When it became abundantly clear that Sauron would make no response to Aulë's half-hearted prompts about his reading material, the Vala finally got to the point in an uncomfortable rush of words. "I've been worried about you, Nauron, so I spoke with several of my fellow Powers yesterday evening," he said, squaring his slumping shoulders as if anticipating a hostile response. "We have a proposition to make to you."

Ah, but will it be one I can refuse? Sauron thought, though he was listening carefully. Considering Aulë's desperation to get through to him these past few days, he'd guessed that sooner or later the Smith would run crying to the other Valar for help, but what the results might be he could not guess. He just hoped he hadn't miscalculated on the Valar's propensity to meddle should they grow worried about the outward manifestations of the iron will that protected the small candle of his hope.

Thus it was that he listened with cautious apprehension as Aulë outlined the Valar's plan, describing the hall rotation proposed by Námo. Aulë's open expression of anxiety and the unmasked yearning in his voice attested to his hope that Sauron would accept the offer and his expectation that he wouldn't. Observing this nauseating display of hopefulness and concern, which Aulë apparently lacked either the ability or decency to conceal, Sauron's instinct was to refuse for the simple reason of grinding his assigned lord's hope into the dirt. Yet as he listened, he found himself intrigued by the proposition, if simultaneously wary of anything that the Valar thought might be "good" for him.

"So far, your rotation would include four halls besides my own," Aulë was explaining. "Manwë and Varda, Námo and Vairë, Irmo and Estë, and Nienna have all agreed to welcome you to their realms. You wouldn't be required to talk to anyone if you didn't want to, and if all you desire is rest you would be allowed to do so in peace. But if you had anything you wished to discuss, my fellow Powers would be at your disposal, willing to listen with no repercussions for anything you might say. Of course, you needn't answer right away about any of this if you need more time to think about it, but our offer stands for you to make use of it whenever you feel the time is right." He fell into strained silence then, and despite his final words, he looked intently at Sauron, the question clear on his face, that tortured hope still glimmering in his eyes.

Drawing his own eyes away, Sauron considered the Valar's proposal. Their reasoning for such a move seemed sufficiently transparent; on the more innocent end of the spectrum, he guessed the Valar were hoping to increase his trust and comfort in their presence and thus break through his reclusive silence. On the less innocent end, he suspected they wanted to keep additional eyes on him besides Aulë's – which always saw the best but not always the truth.

Yet his intrigue remained, and to his own surprise he found himself seriously considering the idea. A scenario with no downsides did not exist; the skill came from calculating where to draw the line between advantages and disadvantages to determine whether an opportunity was worth the endeavor. And this one had potential. As much as he loved the thought of viciously grinding Aulë's vile hope to the same bitter pulp into which the Valar had ground his own hope at the trial, he couldn't discard the promise in this proposition.

For one thing, he'd be able get the lay of the land in a sanctioned manner. Though the stipulations at his trial had not preempted him leaving his assigned domain, Aulë's Halls were his virtual prison. He knew if he showed too much interest in exploration or left too often or wandered too far, there would be consequences. This proposition would give him at least some excuse to travel without suspicion. Where exactly was Lórien? Were the Halls of Mandos really the dark, subterranean labyrinth of pain and death that Lord Melkor had described? How far were the outlands of Araman? This opportunity would help him answer such questions and more.

Even if the Valar planned to use this idea to keep a closer eye on him, it also afforded him the opportunity to keep his eyes on them and learn what he could of these powerful beings who now completely controlled his life. What did they think of his return? Of his betrayal? Who believed that he could truly be healed and assimilated? Who secretly hoped to still see him slip up so that he could be condemned to the Void? No doubt it would mean sitting through some irritating therapy sessions (despite Aulë's reassurance that he wouldn't be required to interact with his hosts, he could guarantee these trips came with at least the attached price of being talked at, even if he chose not to talk back), but he felt he could endure that in order to satisfy his own curiosity. Beyond Aulë and Yavanna, he'd never known the other Valar personally, and whatever shadow-mist of time (or whatever else) had clouded his memory had left him with precious little useful knowledge of the kings and queens of Valinor.

Not that he was naïve enough to think that he would find an ally, unwitting or otherwise, amongst the Valar themselves to aid in his schemes, but the more he knew of them the better he could form his plans. And besides, these trips would also put him into contact with a wider range of both Maiar and Elves, who were more susceptible to his manipulations and less dangerous to employ in his stratagems.

Of course, his list of enemies would doubtlessly lengthen too, but that register was already so extensive that extending it a little further seemed hardly worth fretting over.

There were other smaller, random benefits too. He was not about to complain about getting authorized time off from his ghastly quarry labor or temporarily escaping the oppressive hostility of Yavanna and the mother-henning of Aulë. Finally, if nothing else, it would simply be a break from the dull monotony that was quickly becoming his life.

All this added up to a conclusion he still found himself mildly surprised to be making.

He slowly brought his gaze back to Aulë, his expression guarded. "If I agreed, would I have to complete my quota later?"

It was amazing to see how quickly and radiantly Aulë's face lit up at what was decidedly less than a statement of commitment from Sauron. For a moment, Sauron regretted his decision, hating the relief and renewed hope he'd just gifted his former master. Pathetic, he thought with bitter derision. What sort of wretched life must one have where the greatest joy of living comes from a semi-positive response from a former apprentice who betrayed you? A moment later though, his mind added a venomous answer to his rhetorical question: A better life than one built solely of misery, defeat, slavery, bondage, and pain.

"No, no," Aulë was saying, quickly, urgently, as if afraid this small point might tip the scales of Sauron's decision. "You would be given the days completely free with no make-up requirements. The work you did not complete those days would be removed permanently from your record."

Sauron pretended to ponder this, though in reality he now found it was himself who was stalling, as if waiting for some glaring, last-minute downside to this whole affair to suddenly appear. "And I decide whose hall I visit first?" he inquired after a minute.

Another enthusiastic affirmation from Aulë, whose molten eyes seemed nothing short of ecstatic at Sauron's continued responses. Dryly, Sauron pictured the Smith dashing off to the other Valar full of elation: You'll never guess what happened today! I managed to get nineteen whole words out of Sauron!

Sauron allowed another minute to crawl past, maliciously prolonging Aulë's anxiety as he double-checked his decision for flaws a final time before committing to it. Then he spoke slowly, putting an appropriate edge of feral caution in his words. "I agree to your proposition, but I also want the promise that if I decide to withdraw for any reason that I wouldn't be punished."

If one truly could be drunk with happiness, the ridiculous smile that split across Aulë's face was surely a symptom. His thoughts might as well have been engraved across his weathered face: So all is not lost in the end. Now that I've succeeded in getting through to him at last, all must surely be uphill from here. I knew I could get my beloved Nauron back!

Hah, if only you knew, Sauron thought in response. I'm not quite as fragile as all that.

"Yes, of course, yes," Aulë babbled delightedly, his voice as unrestrained as his face. "If any month you wish to refrain from your visit, we won't force you to go, and you can stop altogether if you feel the least bit uncomfortable. And if there are any halls you'd rather not visit for now, or if there's anything else you'd like done for you, I'm sure Manwë will be willing to adjust our plans to accommodate, as long as nothing you suggest goes against your oaths."

Sauron nodded, absorbing this information and allowing Aulë's hope to seem founded: that he had broken through the fire Maia's barrier of reticence. He met Aulë's eyes again with coy vulnerability from underneath his dark lashes, opening the iron wall of his will just enough to let the Smith catch a glimpse of guarded emotion. "I agree," he repeated, in that small, quiet voice devoid of threat but tinged with wary animal vigilance. "I want my first hall to be Nienna's."

Once he made his decision, there'd been little question as to which hall he'd choose first. Of all the Valar, Nienna was the one from whom he sensed the least threat. Nor had he forgotten how the Valië of Sorrow and Pity had stared at him when he chose his fána.

"Good, yes, I think you've made an excellent choice," Aulë replied, that giddy joy dancing like stars on night-clad waves in his eyes. "I will send a missive to Nienna letting her know to expect you." He rose, hesitated by Sauron's bench for a moment, then sat down on the narrow rim not taken up by the Maia's outstretched legs. He laid one fire-browned hand on Sauron's knee, the pressure of it strong and warm through his leggings. "This is a decision that will suit us all, I think. At last we've found a middle ground where we can all agree." He offered Sauron a small, hopeful smile, which Sauron did not return.

The Smith swallowed, seemingly overcome by nerves again as if he had just recalled to whom he was speaking, and patted his hand in an awkward gesture against Sauron's knee. When he spoke again, it was finally on the topic that Sauron had originally anticipated and prepared for. "So, how was your first day at the quarry, Nauron?"

Sauron gave a languid shrug. "Hot. Dusty. Lots of Elves."

"But it went well?" Aulë pressed.

Narrowing his eyes, Sauron allowed his gaze to scathe across Aulë's face and with a hint of satisfaction noted the small shudder that the Smith tried valiantly to conceal at the dark touch of the Black Captain's scrutiny. "It was not worse than I expected. But I can't say it was better either."

He paused, weighing his premeditated words carefully. "Some of the Elves, here at the Halls and at the quarry – I don't think they're happy that I'm here. I think there are some – many – who would prefer to see me condemned to the Void."

Aulë sighed. "I fear I'm not surprised. When the Valar themselves were divided in their decision, it was inevitable that the Eldar would be the same. I have no doubt though that they will submit to the official judgment of Manwë and Námo, so I don't believe you have anything to fear, if that comforts you. And as time goes by and they see that you have truly renounced your old ways, I trust that their hostility will fade." He gave a small, tired smile. "Hatred is a tiring business and I feel many of them will decide it is not worth their time."

Sauron barely held back his retort at that. Oh really? Not worth their time? The Noldor really proved that by marching half-way across the world to throw themselves relentlessly at the strongest fortress in Arda in centuries of hopeless war. And forgive me if I'm not so quick to trust that any Elf will submit to another's decision when it goes against his own will in the matter. You dotard, do you know anything about reality?

Once again, he proceeded cautiously, concealing his contempt for his blissfully clueless lord and aware that every word he spoke would eventually be delivered in one way or another to the other Valar, any of whom might not be as quick as Aulë to attribute Sauron's newfound candidness to a true change of heart. "I had a lot of time at the quarry to think, a lot of time," he emphasized dryly. "And I realized I don't want to make things any more miserable for myself than they have to be."

He skimmed his fingers absently across the book in his lap. "Frankly, I don't care whether the Elves accept me or not; I just want them to leave me alone. And I don't want more enemies than necessary. Considering that objective, I realized I may not have improved my situation during my first day here."

He paused, a frown tugging at his pursed lips, then glanced sideways at the Smith. "Do you think it would help if I compensated for splashing that Elf with wine?"

Aulë kneaded the fringe of his beard pensively, staring off over the garden again. "Perhaps. Lord Gilruin is a distinguished figure amongst the Noldorim of my halls. If they trusted the sincerity of your amends, I believe most would accept your recompense, for this deed at least. It would not solve everything, but it would help. Gilruin himself is fonder of food and drink than grudge-holding and revenge; I think he would accept your restitution and convince those of his House to do the same."

Sauron nodded slowly; this analysis matched his own brief observation of the Elven lord. "You know the Noldor better than I. What do you think would be proper?"

Aulë was silent and thoughtful for a time, then he spoke in a measured tone. "If you're willing to give it, an apology certainly won't hurt. I don't think it need be public – just before Gilruin and sufficient witnesses – and his word will be good enough for his people."

"What more?" Sauron pressed. "Even I know the Noldor well enough to assume a mere apology won't suffice."

Aulë squeezed Sauron's knee affectionately, as if to say I'm so proud of you. He was quiet for another moment and his gaze wandered to the open book in the Maia's lap. "Here's my advice," he said at last. "Gilruin may be no Fëanor but he's still Noldorin through and through, and I've never met a Noldo who lacked some love of knowledge and lorecraft. You were my head apprentice, wise and skilled in your work. To extend an offer of knowledge to Gilruin or his people would be seen as a considerable honor, I think."

"Even coming from Sauron the Black Captain?" Sauron asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow.

Melancholy settled like ash over Aulë's face. "You're no longer the Black Captain, Nauron."

Sauron made no reply.

Another long, awkward silence. Aulë remained seated with the uncomfortable air of one who desperately wishes for a meaningful conversation to continue but cannot think of anything more to say, or else is afraid of spoiling what has already been said. For his part, Sauron silently pondered the various intrigues arisen from their talk. Aulë's words had stirred something in the back of his thoughts, but it flickered away whenever he tried to pin it down with his mind's eye, like a shadow before a candle's ray. His only outward sign of life was the continued repetitive movement of his fingers across the book cover.

At last, he tucked the illusive thought away in the back of his mind. Sooner or later, when it wished to present itself, it would do so.

"There was a final matter," he said, breaking the silence suddenly and causing Aulë to shift in surprised interest. "It seems that keeping myself apart is only increasing my mystery and making the Elves all the more intrigued. The more normal I seem, the more I'm left alone. As such, I wanted your opinion on the wisdom of returning to evening meals in the Great Hall."

That drunken joy returned. "For my part, I think the idea is good," Aulë answered, the strain in his voice revealing the Smith's struggle to keep his tone careful, apparently aware that appearing overly pleased might work against him. "I agree that the more they see of you, the less the people of my halls will fear or despise you. And I think you will find benefits in the arrangement, as well."

"As long as I don't cause another uproar, right?"

Aulë smiled a little. "That would probably be for the best." He nodded. "Anyway, it was not entirely your fault. I'm to blame as much as you for putting you at the head table and assuming there would be no incidents. I'll find you a better place this evening if you come early – close to my table but not as noticeable – if that suits you. Afterwards, if you're comfortable, I can arrange to have Lord Gilruin stay for your amend-making."

Sauron dipped his head, keeping his thoughts veiled behind his eyes. "That will be fine."

Aulë rose, giving Sauron a final, caring squeeze, and flashed him a deep, fond smile. "I will see you this evening in the Great Hall then. I know I have taken a fair amount of your time, and I thank you for it, but I will now leave you to your book. May the knowledge you gain from your reading profit you."

Oh, I plan to make sure it does, Sauron thought, his eyes narrowing darkly as he watched the Smith depart. And I wouldn't want to be in your boots when it does, you sentimental fool.

~o~o~o~

The Great Hall had only a few occupants awaiting supper when Sauron arrived. As promised, an awaiting Aulë situated him at the table closest to the dais and nearest the Smith's own seat at the head of the central table. Sauron kept his head down as more of the Hall's residents began spilling in, arriving with the aromatic trolleys from which Sauron had grown accustomed to swiping his meals during the last week.

Tables swiftly filled up, with Eldar and Maiar mingled once again, yet the company was nearly double what it had been previously. Sauron shifted uncomfortably, realizing now that most of Aulë's folk worked elsewhere during the day and returned only for the evening meal. As even more residents flocked in, the paranoia that had gripped Sauron so powerfully that morning crept back, eating at his stomach with unease as he comprehended just how confined he was in the immense hall, with hundreds if not thousands of Elves and Maiar between himself and the nearest exit. The first tendrils of panic clawed at his chest, causing him to begin rethinking his plans for the evening, but he brutally shoved the quavering weakness back down into the depths of his spirit, reprimanding himself that no one would dare hurt him in Aulë's presence.

Yet his own presence was not going unnoticed. A number of Elves and Maiar had already made their way over to his table, only to stop in their tracks at the sight of him and turn abruptly around with no attempt at tact, stiffly retracing their steps. As space became limited, a few Maiar claimed seats at the far end of his table, but his immediate vicinity remained conspicuously shunned. Still, other than the fact that it emphasized his aloneness, he wasn't going to complain about the arrangement.

But forming such a thought often has a way of becoming a self-fulfilling curse.

"Hello Sauron."

Sauron's head whipped up to see the good-natured, forthright face of Erenquaro as the silver-haired Maia dropped heavily into the seat across from Sauron. "We noticed you didn't have anyone else. Mind if we join you?"

There was another Maia with Erenquaro, one with a Secondborn fána, with brown hair and eyes and kind, mellow features that seemed an apt match to Erenquaro's simple honesty. Sauron squinted at him, recognizing him vaguely from the distant depths of time before Almaren – no, during Almaren.

"You're one of Yavanna's folk," he stated bluntly, suspicion creeping into his voice.

The other Maia sat beside Erenquaro, fidgeting under Sauron's burning stare. He glanced up, his expression almost shy. "Y…yes," he stammered. "We worked together in Almaren a few times, you know, when Lady Yavanna was growing her Garden. I…well…I don't know if you remember me, but I mostly work with the birds and small animals. My name's Aiwendil."

The name gave some substance to the faint memories. Now he vaguely remembered Aiwendil, not one of the most powerful Maiar by a long shot, a plain, straightforward fellow with more than a few quirks, to put it nicely. Glancing surreptitiously between the two Maiar, Sauron realized he'd just been doomed to what was essentially the table of social outcasts. Of course, now he fit that category even better than these two did, but that was little comfort.

He gave a noncommittal shrug and leaned his elbows on the tabletop, resting his chin moodily in his cupped hands, waiting for dinner to commence.

The Elves on serving duty distributed the food around the tables. The main course was a hearty stew with large chunks of potato, carrot, tomato, onion, and a dark meat that Sauron was fairly sure was some type of game bird. Fresh fruit, a heavy, creamy pastry filled with fruity jam, more of the fluffy sweetbread that had been served at his first meal, and wine or watered-down ale supplemented the stew. Erenquaro and Aiwendil loaded their plates immediately, chattering back and forth as they did so with an informality that made it clear that they spoke regularly. After several weak attempts to engage Sauron in small talk, clearly thinking themselves ever so charitable to have reached out with compassion to the pariah, the two Maiar abandoned their efforts to actively engage their companion and fell to discussing people, places, and events that meant little to nothing to Sauron.

Tuning out their chatter (apparently Erenquaro was not actually as tight-lipped as he had seemed that morning), Sauron ate hungrily and simultaneously monitored the room. At the head table, Aulë glanced towards him every other minute it seemed, though Sauron made sure the Smith did not note that he was watching him. The Vala of Earth seemed pleased with what he saw, probably still riding on the high of his perceived success in their conversation that afternoon. He wouldn't be surprised if it had been Aulë who had sicced Erenquaro and Aiwendil on him either. Making sure his poor Nauron wasn't sitting alone at table sounded just like the sort of thing he'd do.

Aulë wasn't the only one watching him though. Beside the Smith, Yavanna kept a cool eye on him as well. He couldn't read the Valië's expression, but he suspected she was wearing a mask as meticulously crafted as his own. Careful to avoid her direct gaze, he made sure his actions aroused no offense, maintaining his determination to play the role of a decent resident with nothing on his mind apart from saving himself unnecessary pain.

He also noted the Noldorin Elf, Lord Gilruin, seated near where he'd been when Sauron had flung the wine at him. The Elf's back was to him and as far as Sauron could tell from his laidback manner, he wasn't aware of his persecutor's nearby presence.

The meal came to a close without incident, and the Maiar and Elves began to disperse. Sauron remained sitting, picking at a final piece of bread in an attempt to make it last as long as possible, not because of lingering hunger but rather on account of the fact that he was not entirely sure what Aulë wanted from him next and he had no desire to be seen hovering submissively around the head table awaiting orders.

"Will you join us?" Erenquaro asked, jerking Sauron out of his reverie. "There's usually song in the Hall of the Log Fire after supper and Aranosarn if it suits your fancy." Despite the amiable words, behind the earth Maia's eyes Sauron saw the hesitancy, as if he was not entirely comfortable after all with the thought of inviting Sauron and was only doing so out of the same charity that had brought himself and Aiwendil to Sauron's table. Sauron suspected he wouldn't have asked if he thought there was any real possibility of him accepting the offer.

But as it was, even if Sauron had felt inclined to encourage the pair in their sickening pity party by joining them for singing and "king's table" (whatever that was), he had other business he was eager to finish. He gave a curt, dismissive wave, retaining the coldly polite façade he'd presented to Erenquaro that morning at the quarry. "I'm to be otherwise engaged. Thank you for the offer."

True to his prediction, Erenquaro looked mildly relieved, but Aiwendil frowned slightly as if either puzzled or disappointed. Both Maiar cleared their places from the table without further comment beyond wishing him a good evening and departed, leaving Sauron alone in the rapidly clearly hall.

A strong hand touched his shoulder, causing him to flinch away in surprise, his own hand clenching in self-defense and a curse at his wandering mind jumping to his lips, before realizing that it was Aulë standing behind him. Upon feeling Sauron's automatic reaction, Aulë pulled his hand away, realizing he'd startled his charge, but when he looked at Sauron, for a moment there was a worried, searching gleam in his gaze that Sauron didn't like one bit.

Quickly pulling his nonchalant composure together, Sauron twisted his lip into a familiar, cool sneer and raised a questioning eyebrow, just disrespectful enough to draw attention to itself but not nearly enough to push beyond Aulë's generous limits.

"Lord Gilruin and the others are ready whenever you are, Nauron."

Sauron rose and followed Aulë to the head table. Gilruin was there, along with a red-haired Elf with enough facial similarities to strongly suggest a close kinship between the two Noldor. Five other Eldar, all of whom Sauron had noticed sitting at the head table, stood further back, observing quietly. Casting his eyes sideways as he approached, Sauron also noted that Yavanna remained present, shadowed by the far wall but well within hearing and viewing distance of all that was said and done.

His midriff clenched and he suddenly regretted the heavy stew now sloshing in his belly. He had hoped that his mental and emotional preparations for this moment, along with his backdrop of schemes, would make the upcoming apologies and contrition easier to stomach, but his rising nausea proved that this was not to be the case. But his resolve was firm if nothing else, and he covered up the creeping sense of humiliation with the serene and dignified air of a true Maiarin lord, even if no Maiarin lord worth his claim would ever demean himself in such a manner. His eyes swept over the gathered Elves, and most turned their gazes away in momentary dread and abhorrence at his darkness, even as he sensed their puzzled anger at his presence. Disgust and ire towards these weak, wretched creatures crept like ice through his ëala.

I do only what I must, until the time comes when I need do so no longer.

"Lord Gilruin, Lord Gilnen," Aulë introduced the two Noldor. He indicated the other Elves and spoke a few more names that Sauron tucked into his mind for future reference, figuring they were lords of other lesser Houses, present solely as witnesses.

Sauron stepped up before them, all emotion shoved down into that deep, deep place of hiding that he would never have found except for Melkor's assiduous training. Yet, as he turned the full power of his gaze and the burning will that drove it upon Lord Gilruin, whose own eyes remained uncomfortably averted, he pictured a different scene in his mind's eye. This grand hall eaten away by flames cruel and hot. These Elves trembling on the ground, humiliated, their wills stripped to raw, quavering things. The Valar impotent, having failed at last in the greatest purpose to which they had given their all, acknowledging that their devotion to the Children and their hope in Eru's vision was in vain at last.

His revelation courtesy of Eönwë at the quarry had illuminated his best way to strike at the seemingly untouchable Valar: by striking at that which they held most dear. What revenge could be sweeter than watching the Elves rise up en masse against their doting rulers, bringing ruin upon themselves and heartbreak upon those whom they'd defied? Melkor had achieved the Kinslaying and the Exile through his cunning devices. Sauron planned to aim higher. It burned in his heart, this new candle of malicious hope: to stretch out his hand and desecrate these pretty, precious creatures that had stolen the hearts of the Valar and to revel in the Valar's grief when they themselves were forced to strike down their own beloved Children in just retribution to treachery and rebellion.

But achieving future victory required this present shame. So be it. It was but one more disgrace to endure on this long and slow path to vengeance.

Bowing his head and linking his hands behind his back, his feet planted together in a stiff, formal stance, he spoke in a voice calm and docile. "Lord Gilruin, my actions when last we met were driven by anxiety, weariness, and dread. I have no desire for the enmity of your folk. Therefore, I ask that my insults be dismissed as the rashness of a heart in chaos, without premeditation, without hatred towards yourself or your House, without full understanding of the customs of Valinor. I offer you my apology sincerely in the hope that any animosity between the Noldor of this Hall and myself might die here."

Some of the witnesses shifted suspiciously, but Gilruin and Gilnen exchanged a glance more curious than hostile. The dark-haired Elf finally lifted his eyes to Sauron's. "I accept your apology and for my part will hold no ill will against you," he said, his voice a lilting tenor of almost effeminate quality. "I speak this for my House and the House of my brother, promising in the witness of Lord Aulë that we will seek no retribution for your deeds." He hesitated momentarily then bowed his own head in acknowledgement and deference.

By now, Sauron was sufficiently entrenched in his role that his lingering anger and revulsion were but a faint pulse on the edge of his senses. The pleasing mental vision of his eventual revenge, embellished for the sake of his smarting pride as it might be, remained and fueled his ability to press forward in his charade.

"In token of my gratitude for your forgiveness and my own good will in this matter, I offer you my service in the form of knowledge. I understand that the Noldor are mighty in the lore of smithcraft and I myself have much wisdom in this domain that may benefit you and your people. If it pleases you, I will share my knowledge on any topic or skill that interests you or those of your House. I ask that you would accept my favor in recognition of our mutual good will."

There were background murmurs at that from the other lords, low and apprehensive. Gilnen raised a thin, auburn eyebrow, but Gilruin pursed his lips thoughtfully. Finally, the Noldo replied in an even tone. "I accept this offer as well. However, my son is more skilled than I in the art of the forge and hence would benefit from your proposal more than myself. I will bring this matter before him and inform you as to our decision. I thank you on behalf of my House for your generosity."

"I am glad my knowledge shall not be wasted," Sauron replied with a delicate smile.

Aulë stepped between them, beaming broadly, and placed one hand on Sauron's shoulder and the other on Gilruin's. "As Lord of these Halls and Vala of Earth, I hold witness to the promises made by you both and approve them heartily in the name and authority of Eru Ilúvatar. Go in good will, both of you."

The Elves took their leave then, eagerly enough to betray their own charade and arouse Sauron's suspicions that they had not been nearly as comfortable treating with him as they had let on. He himself waited till he reached the doorway to finally heave a deep sigh, grateful to have the dreaded evening finished without mishap. He had earned the peace and rest he sought now at last after this long, long day. The pleasant effects of his bath had long since worn off, leaving him with aching limbs and a spine that was growing increasingly stiff, and the mental image of his bed grew more gratifying by the second.

He wended his way through the darkening halls and corridors back to his chamber, rubbing absently at the small of his back now that there were no witnesses to see his physical discomfort. Despite Gilruin's agreeableness, Sauron knew Aulë would be right in this at least: plenty of Elves would hold fast to their grudges against him, for his insults towards Gilruin as well as for the countless offenses committed in Beleriand. He would almost be disappointed if there weren't. But he'd accomplished what he really needed from the exchange. The more who viewed him as crushed the better. Word would quickly get around about his humbling apology. Most would suspect he'd been forced by the Valar to debase himself thus. Though the thought made him cringe, he knew in order to succeed he must paint a picture of himself as a weak, broken thing, submissive to the Valar's wills, unable to retain his Maiarin pride, fearful of the consequences of stirring the water.

Beyond that, he had also set in motion the first step of his plan. He had put forth his offer to the Noldor in the guise of contrition, yet to any mistrustful eyes who pried deeper into the matter, it would seem as if the idea had been Aulë's and Sauron had merely been carrying out his lord's advice. That was good. The more tangled in Aulë's authority and naïve approval his schemes proved, the harder it would be for any hostile will to implicate him in what would occur should his plans bear fruit.

He stepped out onto the open colonnade that led to the dormitories and stopped momentarily, closing his eyes. The brilliant fire of the Valinorean evening had faded as Arien's chariot came to its rest beyond the Door of Night, and the fresh darkness washed across his face, cleansing what it could of the persistent itch of his shame. He breathed deeply, head tilted back, the stone cool behind him.

Let the world think he was Melkor's cringing cur, if it willed. Let them think he was the Valar's plaything, tied to the bobbing strings of their whims. He would allow it. For now.

His only warning of attack was the brush of an intense and hostile power against his ëala before a wrathful mind slammed itself against his.

He reeled back in shock, his eyes flying open and his lips parting in a desperate gasp against the crushing onslaught. Frantically, he scrabbled together the still-healing tendrils of his defenses, haphazardly erecting a mental wall to guard his inmost being, but the invading will flicked away his fortifications with terrifying, contemptuous ease.

Fear gave way to panic as something smooth and sleek as a snake curled around his wrists from behind, jerking him back against a column and pinning him there relentlessly. He struggled violently, breath suddenly ragged. Twisting his head to the side, he caught a glimpse of what held him. Vines. His heart shot up into his throat.

Yavanna stepped from the doorway, the sister vines in her hair writhing. Away from Aulë and the public observation of the Great Hall, her own mask was stripped away, and anger and loathing poured from her like noxious smoke. Her will remained thrust painfully against his own, pinning him as relentlessly as the vines around his wrists, and he ceased his struggle, wildly hoping that a show of submission would spare him the Valië's full wrath for whatever it was he had done to incur it. Still, his own suppressed fury throbbed in his neck and hatred was a white-hot glow in his chest, but instantaneous horror prickled down his spine as he realized that if Yavanna wanted, she could force her way as deep into his mind as she wished and there was nothing he could do to hinder her.

Yet for the moment the Tree Queen made no attempt to pierce his will, merely keeping her mind pressed threateningly against his as if daring him to resist. She stepped towards him, eyes glinting green and fierce, and reached out a deceivingly slender hand to close her fingers about his throat. His pulse thrashing frantically against her palm, he fought the panic swelling within him. Her fingers were not nearly tight enough to impede his air supply, but a dreadful sensation nagged in the back of his thoughts that Yavanna comprehended more of the implications of that particular grip than he liked. In this form he had concealed the scars ringing his neck, but the press of her fingertips in his soft flesh brought forth a searing flash of terrible, humiliating memory.

The black bridge. Teeth digging deep in his throat. Blood filling his mouth and trickling into his lungs. A heavy paw on his chest, pinning him to the dirt and pressing him into the spreading pool of his own sweat and gore. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

"What do you want?" he spat, covering his terror with contempt and fury.

Yavanna merely observed him for a moment, her own aversion unconcealed as she swept her eyes scornfully across him. Her will pressed closer. Then she leaned forward, her fingers tightening ever so slightly. "I don't know what you're planning, Abhorred One," she hissed, her breath whispering against his cheek, "but do not take me for the same fool as Aulë. He may trust your worthless promises, but I do not. You are swollen with arrogance and Melkor's venom. It made me sick to hear you breathing such vile falsehoods to those Elves and my husband, but your heart is not veiled to me. I know you are neither contrite nor humbled, but know this – I will not stop until I uncover whatever scheme you're brewing behind that devious, beautiful face."

Her will forced itself closer, choking his thoughts. "And now I am going to make you a promise, one that I will witness in the name and authority of Eru Ilúvatar. If you harm a single one of our charges, if you break but one of your oaths, when your schemes are finally laid bare, I will crush you. I will crush you as the roots of an ancient tree crush a boulder until it is ground to dust. I am not blind to the secrets of what will strike you deepest and most surely. When your treachery is found out and you have nowhere left to hide, I will bring you down weeping and broken, crushed in your heart of hearts, as barren and desolate as you left my Gardens of Almaren."

She pulled her hand from his throat and the vines slithered back, freeing him. He remained slumped against the column, breathing labored, making no attempt to either fight or flee, but silent wrath and hate boiled out of his eyes like molten fire.

Yavanna smiled, a hard, bitter smile full of threat and dangerous elation. "I'll be watching you, Abhorred One," she whispered, "and when you stumble, I'll be there to destroy you."

She rose to her full height and gave him a final look as filled with hate as his own, then she released his will at last and turned from him without a backward glance.

Chapter Text

Oh, horror, horror, horror. Was there no end to the horror? Dark hall after dark hall, each etched with a thousand memories of pain and despair and death. It was as if Morgoth had dragged ever last wretched thrall and cringing minion from the shadows to wreak upon them his final terror, in cruel mockery to the ones who were but hours away from making their victory complete.

The smell itself was enough to make Eönwë retch. Blood and dung and reeking smoke and rotting flesh swarming with hungry flies. Undoing his wide sash from about his waist, he had wound it around his face, protecting his nostrils and throat from the vile odors that assailed him from every side as he stepped through the listing archway into the ruins of Angband.

It was hours now since he and those few with him had entered into this endless, stinking darkness, their torches revealing new horrors with each step, as they searched for yet-living prisoners and surviving foes. There, the pale bodies of Elves and Men impaled on long stakes jutted out in rows from the walls of the narrow corridor, forcing him to brush against the cold, dead flesh in order to proceed. There, empty chains hanging from the walls, surrounded by patterned streaks of dried gore and long, scorched gashes, allowing the imaginations of those who passed to fill in the details. There, chained by iron leashes to the wall, things that seemed like hairless wolves, starved so thin he could see every rib, but when they whined and cringed away, glancing at him with fear almost intelligent, he found himself gazing back into Elven eyes. Eönwë's heart squeezed tighter and tighter, anger becoming fury becoming helpless rage.

Who knew how long the hours had stretched when they finally reached the row of dungeon cells, so deep in the heart of the mountain that the air was thick and hot and hurt to breathe. Many of the cell doors hung open, mocking him at how, even in defeat, the Dark Vala had taken as many with him as he could rather than see them rescued. Other doors remained still locked, and cries and moans of pain echoed through the black corridor, piercing Eönwë deep through his furious heart.

"Break open every cell," the Herald ordered, approaching the first door himself.

His blade struck keen and true, and the powerful Valinorean steel, reinforced with a Song of freedom and retribution, sliced through the weaker iron lock. He wrenched the door open.

There was a figure sprawled in the center of the filthy cell, and at first Eönwë thought he had found yet another corpse for the growing tally of death. But as he stepped into the confining space, the body moved weakly and emitted a dim whimper. Tears of distress and revulsion shoved their way into Eönwë's eyes and his chest squeezed unbearably tight.

It was an Elf, female, naked except for an iron collar locked far too tight about her throat and ringed outwardly with spikes that rendered it impossible for her to rest comfortably. With a sick taste rising in his throat, Eönwë glimpsed a twin set of spikes lining the inside of the collar as well. Her ravaged body was a testament of tortures endured, a mass of scars and half-healed wounds. The unmistakable marks of a whip streaked her back, discolored blotches that spoke of horrific, long-ago burns dappled her arms and shoulders, and there was even an old wound along her thigh that hinted at some unimaginable tool that had stripped off her flesh down to the muscle. Even with the scarf covering his face, the reek of dried sweat, urine, and blood made the Herald gag.

He knelt on the vile floor, pulling off his cloak, even though he suspected the Elf was far past the point of worrying about modesty. All the same, he averted his eyes and draped the blue garment around the quivering figure, tucking it carefully about the narrow shoulders. His heart pounded in his throat, his tongue swollen and foul with sickness of spirit.

His touch was gentle, but the Elf still cringed away from him with a mewling cry that sounded far more animal than intelligent. Her eyes turned up to him, terrified with a bestial panic yet appallingly glazed and unfocused, as if she were half-caught in a nightmare. "It's all right," he crooned to her in as soft and kind a voice as he could muster, even though he doubted whether she could understand his lilting Quenya. "I'm a friend. You're safe. You're free."

There was no understanding in her eyes, yet she seemed at least to comprehend the tone of his voice, and grew still and quiet. This time she did not recoil when he lifted a hand to stroke the dirty tangle of her dark hair. She continued to quiver impulsively, as if the damage to her body had marred her internal workings, but the fear slowly receded from her eyes and she relaxed almost imperceptibly. He drew her gently into his arms, wrapping the cloak closer around her, tears trickling onto his cheeks.

At some point, someone seemed to have driven spikes through her cheeks, but the flesh had healed as best it could, closing in the holes and leaving only circular, puckered scars. Carefully, Eönwë touched the disfiguring marks, the taste of bile returning stronger. "Who did this to you?" he whispered, his voice choked with shock, his throat so tight he could barely force out the numbed words. "Who could do this to you?"

The question was rhetorical. He knew perfectly well who was capable of such a deed, and his rage was a hot, clawing thing roaring within him to escape.

For the first time, something akin to understanding flickered across the Elf's face, and for a moment her eyes seemed more intelligent than animal. She lifted a trembling hand and touched his own, tracing his fingers hesitantly where they grazed the scarring on her cheek. Her lips parted and another sound escaped, but this time Eönwë recognized it as a word.

No, a name.

"Gorthaur," she said, her fingers shuddering against the terrible wounds, her voice hoarse from unuse. "Gorthaur."

Eönwë's body clenched. He pulled her closer, his breathing suddenly hard and painful, his mind reeling. But before he could speak a word, the Elf gave another long cry, feral once more, and then she went unmistakably limp in his arms.

"No, no, no, no!" The final word ripped from Eönwë's throat as a scream. He beat the floor helplessly with one hand then let the sobs that had been building up within him finally rack him without shame.

There were footsteps behind him and he felt the familiar, compassionate touch of a powerful will. "Why?" he sobbed without lifting his head. "Why would she die now? She was finally free. Why now?"

He turned to look desperately up at Oromë, his vision sparkling with tears, his expression pleading for an answer that could make sense of all the senseless horror around him. The Hunter was silent and still, face grim, the haunted look in his forest-green eyes revealing the truth that even he was affected by the nightmare surrounding them for miles on every side. He gazed down at the weeping Maia and his face softened with sorrow. "Perhaps in this she has found the sole way in which she ever could have triumphed against Morgoth," he said quietly. "She lived to see her tormentor overthrown, and perhaps that is all she needed."

He bent and took the lifeless bundle from the Herald, then straightened again, his burden small and frail against his broad chest. He touched the Elf's face tenderly then drew the cloak over her. "Take comfort, Eönwë. She is in the loving care of a much kinder Vala now."

Eönwë closed his eyes, his breathing still ragged, and clung to the balm of truth in Oromë's words. Yet pain and rage still seethed like a hurricane in his chest and the images of horror flashed past in the darkness of his mind in a relentless rush of suffering. Oh horror, horror, horror.

"Do you hear me?" he screamed suddenly into the stinking darkness. "Morgoth! Sauron! Do you hear me? When we find you, we will make you answer for this. Can you hear me, Sauron Gorthaur? We are going to hunt you down, and I will make you pay for this! You won't escape! You won't escape! Oh, Eru."

Then he crumpled again in the agony of his heart and wept.

~o~o~o~

Deep in the feathered breast of the eagle's form he had taken, Eönwë's heart was a tight, white-hot ball of glowing emotion that pounded in vehement harmony to each powerful wingstroke. Below him, Aman rushed past in a glorious splendor of green vibrancy, just beginning to take on the evening glow that lit the realm with heavenly fire as Arien brought Anar to its harbor beyond the Outer Sea. In the distance, he could glimpse the bright pass of the Calacirya and the glittering of Tirion; closer, the silver streets and pinnacles of Valmar; and directly in his path, looming nearer by the moment, the shining white slopes of Taniquetil crowned with the crystalline glory of Ilmarin.

His home.

Yet, for the first time in his memory, he was dreading the moment when he would have to land and enter the hall of his lord.

It was a confusing feeling, this dread, and one he could not comprehend. Upon first taking flight, he had felt that he could not wait to reach his own chambers, to change from his dust-sullied tabard and bathe away this day, surrounded by his own things and people who would not bait him with blasphemy and arrogance. He had pictured nothing so pleasant for this evening as reclining on a couch in Varda's Mindon Menetingil with his comrades and kin, singing of the great Star Kindling and passing fond, laughing memories of laboring together to weave the high, delicate airs of vaitya or chasing the swift, low airs of vilna to corral them and make them hospitable for the Ones to come.

Yet the closer he drew to Taniquetil, the more he found his path straying, allowing the wind to buffet him off course, allowing his eyes to rove out and over the Blessed Realm in any direction but that which lay before him. At first, he'd rationalized it as duty – to ensure all was at peace within Lord Manwë's realm – but it was not true. His heart was far too keen to mistake a lie. He was actively avoiding his homecoming, and in his heart he knew it.

Emotions for which he had no name warred within him. He was angry, yes – furious, even – tired, frustrated, and disgusted. These passions he knew and their presence was no surprise. But there were other emotions besides these, strange, twisted feelings like a coiled, venomous snake in his heart that sickened his spirit and put a bitterness in his mouth that even Sauron could not conjure. It was these and not the former that kept him airborne, making high, slow circles above Aman rather than going home to his lord.

For the first time in his long life, Eönwë did not want to be with Manwë.

In the past, when he was angry, when he was sad, when his heart was so full of horror and grief that he felt it would tear open any moment, he had longed for his lord's comforting presence. The palace in Almaren, Ilmarin upon Taniquetil – these were simply places where he and his fellow Maiar had made their abode. But Lord Manwë…Manwë was home.

But not today. Why did he not wish to go home? Why did the thought of seeing Manwë, of having to tell him about today, fill his ëala with seething turmoil?

The wind gusted up, filling his wings and giving his fána that glorious weightlessness that he loved so much. His golden feathers wrapped an aura of warmth around him in the chill of the high air, like a soft, thick blanket in the midst of a winter night. Up here, the world was wide and pure, as free from the taint of Darkness as any place in Eä could possibly be. But he, Eönwë Herald of Manwë, brought his own Darkness with him.

Manwë's little slave runs his tasks well.

This little paradise of the Valar's isn't quite the utopia they'd like everyone to believe.

You and your army killed everyone I cared about when you attacked Beleriand.

Manwë's little slave.

Manwë's little slave.

Manwë's little slave.

Eönwë's frustration burst from him in an eagle's shriek. He knew Sauron was merely taunting him with such words, getting under his skin in the only way he could. He knew he shouldn't let the fallen Maia get through to him like this. He shouldn't give Sauron the satisfaction of seeing his bullying tactics succeeding, but the fact that he knew he shouldn't be upset – yet was – only increased his turmoil.

That monster doesn't deserve a second more of your time or thought.

Yet all the same, there was something planted in him that had not been there before.

He fought back the swell of sick-spiritedness with a sudden sharp swipe of his will, wielding his resolve like a blade. He was the Herald, for Eru's sake, Captain of the Armies of the West, most powerful of all Maiar in Eä, and here he was, flying around in circles like a lost fledgling. He had no reason to avoid or fear those of his household. He had done nothing wrong. He'd faced situations far more dire with much less trepidation. With a snort, he brought his wings in close, streamlining his figure and gaining speed in a deep, direct swoop towards Taniquetil.

As his talons brushed the crystal archway, he slipped from one form to another, shedding the eagle in favor of his usual fána. His thoughts flicked outwards, and the gates swung open before him in response. With a deep breath, he strode purposefully into Ilmarin.

He was greeted with respect and friendly cheer by his fellow Maiar of Manwë and Varda as he made his way up to his chambers. He returned their greetings with a smile and a nod, but today his heart was not in it. It was as if a dark veil had been cast over his perception of the world without, tinting everything in webs of shadow. Today, he wanted to be alone and to left alone. His emotions had been on too tight a leash for too long, and the last thing he wanted was to become the bearer of Sauron's own spite into his very home.

As Manwë's head Maia, he had an entire suite to himself on the northeast side of the palace. The eastern wall of his chambers were all of glass, draped with filmy blue curtains and set with a sliding glass door that opened out onto a crystal balcony. Once he had washed and changed, it was here he retired, leaning his forearms against the railing carved into intricate swirling designs like mist and breeze spun into substance. The view was staggering: nothing but empty air laced with pale clouds for hundreds of thousands of feet until the roots of the great mountain joined the grassy slopes of the Valmarian plains. Here, Valinor was laid out like a map more intricate than any ever made by Elf or Man, from the glinting of the eastern sea and the golden-green slopes of Tol Eressëa in the bay, to the distant gray-green haze five score leagues to the south that were the sprawling forests of Oromë, to the dark pass of the northern mountains and Araman, to the wide verdantry of Valinor's highlands to the west that continued until they met the mysterious waters of the Outer Sea, which were far enough away that even his keen-eyed gaze could not reach them.

The Herald closed his eyes, not the least perturbed at the thought of the drop beneath him, and let the wind tug his hair. But at the touch of the wind's persistent, gentle fingers – one he had always loved – discomfiture crept back, an unease he had hoped to leave behind with a bath and a rest. The wind itself did not bring Manwë's tiding, but with the wind's touch came the familiar tug of Another will against his. He knew in that deep secret place that had been Bound to his Vala before the world itself was wrought that Manwë wanted to see him. Indeed, now that he had made himself presentable, it was his duty to report, but that seed of something, that hidden sick-bitter-shadow-serpent that he found himself both loathing and cradling, held him back. He pulled his will away from Manwë's touch and resisted the innate desire of all his kind to answer his lord's call, and in that moment, it felt…good.

It felt good to ignore Manwë.

Instant revulsion fountained up in him, violently rejecting that subtle, dark impulse and hating himself for even daring to entertain, let alone enjoy, such thoughts. Yet with a nauseated feeling in his stomach, he knew that the truth of the thought had been there nonetheless, even if only for a split second. Shame added its syrupy heat to the other morass of emotions fighting for dominance in his heart as he considered what Manwë would think if he knew what his Maia had just felt. Ironically, it provided him with even less inclination to go to the High King.

He pushed away from Manwë's mind, like a child twisting out of a father's grip, torn between guilt for doing so and shame at the thought that Manwë should catch a glimpse of his roiling thoughts if he did not.

It isn't rebellion. It's…it's just that I've had a long, stressful day and I need to take more time for myself to unwind. Lord Manwë would understand. Surely, he understands.

Yet all the same, he did not stretch his mind back out to his lord, as he usually would, to inform Manwë of his need or to ask for the time to himself (though Manwë had never denied him such a thing). Instead, he hastily caught up his long sword and deftly clipped it to his belt. Rather than heading further up to Manwë's suite, he made his way back down the stairs and fled Ilmarin and his lord's searching mind.

He usually practiced in the main courtyard of Ilmarin, but at this hour, when the day's work was coming to a close for Manwë's Maiar and they sought the leisure of the evening, the courtyard was likely to be busy. Usually, Eönwë had no problem with an audience for his routine, but not today.

A great flight of stairs, the Ainovanda as the Vanyar named it, the Path of the Gods, had been cut into the mountain to encourage the Eldar to seek the council and companionship of the Valar by facilitating the journey to Ilmarin for those unable to change form at will. Nowadays, it was only the Vanyar who much used the Path, and though none of Ingwë's people dwelt in Ilmarin itself, their cities had expanded upward, spilling with golden light and merry song onto the wide terraces that laced Taniquetil's slopes. Their highest towers were now near enough to the peak that in the early mornings and at the coming of the evening stars, the Ainur of Ilmarin could hear their sweet Elven music, and those of keenest ear amongst the Maiar could even make out the words of their hymns.

The evening was yet young enough that the Elves would not have begun gathering as they would later on when the stars were just beginning to show and the light of Eärendil was at its brightest in the eastern sky. Even so, a Maia in a city of the Vanyar was hardly a shocking sight, and he doubted his presence would arouse either concern or overt interest.

The place he now sought was one dear to his heart, simple and pragmatic in its beauty – no shining Tirion or lovely Alqualondë to be sure, but possessing that quiet, effortless grace of all things Elvish that Eönwë preferred to grandiose splendor. Half training ground, half garden, it was set against the root of the terrace, tucked against the mountain's side and separated from the city by a narrow, shaded lane and a low, white stone wall that lent a sense of serenity and privacy. The stone was carpeted in creeping moss that hushed his footsteps as he made his way around the wooden targets where the Vanyarin archers practiced and onward to the ring of tiled and colored stone in the center of the garden. It was a mosaic, embedded with intricate care in the living stone of the mountain, depicting the coming of the three Elven kings to Taniquetil before the rising of the Sun, their uplifted faces lit with the holy light of the Two Trees. Eönwë looked down at the stylized artwork, lingering on the joyous expressions of Elwë, Ingwë, and Finwë.

He drew his blade with a faint hiss of leather and metal and held it in front of him for a moment, razor edge inches from his nose. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, steadying breath, pushing out the chaos within and replacing it with an unsullied calm.

Then he began to move through the series of graceful lunges, stances, and sweeps. The routine was one of many, learned by all Elven swordsmen and taught to them first and long ago by the Maiar, among whom Eönwë himself had been one of the foremost. It was freeing and exhilarating, a melding of mind, spirit, and body to find the perfect point of unity where there was nothing besides himself and the thrumming sword dancing in his fingers. His feet flew, his body twisted and swayed. The blade sang. Faster and faster and faster. He was air. He was steel. He was movement. He was grace. He was Nothing. He was Everything.

A soft sound pulled him out of the deep concentration and calm that had encompassed him. He continued through the motions of the sword dance, but he slowed his pace and returned his awareness to his surroundings. The sound came again, soft as the touch of a feather in the breeze, but this time Eönwë's ears were attuned enough to recognize it. A voice.

No, several voices. He heard a quiet giggle, muffled by a small hand, and out of the very corner of his eye he caught sight of a golden head bobbing up from behind one of the archery targets.

Assuming an air of oblivion to his audience, Eönwë maneuvered himself into a better view of the targets, still keeping his sword leaping and spinning and his feet dancing over the stone tiles. Yet again, and again, he saw flashes of gold as heads peaked out from behind the wood, only to vanish quickly when he turned in their direction. Casually, he worked the steps of the exercise so that they carried him closer, and the sounds of soft giggles grew more distinct. Despite himself, Eönwë felt the corners of his lips tugging irresistibly upwards.

He waited until a moment when all three heads were in sight, then lunged suddenly forward with a shout of "Yah!"

The three Vanyarin elflings fled their hiding place with squeals of delighted terror. They took refuge inside the archway of the gate that led back out into the city, cowering down against the stone as if this alone would render them invisible to Eönwë's eyes. With a smirk, Eönwë seated himself on a bench, placing his sword beside him, and pulled out his whetting stone and polishing rag. Fastidiously pretending to ignore the children, he set to work caring for the gleaming blade.

In his peripheral, he observed the elflings creeping back towards him, still keeping up their pretense of invisibility, as if he were a deer they were attempting to stalk. The soft, conspiratorial whispers and giggles inched closer and closer, until Eönwë could see them sitting in a half circle just outside his reach. Finally, a tiny hand stretched up to touch the glistening steel of his sword.

"Easy," Eönwë said in a gentle voice. "I don't want any little Elves losing fingers today."

This brought forth a round of titters and the little hand withdrew. Eönwë looked up to meet the spellbound faces of the three young Elves sitting in the moss at his feet and gazing expectantly up at him.

"You make the sword look like starlight," one of them said in a hushed voice, her eyes filled with that beautiful gleam of the Firstborn that Eönwë had loved the moment he first saw the awakened Children.

Eönwë carefully sheathed the sword and laid it across his lap. "It takes a lot of practice."

"Can you teach us how?" asked the little nér who had touched the sword, his hand creeping back towards the sheath.

Smiling slightly, Eönwë allowed him to stroke the engraved leather. "One day perhaps. But I think my sword is a little too big for you now."

This statement elicited shrill protests and boasts of strength and prowess. The nér began an attempt to prove Eönwë wrong by lifting the sword off his lap by the hilt.

"I don't think so," Eönwë laughed, rescuing the sword by clipping it firmly onto his belt so that it hung behind him, amid continuing protests.

The nér clambered onto the bench beside him, still with a mischievous light in his eyes that suggested he wasn't through with the sword yet. The two nísi climbed into Eönwë's lap, still gazing at him with the raw admiration of childhood. The Herald winced as little hands and knees dug into his stomach as the elflings settled themselves in his arms. "My mama said the War was over when papa came back," one said. "Does that mean no one will teach us how to fight now, Lord Eönwë?" The disappointment in her voice was evident.

Eönwë's smile faltered and he reached up to stroke the child's hair. "It's a good thing the War is over, dear one. When you grow up, the only reason you'd ever have to learn sword-craft is to look pretty."

The nís giggled delightedly and pressed her face shyly into Eönwë's shoulder. The other nís beamed up at Eönwë. "You look pretty when you dance."

"Why, thank you, my lady," Eönwë replied, pressing a courtly kiss to the back of her hand, which left her in the same state as her companion.

"Did you fight in the War?" the nér asked. He flourished his hand in a simplified imitation of how Eönwë had wielded his sword during his routine. "I bet you chopped all the bad ones right up!"

A cold hand squeezed Eönwë's heart. Gently, he lowered the two elflings back onto the ground. "I think the three of you need to get back to your families. The stars will be coming out soon."

The mention of their beloved stars was enough to distract the elflings from topics of war and the true purposes of swords. They skittered back towards the garden entrance on feet so light and quick they hardly seemed to touch the ground. At the gate, they turned back around to fix Eönwë with three sets of grey-blue eyes, as if to see if he would enforce his directive. With a smile growing on his face again, the Herald drew his sword in a single fluid movement and made a sudden lunge in their direction. Shrieking delightedly, the elflings fled once and for all.

Sheathing his sword again, Eönwë sank back down onto the bench with a twitch of amusement in his lips.

"The mighty Eönwë, Commander of Armies, Herald of Manwë, and Terrorizer of Little Elf Children. How appropriate."

Eönwë jolted and spun around at the sound of the unexpected voice coming from behind him. A slim, petite figure leaned against the wall, arms folded and wearing an expression of mock chastisement and genuine amusement.

"Ilmarë," Eönwë said, rising hastily to his feet.

The Handmaiden grinned and bounced towards him with that light, effortless gait that she had possessed since she first set foot in Eä. He reached out his hands to her and she took them in a fond squeeze. "Vanirë said she saw you on your way up to your chambers earlier. I tried there and then the courtyard, and when I couldn't feel your mind anywhere in Ilmarin, I figured you must have come down here. Lady Varda sent me looking for you."

Guilt clogged his throat and the feelings he'd been trying to push away by coming here crept back in. The story behind Ilmarë's words was all too clear.

His guilt must have shown on his face, or at least a troubled light must have glanced through his eyes, for Ilmarë frowned and gave his hand that tug that meant tell me what's wrong. He met her gaze with an unpleasant sensation in his stomach that felt – as best he could describe it – like the waves on the beach when Ossë was angry. His sister looked back at him with wide, silver eyes and something caught in the back of his throat. He felt that small twinge of pain that always mingled somewhere with the fondness when he looked at her, but it was stronger this time than it had been in many years. In fact, it hadn't been this strong since the time right after…after…

He tugged his mind away from that train of thought and offered her a tired smile. "I'm sorry, Ilmarë. It's just been a long and trying day."

She looked at him as if debating whether or not to inquired further, and apparently decided not, her head tilted to the side in a gesture that was almost bird-like and that, he'd always teased her, meant she was really a Maia of Manwë at heart. It wasn't true though; he didn't know anyone who belonged to the stars more than Ilmarë Lómevendë.

"I know you, Brother. It's not like you to neglect a report to Lord Manwë," she said in that tone of voice that is both statement and question at once.

"I…" How could Eönwë explain that feeling coiled within him when he didn't even understand it himself. Even more pertinent, did he want anyone to understand it?

Yet Ilmarë's eyes were discerning, and the touch of her mind came to his like the brush of fingers on his cheek. She made no attempt to detect his thoughts, merely gathering the patterns of his mood, and in turn he felt the pattern of comprehension ripple across her ëala as it rested softly against his.

She bit her lower lip, looking at him with sororal concern, opened her mouth as if to ask a question, then closed it again. Her head quirked to the side once more with that bird-like grace, and something luminescent flickered through the depths of her eyes like moon-fire. When he was in such moods, it was not uncommon for her to make a playful jibe (has my Bird-Brother gone chicken?), but he saw in her expression the understanding that now was not the time for teasing. All the same, he suspected his star-eyed sister felt confused by the Eönwë who had returned from the War, the Eönwë who had seen horrors about which he could never dare tell her. The world had lost so much – he could not bear the thought that it might lose the bounce of Ilmarë's step or the starlit glow of her smile to the shadow of horrible truth that clung like webs to this world.

Still, it was not the first time he had concealed memories from her, not the first time he had hidden scars. There were some facts Ilmarë didn't need to know, his burdens to bear alone.

The moon-glow in her eyes brightened suddenly and her lips trembled with a suppressed smirk. She tugged his hand, this time a gesture that meant I have an idea – follow me.

So he followed her back up the stairs of the Ainovanda and through the gates of Ilmarin, but instead of continuing through the main hall to the High King's chambers, she took him on a sharp turn to the left. A slow smile touched Eönwë's heart as he realized where she was taking him and what it meant.

Up, up, and up they went, up into the highest tower of Ilmarin until finally they emerged at the pinnacled top. Here, the roof cut away in a deep, semicircular arc, revealing the expanse of the sky in all its natural glory from the highest point on Arda: the Mindon Menetingil, Varda's Tower of a Thousand Twinkling Stars.

A large, comfortable daybed dominated the middle of the Mindon, scattered with blue, gold, white, and silver pillows, and situated so that anyone reclining in it would have a perfect view of the skyscape. Other smaller settees ringed the room, providing an atmosphere of domestic grace, whilst huge tapestries of deep blue (courtesy of Vairë's folk) clothed the walls, each one embroidered with myriad mithril stars that caught the real starlight and cast it back, so that any occupant of the room felt as if he were floating in the night sky, surrounded by thousands of twinkling lights.

Casting Eönwë a mischievous look, Ilmarë flopped down across the daybed and propped her head up for a good view of the evening sky. The Sun was hovering just above the Outer Sea, and the gloaming fire was at full bloom, streaking the sky with glowing tendrils of red, orange, and yellow so vibrant that Eönwë could barely lift his eyes to the flaming expanse. With more reserve than his sister, the Herald lowered himself onto the daybed and leaned back.

Both were silent for the next half hour, watching as the sky fire paled and the Sun vanished gradually into the darkness beyond the world. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, the two Maiar leaned forward almost as one to scan the ever-darkening sky with increasing intensity.

It was one of those games that come into being out of pure coincidence, so long ago in their case that neither of them quite remembered exactly how it had begun. Considerable time had passed since the two of them had visited the Mindon for such a light-hearted purpose, and as the sky slipped from deep red to purple to velvet blue, Eönwë found himself straining forward intently, sharp eyes boring into the darkening expanse. His muscles tensed with the strain of expectant competition, his nerves on fire and senses prickling, dreading (yet anticipating) any second to hear Ilmarë's distinct intake of breath that always heralded the same outcome to their contest.

It came a moment later, and Eönwë felt the surge of over-exaggerated disappointment that can only come from losing a competition of true sibling rivalry. The Handmaiden's arm shot out, pointing to the northeast quadrant of the sky. "There!"

He looked, and indeed, he caught the faintest twinkling of the first star of evening. Ilmarë smirked and flipped her gossamer hair in a gesture of smug satisfaction, to which Eönwë responded with an embellished pout, arms folded. "How is that even remotely fair? What chance do I have against a Maia of Varda in a contest like that? Completely rigged."

"Says the Maia who claims he can see a mouse from ten thousand feet in the air," she laughed. "You're Eagle-Eyed Eönwë, keenest in sight of all Maiar. Don't tell me you can't spot something as bright and beautiful as evening's first star."

"And you're the Night-Maiden," he retorted. "You probably helped Varda place the first star of evening and you know exactly where it will appear each night. Next time we should see who can predict the flight patterns of an eagle. See who wins that one."

"I didn't force you to play," Ilmarë answered with a grin, and with that, their ritual of post-contest raillery came to its time-honored close once again.

Ilmarë's intuition had been right though; the silly game brought back memories of brighter and happier times, and Eönwë's heart did not feel quite as tight or heavy as it had before. The two Maiar leaned back once again, watching in silent, comfortable companionship as the remainder of the stars glistened into being.

After a while though, Ilmarë rolled over to face him, cuddling a huge blue and white pillow. "Lord Manwë gave you a new assignment, didn't he? That's where you've been all day?"

Eönwë winced. Talking about this miserable, humiliating day was not exactly his top choice for conversation with anyone, let alone Ilmarë. It was bad enough having to labor alongside Sauron, in full view of every inquisitive Elf present, but having to admit the truth to his little sister of just what he'd been assigned seemed even worse in its own shameful way.

Still, his mere presence at Corimendturë would be food aplenty for rumors, and he'd rather explain everything to Ilmarë himself than wait until she overheard it from some misinformed Vanya.

To his surprise however, Ilmarë beat him to it. "Your new assignment, it has to do with Sauron, doesn't it?" she stated in that same quiet, discerning voice.

Eönwë must have stared (or glared) a little too vehemently, for Ilmarë smiled thinly and flicked his arm lightly with the pillow. "It wasn't that hard to guess. You come back looking like a storm cloud, run off to play with your sword instead of reporting to Lord Manwë, and barely say a word to me all evening. Obviously, something has gotten under your skin, and there are a limited number of dark lords in the area to have accomplished such a task."

Eönwë couldn't help the wry quirk in his lips at Ilmarë's tone. "I suppose," he admitted.

A pointed silence fell over them until Ilmarë raised her eyebrows. "Well, is it something you want to talk about?"

"It depends."

"All right then. Is it something you would feel better if you talked with me about it?"

Eönwë sighed and rubbed absently at his temples. "That I don't know."

"Why don't we give it a go then and see what happens?"

Eönwë gave her a dry look. "Sometimes I think you're too blithe for your own good."

Ilmarë's eyes flickered cheekily. "I will refrain from telling you what quality you possess too much of for your own good."

Eönwë eyed his sister pensively. She stared back unabashedly and he finally glanced away. "Yes, it's about Sauron," he said in a low voice. "I…it's my task to watch over him at Corimendturë: keep him out of trouble, make sure he doesn't get into trouble, the like. I'm supposed to be his personal overseer. Though," he added bitterly, "it feels like being his personal scratching-post more than anything else."

"How so?" Ilmarë prompted, propping her chin up on the pillow and keeping her silver eyes fixed intently on him.

Red-hot coals started glowing in his chest again, and that tight, bitter feeling in his stomach slithered insidiously back. All day, he'd been holding his temper in, pushing it back, denying it, but now his anger and indignation bubbled to the surface of his boiling spirit, refusing to be shoved down any longer. So he finally let it out. He told Ilmarë about the quarry, about Sauron's snips and mockery, about the fight between the Elves, about Sauron's irreverent ridicule of the Valar, Valinor, and himself, about the whole cursed day, his own tone growing more heated by the moment.

"He's impossible!" he vented as he reached the end. "The Valar have been merciful to him beyond thought and measure, especially after they saw what came of their leniency to Morgoth. Is he grateful though? Does he even acknowledge how much they didn't do to him that he deserves? Of course not! No, all he can do is make snide remarks about his cursed Bound powers – the powers he abused to inflict inconceivable suffering on others, no less – and complain about how inferior Valinor is to that land of death and torture that Morgoth created. Ilmarë, why is he here if he's not even going to bother trying? And believe me, he's not. It's obvious just from looking into his eyes. He hates us all, he hates the Children, he hates Valinor, he hates the Valar. He hates everything. And of course I'm the one stuck dealing with him."

He lifted his hands to his hair, tugging fiercely on the golden locks in frustration. "I saw just a fraction of what he did in Beleriand and it was horrible. Ilmarë, he's done things– I've…I've seen things…"

Tears beaded his golden lashes. He took a deep breath. "The War was finally over, and I thought I'd get rest and healing after so long. It was what I clung to in the darkness and horror: I dreamed of the waters of Lórien, and the quiet of Mandos, and music, and fresh air, and the laughter of loved companions. I desired it so much. It was why I fought: so that my world could have that peace, not just Valinor, not just me, but everyone finally. And maybe that's what everyone else got, but not me. Every other Maia from my battalion – guess where they are? They all went straight from the docks to Lórien and Mandos and Nienna to recover and sleep and heal until they're ready to return to the world that wreaked such terrors upon their memories. But me? Me? The moment I set foot back on Valinor, Lord Manwë inflicts that monster on me to babysit, and now instead of rest and healing, I have to listen to his disgusting venom and spite all day long. And why? Because I made one comment, Ilmarë. One comment. And now instead of going to Lórien myself, I'm saddled with the Black Captain of Morgoth! Because of Lord Manwë!"

There. He'd said it. There it was, in all its hideous, serpentine glory: the true venom that had been poisoning his veins all day long. The slow, festering resentment he'd been harboring since Lord Manwë had first dumped this repugnant task on his head.

Ilmarë had listened wordlessly with pursed lips, head tilted once more in deep concentration. As Eönwë buried his face in his hands, not sure whether he was more disgusted or relieved by his revelation, the Night-Maiden reached out a slender hand and stroked the back of his arm. "You've been having nightmares since you came back," she said, once again mingling question and statement eerily into one. "I heard you last night."

Eönwë didn't answer. Ilmarë continued to rub his arm fondly. "You know what I'm going to say now."

Eönwë glanced at her miserably. "Yes, I know."

She took his hand and pulled it down, squeezing it. "You have to talk to Lord Manwë. He and you are the only ones who can bring harmony to this discord, and as long as you keep avoiding him, it's only going to get worse. You have to tell him what's going on."

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears. "I know."

"Think of it this way," Ilmarë continued. "This is what Sauron wants: you miserable and resentful towards Lord Manwë. He wants you to question your friendships and loyalties, to sever your deepest ties. It was Morgoth's tactic too from the very first: to turn us against one another. If you don't want to hand Sauron the victory, go report to your lord and make things right with him."

Eönwë gave his sister's hand a return squeeze. "Thank you, Ilmarë."

She gave him a twinkling smile. "What are little sisters for?"

His own mouth twitched and he rose from the daybed. Turning at the door, he studied her thoughtfully. "What are you going to do now?"

She propped her head back up on the gigantic pillow, crossing her ankles casually and turning her gaze upward. "I'm going to watch the stars," she replied with flippant succinctness. "And perhaps I'll study the flight patterns of eagles while I'm at it. Who knows, I might even learn something…interesting."

A genuine smile broke through Eönwë's tension, but as he opened his mouth to make a parting retort, a jab of internal pain deep within his ëala stabbed through him. With it, a mental image he had tried to forget a thousand times flashed cruelly across his mind's eye, and he turned away from Ilmarë quickly, closing the door behind him and making his way to the descending stairs before the Night-Maiden could perceive his troubled thoughts.

Down, down, and down he went, and with each step his feet grew more leaden and his heart seized once again and his mouth grew dry and woolen, until finally he found himself in that place he should have been so many hours earlier and yet still did not fully want to be: standing before the doors of Lord Manwë's chambers.

His heart was pounding. Never had he outright refused his lord's summons, never made the High King resort to sending his wife's handmaiden to fetch his head Maia. Would Manwë be angry? Instinctively, Eönwë knew that wouldn't be the case. He had never seen Manwë angry before, not even when Morgoth betrayed them, destroying their Trees and crushing the last hope of his redemption for them all. That terrible day, there had been no wrath from Manwë, as righteous as it would have been; instead, Eönwë had witnessed something far more terrible in his lord's eyes, something that had broken his heart for the Vala he loved, something he knew deep down he could never have born if he had been the recipient of it rather than Morgoth.

No, Eönwë had never feared Manwë's wrath. It was Manwë's disappointment, deep as the Void and broken as Arda Marred, that Eönwë knew he could not face. Yet he must.

If you don't want to hand Sauron the victory today, go report to your lord and make things right with him.

Eönwë sucked in a deep breath then rapped sharply on the door. Instantly, the powerful will beyond responded, familiar and welcoming, as if Manwë had been doing nothing the last few hours save waiting for his dawdling Herald. The Vala's mind brushed lightly across his, but like Ilmarë, he did no more than examine the external patterns of Eönwë's ëala before calling him softly inward. A multitude of sensations swirled up in Eönwë. Part of him wanted to shrink away from Manwë's touch in embarrassment, part of him wanted to turn away and continue embracing the resentment that had driven him through the day, and part of him wanted to sink gratefully into the comforting depths of the familiar presence of his Vala.

So instead, he resorted to the final part of himself, that internal fortress to which he fled when he could not bear the thought of dealing with the rest. Squaring his shoulders and brushing his golden hair nervously back with one hand, he pushed open the crystal doors and fell automatically into the external role he knew best: the taut pageantry of Manwë's dependable, fastidious Herald.

The High King stood at the casement opposite, hands resting lightly on the sill, his head bare. The moonlight dripping like liquid silver through the tall windows glowed in his golden hair, and a fresh, wholesome air wafted through the chamber with a scent like newly-fallen snow. For a moment, Eönwë froze at the sight of that tall, majestic figure, his throat clogging with dread – and with self-anger at his dread – but then Manwë turned and his eyes fell on Eönwë. An ice-blue glow lit up instantly in those fathomless depths, those eyes that led to the will of Eru Himself, and Eönwë felt Manwë's relief and joy like a warm bath of light and power through the binding of their wills. Eönwë's throat clogged again, this time with an emotion he could not name, and with a little shuddering sigh, he dropped to his knee, head bowed.

"My lord Manwë," he said, his voice emerging as the annoyingly wooden monotone that it always seemed to become when his heart was at its fullest. "I'm sincerely sorry for my recalcitrance, and I assure you it will not happen again. I apologize deeply for all the trouble-"

"Eönwë."

Manwë's voice broke through his stilted apologies. The High King stepped towards him, bent, and lifted his Herald's chin with one slender hand. Eönwë found himself looking back into Manwë's eyes but his gaze dropped away after only a moment.

"Child," Manwë said gently. "There is only one person blaming you, and it is not your lord."

Eönwë looked up at that, his voice stuck in his throat, his eyes searching, pleading with an eloquence his tongue seemed suddenly to have lost. Manwë smiled almost imperceptibly and touched the Maia's cheek. Simultaneously, his will brushed against Eönwë's, sending a ripple of pleasant warmth through the Maia's spirit. Yet even so, Eönwë could not help but notice that Manwë was deliberately holding back. The High King's concern for his Maia was a dark ribbon running through the brilliancy of his thoughts.

He doesn't know if I want him to look deeper or not.

Yet the clear fact that Manwë had no intention of forcing Eönwë's emotions into the open eased his tension in some small measure. He made no protest as Manwë drew him up by the hand and led him to the wide window seat on the opposite side of the room. The two of them settled into it, across from one another, and Manwë leaned back into the azure plush of the seat, his hand resting against the colored crystal-thin glass of the casement. Eönwë drew up his legs, his back and shoulders still stiff, his unpleasant discomfort in his lord's presence lingering.

"What troubles you, Eönwë?" Manwë said after a long moment of heavy silence.

Eönwë swallowed painfully, his mind racing. Then, he slowly began to retell the day's events, his voice still frozen in that decorous monotone. As he described the various happenings at the quarry, he refrained from the personal embellishments that had liberally decorated his version of the tale for Ilmarë, stating the facts in that pragmatic manner that suited a herald delivering a routine report to his superior. He did not gloss over Sauron's spiteful attitude nor the quarrelsome Elves, but nor did he reveal the turmoil of his emotions that had accompanied those moments.

The entire time, Manwë sat still and quiet, listening intently but making no comment, his grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on Eönwë, the fingertips of his right hand resting pensively against his lips. His will remained close, yet not intimate, absorbing the undercurrents of Eönwë's words from his ëala, but hovering at a cautious distance as if unsure whether Eönwë was comfortable with his touch.

Silence fell between them again as Eönwë finished his report. Usually, he loved the vast, high quiet that wrapped itself around Ilmarin after the lighting of the stars, but today it gnawed at his spirit like hungry, wolfish shadows.

"It would seem the day has gone well overall," Manwë finally mused when it was clear that Eönwë had nothing more to say. "Sauron is bitter, but he did as was requested of him, and in this much at least I see hope for the future of this endeavor. As long as any rebellion and malice remain confined to speech, I see little harm in allowing him this channel for his emotions. The Elves continue to quarrel, but I think you did right, my child. It is good for them to realize that we will not tolerate back-biting or vicious conduct and that our eyes are upon them. You are frustrated with Sauron's bitterness and with the lack of progress you see in the Elves, yet neither of these things explain the discord I sense in your spirit, nor your choices this afternoon. What troubles you, Eönwë?"

For a moment, Eönwë almost revealed the truth, but instead he found himself unexpectedly saying something quite different, something that was still true, that still hurt to express, but that was still leagues away from the real serpent lurking in his soul. "It's…it's Sauron," he blurted. He hesitated, all-too-clearly remembering Manwë's reprimand when he had voiced a similar sentiment only days earlier. The dread of his lord's disappointment was ice in his ëala. "I…I still can't find for myself the faith you have in him, my lord, not after what I saw with Morgoth. I still can't help but feel that you don't understand the risk, the pain. I've been so ready to see this evil Age ended, but I'm terrified Sauron is keeping it alive. I simply cannot look at him and believe what you're believing, my lord. I don't see the hope that you see."

Manwë breathed a deep, sad sigh. Eönwë stiffened, not sure whether that sigh was directed at Sauron's malignancy or at his own lack of faith, hoping for the former but dreading in the pit of his stomach that it was the latter. Regardless, what Manwë did next took the Herald completely by surprise. The High King slid over on the window seat and gathered Eönwë into his arms, pulling him close and at the same time wrapping his will around the Herald like a swath of silk and autumn wind. Eönwë went rigid for a moment, but as his senses – inside and out – soaked in his lord's encompassing essence, he relaxed and laid his head on Manwë's shoulder, surrendering his worries and doubts to a blissful presentness that banished thoughts of both past and future. After a long, stressful day, after a long, stressful War, after a long, stressful Age, it felt better than he could have imagined to lay aside the scars and terrors of yesterday and the fears and shadows of tomorrow and simply dissolve into a today that was perhaps not so bad.

Manwë began to stroke Eönwë's hair softly, and the sky Maia's inhibitions crumbled further. He slipped upwards into a state where his fána seemed distant and fuzzy about the edges and his ëala seemed bright and full, as if it was his spirit that contained his body instead of the other way around. His memory sank further and further back, to a time before Valinor, before Eä, to a time that was timeless and a hall of light that no eye could see and music that no ear could hear. His ëala began to vibrate pleasantly, like a harp being strummed, producing soundless music that only another Ainu could hear, a Maiarin purr of contentment for his lord.

Time slipped by like a wide, peaceful river overhung by trailing willows with sunlight in their tresses and dappled lilies rocking on its surface. Eönwë continued to rest, Manwë's fingers in his hair, his mind distant and pleasantly sluggish. But finally the High King stirred. "Eönwë," he said gently, "have I ever hurt you?"

The question pulled Eönwë from his comforting stupor like burning iron on his skin. He pulled away in shock, turning a face of horrified indignation up to his lord. "No, no, never. Of course not, my lord!"

Manwë's eyes were deep and kind. "And have I ever made you fear me?"

Another dismayed negative escaped Eönwë, even as apprehension stole in as to where this conversation was heading. Manwë's face softened, and he reached out a hand to cradle his Maia's face. "Then why are you afraid to tell me the truth?"

A vice clamped down on Eönwë's heart, squeezing, squeezing. He wanted to protest, to deny Manwë's charge, to ignore the hissing serpent he'd tried so valiantly to defeat, but he could bear it no longer. His eyes dropped, his cheeks burning, and when he spoke, his voice was much smaller than he liked. "Because I'm afraid you'll think less of me for it."

A flicker of pain, dark and raw, flashed through Manwë's ëala. "It's not Sauron you're truly angry with, is it?" he asked, his voice little more than a murmur.

Eönwë felt as if he were curling up upon himself inside. "No," he whispered back.

"Tell me," Manwë said.

And so Eönwë did, and the nameless feelings found words he had not known were there, words of resentment, words of bitterness, words of pain, words of sorrow. He told Manwë about the hours of darkness (horror, horror, horror) and what he had seen in the dark dungeons of Angband and how he'd felt the life of a mutilated Child leave her in a cry. He told him about how he had staggered out from the battle of Angband and looked down to find in chest and arms soaked black and red with the blood of orcs and men and (most terribly) his own kind, and how he had vomited out his horrified disgust on the edge of the battlefield amid the corpses and the gore. He told Manwë about the hope that had given him the strength to press forward and finish the War, even as he saw the land upheaved and the sky blackened with smoke, the hope of a better future for the Children and the hope of reward and rest once he returned to Valinor with his mission complete. He spoke of a desperate moment of choice, when a beautiful monster knelt before him with agony and terror in his eyes and pleaded for pardon, and how he had felt in that moment that he could not bear for yet one more to die because of Morgoth's evil. He spoke of hope shattered, seeing the one he had spared turning inevitably back to cruelty and spite, and his fear and anger in seeing the Valar's mercy, seeing there but an echo of his own mercy, which could only lead to betrayal and another Age of darkened skies and dead trees and wind filled with the stench of Death. He told him of the burning resentment and poisonous bitterness that this new abhorrent assignment had roused in his spirit, fueled by the insidiously-laid coals that Sauron had fanned. He pressed his face to Manwë's shoulder, tears soaking into his lord's robes, and cried the words he knew he needed to say, choked and bleeding and deep as his spirit.

"After everything I did for you, how can you be making me do this?"

"I'm angry, I'm angry, I'm angry."

"I don't understand why you're making me do this."

"I'm angry. I'm angry! I'm angry!"

Manwë just held his Maia as Eönwë poured out his heart, half sobbed, half vented. The High King said nothing, the patterned light of his fëa flickering with innumerable veiled thoughts, now bright and quick with sympathy, now dim and slow with pain and grief. At last, Eönwë fell into melancholy silence, his throat as raw as his heart, trembling slightly with the power of the relived pain and the terrible strength of the emotions that had racked him. But at the same time, he suddenly felt safer and more comfortable, as if the hiddenness of his resentment had been a greater burden than the resentment itself. The additional fact that his lord had neither scolded him nor pushed him away for having such thoughts allowed peace to seep into the place where the bottled anger had been.

Manwë remained silent a minute or so longer, allowing Eönwë to recover from his outburst and process his feelings. Then the High King slowly lifted Eönwë from him so that they could see one another face to face more easily. He lifted a hand and used the edge of his sleeve to dry Eönwë's face. Eönwë swallowed painfully, his tongue and throat feeling swollen. "Is it a punishment?" he asked hoarsely. "For what I said about Sauron that other night? It feels like a punishment."

Still Manwë was quiet, gazing thoughtfully out to the star-studded velvet of the sky that seemed to wrap so closely around Ilmarin. Then he looked down at Eönwë again. "Eönwë," he said in a steady voice. "I will put a choice before you, and I wish you to know that I will think none the less of you for the choice you make. You have done as I asked today and thus fulfilled the matter of the assignment I gave you. You have labored alongside Sauron long enough to see the temper of his mind. Therefore, if you wish it, I release you from this task, and you may go with my blessings to Lórien to join those of your brave regiment who are seeking the well-earned healing and cleansing of mind, body, and spirit from the terrors of the War you have endured.

"But I wish you to know that I gave you this assignment not as retribution against your anger nor your frustration against Sauron, for you hold no blame for either. Not for lack of faith, nor hardheartedness, nor any vice you may have conceived to hold against yourself. Rather for this: what power of foresight my own portion of Eru's wisdom has given me tells me in my heart that long-lasting good may come from the task I gave you, should you choose to pursue it. From whence that good shall come, that I cannot see, nor can I glimpse who may benefit the most from it in the end. All I know is that in the end, it should yield for the better in some small portion.

"Yet, any good that may come shall not do so without pain and toil, and therefore I lay the choice before you, my child, for I have no desire that your duties to me should be loathsome to you. If you cannot bear the company of Sauron, if you believe the sowing to be of lesser worth than the possible harvest, then go, with all my good will, and find refreshment in Lórien. But if you choose to pursue the path I have opened to you with this task and see where it shall lead, then do so of your own choosing. And should you decide at any point that the burden is too great to bear, all you need do is ask and you will be released from this role."

Manwë ran his thumbs tenderly across Eönwë's cheekbones, his fingers still hooked under Eönwë's chin. A deep, fond smile filtered through the grave sorrow, but behind his eyes there was still a poignant pain that Eönwë felt as an ache through the bond of their spirits. "Above all else," Manwë said, bringing his forehead to Eönwë's and speaking so quietly that he knew the words were meant for his ears alone, "I want you to know that there is no pain, no sorrow, no anger, no frustration, that you cannot bring to my breast. Should you continue in this task, Sauron will doubtlessly try to drive a wedge between you and those you love best, just Melkor once did. He will try to make you believe that I will not listen and that I do not understand.

"But remember this, my dear little one. I know you have seen things and done things and felt things that no Maia was ever made to see or do or feel, and you think I cannot understand." Manwë paused, and his eyes glistened with both shadow and light mingling. "But I do understand," he whispered. "Few of my dreams are of starlight and eagles. Eönwë, no Ainu was ever made to cast his own brother to the darkness, or to order a war of ruin and wrath, or to send his own beloved Maiar into places of horror. I know what it is to do things that tear your spirit in two, I know what it is to feel things that make it seem like you will never again be clean and well. You are far from alone, Eönwë, and I would that you keep that knowledge close to your heart."

Eönwë was crying again, silently, tears rolling down his cheeks, but this time it was affection swelling in his heart, though the bitterness was not wholly gone. "I…I just want to make you proud, my lord."

"And you have, a thousand times and more." The smile in Manwë's voice was like honey and wind flying through pinions to Eönwë's spirit. The Vala of the Sky kissed the Herald's forehead. "And I have full confidence that you will continue to do so. I do not need an answer from you tonight. Go and get some well-deserved sleep, soronya."

My little eagle. It was the name of affection Manwë had called Eönwë with a laugh in the early days when Eönwë had soared the upper airs in such elation that he could scarce be compelled to come down for more serious matters. But when the darkness had closed in and Manwë had begun to sigh more than laugh and Eönwë no longer took to the air for the pure joy of flight, that name had faded into the past. But hearing it now brought back a coursing hope that had felt strangled and dying of late.

He laid his head once again on Manwë's shoulder, suddenly reluctant to leave, no matter how pleasant a bed and sleep had seemed a moment before. His ëala thrummed. A sudden image of Ilmarë flopped upon the Mindon daybed, smirking, flashed through his mind, and he smiled in response to his sister's clever intuition. Perhaps she knew the flight patterns of eagles better than he had thought she did.

"My lord," he said, "I don't think I need until the morning to give you my answer."

Chapter Text

Sauron woke with a scream upon his lips that tasted of iron and salt.

He lurched upwards, breathing harsh and rapid, and attempted to make sense out of his quiet, darkened surroundings. Slowly, reality replaced the vestiges of the nightmare realm in which he'd been trapped. Trembling, his veins still coursing with unleashed adrenaline, he curled over and buried his face in his hands.

Upon doing so, he discovered his cheeks were slick with tears; well, that explained the salty tang in his mouth. Angrily, he scrubbed at the incriminating moisture, furious at the vulnerability of his nighttime self over which he clearly had no control.

He dropped his hands back to his lap, glancing downwards, and felt his heart leap momentarily back into his throat at the sight of red smears on his fingers. Jerking his hand back up to his face, he skimmed his fingertips over his skin until he found the source of the blood as nothing more than a small cut on his bottom lip. He must have bitten himself accidentally when he yanked himself out of the dream with that cry. He cursed and flopped back down onto his back.

There had been blood and tears in his dream as well, far more blood, far more tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, snatches of opaque memory flickering like lightning through the corridors of his mind, the oppressive nightmare atmosphere still clinging to him like cobwebs.

Grey walls. Mocking faces. Teeth like the flash of knives.

The Ring of Doom.

The humiliation and horror was still uncannily real and immediate, and he could feel the unpleasant lingering tingle of phantom pain at his throat. Even though he knew that none of it had been real, shame still burned in his face and chest, so vividly painful that it made him want to bury his face in the pillows and never emerge again. He could still sense the sear of the blazing lamplight in his eyes, feel the press of invasive, condemning minds pushing relentlessly into his innermost being, see the ring of faces, all furious, accusing, and completely devoid of mercy. The iron chains around his wrists, binding him to a stake in the center of the Ring, dug painfully into his flesh.

His mind was a whirlwind of confused thoughts. Had he somehow returned to his first trial or had he done something new? Had they discovered his plans to take revenge on them? He could not recall, and his mind seemed hazy as if with wine. He felt small and shrunken, exposed and frightened, his thoughts too sluggish to comprehend what was going on.

Námo's voice was like a drum, so deep and resonant that he could feel it pounding in the hollow of his chest, too deep to make out the words even though he strained to hear. But the tone of the voice and the unforgiving faces of the Valar ringed around him made the message clear. This time, he could expect no pity.

Námo's voice continued on, but now he realized it was a drum – though he did not know when the change had occurred – like the orc drums that had throbbed through the caverns of Angband in preparation for war. A gate before him slid ominously back with a grating clang and a single figure stepped into the Ring, facing him. Wild panic surged through him at the sight of rippling brown hair laced with coiling vines.

Yavanna held a single long vine in one hand like a whip and he could hear the threatening whisper of it as it slid along the ground. He twisted his hands against the chains, instinctively wanting to throw them up over his face to protect himself, his panic building as he realized the full helplessness of his position. The Tree Queen's gaze swept over him scathingly, as if he were a thing so low and vile and worthless that the mere sight of him was an offense. Her perfect lips, full and red as cherries, curled back into a smile as sweet as venom. "Do you want to go to the Void, Abhorred One?" she asked him, her voice half threat, half playful mockery.

He cowered back against the stake. "No," he whispered hoarsely, "please, no."

Her smile widened. "Then beg."

"Please, please, no," he gasped and hated himself for it.

The vine whip flickered out, lashing him across the cheek. The pain had seemed explosively real, burning brand-hot across his face. "Oh, Sauron, I know you can do better than that," Yavanna said cloyingly, her green eyes glimmering with relish. "We want to hear you beg."

Tears of fury and terror filled Sauron's eyes, spilled over, ran down his throbbing cheeks. "I'll do anything, anything you say, just please don't throw me into the Void. Please, please, please, please."

"Not good enough!"

This time the whip took away flesh as it ripped across his face and shoulders, the pain sharp, sudden, and unforgiving. He was sobbing now, tears choking his voice, but he continued to beg, abasing himself in whatever ways he could conceive to try to placate the wrath he had somehow incurred and to stave off the horrific threat of the Void looming over his head, even as he knew in the pit of his stomach that nothing he did nor said could save him now. A voice screamed in his mind to stop, to be silent, to not give them what they wanted, to stem the flow of humiliation so that he could at least go to the Void with his dignity intact. He did not understand why he could not tip back his head and take the pain and fear the way he'd been taught, but it was as if another creature had usurped his tongue. He listened to himself babble, his self-loathing agony in and of itself at the words spilling uncontrollably out of his mouth.

"Please, please. I'm sorry. I was wrong. I am nothing. I'm worthless. Please, I don't want to go to the Void. Please don't send me to the Void. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please, stop. Please, please, no. Please, please, please, please, please…"

He looked up desperately, searching through the haze of tears and pain for someone who might be able to make it stop, who might be able to close his mouth and end the flood of pleading sobs. His eyes alighted on the one person who might condescend to help him, frantic hope stirring for a second in his breast.

"Please, Master," he cried out, pulling against his bonds. "I'm sorry. Please make me stop, Master."

Aulë's face hardened like stone, hate and disgust radiating from his metallic eyes as he glared down at his apprentice. He folded his arms. "You should have taken your opportunity when you had it, Sauron. I tried to help you all this time, and what thanks did I ever get for it? There's only one place for you now and that is the Void. Were you really fool enough to think I valued you?"

They were all laughing at him now, a ring of laughing, mocking faces, and he felt the crush of it in his soul and the burn of it on his face. He felt as if the entire world were collapsing upon him, sucking him inward, erasing the space where he once had existed, cleansing the world of him forever. And he was still sobbing, sobbing and screaming and begging, and hating himself for it, hating forever, always, always, always…

Yavanna still stood before him, laughing, but now her form was shifting and blurring, and as the image cleared before his eyes, terror with the taste of bile rose up in his raw throat. It was no longer Yavanna, but a giant wolf, red-eyed, fangs dripping, fur so black it was like a hole in the universe. The wolf leapt at him in a single bound, teeth like the flash of knives, and he felt the moment that it ripped out his throat. He felt the choke of the blood, felt it gushing down his chest, felt the breathless gasp of empty lungs, felt the scream shoving its way up his mangled throat as if it were a living thing clawing its way free of his flesh…

And that was the moment in which his mind had reached its breaking point and released him from the unendurable torture of the nightmare.

He remained curled over in his bed, trying to shake that eerie sensation of reality, the abject humiliation still hot enough to set his cheeks aflame, the terror of the last moments of the dream still drenching his body with cold sweat. He drug a hand down his face. "It's not real," he whispered to himself. "It was just a dream, a dream, a dream, you idiot, a dream."

His mouth foul, he reached clumsily for the jug of water he kept at his bedside for this purpose and poured himself a glass, swigging it down in one gulp to wash away the bitter saltiness of his tears and the metallic trace of his blood. It briefly crossed his mind that he was getting far too used to waking in the middle of the night with vile nightmare aftertastes in his mouth if he was deliberately providing for it.

Slowly and gradually, he regained control of his body as the dream wore off. He tucked his arms around himself, still curled into a tight fetal position, his eyes squeezed shut, but he could not reclaim his sleep. He was thoroughly exhausted – his head pounded at the temples and his eyes felt dry and swollen – but sleep simply refused to take him back. After one nearly sleepless night already and the long, grueling, stressful day, he knew how desperately he needed a good rest, but a lingering miasma from the nightmare prevented him from relaxing enough to slip back into oblivion.

Even worse was the taunting knowledge that the dream had not been entirely untrue.

He turned his wrists over and found them laced with ugly purple blooms. He cursed beneath his breath, even though he'd known he'd wake with bruising. You idiot, he hissed in his mind. Of course you had to struggle. If you'd just stayed still, kept your wits, not panicked, you wouldn't have ended up like this. Now look and what you've gone and done!

Lovely. Long sleeves it was to be for the next few weeks. As if his work at the quarry was not miserable and embarrassing enough as it was… Still, it was preferable to the possibility of Eönwë noticing those unmistakable blemishes and sticking his persnickety nose where it was not wanted.

He turned over onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling, and ran his fingers through the hair at his scalp, frustration and a claustrophobic sense of cagedness hammering in his chest. His entire situation was already bad, threatening to tip him in over his head at any given moment, but this added a layer of complexity that made his head pound. Helpless rage warred for dominance in his heart with a nauseating dread.

Firstly, it meant he would have to proceed even more cautiously with his plans than he'd already thought he was. It disturbed him how quickly Yavanna had divined his thoughts. Even if it had been no more than a lucky guess based solely on prejudice and hate-driven suspicion, the Tree Queen's assumptions had hit far too close to the mark. How much did she actually know? She couldn't possibly discern the full extent of his plans…could she?

Secondly, it meant he would need to carry out his plans at an even more dawdling pace. And just when he'd put the first element of his scheme into action too. The thought made him want to grind his teeth and tear at the pillow in a seething, bitter rage. The moment of his revenge still seemed so far on the horizon that it was only a mild salve to his current humiliation, and the thought of postponing it even further made his stomach clench. How long could he truly endure? His nightmare might have been a shameless overexaggeration of reality, but it was not far enough removed from his waking life to provide true peace of mind. Every day that he had to live like this, he became a little less of himself, a little more of the mewling, cringing creature he was doomed to play in this wretched twist of fate. How long did he have before he forgot himself utterly and transformed into that vile, cowering thing of his dream that had sobbed for mercy at his captors' feet?

He spiraled a forefinger over the bruising, wincing at the tenderness of the discolored flesh as he chewed on his bottom lip. Yavanna's threat, both physical and verbal, gnawed at him more than he liked to admit. What had she meant: I am not blind to the secrets of what will strike you deepest and most surely? The threat had seemed neither idle nor speculative. Yet how could she know his deepest, darkest fear when at this point even he was not entirely sure what could currently claim that status after all the things he'd learned to fear these past few months? In any case, he was not wild about the idea of finding out what Yavanna thought the answer might be.

He touched his throat compulsively and shuddered. He had no idea whether Yavanna had been deliberately mimicking his encounter with Huan when she held him by the throat or if she'd chosen that attack purely by coincidence. He tried to nudge his mind into believing the latter, but the former clung to his thoughts as unshakably as the Hound himself. Regardless, it was clear Yavanna was weaving plans of her own.

How ironic. Last night, he'd lain awake in a sweat worrying over a stupid spy. Next to the dire implications of Yavanna's attack, he'd gladly take fretting over a silent, invisible shadow.

As much as Sauron knew he was hated, feared, and loathed, he realized that until this evening he had not truly thought anyone would physically hurt him, not without due provocation on his part anyway. Yes, the paranoia of the possibility had lurked at the back of his thoughts, but deep down he had not actually believed anyone would be stupid enough to defy the Valar and attack him. Now he saw just how naïve his assumption had been. Perhaps he'd needed to believe it to keep his paranoia from becoming an overwhelming, disabling force.

Well, he had no such luxury now. And it hadn't even been a stray rebellious Noldo or a self-righteous Maia who shattered his illusion. He wouldn't have been too deeply shocked by a random act of violence against him at the quarry nor frankly even a punch in the face from Eönwë. But he had been attacked in the very Halls of Aulë, under the nose of the one who was supposedly protecting him, and by one of the same beings who had witnessed his trial and agreed (however reluctantly) to his pardon.

Despite his cynical anger at the thought, deep down he realized he felt betrayed.

He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into his pillow, his rage and frustration forcing tears back into his eyes. He had been so monumentally stupid not to see this coming, not to have recognized the extent of Yavanna's hate. If he'd been on his guard, he would never have allowed himself to be cornered like that. If he'd been paying attention, he'd never have left his safety in the hands of those who couldn't care less what happened to him now that they'd neutralized him. You truly are a fool, Sauron.

In the aftermath of his encounter with the Mistress of the Halls, he'd waited just long enough to make sure Yavanna had truly gone and that no one else was watching, then he'd fled to his chambers, so choked with wrath, humiliation, and fear that he could hardly think straight. Still, the obvious question had almost immediately surfaced; he'd just been far too bothered to come to a conclusion as to how he should actually handle this turn of events. Now, as it rose again in his mind, he felt just as conflicted as he had before he'd somehow managed to drift off to sleep.

Should he tell anyone?

Aulë was the obvious candidate. On the one hand, Sauron could guarantee that Yavanna had acted outside the sanction and knowledge of most, if not all, of the other Valar. Alerting them to Yavanna's actions could gain him additional protections, or even a relocation to another Hall. More pleasing was the thought of seeing how Aulë would respond to the knowledge that his wife had manhandled and threatened his beloved redemption project; he could hardly see a downside to setting the two of them at each other's throats like wolves.

And who knew? Perhaps Manwë and Námo would consider Yavanna's actions severe enough to warrant a rebuke. He could hardly imagine the notoriously gentle-hearted High King approving of Yavanna's actions, and even Námo seemed to lean towards organized, approved discipline that had been voted on, signed, and stamped, rather than spontaneous correction.

On the other hand however, the thought of groveling before Aulë to beg for help made his skin crawl. The situation was humiliating enough as it was. It was more than he could bear to consider giving Yavanna the pleasure of knowing she had broken him. Furthermore, as amusing as Aulë's rage and horror might temporarily be, he didn't know if he could stand the additional coddling and pitying that he would undoubtedly end up receiving. He was defeated, Bound, enslaved, defanged – did he really want to be the tattling crybaby who was no longer strong enough to deal with his own problems?

And as much as he would love to see Yavanna receive payback, he didn't want the Valar to do it for him. No, if anyone was going to strike back at the Tree Queen for her actions, he wanted it to be no one other than himself.

And finally, such a choice might actually worsen his situation in the long run. Relocation was not what he wanted, yet it was the likeliest outcome of tattling. If nothing else, he had a forge here and Aulë was far more predictable for him than any other Vala. He'd already laid foundations for his plans here, and nor did he want to be viewed as the one who had stuck his tail between his legs and run when things got tough. Besides, ratting Yavanna out would only increase her wrath, especially if it resulted in a rebuke, and he had a feeling she'd get at him regardless, wherever he ended up. After all, he knew quite well himself how far one could be willing to go to achieve revenge.

But did he have a choice? Could he manage this on his own and still obtain his own vengeance on them all? He'd already learned all too keenly that sometimes the greater goal required the less desirable path. If it meant he could carry out his plans in the end, would he be willing to confide in Aulë about his troubles? His lord would help him – that was one of the few certainties in this scenario, even if he had no idea why Aulë bothered – but Aulë's help was not always the most, well, helpful.

What was he to do?

He wiggled down into the bed, attempting to find a comfortable position, and hugged the pillow close to his body, digging his face into it. His wrists ached dully. He sighed and flipped over to the opposite position. Wonderful, now his leggings were riding up and he'd found the damp, sweaty spot where'd he been lying during his nightmare.

There were times when it truly felt like the universe itself was against you.

Ironically, in his case, it probably was.

Eventually, sometime deep in the dead of night, Sauron slipped back to sleep.

~o~o~o~

Scrish, scrish, scrish…thunk

Sauron let fly with several colorful phrases as his hammer slipped for the third time that day and connected with his fingers rather than the top of the chisel. He dropped the offending tools, wringing his reddened hand, and continued to spew obscenities that had more to do with his frustration than the pain.

"Maybe I'm missing something, but I'm pretty sure that 'Void-cursed dragon filth' isn't the problem," Eönwë commented from somewhere behind him, his tone loaded with wry sarcasm. "I think you're due for another break."

Sauron sat back with a huffing snort, giving the hammer an ill-tempered kick, though not too hard. The last thing he needed was sore toes to add to his ever-growing list of discomforts.

"Here," Eönwë said, offering him the water bucket. Sauron splashed his face with the lukewarm liquid, allowing it to run down the back of his shirt, providing a little relief from the relentless heat generated by his labor and the midday sun.

The Herald handed him his cup of drinking water, which Sauron took gingerly with his throbbing fingers. It was only when he lifted the cup to his lips that he noticed that his latest slip had left a gash down the side of his forefinger, which was oozing blood forlornly.

Eönwë noticed it too. "I've got a salve that will stop the bleeding if it's not too deep. Otherwise, I can fetch a bandage."

He started reaching for Sauron's hand to examine the injury, but Sauron jerked away so quickly that water slopped out of the cup onto his legs. "You leave well enough alone," he snarled, surreptitiously tugging the end of his sleeve closer around his wrist. "I don't need you prodding at it to make it worse."

"All right, all right," Eönwë said, a hint of exasperation entering his voice as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just trying to help."

"Well, try to help from over there in the corner where I don't have to look at you or hear you."

Eönwë took a very deep, steadying breath, staring upwards for several seconds. "Why don't I go refill the bucket then, shall I?" he answered in a clipped voice.

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode stiffly off. Sauron continued to sip his drink, glowering darkly at the half-finished block in front of him.

The combination of dogged weariness, aching wrists, and sweat dripping from his hands was rendering his task even more difficult, a fact attested to by all the fingers he'd managed to smash so far. It was even more maddening when he knew he was perfectly capable of carving the most intricate details into the most delicate ring. But today, the repetitive movement caused his bruised wrists to twinge and burn, robbing his hands of their exquisite precision.

Glancing around to make sure Eönwë was well out of sight, he carefully rolled up his sleeve far enough to glimpse the dark purple splotch on his flesh. It looked no worse than it had in the middle of the night, but his entire wrist had stiffened and even the slightest pressure caused it to throb miserably.

That morning, he'd discovered to his dismay that all his working shirts were short-sleeved, resulting in a moment of panic. He'd solved the problem by first donning one of the thin, long-sleeved undershirts meant to be worn with a doublet or tunic, then layering his hardier working shirt over the top. Not only was he cursed with not one but two layers to contribute to his already hot work, but he looked ridiculous.

Thankfully however, Eönwë had yet to comment. He suspected anyway that the Herald thought he was making fun of him with his wardrobe choice, mocking him for the impractical eagle tabard he'd been parading around in yesterday. If that was indeed the case, he certainly wasn't about to disillusion the sky Maia.

Overall though, Eönwë was being surprisingly tolerable. After the snit he'd left in yesterday at their parting, Sauron had expected an equal or worse temper from the Herald today. Though Sauron's snips and insults were still clearly getting under his skin, he seemed to be making a visible effort at tolerating his companion, as well as attempting to be helpful – something Sauron wasn't sure he appreciated. Moreover, he'd gone a step in the right direction with his own clothing: wearing a hemp shirt and thick work trousers under his tabard rather than the fine-mesh linen he'd showed up in the previous morning.

All Sauron could conclude was that apparently Eönwë had gotten a better night's sleep than he had.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up the hammer and chisel once again and went back to his work, hunching over the block and growling to himself as he attempted to keep his hands steady. He shook his head, trying to clear the aching fog from his mind and the heaviness from his eyelids, then he delved back in, finding his rhythm and returning to the familiar pattern of movement that he was fairly sure he'd soon be able to mindlessly repeat in his sleep.

He heard Eönwë return with a grunt and a scrape of the water bucket against rock. He didn't look up as the sky Maia took his seat behind him, waiting until Sauron was ready for his help with the next step. His eyes prickled on the back of Sauron's neck. Usually it didn't concern him, but today he was uncomfortably aware of the piercing gaze. How could Eönwë miss the blatant purple marrings on his wrist every time he raised the hammer? How could he fail to notice the way Sauron's hands were shaking and the twinges that jolted him each time he struck the chisel, sending uncomfortable ripples of pain from his injured wrist up his arm? And surely the eagle-eyed Herald could see the dark circles forming under Sauron's eyes, along with the myriad other signs of sleep deprivation that were beginning to show.

He hated the feeling of hyper-awareness prickling through his entire body, making it even harder to concentrate on his task. Even hidden, his bruises felt like beacons, relentlessly drawing the gazes of all those around him. It made him feel small and helpless, trapped, caught up in a maelstrom of events that he could neither predict nor control. He hated the thought that if Eönwë caught so much as a whiff of what had happened, he'd prance off to Manwë without a second thought, robbing Sauron of what precious little power he still retained for himself. He had not yet decided whether he would approach Aulë about his predicament, but the one point in which he was adamant was that he, and he alone, would make that decision.

The horn blast that signaled the midday break rang out across the quarry, causing Sauron to clench his teeth as the brassy sound cut through his lack-of-sleep-induced headache. Setting down his tools, he leaned back and rubbed at his bleary eyes with the heel of his palms.

Still aware of Eönwë's watchful gaze, he pulled out his food pack and set into a pear like a wolf. He slid down and lounged back against his working table, allowing his stiffening muscles to finally stretch and relax. From the corner of his eye, he noted that the Herald was still eyeing him pensively as he munched on a pasty, his head tipped slightly to the side as if he were pondering some deep philosophical question about his place in the universe.

Sauron took a large bite out of the fruit in his hand and gave Eönwë a lopsided snarl of bared teeth. "I don't know what they teach here nowadays, but Morgoth made sure all his Maiar knew it's impolite to stare. So unless you're enjoying the scenery just too much to resist…"

Eönwë gave Sauron an irritated look that might have meant something like "oh go toss yourself off a cliff" but then he sighed, lowering his pasty to rest his hand against his knee. "Look, Sauron," he said in that clipped, matter-of-fact voice that Sauron was coming to despise, "I can't help but notice that you seem a bit off today."

"Because I'm such a shining beam of sunlight on a regular day," Sauron responded with a fixed, over-the-top smile that came nowhere near his eyes.

Eönwë ignored him. "You're obviously not functioning your best, not when you're smashing your hand every other minute. Is everything all right? Have you been sleeping well?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sauron replied, "like a cozy little bird in a nest."

Eönwë gave him a raised eyebrow coupled with a disbelieving curl of his lip.

Sauron took another nonchalant bite from the pear. "Because, obviously, I have nothing whatsoever going on in my current stage of life that would cause disruption to my sleep," he said with fluid snide grace.

Eönwë touched his forehead in a brief gesture of summoning patience before glancing back at his companion. "You need to be getting proper sleep." He motioned vaguely at the quarry. "This is…hard work, and if you're not getting proper sleep and food, you're going to eventually collapse."

Sauron's eyes went cold and hard. "And if I did, who would care?" he said with a hint of a snarl, ripping a vicious chunk out of his pear.

Eönwë's jaw twitched. "The Valar would care. I would care."

Sauron laughed then, a short, cruel burst of sound. "Yes, I'm sure all of you would throw quite the festival."

"I know what you're doing," Eönwë said, sweeping his eyes away to focus on his food. He picked at the pasty but didn't take a bite, his shoulders a taut, harsh line. "Needle, goad, mock. Because that way you don't have to face your problems."

"Who fed you that line? Estë? Nienna? High King Manwë?"

Eönwë glared back at him. "I'm aware that you're diverting the conversation, Sauron."

Sauron lounged to the side to dig in his pack. "Am I?"

"Yes." Eönwë took a deliberate bite from his pasty, then glanced back at Sauron, a flash of piercing blue. "You're not getting the rest you need, when the goldsmith can't even hit the head of a chisel properly."

Sauron started in on his pasty, ignoring Eönwë's comment.

"I mean it," Eönwë continued, undeterred. "If you're having any sort of problems, we'll help. That's why I'm here. Are you having problems, Sauron?"

Sauron turned a searing stare onto Eönwë and actually saw the Herald flinch as his eyes burned into him. He curled his lip, angry flames coiling and writhing in his chest. "Let's see. Am I having any problems? Well, other than the whole my kingdom was overthrown and my master tossed in the Void and my army slaughtered before my eyes and I've been Bound and I'm spending my days in grueling manual labor, no, I can't think of anything."

"But that's what I'm talking about!" Eönwë said, gesturing sharply towards him. "These last few years have been traumatizing, and we understand that. I understand that, Sauron. We've seen horrible things, we've done horrible things. I know. The Valar don't want you suffering needlessly from what you've been through, and they understand what we've faced better than we think they do. There is help for you if you want it."

Sauron sneered at the earnest expression on Eönwë's face. "The Valar! The Valar don't care about me, Eönwë," he snarled. "Why in the world would they care? As long as I'm able to chip these rocks for them and kiss their feet for the world to see, why would they care? Dead, alive, half-alive – they've made the example of the Black Captain that they needed to make, and I know I'm not worth one iota to them past that."

Several emotions seemed to be warring in Eönwë's face – frustration, pity, surprised indignation – and Sauron hated them all, hated being the recipient of any of them, hated the stupid naiveté of the Herald that he could even be caught off guard by such sentiments. What sort of a dream world were they all living in?

"That's not true," Eönwë said in a tight voice. "The Valar care very much about you."

Sauron laughed and heard the craziness in the sound, the mad cackle of sleepless nights and helpless wrath and wrists blooming purple. "The Valar don't care, not about me. I know the Valar don't care about me." He leaned forward, teeth flashing in a bitter grin. "You were there at the Ring of Doom. Tell me, did Oromë seem happy to see me? What about Tulkas? Ulmo? Yavanna? Námo? Don't tell me I'm anything but an unfortunate burden that Valinor has been saddled with. Don't tell me you haven't thought the same."

"If the Valar didn't care about you, you'd be in the Void," Eönwë shot back, heat rising in his voice. "And if I hadn't cared about you, I'd have left you for the dogs. Literally. I get it if you don't want to talk to me about all of this, but for Eru's sake, go to Aulë about whatever's happening with you. He's your lord; it is his duty to you, and you can't accuse him of not wanting you back. Go to your lord, and I promise you'll feel better. He loves you, Sauron."

"Like Manwë loves you?" Sauron answered, his voice low and slick. "Did you feel his love when you were fighting his wars, when you were covered in Maiarin blood in his battles? Did you feel the Valar's love when you were retching alone on the edge of that battlefield, or perhaps when you tried to cut out my heart because that's what they'd commanded you to do? Do you feel Manwë's love here in this quarry forced to watch over the Maia you hate and despise more than you care to admit?"

Eönwë shook his head stiffly, lips tight. "I'm not playing this game with you. This is about you and your lord, not me and mine."

"He's not my lord," Sauron said. "I betrayed him. He's not my lord."

Eönwë gave Sauron a long look, his eyes dark and sad. "He's your lord all the more for the fact that you betrayed him."

Sauron turned his head away coolly and ripped another bite out of his pasty.

"You don't have to suffer through all this craziness alone," Eönwë said quietly. "None of us do."

Sauron's eyes flashed. There seemed to be two halves of his soul, one a raging furnace of scorching heat, the other a pit of numbing frost, and he was caught between the two, both burning and freezing all at once. "In Melkor's dungeons, when we brought in new prisoners, they'd scream for their loved ones," he hissed. "Some of them would scream for days. But their loved ones never, ever came, and finally they'd realize no one was coming for them and they'd fall silent. Some of them never spoke a word again. Why bother when there was no one who cared, no one who was going to come, no one left who loved them?"

He stared at the Herald, eyes like molten fire. "Each of us is facing this world alone, and the sooner you realize it, the better off you are."

~o~o~o~

The garden was quiet and still as the shadows lengthened across the lilacs and junipers. The soft burble of water cascading gently over stones and the hum of dragonfly wings and the wind-rustle of leaves melded into a peaceful harmony. Supper was over, and faint sounds of laughter and song drifted between the colonnades out from the main halls as the Elves and Maiar transitioned to the various evening activities of storytelling, amusements, and companionship after the labor of the day.

Aulë sat on a stone bench by the stream that wound through the garden's center, listening to the soothing watersong and idly twirling the stem of a purple gladiolus growing beside the pathway. He closed his eyes, breathing in the wholesome mingling of the myriad scents rising from the garden, even though it only partially soothed his worry.

Sauron had not come to supper.

After the encouraging progress of the previous evening, Aulë had looked forward all day to seeing his Maia at the table and learning how his second day had gone. Yet, as the seats filled and the meal commenced, it had become more and more obvious that Sauron was not going to be making an appearance.

Aulë had checked Sauron's room, the library, and the garden, all the likeliest haunts for the fire Maia, but his search had proved in vain. Sauron was nowhere to be found, and no one else had seen him since he returned from the quarry, though Erenquaro promised he'd walked into the Halls with Sauron himself. He hoped desperately that Sauron hadn't decided to sneak out, though he'd already formed a wide variety of excuses in his mind to keep Sauron out of trouble if he had. There were enough corners and niches in the Halls and the Gardens, Aulë kept reminding himself, that Sauron could easily tuck himself away for several hours and go unnoticed. He had probably found a nice, cozy spot to curl up in with one of those books, maybe even fallen asleep and missed supper accidentally.

Yes, that was probably what had happened.

Still, Aulë found himself reluctant to leave the garden and retire back to his own chambers for the evening. He couldn't shake the persistent itch that he might just miss Sauron if he left now, that if he waited but a few more minutes, his patience would be rewarded.

The sound of footsteps coupled with the distinct nearby ripple of an Ainurin will caused Aulë to look up expectantly, his heart lifting with hope. But it was not Sauron, but Curumo who was watching him, hands folded behind his back and his dark eyes inscrutable.

"Curumo," Aulë greeted him, hiding his brief flare of disappointment.

The Maia bowed elegantly. "My lord, I was wondering if you had a moment to spare to examine my progress on this diadem."

"Of course, Curumo." Aulë patted the spot on the bench beside him and Curumo sat stiffly, his back ramrod straight and his hands tucked on his lap. Aulë took the diadem and turned it slowly in his hands, gauging its weight and balance and the element of Rightness to it that his many Ages of work at the forges had given him the innate ability to sense.

"It's a good piece," he said after a minute. "The balance is excellent, and a wonderful execution of a Vanyarin knot. I might suggest less tracery here; it draws attention away from the central gem and the setting. Otherwise, a fine work."

Curumo took the diadem back. "Thank you, my lord." He remained seated however and cast a sideways glance at Aulë. "If it is not too bold of me to say, my lord, I can't help but notice that you've been absent from the forge a great deal recently. The last week in particular? Your Maiar have missed your guidance and encouraging presence."

Aulë gave a little smile and patted the Maia on his shoulder. "I am truly sorry about that, but other duties have been calling my name. I'm sure though that you've done spectacularly in keeping everything running for me in my absence."

Curumo frowned pensively then flashed Aulë a smooth smile. "Of course, my lord, but perhaps we'll be seeing you in the forges again soon? Tomorrow perhaps?"

Aulë gave him another fond pat. "I can't make any promises about tomorrow, but yes, I'll see what I can do about joining you again soon."

The Maia shifted, looking for a moment as if he might rise, but then he said, "All of us in your Halls, we've noticed that a very large portion of your time has been preoccupied with Sauron. Some of us might even say most of your time."

Sauron's name settled lead-like in Aulë's heart. "Yes, he is in need of a great deal of care and attention at the moment, as he adjusts and as we work everything out around his return."

Curumo pressed his lips tightly together, his fingers curling around the diadem in his lap, then he said, "Forgive me if I am too brash, my lord, but is it possible that Sauron is perhaps receiving more of your time and energy than is properly warranted?"

The Smith looked directly at Curumo then, his lips curved into a perplexed frown. "Sauron needs all the time and energy I can give him right now, Curumo. In the future, once his position and life are stable again, he will not need as much as he needs now. But for the time being, I do not believe a moment of my attention to him goes astray or unneeded."

Curumo did not look back at him, but stared straight ahead, his dark eyes veiled. "I mean, my lord, does he deserve it? You are exhausting yourself – we all see it – pouring your heart into the Maia who betrayed you; do you think it wise to grant him so much of your valuable time and resources?"

Aulë squeezed Curumo's shoulder gently. "Yes, I do," he answered simply. "Sauron may have betrayed me, but he has returned in good faith and deserves nothing less than everything I have at my disposal to help him."

"But at what cost?" Curumo finally turned to face Aulë, and the grey light of his eyes flickered uncannily. "Sauron is not your only Maia, my lord. You have many Maiar who have never once betrayed your faith and who have served you loyally their entire existence. And yet, it is Sauron, always Sauron, who seems to receive the lion's share of your love and approval. There are some who might feel slighted by the fact that you pour out everything for the one who betrayed you and yet seem to have no time for the ones who remained loyal at your side. You act as though Sauron's return is a festival, yet you cannot spare a day at the forge with your own Maiar who have never once wavered in their faith to you."

Something glistened in Curumo's eyes that was more than the fey silver of his gaze. The Maia turned his head away, lips tight and shoulders rigid again. A swell of affection rose in Aulë's chest, and he reached out a weathered hand to cup Curumo's face. "For the past Age, Curumo, you have had all my resources, my attention, and my time at your disposal as you wished. Your fellow Maia has returned to us in a precarious position, and he needs all of our love and help if he is ever to be reclaimed for the Light. If it seems that he is receiving more of my love for the time being, know that it is only because it has been withheld from him for a very long and dark Age. Don't forget that what love I have for Sauron, however deep, does not steal from my love for you. There is enough for you both."

Curumo swallowed, his pristine composure balanced precariously. Aulë put an arm around the Maia's shoulders. "Curumo," he said gently, "I would do all of this for you if you had been the one to fall."

The Maia looked up, his eyes searching deeply. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else, but instead he just inclined his head in an acknowledging bow. Aulë squeezed him a little tighter. "I love you very much, Curumo," he said. "Yes, Sauron's return is a thing to celebrate, even if it may seem hard at the moment, and I would have us rejoice in his return from beyond the edge of Hope. I would have us all celebrate the joy of this together, even as we labor together to do what each of us can to welcome him home."

Curumo met his eyes again and smiled, his teeth flashing white. "Thank you for your explanation, my lord. I am sure we are all grateful to have our brother returned rather than lost to the eternal darkness."

A little of the weight in Aulë's chest withdrew, leaving it easier to breathe. "And I appreciate your understanding. I know it's hard right now, but we can all make it through this time of trial together."

He leaned over and hugged Curumo tightly to his chest. The Maia stiffened momentarily, then awkwardly returned the hug, patting his Vala's shoulder. Aulë smiled and squeezed him a little tighter still, and Curumo leaned his head on his shoulder, submitting to the warm embrace of his lord with a little sigh.

"I will always love you, Curumo," Aulë said again. "Don't ever forget that, child."

~o~o~o~

From the shadows of the colonnade at the far end of the garden, Sauron silently observed the exchange between Aulë and Curumo. Though he could not hear any of the words spoken, he watched until the conversation culminated in a tight embrace. He curled his lip into a tiny amused sneer. Was this the Vala he was truly considering running to for help? The Vala who thought anything and everything could be solved with a heartfelt hug?

He picked at the sleeve over his wrist, rolling the hem between his thumb and forefinger. Curumo had wriggled his way back out of Aulë's embrace, looking mildly flustered, but he said something back to Aulë that made the Smith smile and pat his shoulder again. Sauron could have rolled his eyes at the sentimental display. Curumo had always had a particular talent for sucking up to their lord, one that had apparently not faded during the last couple Ages.

He slipped backwards quietly, fading deeper into the shadows of the colonnade. He had a feeling Aulë had been here on purpose, waiting for him, but Sauron did not want to be found, not today. Today, he could not bear the thought of enduring another saccharine conversation with someone so naïve and clueless.

Of course, he doesn't know there is anything wrong, one voice murmured in the back of his thoughts. You haven't told him that anything is wrong.

He should know, another voice answered bitterly. If he was truly your lord, he should know.

Aulë wanted his precious Nauron back. Aulë had never wanted Sauron.

Were you really fool enough to think I valued you?

He turned, eyes narrowed, watching the mawkish scene for a second longer, his mouth a harsh, hard line, but then he shook his head disgustedly. It was as he had told Eönwë; in the end, only one person could ever understand him and walk in his steps. The sooner he faced the fact that he was in this by himself, the better off he would be.

In the end, everyone was alone, and those like Eönwë and Aulë who thought differently would one day learn that bitter lesson to their detriment.

Sauron was going to make sure of it.

He slipped down the hallway, keeping to the shadows as he made his way back to his chambers. Most of the Hall's occupants had settled into their evening routines by now, leaving the corridors quiet and still as the evening wore on. Uneasiness stirred in his stomach, invisible spies and choking vines winding ceaselessly through his thoughts. Each shadow felt like a tendril of the Void reaching out to snare him and drag him into its depths. He paused under an arch, waiting for a group of Elves to pass through, their voices annoyingly lilting, and the image of Aulë and Curumo flashed again through his mind. He snarled and pushed it away. Aulë had not been able to help him before, not when he was an innocent Maia wrestling with the doubts and dark thoughts that Melkor's whispers were putting in his mind, not when he was bound to a slab of stone with Melkor's knife carving a bloody painting in his body, not when Huan's teeth were crushing the life out of him through his throat, not when he was fleeing Oromë's hounds in a frenzy of terror, everything in his life coming apart at the seams and shattering into millions of shards that were now lodged in jagged disarray in his heart.

Not when Námo had condemned him to this living misery and he had screamed in agony as they Bound him.

Not when vines had made his wrists blush purple and the Tree Queen had held him by the throat and promised destruction upon him.

When had anyone ever been there for him before?

A small knot of Maiar were chatting in a corner of the entrance hall when he slipped through towards the dormitories. He paused for a second, eyeing them suspiciously, and caught fragments of conversation about how so-and-so had been assigned such-and-such. There was laughter, and Sauron scowled, hardly able to remember a time when he had been part of such a world. He turned his back to them and continued his way up the stairs towards the east wing, his feet soundless on the wide granite stairs.

"Sauron?"

Sauron nearly jumped out of his skin as someone said his name behind him, and he whirled around with fists covertly clenched at his sides.

It was only a Maia though, one of the ones who had been talking in the entrance hall, the mousy, brown-haired Maia who had been with Erenquaro last night at supper. Aiwendil.

Sauron relaxed his tensed muscles, irritation overtaking his panic. "What?" he said flatly, a smooth mask slipping over his features.

Aiwendil fiddled with his hands, eyes unable to keep contact with Sauron's fiery gaze. "Oh, it's nothing really. It's just – I saw you coming through the hall just now, and I wanted you to know that, well, you could join us. If you like. If you don't have something else to do." His eyes sank even lower. "I just wanted you to know, in case you didn't know."

Sauron eyed the Maia until he squirmed like a worm on a hook. He scanned the corridor furtively without moving his head, then glanced back at the fidgeting Aiwendil. He turned back to the stairs. "I'm good."

"Oh, well maybe some other time," Aiwendil stammered. "Have a…have a nice night, I guess. But you're invited to join us anytime. Just wanted to let you know, since you don't seem to get many invitations. I mean, not that that's bad, but sometimes it's nice to get invitations…? Well, uh, have a nice night. See you some other time."

Sauron did not reply as he continued his way up the stairs until Aiwendil's awkward babble ceased, the Maia having apparently given up on whatever it was he'd been attempting to do. His lips curled into a sardonic sneer as he wondered if Aiwendil's companions would be quite so eager to have him along as Aiwendil seemed to be.

He frowned and glanced around the stairway again, the hairs on his nape prickling. Did Yavanna know that one of her Maiar seemed strangely keen on making friends with the Black Captain? Or, had she sicced that oblivious little earth Maia on him for her own purposes, to snare herself a dark lord? Sauron had no problem believing that she would.

It would probably be for the best to keep his distance from Aiwendil. Even if he himself was as harmless as a patch of daisies, he was a direct link to Yavanna, and that was dangerous.

Not that he was jumping to take Aiwendil up on his invitation anyway.

The sun had vanished behind the rim of the world by the time Sauron reached his chambers. Changing into his night clothes and sinking down into his bed, Sauron closed his eyes and let the darkness take him once again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sauron was nearly late for breakfast the next morning.

Even though he had known he would regret it, last night he had been unable to restrain himself from his newly found sense of purpose. Until now, he'd been drifting, chasing after phantom thoughts and ideas, but now he had a plan. And plans had always been Sauron's foundation.

He had lugged an overflowing armful of promising volumes from Yavanna's alcove of the library up to his room, where he had remained awake until the small hours of the night, feverishly reading through the various tomes and jotting coded notes to himself concerning the things he discovered. After he had scoured the books thoroughly, he opened his own Treatise and let his mind sink back to the early days of his service to Lord Melkor, recalling what he could of Melkor's experiments with the plant life of Beleriand and how the Dark Lord had used them. There was not much, but he wrote it all down in his Treatise as the scant memories surfaced.

By the time his eyes grew blurry and his head began to nod, he'd been so tired that sleep quickly claimed him and he had made it through the night without tendrils of darkness or hunting wolves creeping into his dreams. However, it also meant that he had awoken suddenly to find the Sun Chariot already peaking over the Pelóri, and he had stumbled about his room in a rush, pulling on clothing and then hurrying down to the Great Hall, hoping there would be something left for him and he wouldn't have to start his day off hungry as well as tired.

Nearly all the Elves had finished and were either heading out or grabbing their lunch satchels and moving towards the doors. The few remaining Elves at the table were shoveling the last few bites into their mouths, and others were starting to clean up the leftover food at the table. Sauron dashed by and snatched an apple before the carts were wheeled away. Sticking the fruit in his mouth and holding it there with his teeth, he grabbed one of the few remaining lunch satchels and began working the straps over his shoulders as he turned back to the nigh-empty hall to find out who would be his escort for the day.

It took him a moment to notice the strange Maia sitting casually at the end table, waiting for him.

Sauron paused, realized the apple was still clinched between his teeth in a decidedly undignified fashion, removed it, and approached the stranger with a nonchalance that hid his apprehension at this change to his normal routine. He let his expression fall easily into its usual comfortably disdainful sneer.

"So, who have I scared off that you have come to replace?" he inquired as he stopped in front of the other Maia.

The stranger seemed completely unperturbed by either Sauron's attitude or his question. Instead, he quirked an eyebrow and looked Sauron up and down. "Shockingly, no one," he responded calmly, though with just a hint of sarcasm of his own. "Though it truly is a testament to their patience and endurance that none of your escorts have done so yet, if even half the stories I've heard about you are true." He leaned back. "By which I mean, that you are quite the piece of work from what I've been told."

Sauron blinked. So far, most of the Maiar he'd encountered had either sought to placate him by being unobtrusive and deliberately skirting his past or they'd been openly hostile and given him a heated traitor's welcome. This was new. The Maia's tone was not antagonistic, simply matter-of-fact, even amiable. Sauron knew how to deal with both obsequiousness and belligerence, but he was unsure how to respond to this, whatever it was.

He covered up his momentary tongue-tied lapse by imperiously sizing the stranger up.

Even seated, it was clear the Maia was decently tall, with a willowy sort of form that was currently clad in a rather non-descript grey jerkin paired with an equally bland white undershirt and darker grey trousers. His outfit was accented only by a silver scarf draped around his shoulders. His hair was silvery too, what Sauron could see of it anyway, since the majority of it seemed to be pulled back and held behind the Maia's back. His eyes were his most striking feature; they were ice blue and very sharp and keen, and Sauron would almost have sworn that there was an amused twinkle in their depths.

"Eldavan," the strange Maia said.

Sauron's brows knit. "What?"

"Eldavan," the Maia repeated. "That is what you may call me for now, since you clearly have no intention of asking and I do not have all day."

"Oh, you have somewhere else to be?" Sauron said smoothly. "Taniquetil, perhaps?"

Eldavan's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps, but also perhaps not. Also, if you intend to sneak information out of me, be a good fellow and ask me directly. I don't care much for questions that mean things other than what they seem to mean. I find them dreadfully tedious. Then again, asking you to be a good fellow is perhaps akin to asking the Sun to come up purple. Ah well. Now, shall we be off?" Without waiting for an answer, he stood and made for the door with a purposeful stride.

They walked out into the perfect Valinorean morning that was identical to the scores of other mornings that Sauron had now walked this route. Eldavan offered up no more topics of conversation, and Sauron was content to study the odd Maia for the moment, still unsure what to think of his new companion. On the one hand, there was something almost refreshing about Eldavan's combined bluntness and keenness. But on the other hand, Sauron wasn't sure how he felt about the snark. Oh, it was fine when he was the one shooting sarcastic comments at others, but he was not at all sure he liked having similar comments directed back at himself. Morosely, Sauron considered that the Valar had probably assigned Eldavan to him just for that reason, to give him a taste of his own medicine.

They reached the portion of the walk where they started uphill, winding along the path up the mountain side. Eldavan seemed unconcerned with the strenuous pace, easily matching Sauron's stride with only a slight deepening of his breath. His silvery-white hair, which was indeed bound loosely at the nape of his neck, fluttered in the breeze that picked up the higher they went.

"So," Sauron said finally, "since you prefer direct questions, which of the Valar do you serve?"

Eldavan glanced sideways at him, and this time Sauron was positive he saw a twinkle. "I fear that is classified information, for you at least."

Sauron scowled. "Well, I was better off fishing for information after all," he griped.

Eldavan chuckled. "Now, no need to get snippy, my dear Dark Lord. You of all people should know how much value an answer can hold."

"Indeed. I have seen some questions whose answers were worth lives," Sauron responded coolly. "Sometimes many lives. Lives that ended painfully."

He cast Eldavan a surreptitious glance. There were few he had met here in Valinor – Elf, Maia, or Vala – who did not either grow wrathful nor blanch, even if they tried to conceal it, when he mentioned the horrors of his past, even in vague reference. Some, like Erenquaro, grew noticeably fidgety and uncomfortable; others, like Eönwë, grew hard and angry. Either way, Sauron took some perverse pleasure in watching them squirm with their discomfort.

Eldavan did not flinch. He looked at Sauron, and Sauron did not see the expected horror in his eyes, but there was also no twinkle. "Yes," the Maia said softly, "I am sure you have. And I suspect you have a great deal more familiarity with the role of the questioner than the questioned. I fear, however, that you will have to find other ways to earn your answers here."

"And just how do I earn those answers?" Sauron asked.

The twinkle returned, though Eldavan's face was pensive. "That, my dear Dark Lord, you will have to figure out for yourself." His face brightened. "Ah, and here we are."

Indeed, while they'd been talking, they had reached the edge of the quarry. Sauron looked down at the now-familiar ant-hill bustle below him as he mulled over Eldavan's cryptic and more-than-a-little irritating words. The strange Maia offered no other comments on the prior subject however. "Have a productive day at your quarrying, Sauron," he said brightly. "I suspect we will see more of one another in the near future, which I imagine I will enjoy more than you." He half-turned to go, then turned back. "Ah, and Sauron," he said, "don't spend the whole day puzzling over your many questions. You won't find any answers that way, and you'll end up with a fine headache on top of it. Half the day will certainly do."

And with that, he started back down the mountain, leaving Sauron to puzzle and fume over his enigmatic words.

~o~o~o~

"They're rather stupid, aren't they?"

"What?" Eönwë asked, looking up from his work. He sounded offended, but Sauron wasn't sure if the Herald was actually offended by the particular question or if at this point he just automatically sounded offended whenever Sauron spoke to save time.

Sauron nodded his head down to where one of the transportation maquati were loading up the finished blocks a few stations down. "The Elves. For all their blather, not to mention their extensive superiority complex, you'd think they'd be smarter."

"Hmph, you're one to talk about a superiority complex," Eönwë grunted.

Sauron shrugged, casually acknowledging the point as he continued to scrub the block in front of him with his pumice rasp. "No argument there," he responded dryly. "But at least I earned it."

He watched Eönwë visibly restrain himself from a biting response with relative ease. The Herald was learning, Sauron mused. However, at the moment he was not particularly interested in an argument, though he also wouldn't have said no if one presented itself. Currently, something was on his mind that had been irking him at the back of his thoughts for a while.

"There are so many more efficient ways to do all of this." He gestured to the quarry with his free hand. "If I was in charge, I could increase the productivity of this whole endeavor by fivefold."

"Oh really," Eönwë said. He didn't sound impressed by Sauron's claim. "And let me guess, part of this plan would involve slave drivers, whips, and the threats of horrific punishment."

Sauron put a hand to his chest, radiating mock umbrage. "Oh come now, Eönwë, don't tell me you're as narrow-minded as all these Elves. I expect it from them, but a Maia like myself? You don't think I could have accomplished all that I did simply with some threats and whips, do you? That's the problem with all of you here; you have such a limited view of what you think Lord Melkor and I were like and how we ran our realm."

He put down his pumice rasp and rinsed the fine limestone dust off with his water bucket. "I've overseen one or two similar operations in my day, and every single one of them would make this pathetic, crazed mess seem like it was organized by a Fëanorian."

Eönwë gave a resigned sort of sigh. "All right, you've obviously got something on your mind and you're going to condescendingly explain it to me whether I want to hear about it or not, so you might as well go ahead."

Sauron raised an eyebrow. Eönwë really was learning.

"Take those morons hauling wagons in circles around the quarry for starters," Sauron said. "When I first became lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I set up a quarry about three miles away where we acquired stone to rebuild the walls and make repairs and additions. Of course, I had wagons bringing in stone from the quarry to the island, but at the actual quarry itself? I rigged up a moving pathway, powered by coal engines, that ran the full length of the quarry. All the slaves had to do was place the blocks on the pathway and it transported them directly to the quarry entrance and even deposited them straight into the carts. None of this idiotic hauling and lifting blocks. Sure, it took a few slaves to keep the engines running, but far fewer than it would have taken to haul the blocks by hand the way they're doing it here. Not only did it save time, but I was able to assign those additional slaves to other tasks. The increase in net productivity was so impressive that Lord Melkor had me set up similar systems at every other major quarry and mine in Beleriand."

His keen eyes flickered appraisingly over the quarry, envisioning. "I'd set one up there-" he pointed to the path that led down from the quarry wall, where the mining units were busy breaking off raw chunks of limestone. "-to deliver the raw blocks straight to the dressers. Then I'd set up a second one that circled all the way around this side of the quarry to the entrance down there." He indicated the hypothetical path with his finger. "While I was at it, I'd also rig up an elevated sluice to deliver water to each dressing station; no more hauling water back and forth in buckets." He made a face and shook his head to express his disdain. "You would think that for all their supposed skillfulness and cleverness, they would have figured out basic engineering by now."

He narrowed his eyes, still picturing his improvements. "Not that I really care how fast or efficiently they are able to ship off blocks across the sea, but it hurts my brain seeing things run so poorly."

Eönwë was quiet for long enough that Sauron assumed he had no comments. But then, he said, "Somehow I don't think the Elves would be on board with your grand plans."

"What? Because they come from me? I could have guessed that."

Eönwë looked over at him, and there was a grim, almost haunted, light in his clear eyes. "I was there in Beleriand, you know. I saw the wasteland around Thangorodrim, stripped of life and filled with all manner of sludge and slime, the stinking clouds of putrid smoke so thick you couldn't see the sun. You could hear the grinding and clanking of Morgoth's accursed machinery from miles away. Forgive us if we don't want to see Valinor reduced to the same nightmare for the sake of a little less strain on our backs."

Sauron frowned, but found for once that he had no suitable rejoinder. It was true that Lord Melkor had taken Sauron's inventions and used them to their extreme, with little to no care that he was turning the landscape into the nightmare that Eönwë had described. In fact, Melkor had seemed to take some delight in the pollution and destruction and had even rejected several ideas Sauron had presented to him of new models that would not turn Beleriand into a desolate, poisoned wasteland. It was also true that some part of Sauron had been disgusted by the ugly desolation scarring the beauty of Beleriand when he saw Melkor's uses for his machines, but somehow he did not feel like trying to explain that to Eönwë. Instead, he simply shrugged. "Perhaps," he said dismissively and in a condescending enough tone to make it clear that he thought little of Elven opinions.

It was several more hours until the lunch break. The time passed slowly and uneventfully, with no further verbal exchanges between Sauron and Eönwë beyond what was strictly necessary to complete their tasks. Still, Sauron did not sense the same silent, boiling rage from Eönwë that the Herald would have been radiating after such a conversation when all of this had just begun.

That was not the only subtle change that had taken place over the last month. Slowly and steadily, Sauron was getting faster at completing his quota for the day. Instead of being close to half way done by lunchtime, he was generally closer to two thirds finished, meaning his overall quarry time was getting shorter. He had fully expected the Valar to raise his daily quota as he got faster, but so far they had not done so and Sauron was neither going to complain nor alert them to the fact if they were not already aware.

Sauron fetched his satchel and settled in his usual spot on the far side of his and Eönwë's worksite where he could look down the mountainside and see the plains of Valinor spread out to the horizon beneath him. When he opened the satchel flap, he was not completely surprised to find a piece of parchment tucked against the inside wall, as if it had been hurriedly slipped in past the closed flap. So, his unknown fanatic intended to make a regular appearance. How fun. Sauron glanced at Eönwë, making sure the Sky Maia was engrossed in his lunch, and unfolded the note. He knew it would probably be better if he crumpled it up and left it unread, but some perverse curiosity could not allow him to do so.

The note today was longer.

If the Valar will not deal with you, we will make sure the Void gets its dues one way or another, Sauron.

Sauron wasn't entirely sure how, but he could sense the biting hatred radiating from the writer's use of his name. There was no doubt that 'Sauron' had not been simply used as an appellation, but in the full context of its unpleasant meaning.

He dropped the note back into the satchel and took out his food. He wasn't going to let the note or the note writer get to him. Let them hate. Let them seethe. He was no stranger to hatred, threats, or the name Abhorred One being spat in his face. It didn't bother him anymore. But as he bit into his spinach and cheese pastie, he felt his stomach tighten and sour just a little.

An unknown spy lurking in Aulë's halls. Threatening notes from an unknown writer. A new and unexpected Maia sent for an unknown reason from an unknown Vala.

That was too many unknowns for Sauron.

Lunch was soon finished and it was back to work for his remaining few blocks. Despite Eldavan's final comment, Sauron had found himself wondering about the strange Maia off and on throughout the morning. As Sauron set to work, his interaction with Eldavan occupied his thoughts once again, as he suspected his new escort had known it would.

As he and Eönwë hoisted another finished block together, Sauron decided to see if he could solve at least part of the mystery. "Do you know the Maia Eldavan?" he inquired casually as they jointly set down the block.

Eönwë frowned. "Eldavan? I don't think I know that name. Where did you hear it?"

Sauron shrugged. "I had a new escort this morning, one I'd not seen before. He said his name was Eldavan, and I've been trying to remember if I knew him in the old days."

Eönwë had paused, clearly thinking. It was only for a second, but Sauron was watching closely enough that he saw a flash of recognition cross the Herald's face. It was gone a split second later, and Eönwë turned his face away. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone named Eldavan. Maybe you misheard?"

Sauron let his eyes scorch into the back of the sky Maia's head for a few seconds before sweeping his gaze away. "Perhaps," he murmured, and then with a wry smile to himself, added, "or perhaps not."

~o~o~o~

Somewhat to Sauron's surprise (and perhaps to his ever-so-slight disappoint, not that he'd admit to it), Eldavan was not the one waiting for him when he finally trudged up to the top of the quarry to start his way back to Aulë's Halls. Instead it was one of his regulars, a Maia of Aulë whom he vaguely remembered from the beginning days and who had not proved remotely interesting, for Sauron's purposes at least. He was one of those who grew fidgety and quiet in Sauron's presence and squirmed anytime Sauron mentioned his past. Though he had proved mildly entertaining a few times on this account, Sauron did not feel like tormenting him this particular afternoon, thus it was a silent and uneventful walk back to the Halls, which gave Sauron plenty of time to mentally rehash his questions and thoughts yet again.

The rest of the afternoon passed just as uneventfully, with Sauron retreating to his room with a new armful of books to pore over. Now that he was on to something, he figured it was best if he wasn't publically seen reading. Books on smithing could easily pass as topics of personal interest, but books on plant life would definitely raise some eyebrows. And Sauron preferred that no one become aware of his new horticultural interests.

So the next few hours passed with Sauron sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading and jotting down coded notes on one parchment and occasionally pausing to write a sentence or two in his Treatise as the occasional relevant memory surfaced. And by the time that Sauron realized he should head down to the Great Hall for supper, he had the beginnings of a plan.

Dinner had already started by the time Sauron arrived, and he slipped in and found a nearly unoccupied table towards the back. The two Elves seated at the far end gave him the evil eye and stood up haughtily, tossing their long hair over their shoulders, and sauntered off in search of another place to sit. Sauron didn't care.

As Sauron filled his plate, he glanced up at the head table. Aulë was already eating and talking amiably to two Elf lords that Sauron didn't recognize. Sauron's mind registered that something was wrong with the scene, but it took him a second to realize what it was. When he did, an uncontrollable jolt of fear shot straight down Sauron's spine and settled like one of his limestone blocks in his stomach. The seat beside Aulë's was empty.

He glanced instinctively around, half-expecting Yavanna's vines to be coiling across the floor behind him, seeking to strangle him while he was off his guard. A panicked scan of the room and his innate ability to sense Valarin power told him that the Tree Queen was nowhere nearby however. But the feeling of deep unease lingered. He was gripped with the sudden terrible paranoia that Yavanna was currently going through his room, finding the books from her alcove of the Parmarmard that he'd hidden, and deciphering his Treatise while he was gone and could not stop her.

Not that you could stop her even if you were there, his inner voice mocked.

No, there was nothing he could do, so he pushed down the sick swirling in his stomach and attacked the food in front of him instead.

As he ate, he glanced around the room for Eldavan, stretching out his mind to see if he could catch a glimpse of the strange Maia's power, but that search also proved fruitless. So, wherever Eldavan came from, he was not staying here in the Halls. This revelation was not particularly shocking in and of itself, but Sauron could not help but wonder why a new Maia had been assigned to him, particularly so suddenly and for no apparent reason. He already had enough escorts that no one of them had to accompany him to the quarry more than once a week. And he could hardly imagine anyone volunteering for the job. The fact that Eönwë clearly knew who he was and where he came from and seemed no more eager to enlighten Sauron on either point than Eldavan had been was more suspicious still. It probably meant nothing good, for Sauron at least.

Sauron was picking at a sweet potato and the remainder of his meat when he felt the brush of a powerful will against his mind. He jolted, caught off guard momentarily in his brooding, and threw up his mental defenses, before he recognized Aulë's presence. Glancing quickly up, he saw the Smith making his way down from the head table towards him. Scowling, Sauron shoved another bite into his mouth, chewing ferociously and avoiding eye contact, as if that would somehow stave Aulë off.

Aulë was not staved off. Instead, several seconds later, the Smith seated himself across from Sauron, folding his massive forearms on the tabletop. Sauron continued to chase the last few bites across his plate with a fork, figuring Aulë would say what he wanted to say, regardless of Sauron's wishes.

Sure enough, a second later Aulë cleared his throat. "So, how was your day?"

Sauron gave him a "pleasantries, really?" look before returning his attention to the fascinating process of lifting his fork from plate to mouth.

Aulë sighed. "All right, I understand. I'll get to my main point. I have a proposition to offer you that you may actually be interested in."

Hah, right, Sauron snorted mentally.

The wry expression that crossed Aulë's face hinted that the Smith had guessed Sauron's unspoken disdain. "Of course, if you don't fancy the offer, you're welcome to turn it down as you please, but I suspect you'll want to consider it at the very least. You've had the chance to get to know young Erenquaro, isn't that right?"

Sauron nodded, still wary of where this conversation was heading.

"Well, since Saiwend Gilruinion wasn't interested in your offer, I thought you might still be attracted to the idea of an apprentice. I remember how much you loved teaching your skills and methods. And well, I thought perhaps having a new student might help it feel a bit like the old days again, back…well, back when you were my head apprentice."

Well, perhaps Aulë knew him a little better than Sauron had thought. Instinctively, Sauron found himself listening with more interest and even a genuine spark of something resembling hope. He did like teaching. Not that he had done much of that recently, or in Beleriand. Orcs had hardly proved good and attentive students, particularly to any of the skills he would have desired to teach.

All right, Aulë, good for you. You have my attention.

"Erenquaro's brother approached me a few days ago about Erenquaro learning a bit about smithing, seeing if he has an aptitude for it at the very least. I've thought it over a few days, and I would like you to take the job, if you want it. You already know Erenquaro, and I think…well, I thought you might appreciate it."

The unspoken words "I think it might do you good" hung in the air between them, uncomfortable and unpleasant as smoke.

Aulë shifted, twining his fingers together in a fidgety gesture. "I can't imagine you find the quarry particularly satisfying. Maybe…perhaps having an apprentice would give you a sense of purpose?"

The sense of purpose that all of you took away from me to begin with, Sauron thought darkly. But he couldn't lie to himself; the idea intrigued him.

Sauron carefully thought it through. Erenquaro didn't strike him as prime smithing material, but he had to be better than a gang of gibbering, fighting orcs. And there was something to be said about having any shred of authority whatsoever, even though Sauron inwardly cringed at the thought that something so menial could bring him any sense of pleasure. He was truly desperate if the thought of one slow-witted apprentice raised his spirits when a few scant years ago he had had the command of tens of thousands and wielded more power and authority than anyone else in Beleriand, save only Lord Melkor himself. Oh well, desperate times, desperate measures, as they said.

Ironically, the thing that sealed the deal for him was the memory of Curumo's glower when he'd told the other Maia that he was to have an apprentice. The pure thought of Curumo being forced to watch as Sauron trained an apprentice, however pathetic that apprentice might be, almost – almost – tugged his lips into a sardonic smile. He'd accept Aulë's offer just to rub it in Curumo's smarmy face.

Sauron shrugged again, conveying languid tolerance for the idea. "I am willing to give it a try. I'm sure you remember however that I have high expectations for my pupils."

Aulë beamed. "I do. And I'm sure Erenquaro will prove an apt student for you. I'll let him know that you will start with him tomorrow when you finish up at the quarry. I hope-" The Smith paused and a look of some strong emotion passed over his face. "-I truly hope that this is the start of something new and beautiful for you. You've always been a smith, Nauron, and it will be good to have you back in my forges again."

Sauron's smile was thin and knife-like. "I promise to make the best of this new…opportunity."

Aulë clapped him on the shoulder, still beaming. "That's good to hear, Nauron. That's so very good to hear."

~o~o~o~

"Vairë, my dear, your fruit cake is as delicious as ever. It has been much too long since I paid you and Námo a visit."

On the far side of Valinor, on the western shore, the low evening Sun was shining her final rays over the Halls of the Dead. Here, the grey river of Mandos flowed through the arched gates of the Halls and down into the deeps of the earth, past the Courts of the Spirits where the fëar of the slain walked, and deeper still past the dungeons that once had contained the mightiest of the Valar, before sinking at last into the silence of the earth's heart.

The sitting rooms and guest halls and private chambers of those who dwelt in the Halls were the closest to the surface, just beyond the great, arched entrance. The evening sunlight streamed through the massive skylight adorning the ceiling of the Great Hall and flickered grey and gold on the river that ran gurgling softly through the center of the room on its journey downward. Here, at the edge of the river, seated comfortably on cushions with a low, round table between them, two Valiër enjoyed the ends of their meal.

Vairë looked up from her cup and saucer that she held delicately in her long, slender fingers. Her almond eyes were a deep, strange color that appeared to change from one moment to the next – dark grey, indigo blue, deep purple – and they seemed to have the depth of history itself. It would have been difficult for a mortal to ascertain her age; she was both old and young, with etched crow's feet at the corners of her eyes but full, soft lips that pursed now into a small smile. "I agree, it has been too long, Yavanna. I have missed the fresh fruit straight from your Gardens nearly as much as I have missed our time to talk. But we've all been busy and distracted."

"That we have been," Yavanna conceded, taking a sip from her own cup. Her gaze darted up and along the far wall, flickering over the massive tapestries that covered every available space. "You certainly have had no shortage of scenes to weave, I can imagine."

"That is true," the Valië of History acknowledged, "though perhaps my work is the most constant of all of us. History is always being woven after all, though the events of late have been of particular import, I suspect."

"I have been suspecting the same," Yavanna replied, "and I am glad to hear you say so. The passage of time and the events that unfold in it are your domain after all." She smiled faintly over the rim of her cup. "I am not entirely sure that all the Valar agree on that accord, our husbands for starters," she said lightly as she set her cup and plate down on the table. "Ah, that was just what I needed."

Two Maiarin attendants began to clear away the empty plates and cups. Vairë handed hers to one of them, then turned her attention back to Yavanna. "Would you care to go down with me to the Hall of Weaving?"

"Yes, let's," Yavanna agreed. "I would love to see your latest work."

At Vairë's summons, a Maia clad in the dark robes of Námo's folk steered a slender gondola up beside them and offered his hand to both ladies as they stepped into the vessel. The grey water laved quietly against the sleek wooden sides as the Maia pushed off and skillfully guided them into the middle of the river. They exited the Great Hall through an arch, then wove deeper into the Halls down side passages lit by lanterns hanging at regular intervals that gave off a soft bluish light. All was silent except the lapping of the water against the vessel and the walkways on either side.

Yavanna looked up at the long tapestries covering the passage wall, eyes skimming over the thousands of interwoven threads depicting a tall, dark figure on a cliffside, arms raised in prophecy, as beneath him dozens of stolen swan ships disappeared into darkness. "What is Námo up to these days? I'm sorry he could not join us for supper."

"My husband has had many duties and care these past months. He spends most of his time in the Courts of the Spirits, caring for the many new fëar that the War sent to him." Vairë's eyes were deep and sad. "The pain of the spirits and their deep wounds trouble him, I can tell. It will be a long time before many of them find enough healing to be released, but he works without tiring to comfort and strengthen them."

"Yes," Yavanna murmured, "there has been so much unnecessary pain and death. I am sure you have felt the weight of the sorrow of this last Age heavier than any of us."

"Perhaps," Vairë replied. "But I believe we have all felt these sorrows in one way or another."

"But our tasks do not require us to live immersed in every moment of pain and death that occurs," Yavanna said. "I will admit, Vairë, I do not envy you your labor."

"There are times that it is a heavy burden," Vairë admitted, "but there is also no greater joy to me than to share in the moments of joy and triumph and love. Not all is darkness, even in the darkest of times." She turned to the Maia. "This will be far enough. Thank you, Laihendi."

They disembarked and stepped through an archway into another larger chamber, this one circular and domed, with a single round skylight. The light that streamed in fell directly upon the massive loom in the center of the room. Unlike the other halls, the walls of this chamber were lined with shelves, each one carrying skeins of thread in every color imaginable.

Yavanna's vines twisted about her and one reached out like a finger to stroke the half-completed tapestry on the loom. The green coil skimmed over the imagery of the Máhanaxar, with the Valar ringed about it and a great, dark, chained figure kneeling in the center. A few feet over, the scene was nearly duplicated, except that the figure standing in the middle of the Ring of Doom stood tall and unchained, dark but also strangely radiant. The vine withdrew with a hissing shudder and Yavanna's skin flared bark-brown.

Vairë stopped in front of her loom, her hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, appraising her own work with pursed lips. Her cropped hair, midnight black with a sheen of blue from the evening light, curled softly around her tapered ears. Yavanna glanced subtly over to her. "You are the Valië of History. What do you think of these unfolding events of late?"

Vairë looked at her. "You speak of Sauron's return?"

Yavanna shrugged, her skin returning to its normal olive smoothness. "The Máhanaxar has seen more use of late than in many long years."

Vairë nodded. "Every event, be it great or small, changes the path of History to some degree. I cannot guess how History might have played out otherwise, but I sense that by coming here, Sauron has greatly altered what would have been."

"For better or for worse, do you think?"

Now it was Vairë who shrugged. "It is Námo who possesses the gift to catch glimpses of the future. I am content to study the past."

"And what does the past tell you? Do you not fear that perhaps History may be repeating itself?"

Vairë's eyes glinted from purple to grey. "You are concerned that Sauron will turn on us, just as Melkor did when we offered him leniency?"

The vines in Yavanna's hair coiled tight. "The thought has crossed my mind. More than once."

"As it has mine," Vairë replied. "But I also trust my husband's judgment."

"I mean no offense to Námo, of course," Yavanna said, "but I have misgivings that he may have been influenced overmuch by Manwë and Manwë's merciful nature."

Vairë did not reply, but continued to gaze quietly at the images on the tapestry.

Yavanna's voice went low and husky. "I know you have seen every act of destruction and misery that Sauron and his Master have wreaked upon this world since the beginning. I can only imagine how heavy it has worn on you, Vairë, weaving thousands of deaths and scenes of torture and misery. I can only imagine how much your spirit yearns for scenes of peace and happiness, like in the days of Almarin, once again."

"It would…ease my sorrows," Vairë responded in a voice so quiet it was hardly audible. For the first time, there was a weight in her voice that spoke of unspeakable things.

Yavanna pressed on. "What if Sauron were to continue to bring further terror to the Children, at our hands and our leniency? Vairë dear, your husband's Halls already bear the weight of too many spirits broken by that accursed Maia and his Master. You deserve better than sitting in this chamber weaving scene after scene of sorrows, with the wailing of the dead in your ears. Hasn't there been enough sorrow and death in the past Age for all the future Ages of the world? Is it not our duty to not only learn from History, but to also act upon it to make sure it is not repeated?"

There was a shadow over Vairë's face and a weight in her eyes like the press of Time itself. "What is it you are suggesting, Yavanna?"

"Nothing drastic, a simple assurance," Yavanna answered. "I may not have a gift of prophecy like Námo, but the time will come when Sauron turns on us. I am sure of it. And when that time comes, we must act with the full weight of justice that his actions deserve. He must not be allowed to wreak further havoc and destruction upon our dear Maiar, and upon the Children above all else."

She stepped closer to Vairë, voice dropping an octave lower still. "Perhaps you could consider speaking to your husband. If such a time comes, he will be the one to pass judgment on Sauron for his deeds. There is nothing wrong in speaking to him about our concerns, to make sure sentimentality does not cloud his judgement a second time." Patches of bark bloomed over her skin. "What if he were to promise that he will deliver a punishment befitting the crime? That he will do whatever is necessary to break the rebellious spirit of the Dark Captain?"

Vairë hesitated, but Yavanna took her hand. "You have the most influence over Námo," she said earnestly. "He will listen to you, Vairë."

Tears gathered in Vairë's eyes. "When I weave the visions I see in my mind, sometimes the pain of them is so great I feel I cannot bear it for another moment," she whispered. "I have seen things done in the darkness, I have seen the blood on countless battlefields, I have heard the cries of spirits who are broken beyond reckoning echoing from the depths of the Halls." A look of decision filled her eyes. "I will speak to my husband."

No smile crossed Yavanna's face, but her eyes flashed for a moment. "Thank you, Vairë," she said. "I knew you would understand."

~o~o~o~

Later that night, when Námo returned from the Courts of the Spirits, his own spirit heavy with the pain of the fëar he had been tending to all day, he found his wife curled up in bed, a shadow hanging about her and her face stained with tears and a look of deep pain.

"What is it, love?" Námo asked gently, gathering Vairë into his arms and holding her close to his broad chest, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Vairë laid her head on his shoulder and told him. She spoke of Ages of pain, death, and suffering in the darkness. She spoke of the agony that weaving those scenes upon her tapestries brought to her day by day, and of the horror when her constant visions of the past and present were weighed down with far more moments of tragedy and sorrow than those of celebration and joy. She stroked her fingers along his arm and spoke of her fears of the sorrows upon his own soul as he spent day after day among the broken spirits of those who never should have died.

And finally, she whispered, "Please, Námo, please promise you won't let this continue, if it ever is in your power to do so. If the Maia Sauron attempts to hurt the Children or the Maiar, please promise you will do whatever is necessary to make sure it is not the birth of another Age of pain and death."

Námo was silent for several moments, then he squeezed Vairë's shoulders, a shadow of his own weighing down upon him. He kissed her forehead again. "I promise, love. I promise I will."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The hour-long walk to the quarry had settled into a drably familiar ritual. The Gardens, the long stretch of grassland, and the slow winding path up the mountainside had now become so habitual that Sauron felt he had every step memorized. Likewise, his fána had adjusted to the daily trek so well that he could now make it with ease, despite his Bound ëala, his breath barely even quickening during the steep climb.

This, unfortunately, meant that he had nothing to distract him from his walking companion.

He glanced over at the blithely nonchalant Maia striding alongside him and scowled, though more in puzzlement than true annoyance.

As before, Eldavan seemed entirely unconcerned with his unenviable task or his even-more-unenviable charge. At the moment, he was humming a simple tune under his breath, evidently undaunted by the former dark lord glaring at him. Sauron had to admit that he found nearly everything about the strange Maia puzzling, and Sauron did not like being puzzled.

You will have to find other ways to earn your answers here, Eldavan had told him upon their last meeting. Sauron had bent his thoughts to this cryptic statement on a number of occasions in the interim weeks, but he was no closer to an answer than he had been when Eldavan had posed it to him. It frustrated Sauron – he considered himself creative and ingenious enough to unravel the riddle – but the solution eluded him. Direct questioning as well as a more roundabout method had failed, and Sauron was decently sure he could rule out his more familiar methods of extracting questions, though the sheer unconcern that Eldavan was displaying in his presence was making Sauron wish he could shove the other Maia up against a tree and put a healthy dose of terror in those twinkling blue eyes.

He turned his eyes back to the path as they navigated a switchback in the trail that cut directly into the stone, forcing the available walking space to narrow. Sauron automatically lengthened his stride so that he could walk in front of Eldavan through the pass. He looked down the mountain side as he turned the narrow bend, letting his gaze stray across the now-familiar expanse of the plains of Valinor.

Almost unconsciously, his gaze was drawn to the most imposing feature within his line of vision. Taniquetil rose from the plains in vast silver pinnacles, glinting with majestic waterfalls tumbling down its sides, the top glowing with a white radiance at which he could barely look. The peak was crowned with a brilliant glow of gilded light that spilled out over all of Valinor from the topmost towers and turrets of the golden palace of Ilmarin. It hurt his eyes.

His thoughts strayed to another unrivaled fortress, the twin of Ilmarin and also its foil. He remembered the red glow that had lit Angband, both within and without, from the rivers of fire that had spilled down from the triple peaks of Thangorodrim. He remembered too the darkness that had swirled about its harsh crags and heights like a cloak, both the natural plumes of smoke and ash that arose from the heart of the earth and also the thicker, deeper shadows that had been woven from the very being of the stronghold's master.

In one place, he had been a lord. In the other, he would never belong.

"Quite beautiful, isn't it?"

Eldavan's voice caught him off guard, his mind still envisioning Angband in the days of its glory. He turned to find that the other Maia had paused at the switchback, his own gaze straying out over Valinor towards Taniquetil as well.

Sauron's mood dipped and he turned away from the blessed mountain of the Blessed Realm. "Is it?"

The trail widened again, and Eldavan was beside him once more. "Oh come now," he said, his voice light but not quite mocking. "I don't believe for a minute that you don't know beauty when you see it. That form you crafted for yourself would speak otherwise for starters. I've also heard you know perfectly well how to turn a gold ingot into a lovely work of art. It would seem to me that you are quite well acquainted with the notion of beauty."

"Yet beauty is not an isolated concept," Sauron responded. It was not a topic he particularly wanted to debate with the enigmatic Maia, but he found that he could not hold his tongue. "Don't the Children have a saying: beauty is in the eye of the beholder?"

"I believe they do," Eldavan answered.

Sauron placed his hand against the rock wall to his right, steadying himself over a particularly rough patch in the trail. "Well," he responded, "at what point is something so wrapped up in pain or hatred that it ceases to be beautiful to the beholder?"

"A fair point," Eldavan said. "And in that case, I cannot imagine there are many things left that you find beautiful, particularly not in Valinor."

Sauron shot him a quick glance, his brows lowering darkly. He did not like the soft, pensive tone in which Eldavan had made that statement. He did not need this twinkling-eyed Maia's pity. "There are plenty of things that I find beautiful," he growled. "Most of them would simply not be to your tastes, I imagine." However, even as he said the words, he cast about in his mind for something he truly did find beautiful and could not remember the last time he had seen anything such.

Eldavan shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by his suddenly sharp tone. "If you say so, my dear Dark Lord."

"Will you stop calling me that?" Sauron snapped.

Eldavan raised an eyebrow at the vitriol in Sauron's voice. "Well, if you insist. Though I do have to wonder: is it the 'dear' or the 'dark lord' part that you object to?"

"Both" Sauron groused moodily.

"Hm, duly noted." Eldavan adjusted his silver scarf casually. "I shall refrain for your sake then. Though I must say that I find it interesting, and perhaps even a little bit puzzling, that you take more offense to that than to the appellation you seem to have adopted most fully for your own."

A bitter anger settled in Sauron's stomach, leaking up into a sour taste in his mouth. "Perhaps it is simply the name that best describes who I am."

"Perhaps," Eldavan responded, his voice quiet and pensive once more.

Sauron shot the other Maia a searing look. "Besides, perhaps I like being abhorred."

Eldavan returned his look, seemingly unaffected by the challenging hostility in Sauron's eyes. "Do you?"

"It's certainly better than other things."

"Other things? Like pity perhaps?"

Sauron was beginning to feel cornered. He disliked being on the receiving end of so many questions. "That's none of your business," he snarled, his face going hard and cold.

Once again, Eldavan's eyebrows rose fractionally and he looked away, staring at the path in front of them winding away up the mountain side. "Well," he said after a minute, "I apologize then that I cannot conjure the appropriate level of abhorrence for you that you would prefer."

Sauron stared straight ahead stonily. "Then you obviously don't know much about me," he answered. "I assume you did not go to Beleriand for the War?"

Eldavan turned to him again, and for once the Maia's face seemed grim and the twinkle was gone from his blue eyes. "No, I was there," he answered, "though I did not fight, if that's what you're inquiring after. War requires the services of more than just warriors after all."

Sauron met his eyes again, appraisingly this time. "You're a healer?"

Eldavan smiled slightly, though it still did not reach his eyes. "Of a sort, you might say."

Sauron blinked, a little surprised. It was the most information he'd been able to pry out of Eldavan up to this point. Yet if he was a healer, that probably meant that he was a Maia of Estë, or possibly Irmo. But that begged the question as to why he'd traveled all the way from distant Lórien just to play Sauron's babysitter.

"The greatest War that any of us have ever seen has just recently ended," he said finally, his voice still warily cold. "I am sure there are plenty of others who are more in need of your services than me. Or are the Valar so very concerned for my wellbeing that they send one of their valuable healers to watch over me in case I sprain my ankle or scrape my hand?"

Eldavan was uncharacteristically quiet for a short while, then he spoke slowly. "There are some things that leave wounds that go much deeper than the flesh."

Sauron refused to look at him now, redirecting his scorching gaze up the mountain instead. A seething anger burned in his core. "And do the Valar think I carry such wounds?" he spat.

They reached the top of the trail. The sounds of the quarry drifted up to meet them, a clamor of metal against stone that assaulted Sauron's ears. Eldavan paused where the path ended. "I think we both know the answer to that particular inquiry, Sauron," he answered and his voice was grave. "I know you do not want pity, and I cannot give you the abhorrence you seek. Perhaps for now, we will both have to settle for simple understanding."

He turned then and headed back down the trail, and Sauron watched him go with narrowed eyes before himself turning to the quarry and another long day.

~o~o~o~

The day at the quarry crawled by slowly.

Eönwë seemed content to keep his thoughts to himself, and Sauron was likewise occupied with his usual restless mind.

Today, he found himself watching the activity at the neighboring dressing station. Boredly, he observed the group of eleven Elves as they went about their business. He had to admit that they seemed to work well together; the chain of actions performed by each was smooth and well-ordered. Even if his respect for the Firstborn was thin at best, he could at least appreciate a job well done.

His eyes flickered appraisingly to one member of the maquat in particular. Saiwend Gilruinion was seated before a block, chisel in hand, similar to Sauron's own current position. The Noldo struck the chisel with hard, controlled blows, his powerful muscles flexing visibly with each strike. Now that he knew the Elf to be a smith, he wasn't surprised at Saiwend's obvious strength and comfort with the mallet.

Sauron frowned thoughtfully to himself. He still had not given up on the idea of using the hot-headed Noldo to his own benefit, but fortune had provided him no opening to do so yet since his offer of apprenticeship had fallen by the wayside. While Sauron was pleased with the direction his teachings with Erenquaro were going, part of him still wished he'd been granted the opportunity with Saiwend instead. But perhaps it was for the best. Approaching him or influencing him in any way in the quarry did not seem feasible; besides, Sauron suspected that direct influence would not be the way to proceed with Saiwend. He needed something more subtle, a way to get at the Elf without revealing himself as the origin, but what that could be still eluded him.

He and Eönwë doused his second-to-last block for the day with the buckets of water, cleansing it of the chiseling dust that settled over everything. The Herald straightened, wiping some of the fine limestone grit off his brow. "One more bucket of water should be enough for the last block. I'll be back shortly." Hefting one of the buckets, he headed down the path to the well on the far side of the quarry.

Sauron performed his usual ritual, placing his hands on his waist and bending backwards and forwards and from side-to-side to keep his muscles loose and to prevent the cramping that came with sitting hunched over for hours. As he did so, he paced back and forth across the small area of his station.

He paused at the far side of his station, looking down the mountain side at the same view he had observed on the way up with Eldavan. Was it beautiful to him? He honestly couldn't say. On the one hand, he could recognize the aesthetic pleasantness of the view, but he felt none of the pleasure that he could remember feeling when gifted with the sight of something truly beautiful, none of the elation that made his spirit soar, none of the desire to soak in everything he was seeing until it became a part of him. When was the last time he had found something beautiful? He cast his mind back but it was soon mired in the memories of the Black Captain, and those contained little of anything of true beauty.

At that moment, pain exploded through his shoulder.

He staggered forward and nearly lost his footing as something struck him from behind, impacting against his shoulder joint. Pain radiated down his arm, causing his fingers to tingle. For a moment, he felt something like pressure against his shoulder blade, then it began to throb with dull pulses of pain. He sucked in his breath, shock paralyzing him for a moment.

He whirled around and something caught on his foot. Looking down, he saw a fist-sized chunk of limestone rolling away from his boot.

His body tensed automatically, which caused his shoulder to throb with even more violence, but he ignored it as his eyes scanned frantically for his attacker. There was nobody else in his work station, and no one in the vicinity seemed to be paying him any heed. His gaze strayed over to the neighboring unit. No one there was looking his direction, and the work seemed to be progressing in the same ordered fashion that it had been all day.

Still, for the rock to have impacted as hard as it had, whoever had thrown it had to have been relatively close by, and unless his attacker was invisible, there weren't many options for who it could have been.

He stared at the side of Saiwend's head as the Elf chiseled away at his block, his eyes suddenly burning with malice. He knew Saiwend hated him, out of principle for who he was of course, but he also suspected the Elf had not yet let go of the insult he had directed towards his father that first evening in Aulë's Halls. Even if Gilruin had accepted his apology, Sauron knew that most Noldor didn't give up on grudges easily. He also was well acquainted with the fact that most Noldor didn't shy away from using violence to get what they wanted.

Evidence he might not have, but in his heart he knew Saiwend was responsible, whether he had thrown the rock with his own hands or instigated it.

Rage flared in his heart, and his hatred of the Eldar blazed. How dare they raise their hands to strike him, he who had created their world in part and who, until a few months ago, had wielded more power than any other being in Arda besides the Valar? Yet also, part of the anger that rose up hot in his breast was directed inward: that he had grown complacent and unwatchful enough to give his enemies the chance to hurt him.

He sat back down, outwardly composed, but inwardly seething as he assessed the damage to his shoulder. His skin would undoubtedly be badly bruised, but these bruises at least would be easily concealed under his shirt. He was more concerned for his shoulder joint; he couldn't tell if anything was torn or if the ligaments were simply bruised, but he suspected it would swell and restrict the movement of his arm. Since today was his first work day of the week, that meant he'd be facing four more days in a row of hard labor during the worst stages of inflammation.

He swore mentally. This was all he needed!

He knew it shouldn't rile him this much, that a petty stone from a petty foe should not arouse his wrath, but the fact that he could not stay his anger and frustration only fed into his rising fury. But with a great deal of effort, he shoved it down. He could not retaliate; anything he might do right now would doubtlessly be turned against him and he would take the blame. But now, more than ever, he swore silently to himself that he would find a way to bring sorrow and ruin upon Saiwend and the Elves, just as Lord Melkor had done in days now long past.

Eönwë returned with the bucket of water, which he set down next to Sauron's work table with a sigh. Sauron didn't acknowledge him besides a sideways glance as he perched himself on the edge of his own bench to wait for Sauron to finish up his last block. It had been weeks now since the Herald had worn his blue and white tabard, but he still looked noticeably uncomfortable and out-of-place in the dusty, grimy quarry. Sauron straightened his back and purposefully relaxed his muscles, hoping Eönwë didn't notice anything amiss until Sauron could get back to the Halls for the night and take better stock of his injury.

His shoulder ached and throbbed in turn as he finished the last block, but he made it through with relatively little stress. The injured joint protested more violently as Sauron and Eönwë moved the block from the table to the edge of the station for the transportation unit to collect, but he bore the discomfort without flinching.

Finished for the day, he packed away his tools and folded up the little awning that shaded him from the sun, tucking both away under his chair. As he straightened, he glanced over again at Saiwend's maquat. The Elves there were wrapping up their day as well, but none of them so much as acknowledged him. His eyes narrowed with malevolence. They would learn soon enough that Sauron accepted neither slight nor injury. But for now he turned, keeping his stride even, his satchel slung over his uninjured shoulder, and made his way to the quarry's exit.

~o~o~o~

Back in the Halls, Sauron slipped silently into the kitchens on his way to the dormitory wing. He had a talent for being unobtrusive when he wished and no one noticed as he stole through the large double doors and glanced around surreptitiously for what he wanted. There was a hatch in the floor in the corner and it lifted at a light tug from his hand, revealing stairs leading down into darkness. A lit candle burned on a small shelf just below the hatch, and Sauron picked it up, letting it cast its light before him as he descended the shallow stairs.

At the bottom, he found a cool, spacious room, lined with shelves, chests, and barrels: the larder and cellar of the Halls of Aulë. At the far end of the room was what he sought: a long, low chest lowered into a groove in the floor. He opened it.

Inside were large blocks of ice, no doubt brought down from the heights of the Pelóri. Lying on top of the blocks was an ice pick.

Glancing back up at the square of light that indicated the entrance to the larders to make sure no one had followed him, Sauron quickly struck off a corner of ice and stuffed it in a vegetable bag sitting empty on one of the shelves. Once done, he made his exit from the kitchens and hurried towards the dormitories.

Once in his quarters, he immediately tugged off his shirt and stood in front of the mirror in his washroom. Turning his back to it and twisting his neck around, he strained to see his injury. The spot where he'd been hit, just above his shoulder blade, was a deep angry red, though his shirt seemed to have protected the skin from breaking. More concerning was the swelling he could already see around the joint.

He ran himself a bath, not lighting the coals underneath to heat the water, then stripped and lowered himself gingerly into the cool liquid. First, he cleansed himself of the dust and grime that had accumulated over every inch of his body during the course of the day, then he reached for the bag of ice and wedged it between the washing basin and his shoulder. Then he leaned his head back against the edge of the basin and closed his eyes.

The seeping coolness of the ice somewhat soothed the throbbing of his shoulder, but he knew it wouldn't last. The pain itself was of little consequence; his primary concern lay in whether or not he'd be able to physically carry out the work required of him without attracting any unwanted attention. Most importantly, he did not want to give the Elves the satisfaction of seeing that their attack had been successful in weakening him. Of only little less importance – to his pride at least – was Eönwë. The Herald was sure to make himself insufferable one way or another, and Sauron's shame blazed at the thought of the self-important sky Maia discovering that someone had been able to catch him off guard.

On a more practical level, he knew that showing either vulnerability or weakness would open him up to further hostility and violence. If the Elves realized they could injure him with neither retribution nor admonishment, he could guarantee this would not be the final attack they inflicted upon him.

The thought briefly crossed his mind of seeking out Aulë to see if he had any salves or better instruments of healing than Sauron himself had access to, but he immediately cringed at the thought. He could already imagine Aulë's unbearable combination of saccharine pity, coddling, and desire for justice. He made a face to himself. If he went to Aulë, he was certain that every Vala in Aman would know by the end of the night that someone had hurt Aulë's poor little Nauron and that was a far worse thought than dealing with whatever came of the injury on his own.

The ice melted down to a tiny lump then dissolved entirely, leaving Sauron with nothing but an unpleasantly chill vegetable bag that smelt a little too strongly of onions. With a groan, Sauron pushed himself up and out of the washing basin.

As he dressed, he considered the rest of his day. Working with Erenquaro in the forge would do nothing positive for his wound, so he made a mental note to send a message to the younger Maia letting him know that they'd not be working together today. He was not too concerned; Erenquaro wasn't the quickest on the uptake and he didn't figure he'd spend much time, if any, pondering the reason for Sauron's absence or what it portended.

He should probably at least make an appearance for supper. If he failed to show up, he could guarantee he'd have an agitated Aulë knocking on his door by the end of the evening, worrying over him like a bearded mother hen, and that irritated Sauron on the best of days. No, he did not want to risk that. Additionally, after supper he could slip into the kitchens again and steal another chunk of ice to apply to his shoulder before he went to bed. And after that, he would simply have to hope for the best.

~o~o~o~

Hoping for the best never turned out well, Sauron considered with moody anger the next morning. As he'd feared, his shoulder joint had swelled and stiffened overnight, severely restricting his arm's range of movement. Even lifting his arm slightly sent jolts of sharp pain radiating down his limb, and he could feel how weak and useless it was even as it hung at his side.

He currently stood at his window, fiercely gripping a large amount of his hair in pure frustration, as he tried to figure out how he was going to make it through the day. He hated this feeling: pathetic, weak, and cornered, like an injured deer hiding in a thicket. Sauron had played both the role of the predator and the prey in his past, and he knew how precarious his undesirable situation could prove to be. With his ëala Bound, he was far more at the mercy of the whims of his fána than any Maia ever should be, and he loathed it.

Asking for help – whether it be from Aulë or Eönwë – still filled him with a violent disgust. He'd far rather collapse than admit his state of vulnerability to either of them or beg for their assistance. He might have fallen far, but let Morgoth in the Void play witness if he ever let himself fall that far.

A memory flashed through his mind. The dark woods of Taur-nu-Fuin after he had fled from the bridge of Gaurhoth, his throat gaping open and his pride shattered. He had lain in the dark loam, blood still spreading out around him and soaking into his filthy clothing from the ragged wounds in his neck. For a long while, he could not scrape together the will to even move, the crushing weight of his terror and humiliation rendering him helpless. Even in the delirium of his pain and shame, he had known he could not go to Morgoth, not in this state. He had failed, and whatever punishment awaited him in Angband would be far greater than a wounded throat.

It was only when he realized that he was in serious danger of losing his fána from loss of blood that he dragged himself to some state of conscious decisiveness. Somehow, he was not certain how, he had found mud and herbs to stem the flow of the blood. Then, with a thorn as a needle and strands of fiber from some strange plant, he had sewn his neck closed himself, his hands shaking as he did so and his sobs hoarse in his mutilated throat.

Sauron turned from the window and yanked open his wardrobe, sorting through his accessories until he found what he wanted: a long dark red sash. Using his good hand and his teeth, he wound the cloth around his shoulder, pulling it as tight as he could to fashion a makeshift compression. He tested his shoulder again, making sure the cloth would not slip, then pulled on his linen work shirt, making sure the sash was not visible.

If there was one thing Sauron knew he was good at, it was surviving.

The day started off tolerably well. If nothing else, his compression held, giving some stability to his weakened limb. Even so, each strike of his mallet against the chisel sent painful reverberations through his arm and chest that only increased throughout the morning as the hard work irritated the bruised ligaments and muscle. But still, pain was endurable, and Sauron knew he could bear it for as long as he needed.

Eönwë seemed to have picked up no signs so far that Sauron was injured, which was reasonable considering Sauron was being excruciatingly careful to provide no signs. As the hours crept towards the mid-day break, Sauron began to relax fractionally, starting to hope that he might actually make it through the day.

But of course, hope seemed to always have a way of failing him.

It finally happened about an hour before the horn was to sound across the quarry for lunch.

They were lifting another of the large limestone slabs onto the work table when Sauron's shoulder suddenly gave. His hand slipped out from underneath the block as his shoulder shot a dagger-sharp jolt of numbing pain down his arm. Unable to hold the heavy stone with only one hand, he dropped his end of the block with a loud curse.

Eönwë leapt back just in time to avoid crushing his feet as the slab crashed to the ground inches from his toes. "What the-?" He glared at Sauron. "Blast it, Sauron! What do you think you're doing?"

Sauron was bent over, breathing raggedly from the unexpected pain and sudden shot of adrenaline. He was decently sure that something in his shoulder had just torn, if the numbness he felt in his fingers was any indication. He turned his palm upwards, examining the hand that had scraped against the rough stone as he scrabbled to keep hold of it. There was no severe damage there at least, just a collection of scrapes, many of which were bleeding lightly. "Oh shut it," he snarled viciously back at Eönwë. "Yes, yes, I'm not allowed to make any mistakes; I'm infinitely well aware of that fact, thank you."

Eönwë's face tightened, but his anger melted away when he saw Sauron cradling his hand. The Herald kneaded his forehead. "All right, I'm sorry, Sauron. I thought you did it on purpose."

Sauron snorted and began dabbing at the bleeding cuts with the hem of his shirt. "If I'd done it on purpose, I wouldn't have missed."

Eönwë stared straight ahead for several seconds, jaw working, visibly reining in his frustration. He heaved a deep, calming sigh through his nostrils then walked stiffly over to where Sauron was still dabbing at his cuts with his shirt. "Here," he said, "I've got some bandages in my kit for your hand."

Sauron glared at him and pulled his hand away protectively. "Believe it or not, I can handle a little blood on my own without you poking at it."

Eönwë stopped, clenched his fists, and turned around to mirror Sauron's glare. He took a deep breath. "Is it really so hard to accept just a tiny bit of help?" he grated. "We're not enemies any more, or we're not supposed to be anyway." He waved a hand at Sauron. "This is your problem, right here. Or one of them anyway. You refuse to accept help from any of us. We're all trying to help you and you just push us away again and again. Why did you even bother coming back if you weren't even going to try?"

"What choice did I have?" Sauron growled in a low voice, applying heavier pressure to his palm to stop the bleeding.

Eönwë stared at him, face grave. "You could have made a different choice, I know you could have," he said. "I may not like you, but you were my foe long enough for me to know just how resourceful and cunning you are when you put your mind to it. I know you could have fled if you really wanted to." He sat down heavily on his bench. "But you didn't, and that's why I believe there was some part of you that truly wanted to come back." His sharp eyes bore into Sauron. "A part of you that wanted help."

Sauron didn't look at Eönwë or grace him with an answer, but instead continued to tend his hand and ignore the troubling pulse of pain in his shoulder.

Eönwë pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes for several seconds, then watched Sauron again as he tore an already-bloodied strip off the bottom of his shirt and used it to bandage one of the more profusely bleeding scrapes. "What happened?" he asked. "You've never lost your grip on a slab like that before."

"My hand slipped," Sauron replied with smooth snideness. "Although I appreciate the insinuation that I am infallible and can do no wrong, I'm afraid I must disillusion you on the account. I am capable of the occasional slip just like anyone else."

Eönwë however was not fooled. His piercing eyes scrutinized Sauron: a predator sizing up his prey. "Excuse me if I don't take your word at face value," he said sternly. "I'm the one who almost got a stone dropped on me." His eagle gaze fell on Sauron's hanging arm. "What's wrong with your arm, Sauron?"

Anger simmered over a horribly familiar sinking feeling of humiliation settling in his stomach. "You prying into what is none of your business is what's the matter," he sneered in response.

Eönwë didn't respond, at least not verbally. However, he moved with a grace and quickness that Sauron did not anticipate. His nimble fingers plucked one of the chisels from Sauron's work table, which he wielded almost as an extension of his arm, hooking it underneath Sauron's sleeve and pushing the fabric up to his shoulder, revealing the red cloth bandage. Sauron instantly swatted the chisel away and yanked the fabric back down, but the damage was done.

"I knew it," Eönwë said, some sort of grim satisfaction in his voice. "You are injured."

Sauron could tell they had passed the point where he could continue hiding the wound without looking like even more of a fool. His pride stung almost as sharply as the bloody scrapes on his hand. "What a brilliant use of your eagle eyes, Eönwë!" He finished tying off his makeshift bandage with an overly sharp tug. "Yes, my arm is injured."

"And you decided not to mention that to me…why?"

"Because I knew you'd do this!" Sauron made a disgusted gesture towards the Herald with his good hand. His skin felt unpleasantly hot. "I knew you'd treat me as if I'm a helpless little chick in need of your rescuing. I know how much you adore being the hero, how much you love rushing in to right all the wrongs in the world, but I'm afraid I must rob you of that pleasure today. I am no slave for you to liberate nor a damsel in distress for you to save, but even if I was, I would not seek out your help, Herald of Manwë." He turned his face away, feeling the heat of his anger and shame under his skin. It bothered him that he'd let his usual calm control slip, but in the moment he could not entirely contain the bubbling cauldron of his emotions.

Eönwë heaved a frustrated sigh. "All right, so you don't want to be rescued or helped, so what do you want?" His sky-blue eyes continued to pierce into Sauron. "I can tell by the way your arm is hanging that something's torn in your shoulder. You obviously can't continue working in that state, not this job anyway. If you don't want my help, whose help do you want, because you obviously need it?"

"I wouldn't need any help with my arm if I wasn't stuck in this cursed quarry," Sauron snarled. "And I wouldn't need any help at all if you hadn't destroyed my life."

Eönwë's expression suddenly tensed at that, and something like acute pain flickered across his face. He was still and cold for several long seconds. Then he spoke in a clipped voice. "I can arrange to get you some time off from the quarry to heal. I'd ask you how you ended up with a hurt arm to begin with, but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you'll just snap and snarl at me for that too." He sucked in a deep, steadying breath. "I need to refill the water bucket, but if you come with me, we can discuss getting you time off with Yavairë at the command tent."

Sauron considered Eönwë's words briefly. As much as it chafed at his already raw pride, he knew there was no alternative. Continuing to work would only further injure his arm, and if there was one thing that trumped his pride, it might be self-preservation, not that he liked admitting it even to himself. But he did not want to risk permanently maiming himself, especially when he had no idea how long, if ever, it would be before he was given back the ability to change his form. Abasing himself to accept Eönwë's assistance, even in so small a matter, was better than the next three ages with a useless arm.

It didn't mean he was going to do it nicely though.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he hissed. "Swooping in to the rescue at the last minute and thinking that makes everything right, just like your lord."

Eönwë's jaw worked sharply, but he didn't offer any retort and simply picked up his bucket and started walking down the path towards the quarry entrance and the well. Sauron watched him darkly for a few seconds then strode after him, ignoring the sharp pain still pulsing through his shoulder.

They walked past the blacksmiths who were repairing broken hammers and chisels and resharpening picks in their central tented area by the well. Sauron felt the heat from the nearest forge as they stopped in front of the water spigot and Eönwë set down his bucket.

The Herald turned the spigot knob more forcefully than was probably necessary. He watched the water trickling into his bucket, still visibly stewing. Finally, he looked over at Sauron, scowling.

"I just don't understand!" He finally exploded. "You're obviously in pain. I have no idea what you think you're trying to prove here by refusing any help, beyond how thick-headedly stubborn you are. Is it really worth the pain just to aggravate me?"

Sauron leaned against the frame of the small shelter erected for the blacksmiths. He sneered. "This? This isn't pain."

Eönwë rolled his eyes. "Oh, and just what is it then?"

"An irritation. Much like you."

Eönwë made a sound of frustration. "You completely dropped that block back there, and I can see you favoring that arm, even now. That looks like pain to me."

The glance Sauron gave Eönwë was withering. "You don't know what pain looks like," he snarled low in his throat.

Eönwë went grim, his broad shoulders stiffening. "I was there during the War of Wrath or don't you remember? I think I've seen my fair share of pain."

"Oh, poor Eönwë, Herald of Manwë," Sauron mocked. "Haunted by the dead and dying on yet another battlefield? Do you have nightmares? Do you wake up screaming from all the horrific terrors you've witnessed?"

Eönwë instantly bristled, whirling towards Sauron even though his bucket was on the verge of overflowing. "You think it's funny to mock the horrors of battle? I knew you were foul, but that seems twisted even for you. Hundreds of thousands died. Hundreds of thousands suffered. Because of you and your master, and yet you stand there mocking it."

That roiling anger – hot and terrible – from earlier was building in Sauron's chest again as Eönwë spoke, his shame transmuting into something dreadful and violent. There was a wordless scream in his heart that he could not name. "You have no right to speak of suffering. You know nothing of it."

"And you do have the right?" Eönwë shot back furiously, ignoring his now-overflowing bucket. "You who has caused so much of it yet stands there now throwing a temper tantrum over a hurt shoulder. No, I haven't bled out on a battlefield, but neither have you, so don't you dare diminish their suffering!"

The scream inside Sauron was clawing up his throat, burning with bile and some nameless agony beyond his rational thought. His voice was little more than the snarl of an injured animal. "I know more of suffering than you can possibly imagine. You know nothing."

He moved on pure instinct, driven by that terrible scream instead of him. Without thinking, he darted forward as agile and quick as a cat, and before anyone could stop him, he seized a poker out of the nearest forge. The tip glowed white with intense heat, and the blaze of it flared in his wild eyes. Before Eönwë or the surprised Elven blacksmith could react, Sauron pressed the pulsing white-red tip of the poker to the flesh of his own exposed forearm.

Eönwë screamed. Panic, terror, and horror were stamped across his face. He lunged for Sauron, trying to wrestle the poker out of his hand. Sauron stepped backwards and twisted away, evading the Herald's frantic grab.

There was a roaring sound in Sauron's ears and his heart was racing so hard that he thought it might burst. Everything felt strangely distant, except for that pure, excruciating agony radiating from his arm. But there was something weirdly familiar and comforting about it at the same time – it was pure and vivid, unlike the agony of the scream filling every cavity of his soul.

Eönwë's face had gone bone-white. He lunged again, this time more purposefully, and managed to rip the poker out of Sauron's hand. He flung it away as if it were a venomous snake. "What do you think you're doing?" he screamed, his voice shrill. There was a glaze of nauseated horror in his eyes. "Why would you do that? You idiot!"

Sauron gave Eönwë a scathing look of pure disgust. "Look at you, falling apart at the mere sight of a little pain." His eyes blazed with hatred and that deep nameless agony inside for which there were no words in any tongue he knew. "You know nothing of pain," he spat. "And I do not need your pity or your help."

Then he turned his back on the shocked Herald and walked towards the quarry's exit, his back ramrod straight and his heart screaming.

Chapter Text

Thrust. Parry. Side step. Overhead slash. Front step. Lunge. Thrust.

Eönwë flowed through the movements of his martial exercise, his sword cutting patterns of silver light into the air in front of him.

Side slash. Pivot. Parry. Back step. Thrust.

Today, he'd opted to wear his blended fána for the exercises. His two great eagle wings beat powerfully at the air around him as he nimbly leapt back and forth, lunging and thrusting, whirling and slashing. Sometimes he lifted off his feet altogether, his sword stabbing downwards from above at his imaginary opponents. Sweat trickled down between the slice of bare skin between the golden feathers on his back.

The athletic field lay outside the gates of Ilmarin, on a spur of Taniquetil that looked east towards the Calacirya. On the far side of the field were rows of targets for archery practice or javelin-throwing, while the closer side was comprised of open shorn grass where the Maiar of Ilmarin and the Vanyar could exercise and hone their battle skills. Although, Eönwë considered, hopefully now there would be no more need of such skills until the Second Music.

Instead, Eönwë had a different sort of battle to wage.

Thrust. Thrust. Back step. Side slash. Parry.

The Herald passionately threw himself into the feeling of the sweat gliding down his skin, the rushing air swirling about him from the beat of his wings, and the cold, familiar metal twisting in his fingers. Anything to drown out the image of what he'd seen that morning.

You know nothing of pain.

Eönwë bared his teeth, tucking in his wings then flaring them to perform an elaborate mid-air flip, his sword leaping from one hand to the other as if it were a living thing of its own. He stabbed forward, his blade twisting sharply.

A Maia suddenly stared back at him, his blade imbedded deep in her chest. She glared at him with haunted dark eyes, and the short sword she carried slipped from nerveless fingers. Red blood bubbled from between her parted lips, her gaze locked irrevocably with his, her expression filled with hatred, agony, and numbing terror.

Eönwë dropped his sword with a curse, but the vision was gone. He was standing alone once again in the field outside Ilmarin's gates. Trembling, he ran his hands down his face.

Suddenly wearied beyond his power, he made his way to the edge of the field and slumped down heavily onto one of the many benches that lined the green for spectators on those days when friendly contests of strength and combat were held at Lord Manwë's behest. On the far side of the field, two Vanyarin néri with bows practiced at the ranges, but otherwise it was still and silent under the heat of the mid-day sun. Most of Ilmarin's residents were probably finishing up lunch in the crystalline Great Hall or were seeking a cooler respite indoors. Eönwë bent over, leaning his elbows against his knees, and closed his eyes.

And just like that, there he was again, as if branded into Eönwë's inner eye.

Sauron, defiant and arrogant and tall, standing there unflinching with the glowing metal pressed against his bare skin.

It almost would have been better if Sauron had screamed in agony. It would have been better if there had been something on his face to reveal even a hint of his pain. Instead, Eönwë was haunted by that terrible, terrible nothingness that had fallen over Sauron's entire countenance as he pressed the poker to his skin. As ever, Sauron's eyes had blazed with that dreadful dark fire that made Eönwë's skin crawl, and his lips had twisted into something that might almost have been a scornful smirk, that Eönwë knew would haunt him until the end of days. But there had been an emptiness to him at the same time, as if in that moment his very spirit had shriveled up inside of him, leaving only a hollow husk of a being in its place.

But the truest horror of the image for Eönwë was in what it signified.

Eönwë was a Maia of principles. The world was ordered to certain truths of Good and Evil, and the foundations of his world had been strong and steady for many, many years, unchallenged. Indeed, even the War of Wrath had not shaken those foundations; if anything, his direct witness to the evils wrought by Morgoth and his servants had only made those convictions stronger.

And one of those foundations, one of those truths upon which Eönwë's world was grounded, was that Sauron was a monster who had wreaked unspeakable cruelty and evil upon the world and upon the Children whom Eönwë loved.

But that truth had held no possibility that Sauron himself might have faced unspeakable torments of his own.

Eönwë opened his eyes and shuddered, rubbing his fingers up and down his cheeks, his breathing still labored.

He rose and made his way to the huge communal bath house at the far end of the athletic field. He walked up the crystal steps, hardly noticing the soaring white marble pillars carved like bevies of swans that lined the front of the building, his fingers nimbly undoing his swordbelt which he left in the designated cubbies built into the side of the outer wall.

Inside, it was humid and hot. Like most buildings in Ilmarin, the roof was glass, both to let in the sight of the Lord of Ilmarin's beloved sky and the Queen of Ilmarin's stars at night, but in the bath house it also provided a practical greenhouse effect, warming the spacious expanse of water. The center of the building was a huge pool, waist-deep, and fashioned with curves and inlets and even a small island to mimic a natural body of water. Surrounding it were trees and ferns and shrubs growing naturally from holes amongst the smooth tiles, giving the room the illusion that Eönwë was still outdoors and in some distant jungle. Adding to this, the walls had been cunningly constructed to give the appearance of a natural rock face, save that all was carved in white marble. Water cascaded down from various places in the walls, glistening over the carved marble, then running away in cut channels into the floor.

Eönwë stood unclothed under one of the waterfalls, letting the cool water flow over his shoulders and down his lithe back, cleansing himself of both the quarry grime from that morning and the sweat he'd accumulated during his routine sword practice. Gently, he spread his wings, allowing the droplets to slide between the golden feathers. He lifted his face to the water and closed his eyes, letting the soothing rush and patter envelope him.

He suddenly wondered where Sauron was and if the other Maia was finding any comfort wherever he might be.

A burn like that had to be excruciating. The poker had only touched his skin for perhaps ten seconds, but that was more than enough time to leave a truly agonizing wound. Eönwë himself had never been severely burnt before, but he'd seen those who had. During the War of Wrath, Morgoth had on multiple occasions displayed his propensity for using fire as a weapon. During the final assault of Angband, fire had rained down from the peaks of Thangorodrim over the armies of the West and left many dead or wounded. Eönwë remembered seeing an Elf in the healing tents who had been standing too close when one of the balls of fire landed, spraying molten flames over everything in its path. Eönwë still remembered the way the Elf had screamed and writhed, three healers trying to hold him down as they tended to the horrific burns that covered nearly half his body. The Elf's bloodcurdling shrieks and sobs were imprinted in Eönwë's mind.

And Sauron, being Sauron, would probably not only seek out no comfort, but he'd probably be actively concealing his wound from anyone who might try to help him, just as he'd done with his shoulder that morning.

Eönwë groaned. He'd been so focused on the dramatic horror of Sauron's self-inflicted wound that he'd almost forgotten about his shoulder, which was almost certainly sporting a torn ligament. In and of itself, that injury alone was probably profoundly painful. Eönwë knew that Sauron was physically strong, and it must have taken a great deal to make Sauron drop the block the way he had. He knew it wasn't truly his problem, but he couldn't help feeling anxious about it all the same.

He clinched his teeth. When had he started to actually care about Sauron's wellbeing?

Leaving the waterfall, he lowered himself into the central pool, his wings tucked close against his body. He pushed off from the wall and began laps back and forth, his body cutting swiftly through the water like an arrow from a bow. There were several Elves and a couple Maiar enjoying the far end of the pool, but Eönwë avoided them, not wishing to be pulled into conversation.

After a while, he grew weary and climbed from the pool, availing himself of one of the simple white smocks provided at the exit to the bath house. The garment had no accommodation for his wings, so he shifted to his more accustomed form. Grabbing his sheathed sword on the way out, he headed into the main halls of Ilmarin.

Once in his chambers, he changed into a knee-length tunic of pale blue with gold swirls of embroidery stitched about the loose neckline and sleeves and began brushing out his long tangled hair. Just as he started however, there was a knock at his door and the touch of a familiar, inquisitive mind against his. He opened his own mind in response, allowing consent to permeate his thoughts, and a moment later the door opened to reveal Ilmarë.

"I heard that you were back early." She approached and sat down on his bed beside him, her dark blue skirts pooling about her. "I figured that meant something was probably wrong."

Gently, she plucked the brush out of Eönwë's hands and turned on the bed to face towards him, one leg tucked up underneath herself. He sighed as she scooped his hair around to his back and began to untangle it, the brush creating a soothing sensation.

There was silence between them for a while as Ilmarë continued to brush his hair, even after all the tangles had been smoothed out of the golden locks. There was a quiet air of invitation to the silence but it was devoid of pressure.

Finally, he broke the silence. "I'm not sure what to say," he said in an unsteady voice.

"Maybe start at the beginning and just tell me what happened."

Eönwë smiled at his sister's practical advice. She knew him too well, and how his mind got caught up in a windstorm of emotions and thoughts that were difficult to put into words. He breathed a deep sigh.

"Everything was going normally…or so I thought. Then Sauron and I were lifting one of the blocks and he just…dropped it. It turned out he'd been hiding an injured shoulder from me all morning." He scowled, angry at himself that Sauron had so easily hid something like that from him for hours and that it had taken something as drastic as his shoulder tearing and him nearly crushing Eönwë's feet under a stone block for him to notice. True, he'd had no reason to suspect that Sauron was injured and had therefore not been looking for signs, but still, while at the quarry, Sauron was his charge and he couldn't help but feel that somehow he'd failed the other Maia.

"He was upset with me and lashed out like he always does. He said he didn't want help, but what was I supposed to do? He obviously needed it." Bitterness seeped into the Herald's voice. He knew it shouldn't surprise or shock him – there was little love lost between the two of them after all – but for some reason it still hurt that Sauron had so violently rejected his help. He could still hear Sauron's scathing words and the hatred in his voice. It chafed at him how the other Maia had twisted what Eönwë considered his virtues into flaws, his desire to help into something shameful. "Apparently, I should have just ignored the fact that he was blatantly injured and just pretended everything was fine."

Ilmarë put the brush down. "I know it's hard, but try not to let him get under your skin," she said, her fingers twining with his hair as she began to braid it.

Eönwë sighed. "I know I shouldn't, but somehow he gets under my skin like nothing else. It's like he knows exactly where to get at me."

Even as he said it, he knew why Sauron had that power over him. His mind flashed back to Almaren, sitting in Lord Manwë's courts with Mairon at his side, as they talked and laughed and made plans for a future that had never happened long into the endless Light. His friend's eyes had sparked and shone with that brilliant inner fire he had always possessed, and his smiles in those days had been full of excitement and passion. But while Mairon had changed into something nearly unrecognizable from what he had been in the subsequent Ages, Eönwë had remained much the same as he had always been, back in the days when he had trusted Mairon with so much of his heart.

"How did his shoulder get injured in the first place?" Ilmarë asked after Eönwë had fallen silent for a minute.

Eönwë frowned. "I don't know. He wouldn't tell me." Once again, he'd been so caught up in the more dramatic nature of what had come afterwards that he'd nearly forgotten to wonder what had started it all in the first place. With a twinge of suspicion, he wondered if that hadn't been Sauron's exact purpose all along. It was possible that Sauron had injured his arm in some routine manner, but if that was the case, Eönwë suspected that Sauron wouldn't have been quite so cagey about it. Something told him that the injury had been inflicted upon Sauron. And he knew from both personal experience and from practical knowledge that Sauron was not easy to injure unawares. The fact that someone had not only attacked Sauron but been successful was disturbing at best. And whoever had done so had acted explicitly outside the jurisdiction of the Valar. A bubble of righteous anger arose in Eönwë's chest.

But then his mind turned to the final part of his story. He breathed in deeply. "We…we argued, and I grew heated with him. He told me that I knew nothing of pain and he mocked the suffering of those I had seen during the War. I do not know what happened or what possessed him, but he…he seized a poker straight from a blacksmith's fire and pressed it on his own bare skin."

Ilmarë dropped the braid in her hand abruptly. "What?" she gasped, a horrified tone to her voice.

Eönwë rubbed his brow, exhaustion, confusion, and inner turmoil weighing on his spirit. "I know it sounds crazy, but I watched him do it, Ilmarë. And Ilmarë…" He swallowed. "He…he didn't even flinch. He didn't cry out. He just stood there with that poker against his skin and stared at me." Once again, he saw the terrible emptiness in Sauron's face, and his heart felt as if it were being constricted into a tight knot. "Why? Why would anyone do that to themselves, Ilmarë?" What happened to him that made him capable of doing that?

Ilmarë's voice sounded strained. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I don't know." She looked at him gravely, her silver eyes locking with his. "You have to tell Lord Manwë about this."

Eönwë drew a hand over his face. "I know. Sauron will hate me for it though."

Ilmarë touched his arm tenderly. "Maybe in time he'll understand. But this is outside the realm of either of our abilities or our understandings."

Eönwë turned himself on the edge of the bed to face her fully. "I don't know how to put it exactly, but…I feel like somehow I've failed him. I'm the one who convinced him to come back. Everything that happens to him here feels like it lies at my feet."

Ilmarë stroked her fingertips up and down his arm. "Please Eönwë, do not strap a burden to your shoulders that is not yours to bear. For all we know, worse might have befallen him in Middle-earth had you not convinced him to come back. Sauron's pain does not need to be yours, and you are not responsible for his life."

I wouldn't need any help at all if you hadn't destroyed my life.

He knew what Sauron had meant by those vicious words. In his heart, he knew Sauron had been referring to the War of Wrath and Eönwë leading the Host of the West against him and his former master. But for a split second, Eönwë had thought that Sauron meant something far darker.

No, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what you did.

Another memory flashed through his mind. Terrified silver eyes. A cruel dark face wearing a mocking smile. A laugh that haunted his dreams.

His secret. His secret of secrets that he had told to no one, not even Manwë.

Sauron has every right to hate me. He just doesn't completely know why.

Ilmarë's tender touch against his cheek brought him back to the present. He realized that tears had unconsciously spilled out and over his face, dripping down his chin. The Handmaiden smiled gently at him. "Your heart is big enough for the entire world, Brother. Not everyone could feel such sorrow for one so long lost, but it is no flaw for you to do so." She ran her thumb across his cheek, and the sensation was comforting beyond measure. "You cannot force Sauron to accept your compassion, but you can still offer it. And who knows, maybe simply knowing that someone cares will touch him deeper than any of us know."

Eönwë reached up and took her hand from his cheek, squeezing it tightly. "Thank you, Ilmarë. Your words mean more to me than you know."

She smiled then rose, her footfalls light as stardust on the way to his door. "At least you understand what Sauron cannot yet comprehend: that you don't have to do this alone. You know you can reach out if you need me."

In reply, Eönwë let a tendril of his will reach out and twine fondly around hers in a loving Ainurin embrace. Her own will twined back, stroking against his, and a shimmer of music coiled out from each of their eälar.

For a while after, Eönwë remained in his suites, thinking about what Ilmarë had said, when suddenly an idea came to him. Rising, he walked to a chest of drawers in the corner of his bedchamber and opened the top drawer, pulling out a small glass jar.

Maybe simply knowing that someone care will touch him deeper than any of us know.

He had no idea how Sauron would respond – poorly, most likely – but he had to try. Eönwë was beginning to understand that there was more to Sauron's story than he had ever dared to guess at. Let Sauron mock him for playing the hero if he so wished, but he knew his heart would not be at rest otherwise.

He threw open the glass doors that lead out onto his crystal balcony and changed his fána to his eagle form. Then, with a mighty beat of his wings and the small jar clutched in his talons, he took flight northwards towards the sprawling Halls of Aulë on the far outskirts of Valmar.

~o~o~o~

Sauron lay curled up in a ball of excruciating misery on his bed – anger, shame, and pure wretchedness hanging like a dark cloud about him, his arm clutched to his chest.

He'd put on a spectacular show for Eönwë in the quarry and had done so without flinching, but the truth was that it had hurt terribly, even for him, and Sauron was no stranger to pain. At least he'd had the sense to burn the arm that was already hurt, even if he'd not consciously considered it as he performed the deed. But now, between the constant throbbing of his torn shoulder and the raging fire in his left forearm, his world had narrowed to one of pure inescapable torment.

He didn't regret it though, not even now. As awful as the pain was, it gave him something to focus on beyond the slag pit of his life. Despair hung dark and heavy upon him as it had not since right after his trial. True, there were some small details that had gone his way: his discovery of new uses for Yavanna's plants and his success the other day with Erenquaro. Before yesterday, he even would have said that his mood had been uplifted of late. But it had all been an illusion, and these last two days had brought reality crashing back in.

He could scheme and he could plot, but in the end, what could he truly achieve?

Once again, Eönwë had forced him to face the question that burned at him more fiercely than any iron poker. Why had he truly bothered to return to Valinor?

He remembered that night in Eönwë's tent, curled up on the cot with his old hammer clutched against his chest and tears streaming down his face. Had it really been a little over three months ago? Even as an immortal Ainu for whom Ages of the world had passed, it seemed difficult to wrap his mind around how much had happened and changed in such an incredibly short span of time. But that night, he had wanted more than anything to know he still had a place in the world of some significance. But now, curled up in a different bed months later on the opposite side of the world, he saw that dream for the mockery that it had always been.

Could he have fled and escaped as Eönwë had suggested? He knew he probably could have. He could have fled east and south, down into the far, wild lands that were mostly untouched by either Eldar or Atani. He was patient, and he knew he could have hidden for as long as it took for the world to become safe for him once again. Then he could have gathered the remnants of Lord Melkor's servants about him; he had been the Black Captain and he knew they would have bowed down to him as Melkor's successor without question. And…then what? Would he have rebuilt Lord Melkor's kingdom? Would he have built his own kingdom? Would the Valar have let him?

Right now, that seemed better than the fate he'd doomed himself to for the rest of his existence. There, he might have been revered, if only by the surviving orcs and other spawn of darkness that had escaped the War of Wrath. Here, he was utterly reviled and alone. Alone because you shove away anyone who attempts to care, a soft voice inside whispered, but he pushed it away with a snarl. Aulë didn't count; he just wanted his tame little Nauron back. And Erenquaro? Erenquaro was too stupid to count. He shoved his face violently into his pillow. Even if anyone else in all of Aman knew of his pain, he could guarantee not one of them would care. Most of them would probably think he deserved it.

And maybe he did deserve it.

He had believed in Lord Melkor's right to lordship over the earth, and he had believed in his own visions of a kingdom ordered to his own will. Had Melkor overthrown all the other Valar and taken dominion over every corner of Arda, he had promised Sauron a share of that new world to do with as he willed. But Sauron was under no illusion that he was a good person. He knew full well that he had brought untold suffering into the world, but in the end he would have made it worth it, if he'd been allowed to.

So perhaps he did not "deserve" the compassion of anyone based on the merits of his character, but he'd spent Ages toiling for his vision of the world, shedding his own blood, bending all his thoughts and will and mind to its achievement, and he felt that counted for something, for sheer effort if nothing else. In the meantime, what had the Valar and the other Maiar done? Sat in their grand halls, feasting and drinking and occasionally banishing Elven families when they got too unruly? And yet, it was they who had won, they who had gotten the world that they wanted, they who now got to order the world to their wills. It was infuriating.

Yet, it was the way things had worked out, and now he had no choice but to find his place in their world.

Briefly, he wondered what would happen were he just to give up, stop fighting, and let the Valar have their ultimate way. What if he gave them what he wanted and let them "heal" him, whatever Void-forsaken thing that meant? Maybe in an Age, he'd be so broken and defeated that he simply wouldn't care enough anymore to hurt. Maybe he would lose so much of himself that one day he'd even be happy or some mockery of it anyway. Would it be worth it? He scowled into his pillow. Happiness had never been his goal – he hadn't exactly been happy in Angband – but right now anything seemed like it would feel better than this relentless crushing despair.

He pushed the thought away. Whatever came to pass, he knew the one thing he could not bear would be to let the Valar break him. To reach anything resembling a tolerable life down that path, he would have to lose himself so entirely that he wasn't even sure he'd still be himself. He tried briefly to imagine it: gorging himself witlessly on sweetmeats and wine, attending festivals and happily dancing arm-in-arm with those cursed Eldar swine, ohhing and ahhing over the stars that had been set in the sky in defiance of himself and Lord Melkor every evening, bowing his head and calling Aulë his Lord once again. No, he would rather suffer for the rest of Time than go down the Valar's humiliating path of "healing" and "redemption". He could not live out the rest of his existence as a little pet at the Valar's feet.

And yet he was tired, so so so tired. He closed his eyes tight shut and tried to focus on the pain of his arm instead of the pain in his heart.

That was when a knock sounded on his door.

He groaned into his pillow with disgust. It was probably Aulë, coming to see why he was back from the quarry already. Sauron wasn't sure exactly what time it as, but he suspected it was around mid-afternoon, about the time he'd have been normally getting back. After his demonstration with the poker, he'd walked straight back to the Halls from the quarry without his designated escort. Most likely, his escort had arrived at the quarry, discovered he'd already left, and had rushed back in a tizzy to report to Aulë, and now the Smith was here to either scold him or coddle him. Sauron wasn't sure which would be worse.

He considered not answering and seeing if whoever it was would go away, but as the knocking persisted, he dragged himself upright, his shoulder protesting and his burn flaring. Angrily, he stalked to the door, unbarred it, and flung it open.

Outside of his door stood Eönwë.

For a few long seconds, the fire Maia and the sky Maia just stared at each other.

Finally, Sauron's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" he sneered. "You might want to check those eagle eyes of yours, because I'm quite certain you're in the wrong Halls."

He went to shut the door but Eönwë put out a hand, stopping him. "I came to see how you're doing," he said simply.

"Well, let's see." Sauron spread out his arms, completely aware that he was putting his ugly, blistering wound on full display. "It appears I'm doing exactly the same as when you saw me just a few hours ago. Fancy that."

Indeed, he saw Eönwë's eyes flicker to the wound and the Herald visibly blanched, but he didn't back down from Sauron scathing tone. "I suppose you haven't bothered to actually get help for your wounds," he said at last.

"Should I?" Sauron shot back.

"Are you asking my opinion?" Eönwë raised an eyebrow. "Because in that case, yes, I absolutely think you should. But you made it pretty clear earlier what you think of my opinions."

Sauron put his hand on the door, though Eönwë still blocked it. "And that remains my sentiment." He pushed on the door a little, causing Eönwë to have to press back to keep it open. "Now do you have any reason of actual importance to be here? Because if you don't, I have some very important contemplations of self-pity that I would prefer to get back to."

"I thought you didn't like pity, Sauron," Eönwë said. "But I am actually here for a reason. Two reasons actually."

He took a step forward, standing fully in the door frame so that Sauron couldn't shut him out. "I spoke to Yavairë after you left, and she's agreed to give you four weeks for your shoulder to heal. Of course, you will need to verify that with Lord Aulë so that the Valar can agree and grant you their official permission, which I'm sure they will, given the circumstances. I assume you find that a reasonable excuse for my visit."

Sauron's expression didn't change. "You said there were two reasons for your visit."

"Yes." Eönwë held something out. "I also came to give you this."

Sauron looked down at the object in the Herald's hand. It was a small glass jar, plain and filled with some sort of off-white substance. Sauron stared at it suspiciously but didn't take it.

"It's a salve," Eönwë explained, still holding out the jar. "A very powerful salve, compounded by Estë herself in Lórien. She gave it to me when I left for the War of Wrath. It has the power to heal and soothe many wounds. It can bring you great relief."

Sauron still did not take the jar, but his face darkened. "I did not ask for relief," he said in a low voice.

"I know you didn't," Eönwë replied. "But I'm offering it anyway. Because maybe you don't believe it, but I don't want you to suffer."

Sauron's eyes sparked with malice. "Ah, and there we have the truth," he said, his voice cutting. "A gift to ease your conscience and your tender disposition. You cannot bear the thought of another in pain, and so you bring me this so-called gift to ease your sleep this night. Perhaps I did not make it clear at the quarry, but I neither want nor need your help, and I will not be an instrument to coddle your weak stomach." His eyes flickered scornfully to the jar. "Apparently, I did not clearly enough illustrate what the consequences of your meddling would be." He tipped his head to the side, gazing at the jar almost musingly. "If you need further demonstrations, I'm sure I could come up with something creative using glass shards from your jar."

Eönwë's jaw clenched. "You can twist my words and my intentions all you like, Sauron, but we both know I'm doing this because I still care about you." His blue eyes pierced into Sauron. "You were my friend once, however long ago, and I won't give up on you."

Sauron crossed his arms, not without considerable pain, and made no move to take the salve. Eönwë pushed it towards him. "Maybe you think you have to suffer to prove something, but that's not the way it works here in Valinor. You're not alone."

Sauron's glare was absolutely venomous. "Go to the Void, Eönwë," he spat, attempting once more to shut the door.

Eönwë's temper finally sparked as well. "When are you going to get it through your thick skull that you aren't proving anything with all of this? Curse you, Sauron, curse you and your thick, stubborn, stupid skull. I don't know what Morgoth did to you that taught you to treat pain like this, but you're not in Angband anymore. You don't have to suffer. Now take the kum-húka salve and use it!"

Sauron blinked as the jar was thrust forcefully into his hand, hiding his surprise and wondering simultaneously where Eönwë of all people had learned to curse in Orcish.

Eönwë pinched the bridge of his nose in a now-familiar gesture of exasperation. "I can't force you to use it, but I hope you will." He flung up his hands and stepped back. "And now you'll be very happy to know that I'm going." And without further ceremony, he strode off down the corridor, leaving Sauron still standing at his open door with the salve in his hand.

~o~o~o~

After he'd shut and barred his door again, Sauron sat back down on his bed, holding the jar of salve and staring at it, his mind attempting to process what had just happened. Eönwë's appearance had been entirely unexpected, and despite his scornful façade, he wasn't at all sure what to make of it.

First, he decided to focus on the news that he had four weeks off from the quarry. That at least was pure relief. Not only would that give his arm time to heal without concerns of it being damaged further, but he was not about to complain about a month's hiatus from the hated work. As Eönwë had said, he didn't foresee the Valar denying him the respite, especially if he went to Aulë first. Clearly, the Valar wanted to keep him worn down and occupied with the manual labor, but he was decently certain they didn't actually want to permanently maim him, most of them anyway. The matter of whether he'd still be required to work in his condition had been weighing on him more heavily than he'd realized.

He turned the jar in his hands as he simultaneously turned his mind to it. He was furious with Eönwë, that he knew. Did the stupid Herald think he couldn't handle a little pain on his own? Why couldn't the bird-brained idiot just keep his thoughts and opinions to himself, especially after Sauron had made it infinitely clear that he didn't want them? Suggesting that Sauron needed some stupid salve (and from Lórien no less) was just plain insulting. Did Eönwë have any idea who he was dealing with? With a sudden flare of fury, Sauron rose and stalked to his window, clutching the jar tightly, and wound his arm back to throw the offending salve out the casement. Let it smash and splatter on the ground for all he cared!

But at the last moment, he stayed his hand.

Something else rose up in his throat, hot and clogging. He stared at the jar again, his heart pounding uncomfortably. Just a few minutes before Eönwë's arrival, he'd been curled up in his bed, lamenting that no one cared. And then moments later, Eönwë had appeared at his door, claiming that he did. Sauron cursed and flopped back down onto his bed. Despite his taunts to the contrary, Sauron did believe that Eönwë cared, even if he had no idea why, and now he simply did not know what to do with the very thing he'd wished for.

What was he trying to prove? And who was he trying to prove it to? Eönwë? Himself? Aulë? …Melkor?

The activity of the last several minutes had set both his wounds to throbbing once again. The burn on his forearm still felt as if the hot metal was pressed against it. Everything hurt so so much.

With a sudden, violent movement, Sauron wrenched open the lid of the jar.

Cautiously, he dipped in his forefinger. Inside was a creamy paste that had a light, fresh scent that he could not name. He lifted his finger, inspecting the dab of off-white cream at its tip, then glanced at his burn. A sudden fear seized him: what if Eönwë had deceived him and the cream made the burn somehow worse? A moment after the thought shot through his mind though, he dismissed it. As much as he might dislike Eönwë, he knew that wasn't something the Herald would do, not purposefully at least. Eönwë was far too annoyingly honest for that.

Slowly, still not sure he was happy with what he was doing, he dabbed the tiniest bit of salve onto the center of his burn.

Instant relief poured through him. His body shuddered with the intensity of the sensation as the pain dramatically lessened. The fire in his skin instantly cooled, and he could feel the healing power seeping down into the damaged layers of his flesh.

Quickly, almost desperately even, he dipped his finger in the jar again, this time scooping out a larger dab. This he spread gingerly over the entire burn. As he did so, his tensed muscles relaxed as his body was finally released from the intense pain he'd been bearing for the last several hours.

He screwed the lid back onto the jar, setting it on his bedside table, then he lay back in his bed, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

Now, as the more severe and immediate pain of his burn subsided, his thoughts turned to his shoulder. Of the two wounds, it was the one that might prove to have more long-term severity if he didn't deal with it properly. He still needed to speak to Aulë, to be granted an official respite from the quarry sanctioned by the Valar, and he couldn't see any way of doing that without revealing the reason why he was requesting a break. He grit his teeth. He was going to have to tell Aulë about the injury and he was going to have to ask for more professional tending than he could provide on his own. It made him want to kick something.

Instead, he rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. He'd already used Eönwë's salve; he might as well take himself down a notch further and go crawl at Aulë's feet for help. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

Cautiously, he stretched out his mind into the surrounding Halls. It was a natural ability for an Ainu, and one of his few that hadn't been Bound, but he'd avoided doing it since he arrived in Valinor, as it left his mind and will painfully vulnerable. However, he didn't want to go wandering aimlessly around the Halls in search of the Smith. He spread his mind out further, sensing innumerable fëar from the Elves who dwelt in the Halls and the more powerful ëalar of his fellow Maiar. Further out he stretched, searching the unseen world for the stir of a spirit powerful enough to belong to a Vala.

Finally, he found it. At first, he sensed it only as the brush of pure radiant power, but as he cautiously let his will slide closer, he recognized the earthy aura of his former lord. As he did so, he carefully brushed his mind up against Aulë's, allowing the Vala to become aware of his presence.

Aulë's will responded immediately, branching out tendrils of humming thought that twined around his in eager greeting. Sauron resisted the urge to jerk back from Aulë's overly familiar touch.

It was impossible to exchange words in this manner, but he imbued his thoughts with need and a clear desire for communication. A moment later, he was given back an impression of what he guessed to be Aulë's personal quarters, along with a clear invitation tinged with delight and paternal fondness. He shadowed his distaste, wrapping his visible thoughts instead with a pattern of acquiescence, then he broke the contact and quickly withdrew his mind back in to himself.

Shortly after, Sauron arrived at the northern wing, where Aulë and Yavanna's private residence was located. Large stone doors blocked his way forward, each one intricately carved, the left with a hammer and anvil and the right with a blossoming tree. Sauron hesitated briefly, then lifted his hand and knocked.

The doors swung open, as if of their own accord, and Sauron stepped into the large atrium of Aulë's quarters.

It was built of the same stone, with hexagonal motifs, as the rest of the Halls. A lush rug of deep reds and browns covered the floor, and there was a waiting area off to his left with carved stone benches along the wall. On the far side of the room was a mahogany silk curtain, through which Sauron could see the glow of light though the room itself was windowless and dim. Brushing the curtain aside gingerly, he stepped into the main room.

It was clearly the room where Aulë carried out his business, whereas Sauron guessed his and Yavanna's private living quarters were further back in the wing. A large granite table dominated the center of the room, and light poured in from tall arched windows on the east side of the room. The ceiling was covered with a wooden trellis, from which many flowering vines hung, falling in purple and gold clusters above the table. Smallish trees of various kinds grew from the floor, spreading their seeking branches towards him, contrasting with the stone architecture.

Sauron raised an eyebrow. As grand as the room was, it was also a complete mess. Hammers, soot-stained scrolls, even piles of gleaming gems, lay scattered on every flat surface. Sauron rolled his eyes. Even in the days of Almaren, Aulë had never been the neatest nor the most well-ordered individual, and apparently that had not changed in the past several Ages.

As Sauron mused judgmentally on his former lord's lack of neatness, the Smith himself emerged from a door leading further back into the chambers. At the sight of Sauron hovering in the doorway, he gave a great beaming smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with hopeful joy. "Nauron," he said, "please do come in. It's so good to see you about! I've been meaning to catch up with you and see how your work with Erenquaro has been progressing, but there's been so much to do. I'm so pleased you reached out." He looked around and seemed to realize that all available sitting spaces were piled with various smithing equipment and other sundry junk. "Let's see, if I just move these, you can have a seat right here."

Sauron gave a forced smile. "Thank you, but I'm fine standing."

"Are you certain?" Aulë stopped trying to clear a space on one of the stone chairs around the table and looked at him, his metallic eyes infinitely soft and kind. As the Smith's eyes scanned over him, Sauron made sure to keep his left forearm tucked against his side, concealing his burn, but even so Aulë frowned and walked towards him, now radiating gentle concern. "Great Music, you look exhausted. Is everything all right? What is it you wanted to see me about? What can I do to help?"

Sauron cringed inwardly but managed to keep his façade as smooth as ever. "There is just a small matter for which I need your input." He paused, running through the words in his mind that he'd rehearsed on the walk here. "During my work at the quarry this morning, I seem to have overextended myself to a small degree. It is nothing I am concerned about, but I believe the ligaments in my shoulder may have torn slightly. Eönwë spoke on my behalf to the Elf in command at the quarry, and she conceded that I would do well to take some time off from the hard labor. Of course, I would not do so without the express permission of the Valar, so I have come seeking that permission."

A pained expression crossed Aulë's face, mingled with something like regret. "I'm so sorry to hear that you're injured, but of course we can grant you the time off to heal. You are far more important than any stone blocks you might complete in that time." Once again, he looked Sauron up and down. "Does your arm need tending?"

Once again, Sauron managed to painfully swallow his pride without any outward sign of his disgust or bitterness. "I would appreciate a compression for it, but I should be able to manage it on my own beyond that, especially if I have the time to rest."

"Of course," Aulë said with a gracious smile. "Let's head over to the healers now and they can take a look at you."

Sauron frowned at that but followed silently after Aulë as the Smith took the lead out of the room. It was a fifteen minute or so walk to the infirmary in the south wing on the opposite side of the Halls. They cut through the central courtyard, winding their way through the flowers and across the bubbling stream in the center. "How is the apprenticeship with Erenquaro going by the way," Aulë asked as they walked. "Well, I hope?"

Sauron's lips twisted slightly at the irony of the question. "Decently well," he responded conservatively. Of course, he had no intention of telling Aulë about his own plans for the apprenticeship, but he also found himself hesitant to tell Aulë that Erenquaro was abysmal at smithing. Simply because you do not want Aulë to end the apprenticeship and take your opportunity away, of course, he told himself. "I will need to take some time off from working with him for a week or so," he continued, "but I'm not concerned. I am confident we can pick up where we left off without Erenquaro falling behind on his new skills."

Aulë nodded, seemingly pleased with this. "I am content with your analysis. Do not worry about taking off as much time as you need with him. I'm sure he'll understand." The Smith cast him an appraising look. "If you don't mind me asking, has Curumo been giving you any trouble?"

Sauron kept his face composed with slight difficulty. "No, my lord," he responded innocently. "I have not had any trouble from him."

Aulë nodded again. "Good." He shook his head slowly. "Multiple times, Curumo has expressed his concerns to me about you teaching his brother. He can be a bit…overprotective…of young Erenquaro." He reached out and touched Sauron's arm, the uninjured one thankfully. "I believe he will eventually come to accept the arrangement, and you, but if he does give you any cause for worry, please let me know and I will speak with him."

Sauron kept his gaze straight ahead, not looking at Aulë. Evidently, Sauron himself wasn't the only person whom Aulë tended to underestimate. Sauron fully expected Curumo to attempt a retaliation eventually, especially after the argument he'd had with Erenquaro, and Sauron was fairly sure that "speaking with him" would help just about as much as pouring a thimbleful of water on a wildfire. "I do not believe that Curumo trusts in my qualifications to properly instruct his brother," Sauron said with wry simplicity.

"Well, I do." Aulë patted Sauron's arm again. "I believe that you are – and will – do perfectly well with him."

Sauron plastered on a pleasant, disarming smile. "I strive to do so, my lord. I am immensely grateful for your trust in me and my abilities in this area, and I assure you that I will do all in my ability to remain worthy of that trust. Being able to teach smithing again has given me back a measure of my old purpose and hope, and I will not squander it as Curumo might think."

They had now reached the south wing, and Aulë entered in. Sauron hesitated for a split second, then followed the Vala into the infirmary.

They were met by the head healer, a tall Maiarin man with short blond curls, to whom Aulë explained the situation and had Sauron recount his partially true story of events. The Maia nodded, not seeming overly concerned. He indicated a bed at the close end of the infirmary hall. "Please have a seat and remove your shirt, and I will take a look at your shoulder presently."

Sauron instantly faltered, his mind going to the unmistakable bruise on the back of his shoulder. One look at that and the healer would instantly know that he hadn't been telling the whole story. It was enough that he'd revealed his injury in any capacity, but no one – and least of all Aulë – needed to know that it had been a deliberate attack.

"All I need is a compression," he said stiffly. "That will be enough."

Aulë looked at him in surprise, and the healer frowned. "I do think it would be better for me to take a quick look at least," he said evenly. "There may be damage you haven't identified and-"

"And I am quite qualified to take care of it myself," Sauron snapped, allowing the fire in his eyes to flare. "I'm guessing of the two of us, I have seen – and treated – more extensive injuries. Unless, of course, you've tended to victims that you've been instructed to torture to the edge of their lives but keep alive as long as possible."

That comment had its exact desired effect. The Maiarin man's eyes bugged out and he jerked his hands away as if he'd just been stung. He suddenly seemed to have lost all interest in examining Sauron any closer than he had to. He composed himself with some visible effort. "I'll see what compressions we have available," he said tautly, walking away somewhat more hurriedly than before.

Sauron stared after him, ignoring Aulë until he heard the Vala sigh. "Nauron, do you have to frighten your fellow Maiar like that?"

Sauron kept his gaze straight ahead, his tone innocent. "It is part of who I am. If they cannot handle it, that is not my concern."

Aulë was silent for several awkward seconds, then he cleared his throat. "Nauron, there is something else that I've been considering, and I hope you will take thought to it." He cleared his throat. "It's been over a month now since you traveled to Nienna's Halls, and we haven't discussed where you might go next. I was thinking, if you were amenable to it, that you might visit Lórien next."

Sauron stiffened slightly but listened emotionlessly as Aulë continued. "I'd already been thinking that Lórien might be a pleasant trip for you, but I've been thinking these last few minutes: what if you took a longer respite there, while you're on your break from the quarry? You could spend the full month if you wanted. I know Irmo and Estë will welcome you, and it could do you a great deal of good. Not only would your shoulder heal faster and stronger, but I believe you could find some peace and rest that perhaps you've been struggling to find here."

Sauron continued to stare across the hall, not looking at Aulë, but he considered the Smith's proposition carefully. On the one hand, being in a place where the very air you breathed had healing properties did not sound too bad, with both his shoulder and his burn to consider. Neither Irmo nor Estë were Valar who intimidated him particularly, and he might actually get the chance to rest and be left to himself for once.

But then he remembered Nienna. She too had been someone he thought he could twist around his finger easily, but he had not forgotten the experience that had altered the very fabric of his being and the terror it had wrought in him. He also remembered how the scent of Lórien had affected him even from a distance as he rode past and also the athelas broth that Estë had tried to feed him before his trial and how it had repelled him. A deep abhorrence and fear rose from within him. Instinctively, he knew he would find no peace in Lórien.

Sauron hesitated, knowing he had to proceed delicately and not wanting to give too much away about his real reasons for not wanting to go. Finally, he spoke. "An intriguing suggestion, but I would prefer to remain here. I will be more comfortable in my own quarters, and I would prefer not to travel as I currently am. I will keep it in mind for the future however."

Aulë looked at him, and Sauron could see a mixture of sadness and something akin to relief in his silver-gold eyes. "Very well. We will postpone your visit, but I do believe it will be good for you to visit in the near future."

Sauron was spared the need to answer, for the healer returned at that moment, bearing several items. "This compression will fit over your shoulder and should assist in keeping it immobile while it heals." He handed Sauron a thick white cloth with several straps hanging off it. "The straps hook around your neck and under your chest to keep it in place." He handed Sauron a small jar as well. "Spread this ointment over the joint thrice daily and wear the compression as consistently as possible, including while you sleep. If there is no improvement in the next week, come and see me again."

Sauron and Aulë returned to the courtyard, but Sauron hung back as Aulë started towards the north wing. "I think I will remain here a while to think," he said simply when Aulë turned back toward him.

The Smith nodded. "Very well." He smiled gently at the Maia. "You know you can come to me anytime with anything you need."

Sauron flashed him a false smile in response but said nothing.

Once Aulë was gone, Sauron sat down under the colonnade beneath his old companion, the painting of Middle-earth. Looking up at it, he heaved a deep sigh. Something he could not name tugged at his heart. The visit with Aulë had gone better than anticipated and it seemed that for now he had everything under control, but a nameless dread still crawled up his spine and the taste of despair from earlier still lingered. He closed his eyes, his fingers clawing deep into the cloth bandage he held.

A part of him was angry and humiliated for having stooped to letting himself be helped, but another smaller part simply felt…relief.

He opened his eyes and stared up at the painting again, his eyes following the jagged lines of the mountains and the dark tendrils of mist, and that familiar feeling of homesickness that he always felt when looking at the painting swept over him: that longing for the place that had been his home and the sense of purpose he had felt while there. He reached out and touched the two runes at the bottom of the painting, his fingers tracing them slowly. For not nearly the first time, he wondered who "MC" was and how they had come to paint something that touched so close to his own heart. He figured he'd probably never know.

Finally, he rose with a sigh and started back towards the dormitories. A great weariness fell over him and he suddenly longed more than anything for sleep that would take away what remained of his pain, both outward and inward. At least for a short while.

Chapter Text

"O Lady mine, O Queen of Night,
No hymn of heaven nor song of star
Thy jeweled eyes nor breath so bright
Could rightly tell as they are.

No constellation on thy brow
Nor evening gloam in thine eye…"

Manwë paused, running his forefinger thoughtfully up and down the soft plume of his quill pen, musing quietly. Through the half-open casement, a gentle breeze, fresh and light and carrying a hinted scent of snow, wafted about the study room and stirred the parchments scattered around the Vala. For several long minutes, his lips moved soundlessly as he contemplated various possible rhymes, then suddenly, his blue eyes sparked with inspiration and he bent over his verses once again.

"…No silver light on fairest bough
Shall ever fade, or fading, die."

The Elder King leaned back in his chair, carved from beechwood from Oromë's forests into the shape of two spread wings, and smiled softly to himself. Queen Varda was away with several of her handmaidens at present, collecting starlight in her jeweled phials that could later be wrought into white gems or lamps fairer than any crafted by Elves or Men to grace the courts of Ilmarin. He already missed her. When she returned, he would welcome her back as the Queen of the Valar deserved, with the honor and grace of a king…and the worshipful passions of a husband. He sighed dreamily, thinking of her hair whiter than the snows of Oiolossë, her skin as smooth and fair as a mountain lake reflecting Eärendil's light, and her gentle, elegant grace kinder than Valinorean breezes across the southern plains… He could hardly wait to twine her in his arms again and see the way the thousand crystal lamps of Ilmarin glimmered in the deep pools of wisdom that were her dark eyes…

"To see thine eyes as darkling meres
To feel thy hands as fresh fallen snow-"

He was interrupted from his amorous rhymes by the familiar touch of his Herald's ëala against his own, seeking an audience. For a moment, he stared wistfully down at the parchment but then he pushed it deliberately away. There was an edge to Eönwë's thoughts that troubled Manwë, and he could tell that his Maia had something urgent to discuss that would require the Vala's full attention and sympathies.

Concern for Eönwë laced its way through Manwë's thoughts. Ever since their talk several months ago, the Herald had been facing his difficult task with renewed strength of will, and Manwë had not sensed any deeper emotional turmoil from him than occasional understandable frustration towards his recalcitrant charge. As he considered this, his heart swelled with pride for his brave Maia. He knew the task he had set him was one infused with great dread, and that it was not easy for Eönwë to daily face what his old friend had become. Yet the Herald had done so with a resolve and a courage that Manwë knew not many comprehended or appreciated.

Yet he knew. Deep pain pierced through his heart at the thought, and his eyes strayed to the top shelf of his writing desk, where rested a single black stone, little more than a paperweight to the eye, yet smoother than any hand could ever polish. For a moment, in its heart a red light seemed to pulse, and Manwë's thoughts were drawn far back to a time long ago before the shaping of the world.

A gift for you, Brother. See what we can accomplish together?

He jolted back to the present, suddenly aware again that Eönwë was still awaiting his response. Immediately, he opened his ëala fully to his Herald, welcome and comfort permeating his thoughts. A moment later, the door to his study opened with a soft groan, and Eönwë stepped inside.

Manwë rose, his kind, warm smile blanketing any thoughts of concern for the moment at the sight of his Maia. He crossed the room to the sheer crystal cabinet in the corner, where he pulled out two goblets and a flask of rosehip cordial from the flower meads of Vána in the south. Uncorking it, he poured two glasses then seated himself elegantly on the plush-cushioned window seat and held out one glass to his Herald.

"Here, Eönwë," he said gently. "Come sit with me and lay down your troubles."

Eönwë joined him, taking the proffered goblet and settling himself on the other side of the window seat. He stared out the glass, his eyes strange and distant, and the golden light spilling through the casement glowed in his eyes. Manwë sipped from his goblet and watched Eönwë patiently, trusting that the Maia would speak when he was ready.

Finally, Eönwë turned to him. He hesitated, a mixture of emotions warring across his face, then he spoke haltingly. "My Lord…have you ever…questioned…something you long thought for certain was true?"

A sad smile played about Manwë's lips, and now it was his turn to stare absently out the window into the brilliant late afternoon light forming a halo about Taniquetil's peak. "Yes," he said at length. "Deep in my heart, I did not truly believe that it was possible for a being to stray so far from Eru's light as to never come back. Part of me believed that he'd turn back to the light, even to the very moment when the Doors of Night were shut upon him. And at that moment, I was forced to face the truth that there were some darknesses that no light could pierce and some wounds too deep to ever be healed, and that I would never see my brother again." A mist gathered in his eyes. "It was a pain that could tear a soul apart. Not just the grief, but the betrayal of it, the betrayal of the very beliefs I had built my world upon. There are times when I am still so angry at Eru that my heart itself seems to rend."

Eönwë looked at his lord in astonishment. "You? Angry with Eru?"

Manwë looked at the Maia, not hiding the tears shining in the corners of his eyes, and smiled a soft, wry smile. "Yes, even me, soronya. I am above neither anger nor doubt."

Eönwë was silent, clearly processing Manwë's words, then he spoke softly. "Is that why you're so determined to help Sauron? Because you couldn't save your brother?"

Manwë ran his finger around the silver rim of his goblet and the feather pattern engraved on its surface. "Perhaps in part. But I also believe that Sauron deserves his own chance for the worth of his own being."

"And what if Sauron proves that his are the footsteps of Morgoth? What if his darkness is already beyond what any light of Valar or Eru Himself can reach?"

"Then his path will be the same as Melkor's in the end." Manwë looked deep into the worried eyes of his Herald, and sadness cloaked itself about his heart. He reached out and gently touched Eönwë's chin. "Do not be afraid, Eönwë. With Melkor, I was blinded by my desire for his repentance and my refusal to see the true depths of his depravity, and much sorrow came about because I clung to my misguided beliefs beyond the proof of my own heart and eyes. I see it now, and I take full responsibility for it. But it shall not be so again. Yet, while there is any hope for Sauron, still I will cling to it, for the sake of both his soul and ours."

Once again, there was a long silence broken only by the stirring of fabric and parchment in the breeze, as Eönwë mulled this statement over. Finally, he said, "I wasn't like you, and my thoughts were not your thoughts. If anything, I was the opposite. I believed in evil so dark and complete that it deserved neither pity nor mercy, and such was Sauron to me. I knew he had done unspeakable evil and I believed it utterly unforgivable, but…" Eönwë quivered. "…but what if unspeakable evil had been done to him as well?" He looked at Manwë, almost desperately. "How can I find a place for such a truth as that?"

Manwë rested his hand on the Herald's knee, letting his spirit curl gently around Eönwë's as he did so. "You have already taken the first step in being humble enough to recognize that sometimes our eyes do not rightly see as things are and our hearts sometimes cling to untruths that make the world easier to bear. You have welcomed questions that are much easier hidden away and not asked. By bringing your doubts to the light, you may see the truth more clearly."

Eönwë's fingers curled tightly around the azure fabric of his tabard, his eyes lowered. When he spoke, there was an almost bitter edge to his voice. "Why is it so much easier to think of him as a monster than as someone who has been hurt?"

Manwë rubbed his hand comfortingly up and down Eönwë's knee. "Perhaps," he said tenderly, "because recognizing him as the latter forces you to acknowledge that he is not so different from you as you might like to think, and because you know that if put in his place, you might very well have made the same choices that he did."

A tear slipped down Eönwë's cheek, trembled on his sharp jawline, then dropped to land on the back of Manwë's hand. The Elder King watched his Maia closely, sympathy and concern and heartbreak playing on his face, knowing that none but Eönwë could face this pain.

"Is there something you need to tell me, Eönwë?" he prompted after a minute of silence.

Eönwë looked back up into his lord's face, and Manwë saw the horror play in the sky Maia's eyes. "Something happened this morning, my Lord," he said. "Something awful."

Manwë listened intently, his eyes never leaving Eönwë, his hand gentle on the Maia's knee, as Eönwë offered his account of Sauron's injured shoulder, their subsequent argument, and the way Sauron had inflicted that terrible wound upon himself. He then spoke of his decision to take the salve to Sauron and how the fire Maia had responded. Manwë remained silent the whole time, his eyes fixed upon his Herald's face until he fell silent at last. Only then did Manwë look away, troubled thoughts clouding his mind at Eönwë's revelations.

"There's one more thing, my Lord." Eönwë swallowed, seeming to gather his thoughts, then he spoke clearly and with grim confidence. "I believe that Sauron's shoulder was injured by neither accident nor carelessness. I feel in my heart that it was inflicted upon him by another. Whom, I cannot say, but I am certain he has been attacked in some manner recently."

Manwë frowned. "If true, this is no small matter. Sauron bears the protection of the Valar as long as he upholds his oaths, and anyone who would harm him in defiance of our ruling would be acting in blatant discord to our will. More so, it may indicate that Sauron is in peril, and if so, it is our duty to protect him, as we promised when he submitted himself to us."

He patted Eönwë's knee firmly. "You have done well in telling me these things." He reached out a hand and tipped Eönwë's chin up gently, guiding the Maia to look into his eyes. "It was also a deed born from a generous and compassionate heart to give him your salve in the face of his mockery and scorn. Whether or not he uses it is something only he can decide, but your deed was one after Eru's heart regardless. You did very well."

He felt the pleasured pride ripple through Eönwë's ëala at his lord's praise, but it quickly faded away. In its place, he felt concern and doubt and…

Something else.

For a single flashing moment, a darkness rippled across Eönwë's being, scarring the brilliant golden essence of his spirit. In that split second, Manwë sensed pain and fear and crushing guilt, but then it was gone, concealed so deep in Eönwë's soul that Manwë knew he could not reach it without deeply violating his Maia's being. An instant gust of deep concern rushed through Manwë. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me, soronya?" he asked gently.

Eönwë's gaze dropped a fraction. "No, my Lord," he said quietly. "I have nothing else to report."

Manwë leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his Maia, pulling him into a tender embrace. Eönwë stiffened for a moment, then let himself melt into his lord's arms, his face pressed into Manwë's shoulder. When Manwë pulled away, he let his hand linger a moment longer against Eönwë's cheek in a caress as soft as a warm breeze from sunlit hills. "If there is nothing more, then go and take your ease. I shall take care of the information you have relayed to me. Do not let your heart be troubled, and be at peace." His fingertips lingered for a second longer. "I love you, Eönwë."

Eönwë's eyes rose again to meet his, adoration and love clear in their blue depths, and he smiled a little. He finished the last sip from his goblet, then rose and made his way to the door. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured and then he was gone.

Manwë rose and made his way slowly back over to his writing desk, musing on everything his Herald had just revealed to him. If Eönwë's report was true – and Manwë had no reason to disbelieve him – then action was required. Aulë needed to be informed immediately, both that Sauron was showing dangerous signs of wavering mental health and proclivities towards self-harm that might escalate if gone unchecked, and that his wellbeing might be threatened from outside forces acting in rebellion to the Valar's authority.

His eyes fell, as if by chance, once again on the black stone resting on his desk. His conversation with Eönwë playing loud in his mind, he picked it up. As he did so, the light in its core flared up in response to his touch.

A sudden wind gusted about him, though the casement remained half-closed, whipping fiercely through his golden hair and blue robes, and simultaneously, it seemed to his eyes that the light in the room dimmed all around him. There was a smell on the air, like freshly turned earth and clear spring water and also something else older than either earth or water. His fingers closed tightly around the stone.

Suddenly, a figure seemed to stand before him, at first nothing more than a great tall shadow but slowly it revealed itself to his eyes: a majestic form with billowing black hair and eyes darker than the darkest night and a face both fair and powerful. The memory flooded into focus all around Manwë, as if he were truly there once again.

Melkor smiled at him, a smile that drew one in and wrapped itself around you, warm and beautiful and addicting. All around them were the primordial elements of Arda, not yet formed or shaped. All was dark, except the light that glowed from the spirits of the two Ainur facing one another.

Still smiling, Melkor stretched out his hand between them, palm downward, and a single stone – misshapen and unformed – quivered then rose to hover in the air between them. Manwë watched, wonder gilded upon his young, innocent face.

"Summon a wind, Brother." Melkor's voice was deep and rich, and Manwë felt it reverberate through his very soul. "The strongest wind you can."

Manwë reached out with his thoughts, gathering the airs all around them and weaving them together with his will. He could feel them – every tide and current of the ether, every breath in all of Arda – and it filled him with exhilaration. The ropes of air that he wove began to stir as he called out to them, still learning to harness the powers that Eru had granted him when he descended into Eä. Melkor's flowing hair began to flutter in the rising wind and his smile widened.

"Stronger, Brother!" he cried, and Manwë threw all his thoughts into governing the growing tempest. It swirled around them both, enveloping them suddenly in a roaring gale.

Melkor stretched out his hand and raised the stone until it was hovering above his hand at eye level with them both, and he held it there as it was battered mercilessly by the wind howling around it. Tendrils of darkness flowed from his fingertips, absorbing into the stone, and Manwë felt the power of them both crackling in the air all around them. Melkor flung back his head and laughed, exuberant and loud, and Manwë found himself laughing too.

The wind died suddenly. The stone continued to hover for a moment, then it floated gently down to rest in Melkor's upturned palm. There it sat, no longer misshapen, but smoother than a river stone and as beautiful as a black gem. A light seemed to glow from its heart.

"A gift for you, Brother." Melkor's eyes shone, and perhaps in that long ago time, his ecstasy and even fondness had been genuine. "See what we can accomplish together?"

Manwë held the stone and stared at it. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, weathered by his wind and filled with Melkor's power. His heart swelled with elation. This was their task: to shape the entire world together, to use their powers to prepare a realm for the precious Children who were to someday come. Love and admiration for his mighty brother swept through him, and he could think of nothing better than spending the coming Ages side-by-side with him.

The memory faded as the stone's power dimmed, and the light returned to the study, leaving Manwë standing in front of his desk with the very first piece of Arda ever to be formed resting in the palm of his hand. The memory it contained by the grace of Melkor's power pulsed low in its core.

Once, it had been a promise of an entire world yet to come.

Now, it was the only thing Manwë had left to remember his brother.

The only other legacy Melkor had left behind was untold pain and suffering.

Manwë set the stone back down on his desk, his heart suddenly aching and heavy with the weight of a thousand sorrows in his chest.

Yet, even as he set down the stone, the sleeve of his robe brushed over the piece of parchment pushed to the back of the desk. He lifted it and smoothed it out, fondness and love creeping back over his features as he re-read the verses he'd been writing before Eönwë's arrival. His lips shaped the words of the two lines of the stanza he'd been half-way through. Without sitting, he picked up his quill pen, dipped it in the ink well, and added the final two lines.

"To see thine eyes as darkling meres
To feel thy hands as fresh fallen snow
To glimpse the heavens in thy tears
-A joy my heart doth long to know."

Satisfied for the moment, he set the pen back down again. Yes, the world was marred by much sorrow, and Melkor's hatred still coursed through Arda like a poison in Eä's veins, but there was still much that was beautiful, and love could ever be found for those who sought it.

He might not have been able to save Melkor, but there was still a chance for Sauron.

He turned towards the casement, pulling it fully open. Then with a single thought, he unclothed himself from his current fána, and then he sped away like a swift autumn wind northward towards the Halls of Aulë.

~o~o~o~

Yavanna was tending to the vines growing along the ceiling trellis in the main room of her and Aulë's living quarters, her fingers twining with the green fronds as she let her mind touch their sleepy thoughts. Here it was quiet…peaceful…filled with living, green things, and her mind became placid as a meadow in spring as her spirit sang quietly to the plants around her, coaxing them to breathe and grow and seek the light all around them in abundance.

Her thoughts were pulled abruptly back to the waking world by a sudden gust of wind rattling the window and eaves. At the same moment, she felt the unmistakable presence of a fellow Power permeating the room, and even as she recognized it, Manwë clothed himself in his accustomed form once again in the middle of the chamber.

The Tree Queen inclined her head respectfully. "King Manwë," she acknowledged him.

"Yavanna," he responded before glancing around the room with a slight frown. "I do not sense Aulë's presence. Is he not here?"

"I'm afraid he is not," Yavanna answered. "He is gone with several of his chief Maiar to the mines in the northern mountains outside Formenos. He is considering expanding the storage houses there and wished to inspect the foundations himself. He did not expect to return until tomorrow evening, at the earliest."

Manwë's frown deepened and he seemed pulled away, deep into his own thoughts. Yavanna waited a minute, but when the Elder King offered no further information, she put forth a prompting inquiry. "Was there something you needed? Perhaps something I can assist you with in Aulë's stead?"

Manwë's gaze returned to hers, and she sensed the perturbation deep within the glowing wells of his blue eyes. He seemed to struggle briefly with some mental debate, then replied, "Perhaps it is best if I wait for Aulë's return."

Yavanna stepped around the great table filling the center of the room to stand before him, drawing herself up a little taller. "Forgive me, my King, but it would seem to me from your demeanor that it is a matter of some urgency." She smiled. "I can assure you that I am quite capable of handling any matter that might have arisen while my husband is away."

Manwë's face softened, and he reached out a hand to place it on her shoulder. "I did not mean to either question or insult your capabilities, nor your authority within this house. Forgive me, Yavanna." His eyes drifted away again, once again caught in some inner conflict. "Yet the matter I bear concerns Aulë deeply for it concerns one of his Maiar. Sauron."

At that hated name, Yavanna felt every muscle in her body tense and her stomach knot. Her gaze grew suddenly sharp. Yet with a darting thought, she concealed her hatred from Manwë, slipping it deep down into her ëala where no Ainu would prod without permission. She willed herself to relax, and when she spoke, her voice was infused with a thin disguise of concern. "Sauron?" she said calmly. "Has there been trouble?"

When Manwë visibly hesitated, Yavanna continued smoothly. "If it is something truly urgent, I am glad to be of help. Sauron may not be my Maia, but as the lady of these Halls, I have a responsibility to him that is only little less than Aulë's."

Manwë looked directly into her eyes, his gaze as keen as an eagle, and Yavanna held that gaze steadily. She felt his spirit brushing against hers, discerning her temperament and the surface of her thoughts, and she slipped her true feelings even deeper down inside her being, further away from his soft prodding. For a moment, deep down, she quailed. Never before had she sought to conceal anything in this manner from the High King, an action little less than lying amongst the Ainur. Yet even as she quailed at her subtle deception, she remembered the great burning of Almaren and her resolve hardened further.

She spoke again, fueled by her cold hidden rage. "I'm sure neither you nor I, nor Aulë, would wish for any tragedy to befall because we did not act swiftly enough."

Finally, Manwë relented. His gaze softened, his spirit withdrawing from hers, and trusting gentleness spread across his noble features. "You are right, Yavanna. Although Aulë must be informed as soon as possible, it would be best to take action immediately." He took a deep breath. "My Herald has just relayed some troubling information to me concerning Sauron…"

Yavanna listened intently as Manwë told her both of Sauron's injuries and Eönwë's suspicions, her heart thudding heavily in her chest though outwardly she gave no sign save feigned concern. But inside her mind was racing. Manwë ended with a deep sigh. "I fear Sauron may be struggling more than we realized, and if that is the case, it is our duty to offer him what comfort, support, and aid we can. I am also deeply troubled by Eönwë's fear that Sauron was attacked, and that rebellious thoughts begin to stir against the Valar."

He rested his hand briefly upon her shoulder once again. "Please take what actions you deem best to forestall Sauron inflicting any further hurts upon himself and to protect him from outside hostility for the moment. Once Aulë returns, I would speak to him at the soonest chance on how to proceed with Sauron in our care in the long term."

Yavanna offered the High King a delicate smile, lovely as a lily in full bloom. "Of course, Your Majesty. I am glad you brought this matter to my attention, and I will make sure Aulë is properly informed of this information as soon as appropriate. Be assured, my King, Sauron's troubles will not go unheeded in these Halls."

Once again, Manwë held her gaze for a long moment, then he returned her smile. "I trust that it will be so. I will speak to you both upon Aulë's return, and we shall find a way forward through this delicate situation. Thank you, Yavanna."

Once again, he reverted to spirit form and sped away back towards Taniquetil upon a high wind. But Yavanna remained standing in the middle of the room, thoughts racing.

This might very well be the chance she had long awaited.

It had only been a short while since Sauron's trial, but every day that Sauron went free, it ate at her more and more that she, as yet, had been unable to find any way of proving what she knew to be true: that Sauron had come back, not in good faith, but rather to bring Morgoth's darkness and destruction to Valinor. She had kept a close eye on him and even taken it upon herself to search his room a couple times while he was at the quarry (she had not informed Aulë about the latter, for she had no doubt the Smith would concern himself more with some moral quandary over "Sauron's privacy" or something of that nature rather than the clear threat that the evil Maia presented to all they loved). Yet, she had been unable to uncover anything that spoke of some covert conspiracy on Sauron's part. And so she had waited, yet every day that passed, it burned at her that clearly Sauron was simply biding his time, allowing all the other Valar to grow complacent, as he festered in the shadows like a poisoned wound in Valinor's heart.

But now, Sauron was weak and injured, his spirits no doubt brought low. His emotions must be running high, if he had gone so far as to injure himself in the manner that Manwë had described. Perhaps it was time for Yavanna to make her move and force Sauron's hand.

If she could get him to snap, if she could catch him violating the terms of his trial, she could finally be rid of that cursed blight of a Maia forever.

Perhaps it was time to pull out the ace up her sleeve.

As for Aulë, despite her promise to Manwë, she had no intention of informing him about Manwë's visit or Sauron's injuries. If her plan went according to her will, there would soon be no need for it, if Sauron were finally condemned to the Void.

Quickly, she swept over to the far side of the room and opened a drawer containing ink and parchment. She frowned at the combination of architecture maps and her husband's miscellaneous blacksmith tools cluttering her chair, but she swept them to the floor and sat, spreading the blank parchment out before her. She dipped the quill pen in the ink and began writing.

It was time to invite an old friend to dinner.

~o~o~o~

Sauron leaned against his window frame, looking out at the evening light falling across Valinor in fiery splendor, but he did not truly see anything before his eyes. Absently, he picked at the strap of his compression where it rubbed irritatingly under his chest. He was exhausted, moody, and most of all, bored out of his wits.

Usually, he would have welcomed his leave from the hated quarry labor, but with his shoulder injured, he was unable to do any smithing or any other physical activities that would irritate his wound. And thus he had found himself with precious little to do to occupy his mind and restless body in the two and a half days that had passed since he burned himself. Even with Eönwë's salve, the burn still stung and his shoulder ached constantly, and the tight compression rubbed uncomfortably against his skin in a way that made him grind his teeth and constantly fight the urge to tear it off and fling it out the window. Intense nightmares had haunted his sleep as well the last two nights, robbing him of whatever rest he could cling to between the other irritants. An ill mood of despair hung over him relentlessly like a choking smog.

He rested his head wearily against the window frame and heaved an angry, miserable sigh at his situation and at the world in general.

A bell pealed out across the Halls of Aulë, clear and strident, seeming to pierce straight through Sauron's skull. The sign for supper. Sauron pushed himself upright. At least a meal would distract him for a little while from his boredom and pain, both physical and emotional.

At this point, he was no longer a spectacle. As he entered the great hall, no one seemed to take even the slightest note of him, and for a fleeting moment, he almost missed the stares and scandalized murmurs that had at least meant that he was still something. Now, he warranted no more notice than a shadow in the corner. Automatically, he began his usual dinnertime ritual of searching for an unoccupied table near the edge of the room where he would be ignored and undisturbed while he ate.

He had just caught sight of one such table when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aulë heading his direction. He sighed. Aulë had been gone the last several days and therefore Sauron had mercifully been spared his pity and concern, but now that he was back, of course he'd want to know how his poor Nauron's shoulder was doing.

He continued towards the table, pretending he had not noticed his former master, but Aulë seemed to intuit where he was heading and cut him off, stepping out in front of him and looking him up and down with the exact concern that Sauron had predicted.

Sauron attempted to sidestep him, giving him a terse smile. "My shoulder is doing fine, and I have been wearing the compression as instructed."

Aulë put a hand on his good shoulder, effectively stopping Sauron from circumventing him. "That is all very good to hear. But how goes it with your spirit?"

Irritation clawed its way up Sauron's throat. "Still Bound the last time I checked," he growled back.

Aulë's hopeful expression instantly fell. "And I would have that otherwise if it were my decision alone, but I cannot defy the ruling of the Valar, as you well know. But that is not what I meant, as I suspect you also know."

Sauron eyed Aulë appraisingly, measuring his words. "I am eager to heal to the point where I can return to the forges, but otherwise my mind is of the same temper that it has been."

Aulë frowned as he attempted to parse out Sauron's words then offered him a weak smile. "Well," he said, clapping Sauron's shoulder gently, "I'm glad that you have not let this set-back drag you down." He hesitated, his hand still resting on Sauron's shoulder. "Sauron," he said slowly, as if anticipating a poor reaction, "it would mean a lot to me if you joined us again at the head table this evening."

He must have felt Sauron instantly stiffen under his hand, for a sad but unsurprised expression crossed his face. "I know the first time didn't go well, but your very presence here is a reminder to us all of second chances. It grieves me to see you taking your meals alone, night after night, in the shadows. Please join us this evening."

Sauron took one exasperated look at Aulë's wide-eyed, pleading expression and mentally rolled his eyes. He had suspected this day would come sooner or later, but leave it to Aulë to pick the worst timing. He glanced up at the head table where the Elf lords and chief Maiar were already taking their seats, then he looked back at Aulë's beseeching face. "Could it perhaps wait until another day?" he asked wearily.

"And will not another day turn into another and yet another? Please," Aulë pleaded again, and there was something almost desperate behind his metallic eyes. "It would mean more to me than you know."

Sauron weighed his choices. On the one hand, he could give Aulë a hard 'no', push past him to his deserted table, and then endure Aulë's begging every night going forward. Or, he could suck it up, get it over with, and humor the Smith. There was no guarantee that he'd be in any better mood tomorrow or next week or next month. He resisted the urge to rub at his tired eyes, but he could feel the fight draining out of him, which only soured his mood further. Right now, he needed to carefully pick and choose his battles, and this wasn't one that was worth the energy to fight for right now. If it got Aulë off his back for a while, the price would be worth it.

"All right," he said reluctantly, "but don't expect me to do this every night. I prefer my shadowed corners." The edge of his lips twisted. "Besides, I do not exactly deserve the honor of the head table."

Aulë's expression shifted from melancholy to pleasure like the first glimpse of the dawn sun upon the horizon. He immediately began to steer Sauron towards the head table, clearly concerned that the Maia would change his mind. "Perhaps you are undeserving in some eyes, but not mine," Aulë said in his disgustingly kind voice. "What you have done in returning to us and humbling yourself to healing is far more deserving of praise than many deeds that have been done in this land." He smiled, almost mischievously. "And besides, I am Lord of these Halls, and it is my decision to make who is deserving of honor here."

They stepped up onto the raised dais at the end of the hall, and Sauron tugged self-consciously at his sleeve, making sure his scabbed burn was completely concealed. Aulë guided him towards an empty seat, beaming. "It is also good for those in my Halls to be reminded that you are in my favor, but it will be better still to make right old wrongs. Yavanna will be very pleased."

Sauron had been about to sit, but he stiffened suddenly at the name, as instantly on the alert as a wild animal that has caught scent of a predator. "Yavanna? What has she got to do with me?"

Aulë did not appear to notice Sauron's sudden alarm. "Yavanna has been feeling very guilty of late over how she has treated you when you first arrived," Aulë responded in a heartfelt voice. "You have clearly done nothing to earn our mistrust, and she expressed to me the other night her desire to apologize to you for the unfounded suspicion she placed upon your head. In fact, it was her suggestion that you join us at the head table tonight, as a sign that the past is behind us and that a better future for us all lies ahead." After a moment, he added in a lower, sadder voice. "And as a token that I have not failed you."

Sauron's heart was now racing so fast that he could hear it thudding in his ears, even amongst the noise of the hall, but he forced himself – just barely – to remain calm. "Yavanna wishes to forgive me?"

"Yes." The Smith's momentary melancholy vanished in a happy laugh. "I knew the two of you would be able to make amends sooner or later. I-" But at that moment, one of the Elf lords nearby hailed Aulë, distracting the Vala. He shot Sauron a final quick smile, patted the back of the empty chair, and made his way over to whatever business he'd been called to.

Sauron stared down at the empty chair before him, his heart still pulsing wildly.

In no world did he believe that Yavanna had truly forgiven him or that a single word she had apparently fed Aulë was true. It would seem that his was not the only manipulative silver tongue at work in these Halls. He shuddered. He had successfully avoided her for much of the last several months, but their last encounter remained engraved in his mind.

If you harm a single one of our charges, if you break but one of your oaths, when your schemes are finally laid bare, I will crush you. I will crush you as the roots of an ancient tree crush a boulder until it is ground to dust. I am not blind to the secrets of what will strike you deepest and most surely.

Unquestionably, it was not a coincidence that she'd decided to make a move now. Had she discovered his manipulation of Erenquaro, or perhaps his experiments with her beloved plants?

If she had, what was she planning on doing?

He felt as if a trap were closing in around him and yet he could not perceive from whence his danger came. His first instinct was to flee back to his room, but if Yavanna was truly determined to harm him, he knew that there would be no sanctuary for him. Ironically, the one place where he was probably safest was at Aulë's side. Surely, Yavanna would not attempt to harm him under the Smith's very nose.

Curse you, Sauron. Curse you for letting your guard down for a single moment.

Shakily, he pulled out his chair and sat, tucking his arms in close about his sides. His mind raced, his eyes darting about the hall in search of some clue that might betray Yavanna's plans for him, but he saw nothing. Just the mingle of Elves and Maiar merrily chatting and sharing food.

He just had to get through this meal, and then he would deal with whatever came next. Shakily, he ran a hand through his hair, attempting to calm himself. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. Nothing would change his mind that Yavanna had not forgiven him, but perhaps the situation was not as dire as he feared. Perhaps she simply meant to taunt him with barbed remarks all through the meal. That at least he could endure. He was certain that she would not lay her hands on him while Aulë was present. And if she meant to accuse him of something? What proof could she possibly have? He had cleared his tracks carefully at every step, and even if she did know about his experiments, there was no proof that he was using it for ill means.

What else could she have to throw at him, other than taunts or threats or unprovable accusations that he could easily deny?

Neither the Elf to his left nor the Maia to his right seemed to be paying him any heed, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts and emotions. Almost the entire table was filled now, but suddenly Sauron noticed that the seat directly across from him remained empty.

He felt Yavanna's presence even before she entered the hall. His eyes snapped to her as she filled the doorway suddenly, tall and beautiful and terrible, and despite himself, he felt the sting of fear. Her presence in the room was as oppressive to him as the reek of rotting weeds at the edges of a stagnant marsh, and just as dangerous. She swept in majestically, flanked by several of her handmaidens, and began to greet the Elves and Maiar who addressed her, her smile nothing but gracious and benevolent. But Sauron knew better than most that fair-seeming could hide foul intentions.

He reached for a slice of bread, keeping his eyes down and focusing on slathering the slice with a thick slab of butter. If playing obeisance was what would keep him safe from her wrath, he had enough experience to do so.

He felt her approach, until she was standing opposite to him, and he could feel her gaze piercing down towards him. He kept his eyes subserviently downcast, the way one of his lesser werewolves would have avoided the gaze of Draugluin or himself. Let her feel that the authority and power were in her hands and perhaps she'd leave him alone.

"Sauron." Her voice was honey-sweet, and his name on her lips for once was merely an appellation and carried none of its true meaning. "I am glad my husband was able to convince you to join us."

Slowly, Sauron lifted his eyes. She was standing directly across from him, her fingers curled around the back of the empty chair. There, they stroked along the wood, caressing it almost as if it were still a living tree. He bowed his head, determined for his part to keep the waters between them smooth and to do nothing that might antagonize her. "My Lady," he said respectfully.

"I have been thinking," Yavanna continued sweetly, "that perhaps I judged you too harshly in my pain and grief. From everything I hear, you are striving to be an upright citizen of both Valinor and these Halls. I must commend you for that, even if I must humble my own pride to acknowledge that I was wrong."

Sauron offered her a smile, allowing a little of his old practiced charm to creep through. "I am well acquainted with the humility it takes to acknowledge one's wrongs, my Lady, and I appreciate your regret concerning your diminishing of my trustworthiness and honor. I have likewise done much injury to you and your domain, and I would equally seek your forgiveness."

Yavanna's eyes were bright, their green depths radiating nothing but sincerity that he could discern. "Then perhaps tonight can be a new start, for me, for you, and for all Valinor. Let us seek to heal the many wounds that hide beneath the surface."

As she said that, her eyes strayed for a split second down to his concealed arm, but he did not miss the look. The soft murmur of alarm in the back of his mind rose again to a clamor. She knew about his burned arm. Somehow she knew, though he could not guess how, and he found himself thrown once more uncomfortably off balance, which no doubt was her intent.

Her eyes returned to his, just as bright and lovely as ever, but to his keen, practiced gaze, he saw the hint of hardness and anger behind them, and he knew that everything she had just said to him was every bit as false as what he had said to her. With a great deal of effort, he bit back his fear.

Yavanna inclined her head ever so slightly to him, a mockery in light of what he knew to be true, and then continued on her way, leaving Sauron struggling to compose himself.

He bowed his head back down to his plate, furiously smoothing the butter over his bread. Everything about this situation felt wrong, but he could not guess from what direction Yavanna intended the hammer to strike. Did she somehow seek to use his wound against him? Perhaps to convince Aulë that he was not mentally stable enough to be trusted in the forges, the one place he still had where he could find solace?

What was the tree witch's plan?

All around him, the sensation of Elven and Maiarin presences pressed in on every side, making him feel as if he could not catch his breath properly. The plate under his nose seemed distant and intangible. His appetite was completely gone.

Suddenly, he felt a new presence in the room with him, a powerful presence, a power equal to what he had been as the Black Captain. Something about it seemed terribly familiar, but he could not quite place it…

An image shot through his mind. Tall grey trees entwined with creeping mist. A wall in the unseen world through which he could not penetrate, that stopped even his vast power dead in its tracks.

His heart clenched.

He looked up, and standing directly across the table from him…he saw her.

Melian.

She was staring back at him, her grey eyes wide, and her hand rested upon the empty chair that was clearly meant to be hers. It was obvious she had just noticed him at almost the same moment he had recognized her.

But it was not Melian's face he saw, not truly. It was another face, so alike to hers, a face he remembered with all the clarity of a nightmare.

"You will yield to me the keys of the Tower or I will send your quivering spirit, naked and defeated, to the throne of your Dark Master."

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

Blood. Pain. So much blood. Unspeakable pain.

I can't breathe.

Sauron shoved his chair back violently and leapt to his feet, trembling. Vaguely, he was aware of everyone at the head table turning to stare at him in shock, and it was only a moment later that he realized he had screamed aloud.

His vision seemed to be flickering like the edges of a fire, and his breath was a rushing flame that burned in his chest. Aulë's great hall was superimposed upon the visions flashing across his sight, so vivid that they might have happened a mere moment ago. Animal-like panic, hatred, and terror consumed his waking thoughts.

Matted fur choking him. Huge claws raking across his chest and belly, tearing open his flesh as if it were made of parchment. Teeth embedded deep in his throat, cutting off all his air.

I can't breathe.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

Eru! Father! Please, please, please don't let me die!

Yes, in that moment of horror and agony on that long ago bridge, he had even screamed out with all the strength of his spirit to his Creator, even as he had known that there would be no reply for one such as him.

I can't breathe.

Melian was staring at him, and the expression on her face made it clear that she had not expected to see him anymore than he had expected to see her. He could see the horror in her eyes at the sight of him, but there was also something else: a sorrow he could not even begin to fathom.

But all he could see was Lúthien's face as he had looked up at her from the dirt at her feet, his body still pinned and blood gushing between his fingers as he desperately gasped for air like a fish out of water and tried to keep the terrible wounds closed with his hand. In the present time, he found himself gasping too, his lungs unable to drag in enough air to satisfy his pounding heart.

I can't breathe.

By now, the whole great hall seemed deathly silent, except for his pulse and the rush of his breathing. No one made any move to help him. And yet, he felt hundreds of eyes boring into him, watching him fall apart.

It was more than he could bear.

He fled.

~o~o~o~

It mattered little to him where he ended up. He fled as if Huan were still snapping at his heels as he ran. He fled as if Melian's grey eyes were still piercing through him. He fled as he had fled from Lúthien once he had surrendered the keys and Huan had released him.

Staggering, his vision still flickering horribly between past and present, he stumbled out into the courtyard and there he collapsed upon the grass at the edge of the colonnade. His wild animal terror pursued him, mingled with the growing horror of his humiliation. At least, on the bridge of Gaurhoth, there had been only two to witness his degradation; but now every living being in the Halls of Aulë had watched him relive his worst memory and flee from a Maiarin woman who had forsaken her kindred and debased herself in the foulest way Sauron could imagine. And from that perverse union had come the one who had taken everything from him. Not just his defeat at the Bridge. But from Lúthien had come Elwing, and from Elwing had come Eärendel's strength to reach Valinor, and from that voyage had come the end of everything Sauron knew. If it had not been for Melian, Melkor might very well still be Lord of Arda and Sauron would be his Black Captain and none of this would have happened.

His hatred burned so intense and hot that he felt he would burst into flame at any moment.

He hated Melian. He hated the Elves. He hated the Valar. He hated all that was and had been and ever would be.

Suddenly, there was a soft sound from somewhere behind him, like the brush of delicate feet upon stone. He might not have even heard it if his senses had not be sharpened by his panic. Still consumed utterly with hatred and fear, Sauron whirled around.

It was an Elf, one he did not recognize. She was not particularly tall for her kind but willowy and fair, and her long hair fell loose about her, neither bound nor braided, in silver ripples like a waterfall in spring down to her knees. She was clad in a dark blue dress laced closed with a black bodice, and her feet were bare. For a moment, their gazes met – Elf and Maia – and he saw that her eyes were grey flecked with dark blue, and they gazed at him with some hidden expression that he could not read.

Yet in that moment, all he knew was that he was vulnerable and terrified and filled with a wrath and dreadful malice for all living beings, and he could not bear for his pain to be a spectacle to yet one more creature.

He surged to his feet, his face twisting into a hideous snarl, and the Elf maid took a step back to flee, but Sauron was faster. Quicker than a striking hawk, he seized the Elf by the throat and hoisted her above his head, squeezing cruelly. In an instinctive response, her fingers scrabbled helplessly at his grip and her dangling legs kicked weakly.

Something struck him fully on his injured shoulder, and in the searing pain that followed, he lost his grip on the Elf and she fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He felt something wrap around his ankles, moments before it pulled sharply, dragging his feet from under him. He fell heavily onto his side in the grass, just narrowly missing cracking his head on the edge of the colonnade paving. His shoulder throbbed. Looking up, he found Yavanna standing over him in triumph, her vines wrapped thickly around his legs, and the terrible look of victory and contempt in her eyes as she stared down at him smote him like another physical blow.

Contemptuously, Yavanna turned from him, leaving him dazed with pain and shock and still tangled in vines, and she helped the Elf up, feigning overwrought concern. "Are you injured, dear? Did he do you any harm? Show me!"

The Elf seemed frozen. She shook her head, eyes wide, but when her fingers shifted away from her throat, the first bloom of Sauron's fingerprints were visible on her skin.

Yavanna caressed the Elf's hair gently, her eyes glinting. "There, there now," she crooned. "Do not be afraid, little one. He will neither harm nor touch you ever again. He will never harm any Child of Eru ever again."

Her gaze turned back to her victim. Abandoning the Elf, she knelt down beside Sauron, and now she could not hide either the glee or the hatred that consumed the beauty of her face. "As for you," she hissed, "you have broken your oath not to harm the Children. You have broken the conditions by which you were granted clemency – in folly – and allowed to stay here in Valinor – in even greater folly. I hope you enjoyed the few months you bought yourself with that pretty face and your cloying act of repentance, but as soon as I report what I witnessed to the other Valar, you will finally get what you deserve."

She caressed his cheek, her expression a mingling of disgust and gloating. "Today truly shall be a new start in Valinor…once you are in the Void where you belong."

She rose again, casting him a final glance of loathing and scorn, and her vines withdrew from his legs. "Do not bother to run, Abhorred One. There is nowhere left that will have you, except the Void."

She took the Elf maid by the arm and pulled her away towards the Halls. And Sauron did not see it, but the Elf turned at the last moment to look over her shoulder one last time at the broken Maia sprawled in the grass, even as Yavanna dragged her through the doorway, and her gaze was filled with sorrow and something else, alike to pity, yet something far deeper that Sauron would not have understood even if he had seen it.

~o~o~o~

Sauron did not know how long he lay there, shoulder throbbing and despair closing in around him, so black and thick he could hardly breathe. Finally, with great effort of will, he dragged himself upright and began to stagger away, his mind reeling as if he'd drunk too much wine. He did not know where he was going. He knew that Yavanna had spoken the truth. There was nowhere for him to run.

All the same, his drunken staggering turned to desperate strides until he was running. Through the courtyard and then through the halls, he ran, and out, until the Gardens closed in around him on all sides. And still he ran, past bush and flower, past herb and tree, until his feet would bear him no more and his heart closed in upon him with despair, and he fell to his hands and knees beneath the spreading branches of a great, grey-barked tree with golden leaves. There, he bowed his head and wept wretchedly as he had not done since his last night in Middle-earth.

It had all been for nothing. His long endless toil at the quarry, his manipulations and contrivances, all his suffering and his nightmares and his sleepless exhausting vigilance. In the end, it had merely been a longer and more torturous path to the Void.

Terror settled in on him, deeper and fiercer than anything he had ever truly known. He had no doubt that Yavanna had told him his fate rightly. The Tree Queen would finally receive what her heart had long desired and she would see him cast into the Void. And as for him, the rest of his existence would be a torment unimaginable: still fully alive and conscious and himself but surrounded for eternity by utter Nothingness. He would beg for death until the end of time and it would never come. His sobs of fear racked him from inside so fiercely that his chest ached and his throat burned.

Suddenly, a sweet music reached him beyond his weeping. Lifting his head, he found a songbird perched on a low branch of the tree, its beautiful trilling drifting down all around him.

He was not sure what came over him, but he stretched his hand out towards the bird, almost desperately. It tilted its head to the side, considering him, then hopped to a lower twig, continuing its song.

His hand still outstretched, Sauron began to croon back at it, not quite singing but letting his voice take on a musical lilt as he called gently to the bird in Quenya. Once more it considered him, black beady eyes sparkling, then with a flash of bright blue, it spread its wings and fluttered down to his fingers. It prodded his hand with its beak, clearly expecting to be fed. Its tiny claws gripped his forefinger fearlessly.

Sauron looked down at it, this tiny, innocent little creature that had no care in the world save finding food and bringing its music to life. It weighed so little he could hardly feel it, and its downy underbelly was softer than anything he could remember. It twittered, still searching amongst his fingers for treats, and Sauron suddenly hated it with every burning ounce of his cruelty and malice.

He brought up his thumb suddenly, trapping the unsuspecting bird's claws between his two fingers. The bird fluttered slightly, not liking the sensation of having its feet contained, and then it began to flap in earnest as it realized it was trapped. Its pleased twitters transformed into sharp chirps of fear.

Sauron began to squeeze his fingers together.

The fearful chirps morphed now into sharp cries of pain as his fingers squeezed its delicate feet and legs. It began to beat its wings frantically against his hand, and he could feel its tiny heart pounding.

Sauron felt the tiny, delicate bones snap beneath his fingers and still he squeezed. The bird shrieked, any beauty that might have been contained in its voice now fully gone. Sauron watched impassively as it struggled and suffered in his hand, mindless with sudden fear and pain, as something that felt like a great fist itself closed around his heart, suffocating and squeezing out every emotion.

Finally, he flung the songbird to the ground, its legs and feet utterly twisted and mutilated, the bones no doubt broken and ground to dust far beyond what even the most skilled healer could ever repair. It flapped helplessly, crying out weakly, unable to get itself airborne without the help of its legs.

He left it lying there in the grass. He did not care if anyone found it. If it was lucky, it would be discovered shortly by whatever predators might roam Valinor. If it was not lucky, it would take days for it to die of thirst, hunger, exposure, or some combination of the three.

At least it would die and its miserable life would be over.

Sauron was not so lucky.

The clenched fist around his heart tightened until it could tighten its cruel fingers no more, and as he turned back towards the Halls of Aulë, a blank, hopeless emptiness closed around Sauron's spirit, as if he were already in the Void.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

During the eight months in which Sauron was condemned to labor in the mines of Angband by Melkor, there were two things that kept him sane.

The first was his pride.

Melkor had intended to humiliate him with his punishment, and while Sauron knew he deserved it for having failed his master, he determined early on not to be his own author of any further disgrace. He bore his pain and shame and fear with the stoicism that Melkor himself had cut into him with knives and the brutal power of a Vala, and his ironclad pride became his armor against the endless degradation of his situation.

It was only during the brief periods of rest, when he curled up alone in the corner of the dirty cell where the Orcish guards occasionally threw him, that he allowed himself the release of just enough silent tears to unburden his soul to the point where he knew he could make it through the next stretch of toil and disgrace without allowing any chink in his armor to show.

The second thing was memories.

The manual labor ate at him until his very bones seemed to ache, and the flick of whips against his back and the pressure of that terrible collar around his neck were constant agonies, but for all that, his mind at least was free to wander, and wander it did. In the early months, the memories he sank into mostly consisted of times of triumph and power as the Black Captain. He remembered the revelry in Angband after the Dagor Bragollach: the wines and savory meats dripping with fragrant juices that had been served in Melkor's throne room amidst the victorious howling of wolves and the clashing of spears upon shields as all those who served the Dark Vala gloried in the routing of their enemies. He remembered his deception of Gorlim, son of Angrim, and his own glee when he had finally convinced the wretched mortal to betray his kindred and the look of horror that had grown on the man's face as Sauron revealed to him the cunning, twisted truth behind his sorcerous illusions and promises. He remembered the evenings in Tol-in-Gaurhoth that came as close to peace as he had known in Beleriand, lounging in lavish silk and fur robes before the blazing hearth, with Draugluin at his feet and Thuringwethil perched beside him, drinking and reminiscing and sometimes even laughing with the closest thing he had felt to camaraderie in many an Age.

But as the months wore on, sometimes other memories crept in, never invited but there nonetheless, to comfort him or torment him further, he did not know. Metallic eyes filled with love and strong, calloused hands resting on his shoulders, the green grass of Almaren under his bare feet and the clashing music of dueling swords as Eönwë taught him the ways of the blade, a cavern illuminated by a thousand twinkling crystals and the gentle satisfaction of a little water Maia at his side, an endless Light that glowed from him and all around him as his voice joined a choir of others in a Song that filled him with exultation and a fierce hope for what was to come.

And so his pride had protected him and his memories strengthened him as he endured hour after hour of those terrible eight months.

Yet, even though he managed to preserve his dignity and his sanity as best as he could, it did not stop the deepest fears that crept into his thoughts during his darkest moments. One of the most unsettling aspects of his situation was not knowing how long it would last, never sure if he had one more day to endure or ten thousand. And he could not help the choking fear that pressed into him even more cruelly than the iron collar that there would never be an end.

He did not know which would be worse: Melkor intentionally leaving him there to rot in the mines until the end of time or his master simply forgetting all about him.

He knew he had failed his Lord, he knew he deserved every indignity and torment thrust upon him, but it was the fear that he might never have truly meant anything to Melkor that ate at him most deeply. He had always believed that he'd been Chosen, that Melkor had seen something in that fiery young Maiarin smith that he had seen in no other. He had believed that Melkor had shaped him into the Black Captain for some greater purpose. It was pure excruciating agony to consider the possibility that Melkor might forget him and replace him, and that he had never been anything to the Dark Vala but a tool to be cast into a trash heap the moment he was no longer useful.

And for that one torment, neither his pride nor any memory was a balm.

~o~o~o~

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The frantic rhythm of Sauron's heartbeat reverberated in his ears. Panic pulsed in the shadows at the edges of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. The ropes tied around his wrists seemed to be burning through his flesh straight into his soul.

The dull despair that had eaten away at him since yesterday eve was still there, but now it was fusing uncomfortably with the rapidly rising sensations of mingled fear, shame, and rage. As terrible as it had been, his despair and resignation had brought with it a strange peace that had been utterly dashed by the surprise of not being condemned to the Void and facing this new, unexpected horror instead.

His fingers twisted in the air of their own volition, desperately seeking something to grasp that might anchor him, but there was nothing. He stared down at the wood of the platform in front of him, trying to keep his bubbling emotions and the threat of panic under control. Directly behind him, the sun was low in the sky, and his shadow stretched out before him: the two stakes and his body strung between them painted in darkness at his feet.

He refused to look up at the sea of eyes boring into him, but he knew they were there all the same. He could hear the murmurs racing back and forth, the shuffling of feet on cobblestone, and the innumerable little sounds of the gathered crowd. He could sense the hostility radiating from them like a dam waiting to burst. He suspected that the only reason they had not yet unleashed their hatred upon him was the intimidating presences of the Valar.

Námo and Manwë had left – the Doomsman after delivering Sauron's sentence and speaking briefly to his two Maiar standing guard, and Manwë after conferring quietly with Nienna – leaving only the Valië of Mercy, Aulë, and Yavanna in the town plaza with him now. As he considered them, blinding hatred for them churned in his chest. Once again, the Valar had proved the façade of redemption and healing was a farce, and that he existed as nothing to them but a defeated enemy with whom they could make an example.

As cruel as Melkor had been capable of being, at least he had wanted Sauron and chosen him for his innate value that no one else had been able to see, and his punishments had been part of building his lieutenant into the person he had needed him to be, just as much as his rewards had been.

The Valar, on the other hand, made it clearer day-by-day just how little they cared.

How he hated them. How he hated all of them.

But at least hatred was a far easier weight to carry than fear and humiliation.

His deeply-engrained pride flared. He would not let them see how deeply this punishment cut into him, he would not let them see his shame, he would not let them see how terribly close they had come to breaking his spirit in these last hours. He would be the Maia that Melkor had taught him to be: iron-willed and stronger than the Valar could even begin to conceive. Somehow, he would endure, he would survive, just like he always did.

But even if he did not show it, even if no one else knew, it did not take away from the fact that inside he felt like he was shriveling into nothing.

Heavy footsteps approached from his right, but he did not bother lifting his head. He could sense the distinct earthy aura from Aulë without looking at him.

"Nauron." There was a broken sadness in the Smith's voice. "Is there anything I can get you, anything I can bring you to make you more comfortable."

Sauron did not deign to answer. Instead, he allowed his body to hang just a little more pathetically from the ropes around his wrists, knowing it would drive a stake through the kindly Vala's heart.

Aulë was quiet for a moment before trying again, and his voice was noticeably more distraught. "Perhaps you would care for some water? I can bring you some if you are parched."

Sauron still gave him no response.

"Nauron." Aulë's voice broke. "I did not want this. I did everything I could to attempt to dissuade the others from punishing you, and from punishing you like this. Please, I promise you that none of this was done with my wish or will."

Sauron believed Aulë's words in their entirety. But his rage against the Valar was blazing hot, and Aulë was perhaps the only one of the Powers on whom he could unleash any of his wrath without fear of repercussion. He wanted Aulë to suffer, if not as much as he himself, then as much as Sauron could orchestrate. "You say it was not done with your will," he snarled, his voice little more than a whisper, "yet you did not love me enough to stop it. If you truly loved me, you would have found a way to divert this path."

He felt the knife of his words pierce home in Aulë's soul. Desperation hung thick in the air around the Smith. "I do love you," Aulë said, but his voice was unsteady and Sauron could hear the doubt in it. "I have loved you every moment since the beginning, but I alone could not go against the wills of the others nor overturn the judgment of Námo. But I will do anything now to help ease these next hours for you."

Finally, Sauron looked up, meeting Aulë's eyes with his own burning gaze. He let every ounce of his hatred permeate his eyes and voice. "Pour out your love on the ground for all I care; I do not want it. I'm never going to love you, just as I never did. Do you think Mairon would have left in the first place if you ever meant anything to him?" He spread his hands, indicating the stakes to which he was bound. "If this is the love of the Valar, then I would rather drink poison."

He pulled himself up to his full height, his hands curling into fists and his eyes spitting hatred. "There is nothing you can do for me, save leaving me alone. You could not save me from Melkor then and you could not save me from the other Valar today. If you ever meant to show me what you believe to be your love, then you have failed."

"Nauron-" Aulë attempted to say, but his voice cracked with heartbreak.

Sauron let his head drop back down, refusing to look at the Smith any longer. "I want nothing from you, not your love and not your comfort." His voice dropped even lower, little more than an animalistic snarl. "I will never love you nor forgive you, so just go away."

Aulë let out a shuddering breath, and Sauron could imagine his metallic eyes full of tears, but he did not look up again to see. For a moment, the Smith hesitated, but then he turned away, and his footsteps were leaden on the wooden platform. Sauron kept his head hanging, his pulse racing in his ears.

After a few minutes, he heard Aulë's raised voice suddenly from the far side of the platform. He lifted his head just enough to surreptitiously observe what was happening.

Aulë stood in front of Yavanna, the two Valar almost nose-to-nose. Anger and hostility crackled in the air between them, and both of them were drawn up and tense. It was clear that some type of fierce argument was raging between them, though Sauron could not catch the words.

Yavanna made some sharp retort, her skin flushing brown with rough bark, but whatever it was that she said, it was apparently the breaking point for Aulë. His voice rose again, this time loud enough that Sauron and probably half of the occupants of the plaza could hear.

"The other Valar may choose to turn a blind eye to what you've become, but I know! I know what you did, Yavanna. And if you think I'm going to leave you here with him for one second, then you are very mistaken!"

Yavanna hissed something at him to which he responded even louder. "It is your choice: you can come back with me now, or you can come back later to find every door in my Halls locked against you!" With that, he turned and stormed out of the plaza, and a tremor shot through the ground that caused all the buildings surrounding the square to rattle dangerously.

For a second, Yavanna seemed frozen in pure shock. Then angry bark flared across every inch of exposed skin, and dark fury settled on her face. She shot Sauron one glance of pure venom then followed after Aulë. A stunned silence fell over the plaza.

Sauron blinked, processing what he'd just witnessed. A sort of vicious satisfaction settled in his chest that for a moment almost drew him away from the horror of his current plight. If he could be an instrument of discord among the Valar, even in his disgrace, then he would eke what pleasure and gratification from it that he could.

His satisfied malice was short-lived however. With the protective presence of Aulë no longer looming over the plaza, the crowd began to stir, and Sauron felt their hostility turning inevitably towards him once again.

"Monster!"

A single voice rang out from somewhere in the crowd, and Sauron could hear the stringent note of pure hatred in it. "You belong in the Void!"

That one voice seemed to bolster the courage of the rest of the Elves, for suddenly voices were pressing in on Sauron from every side, a cacophony of hatred battering against him.

"Enemy!"

"Cur of Morgoth!"

"Go to the Void!"

"Abhorred One!"

As it had been at the docks, three months ago when he was newly arrived in Valinor, there was no fear in those voices, only loathing and hatred for all that he was and all that he represented. He did not doubt for a second that if it wasn't for the ordinance of Námo, they would have gladly rushed up onto the platform and torn him to pieces in the middle of the square. He closed his eyes, his head still hanging forward, and felt the helpless rage and despair boil in his stomach. You never should have been, a voice whispered in his heart. There is no place for you in this world and there never will be. You are Unwanted, without purpose, a failure. This, right now, is the only future that awaits you, the only future you deserve.

You will never be forgiven.

You will never be Chosen.

You are Nothing.

His composure wavered once again, and just like that, he was fighting back against the panic welling up from every corner of his being. He could not break in front of all these Elves, like he had done yesterday in the Great Hall at the sight of Melian. He could not let them see how weak he suddenly feared he was becoming…

The shouting was rising, a combination of insults and threats and other expressions of abhorrence bombarding him. The two Maiarin guards on either side of the platform watched the crowd alertly, their short spears held tight. Yet, Sauron began to wonder, if the crowd's hatred towards him reached the point where it overrode their respect for the Valar and fear of retribution, would the two Maiar truly be able to stop the mob from destroying his fána.

Just as that thought formed in his mind, something struck him in the middle of his chest.

For a moment, he was sure it must be an arrow or some other deadly missile, and for that split second, he fully expected pain to explode through his body as his fána tore apart from his ëala. But no pain came, and he looked down to find a mushy, overly-ripe tomato splattered across the front of his shirt. As he watched, it slowly slid down his chest and stomach, leaving a slimy trail of vile-smelling juice down the entire front of his shirt, before splatting to the ground between his feet.

It took a moment for his brain to catch up with the pure, infuriating indignity, before a second, even more rotten tomato struck him in the shoulder, exploding juice and pulp all over the side of his face.

How dare they? How dare they?

In a combination of rage and panic, he looked up to find that a vendor from one of the nearby shops had hauled out a wagon that served as a compost bin, filled to the brim with fruits and vegetables in various stages of decomposition that would be used as fertilizer for the numerous gardens around Valmar. The Elves were swarming it, their hate for him apparently surpassing any distaste towards the smell.

Within moments, he was being bombarded with a relentless, putrid rain, and there was absolutely nothing he could do but take it.

Insults and threats continued to pour in on him along with the rotten fruit. A group of Elven children had hauled a basketful of the compost to the front of the crowd, and Sauron could hear them actually giggling as they pelted him with it.

It was the final straw for Sauron. Hatred he could bear, but being turned into some grotesque entertainment for sniveling Elven brats was more than he could take. He was Sauron, the Black Captain of Morgoth, Lieutenant of Angband, Lord of Werewolves, the Sorcerer of the North. He had led armies and seduced kings and brought entire realms to their knees. He had been feared and reverenced as second only to the Dark Vala himself. And now he had been brought so low that even children saw him as nothing but a silly game to be mocked without fear.

He felt his composure slipping, felt the panic of knowing that he was going to break, tried to scrabble at his deteriorating emotions even as he felt them sliding through his mental control like oil…

Something landed heavily on the platform directly in front of him, blocking him from the crowd and their vile salvo.

Sauron blinked, startled enough that his panic was shoved back, saving him from a public breakdown for the moment. He shook his head, trying to free his face of pulp and juice enough to see what was happening.

Eönwë stood on the platform before him, facing the crowd, gigantic eagle wings fully spread, his sword in his hand, dressed in shining white and blue. The evening light seemed to glow in his golden hair and feathers.

The Elves all seemed to recognize him immediately, which wasn't surprising considering he was the Herald of the King of the Valar and the most powerful Maia in Valinor. Hostility still hung like a smog over the plaza, but the Elves fell silent and stopped throwing fruit. A hushed murmur raced among them, and Sauron sensed both curiosity and anger rippling through the crowd.

Eönwë lowered his sword, but when he spoke, his voice was full of the disgust that Sauron was used to having directed at him. But now, it was the Elves on the receiving end.

"What is this?" Eönwë's sharp voice rang out clearly over the plaza. "Is this the Eldar I see, the High Elves of the West, the Firstborn Children of Eru Iluvatar? Or is it a rabble of lowborn Orcs? Have you no honor?" He stalked to the front of the platform, his wings flared, casting a magnificent shadow down over the crowd. "I am ashamed of all of you. Attacking one who is helpless and unarmed: there are few things more honorless. Such actions are the baseborn fruit of Morgoth, not of Eru."

He strode along the edge of the platform, glaring down at the Elves, and where his piercing blue glance fell, the Elves cringed and looked away. The Herald's voice was tight with anger. "During the War of Wrath, I fought alongside your kin. I saw deeds of courage, deeds of bravery and honor, as we fought together to free Beleriand and all Arda from the scourge of Morgoth's hand and to cleanse the land of darkness. I saw Elves give their lives for the chance to free those who had suffered lesser fortunes than they."

He halted his pacing, once again directly in front of Sauron. "Yet here I find you all, those of the same kindred as they, reeking of compost, calling names like children, and inflicting misery on a being who is bound and cannot defend himself in any way. You all disgust me!"

There was shuffling and murmurs from the crowd. Then one Elf stepped forward, a tall, dark-haired nér. "Why does he deserve any honor from us? He had killed and tortured countless of our kind and helped Morgoth to subjugate and destroy. And now he has harmed one of our own, here in the heart of Valinor. Do you think he stayed his hand simply because his victims were helpless? He has no honor, and therefore he deserves none from us. Let him have a taste of his own medicine!"

There were cries of agreement from around the square, and the crowd shifted like a stormy sea, hostility and aggression rising in the air once again.

Eönwë did not back down. "You're right," he said. "I do not condone or deny any of the many cruel and evil deeds that Sauron has done. He has done unspeakable evil. He has murdered and tortured and enslaved."

His gaze swept over the crowd, and his wings bowed. "But tell me, who among you has not done some evil? Perhaps not to the extent that he has, but look into your own hearts and tell me that you have not done deeds of which you are ashamed. Who among us all, myself included, has not done things that would make Eru weep? Who among us would not desire mercy if those things were made known? And think to yourselves, who would be most pleased by your actions today: Eru…or Morgoth?"

Silence met Eönwë's words. No one spoke to contest him this time, and there was no sound but the awkward shuffling of feet.

Eönwë raised a hand. "Now, go back to your homes and your families. Eat in the comfort of your houses, knowing your safety and peace was won with the spilling of the blood and bravery of your kin. Soon the stars will come out, a reminder to us all that the darkness of Morgoth has no place here and will never prevail. Be grateful. Be kind. That is how change is made, not by wallowing in the grievances of the past. Now go."

Slowly, the crowd broke apart, silently melting into the growing shadows between the buildings until the plaza was finally empty. The sun was low enough now that the entire square was cast in shadow. And finally, Eönwë turned to Sauron.

Sauron's clothing was clammy with foul-smelling juice, his hair matted with pulp. Rotten fruits and vegetables littered the platform all around his feet. A part of him stung sharply with humiliation that Eönwë should see him like this, while another part of him was reluctantly grateful to the Herald for intervening and saving him from further disgrace. But it was only bitterness that filled his voice when he spoke. "You just can't help being the hero, can you?"

Eönwë smiled wryly at him, but his eyes were filled with that same nauseating resolve and kindness as when he'd offered Sauron the salve only a few days prior. "What can I say, it is who I am," he said. He looked Sauron in the eyes. "Perhaps I cannot help being a hero any more than you can help being a villain."

Sauron snorted. "We discussed this just this morning: I chose what I am."

Eönwë folded his wings and sheathed his sword, still looking at Sauron. "Perhaps you did, in the beginning. But is it a choice you continue to make, or is there a bond upon you that tells you that this is all you are now?"

Sauron rolled his eyes, trying to cling to a shred of dignity and control despite the state he was in. "If you wish to impress me with philosophy, now is hardly the best time for it."

"No, perhaps not," Eönwë responded. He looked Sauron up and down, taking in his stained clothing and the pile of refuse at his feet. "Lord Manwë told me about the outcome of the trial. I came as fast as I could, but I wish I'd gotten here sooner."

Sauron felt his foul temper shoving its way back into the forefront of his thoughts. "Why?" he growled. "Don't you think I deserve this? You said it yourself: it's far less than what I've done to others."

A conflicted look flashed across Eönwë's face. "I can't say you don't deserve it," he conceded. "But I don't wish this had happened either."

"And why is that, Eönwë?" Sauron said darkly. "After all, this was the decision of your precious Valar. It was they who decided that this is what justice looks like. Why should your wishes contradict their wills? Not very loyal of you, is it?"

The conflicted pain on Eönwë's face increased. "Not all of them wanted it. Lord Manwë didn't."

Eönwë's words sounded too similar to Aulë's pleading earlier, and Sauron felt his hatred and wrath bubbling up all over again. "And yet, this was their joint decision: the Decree of the Valar," he spat. "In the end, do you think it matters to me which ones wanted this to happen and which ones simply allowed it to happen?"

Eönwë's brow creased into a troubled expression, but he did not respond. Instead, he used his boot to begin kicking the rotten fruit off the platform onto the cobblestones below. Once he had cleared the space around Sauron as best he could, he looked back up at the fire Maia, his own eyes tired and sad. "I don't think the Elves will be back tonight, but I can stay if you want. Keep you company through the night."

Sauron scoffed. "What do I look like: a damsel in distress? I know how much it must pain you for your heroism not to be needed, but I am sure I can fare just fine. I've survived things you can't even begin to imagine without you swooping in to my rescue every time, after all."

Eönwë continued to stare at him silently for several more moments, then he breathed a long, deep sigh. "I'm beginning to wish I had never convinced you to come to Valinor," he said wearily.

"Only just now?" Sauron sneered. "I would have expected you to have started regretting that decision months ago, back when you realized what having me here would entail for you. Don't tell me you haven't regretted my presence at least once a day at the quarry."

Eönwë did not rise to Sauron's goading. Instead, he just looked at Sauron with that sad expression. "When I urged you to come back, it was with the hope that you could find peace. But instead, it just seems to have brought you more suffering."

Sauron could not help the sarcastic laugh that escaped his throat. "What do you know: Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, realizing he can't single-handedly fix everything that's wrong with the world." He sneered. "The Valar don't care if I find peace, and neither should you. All that matters to them is that I'm not a threat to their perfect little paradise." He jerked his bound arms, causing the stakes to rattle. "This is what peace looks like to the Valar. Why should it be any different for you?"

Eönwë shook his head and sighed, a note of frustration creeping into the sound. "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Sauron?"

Sauron shot him a malicious smirk. "Defy the wills of the Valar and cut me down," he mocked.

He saw the pain flicker through Eönwë's eyes and sneered inwardly. He knew Eönwë would never go against the wills of the Valar, and that even suggesting it was nothing short of blasphemy in the Herald's mind.

"If you don't need anything, then I'll be on my way," Eönwë said stiffly. He spread his wings. "And I'm still going to hope there's peace in your future, even if I'm the only person in all of Aman still hoping for it." His wings beat the air, lifting him off the platform with a great whoosh, before he transformed into an eagle and soared away, leaving Sauron in the darkening city square.

~o~o~o~

A hollow emptiness fell over him in the silence that followed Eönwë's departure. There was nothing to distract him now, and his shame and misery pressed in upon him from every side. He'd barely eaten now for two entire days, and his stomach knotted with hunger. The filthy state he was in and his matted hair and stinking clothes were an agonizing irritation. Additionally, if that were not enough, he'd now been unable to apply the salve to his burn for over twenty-four hours, and the pain of it was steadily returning, while his injured shoulder had begun to ache from the relentless position in which his arms were held. The standing position that had not been horribly uncomfortable at the beginning of his sentence several hours ago was starting to become decidedly unpleasant. Exhaustion and depression weighed heavily upon him. And he still had all night and the next morning to endure.

He bent his head over, allowing his hair to shade his face, and finally let a few silent tears pour down his cheeks, releasing just a little of the anger, fear, and pain coursing through him. Loneliness had been a constant in his life since he came to Valinor, but right now he felt more alone than he had ever dreamed of being. His life felt utterly devoid of purpose. As much as he did not want to admit it, his pride was deeply battered, his spirits sunk to the dregs of his being, and hope utterly non-existent. He had no idea how he was going to keep himself together until his release.

It was at that moment, when it felt like despair was all he had left to cling to, that he felt a soft touch against his mind.

He pulled himself back together sharply, his mind flinching instinctively away from the foreign sensation, as his mental guards shot up. There was something familiar about the touch, but for a long moment he could not place it. Then he remembered.

Curled up in cozy warmth with the pattering music of falling water in his ears. A kind touch stroking gently against his ëala, releasing the music of his soul. A soft part of himself that he had not known existed unfurling inside unbidden in response.

His head shot up, his eyes scanning the plaza that he had thought to be empty save for himself and the two guards.

A dark figure stood at the far end of the platform, wrapped in shadows, but he could make out the grey gown and veil.

He had completely forgotten about Nienna.

He'd seen her earlier, with the other four Valar, when he'd been led up onto the platform and bound, but all that had transpired since had driven any thought of her from his mind.

For a moment, he quailed, fear shivering down his spine as he wondered how much Nienna had overheard of his conversation with Eönwë and if she would be angry enough at what he had said to punish him even further for it. But he had sensed no hostility in the gentle touch a moment ago.

He could still feel her presence, not forcing her mental touch upon him, but simply waiting. Mentally, he focused on her aura, watching her with suspicion and hostility. Slowly, just as gently as before, he felt a tendril of her being stretch out towards him again, stopping just before it brushed against his. He cowered away from it.

But slowly, a strange yearning welled up inside of him, first nothing but a pinprick at the edge of his consciousness but steadily growing into a burning need. He had only felt her touch for a moment, but in that moment, he had felt a warmth like nothing he could ever remember feeling before, and his entire being craved it again. He was so, so tired, and some instinct told him that if he felt her touch again for even a second, he would find rest like he had found in her halls when he had curled up on her settee with the Dwarven puzzle in pieces beside him. And oh, how he needed rest.

Cautiously, not at all sure he really wanted this but unable to resist, he reached out a tiny tendril of his own being and closed the minute gap between her spirit and his.

Instantly, he felt a flood of sensations passing from her ëala into his: compassion, hope, strength, warmth, love. He floundered, almost on the edge of panic but at the same time unable to bring himself to pull away again as he felt her power rushing into every corner of his being. If power he could truly call it, for it was the antithesis of everything he associated with power. It was unbearable softness, kindness that cut deeper than any knife blade, compassion so deep that it left him feeling like he was drowning. It was a sweet agony that left him gasping and reeling.

And above it all, he felt Love, a Love so intense and piercing that it seemed to burn against his soul. It was love for him, Sauron, just as he was here in this moment, filthy and bound and angry and not the least bit repentant of any of his cruel deeds. But more than that, he felt in the core of his being that it was a love that had always been with him, unperceived, through every moment of his life, both the lightest and the darkest.

His mind and spirit reeling, he stared back up at the dark figure from across the platform, and whether it was some Valarin power or whether his eyes had simply adjusted to the evening gloam, he could see her face now. She was looking directly at him, and silver tears were streaming down her slender cheeks. He knew instinctively that she was weeping for him.

He felt strength returning to his will that a moment ago had been all but crushed. And with it came something else, soft and strangely strong: a blossom of hope that uncurled in his heart and spread indescribable warmth to the furthest reaches of his being. His shame and despair drew back before it like shadows before the rising sun and he shuddered, his entire soul and body trembling with desperate want and need.

A moment later, he regained his self-control and yanked himself back, away from Nienna and her touch, but her power inside him continued to glow, its warmth alight in every vein and thought.

He stared across at her, confused and angry and hating himself at the same time that his entire being sobbed with relief from that wonderful warmth filling him.

Why? His mind thought desperately. Why?

Because you are a child of Eru, he thought he heard as a sweet whisper, and because every being deserves compassion and hope.

She met his eyes, her tears still streaming down her cheeks, and then the air shimmered around her and she was gone, leaving behind only the afterglow of her compassion against his mind and the intoxicating warmth still filling every hollow of his broken soul.

A short time later, one of his Maiarin guards approached him with food and water. Even though his stomach was cramping with hunger, he didn't know if he could bear the indignity of being hand-fed, but his mouth was painfully dry and the sour smell of the rotten fruit had left a foul taste in his mouth. He rejected the food but let his pride sink just enough to allow the other Maia to put the drinking flask to his lips so that he could sip the cool water. After that, the Maia returned wordlessly to his station, and the long, slow night closed in around Sauron.

It had been days since Sauron had enjoyed a proper night's rest, and exhaustion weighed heavily upon him. His body sank forward, his legs no longer able to hold himself up fully, and the ropes pulled painfully at his arms, especially his injured shoulder, as he slumped forward. But he was too exhausted for even the pain to keep him upright.

The rope around his right wrist jiggled suddenly. Groggily, he looked up to find the same Maia who had offered him food and water undoing the rope from the stake. He stared blearily, too exhausted to understand what was happening, until he felt the rope go slack, allowing his aching arm to drop to his side. The Maia then moved to the other stake, where he repeated his actions. Finished, he stepped back to his post without acknowledging Sauron.

The ropes were now slack enough that Sauron was able to go down on his knees. Trembling, he sank down gratefully, allowing his shaking legs to finally rest. Kneeling on the wood platform, his arms were pulled upwards once more, but when he allowed himself to again slump forward, the pull was not quite as sharp and painful. It was still uncomfortable, but it was better than Sauron had expected to get.

With the warmth of Nienna's hope and compassion and the soothing touch of that all-consuming feeling of being loved still cradled in his heart, he allowed his head to fall forward, and finally the oblivion of a dreamless sleep took him.

~o~o~o~

The sound of a clear, chiming bell announced the start of a new morning in Valmar, pulling Sauron out of his sleep. Blearily, the fire Maia raised his head, wincing at the ache in his shoulders, and pulled himself upright. The pre-dawn glow was in the sky, and he could just make out the details of the shops surrounding the plaza. He shuddered deeply.

The warmth from last night was gone from his soul, but he felt refreshed in a way that he had not felt for months. Despite the discomfort of his situation, his sleep had been deep and restful. He had not dreamed, unless it had been a lingering feeling of gentle caresses against his spirit that followed him deep into his slumber.

One of his guards began adjusting the ropes, pulling them taut as they had been yesterday and forcing him to rise back into a standing position once again. Afterwards, the Maia again offered him food and water. This time, he reluctantly accepted both, submitting to the indignity of allowing the Maia to tear off pieces of bread and feed them to him between sips of water from the flask. But after, the cramping of hunger in his stomach retreated slowly, and his breath no longer rasped through the dryness of his throat.

By this time, some activity began to stir through the city. There were sounds from inside the shops of the shop-keepers preparing for their day, opening windows, and dragging out wares to the front of their buildings. None of them paid Sauron any heed. Perhaps, Sauron thought, the Elves had had their fun with him yesterday evening and he would simply be ignored until he was released at noontide.

The next several hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Sauron was bored out of his wits, his shoulders ached, and his burn itched madly. Slowly, the sun rose, its light creeping down the main street of Valmar and finally spreading its golden fingers through the plaza.

The crowds slowly began to conglomerate, with the sound of voices, clattering wares, and the occasional clip-clop of a horse steadily filling the square. Occasionally, a few Elves gathered around the platform to gawk at Sauron, but most seemed concerned with doing their daily morning shopping and going about whatever menial tasks filled their lives as dawn bloomed into full morning.

"Well, well, would you look at that. The rumors were true."

A mocking voice from nearby rose above the city sounds, and Sauron instinctively lifted his head. Three Maiar were loitering at the edge of the platform, watching him with unconcealed glee. He didn't know their names, but he recognized them from the Forges of Aulë where he frequently saw them in Curumo's company.

"Looks like you've got yourself in quite the bind, Sauron," the tall, silver-haired one snickered, bringing forth malicious chortles from his two companions. "Not that any of us are surprised, of course."

"Yes, what did you get yourself in trouble for this time?" The dark-haired woman stepped forward to examine the notice nailed to the stake beside Sauron then raised her eyebrow sharply. "Attacking Elf women now? Tsk, tsk, not very nice of you at all, but what should one expect from a dark lord? But then again, it's probably the only way you'd ever get to touch a woman nowadays, even with that face of yours." She wrinkled her nose dramatically. "Especially right now. Phew!" She waved a hand in front of her face as she stepped back towards the others. "Keep your distance, boys. He smells like he's been swimming in a compost heap."

Sauron dropped his head again, refusing to respond, knowing they wanted to get a rise out of him, but hot fury began to roil in his heart as they continued to mock him relentlessly.

"You had better keep back, Vantanwë," the silver-haired Maia guffawed. "You don't want to startle him. We wouldn't want him to start screaming like he did the last time he saw a Maiarin woman."

"Yes, what was that all about, Sauron?" Vantanwë asked with vicious glee. "Is it true what the stories say that you were defeated single-handedly by Melian's daughter and her hound? I guess that just proves that you've never amounted to anything, even in Endor."

"Do you think he screamed like a little Elf child waking from a nightmare when he saw Lúthien as well?" the muscular, broad-shouldered Maia standing at the back chuckled.

The silver-haired Maia made a mocking show of swooning, hand to his forehead. "Oh no, I, Sauron, mightiest servant of Morgoth, the terrible Dark Lord, cannot resist the overwhelming might of a half-Elven girl and her dog. Oh no, whatever shall I do?"

Sauron clenched his teeth, his jaw working. Don't respond. Don't respond, he chanted in his head, even as his rage started to boil like the fire pits of Thangorodrim.

A crowd of Elves had started to gather, attracted by the raised voices and taunting antics of the three Maiar.

Vantanwë shot a glance at the crowd, clearly aware of their gathering audience, and swirled her long black hair dramatically, joining her silver-haired companion's game. "Ooo, Sauron, it's me: Lúthien! Come and fight me, you terrible, powerful sorcerer of Morgoth."

The silver-haired Maia fell to his knees. "Oh noooo, please spare me. I seem to have suddenly and inconveniently lost all my powers of dark sorcery and there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop you, a single Elf princess, from forcing your way into my gigantic evil fortress. Spare meeee!"

Scattered Elven laughter rose up from around the square. Sauron's jaw was clenched so tight that he could feel the muscles straining in his cheeks.

The broad-shouldered Maia was laughing at his companions' antics. "He was probably so used to lounging on silk couches and being hand-fed wine and delicacies that he'd forgotten how to put up a proper fight."

"How terrible it must be: actually facing consequences for one's actions," the silver-haired Maia scoffed, dropping his mocking performance of Sauron at Tol-in-Gaurhoth. "I can only imagine how cushy life must have been for you, as Morgoth's favorite little whore." He picked up one of the smushed tomatoes from last night off the cobblestone and threw it with keen accuracy. It struck Sauron right in the side of his face, and the fleshy remains of it tangled into his already-matted hair.

Sauron jolted at the unexpected impact, his arms spasming and his head rising sharply as he instinctively tried to shake the pulp and juice off his face.

But it was as he was desperately attempting to shake the tomato remains out of his hair that he heard Vantanwë crow with victorious laughter. "Look! Look at his face! He's been crying!"

Sauron froze in horror. He hadn't cried, not since last night when he'd been sure that no one would see or hear him. Only Nienna had known, and he somehow knew that she would never have told anyone.

But then, suddenly his heart dropped into his stomach as he realized what must have happened.

His face was coated with juice and grime from the bombardment he'd received yesterday evening. When he'd allowed himself those few silent tears of release, they must have cut an unmistakable trail down his cheeks through the filth that was now visible for all to see. Sudden nausea of pure, unrelenting shame flashed through him, hotter than the depths of Angband.

The three Maiar were doubled over, laughing, and laughter rippled outward through the crowd. He quickly dropped his head again, hiding his treacherous face, but the damage was already done.

"The mighty Dark Lord of Morgoth – crying!"

"He can't even take a punishment he fully deserves without whining and crying about it!"

"Ha! Do you think he cried to Morgoth every time something went wrong?"

"What a disgrace of a Maia!"

"What a failure!"

Every limb of Sauron's body was trembling, every muscle so tense he felt like something was going to snap. Wrath and shame poured through every nerve of his body and soul.

He raised his head, his eyes flashing with a dreadful light that caused the few closest Elves to take a step back. He had no ability to use his powers, but he was a Maia nonetheless and one who had been great and terrible. Malice billowed out from him in a wrathful miasma.

"Mock me if you will," he snarled in a voice filled with cruelty and danger. "But I will not always be bound. I have ripped apart greater Maiar than you, piece by piece, their ëalar barely clinging to their ruined fánar. I have locked spirits inside prisons of vile flesh that would make your skin crawl to hear spoken. I have driven Elves and Men into clawing, drooling madness through the use of words alone. When I am free, I will forget neither your faces nor your words, and then you will see just how much a Maia of Morgoth I can be!"

The Elves fell back, quailing before the raw power of his rage and malevolence. Even the three Maiar stopped laughing, their faces suddenly twisting into something that spoke of surprise and perhaps even fear.

But then Vantanwë gave a short, barking laugh, though it did not quite have the glee behind it that it had contained before. "If you touch us, the Valar will simply punish you again," she sneered. "Maybe next time, they'll even decide it's time to throw you in the Void. You have no power in Valinor, and the Valar will never let you off your leash long enough to hurt anyone ever again."

She jerked her head towards her two companions. "Come on, I'm sure Curumo will love to hear all about this."

The Maiar disappeared into the crowd, and the Elves dispersed back to their various tasks, clearly having determined that the entertainment was over for now. Sauron slumped forward once again, his breathing heavy and his heart still racing with pain and rage.

~o~o~o~

The clear bell rang out the noon hour. In unison, the two guards came forward and began unbinding Sauron's wrists. Finally freed, his arms dropped limply to his sides, and it took everything he could do to stop himself from stumbling forward.

By the time he felt steady enough to walk, Erenquaro had appeared as his escort back to the Halls of Aulë. The young Maia shot him a look so full of pity that Sauron almost snapped at him, but he was too tired to put in the effort. They trudged the several miles back to the Halls in silence: Sauron with no desire to talk and Erenquaro with apparently enough sense not to.

Once back in the Halls, Sauron fled to his quarters as quickly as possible and began tearing off his soiled clothing. By now, the rotten juices had infiltrated so deeply into the fabric that he knew there was no salvaging them. Luckily, they had only been one set of his work clothes, nothing he would miss. Trembling and aching all over, he began to run himself a bath, lighting the coal bed underneath the basin to heat the water.

Unwilling to wait for the basin to slowly fill and warm up, he took a washcloth and, dampening it, began an attempt to scrub away the odorous grime from his body. He started with his face, snarling as he scrubbed away the dirt and the tear trails along with it. Then he proceeded to his neck, shoulders, and arms, his hands shaking with the desperate need to wash away the feeling of filth and humiliation.

The grime slowly disappeared, but his shame did not. Now that he was free and no longer had the necessity of maintaining his pride, it was harder than ever to keep himself together, as the full deluge of emotions that he'd been suppressing during his ordeal bubbled up. He scrubbed even more fiercely in an attempt to force the emotions back, until his skin began to burn from the intense friction. He could feel the horrible lump in the back of his throat and the burning tears pressing at the back of his eyes.

The basin was full but the water still cool when he finished wiping himself down, so he turned to the absolute mess that was his hair. His started by picking out what pieces of flesh and pulp he could find then filled a water pail and dunked his head in, ignoring the initial cold shock of the unheated water. Using his hands, he kneaded his hair, trying to work the water fully in to cleanse it. His shoulders protested with angry aching pain as he did so.

He fetched a whale-bone comb from his small chest of belongings and began trying to bring order to the wretched tangled mess attached to his head. Between his shaking hands and distressed impatience however, he found himself simply yanking fiercely at it, ignoring the sharp pulling at the roots of his hair. The comb kept meeting with knots and gnarls, and the long locks stubbornly refused his every effort to tame them.

It was the final breaking point for Sauron. In a rage, he flung the intricately carved comb onto the floor and stomped on it until it broke into several pieces. Then he tore at his hair frantically with his hands, a sound escaping his lips that was half a snarl and half a sob. His ears rang with the echo of mocking laughter and taunts and insults. He could feel the phantom sensation of ropes around his wrists and rotten fruit splattering against his body. His cheeks burned with shame.

Giving up on his hair, he climbed into the washing basin and sank down into the lukewarm water, wrapping his arms around his knees and curling himself up into a fetal position with his cheek resting on the curved edge of the basin. He closed his eyes, his body still trembling all over, and let utter misery sweep through him entirely.

He did not know how long he'd been curled there, arms wrapped about himself, eyes squeezed shut, his heart aching even more deeply than his body, when he heard a knock at his door.

He lifted his head. The knock had been quiet, so much so that a moment later he was half-sure he'd imagined it. He was about to let his head sink back down, when it came again.

At first, he assumed it must be Aulë, probably here to see how his Nauron was doing and plead for Sauron's forgiveness once again. But the knock had been too soft and quiet to belong to Aulë. But if it was not the Smith, he did not know who else it could possibly be.

He laid his cheek back down on the basin rim. He'd just ignore it. The last thing he wanted right now was company of any type.

But the knocking persisted, growing heavier and more frequent, and Sauron squeezed his eyes shut as the sound began to worm its way painfully into his temples.

"All right!" he bellowed at the door. "Just come in, do what you need to do, then leave."

There was a pause then he heard the door creak a little as it opened. From the washroom, he was unable to see the door, but he heard light footsteps enter and pause.

"What is it?" he snarled in the direction of the main room.

The footsteps resumed, coming closer, and then the person was standing in the doorway to his washroom.

It was the silver-haired Elf maiden whom Sauron had attacked.

Even if he had not recognized her instantly, the finger-shaped bruises on her throat would have identified her quickly enough. For an instant, he just stared at her, too shocked to react, but then his face darkened. "What are you doing here?" he spat, disgust and rage thick on his voice. "Get out! Get out now!" How stupid did the Elf have to be, to come to him here after he'd already hurt her once, when he was still fresh with the misery of having served out the punishment that he had suffered because of her?

She was carrying several clean, fluffy towels, along with soap and something else in a bottle that Sauron could not clearly see. She took a half-step back at his angry tone but did not back off any further, despite the malice that he was directing fully at her with every ounce of his will. But then she spoke in a quiet, slightly husky voice. "I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord. But Vala Aulë sent me up with some articles for your use that he thought you might want."

Sauron eyed her suspiciously, weariness thickening his thoughts. It seemed perfectly feasible that Aulë would have sent the items up for him, probably his way of still trying to show how very sorry he was for the part he had played in Sauron's sentence. However, as scatterbrained as the Smith was capable of being, Sauron wasn't sure if even he would be dull-witted enough to send the very Elf who had been the originator of Sauron's misery. Perhaps he had simply not known, but the coincidence in that case would have been too great to ignore. And an even greater mystery was how Aulë could have convinced the Elf to go alone to the room of the angry Maia whose fingerprints she still bore on her throat from their last encounter.

Despite the fact that the Elf had every reason to fear him, he could not help but notice that she did not seem overly frightened. Sauron was skilled at reading fear in other's eyes and bearings, and while he could see caution in her grey eyes and careful movements, he sensed none of the dread that he would have expected from an Elf in her position.

Yet another sign of how low he'd sunk, he thought moodily. She probably knew he wouldn't dare touch her again, not after he'd tasted the Valar's judgment once. He realized sullenly that if that was the case, she was right; he had no desire to make another trip to the Máhanaxar anytime soon. He would not touch her.

He grunted with resignation and let himself slide back down fully into the basin. He jerked his head towards the small cabinet table on the other side of the room beside the mirror. "You may set the articles there," he ordered briskly.

The Elf acquiesced and placed the towels on the table as he'd directed. However, when she was done, instead of hightailing it out of the room as Sauron would have expected, she turned back towards him. "My lord…" She hesitated. "I noticed the broken comb, and your hair…" She trailed off again.

Sauron's temper immediately ignited again. "What of it?" he snapped, irritated at having his personal time disturbed and ashamed at yet one more Elf – and this Elf nonetheless – seeing him in a state of disorder. The Elf's lack of fear was also eating at him. He must have become truly pathetic and powerless if he did not even engender fear in an Elf maiden any longer.

The Elf kept her eyes downcast. "Vala Aulë…he instructed me to make sure you were as comfortable as possible. If you are in need of a new comb, I can fetch one for you."

Sauron watched her suspiciously as she spoke, and his eyes narrowed as he saw her fingers twitching slightly against her dress skirt. He'd played the interrogator enough times that he knew what he was seeing. The Elf had just lied to him about something.

Instead of further anger at this realization, however, he felt curiosity bubble up from his core, dampening his rage for the time being.

Still watching her keenly, he spoke in the same sharp, clipped tone. "I have a spare comb in the bottom drawer." He indicated the same cabinet table on which she had set the towels. "Bring it to me."

Once again, she obeyed, pulling out a simple wooden comb far less intricate than the whalebone one he'd broken. However, she did not bring it to him, her fingers curling tightly around the comb instead. "I help with the children in the Halls regularly," she said, her husky voice a little stronger, "and I've brushed out many a tangle and knot. If you wished for the service of another with your hair, I could provide it."

Sauron's immediate instinct was to snarl at her that he did not need any help, but he held his anger in check long enough to mull over the Elf's surprising offer of service. In Angband, he'd been used to having slaves and attendants to bow and scrape to his every need, and that feeling of power and authority was one he had sorely missed in his life here in Valinor. Even if the Elf was not properly afraid of him, she at least seemed to comprehend that he was the higher being here. At least one Elf in this Void-cursed land knew how to treat one of the Ainur!

To be served, to be treated with respect, especially after what he'd endured the last day and a half – he craved it more than he wanted to admit even to himself.

Keeping his face devoid of any emotion, he rested his arm along the side of the basin and slipped into the familiar role of a Maiarin lord.

"Very well, you shall tend to my hair, but take care. I will not tolerate any pulling, and I expect it to be perfect when you are finished. You may begin." And with that, he swept his gaze away imperiously.

Something flashed in the Elf's eyes and at the corner of her lips, but then she was situating herself behind him, kneeling on the stone floor.

The first thing Sauron felt was her slender fingers gently scooping up his hair and laying it out before her, so that it hung dripping down his back and over the edge of the basin. The Elf had the bottle that Sauron had seen on top of the towels when she first entered, and when she uncapped it, a fragrant scent of oil filled Sauron's nostrils. His body relaxed almost imperceptibly at the sweet smell, finally rid of the stench of rotten fruit that had clung so unpleasantly to him. Slowly, the Elf began to work the oil into his long tresses with quick steady strokes of her fingers.

Sauron closed his eyes. He could almost imagine that he was back at Gaurhoth Isle, lounging in his lavish chambers at the top of the highest tower, with one of his numerous Elven slaves or Orcish attendants seeing to his comfort and ease. The water was soothing and warm all around him, easing the ache of his muscles from standing in the single position on the platform and kneeling all night on the wood with his body slumped forward and his arms pulled back. His foul temper began to wane, and he rested the back of his head against the curve of the basin and breathed deeply through his nostrils.

The Elf finished applying the oil and started dividing his hair into strands. He felt the comb glide through the first strand, brushing lightly against the back of his scalp then down the length of his hair in a soothing, rhythmic motion. When the Elf encountered a knot or tangle, he felt the light pressure of her hand, bracing his hair as she gently worked it out with the comb. As he had commanded, he felt no painful tugs, only the occasional pressure or light pull.

Time drifted by in a haze of steam and aromatic oil and comforting warmth, contrasting sharply with what the last twenty hours had dealt him. His mind wandered and slowly, ever so slowly, he let himself finally relax.

He suddenly realized that he'd fallen asleep. His eyes cracked open, his mind struggling to remember where he was and what was happening. The soft rustle of clothing from behind him drew his mind back to the present.

His first instinct was to curse himself. Relaxing was one thing, but letting down his guard so utterly as to fall asleep in the presence of a being about whom he knew nothing was idiocy. If she had wished to pay him back for his fingers at her throat, or if she wished to act upon the hatred of all her kind towards him, she could have done so. Fool, he thought furiously at himself.

But his throat had not been slit. He had not been harmed in any discernible way.

"I'm finished, my lord," the Elf said as she rose from behind him. "You are welcome to inspect it to see if it meets your expectations."

Pushing back his self-irritation, Sauron lifted a hand, brushing his fingers through his hair. It was silky and soft to the touch once again, and not a single knot or tangle revealed itself to his searching fingers. He let out a deep sigh. It was a small thing, but having cleaned and groomed hair once again felt like a tiny piece of rightness and control slipping back into place in his world. However, he did not allow his relief or pleasure to cross his face as he glanced back at the Elf, who had come around the basin to stand in front of him again. "It will suffice," he said brusquely, his features emotionless and cold.

He watched her again keenly. "You said Aulë sent you up? You can let him know that you have done your duty and that I do not require any other assistance tonight. I do not wish to be disturbed again."

Once again, he noticed a slight shift and twitch of her fingers when she spoke. "Of course, my lord. I will let him know you are satisfied."

Sauron nodded sharply and pointed to the cabinet table with casual authority. "Bring me a towel, and then you are dismissed."

The Elf turned her back to him and moved to fetch a towel from the pile on the table.

Sauron breathed a deep sigh. Even if he'd allowed his guard to lapse, he did feel much better, both in body and in mind. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, noting how the warm water had soothed the muscles to the point where he could perform the motion without streaks of pain running up and down his back and arms. A slight dull ache persisted in his injured shoulder, but it was nothing compared to before. Now, to put some of Eönwë's salve on his burn, and perhaps he might actually get a good night's sleep for once.

Satisfied with the results of his bath, he pushed himself up and out of the water and stepped gingerly out onto the rush mat laid beside the washing basin, brushing his fingers through his glossy damp hair as he did so.

There was a quiet gasp from behind him. Startled, Sauron quickly turned his head towards the Elf.

Her face had turned a brilliant shade of red, and she had lowered her head and turned her face away from him, very pointedly looking in the opposite direction. She stuck her arm out towards him in a sharp, jerky movement, the towel dangling from her trembling fingers.

Sauron frowned at the Elf's behavior and plucked the towel from her fingers. Her hand dropped back down to her side, where her fingers twisted into her skirt. The crimson red had traveled all the way up to the leaf-shaped taper of her ear.

Raising an eyebrow, Sauron glanced downwards briefly at his own unclad figure, his frown deepening. It seemed clear that it was his state of undress that was causing the Elf's distress, but he could not see why an Elf would make such a show of embarrassment over such a thing. It was certainly no matter of shame for himself; he was a Maia after all, and she only an Elf. In Gaurhoth and Angband, he'd had Elven attendants of both genders, who had seen to everything from dusting his chambers to preparing his bath water to dressing him, and it had never once crossed his mind to feel any shame about undressing in front of them or that such a thing might make them uncomfortable. He would have thought no more of it than to undress in the presence of a dog.

Perhaps, he mused, the Elf's discomfort was merely due to the prudery and generally stiff-laced attitude that he'd observed among the Eldar of Valinor as compared to their more world-wise and cynical cousins in Beleriand.

However, he could not quite shake off the slight disturbance rising in his mind that the Elf's show of embarrassment had suddenly elicited in him. The implications troubled him, and he quickly wrapped the towel about himself. Even if his current form was modeled after that of an Elven nér, he was no Elf! Of course, Melian and Thingol had proven that such desires between Maia and Elf could exist, but that was so clearly a perversion of nature, a freak anomaly, that it had never concerned him before. Yet now, to suspect that an Elf might find him and his form desirable in such a way, or even containing the potential for such desire, turned his stomach with disgust. To be admired in awestruck fear for his beauty and power, to be worshipped as a higher and more glorious being, to beguile the minds of those whom he entrapped with his fair form and clever speech, these were all well and good, but anything of a baser nature was not permissible.

He snapped his fingers, causing the Elf to jerk and automatically glance at him. When she saw that he was now at least partially covered with the towel, she turned back to face him but kept her eyes lowered. "I have no more need of your service," Sauron said tersely. "Take the clothing by the door and the broken comb and see that they are disposed of. You are dismissed."

He turned sharply to examine his hair in the mirror, and behind him, he heard the soft patter of her feet as she exited the wash room. A moment later, he heard the click of the door closing, leaving him in silence and solitude once again.

He slipped on comfortable, clean leggings and lay back in his bed, reaching for the jar of salve. As he rubbed the soothing cream over his burn, he sighed as the pain faded, and he leaned his head back against the pillow, allowing his body to melt into the bed.

All the events that had transpired over the last two days swirled like a maelstrom in his mind, and he closed his eyes, trying to find a calm in the storm. Aulë's pained expression, Eönwë standing before him with drawn sword and flared wings, the mockery of Curumo's compatriots, the unexpected warmth of Nienna's power – all of it raged in his mind. But he had survived. He had not been thrown into the Void. And if Yavanna and the other Valar had hoped to break him, they had not succeeded quite yet. He was beaten and battered, new scars of pain and shame etched across his spirit, but they had not defeated him, not yet. Sauron was a survivor.

But as he drifted off into sleep, it was the silver-haired Elf who claimed his final thoughts of wakefulness. She had presented him with a puzzle, and Sauron could not resist a puzzle. He rotated her strange behaviors through his mind, trying to find some meaning or order behind them.

One thing at least was certain to him: the Elf had lied to him about being sent by Aulë.

Chapter Text

"Aulë! You are being utterly unreasonable!"

Aulë finally turned to face her, standing in the doorway that led to his and Yavanna's private quarters. He had not spoken once, nor even deigned to look at her, since leaving the town plaza of Valmar, and when she had attempted to reach out her spirit towards his, she had found his mental guards in place against her. Now, she stood in their main chamber, her arms crossed, as the two Valar glared at each across the room.

Aulë's eyes flamed with golden fire, the air about him crackling with raw power. "Unreasonable?" he growled, his voice heavy and low. "I am unreasonable? Tell me, Tree Queen, which is more unreasonable: going out of your way in an attempt to ruin another being's life or being outraged by such a deed?"

Yavanna's own eyes flashed an uncanny green. "He'll be fine," she snapped. "Your precious Nauron escaped the Void a second time, and his payment for his deed could have been far worse and yet still been considered just by any sound mind. I am sure he will survive a few hours bound and mocked. His life has hardly been ruined, something that cannot be said for the countless victims strewn across his past."

"And yet, you wished to see him thrown into the Void," Aulë shot back. "I saw the anger on your face when Námo made his ruling. If it had been up to you, he would be in the Void right now."

"Yes, he would!" Yavanna drew herself up, her vines curling tightly about her arms. "And he never again would have harmed another life!"

"Do not play this game with me!" Aulë jabbed a finger towards her, his brows drawing down low over his sparking eyes. "You can peddle your self-righteous nonsense to Námo and the others, but you will not do so with me. Ever you claim that your first thought is for the Children and their safety, ever you use his victims as shields for your true intentions, but I know your game, Yavanna. You hate him for betraying you. You hate him for burning your Gardens in Almaren. It is your hatred that drives you, not concern nor care for any who might be harmed."

He stared at her, unblinking, and there was none of the soft kindness that usually resided in his eyes. "Tell me straight, Yavanna. If you have ever truly loved me, tell me the truth." His eyes bored into her. "Did you intentionally orchestrate the events of yesterday eve?"
Yavanna turned away sharply towards one of the many trees growing out of the soil between the flagstones of the floor. She reached up to pluck off a browned leaf, keeping her shoulders straight but refusing to look into her husband's accusing eyes.

"Did you, Yavanna?" he asked again, and there was immeasurable grief mingled with the anger of his demand.

"Yes," she said finally, her back to him still. "Yes, and the world would be a much better place this day if you had not hindered me at the Máhanaxar this morning."

She fully expected his wrath to explode forth at her admission, but instead there was only a heavy thump. Turning, she found the Smith leaning heavily against the wall, one fire-browned hand covering his face, his mighty shoulders slumped. Concern flashed through her, and she took a step towards him. "Aulë…?"

"How could you?" His voice cracked, and his shoulders bent as if under an unspeakable weight. "You know how much he means to me. How could you do this to him and to me?"

Yavanna took another step towards him, stretching out her mind once again in the same movement. When the tendril of her thought brushed against Aulë's essence, she once again found the mental wall that he had erected against her, but this time it was fractured and weakened. She slipped herself between one of the broken shards and brushed herself gently against his ëala.

"I love you," she said softly, and she let the echo of her words resonate through her mental touch. "I love you too much to let him hurt you even more than he already has."

She reached out her hand and gently brushed it through his messy brown locks and over the back of his rough hand. "I have seen you mourn his betrayal of you for an Age. I have seen your agony every time you learned of some new horror he had wrought. And I have watched how it shatters your heart again and again and again, every time he turns away your kindness with cruel words and a closed heart. He is eating you alive, Aulë, here in your own Halls, in the heart of the Undying Lands. I could not let it continue."

She brushed her fingers across his forehead, sweeping back the tangles from his brow. "Do not think that it does not pain me to act against you and bear the brunt of your anger. It rips my soul in half to do so. But I seem to be the only one who can see that there will never be peace in Valinor again as long as he is free."

Aulë dropped his hand to his side. He did not look at her, and his eyes were watery. "And if you had your way today and he was thrown into the Void, what would you have expected me to do? Would my broken heart be worth that peace to you?"

"Broken hearts can be mended," Yavanna murmured. "He would finally have been gone, and you could finally have let yourself rest and let yourself heal. All of Arda could have done so. Yes, that would have been entirely worth it to me."

Aulë's face darkened again suddenly, and he pushed himself back up to his full height. "And to do so, to achieve the vision of Arda as you believe it should be, you would ignore any pain, grief, and fear brought about to pave the way to this peace." His spirit pushed back against hers, shoving her violently back out of his mind, and she felt the walls snap shut between the two of them again. "You would betray any trust, spout any lie, weave any deception, harm any soul, if it meant you could achieve a world in which Sauron was no more and thereby make your vengeance complete. You have proven over the last twenty-four hours that it is so."

Once again, his eyes flashed. His stare was piercing in both its grief and anger. "Can you not see what you have become, Yavanna? How are your goals and your methods any different from that which Melkor and Sauron pursued, and which we fought against for Age upon Age? Where is your limit, Yavanna? Would you bring down an entire continent, if it meant the world could finally be shaped as you would have it?"

Yavanna's own wrath sprang to life again. Her skin flushed dark, rough bark exploding across her skin, and her vines writhed. "Don't you dare compare me to Melkor!" she seethed. "He sought for the destruction of everything good and green. I seek for its preservation."

"And yet, hatred was Melkor's driving force, just as it has become for you," Aulë stormed back. "Can anything good be born from the seeds of discord, malice, and cruelty that you are so intent on sowing? You seek to destroy a life, to blot it from the world, and you do not care who is harmed in the pursuit of that goal. I saw you, Yavanna, I saw you delighting in Sauron's pain and fear. How is that any different from Melkor?"

His face hardened with sudden stony resolve, and when he looked at her, it was like gazing back into a shuttered window. "It is clear to me, now more than ever, that Sauron will never be safe in these Halls as long as you dwell here. You will never stop trying to harm him. You will never search your own heart for a reason as to why you refuse to forgive him. You will not rest until he is sent to the Void, and you will think yourself in the right to do so."

There was no rage in his voice now, just resolution as deep and unmoving as the foundations of the earth. "You are no longer welcome in my Halls, Yavanna."

For the first time, Yavanna's breath caught with an edge of disbelief that mingled with her fierce anger. She stared at him, her mind not fully processing what he'd just said. "What?" she spat out.

No change came over Aulë's face, and his eyes were empty voids to her. "You are no longer welcome in my Halls," he repeated, his voice deeper and even more resonant than before.

Yavanna's anger flared back up. "That's ridiculous!" she hissed. "You can't demand that. They are my Halls too."

Now fury flashed across Aulë's face again too. He drew himself up fully, and his power rumbled through the ground, causing the walls to tremble and her trees to shake. "They are your Gardens, but they are my Halls," he thundered. "I and my Maiar laid the foundations of these Halls and I built them from the ground up with my power and my hands. And my Maiar shall be safe under the roof of my domain. All my Maiar. Live in your Gardens if you so choose, but you will not set foot in my Halls again."

The trees around the edge of the room seemed to reach out their limbs, grasping and looming, their shadows stretching across the stone. "So this is it?" Yavanna snarled. "You would choose that traitor, that murderer, that burning of trees, over your own wife?"

"I would seek to protect that which is under my care against that which would do it harm," Aulë roared back. The ground shook more violently under their feet. "You have planted your seeds, Yavanna. Now eat the fruit it has born you!"

"And what of my Maiar?" Yavanna cried back. "Are they to be cast out as well?"

The shaking of the ground lessened somewhat, but the cold fury remained in Aulë's eyes. "Those who wish to go with you, wither you will, are welcome to do so. Those who wish to remain here, I will take under my protection, as they are not responsible for your deeds." His furious gaze bit into her like an axe into wood. "But Eru help any of your Maiar who dare to misstep and cause you offense. I hope they know that they would find no forgiveness in your empty heart for them should they do so."

He turned his back on her. "You may remain here tonight, though you will share neither my quarters nor my bed. But tomorrow, you must be gone from my Halls before noontide. I will not have you anywhere near my dwelling by the time Sauron returns."

Yavanna stood, rooted to the spot in shock and anger, as Aulë disappeared into his quarters and the strength of his power and wrath grew to faint rumbles throughout the Halls.

~o~o~o~

Sauron woke in the morning decently rested. His dreams had been strange and confused, but not exactly troubled, and no monstrous wolves had stalked him through his sleep for once. The soothing effects of his warm bath the prior day had worn off, leaving him with stiff limbs, but he knew he could have been far worse off.

With no quarry duty, he allowed himself the scant pleasure of staying in bed later than usual, the blankets bunched up around his shoulders to his chin. His eyes closed, he breathed a deep sigh through his nose and took stock of his current situation.

He was still smarting painfully from his ordeal, but his resolve from yesterday held. He was not going to let this break him. He was not going to let himself be cowed into mewling submission by the Valar. His pride and strength were still intact.

Still, it was probably wise to lay low for a while. His first experiments with using the power of plants infused with metal had born encouraging results, but it was information he could keep in the back of his mind for now. Undoubtedly, the eyes of the Valar would be resting ever more keenly on him in the aftermath of his second trial, but he knew from experience that they would eventually turn elsewhere again. Every being let his guard down sooner or later. Sauron would play the intimidated and repentant fool for the time being, keeping his plans tucked close to his heart, until he sensed that it was time to begin once again.

After a while, he rose, applying salve to his burn and re-tightening his shoulder compression. Then, he laid back in his bed once again, propped up by pillows as the morning light streamed through his window, and worked for a while on his Treatise.

As he did so, he allowed his mind to sink back into his early days in Lord Melkor's service, trying to recall what he could of the Dark Vala's many experiments. Those days in Utumno, before Melkor's first defeat, had been a time of dark exploration, as Melkor delved ever deeper into new ways to corrupt and control everything around him. The waking of the Elves had brought him new victims and new opportunities for experimentation of which he had been all too delighted to take advantage. It was during that time that the first Orcs had been brought into being, that Melkor's designs for the dragons had been born, and many other dark powers – some known only to Melkor and Sauron – had been devised. Sauron jotted down notes in his book as he recalled all that he could.

Deep inside his being, the darkness that he had named the Shroud stirred. For the last month or so, it had been mostly still and quiet, lingering deep in the core of his being but not making itself known except as the ghost of a presence. Not since that fateful day in Nienna's Halls had it shown its powers to him. Although his memories were clearer since that day, he still had the distinct feeling that there was much that was hidden from him behind the Shroud.

As his mind turned to those early days as the Black Captain, the Shroud shifted, sliding to the side of his mind and soul like oil, and Sauron saw for a single moment a flashing image. A dagger with a black blade and strange runes twisting along its cruel length. With it came a feeling of dread that he could not place, a sense of deep Wrongness, but the next moment it was gone, faded like a dream into the depths of his being. He frowned at the strange occurrence, but then he dismissed it and continued writing.

He kept a bag of mixed nuts and seeds in the top drawer of his little bedside table for days when he did not feel like going down to the Great Hall and dealing with the other residents of the Halls. He munched on these as he wrote, but gradually as the sunlight shifted across his room, his stomach began to plead for a more substantial meal. Considering that he had barely eaten for the past three days, he figured he had better venture from his room to seek something out.

His mouth twisted into a grimace as he thought of going down to the Great Hall for lunch. No doubt, news of his trial and punishment would have spread through the Halls, and he was not looking forward to the mockery he was likely to receive the next time he showed his face. But he would have to face it eventually, so he figured he might as well cauterize the emotional wound to his pride sooner rather than later.

He had just returned his Treatise to its hiding place under the loose floor tile when a knock sounded on his door. He stiffened instinctively, not sure what to expect. After making sure the tile was inconspicuously back in place, he walked slowly to the door and opened it.

It was Aulë.

Awkward sadness hung in the air around the Smith, unsurprising given what Sauron had said to him at the plaza. He attempted to smile at Sauron, but the Maia could sense the deep pain at the corners of the Smith's lips and eyes.

"I came to see how you were doing," Aulë said after a few long, uncomfortable seconds of silence had passed between them. "I know you probably don't want to see me, but I felt it was my duty nonetheless to check on the state of your wellbeing."

He took a deep breath then hurried on. "I have thought deeply on what you said. I know you have every right to feel angry with me. Because you are right: I did fail to protect you. I failed to see the danger you were facing in the place where you should have been safest until it was too late. I failed to stop the events that led to your trial and the pain it brought you. And I failed to defend you against those who sought after that pain, your pain."

Sauron's face remained emotionless and unreadable, but inside he felt a small twitch of surprise at Aulë's willingness to admit his failures.

The Smith searched his eyes for some glimmer of emotion then sighed when he received none. "I know it has come too late," he said, "but I wished for you to know that Yavanna will not harm you again and you need no longer fear her. I was blind, but the scales have now been removed from my eyes and I see what she has let her hatred turn her into. In light of this, I have banished her from my Halls."

Sauron barely managed to maintain his impenetrable façade. Shock coursed through him, and with it, a current of relief, as if he could finally breath after being smothered for weeks upon end. He eyed the Smith with a new calculating appraisal. He never would have thought that the kindly Vala of Earth would have something like that in him, and such an estrangement between two of the Valar was something he never would have thought possible. Despite himself, something resembling a faint glimmer of respect for Aulë trickled into the back of his thoughts.

Aulë had continued, evidently unaware of the stir he had caused in Sauron's mind. "I understand if this doesn't change anything in how you view me. I should have taken action before she had the chance to harm you, but I let myself believe that she would come to forgive you if she were just given the chance, as I had. I see now that such a thing was never going to happen, and I am sorry for the harm that my blindness caused you. And if you choose not to forgive me for it, I understand, but I will still choose to love you, even if it is a love that can never be returned."

Sauron gave a sharp, little nod, still processing the fact that Yavanna was gone and that Aulë had been the one to send her away to protect him.

Aulë offered him a sad smile. "But that is not truly why I came to see you. I wished to let you know that Nienna is here and has asked to see you."

Another jolt of surprise, coupled with wariness, shot through Sauron. He scowled. "What does Nienna want with me?"

"Nothing to worry over," Aulë rushed to reassure him. "She will be able to explain better than I, but she wishes to merely speak with you. She is waiting for you in the Hall of the Log Fire where you and she can speak privately."

Sauron's scowl deepened. "And if I refuse to go and speak with her, what then?"

Aulë's expression dropped. "Then she will go on her way."

Sauron mulled this information over. The fact that he could refuse without being dragged forcibly into her presence or being somehow punished mollified him somewhat and ironically made him more inclined to see what she wanted, his curiosity piqued. He remembered also that all-encompassing warmth that he had felt from Nienna's power in the plaza of Valmar, and despite himself, he felt a twinge of yearning tug at his soul.

"All right," he said warily. "I will see what she has to say, but I'm not committing to anything else."

A sliver of a smile returned to Aulë's face, but Sauron couldn't help noticing how tired and sad he still looked. "Thank you, Nauron. I am sure she will appreciate your presence."

I doubt anyone appreciates my presence, Sauron thought with a hint of dark humor. But nonetheless, he followed the Smith out of the dormitories and towards the central wing.

The Hall of the Log Fire was smaller and more intimate than the Great Hall. A long raised channel cut in stone ran down the center of the room, filled with the burning logs that gave the halls its name. Around this massive firepit were innumerable settees, comfortable chairs, and other places where one might take his ease. Although Sauron had never attended, he knew that most evenings the residents of the Halls would gather here for songs, tales, and socializing.

It was empty now, save for a single small table at the far end of the hall. As Sauron entered, Nienna rose from the settee on which she'd been reclining, her grey gown falling in shimmering ripples around her slender form. She extended her hand towards the table. "I took the liberty of asking for some food to be prepared," she said. "Will you come and join me?"

Sauron approached cautiously and took a seat opposite from Nienna as the Valië reclined in the settee once again. A small meal was laid out – a bowl of fruit, fresh bread and cheese, a jug of cider, and a plate of steamed oysters covered in a rich sauce. Keeping a wary eye on the Valië, Sauron helped himself to food and drink, his hunger igniting with a new bout of stomach growls as the fragrant combination of scents hit his nostrils. He began to eat without preamble.

Nienna plucked a pomegranate from the top of the fruit bowl and split it open. For a while, they both ate in silence, which was fine by Sauron. He kept his mental guards at the ready however, still unsure whether he could trust the enigmatic Valië and still bemused by her motives in summoning him here, but simultaneously curious all the same.

It was only when Sauron had reached the dregs of his meal and his hunger had slackened considerably that Nienna finally spoke. "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here," she said, almost as if in answer to his thoughts. "As Námo told you, we wish to support you more closely than we have hitherto done. As such, my task today is to speak to you, and with your contribution, to determine what it is you need to find happiness and healing in Valinor. For now, I will be visiting regularly to attend to whatever matters of the spirit you may require."

She plucked a ruby-red seed from her plate and popped it gently into her mouth before raising her eyes to look at Sauron directly. "During these visits, what you share with me shall be for my ears alone, unless you desire it to be otherwise. You will be free to speak your mind without fear of retribution."

A cunning glint entered Sauron's eyes. "And if I were to tell you that I plan to overthrow the Valar and cover Valinor in darkness?" he asked. "What if I were to say that I intended to find a way to free Lord Melkor from the Void? Would such information remain in your ears alone?"

A small smile that carried both a hint of sorrow and wryness crossed Nienna's face. "There is little that misses your keen mind, is there?" she said softly. "As you have no doubt already guessed, such matters would extend beyond my domain and my authority. If I were to fear harm befalling either yourself or others, I would be obligated to take whatever actions I felt were necessary to ensure the safety of all involved. But any matter of the spirit, heart, or mind – those things of my domain – they shall rest only with me, even if it be nothing but bitterness, hatred, and despair."

"And what if I choose not to cooperate?" Sauron asked in the same barbed voice. "If I choose not to have anything to do with any support from the Valar?"

"Then that is a choice you are free to make," Nienna responded. "Yet, even if you were never to accept it, we will continue to offer it for as long as you remain in Valinor."

Sauron chewed on a savory oyster as he considered her words. He had absolutely no intention of trusting the Valar, but as long as he had their word that their "care" and "support" would not be forced upon him, then he was willing to at least see what they intended to offer. If nothing else, it could give him an insight into the Valar's thoughts and plans concerning him.

He swallowed then spoke in a level, noncommittal voice. "And if I were to accept, what would this support look like?"

Nienna popped another pomegranate seed into her mouth. "That would depend both on your needs and desires," she answered. She paused, eating several more seeds before continuing. "My brother Irmo has sensed that your dreams are troubled. He is willing to help you find your way to deeper and calmer rest. Estë can help your body find similar peace, should you need it. And if your mind is weighed down with despair, doubts, and fears, these are burdens you are welcome to set at my feet, and I will do what I can to help you along the path of healing."

Sauron sneered, stabbing his fork through another oyster more forcefully than necessary. "I will consider your offer," he said dismissively, in a snide voice that made it clear what he thought of Nienna's suggestions.

Nienna did not respond to his disrespectful tone but simply inclined her head. "That is all we ask of you for now," she said sincerely, seeming to take his words at face value. "And should there be anything else you desire from us or ought else we can do to your benefit, you are welcome to make it known at any time."

She finished her pomegranate and wiped her fingers delicately on a cloth napkin. "Unless you wish to speak further now, which you are welcome to do, or if you have any further requests, this is as much of your time as I desired to use. I will return next week, after you have had time to contemplate my words."

She reached down and picked something off the floor by her settee, which she then held in her lap. "Before you go, I have a gift for you."

Sauron raised an eyebrow but did not comment as Nienna lifted the object. It was wrapped loosely in brown cloth, but Sauron could tell that it was flat and hard. She held it out to him, and he took it cautiously, eyeing both the package and Nienna suspiciously. He pulled away the cloth.

It was a wooden board, perfectly square and intricately carved. It was divided into rows of smaller squares, some dyed black, some dyed red, and the squares in each corner and the exact center dyed a beautiful metallic gold. Sauron stared at it, unsure how to react.

Nienna handed him a cloth bag that rattled as he took it. When he loosened the neck and peered inside, he found dozens of carved wooden pieces, some black, some red, and one gold. "It is a game," Nienna clarified, as he continued to stare blankly, "a very popular game amongst the Elves or so I have heard. It is called Aranosarn, King's Table, designed to mimic the strategy of a siege. I thought you might find some enjoyment with it."

Sauron ran his fingers down the edge of the board, carved into an intricately twisting Vanyarin braid style. He looked up at Nienna, frowning. "It appears to be a two-person game."

Nienna smiled. "It is indeed." She rose, her long gown rustling against the stone floor. She turned back to him. "You will have to find someone with whom to play."

She began to move away, and for a moment, a pang of something like disappointment darted through Sauron's heart. The faint yearning he had felt in his room returned, and he realized that he had hoped she would offer him that soothing, comforting warmth again, like she had in the plaza of Valmar. But his pride stuck in his throat, and he could not bring himself to ask for it.

He watched her, his eyes glued to her slender, grey figure, until she turned the corner and was lost from his sight, and a slow ache filled the void she left behind.

~o~o~o~

Aiwendil trudged heavily towards the herb garden, a large watering can in his hand. However, unlike he usually did, he had no desire to whistle to the birds flitting through the trees above his head, and his feet felt leaden.

By now, all the Maiar in the Halls of Aulë had heard the news that Lady Yavanna was going to live in the south of Aman, in the Woodland Halls of Oromë and the flower meads of her sister Vána. Most of Yavanna's Maiar had opted to remain in the Halls of Aulë, but a good number had followed their mistress south.

It was still a shock unlike anything Aiwendil had ever known. Nothing like this had ever occurred in Valinor or amongst the Ainur before. One day, everything had seemed normal, and the next, he was saying goodbye to many of his fellow Maiar, not knowing when he might see them again. Lady Yavanna had tasked those who remained behind with the care of her Gardens, and Aiwendil decided he might as well focus on the familiar comfort of his duties rather than the sudden turmoil that had erupted throughout the Halls.

He passed the familiar groves of trees and endless beds of flowers of every kind, over the bridge that spanned the gurgling stream that flowed through the center of the Gardens, and stopped to fill up one of the many bird feeders that he upkept for his feathered friends. His heart was heavy in a way it had not felt for a long, long time, but he did not know what to do about it. He had always had the guidance of his Lady, and he felt suddenly lost and adrift without her. Before today, he never could have imagined losing his Vala.

Quick, harsh chattering greeted him as he passed an old willow tree with long tresses that swept the ground. Ratatosk the squirrel dropped down, landing on Aiwendil's shoulder, where he continued to chatter. Aiwendil frowned. "What do you mean, Ratatosk? What do you mean by 'badness'?"

Ratatosk chattered again, and something even heavier settled in Aiwendil's heart, something he had not felt since the days of the battles between the Valar and Morgoth. He hurried on, his feet still heavy but his heart suddenly beating faster.

He came through the final grove of alders and birches to the edge of the vast herb garden that formed the southern border of the Gardens. The sight that met his eyes caused him to stop dead in his tracks.

Badness! Badness! Ratatosk chattered in his ear.

The herb garden was wilted and dark, as if a blight had swept through it. Aiwendil knelt down at the edge of the garden and touched one of the plants that just a few days ago had been vibrant and green. Now it was a sickly brown, its stem sagging, and a foul smell of rot met his nose as he leaned forward. He moved from plant to plant, but all was the same. All dying. All rotting.

His heart pattering faster than rabbit's feet, he rose. Abandoning the watering can, he hurried back towards the Halls, some unknown fear chasing at his heels.

Ratatosk flitted through the trees above him all the way back.

Badness! Badness!

~o~o~o~

The throne room of Utumno was vast and cold, lit only in its extremities by tall torches that cast the high, domed ceiling in flickering shadows. Mairon stood to the right of the throne, dressed in a knee-length black satin tunic with gold trimming and wrapped in a black cloak pinned at his shoulder with a golden brooch. Tall, handsome, and granite-faced, he knew he cut an elegant and intimidating figure. Nothing about his outward appearance hinted at the dozens of wounds in various stages of healing that crisscrossed his chest and stomach.

"Well, Mairon, it would appear the information you gave me was correct." Melkor lounged on his throne, picking apart the carcass of some large fowl that the hunters had brought in and cooked. He lifted a greasy bone with shreds of meat clinging to it and sucked on it. "The raid on my brother's people fleeing from Almaren proved very successful." He grinned at Mairon, the bone still sticking out from between his teeth. "You've done such a good job, Mairon. My little wolf." He reached out and caressed Mairon's jaw, the gesture almost tender, but Mairon knew it was born not of any affection but rather possession. "I'm very pleased, yes, very, very pleased."

He flicked the bone away into the darkness. Snarls resounded from the gloom as the young werewolves that lurked in the shadows dove for the bone and fought each other for it. "You're very nearly ready to become my Black Captain," Melkor purred. "To that end, I've arranged for a special demonstration to allow you to show me that you deserve to be my strong right hand once and for all."

Mairon's only response was the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

Melkor clapped his hands sharply, calling out to one of the Valaraukar guards standing by the entrance. "Let me see the prisoner."

There was a great clanking of metal wheels and chains and something moved in the darkness of the great domed ceiling. Mairon's eyes flicked upwards, though not a single other muscle of his body moved. Down from the ceiling, two black iron chains descended, from which dangled a humanoid figure, arms extended outward and up, and each wrist manacled to the end of one of the chains. Down and down it lowered, excruciatingly slow, until it stopped with the prisoner dangling no more than several inches off the floor. The prisoner's body was covered in ugly bruises, and his silvery-blue hair hung filthy and matted in his face.

Mairon made no reaction to the sight of his fellow Maia, keeping his face as utterly emotionless as he had learned to do so flawlessly over these past few years.

Melkor rose from his throne and circled the prisoner. "The Valaraukar captured several during the raid. They were able to isolate them from the rest of the Ainur with their fire and take them captive. I've saved several for my own enjoyment, and I let Gothmog have his fun with one or two, but this one I had saved with special instructions that he was not to be played with. Well, not beyond reason." The Dark Vala laughed lightly and ran his fingertips over one of the harsh bruises on the Maia's body. He turned to Mairon. "This one is a particularly special gift for you, my little wolf."

The Maia let out a little whimper of pain and pure terror as Melkor pulled his head up sharply, revealing his face. Mairon stared impassively, not even a twitch crossing his lips, but inside, it felt like a broken shard of melting rock from the mountain's core had lodged itself in his stomach.

It was Sirenúr.

The young water Maia's eyes were glazed over and he seemed only half aware of his surroundings, which was probably a mercy in itself. The muscles in his arms twitched visibly with internal spasms, no doubt caused by the uncomfortable and relentless position in which he was held by the chains. He was shivering, a combination of the cold hall, exhaustion, pain, and terror.

Mairon was intimately aware that Melkor was watching him like a cat eyeing its prey, scrutinizing him for even the most minute reaction. Mairon was equally aware that he could not afford to give one, or whatever came next would be twice as unbearable. Instead, he turned his gaze cooly away from Sirenúr and looked into the Dark Vala's eyes. "He doesn't look like he must have been particularly hard to catch," he said impassively. "Not exactly the best prey for your Valaraukar that I can imagine."

Melkor laughed. The Dark Vala's moods were always unpredictable, but Mairon had learned a while back that he usually seemed to enjoy Mairon's sardonic wit, particularly when he was already in a good mood. He stroked Sirenúr's matted hair absently, and Mairon couldn't help but notice how similar the gesture was to when Melkor had stroked his face earlier. "No, I'm afraid I don't have Eönwë or Salmar to offer you quite yet, but I think this one will do nicely for our demonstration today."

"Is that so?" Mairon replied, still in that half-bored, mildly interested tone. "In that case, I am eager to know how I can please you, my lord."

"Mairon… Mairon?"

Mairon turned. The sound of his voice seemed to have stirred Sirenúr out of his stupor. His eyes had become more focused and they were now fixed with horrifying intensity on Mairon. Somehow, the little water Maia managed to pull himself up fractionally, though his arms and shoulders must have been burning, so that he could stare at Mairon. His voice was so hoarse that Mairon could barely hear it. "Mairon, Mairon, please."

The plea was small and nearly inaudible, but Mairon knew he would never forget the sound of it. Even worse was the small glimmer of some cursed desperate hope gleaming in Sirenúr's pale blue-green eyes. For a moment, he felt on the brink of sickness from pity.

You fool, you have passed beyond the place of hope. Hoping will only make this worse.

He wrenched his gaze away from Sirenúr, back to Melkor, but what he saw there did not help to quell the sick feeling in his stomach. Melkor was smiling, and there was a dark gleam in his eyes that boded nothing good. "So, you know each other, I see," Melkor said. "Or he knows you, at least. I was hoping that would be the case. So, you must be wondering why I have brought you here and how I wish for you to prove your loyalty to me."

Mairon inclined his head respectfully. "That is true, my lord."

Melkor sat back down on his throne with a swirl of his black cloak, still smiling that uncanny, knowing smile. "You've proven yourself to me in many ways, Mairon. That wildfire you used to scorch Almaren was truly impressive, and the information you've given me about the Ainur has proved useful time and time again. And the two of us know how very strong you have grown." His black gaze trailed down Mairon's body, as if tracing the scars that lay underneath his clothing, and it took all of Mairon's will not to shudder. "But I still need to know once and for all that your loyalty lies unwaveringly with me. And to that end, I want you to kill that Maia for me."

Melkor held something out. Mairon stepped forward, his feet heavy as if he were dragging them through deep water. The object was swathed in black silk and he could not take his eyes off it. Something radiated from it that he could not quite name, a deep sense of Wrongness. Slowly, he lifted the silk, revealing the razor-sharp blade of an obsidian dagger carved with strange runes resting in the Dark Vala's hand.

Mairon stared at the cruel weapon for a long moment, then he lifted it.

Then he turned to Sirenúr.

The water Maia was still staring at him, his mouth slightly open though thankfully silent now, but there was blatant confusion in his eyes. There was still that glimmer of damnable hope, but now there was doubt too. He looked up into Mairon's eyes, and Mairon could see the warring thoughts behind his gaze, questioning whether Mairon was his friend and savior…or the exact opposite.

Disgust mingled with the pity in Mairon's heart. How could any being be so naïve as to believe that they could come this far and still have any hope of salvation? There was no end to this story where Sirenúr would return to the bubbling streams he loved and the Lord of Water whom he served. He was already dead. And at that moment, something akin to gratefulness stirred in Mairon's heart. There were far worse things than death deep in the prisons of Utumno, and at the very least, he could ensure that Sirenúr would not face those.

He didn't know if Sirenúr would ever know that he had given him the closest thing to salvation that he could.

Perhaps in time, Sirenúr's spirit would even be able to reform and rejoin the other Ainur in the land far to the west to which they had fled.

Mairon's hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger and he stepped forward.

The hope melted from Sirenúr's face into fear, pain, and worst of all, betrayal. He looked up at Mairon with a wordless cry in his eyes, and Mairon saw the exact moment when Sirenúr realized that Mairon was about to kill him. Terror flooded over his face.

The half-molten shard in Mairon's gut stabbed into him. Something like anger uncoiled in his heart, anger and hatred that had been building inside of him for months and years now. He had not killed yet, not with his own hands, but somehow he had known all along that every moment he had endured under Melkor had been leading him inevitably to this.

He lifted the black dagger, his heart pounding in his ears. His muscles tensed, and then, quick as a striking viper, he drove the dagger forward, straight towards Sirenúr's heart.

At the last moment, a hand stopped his.

Confusion swept over him as he stared at the dagger hovering a mere inch from Sirenúr's chest and at the large hand enveloping his.

For a moment, intense relief rushed over him. It had merely been a test, to see if he was willing to go through with the deed, but he would be spared from having to actually shed the little water Maia's blood. He felt guilty and ashamed at his own relief – he had been Sirenúr's only chance at a clean and quick death – and he knew there was only so long that Melkor would allow him to keep his hands free of blood. But all the same, he was grateful that it would not be this day and it would not be Sirenúr.

But then he looked at Melkor, and his heart dropped.

Melkor was smiling, and his eyes glinted with that dark light of indescribable malice and the pure glee of cruelty that Mairon had never known before meeting the Dark Vala. His heart shriveled up inside of him at the sight and he cursed himself as a fool. Of course Melkor would not make it this easy.

Melkor plucked the dagger almost tenderly out of Mairon's hands, his eyes still glinting with barely controlled gleeful madness. He turned the dagger in his hands, caressing it as if it were his child. Then he reached out and stroked Mairon's cheek tenderly. "Oh, Mairon," he purred. "And here I was thinking I had taught you better than that. If I wanted you to prove to me what an efficient killer you are, then maybe I'd be proud, but that's not what I asked of you. I want to know that you have what it takes to be my Black Captain."

He extended the dagger once more to Mairon. "Now, let's try this again, shall we? I want you to kill the Maia, but not too quickly. I want to watch you turn his death into an art, Mairon, just for me." His eyes glittered. "Impress me, my little wolf."

Mairon stared at the dagger, and all he was aware of was the pulsing of his heart in his ears. The molten stone sank and embedded itself deep inside his core.

For the second time, he took the dagger.

And then, for the first time of what would be many, many, many times, Mairon imprisoned his thoughts and emotions deep behind iron walls and blocked out the screams with gates of steel, and he did exactly as his dark master bid him do.

Chapter Text

Part Two: The Deceiver

In the beginning, there was Light.

Light. His first moments of awareness were that of being cradled in an all-encompassing Light that ebbed and flowed about him and through him, filling his newborn spirit with warmth and unspeakable soft joy. For what could have been mere moments or a thousand Ages, he simply floated upon it, aware of it wrapping around him in the gentlest, most delightful tendrils, like an embrace that reached into the core of his newly formed being. He accepted it with innocent delight, completely happy and content for this beautiful, perfect Light to be the entirety of his existence.

He felt no passage of time, for Time was eternal there in his cradle of Light and nothing mattered outside of the moment in which he currently existed. He did not know words yet to describe what he felt, but he knew through all and over all that he was safe, and he reveled in this strange, newfound state of Being.

Slowly, like a stream unhurriedly carving out its path one grain of sand at a time, his consciousness became increasingly aware of the presence of Another.

It had been there since the beginning, but its presence was so vast that at first he had not recognized it as a fellow consciousness. He sensed instinctively that it was different from him and yet…not… He could not tell if it was the Light, or if the Light was merely part of it, or if the Light came from it, or perhaps all three at once.

As the realization that he was not alone grew, something new crept upon him – a pull, a drive, a desire to understand – that sent pleasant ripples through his spirit. For the first time, he wanted more. He had no words to call it by a name, but he instantly knew that he liked it, this newfound power of curiosity. And then, for the first time ever, he fearlessly stretched out a tendril of his own thought and being, seeking to learn more about this vast other Being of Light that filled his world.

To his delight, the Being responded, meeting his seeking tendrils with its own gentle brush of thought. It wrapped him in arms of Light, drawing him closer and examining him with its own pleased curiosity that he realized with a burst of surprise was the very origin and source of his own desire to know. Somehow, he had come from this Being, though how or why he had come into existence, he did not know. It was still vast beyond his minute ability to comprehend, but this fact only filled him with exhilaration. If existence could contain something so incomprehensibly immense, there must be so much to explore and learn.

Then something unexpected happened. All these new emotions bubbled and pushed from inside, harder and harder and harder, until they suddenly burst. The result was something entirely new to him: ripples that flowed out from him, causing vibrations that changed the very space around him and filled it with something new, something sweeter and more beautiful than anything he had hitherto imagined. He froze, closely examining the strange vibrations until they faded from his ability to perceive them. Then, brimming with wonder, he contracted his spirit once again and released another burst of Sound that flowed out into the Light around him.

For another Timeless Age, he played with this newfound discovery under the kind watchful gaze of the great Being. He learned how to use his spirit and thoughts to direct the sound, to change the pitch and quality. He learned how certain sounds were more pleasing together, how to make each note last longer or shorter, and slowly he contrived how to use this Music to express his thoughts, emotions, and desires in simple Themes.

Pleased with himself, he trilled his pride and happiness to the great Being and felt a wave of satisfied delight when the Being trilled back at him, expressing its own pride and pleasure towards him and all he was learning. The ever-present Light pulsed and swelled.

What more was there to learn? There was Light and there was Music. What else could he discover?

He began to explore further, beyond his cradle of Light that was all he had ever known until now. He began to learn more of himself, discovering where his own being began and ended and what he could influence with it. Sometimes, in his eagerness, he became tangled in his own flowing essence as he reached out tendrils in every direction, and when this happened he burbled his annoyance and frustration before slowly learning to untangle himself and coordinate his thoughts so that it would not happen again. Through it all, he felt the Being's fond amusement as it watched him, but it did not interfere as he slowly learned and grew in confidence.

And thus, yet again something new began to grow. He began to recognize certain patterns in his own ëala and to categorize them: curiosity when faced with something new, happiness when he encountered something pleasing, frustration when confronted with an obstacle to his exploration, and pride when he achieved what he sought after. His ability to express these different categories of emotions grew as well, with trills and croons and burbles, ever increasing in nuance of sound and theme as he discovered more that he wished to express.

Finally, a sense of pleased satisfaction and a pleasant weariness crept over him, and he slipped back into the cradle of deepest Light from whence he had been born, snuggling his spirit back down into the familiar warmth of the great Being's essence with a contented warble. The Being wrapped itself fully around him, filling him to the brim with its Light.

The Being made a sound then, a new sound, and somehow though he had never heard it before, he perceived its meaning into the core of his spirit. It was a sound that somehow encompassed all that he was: his curiosity, his wonder, his strength of will to overcome, his ingenuity, the desire of his heart to make things of value and beauty to fill his existence, his joy, and the deep innate value of his being. And it expressed also the Great Being's perception of him: as something deeply precious beyond measure.

The Being made the sound again, softer this time, and the sound wove itself through every part of him, binding itself to his soul.

Mairon.

He sank further into his cradle of Light and into the Being's love and admiration for him.

I am Admirable. I am Mairon.

~o~o~o~

Days passed into weeks, which in turn slipped into months. The anniversary of Sauron's arrival in Valinor came and went with neither acknowledgement nor sentiment, and life gradually became a routine that constantly tempted complacency and slow begrudging acceptance.

Ever since his second trial, Sauron had committed to his decision to lay low, keeping his head down, playing the penitent, and keeping any schemes close to his heart. He kept to himself as much as he could, and when he could not, he plastered on a façade of aloof dignity that hid the ever-present pain and rage in his soul.

Now, without the ever-present looming threat of Yavanna, Sauron had found himself able to carefully and strategically let down his guard just a fraction. In particular, this had resulted in the ability to wheedle his way closer to Aulë now that Yavanna's critical gaze was no longer upon him. Ironically, Yavanna's absence left the Smith wide open to Sauron's charms, and he had wasted no time in putting said charms to use. It was not blatant of course – nothing more than a faint smile here, an amiable word there, or simply forcing himself not to pull away or flinch when Aulë rested a hand on his arm – but he had already observed the difference it made in Aulë's demeanor towards him. It clearly delighted the Vala of Earth to be "winning Sauron over", and Sauron watched as slowly Aulë became more relaxed and comfortable in their times together. For now, Sauron was content with leaving it at that: allowing the Smith to believe that he had finally broken through Sauron's frosty guard and that he had forgiven him for what had transpired at his second trial.

Aulë was not the only one in whom Sauron had noticed a change in demeanor. A subtle transformation had slowly occurred between Sauron and Eönwë during the continued long days at the quarry. They were hardly friends – quite the contrary – and they bickered and snarked at each other nearly as much as before, but there was less vitriol behind their words. Something almost like a truce had glided into place between them emotionally, and the bickering sometimes drifted into territory closer to banter.

Sauron's wounds – both his injured shoulder and his self-inflicted burn – had long since healed, thankfully leaving no permanent damage, other than a single off-color blemish on his otherwise flawless fána from the latter. And though he and Eönwë never spoke of either wound again, Sauron could sense an increased watchfulness from the Herald. Not long ago, such protectiveness would have filled Sauron with simmering resentment but now he had settled into grumpy tolerance towards the Herald's predilection for heroism.

Whether it was the increased watchfulness of Eönwë or some other factor of which Sauron had no awareness, Saiwend and his faction of Elves had backed off from their harassment of Sauron as well. The mysterious, threatening notes still occasionally made appearances, though less so, but there had been no more thrown rocks or anything of a substantial nature. Sauron was not naïve enough to presume his relations with them had improved however. He recognized the signs; they were lying low just as he was doing, staying vigilant and waiting for a chance to pounce. Instinctively, with senses honed from thousands of years as the Black Captain, he knew his trouble with them was far from over.

And speaking of trouble…

Curumo was also lying low, though unlike Sauron and the Elves, he was terrible at hiding it. Four days a week, after returning to the Halls of Aulë from the quarry, Sauron would head to the forges to instruct Erenquaro. He continued to hone the younger Maia's skills – both in the physical and metaphysical arts of smithing – though he had not made another attempt for the time being to mix in his own secret element. Erenquaro had improved, though that was really not saying much, and Sauron continued to push him gently, not enough to discourage him but enough to keep him on his toes. Whatever other flaws he might possess, Sauron was a good teacher, and if Erenquaro had any chance of ever becoming anything resembling a skilled smith, it would be under Sauron's tutelage.

Curumo, on the other hand, clearly still thought otherwise. Despite Erenquaro's demonstratable improvement, Curumo continued to silently seethe in the background. Sauron was well aware that Aulë's head smith had instructed his three companions – the ones who had mocked Sauron in the town square of Valmar – to spy on him, doubtlessly looking for anything Curumo could use against him. They were so bad at it that it was almost comical. For now, Sauron simply ignored them in favor of focusing on honing Erenquaro's skills as much as was in his power, but he knew that sooner or later, there would be another showdown. When it came, Sauron planned to be ready for it.

However, all in all, Sauron's life had become notably uneventful.

Yet another monotonous day at the quarry had passed. Sauron performed his daily ritual of cleaning away the quarry grime and transforming himself into something presentable, but today he did not head down to the forges to instruct Erenquaro. Instead, he turned the opposite way towards the south wing and the Hall of the Log Fire.

On the fifth day of each week, Sauron had his session with Nienna.

Sauron still did not know entirely what to think of the Valië of Sorrow and Mercy. At first, he had treated these weekly meetings with nothing but scornful suspicion, but as Nienna had kept her word to him that nothing would be forced from him against his will, he began to regard them instead with cautious curiosity. Although he kept his guard firmly up, he allowed himself to carefully engage with her. She would ask him about the quarry, about his forging projects, and about his life in general. If he was in a good mood, he would respond (albeit caustically all too often) and if he was in a bad mood, sometimes he would just eat the food Nienna always provided and sit in taciturn silence. In those latter cases, she never pushed him to speak but simply sat with him through his brooding.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sauron found himself looking forward to the fifth day of the week.

She still bemused him but in a way that he found himself almost begrudgingly enjoying. She was one of the few things in his dull existence that piqued his curiosity and offered him an unknown to explore. He could be sarcastic and caustic, and it did not faze her. He could tell her the most mundane minutiae about his day at the quarry, and he could sense her listening carefully to every word he said as if he was recounting some fascinating adventure. And even though she had not yet again stretched out her powers to wrap him in an all-encompassing swath of warmth and love like she had that evening in Valmar, her very presence was a soothing aura of compassion that Sauron could feel all the more acutely the more he allowed himself to interact with her with something resembling cautious trust.

Yet, through all of it, he never let himself forget that she was one of the Valar. One of the ones who had stripped him of his powers. One of the ones who had condemned him to the quarry in the first place. One of the ones who had consented to his humiliation in the town square of Valmar. However much she might arouse his curiosity, he knew she could never truly be a friend or confidante.

But secretly, nestled deep in his heart where he did not have to acknowledge it and despite his better judgement, a soft yearning grew. For the time being at least, Nienna was one of the few people in his existence whom he was not trying to actively manipulate. He could be a guarded version of himself with her – bitter or sardonic or even the barest hints of vulnerable – without constantly trying to control her perception of him. He had not realized just how much energy it took – always controlling, always looking for a way to twist any encounter to his benefit, always wearing whatever mask suited his current desires and needs. He was never truly himself with Aulë or Eönwë or Erenquaro, even if he occasionally drifted close to it sometimes. But with them, even when he came close to showing his true self, it was always with the purpose of some subtle manipulation.

It was not so with Nienna. He could simply talk to her – or not – without some greater purpose behind it, without trying to weave her into his intricate web, and rest from his constant need for control, if only briefly. He had been surprised to find it was…a relief. For one hour a week, he could simply be.

If only she were not a Vala, he would occasionally find himself thinking. If only she were not one of the ones responsible for his suffering, then perhaps… But he never let himself finish that thought.

Clad in a loose, dark blue tunic and with his hair still damp from his bath, he strode down the stairs from the dormitory wing, heading for the central courtyard. He had gotten steadily faster at finishing his daily quota of blocks at the quarry, and to his surprise the Valar had not increased it, meaning that slowly over the months, he was able to leave earlier and earlier. At this point, he had gained nearly a whole extra hour. Today, he had a full half-hour to spare before his meeting with Nienna, and he used it to meander through the courtyard garden. As he stopped upon the bridge crossing the stream that ran through the courtyard's center, a tiny thought pricked briefly at his mind about how familiar the pathway with its hanging trees had become since that day over a year ago when he had stood in this exact same spot, looking down at his reflection as he realized he needed a compass for his life and took his vow of vengeance against the Valar.

As always, as he neared the far side of the courtyard, he veered off the track to pay his visit to the painting of Middle-earth. It had become an engrained part of his daily ritual, even if he could conjure a perfect image of it in his mind at this point, but his life felt somehow askew without stopping in front of it as some sort of silent acknowledgement of his past and all that he had lost.

This time however, as he came into the clearing in front of the colonnade where the painting was displayed, he ground to a halt. Someone was already there. Anger flashed through him, blindingly hot. This was his spot. His painting. His Middle-earth. How dare someone else intrude.

The person's back was to him, facing the painting. But as his initial burst of instinctive anger faded, he realized what the person was doing.

They were painting.

They had a large easel set up in front of them on which rested a canvas. Sauron could just see over their shoulder enough to view the scene unfolding on the canvas surface, and his anger instantly cooled to surprised intrigue followed by something almost like excitement.

It was another scene of Middle-earth, almost an expansion of the original painting, or perhaps a different view from the same mountain top as the first scene. It looked down over a mountain river, which twisted in roiling torment over several steps of rapids and a great waterfall. Mist coiled up from it into the same hazy grey sky as the first painting, and Sauron could almost hear the distant roar of it in his ears. As with the original – his painting – there was a sense of sublime melancholy about the whole image that he could not quite name.

Sauron was no expert on the art of painting, but even to his untrained gaze, it was obvious that both paintings had been created by the same hand.

And with that thought, he realized that he was finally looking upon the mysterious painter about whose identity he had wondered countless times.

Overcome by curiosity, he moved forward, staring hard at the back of the painter's head as he tried to catch a glimpse of whom it might be.

Momentarily, he forgot the power that his eyes had upon others: the burning, piercing discomfort they inflicted. The painter started, narrow shoulders shivering briefly, and then they turned, far too quickly for Sauron to make any sort of retreat back into the trees.

A ripple of shock reverberated through Sauron as he found himself staring back into the face of the silver-haired Elf maiden.

There was no mistaking her; he recognized her instantly, even if the bloom of his fingers on her skin was long since gone. He had seen her a few times in the passing year since she had come to his chambers, but they had never interacted again since that afternoon, though she had passed occasionally through his thoughts as he ruminated on all that had occurred since his arrival in Valinor.

In turn, she had frozen also, staring back at him with some wary mixture of emotion.

They stared at each other silently for several long seconds, before Sauron gathered his wits and imperiously swept his gaze away. He kept walking, on past the clearing in front of the colonnade towards the entrance to the Hall of the Log Fire. He did not look back at the Elf maid, but he felt her lingering gaze as he vanished through the stone archway into the Halls once more.

~o~o~o~

"I'm curious about something, Sauron. May I ask you a question?"

Sauron looked up warily, chewing slowly on the smoked venison and truffles that filled his plate. Nienna always had food laid out for him during their weekly meetings, which Sauron was grateful for on two counts. One, that for that day at least he did not have to endure eating a meal in the Great Hall, and two, that it gave him something to focus on other than Nienna's prodding questions and strangely powerful gaze.

It was not uncommon for her to prod deeper into something he had said, but he had noticed that she never did so without his express permission. And he had learned that it was more than mere politeness or formality; on the occasions when he had declined – either verbally or with a scowl – she had let the matter drop and not pressed him into unwanted conversation. It gave him a small sense of control over their meetings, if only an illusion, but it ironically made him more willing to engage with her. It had crossed his mind more than once however that she probably did it for that very reason, knowing he'd be more inclined to answer if she granted him some façade of power in their conversation. For some reason though, the knowledge that she had read him so keenly only mildly irritated him. In fact, he found himself granting her some begrudging admiration for her ability to figure out exactly what to do to get him to talk. It was a skill he knew was hard to master, and Sauron had always been one to grant respect where he observed that it was due.

He'd been telling her about his day at the quarry, though there was not much to tell, when her finger tips gently tapped the edge of the table in a gesture he had learned to recognize, and sure enough, a moment later she had posed her question. He frowned. He'd not been talking about anything remotely interesting and could not imagine what more she wanted to know about his dull existence, but at the same time, the very fact that he was unsure what she would ask piqued his curiosity.

"All right," he said cautiously. "What do you want to know?"

Nienna smiled slightly. "It does not take any skill of observation to tell that you do not find your existence particularly pleasing. You are bored, deeply so, and I have only on the rarest occasion seen you express anything resembling happiness in anything you do. So, my question to you is this: what would your ideal existence look like, if you could choose anything? One that would fulfill you truly and bring you joy?"

Sauron raised an eyebrow. "Those would seem to be two different questions."

"Are they?" Nienna asked, but not in the sarcastic way that Eönwë would have asked the question, nor in the pitying way that Aulë would. Instead, he felt only genuine curiosity from the grey-clad Valië. "I would think that finding fulfillment would also bring joy."

Sauron opted not to answer and instead mulled over her question as he took another bite of venison. It was a question he had asked himself many times in the past, but every time he was unsure if he completely liked his answer.

"I would want a world where I had the power and freedom to fix everything that is wrong, however I saw fit," he answered slowly.

"And what are the wrongs of the world, as you see them?"

Here at least was a question Sauron felt confident to answer. "The decaying of the world and the friction of its peoples," he answered promptly.

Nienna took a handful of the dried fruits and nuts filling the table's centerpiece and popped some in her mouth. "The decaying of the world and the friction of its peoples. Tell me more."

Sauron felt a warm flush in his cheeks as his passion for the subject rose up and spilled over into his words. "We are immortal beings in a world that rots around us. Plants and animals die, buildings crumble, and lands sink. What is the point of ever creating or building anything, if it will all fall into ruin sooner or later? Why try to achieve anything, when it will inevitably crumble? The world is broken, and nothing of true value can ever be wholly achieved until it is fixed. Until there is no more death, no more decay, no more ruin, no more chaos.

"And its people." Sauron's lip turned upward in a sneer. "They do nothing but quarrel and fight and make wars. I have seen it all across Endor and even here in Valinor. There is endless friction: one race against another, one family against another, one individual against another. One race attempts to achieve their own petty ends by one means, while another attempts to achieve theirs in a way that clashes and grinds with the first. There can be no true peace and no true advancement until all are brought together as one, into the same unity of thought and purpose.

"And it is clear that left to their own devices, this shall never occur. Only until one rises above all, one with a vision of peace, beauty, and order everlasting."

A sense of wild exhilaration rose within him, a lingering sense of purpose that he had carried for so long. And with it came the mental vision that always accompanied such thoughts: himself, wreathed in power, with all nations and races and peoples gathered around him as he directed each to their rightful place, like the pieces of a perfect, grand puzzle that stretched across the entire scope of reality.

But then it faded, and he was nothing but Sauron the Abhorred again: powerless and Bound, with no future beyond servitude and forced humility, with no ability to direct the world to his liking and bring about the perfection of his vision that he craved. He sighed moodily and stabbed a truffle with his fork.

He fully expected Nienna to remark on his revelations, either to tell him it was unrealistic or to scold him for believing he held the answers to Eä's problems. But she did neither. Instead, she quietly ate another handful of fruit and nuts, allowing the silence to fill the room around them for a time, before she asked in a soft voice. "And ruling over all the peoples of Arda and directing them to your will, this would make you happy?"

Sauron sneered slightly. "It certainly wouldn't make me miserable."

"And let us say that your dream was achieved, Sauron. Let us say you obtained a power greater than any wielded by a single being before, and all peoples called you lord and did your bidding. Let us say you healed the decaying of the world and the friction of all its peoples. When everything was perfect according to you…what then?"

And there it was, the place where he always got stuck. What then? The rest of eternity ruling over the paradise he had created with nothing to ever do or achieve? Suddenly, his vision seemed hollow and empty. The feeling pricked uncomfortably at his soul, and his scowl darkened. "I would have achieved my purpose, the fulfillment of my being," he answered. "Whatever came next would not matter."

"Whether or not you found joy in it," Nienna supplied.

Sauron's voice turned sharp. "Why do you keep harping on whether I'd be happy or not? Happiness hasn't been my goal for a very long time."

Nienna remained infuriatingly unflustered, as she always was, even in the face of his anger. "Do you believe you deserve to be happy, Sauron?"

The conversation was now straying into territory that Sauron didn't like, but he still felt compelled to answer. "I have no use for happiness. I would rather seek an end that I can build something from." He pushed back his plate and rose, still holding on to the shimmering illusion that he was the one in control here. "I have had my fill of both food and questions, so I will go about the rest of my day now."

He turned his back to Nienna and walked stiffly towards the exit to the Hall, but as he did so, his heart twinged with a secret ache as it did every week when his and Nienna's session came to an end.

~o~o~o~

Miriel Celebros, daughter of Vistagil of the House of Áragil, furrowed her brow as she squeezed through the throng of mingling Elves. The Sun Chariot was bustling, as the popular tavern usually was any given evening, and the air was filled with music, chatter, and all manner of sweet aromas. Miriel scooted around a table occupied by a group of Vanyar playing cards and stood on her tip toes, attempting to catch a glimpse of the individual she sought.

The crowd flowed and ebbed and momentarily parted, allowing Miriel to catch a glimpse of black hair amidst the sea of predominately yellow, towards the back of the brightly lit room. She sighed and headed towards it.

Saiwend was moodily nursing a glass of wine with his back to a wall. He ignored Miriel as she sat down across from him.

She ordered her own glass of pale mead and sat in silence with him for several minutes, sipping calmly at her drink, before finally addressing her taciturn cousin. "The audience did not go well, I assume?"

Saiwend looked up at her darkly. "Not even half of them bothered to attend, if that tells you anything."

Miriel sighed. "What did they say?"

"Everything you'd expect. Condescending drivel about how now is not the proper time and they will make the call on whom to send when the time is right. There was far more in what they did not say than in what they did. They do not want to send any Noldor back to Middle-earth to help, and they do not trust me out of their sight. Even if they claim that the Curse is lifted, it is clear they still look upon us with distrust and disdain. They have no problem sending Teleri and Vanyar." He slammed his fist on the table in frustration. "It is not as if there are no Noldor remaining in Middle-earth to whom I could have gone. Those that return say that Fëanor's grandson is building a great realm at the root of the mountains and that he has gathered most of the remaining Noldor to him. I would be of far more use there, not sitting here, idling my time under the Valar's gaze like a scolded child. But they do not trust me, even though I would try far harder to set things right than they ever have. Curse them!" He kicked the table viciously with this final outburst.

Miriel smiled thinly. "And then I suppose you called them some names and stormed out of the Ring."

Saiwend gave her a wry glance, but his lips twitched in a way that suggested that he was unsure whether to smile a little or not. "It's not as if they didn't deserve far more."

Miriel shook her head and took a sip of her mead. "And then I suppose your display of Noldorin rage brought them trembling to their knees."

He snorted. "If only." He shook his head in frustration, causing the gold beads in his dark braids to clink. "They will not allow me to go to Middle-earth, but in Valinor they treat me like a disease to be cured. I am sick of it!"

They sat in silence for several minutes, both taking occasional sips from their drinks, the mood heavy in the air around them despite the cheery atmosphere. Miriel glanced sideways at her cousin, trying to determine his temper. "You've seen that anger will not sway them to your will nor cause them to look upon you with respect," she said slowly. "Perhaps we need a different approach. A subtler one."

Saiwend gave her a calculating look over the rim of his glass. "What do you suggest?"

Miriel chewed her lip for a moment, trying to figure out how to broach her idea without being met with instant vitriol. "Our direct requests have all gone ignored or denied. Perhaps it is time for a less direct approach, one that takes matters into our own hands."

Saiwend tapped his fingers against his glass, a glint of interest in his dark eyes. "Say on."

Miriel took a deep breath as she took the plunge. "Perhaps it is time to consider seeking out an ally, an ally with no reason to love the Valar and who is well versed in strategy and the art of manipulation."

Saiwend's features instantly turned stormy. "You can't possibly be suggesting-!"

Miriel put her hand over his, stilling him. "We're getting nowhere on our own, Saiwend. I think he could help us."

Saiwend glowered at her, but he did not remove his hand. "All you say of him is true, but it is no reason to believe that he has anything to offer us. Yes, he may hate the Valar, but he hates us just as much. And he would much more likely use his manipulations against us than he would for us. But even if he would, it does not matter. I will not defile the House of Áragil by treating with him for even so much as a moment. He's worse than the Valar." His lips curled. "And that's saying a lot!"

Miriel's lips tightened in frustration, though she could not say she was surprised by her strong-willed cousin's reaction. She pulled her hand from his and rose. "In that case, please continue your grand master plan of foaming at the mouth and screaming at the Valar. I'm sure that will eventually get you what you want."

Saiwend's face softened and he sighed, standing and stepping towards her. He gently brushed a strand of silver hair back from her face. "I appreciate you, Miriel, I truly do. You're the one who has always stood at my side and had my back, and I don't want you to think that I hold that in low regard." He smiled wryly and shook his head. "If anything, you're the one Noldo left in this place who's as crazy as I am. And I know you're far more clever than my father gives you credit for." His lips tightened once again. "But nothing will compel me to ally myself with that cursed Maia."

He touched her cheek softly. "Besides, I would not have him set foot anywhere near you ever again. He wounded you once, and I would have killed him myself if you had not been the one to ask me to stay my hand. I still have no idea why you would have such consideration for him. But nonetheless, he has made it clear that he is still our enemy, even if he came here under a pretense of peace. No, Miriel, no. I would not seek his help, not if Morgoth returned and he alone held the key to the Dark Lord's final destruction. I will have nothing to do with him."

Miriel gave a frustrated sigh. "And I still believe there is more to him than we know. And as for him wounding me – it is not like I haven't been wounded far worse before."

Saiwend's expression turned grave. "I know you can handle yourself – of that I have no doubt. But I tell you, ill ends follow that Maia like a sulfurous smoke."

He withdrew his hand. "I will try not to lose my temper at the Valar again, Miriel, and I will consider your advice about seeking out other ways to gain my ends, I promise." And with that, he turned and wended his way towards the exit, disappearing into the crowd.

Miriel stood there a while longer, still frowning, as the crowd ebbed around her. A sense of stubborn determination washed over her, and with it, a plan. If Saiwend would not listen now, perhaps it was time to make her own move.

Her mind drifted back to that afternoon, over a year ago now, when she had snuck into Sauron's chambers unbeknownst to anyone else, and washed and brushed his hair as he slumbered in his bath. And her mind sank even further back to another scene that no one else knew she had witnessed: a dark crumpled figure in the darkness by a dying forge, rocking itself back and forth, its soft sobs echoing just as its powerful, alluring song had done mere minutes before, the very song that had drawn her as she wandered the grounds of Aulë's Halls herself in the middle of the night, woken by the ill dreams that still occasionally haunted her. And since that night, she had watched him from afar, following his footsteps carefully, drawn by something she could not name. Until that day, when she had followed him from the Great Hall after witnessing his panic, afraid that he might hurt himself, when she had finally come face-to-face with him at last.

Yet, she had not again had the chance to approach him since that afternoon in his chambers, though she continued to watch him now and then from afar as she had done before. That was, until earlier this afternoon when she had been lost in her painting and suddenly felt the presence of a powerful will turned intently towards her, and she had turned to find him only a few paces away, staring at her with something almost akin to a yearning curiosity. The moment their eyes had met, his expression had turned dark and closed once again, but she knew she had seen something else there for a second.

She knew he was dangerous, and Saiwend was probably right about him, but still…danger had never exactly deterred her before. Almost unconsciously, she ran her fingers through her hair, brushing over the long, jagged scar she bore, hidden underneath her silver locks on the side of her head. Her lips tightened. She loved her cousin, but Saiwend could be too pig-headed and closed-minded at times to grasp at opportunity when it presented itself. It couldn't hurt to at least feel it out, to see if there was any potential in her idea.

Plus, she had learned that the dark Maia had a soft spot, that day she had brushed his hair. He liked being treated as a lord and being served. The moment she had couched her desires in those terms – of her serving him – he had given her what she wanted almost immediately. If she treaded lightly, if she presented her presence as useful to him…perhaps she could feel out whether or not there was any possibility of him helping her and Saiwend.

And perhaps she could also learn more about this mysterious Maia who had piqued her interest such as nothing else in Valinor had for as long as she could remember.

A thrill ran through her. Perhaps it was a weakness as her uncle and guardian Lord Gilruin sometimes said with exasperation, or perhaps it was the Noldorin fire in her veins from her father's blood, but the thought of danger was one she had always found oddly exhilarating. And life here in Valinor was painfully dull.

A group of Elves, led by the tavern owner's daughter, began to croon a familiar Quenyan melody that soon had almost everyone in the room singing along. Miriel took the opportunity to slip out into the evening light. The moon was full in the sky, shedding silver light on the cobblestone path that led out of Valmar and back to the Halls of Aulë. As Miriel turned and began the trek back to the place that had been her home since childhood, the words of the Elven hymn drifted through the golden-lit windows behind her, following her into the darkness.

"Ai! i si lumë venya
Yéta i laurë ucarna
Húna saura fíriénna ar hessa
I estel hendilvo – vanwa

Ananta ela! Vinya laurë orta
Rómello i Ancalë wila
Firiello tula alcaré anvanima
Estel ná ceura arin ilya."

~o~o~o~

Sauron's two days off had been uneventful. He'd woken early each morning and spent several hours in the Forges by himself before the other smiths arrived, trying out a few techniques he'd read about in some of the books from Aulë's alcove. Once the Forges became too busy for his taste, he'd slipped out and spent the rest of his mornings taking meandering walks through the Gardens before heading back to his room, where he spent the remainder of his time reading and writing in his book.

The Treatise had now become a sizable tome. He'd long since filled up the first small notebook and had transferred to a larger, leather-bound volume, which was now half-full: a combination of notes about various pieces of knowledge, sketched diagrams of buildings, machines, and personal projects, and narrative snippets about his life in Gaurhoth and Angband, all written in his coded Black Mark. Over the passing year, it had truly become a wealth of knowledge about everything related to the Melkorian arts that otherwise risked being lost.

As the sun sank, he changed out of his day clothes into the soft black leggings he wore to sleep and slipped into his bed, the covers pulled up comfortably around him, and propped up the book he was currently reading. It was a long, detailed account of the events that had taken place in Valinor during the First Age, written by a Maia of Vairë. Although Sauron knew bits and pieces of the happenings across the sea during Melkor's reign, he figured it wouldn't hurt for him to fill in the gaps in his knowledge.

A lot of it, unsurprisingly, was Elven drama. Although not nearly as severe as what had taken place in Beleriand, the hostility between the Noldor and the Teleri after the First Kinslaying had been a constant strain in the Blessed Realm. There had even been an incident in Valmar several hundred years after the departure of the Noldor where a fight had broken out between the two Elven kindreds, resulting in three deaths and several more injuries. Sauron read the account with mild interest. It was nothing too shocking to him, especially with the behaviors he'd witnessed among some of the Elves at the quarry and from what Eönwë had told him about the different Elven factions. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and flipped to the next page.

Then, a soft knock sounded on his door.

He looked up at it over the top of his book and heaved a slow sigh. He'd learned by now that anyone who bothered enough to seek him out probably had a somewhat decent reason for it; it wasn't like people were clamoring to simply spend time in his company. And that meant that he'd also learned that the best way to get back to his peace and quiet as quickly as possible was by seeing what they wanted and getting it over with.

"Come in," he called out brusquely.

The door opened softly, revealing the silver-haired Elf maid, holding a tray with pitcher, a glass goblet, and several plates and bowls.

Sauron froze, surprised at seeing the Elf for the second time in the same amount of days and bemused for a moment by her presence. He could not imagine what she could possibly want with him. Yet, with the knowledge now that she was the mysterious painter about whom he had wondered so often, he realized he felt more curious than irked at her unexpected visit.

For the Elf's part, she had paused abruptly at seeing Sauron in his bed, bare-chested with the sheets covering everything from the waist down, and he remembered how brightly she'd blushed when he stepped out of the bath. He sat up a little straighter, allowing the covers to roll down and reveal that he was indeed wearing leggings. "Yes?" he asked curtly.

She seemed to gather her wits at least a little and made a quick little nod towards the platter she carried. "Vala Aulë noticed that you didn't come down to supper this evening. He sent me up to make sure you were provided with something to eat." She lowered the tray, revealing that the bowls and plates contained various food items, including nuts, cheese, and berries.

Sauron's eyebrow quirked ever so slightly. Not for one moment did he believe that Aulë had sent her, just as he'd been certain of that fact when she'd tried to use it on him last time. He never had learned what her purpose for coming to his room that time had been, and here was an opportunity to dig a little deeper. After all, he was in a much better state of mind than he'd been in the last time, and his day had not been too irritating. He could stand the act of humoring the Elf for a little while at least.

He nodded to his bedside table. "You may set it there." As she moved to oblige, he eyed the contents of the tray. He had already eaten – just here in his room instead of the hall – but it was light fare and it would give him an excuse to question her further.

"May I pour you a glass of cider, my lord?" the Elf asked, indicating the pitcher. "The apples were freshly squeezed this afternoon."

Sauron nodded curtly and watched carefully as the Elf poured out a goblet of aromatic cider and set it on the tray next to the food. He brought it to his lips and with practiced ease mimed taking a sip, licking his lips for full measure. "It is excellent. Would you care for some?" He held the goblet back out to her, watching keenly for a reaction.

She seemed surprised but took the goblet and sipped from it without hesitation, and he saw her throat bob as she swallowed. So, not poisoned then. He took the goblet back and drank from it for real. At least, she had not lied about this; it was fresh, extremely so, and pleasantly cool against his throat.

He flicked his fingers imperiously towards the food. "Please, feel free to partake with me. You may sit there," he added, indicating the window seat on the other side of the table.

She took some nuts and berries and sat. After he'd seen her eat several, he reached out and took a handful of his own, then leaned back against his pillows once again, watching the Elf with his keen, piercing gaze.

"I do not believe we were properly introduced the last time we met," he said finally. "What are you called, Elf?"

She looked up from her handful of nuts and berries, into his eyes. "Miriel," she answered. "Miriel Celebros, daughter of Vistagil."

Sauron wrinkled his nose just a little. "Miriel? Like Fëanor's mother?"

She let out a small laugh, though he couldn't tell if it was from humor or something else. "Yes, well, sort of. It is a very popular name for Noldorin girls."

Sauron nodded thoughtfully. He supposed it wasn't surprising that it would be considered stylish to name one's child after a highly regarded king or queen, but something about her statement puzzled him. "You said it was popular among the Noldor. I would have guessed that you were Telerin."

She touched her long, silvery hair in a gesture that seemed unconscious. "My mother was Telerin," she responded simply.

Now that was interesting, especially given what he'd just been reading about. "But your father was Noldorin?"

She nodded but did not elaborate.

Sauron mulled over this information. In and of itself, it wasn't shocking. Before the Kinslaying, there had been a fair amount of intermarriage between the three Elven kindreds, from what he understood, but he could imagine that such unions would have made things a bit complicated afterwards. The history book he'd been reading had even briefly mentioned that such Elves of mixed heritage, particularly Noldorin and Telerin, often found themselves either isolated or at the center of inter-kindred strife. Either way, this was a good piece of information about Miriel to tuck in his mind for later.

But it was always best not to show too much interest. He moved on to another topic.

"During the First Age, you were in Beleriand?"

Something flashed behind her eyes, and he sensed that she had just raised some emotional guard. There was a stiffness in her voice when she answered that confirmed his guess. "No, I've never been. I've lived in Valinor my whole life."

"Your painting," Sauron said, measuring his words carefully. "It depicted Middle-earth." He did not phrase it as a question; he knew the land that had been his home for so long when he saw it.

"Yes." She brightened ever so slightly when he mentioned her painting. "I base my paintings on the stories I've been told of Middle-earth from those who have been, but I've never been there myself." She looked sideways at him then, with an expression that he would almost have called calculating. "What was it like there for you? In Middle-earth?"

Sauron gave her his own glance of shrewd surprise. It was not a question anyone here had asked him, not Aulë, not Eönwë, not Erenquaro, not even Nienna. However, all he gave her was a thin, jaundiced smile in return. "Little Elves shouldn't ask questions they don't want to know the answers to," he responded condescendingly.

However, his response only seemed to embolden Miriel. She leaned forward, her eyes once again locking with his. It was only a moment later that he realized it was the second time she had looked straight into his eyes without flinching. "Who are you to tell me I don't want the answers?"

Sauron only sneered in response. "Someone who has seen things that would make your little Elven ears curl and your pretty silver hair wither," he answered.

He saw her fingers tighten, and he knew he was getting under her skin. He smiled wryly to himself. It was only a matter of time before he got under anyone's skin, he mused. But when she answered, her voice was surprisingly even. "I saw my mother murdered by my father's kin and my father shot with arrows as he tried to protect her on our doorstep when I was only a child," she answered, and there was something about her voice…something he almost thought he recognized. A bitterness, a carefully controlled anger, even something that might be the seedlings of hate… Hearing it in the voice of a small, pretty Elven women caught him off guard more than anything else this evening. When she spoke once more, he heard it again: that deep, deep anger that could twist one's very soul. "I think I can handle a little darkness."

Sauron's lips remained twisted into their uncaring sneer, but underneath something in his Bound spirit twitched. "I saw entire realms burn, and mountains of bodies taller than towers," he answered evenly. "I saw dungeons filled with prisoners crying for a light they would never see again. I saw mountains and forests I had walked among for a thousand years crumble in ruin and fall into the sea." His lips tightened. "I have seen far more than a single evening could even begin to tell."

Miriel's face softened, almost imperceptibly. "Such tales are the ones I have sought out and craved since I was a child," she said in a quiet voice. "If they were ever tales you wished to tell, they are tales I would wish to hear."

Once again, Sauron found himself slightly taken aback. Nobody had ever shown any interest in his story or what his life had been like in Endor, except perhaps Nienna, but it was her job to show interest. And yet, Sauron had learned long ago that other people always had ulterior motives and it was always risky to give away information about oneself. It wasn't as if any of the questions he'd been asking her were born of innocent curiosity. And he still had not determined what the Elf wanted so badly so as to seek him out and lie to his face about it.

"Perhaps. We shall see," was all he said in response.

Miriel offered him a faint smile in return. She rose and picked up the platter. "I've taken too much of your time, my lord. I will let Vala Aulë know you've eaten to your satisfaction."

She turned towards the door then stopped abruptly, staring at something on the other side of the room. "You play Aranosarn?" she asked.

Sauron followed her gaze. There, on a shelf amidst a stack of his other belongings was the Aranosarn board that Nienna had given him nearly a year ago, and which he'd promptly forgotten all about. He frowned. "I've never played," he answered. "The board was a gift."

Miriel turned back towards him, a spark in her eye. "I play with my cousins all the time." She narrowed her eyes, staring at him calculatingly. "I think you'd enjoy it." She hesitated. "Perhaps…if you wanted…we could play a round sometime."

Sauron's brow rose. He considered the unexpected offer shrewdly for a minute. He couldn't see any potential harm in the offer, and it would give him another chance to question her and perhaps learn why she had now sought him out twice. He'd be able to easily squash the Elf thoroughly at any game of strategy, and as such he doubted it would provide much mental stimulation, but it would be learning something new and provide him the opportunity he sought without the threat of too much annoyance. With this conclusion, he inclined his head. "I would not be opposed to a match with you." He smiled sharply. "As long as you are aware that it is the Black Captain of Morgoth you are challenging."

A competitive light flashed in the Elf's eyes. "And I've been playing since I was a child. I could use a challenge." He saw her shift her feet, as if possessed suddenly by a restless energy. "Perhaps tomorrow evening? I could bring you more fresh cider and cheese?"

Sauron continued to pierce her with his gaze, his smile still wolfish. "Very well. Tomorrow then."

It was only after the door shut that Sauron let his expression drop. He sank back languidly into his bed, but his brow was furrowed. Had he just agreed to a social appointment? He snorted to himself. It was an opportunity to gather information, that was all, and the Elf hadn't proved particularly obnoxious. It couldn't hurt, could it?

For a while longer, he lay in bed, trying to concentrate on his book once more, but his mind remained annoyingly distracted, replaying his conversation with the Elf until sleep finally claimed him.

Chapter Text

For another Timeless Age filled with the Light that was all he needed to nourish his spirit, Mairon dwelt in his cradle, surrounded by the watchfulness and love of the Great Being whom Mairon came to know as Iluvatar, the Father. There, he eagerly learned and grew, and Iluvatar taught him how to articulate his thoughts in sounds of ever greater nuance, which Iluvatar called Language. And so Mairon became ever more clever and bold.

Finally, he felt a subtle change in how Iluvatar's thoughts brushed against his own, and he felt his Father weighing a choice of great significance with careful ponderings.

What is it, Father? he asked, his curiosity immediately flaring.

I believe it is good that you should no longer be alone, Iluvatar answered, his musical thoughts thrumming against Mairon's mind.

But I am not alone, Mairon answered, with just a hint of cheek. I have you!

He felt Iluvatar's amusement. Yes, I am here now, Mairon, but you will not always have me as you have me now. My care for you in time will be taken on by others, and they shall love you with both my love and their own. You have grown much, and it is good that you should now have others like yourself.

There are others like me? Mairon thought, both excited and apprehensive. Where?

Come with me and I will show you, my precious one.

With that, Iluvatar swept Mairon up in arms of golden brightness and bore him away from the cradle of Light to which he would never again return.

They came at last to a place of which Mairon could never have conceived, even with the brilliant imagination with which Iluvatar had shaped him. Here, the Light formed itself into a great Hall, so tall and vast that to Mairon's gaze it seemed to go on forever. Its pillars were shining gold and silver rays, and high above, the great dome of the roof was woven of rainbows. The doors of light swung open as they approached with a musical rumble, and Mairon saw a sight of such beauty and glory that his young soul throbbed with joy and longing such as he had never known before.

Waterfalls of pure light in every color cascaded from the towering arched dome, falling in pools so bright that it took a time before Mairon could make out the details of their rippling surfaces. The sound of the waterfalls was like to that of every instrument that would someday be shaped, and together they formed a perfect harmony that flooded the Hall with a music more pure and lovely than anything Mairon had yet experienced.

But even more fascinating to Mairon were the thousands of balls of pulsing energy darting through and around the Hall, humming with life, skimming over the tops of the pools and chasing one another through the shimmering curtains of the rainbow falls.

Mairon turned his consciousness to and fro, little tendrils of his essence darting out in every direction in his eagerness, but there was far too much for him to take in. What are they? he asked with wonder, honing his thoughts in on the balls of energy.

He felt pleased, proud warmth radiating from Iluvatar. They are all the other children of my thoughts. The Ainur. They are like you, Mairon.

Like me? Mairon repeated in awe.

Yes, Iluvatar said. And these are the Timeless Halls where all of you shall dwell.

Mairon watched the balls of darting energy – the Ainur as Iluvatar had named them – and felt his own spirit flare brightly with the burning desire to join them. Go on, Iluvatar urged with gentle fondness, opening his arms to release Mairon.

Mairon glided forward briefly then turned his tendrils of thought back to his Father, suddenly uncertain as he remembered what Iluvatar had said earlier. You are not going to leave me, are you? he asked.

No, Iluvatar said gently. For many an Age still, I shall dwell among you as you have known me until now. And even when the time comes that I am no longer with you as I am now, I shall never leave you nor forsake you, Mairon, precious child of my thoughts.

Comforted, Mairon turned his thoughts back to the Timeless Halls and the Ainur.

Once again, he glided forward, still giddy with everything that was new to explore. Some of the other spirits stopped their darting as he approached, turning their own curious thoughts towards him. He was fascinated to observe that while from a distance they had all appeared the same, up closer he could tell that not all of them were alike. They glowed different colors, and as they reached out tendrils towards him, he sensed differences to their core essences. Some were like him: flamingly hot and bright. Others were almost softly translucent and gave off a cool, slippery feel. Some contained a gentle brightness that lacked the intensity of his own spirit, and these bore a light and airy feel.

Finally, one spirit bolder than the others darted closer. This Ainu gave off only a little light, and his essence was deep and weighty. Both he and Mairon reached out tendrils to one another, each mirroring the curiosity of the other.

You are new, the other Ainu said. His voice was deep and musical, and it flowed around Mairon like a river of beautiful sound.

Yes, Mairon answered. I am the Admirable One.

The deep light in the other Ainu's spirit pulsed, and Mairon felt him carefully weighing what he had said. At last, the Ainu answered.

Welcome, Mairon, he said, and his beautiful voice reverberated through the Hall of Light. I am the Skilled One. I am Curumo.

~o~o~o~

Tap Tap Tink. Tap Tap Tink. Tap Tap Tink.

The musical rhythm of Erenquaro's hammer filled the corner of the forge. By now, he no longer required Sauron's constant supervision, leaving the fire Maia to busy himself in whatever ways he could: checking the quality of the tools and metals, assisting at the bellows, and taking notes of Erenquaro's work. However, it was times like these that Sauron wished he hadn't chosen the lone station in the corner, otherwise he would have worked on his own projects beside Erenquaro during their hours together. But the closest station was Curumo's, and Sauron knew better than to use it, even if it was unoccupied, as it was today.

Sauron's eyes flicked over to the forge on the other side of Curumo's station and narrowed. He immediately recognized Curumo's silver-haired compatriot who had just arrived and was going through the process of starting up his forge, all the while doing a very bad job of pretending not to be watching Sauron and Erenquaro. Sauron was well aware that Curumo's three minions were spying on him, and in particular, he had not forgotten the mocking reenactment of the Bridge of Gaurhoth that this one had performed in the town square of Valmar. He watched as the Maia lit the fire with a quick, precise thought, and felt a stab of envy that tugged at the Bound corners of his soul. Casually, he swept his gaze away, back to the rows of tools in front of him, his biting malice concealed once more.

He checked Erenquaro's work, watching him for several minutes and jotting down a few notes to give him at the end of their lesson. Unless it was something truly detrimental, Sauron avoided interrupting Erenquaro's flow, knowing it would distract him and he would struggle afterwards to regain his rhythm. Today was his third day working on the assignment Sauron had given him the prior week: a silver sheath with inlaid diamonds and reinforced with power that would keep sharp whatever blade it held. Sauron nodded to himself. It was no masterpiece – certainly nothing close to the caliber of what he himself could make – but it was a decent design all the same. Under Sauron's skilled guidance, Erenquaro had come a long way from that first dented, bent bracelet that he had many all those many months ago.

He cast another glance over to the forge where Curumo's minion was now at work. The other Maia attempted a subtle glance in his direction, but Sauron met his eyes the moment they flickered towards him. The Maia jolted at being caught and snapped his gaze away, his lips twisting, and he made a show of searching through his tools for the one he wanted. Sauron sneered and turned back to Erenquaro.

"We can call that a day," he said, laying a hand on Erenquaro's shoulder. "Clean up and then we can discuss your work."

It took about twenty minutes for Erenquaro to clean his space to Sauron's satisfaction, and then they headed together up the stairs towards the exit to the Forges. As they went, Sauron felt the gaze of Curumo's Maia following them, but he ignored it this time.

Once they emerged out into the sunlight, they walked together back towards the colonnade and the main structure of the Halls.

"You've improved your grip on the hammer after my exercise with you last week," Sauron said, glancing at the notes he'd taken while Erenquaro worked. "You are still using more strength than necessary for the filigree, especially when using gold, but I see you using your fingers and wrist more and your arm less, which is good. Also, I noticed you adding some details around the mouthpiece that were not in the original instruction."

Immediately, Erenquaro seemed to shrink, his gaze dropping from Sauron. "Oh…I…I just thought it might look nice. I'm sorry…I can fix it tomorrow…"

Sauron halted his abashed apologies with a firm hand on his shoulder, a wan smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It wasn't a criticism, Erenquaro," he said when the younger Maia looked at him. "It was the first time I've seen you elaborate on the instructions I've given you, and that is a good sign. It means you are beginning to make your work your own, that it is not merely a project, an object, but a piece of art. Those details are a part of your own spirit, Erenquaro, your own imagination. It does not need to be fixed."

Sauron's expression turned grim. "And if I had told you to 'fix' those details, you would have done well not to listen. Do not ever 'fix' yourself for those who tell you to make yourself small and uncomplicated, Erenquaro. They do not deserve you or your work."

Erenquaro stared at him, and there was something hungry on the edges of his expression that Sauron had seen every now and then this past year. They kept walking, but Sauron could just about feel the young earth Maia stewing silently at his side. Finally, Erenquaro spoke, just as Sauron had suspected he would when he was ready.

"Why did you agree to train me? Was it just because you had nobody else better?"

Sauron paused again, turning to quirk an eyebrow at Erenquaro. The earth Maia colored a little but pressed on when he saw he had Sauron's attention. "I mean, I know I'm not very good at it, and it's not even something I wanted to do to begin with. Are you just doing it because you know it makes my brother angry?"

Sauron carefully weighed his answer. "It is true that I had no other prospects for apprentices when Aulë proposed it to me, and it is also true that it gives me more than a little enjoyment to see your brother's forge apron twisted into a knot." His lips curled, his eyes sparking. "But if those were the only reasons I had to train you, I could have found much better usage for my time."

Erenquaro frowned. "Then what was your reason?"

Sauron was silent for a long moment. He had learned long ago that a statement laced with truth was often more potent than any lie, particularly when it could be taken many ways. "Because you reminded me of myself," he said in a quiet voice.

It was obviously not the answer Erenquaro had been expecting. His brow furrowed with confusion and he gave a little incredulous huff of a laugh. But when he saw Sauron's serious expression, the sound died on his lips. "How could I possibly remind you of…you?" he asked, his brow still creased with obvious disbelief.

Sauron's expression turned wry. "Because, whether you believe it or not, there was a time when I too was a young Maia who was told by others to be small and dream small inconsequential dreams that did not fit who I knew myself to be."

Erenquaro's frown deepened. "Curumo told me that I dreamed too small because I didn't want to be a smith." He looked up at Sauron. "Is that why you joined Melkor?"

A part of Sauron instinctively bristled, wanting to snap and tell Erenquaro that such things were none of his business, but he knew it was a reasonable question and one that had been openly invited by this conversation that he had initiated. He took a breath then answered in a smooth voice. "Part of the reason, yes."

Erenquaro paused in his step then followed once again. "And…and joining Melkor, did it give you what you wanted?"

Sauron's lip curled at the irony of the question, distinctly aware once again of his Bound spirit and the cage that his life had now become. "I learned that regardless of my circumstances, I will not make myself lesser than I am nor permit any other to tell me how I ought to be," he responded coolly.

"Do you like who you are?" Erenquaro asked.

Something bubbled in the depths of Sauron's heart, and he once again felt the desire to snap at Erenquaro. But he concealed his sudden anger, maintaining the calm, wise air he'd been presenting to the younger Maia. Erenquaro was impressionable and also adrift. His faith in his brother had been shaken, and Sauron sensed that his questions were coming from a place of doubt in himself and his world, not of invasive prying. And that was exactly the place Sauron wanted him to be: a place where he – Sauron – could rebuild Erenquaro's foundations however he pleased.

He stopped his stride and turned to fix the full intensity of his gaze upon Erenquaro. "Erenquaro," he said, his voice a mingling of calm confidence and grave wisdom, "I see you struggling to find your place, just as I once struggled. You are beginning to discover a world where others do not make your choices for you. There will be some who scorn you for it, as Curumo has done. There will be others who treat it like a tragedy, because they can no longer control you. Believe me, I know." Once more, he laid a gentle hand on Erenquaro's shoulder, softening the light of his eyes and plastering on a smile of gentle understanding. "Just know that you are not alone."

Erenquaro stared at him with his silver, innocent gaze, that hunger in his expression once more, and Sauron knew that he had taken the hook.

~o~o~o~

Ilsahon watched with a scowl as Sauron and Erenquaro disappeared down the hallway leading to the Forge exit, then threw down his hammer with a clatter that made several of the surrounding Elves and Maiar give him startled glances. Months had passed, he and his two companions had exactly zero dirt on Sauron, and Curumo was getting increasingly impatient and ill-tempered at their failure to do his bidding each passing day. And Ilsahon was getting fed up with the whole thing.

It wasn't that he would dislike seeing Sauron getting taken down another notch if they proved successful, but more and more he was starting to think that Curumo's ego was just a big and tiresome as Sauron's. Ilsahon didn't care who trained Curumo's slow-witted little brother; in fact, he was secretly glad he hadn't gotten saddled with the task. But this feud that Curumo insisted on keeping burning between himself and Sauron was getting boring.

It had been some fun in the beginning. Spying, watching Sauron's every move for mistakes, and looking forward to another chance at seeing Sauron humiliated had all been exhilarating, but as the months drug on and Sauron had seemingly transformed into a model citizen of Valinor, it had all grown increasingly irritating, especially when Curumo had started taking out his ever-growing anger and frustration on Ilsahon, Vantanwë, and Tulcaromon.

He leaned back against the forge wall and rubbed at his brow. They had tried goading Sauron into a reaction a few times, but none of them had managed to make him lose his cool again as he'd done in Valmar. And if he was up to something (and Ilsahon wasn't sure he was), he was keeping it well hidden. All in all, Curumo's plan to get back at Sauron was falling spectacularly flat.

Even though he'd just started up the forge fire, Ilsahon extinguished it and started putting away his tools. He hadn't even really felt like forging; the only reason he'd come down was because it had been his day to keep an eye on Sauron and Erenquaro, and now that they were gone, he felt no desire to continue.

Moodily, he gave his work table an absent-minded kick and swung his tool bag up over his shoulder, turning to leave. As he did so, he noticed a tall, young Elf with his black hair bound back working at a forge several stations over, who had looked over at Ilsahon's display of vitriol and was now studying him with a veiled expression. Ilsahon was fairly certain he was the son of one of the Noldorin lords in the Halls…Saihend…Saiwend…something like that. For a moment, the Elf almost looked like he was about to say something, but then he turned back to his work once again. Ilsahon dismissed him from his thoughts and turned towards the stairs leading to the exit.

After dropping his tool bag off at his quarters in the dormitory wing, he headed for the main halls to find his two companions.

He found Vantanwë and Tulcaromon playing a game of Aranosarn in one of the many lounge rooms throughout the Halls. This one was smaller than the popular Hall of the Log Fire or the Great Hall, with large arched windows trailing with vines that looked out over the Gardens. He dropped down beside Tulcaromon with a huff.

"No luck with Sauron?" Tulcaromon asked, giving Ilsahon an appraising look.

Ilsahon scowled. "What do you think?"

Tulcaromon shrugged. "He's got to crack again eventually."

"Does he though?" Ilsahon grumbled. "From what I can tell, his life seems to be pretty cushy for someone who is supposedly being punished."

Vantanwë was playing the attackers. She moved a piece and captured one of Tulcaromon's soldiers, causing the other Maia to grunt in annoyance. "It's all about playing the long game and Curumo knows it," she said. "We'll have our chance to pay him back if we're patient."

"Pay him back for what?" Ilsahon groused. "It's Curumo who's got a vendetta against him, not us."

Both Vantanwë and Tulcaromon paused in their game and looked at Ilsahon. Tulcaromon looked mildly surprised, but Vantanwë's green eyes turned suddenly sharp. "He betrayed all of us, Ilsahon," she said in a clipped voice. "Don't tell me you're starting to feel sorry for that Void-cursed traitor."

Ilsahon snorted and reached over Tulcaromon's shoulder, moving one of his defender pieces to counter Vantanwë. "Sorry for him? I couldn't care less what happens to him. But don't tell me I'm the only one getting sick and tired of Curumo's rants every time we don't have information for him."

Tulcaromon looked at Vantanwë and shrugged, but Vantanwë's eyes and mouth were still sharp. "Sauron humiliated him, so of course he's going to be angry," she said. "If it weren't for Curumo, we wouldn't have gotten our places as master smiths in the Forges. He's always looked out for our interests, so it's only fair that we return the favor."

Ilsahon sank back in his chair, his expression twisting. "Speak for yourself, Vantanwë. I got my place in the Forges by being an excellent smith."

The board game lay forgotten on the table. Tulcaromon's eyes darted back and forth between the two other Maiar who were now glaring at each other from across the table. "So that's how it is, is it, Ilsahon?" Vantanwë spat. "You know perfectly well that Curumo put in good words for each of us with Lord Aulë. Once Mairon was out of the way and Curumo was able to take his place as the head smith, he could have chosen anyone and he chose the three of us. He made sure Lord Aulë noticed our work, he made sure we were given the best apprentices and opportunities, and he made sure we were considered for the best commissions. An insult to Curumo is an insult to all of us."

There was a tense moment where Vantanwë continued to stare Ilsahon down, but finally the silver-haired Maia raised his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I'm just frustrated, that's all. It's been months and we're no closer to getting back at Sauron than we were before."

Vantanwë stared at him a second longer then turned her gaze back to the game. She studied it for a moment then made her move, closing in on another of Tulcaromon's pieces. She looked back up at Ilsahon. "Every day we watch Sauron, the more we learn about him. Maybe it's simply time to make bolder moves." She moved a piece across the board, trapping Tulcaromon's king against the wall.

Ilsahon leaned back in his chair, watching as Vantanwë finished Tulcaromon off in their game, but inside, his frustration bubbled like a cauldron just starting to boil.

~o~o~o~

"The game is loosely based on the idea of a siege, with one player controlling the attackers and the other player controlling the defenders and the king."

Sauron watched with interest as Miriel set up the Aranosarn board on the bedside table that he'd pulled into the middle of the room, underneath his window. The evening light spilled orange and gold through the casement, clearly illuminating the checkered wooden square dominating the table.

Miriel set up the red pieces around the outside of the board. "These are the attackers. Their goal is to capture the king." She held up the single gold piece then set it in the center square, the one painted gold. She then began arranging the black pieces in a formation around the king. "And these are the defenders. Their goal is to protect the king and help him escape, by getting him to one of the four corners." She indicated the four other gold-painted squares.

Sauron nodded, silently taking in the information and assessing it as Miriel continued. "All the pieces, including the king, move horizontally or vertically across the board in any direction, as many spaces as they want, but they can't move past or jump another pieces. The attackers also cannot occupy any golden square; only the king can move onto those."

"You capture pieces by trapping them between two of your own pieces." Miriel demonstrated by sliding two red pieces down to sandwich the unlucky black piece between them. "And if you're playing attackers, you have to watch out for the five gold squares too, because they count as enemy pieces that the defenders can trap you against."

She moved the pieces back to the starting position. "Finally, the squares where the defenders start is called the tower, with the king's throne at the center. The defenders get an advantage when inside the tower; attackers have to surround them on all four side to capture them."

She pursed her lips, clearly trying to remember if there was anything more, then shook her head. "And that's it. Make sense?"

Sauron nodded. It was a straight-forward game, but he could already see its potential for a range of strategies.

"Since it's your first time playing, you can choose which side you'd like to play first."

"How magnanimous of you," Sauron drawled, and he saw Miriel's lips twitch into a tiny smile at his dry sarcasm. He surveyed the board briefly before making his decision. "Attackers."

Miriel settled herself comfortably across from him, that little smile still dancing on her lips and a light in her eyes. "All right then. Let's see how good the Black Captain of Morgoth really is."

Sauron let his teeth show in a predatory smile. "Yes, let's see, shall we?"

Miriel swept her hand towards the board. "Attackers move first. The board is all yours."

Sauron let his smile drop as he surveyed the board with intense gravity. It seemed that there were two overarching strategies he could employ. The first was to play defensively and guard the corner squares that Miriel would have to eventually reach in order to win. The other was to play aggressively and attack the tower directly. He had noted when Miriel was setting up the board that the attackers had more pieces than the smaller defender force, meaning he could afford to lose more pieces than Miriel. He frowned, eyes flickering over the scene before him and his mind's eye flashing with possibilities.

He shot a quick glance towards Miriel. Would she choose to play offensively or defensively herself? Sauron tapped his fingers against the edge of the table, weighing what he knew of her, as little as it was. But after all, he'd often known just as little about the enemy commanders against whom he'd fought in real battles in Beleriand.

He made his decision and moved his first piece…away from the tower and towards one of the corners, though keeping an empty space between as he remembered Miriel's warning that she could use the corners to trap his pieces.

He smiled inwardly to himself as Miriel made her first move, a bold one by sliding one of her pieces all the way down to the side of one of his. So he'd guessed correctly. Despite manning the defenders, Miriel would play aggressively.

Sauron gave way before Miriel, moving his pieces along the edges and guarding the corners, allowing Miriel to maintain control of the center of the board. They each made a few scattered captures, but overall the playing field remained decidedly even.

Miriel made a move towards one of the corners, obviously going towards one of the pieces he'd stationed there. However, Sauron had an extra piece down at the bottom that he could easily move up to block her from capturing his piece on her next move. His eyes scanned to and fro, and then he saw it. His eyebrow rose ever so slightly. It was a decently well-disguised trap, but he saw that if he moved his piece the way she was obviously hoping he would, it would leave another piece completely open for capture, leaving one of his corners unguarded. Sauron hesitated for a moment, but then he proceeded to still move his piece, triggering the trap.

Miriel made the move he'd foreseen, swooping her piece across to capture his and take control of the corner, a little triumphant smile sparking in her eyes. Sauron grunted, making a show of frustration for the Elf's benefit, and he could almost see the pleased pride radiating from the silver-haired nís. He grinned to himself.

Over the next several moves, Miriel deployed her pieces in a spread-out barricade across the center of the board, either capturing most of his pieces on the top half of the square or forcing them into the bottom half. As she did so, she carefully opened up an escape route for the king.

Sauron's eyes flickered like fire back and forth across the board, taking everything in. There were two corners she might go for, but which one?

As he'd guessed, on her next turn she moved the king for the first time, letting him emerge from the tower and out onto the battlefield of red and black.

It was his turn now. He made his move quickly, as if desperation were starting to take hold, sliding one of his few remaining pieces in the top half over to one of the corners to block the king's path. Miriel countered by inching the king a couple spaces towards the opposite top corner. Sauron moved a second piece into position, so that if she moved towards the other top corner, he'd be able to cut her off, his attention fixed entirely on the top half of the board that she now almost entirely controlled, pretending that he did not know what her next move would be.

He saw the grin flash across her face. She took hold of the king, but instead of moving it towards either of the top two corners, she made a dramatic, sweeping movement, sliding him all the way down to the bottom corner, past a single hole in the barricade she'd built and into the territory he still controlled. The golden corner was in sight.

Then Sauron sprung the trap that he'd been carefully building, ever since he'd realized what her endgame was.

He moved one of his pieces to block the hole in the barricade that she'd just used to move the king through, trapping him in the bottom half of the board and simultaneously making it so he could capture the golden piece unless Miriel moved him away from the corner. He smiled grimly to himself. If he hadn't realized what she was doing, with his focus on the top two squares, she would have been able to win on her next turn if he had not been prepared. He saw her grin falter, and she moved the king away from the corner just as he'd predicted. But now his pieces were closing in, forcing her to keep moving the king every turn just to stay alive, until he had her completely trapped. Then he made his final move and caught the king between two red soldiers.

He leaned back, smirking. "Game over."

She made a loud huffing sound and flopped back, though he could tell she was more impressed than peeved. She looked up at him, a small hint of petulance in her expression. "How long did you know that was what I was going to do?"

He smiled thinly. "Ever since your trap with this piece." He tapped the black piece she'd used to capture his.

Her expression turned puzzled. "You knew it was a trap," she said, understanding dawning. But then she frowned. "But if you knew it was a trap, then why did you still walk straight into it?"

Sauron reached for his cup of cider and took a satisfied sip. "Because I knew it would cause you to underestimate me even more than you already were and to disguise the fact that I knew what your plan was. I could afford to lose the piece, and it was worth it to make you think you could trick me. And for the rest of the game, I simply waited for you to impale yourself on my sword."

She shook her head, her eyes scanning across the board as if replaying the game, then she looked back up at him with a hint of a grin. "You really are good."

He smiled thinly and inclined his head, accepting the compliment demurely. "And you did not play badly yourself, Miriel," he said, and realized a moment after that he was sincere. The game had challenged him more than he had thought it would. "Many a lesser opponent would have been taken in by that last trick, I do not doubt."

Miriel started gathering up the pieces, glancing up at him as she did so. "Did you ever fight in real battles? Real sieges?"

The image of a tall tower and a great bridge flashed through Sauron's mind. "Yes," he said quietly. "I led the siege of Minas Tirith, which afterwards became my fortress during a large portion of the War. Besides that, I was in several of the other battles that Lord Melkor waged. The Dagor Bragollach. Many of the battles of the War of Wrath." His lips twitched wryly. "It wasn't my primary job though. Gothmog was the lieutenant of Angband, responsible for the armies. I was Lord Melkor's second-in-command, and my duties were many."

Something flashed through Miriel's eyes that Sauron didn't recognize: some form of sorrow perhaps, or perhaps pain. When she spoke, her voice was low and quiet. "It must be very boring for you here. After being a commander, a lieutenant, I can't imagine there is much in Valinor to hold your interest."

Sauron gave her a wary look, unsure of her tone or intentions, and not sure whether to engage or not. Playing a game of strategy was one thing, but he still had no desire to give away too much about himself in conversations about real life, especially not his current life. He decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. "And what is it that Valinor holds for you, that you have not gone to Middle-earth yourself?"

A darkness flashed across Miriel's face, something that hinted at the cold anger he had seen her display yesterday. "The Valar will not permit it," she answered coldly, and he did not miss the slight twist of her lips when she spoke the name of the Powers. His brow rose fractionally. So, Miriel was not a devotee of the Valar. Interesting to know.

He remembered Eönwë telling him about Saiwend and his faction of Elves who were dissatisfied with the Valar's actions and had caused trouble for them throughout the past Age. Was Miriel possibly one of these faction members? And if so, did he finally have a weak spot where he could potentially worm his way in?

He allowed his face to soften, sympathy creeping into his voice. "The Valar have always held what they saw as theirs with an iron fist," he said. "It is not easy to break free from their grasp. I would know."

Miriel's eyes darted up to his, appraising. She licked her lips in an almost nervous gesture, but then he saw her eyes spark with that same boldness that she'd used in their game. She eyed him calculatingly. "And if the Elves…if some of us sought to break free, might you be willing to offer us aid?"

Inside, Sauron's heart crowed with sudden delighted triumph, but outwardly he only smiled his thin, enigmatic smile. He leaned forward, over the Aranosarn board. "I don't know, little Elf. What can you offer me?"

Miriel matched him, leaning forward across the board towards him and keeping her eyes fixed on his. "I don't know, Black Captain of Morgoth. What is it you want?"

Sauron's inner smile of triumph spread, though his outward expression remained smooth and inscrutable. He was beginning to put the pieces together, beginning to guess at why Miriel had sought him out and lied to him. Just like in their game of Aranosarn, she was underestimating him at every step, and he was perfectly satisfied to let her continue thinking such. More and more, he was certain that this budding association with Miriel Celebros was one he wanted to foster and nourish.

His eyes flamed. "Come back tomorrow evening for a rematch and I might tell you."

Chapter Text

And so Mairon made his abode in the Timeless Halls, amidst his fellow Ainur, where the light never dimmed and where Iluvatar's presence watched over His children with the proud delight of a father, and Mairon's own joy knew neither boundary nor end.

Chief among these delights were the other Ainur with whom he now dwelt. Each one's spirit was as complex as his own, yet each so different, and he was endlessly fascinated with understanding the inner workings of each of his newfound friends.

There was Curumo the Skilled, whose voice was as melodic and deep as a bassoon, who was clever and practical. He was slower to learn than Mairon, but once he did, he had endless ideas for how to improve and add to what he had learned.

There was bright Eönwë, whose spirit was almost as brilliantly golden as the pools of light where the rainbow falls fell, who was eager and bold and often took the role of leader when they were together. He was determined and decisive, and he often told the others that he believed Iluvatar had a plan for them greater than anything they had yet seen.

There was Ilmarë, who was sweet and funny and always had a way of making everyone around her filled with even more joy than they had thought possible. Her spirit was almost as bright as Eönwë's but silver instead of gold, but it was the brightness of her mood that uplifted the hearts of all about her, and when she sang, her voice was as clear and silver as a pantam.

And many more there were besides these, but amongst the thousands of the hosts of the Ainur, it was these three with whom Mairon found himself in companionship more often than not.

The Ainur did not sleep, but the pools of light refreshed them and filled their spirits with an eager vitality, and so at times they immersed themselves and allowed the liquid light to soak into the core of their spirits. It was during just such a time of rest, when Mairon and his companions were reclining in the pools, soaking the light into their essences, that a Change came upon them.

A ripple ran through the Timeless Halls as every Ainu simultaneously felt the will of their Father shift. No longer was He content to wait and watch. Something was happening.

Mairon shot a questioning thought to his friends and felt their curiosity and excitement mirroring his own.

Each drawn by a summons felt deep within their ëala, the Ainur floated forward towards the center of the Hall where stood a great pedestal and upon it a golden throne, and from that throne flowed the unending Light of Eru Iluvatar. The Ainur gathered around, their spirits flickering with curiosity and wonder – a sea of jeweled colors that filled the Hall.

Dear children of my thoughts. Iluvatar's clear voice filled the Hall with reverberating sound that fell over the shining crowd of Ainurin spirits like rain. Each of you has been formed from a part of my own Being and my own Mind. I know each of you by Name and I know the desires of your heart with which I have formed you.

At that moment, Mairon heard the whisper of Iluvatar's voice in his heart, speaking the Name He had given him, and with it came the full measure of the meaning of that Name, just as it had been when he first heard it in the cradle of light from which he had come. Looking around, he saw all the other spirits pulsing and glowing, and somehow he knew that each had heard their own Name at the same moment as he had.

Into this world I brought you to take delight in your being and to manifest the Themes in my mind. Alone you have sung or in harmony with but a few, but now together ye all shall sing before me and know the reasons for which I have created you in my image.

Murmurs of a thousand beautiful voices rippled through the Timeless Halls, but then – suddenly – something else filled the greatness of those hallowed halls of light. Mairon felt it flood through him in a burst of clarity and understanding: a Theme, a Theme of such greatness and grandeur that he felt giddy with elation. His own part in the Theme glowed like a golden thread in a vast tapestry of notes, and his eager heart leapt to fulfill it by giving it his voice.

Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. Mairon turned his thoughts back to the thunderous voice of Iluvatar that contained in it every instrument and every Ainu's voice combined into one in perfect harmony. Around him, he felt all the other Ainur focus on their Creator as well, some giddy and eager like himself, some thoughtful and measured, some unsure and hesitant. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this Theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will. But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.

And so the First Theme of Iluvatar blossomed into life. It began with notes high and pure, crystal clear and soaring, sending shimmers of music as fair as the song of a bubbling stream rising to the rainbow-woven dome of the Timeless Halls. Full of joy and wonder was the tune, fashioned of things both lofty and lovely: of the growing of beautiful things, of love found and cherished, of awe for all things sublime. Looking around in wonder, Mairon saw both Ilmarë and Eönwë singing, their high, bright voices in harmony with hundreds of others.

A new melody began, this one profound and deep like the thunder of falls or the echo of tumbling stones, weaving around the first melody and complimenting it perfectly. Of wisdom and knowledge this part of the Theme spoke, and of grand deeds and the slow building of great things and of a history vast and glorious beyond measure. Curumo and many others joined in, their voices rising in a grand crescendo over the jeweled crowd of spirits.

And finally, a third melody burst into life with a blare like that of trumpets, bold and triumphant, bringing together the two other melodies and completing them.

Mairon instinctively knew the notes to sing; they were melded into his innermost being. As the third melody joined the other two, Mairon lifted up his spirit and sang with an exultation such as nothing he had ever felt before. It was the perfect role for him – vibrant, passionate, and dramatic – and he poured everything he was into the glorious notes that rose within him and joined and enhanced those of his friends and companions. It was at that moment that he knew the song was Perfection such as nothing he had yet known, and he loved it with every burning ounce of his admirable spirit.

But then, something changed, and suddenly there was Discord.

A single voice deviated from the harmony of the three interlacing melodies and the Theme that Iluvatar had given them. Soft and deep at first, but then it rose, a colossal sound that commanded attention, beautiful and powerful like the greatest of great organs. Louder and louder it rose, until it was impossible to ignore.

Mairon turned his gaze, along with every other Ainu in the Halls, to the source of the sound. There, a single spirit had drawn away from the others around him, standing out from the crowd, and he was unlike anything Mairon had ever seen before.

Instead of a single color, the light from his spirit radiated every color of the rainbow, shimmering between alluring blues and purples and greens to dazzling reds and yellows and oranges. He was so bright it was difficult for Mairon to focus his thoughts fully upon him, for his sight blurred with the brilliance of his appearance and the shifting kaleidoscope of his colors. And still his voice rose, mightier than any other in the vast Hall of Light, save for the One sitting upon the throne, watching silently.

Throughout the Hall, voices faltered, their harmonies suddenly lost. Others unwittingly began to weave their own melodies around that single, dominating voice, deviating from the Theme that they had been given.

Into the chaos, another voice rose, this one powerful and great yet also gentle and compassionate, bringing back the Theme of Iluvatar and calling for others to join it. It was a high, soaring voice that tugged upon the heart with a feeling that brought to the mind matters both proud and sorrowful, but unlike the other voice, it did not alienate the voices around it but instead invited them to join with it in making Iluvatar's Theme stronger than ever.

Mairon focused hard upon his part in the Theme, doing his best to shut out the voice of Discord that had shattered the perfection of the song. Yet, something pulled at him in the depths of his being, something he did not yet fully understand: a feeling of loss towards the utter perfection that had existed a moment ago and the first ripples of anger towards the one who had broken it. He threw himself into his notes of the Theme even harder than before, determined to bring back the feeling of perfection that had existed before the Discord.

But still the discordant voice rose, louder and even bolder, drawing in many of the voices around it, and those of weaker will lost sight of their own part in the Theme and foundered. The Hall became a tempest of battering, warring sound, notes clashing and grinding one against the other, as the Discord battled the Theme for dominance.

Suddenly, the attention of all the Ainur was drawn once again to Iluvatar as he rose from His throne. Mairon looked up at the glow of his Father, the warring feelings of both excitement and discomfort still stirring throughout his spirit. What would happen next?

Iluvatar raised his left hand, and just as the First Theme had blossomed over all of them, so the Second Theme came in a rush like a great wind. Once again, Mairon saw his part laid out before him, and the notes embedded themselves deep in his spirit. New determination swelled within him as he saw the beauty and profundity of this new Theme and the part in it he had been assigned to play.

Immediately, before the first notes of the Second Theme had graced the Hall in their entirety, the discordant voice cut through them, raging against the harmony of the gathered voices and their melodies. This time, however, it was not alone. Many others joined it in direct opposition to Iluvatar's Theme, not out of confusion this time but of choice, and the Discord was greater than before.

This time, Mairon felt the full tug of it, the alluring pull to align his voice with the overwhelming might of the Discord rather than the Second Theme. Despite the way it clashed harshly with the Theme, the Discord itself was lovely in its own way, a captivating blend of powerful, bold, passionate notes. It spoke of freedom, of a path that wandered beyond these Timeless Halls, of power, of forging one's own way through the world. For a single second, Mairon's own song faltered and he missed the next notes of the Theme that should have been his to bring into the world.

But then he remembered the Perfection of that First Theme, those first notes as the three melodies intertwined perfectly, and something in his heart told him that a beauty beyond his sight had been forever lost and marred and would never now come into existence as it might have been. For the first time, his fiery anger flared to life, furious against the discordant voice who had ruined what he and his Ainurin kindred had sought to make perfect before the eyes of their Father. His own voice rose again, singing his notes of the Second Theme and defying the Discord with his blazing passion.

Around him, the voices that had faltered took up the Theme once again, following his lead.

But the Discord was too strong.

Mairon felt as if a great vise clenched itself about him, squeezing from him the elation and wonder he had felt at the beginning of the Music. A crushing feeling of inevitable destruction and marring began to settle over the bright spirit that had only known joy until now. What was the point of continuing? What reason was there to pour himself into the Music and his part therein, if all of it was only going to be defaced and twisted into this chaotic clash of noise?

But once again, Iluvatar drew the thoughts of His children to Himself. Once more, He rose and lifted up His right hand with a flash of piercing light. And with that, a Third Theme fell like a soft morning rain over the Ainur.

This Theme was different than the other two. It was soft, so soft that at first it was barely audible, and it bore in its loveliness an immeasurable sorrow, a mournful beauty that pierced like swords and burned like cold iron, and Mairon felt his heart break under it. Yet it was as strong as steel, and the heart that hearkened to it was drawn back from the edges of darkness and despair and once again saw joy and purpose.

And thus it was that Hope came into being in Eä.

~o~o~o~

Far to the south of Valinor, past the gleaming gates of Valmar and the sleepy willows of Lórien, was a wide, low land filled with hundreds of shallow, pebbled streamlets that ran through wildflower-studded meads. Here, the birds sang from the tall reeds and the air was full of the flutter of butterfly wings and the hum of busy honeybees, there in the glad lands where it was always Spring.

Beyond the flower meads were the vast forests of the southlands of Aman, filled with cascading streams and trees taller than Elven towers, where hunters and their hounds passed in a rush of horns and hooves. And there, on the border between the meads and the woods, was the dwelling place of Oromë the Hunter and Vána the Ever-Young.

The lone figure who stood at the edge of the trees upon a grassy knoll, looking north across the meads, was neither glad nor pleased by her beautiful surroundings however. Lady Yavanna stood with her arms crossed, glaring across the bright, sunlit meadows.

It had been close to a year and still her exile continued.

She had fully expected for Aulë to cave within the first few months and send word that she was once again welcome in his Halls, but day after day passed and no word came from the winds of the north.

It was his own loss, the foolish loon, Yavanna thought to herself with great frequency, but still her gaze turned to the north and to the Halls she had left behind.

A gentle mental touch, like the brush of falling petals against skin, pulled Yavanna from her irritable reverie, and she turned to find her sister approaching.

Vána's tresses of flaxen-yellow hair trailed in the grass behind her in a long braid, and where the green hem of her gown and her bare feet passed, swaths of new flowers sprung up and turned their delicate petaled faces towards the soft, sunlit glow that emanated always from their mistress.

"I thought I might find you here," Vána said, coming to stand on the knoll beside Yavanna. "Supper is nearly ready, and there is venison stew over the fire and warm bread with butter on the hearth."

Yavanna nodded sharply, still distracted by her thoughts.

Vána watched her sadly for a moment then followed her gaze across the meads. "Still no news from the north?"

Yavanna snapped her gaze away and turned abruptly, heading down the knoll for the nearby line of towering trees. Vána sighed and followed her elder sister a moment later.

"Perhaps…" Vána paused, already suspecting how her suggestion would go over, "…perhaps if you were to reach out…"

Yavanna's skin rippled into a dark brown. "No."

Vána's expression turned pleading. "Sister-"

"No!" Yavanna turned, her green eyes flashing. "I should not have to stoop to begging in order to return. I am no urchin that I should have to go down on hands and knees to return to my own Halls. If he wants my presence, he can reach out himself and apologize for his unlordly behavior."

"I did not say that you should plead," Vána said placatingly. "Would it diminish your honor so much to simply send him a message that you miss both your Gardens and him?"

"Who is it that says I miss him?" Yavanna snapped, setting off again with long, quick strides.

"Who is it that says?" Vána answered. "Your eyes every time they stray north."

Yavanna paused again, turning back towards her sister with a sweep of her flowing gown. "It does not matter whether I miss him or not. He is the one who impugned my honor and our love, and so it should lie with him and only him to make amends. I can wait as long and as patiently as an ancient oak in the forest. As long as he continues to choose that tree-burning traitor over me, he can sit alone until the Second Music for all I care. The love of Yavanna is as deep as the roots of the oldest trees, but so is her anger and the memory of wrongs done."

She turned once more and swept away towards the great wooden hall with its tall, thatched roof that was now in both their sights at the edge of the forest. Vána watched silently until she had vanished through the grand double doors of the entrance then followed slowly, her own heart heavy.

As she passed under the shadows of the trees, a tall figure clad in green melted from amongst the dappled shade to stand beside her. "Still no word from the Halls of Aulë?" Oromë asked.

Vána looked up at her husband, her eyes troubled. "No, and she still refuses to initiate any sort of contact herself."

Oromë's face was grim. "I cannot say that I truly blame her. Morgoth's powers of discord and strife would appear to be alive and as potent as ever in his prized pupil."

"But is not the Discord alive and potent in us – the Valar – as well?" Vána asked. "Ever Morgoth's powers were dispelled only when the fourteen of us stood together to defy him and all that he stood for. Yet, since Sauron's arrival, we have been divided. When did our unity begin to fracture? When did our strength begin to wane?"

Oromë wrapped a tender arm around her shoulders. "We are still strong, Vána, despite what the whispers of a marred world might insinuate in our ears. It will take more than a single Bound Maia to disrupt all that we have built in Valinor."

Vána softly placed her hand over his and gazed deep into his face. "I don't know, Oromë. My heart is troubled for Yavanna and Aulë."

Oromë bent and swept her up in his arms, with one hand beneath her knees and one upon her back. She laughed in surprise as he hoisted her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers twining with the cascading locks of his flame-bright hair. He gave her a soft peck on the lips. "Come, my petal. The fire is stoked and a feast is upon the table. The troubles of Yavanna and Aulë can wait for another day."

~o~o~o~

In that same hour, even as Oromë and Vána sat down before their hearth for dinner, another gathering of the Valar was taking place, far to the north in the shining palace of Ilmarin upon Taniquetil, this one far more solemn, though the subject matter was eerily similar.

Námo was ushered into Manwë's office, where he found the High King and Queen already waiting, along with Irmo and Estë. He inclined his head gravely to Manwë and Varda as he took his seat beside his brother. "You said the matter was urgent?" he asked, skipping any further formalities.

In response, Manwë stretched out a hand to Irmo and Estë. "Show him."

Námo leaned forward, heavy brows furrowing as Estë lifted a basket that had been sitting at her feet. She lifted the lid, and instantly a foul smell of rot clogged the room.

The Doomsman covered his nose as he peered into the basket. It contained a variety of plants, all brown and slimy with stinking decay. Trying to keep his revulsion from showing on his stoic face, he shut the lid perhaps more quickly than necessary and leaned back in his chair as Manwë summoned a breeze that swept the malodor away.

"It was discovered by one of Estë's Maiar this afternoon," Manwë said. "It is the seventh area where the rot has been found in our realm, and this patch was the furthest west where yet one has been discovered, on the very borders of Lórien. It is spreading."

A grave silence fell over the five Valar as they pondered the implications of Manwë's words.

"It would seem that even in the Void, Melkor's Discord is still weaving its notes about us," Irmo said.

"Indeed," Varda answered. "It is as Eru told us in the beginning: that Arda is marred until the end of Time, and there will always be darkness and discord among us until the Second Music is sung and all is finally healed at last. But until that time, we must strive to be the best stewards of our lands as it is in our powers to be, and I fear we have failed in that regard. We have allowed strife to come between two of our very own, and our lands suffer because of it."

Estë glanced at the Star Queen. "You speak of Aulë and Yavanna?"

"Two of the greatest among us have succumbed to the bitterness, hatred, and division that was Melkor's greatest delight to sew," Varda answered. "Is it any wonder that Valinor has begun to wither?"

"I mean no offense, my Queen," Irmo said, "but are we certain the root of the problem lies with Aulë and Yavanna? Is there not another clear route through which Melkor's powers might once again be coursing through our realm? Might this spreading rot not have its source in the darkness of Melkor's closest and most powerful protégé?"

Námo caught Manwë's eye, and a brief look of shared knowledge passed between them. Námo frowned, pondering the day – over a year ago now – when Manwë had taken him aside at Sauron's first trial and entrusted him with a dark knowledge that to this day only the two of them and Nienna shared. But he was pulled from his brooding thoughts by Manwë speaking again.

"My heart tells me that this rot is not of Sauron's doing," the High King said firmly. "Sauron's powers are Bound, and his kinship was always with fire and metal, not the growing things of the earth. Besides, Nienna has continued to work closely with him week by week, and she has expressed no concerns that he might have found a way to use his powers around the confines of our Bindings."

Námo was nodding his agreement before Manwë finished. "It is no coincidence, I think, that this melody of the Discord has manifested itself as a rot amongst all that should be green and growing. Yavanna's hatred and Aulë's anger will only continue to bear bitter fruit until a way to mend this rift is found."

"Vána tells me that Yavanna's unwillingness to seek reconciliation persists as strongly as ever," Estë said.

"And I fear we shall find Aulë just as committed to his decision," Manwë added with a sigh. "Of all the Ainur who should have come to strife, must it have been the two whose grudges are like the roots of the tallest trees and the highest mountains?"

"Nonetheless, our task remains clear," Námo said. "We must bring all fourteen of the Powers back into unity or watch this discord tear our lands apart. It has started with the plants, but I fear it will not stay there. We must not wait until disease begins to spread and the very land itself begins to crumble and fall into the ocean, even as Beleriand did. Who knows how it may affect even us, the Valar ourselves? We must find a way to bring Aulë and Yavanna into harmony once again."

Varda laid a hand on Manwë's arm. "You are closer to Aulë than any of the rest of us, and he was born from thoughts not unsimilar to those from which you and your brother came. While he may still hold on to his anger towards Yavanna, surely he cannot help but be moved by the plight of the earth. You must impress upon him the graveness of what his actions, in part, are bringing to pass. Perhaps if we can soften the Smith, the Tree Queen will follow."

Manwë bowed his head. "All I can do is try," he sighed, "and try I must." He lifted his head, blue eyes flickering to land on each of the Valar there. "I will speak to Aulë. In the meantime, if any more of the rot is discovered, let it be made known to myself and Varda immediately."

Irmo and Estë took their leave. Varda glanced between her husband and Námo, silently reading what was in their eyes, before bidding Manwë good night with a soft kiss and nodding a gracious farewell to Námo and making her own exit. Manwë watched her leave with a starry expression, but then the doors closed, leaving the two of them alone and Manwë's face turned grave once more.

Námo rose and made his way to the window, looking out over the dark expanse of Valinor. "Speak to Aulë," he said to Manwë, "but I fear he will not listen. There is a fog of malice that seeks to take hold of the Smith, and he is nearly within its grasp, I sense. But yet, ever it has been Eru's way that Hope comes from unexpected sources at a time unforeseen. Perhaps it might be so now."

Manwë rose and joined him at the window, but Námo could not help but notice how tired the High King looked. "Thank you for coming, Námo. All we can do is hope: hope and strive with our last strength against the darkness wherever it may show itself, even as we have done since the First Music."

He breathed a deep sigh. "Yet I fear, Námo, I fear you all place too much faith in me. I could not stop the Discord in the Timeless Halls. I could not save my brother. I fear that I will not be able to save Sauron. You trust in me to lead, and I shall do so, but I do not see the way."

Námo placed a hand on Manwë's arm, showing a rare moment of comfort. "Not even I fully see the way, and it is my burden to glimpse the future. Let us be grateful that the way is Iluvatar's, and I do not believe He will lead us down into destruction."

Manwë smiled faintly and for a while the two of them stood together, looking out into the night. But then Námo frowned. "Yet there is a matter that troubles me. That Aulë and Yavanna are the center of this blight, in that I agree with you. But I am not so sure as you that Sauron has no part in what is unfolding." He looked directly at Manwë, his dark gaze scrutinizing. "Should we not tell the other Valar the truth about him? About what you saw in his soul when we Bound him?"

Manwë was quiet for a long moment. "I do not believe that Sauron himself is aware of it. Nienna does not think so either."

"That does not mean that it is not dangerous."

Manwë turned fully to look at Námo. "Do you believe we should tell the others?"

Námo sighed and turned towards the door. "I believe that we should have told the others the day of the trial, but I have respected your wishes, High King. I do not believe it is good to keep knowledge from one another, especially something as weighty as this."

He stopped at the door and looked back. "I know this is a matter closer to your soul than any other, Manwë. I know how hard it must be for you, knowing that there is a sliver of Melkor still alive in Sauron, that it must feel like your brother is not wholly gone. But that remnant of Melkor's being has already lashed out and hurt Nienna once, proving that it is not entirely restrained by our Bindings on his ëala. We do not know what else it is capable of doing nor how much control it might have over Sauron. I have let it rest for over a year, but we are going to have to do something about it sooner or later. I would prefer we make it sooner."

Manwë seemed to bend, suddenly weathered and tired beyond measure. "Many of the Valar already hate him. How much more will they wish to see him destroyed should they know that our greatest Foe still lives on in him in some part?"

"That may be true," Námo replied, "but it does not diminish our duty in this matter. Ask yourself: do you wish to conceal this truth to protect Sauron…or to protect yourself?"

Manwë breathed a deep sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "I will think on it, Námo. But first, let me deal with Aulë."

Námo nodded. "I do not envy you your role nor your tasks, my King. But such is our duty in a broken world. I bid you as good a night as one in your position might have." And with that, he bowed and took his leave.

~o~o~o~

For once, Sauron was actually having something resembling a good day.

His sleep had been relatively peaceful, unhaunted by wolves or whispers of the Void, and he had woken, early enough and rested, that he was able to write in his book for a while before leisurely preparing for his day at the quarry. While making his way across the courtyard to the Great Hall, he had even caught himself humming softly under his breath. And when he'd arrived at breakfast, he had found Eldavan waiting for him.

Sauron would never admit it – not even aloud to himself and certainly not to Eldavan – but the bright-eyed Maia had become his favorite of his numerous escorts. When Yavanna had departed, several of his escorts had followed their mistress south, one of whom had been Wilwarien. Initially, Sauron had briefly missed the opportunities to torment his former lover, but that had faded once it became clear that Eldavan had absorbed the empty slots and was now one of his most frequent companions to the quarry. And while he might not be as easy to rile as the delicate butterfly Maia, he certainly made for better company.

He shouldn't enjoy Eldavan's companionship, he knew he shouldn't, but there was something so irresistibly likeable about the quirky Maia that even Sauron couldn't help but be effected. Eldavan was witty, intelligent, and just off-the-cuff enough to keep Sauron mentally stimulated. He'd also learned that Eldavan had a streak of dark humor that almost rivaled his own, and Sauron's dark past barely caused him to blink. The few times that Sauron had attempted to intimidate him, Eldavan had been maddeningly unintimidated, but even in that there was something refreshing: knowing he did not have to bother trying to impress or threaten, because neither would work anyway. And so slowly, Sauron had simply began to accept the walking enigma that was his companion and to sometimes even enjoy the frequent puzzlement that Eldavan brought with him.

They had not gotten far that morning when Eldavan pulled a small paper bag from his belt pouch, and opening it, he produced what appeared to be several small, colorful balls. Sauron watched him from the corner of his eye, curious but unwilling to be too obvious about it. His surprise mounted when Eldavan popped one of the balls into his mouth and began to suck on it with a little sound of appreciation.

He turned to Sauron, holding out another one. "Would you care for one, Sauron?"

Sauron eyed him suspiciously then cautiously reached out and took the bright red ball that Eldavan was offering him. It was hard and glossy and just ever-so-slightly sticky on his fingertips. Frowning, Sauron carefully placed it in his mouth.

His eyes went wide. A rush of ridiculously sweet, fruity flavor burst inside his mouth. He almost choked from how unexpectedly, unbelievably saccharine it was. It was too hard to chew, but he could feel it dissolving slowly into a pool of pure sweetness on his tongue.

His surprise must have shown on his face, for Eldavan laughed. "I take it they didn't have candy in Angband then, eh Sauron?" He returned the paper bag to his belt. "I picked them up in Valmar just this morning from the confectioner by the east gate. She had just finished a new batch, so they're as fresh as they come. Lórilissë: you won't find any place better in Valinor! I suggest you check them out sometime."

Sauron regathered his wits from the surprise rush of absurd sweetness. He wrinkled his nose as he stared at Eldavan, only managing to get out a single word. "Why?"

Eldavan raised an eyebrow at him. "Why what?"

Sauron gestured vaguely with one hand. "Why would anyone eat something like this?"

Eldavan's eyebrow rose another fraction. "I would think that would be self-explanatory," he said in a mild tone.

"It's…it's pure sugar," Sauron protested. "Why would anyone bother to make that? It can't possibly have any value in filling one's stomach or giving strength or health. What's the point?"

"The point would be that it tastes good," Eldavan said, still in that infuriatingly mild tone.

"Yes, but…" Sauron trailed off, still so baffled and overwhelmed by the taste in his mouth to conjure up words for his ruffled thoughts.

"Sauron," Eldavan said, and there was something quiet and almost softly sad in his voice. "There is much pain and sorrow in every corner of the world. One needn't look far at all to find such things in abundance. Yet, for he who looks, there is also much to find joy in. It is my opinion that it is no evil to take delight in such joys when they present themselves, yes, even if they are small balls of sugar." He popped another candy into his mouth. "I, for one, have no intention to turn away life's simple pleasures wherever they might find me." He winked. "Personally, I can never turn down the blueberry ones."

Sauron remained silent, his head spinning. The candy melted in his mouth, leaving his tongue coated in sticky sweetness that tasted strongly of cherry. For some reason, Eldavan's words left a strange ache in his heart.

They walked on, and slowly the taste of the sugar faded. Finally, Sauron spoke again, his words careful. "If you were in Beleriand during the War, you must have seen some less-than-pleasant things."

"More than some," Eldavan answered softly. "I believe most of us have at this point."

"How do you do it then?" Sauron's lips twisted. "How can you be so…blithe…about life, if you've seen how terrible life can be. How can you enjoy something as trivial as… candy… when you know it shares the world with horrors?"

Eldavan looked at him, and his blue eyes were different than Sauron had seen them before: still merry but with a soft, grave wisdom hidden in their depths. "It is because I have seen horrors that I can also fully see the beauty and joy that our world offers us," he said. "I know how precious such things truly are, how fragile they may be, and how dear the cost is to protect them. Believe me, Sauron, I do not take a single candy for granted, nor a kind word, nor a warm smile. Sometimes it takes weapons and strength of arms to drive out darkness and grief, but sometimes it is a greater defiance to evil to live your life to the fullest in spite of it. Sometimes, all it takes is a small piece of sugar." He chose another from the bag for himself then held it back out to Sauron.

Carefully, Sauron picked another candy from the bag and placed it on his tongue, ready this time for the burst of sweet flavor.

Soon, they had reached the entrance to the quarry, and Sauron turned away to head down the ramp, but Eldavan stopped him with an outstretched hand, proffering the bag of candy. "Go on and take it," Eldavan said warmly. "I reckon it will be of more value to you than to me. Perhaps it will even help your day seem just a bit less dreary." He grinned. "Just promise me you'll share a few with Eönwë; he's rather partial to the lemon-flavored ones."

Blinking, Sauron slowly accepted the bag, giving Eldavan a queer look as if expecting him to grow another head. But Eldavan, unperturbed as ever, merely gave him a smile and a farewell tap to his forehead before turning briskly and making his way back down the path, leaving Sauron standing at the quarry entrance with a paper bag in his hand, sweetness on his tongue, and in his spirit the stirrings of something strange, like a fair vision of hope springing up inside from he knew not where.

~o~o~o~

Eönwë was not yet there when Sauron arrived at his station, but Sauron was not concerned. Occasionally, the Herald had duties to see to in Ilmarin before his stint at the quarry and it was not wildly uncommon for him to arrive a few minutes later than Sauron. Sucking on another one of Eldavan's candies and tucking the remainder into the top of his lunch satchel, Sauron went about the now-familiar duties of setting up his station for the day. As he did so, he found himself unable to let go of what Eldavan had said.

For he who looks, there is much to find joy in.

For some reason, the words had stirred old memories. Plucking an apple from a tree and biting into it, laughing at the gush of sweet juice in his mouth: the first time he had eaten. Reaching out and brushing his tingling fingertips down the arm of the brand-new fána of another Maia: the first time he had touched. Directing his powers towards a dry pile of kindling and watching it burst into flame, mesmerized by the beauty of the flickering and how its warmth felt on his skin: the first time he had seen fire. And then even further back: his spirit swelling with joyful emotion and bursting into the first Sound he had ever heard, in a place where sorrow and horror were not even yet seeds of thought in his young mind. And with each memory, faintly stirring like a faraway echo, he remembered the joy and wonder he had felt at each new experience.

When had he stopped feeling joy? When had he stopped caring?

Was it possible that he could ever feel it again?

His thoughts were diverted by Eönwë's arrival. Part of him was glad for the distraction as the Herald dropped his own satchel down by Sauron's and he began helping him set up the station for the day, driving Sauron's thoughts back to the present.

As usual, they stopped for a brief, mid-morning break. Eönwë sat in the shade of their awning, sipping from his water flask, while Sauron stood as usual and did a familiar series of stretches to keep his shoulders and back from getting too stiff. The flavor of the last candy had long since faded, replaced by the inevitable dry grit of dust and heat, and he found himself craving another rush of sweetness. Look at you, he thought wryly to himself. Right on your way to becoming addicted to ridiculous little balls of sugar. Eldavan has created a monster.

Oh, you already are a monster, the dark voice in his mind whispered. And don't get too used to nice things in your life. You're not Eönwë or Eldavan who can put aside their past for a moment of fleeting pleasure. If you find joy in it, they'll find a way to take it away from you. Not as though you deserve joy or pleasure in the first place, Sauron.

Sauron's mood wavered, threatening to plunge down into the dark sullenness that was his norm. But perhaps it was the effects of the overall good mood he'd been in this morning, or perhaps it was some lingering influence from Eldavan's words, but Sauron suddenly felt vindictively determined to spite the dark voice in his head.

He ambled over to the awning, where Eönwë was still lounging with his feet stretched out in front of him. He looked up at Sauron warily as the other Maia stopped in front of him. "Eldavan was my escort this morning," Sauron said, leaning against his work table. "He had a bag of something he picked up in Valmar this morning…candy, he called it. He left some for us to share."

Eönwë instantly brightened at the mention of candy. "Are there lemon ones?"

Something almost like a smile threatened to tug at Sauron's lips. "Yes, I think so. They're in a bag at the top of my satchel." He pointed to the bag sitting on the ground next to Eönwë. "Toss me one too, will you?"

He turned to look out over the quarry, swaying slightly from side-to-side to loosen his hips, and he heard the rustle of paper as Eönwë pulled the bag of candy out of the satchel. To his surprise, his mouth began actually watering in anticipation of the treat.

"Sauron…" It took him a moment to realize that Eönwë had gone suddenly still and quiet. "Sauron…what's this?" There was an edge of steel to Eönwë's voice that made Sauron's gut clench and all thoughts of candy flew from his mind. He turned.

Eönwë was holding the bag of candy in one hand, Sauron's satchel still on his lap, but in his other hand, he was holding a piece of paper which he was staring at intensely. Confusion swept over Sauron until the Herald turned the paper, allowing Sauron to see the now-familiar handwriting scrawled upon it. He couldn't read what it said, but he had a fair guess as to the nature of its contents.

"We will never forgive you, filth of Morgoth. We'll make sure you end up in the Void with your vile master," Eönwë read. He looked up at Sauron, eyes flashing like a steel blade. "What is this, Sauron?"

Sauron snatched the paper out of his hand and crumpled it, even though the damage was already done. "It's nothing," he growled.

Eönwë stood, facing him. "How long have you been getting notes like that?" he demanded. "Do you know who's doing it?"

Sauron plopped down on his work chair, his good mood suddenly dispelled. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." Eönwë stood over Sauron, glaring down at him. "If you've been getting threats, that's no small matter."

Sauron scoffed. "You don't think I've heard far worse? Some coward's scribbles on a piece of paper don't bother me."

"It's the principle of the thing," Eönwë fumed. "The Valar have pardoned you, so whoever is doing this is going against the decree of the Valar. And we don't know if they might be willing to make good on their threats or not, so it's better to assume that they might. Do you have any idea who might have written it?"

Sauron could tell that Eönwë wasn't going to let up on the topic. He sighed and rubbed moodily at his forehead. "I've been getting them off and on for about a year, maybe a little longer. I've never seen anyone slip them in, but it must happen back in Aulë's Halls before I pick my satchel up. It would be easy enough for anyone to slip a note in during breakfast."

Eönwë chewed on his lip. "Is there anyone particular it might be? Someone you've made enemies with?"

Sauron gave him a scathing look. "You mean ninety-nine percent of the entire population of Arda? No, Eönwë, I can't possibly imagine who might hate me."

Eönwë rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean: someone who might hate you especially."

The image of dark-haired Saiwend popped into Sauron's mind, but for some reason he couldn't quite name, he didn't feel like revealing his suspicion to Eönwë. Instead he shrugged. "Who knows. I could have killed or tortured anyone's father, brother, child, which I imagine would be motive enough. As far as the time I've been back here, I've tried to keep to myself as best as I can."

Eönwë turned away with an angry sigh, and Sauron could see the wheels in his head turning. Suddenly, he turned back to Sauron, his gaze sharp once again. "Your shoulder," he said, his voice clipped. "You never did tell me how it happened. You were attacked, weren't you? I know you; you wouldn't have been negligent enough to let yourself get injured unless someone else inflicted it on you."

Sauron turned away, not deigning to answer, and picked up his chisel to resume working on his block. He was stopped by Eönwë's hand on his arm.

He shook off Eönwë's hand angrily. "Don't touch me!" he snarled, his eyes flaring.

Eönwë raised his hands in surrender and backed off. "All right, all right," he said, his voice still tight. "I'll stop prodding. But it isn't right that this is happening to you, and if they tried to hurt you once and got away with it, there's a very good chance they'll try again."

Sauron didn't answer, instead going back to chiseling ferociously at the stone block. He heard the rustle of paper and glanced out the corner of his eye to see Eönwë pop a yellow candy in his mouth, which he proceeded to suck on with visibly pent-up frustration and ire.

Sauron, however, had lost his appetite for candy.

~o~o~o~

There was something eerie about the quarry at the end of the day when everyone had left.

The most noticeable thing was the silence. The sounds of picks and chisels and voices was gone, leaving only the sighing hiss of the wind through the rocks. Eönwë stood with his hands on his hips, looking down into the deserted pit in the mountain side, the crumpled note from Sauron's satchel clutched in his fist.

He'd suspected that Sauron was being harassed, but he'd not had proof of it until today. He now knew that Sauron was regularly receiving threats, and even though Sauron had refused to directly confirm his suspicions, he was certain now that Sauron's injury all those months ago had been the result of some sort of malice directed against him. His fist clenched tighter, his nails digging through the paper and into his palm.

It was infuriating. Every time he felt like maybe Sauron was taking steps in the right direction, it seemed there was some sort of obstacle that popped up to push him backwards, as if the universe itself didn't want to see him come back to the light.

It wasn't that he disbelieved what Sauron had said: he had no doubt that Sauron had heard much worse in all his years as a dark lord and been called far fouler things – his very name was proof of that. But he had never been as vulnerable then as he was now, nor had there been a concerted effort to help him heal and be redeemed from his past. He knew Sauron had a tough skin, but he also couldn't help but believe that such cruel words would inevitably work their way into Sauron's psyche, even if they did so subconsciously. It would confirm his pre-conceived biases that he was not wanted, that he was hated by all, and that he would never truly have a place in Valinor. Whoever was leaving these notes was actively working to undo any good that the Valar were attempting to build in Sauron's life.

He'd refrained from bringing it up again the rest of the work day, since clearly Sauron was touchy about it, but he'd been pondering what to do with the information now that he had clear proof. Obviously, Manwë would need to be informed. However, he was unsure just what the Valar would be able to do against this, as of yet, nameless threat.

From all the context clues, it seemed likely that the culprit was an Elf, probably one of the ones here at the quarry. And that could possibly create a sticky situation. The Elves were prickly about the Valar interfering too much with what they saw as their business. This was especially true of the Noldor, who made up the vast majority of the Elves in Aulë's Halls. If the Valar stepped in too early, the Noldor – especially the hot-headed faction who already believed the Valar meddled too much in their affairs and discriminated against them – could very well become riled up. The faction leaders could use it as evidence to fuel their narrative that the Valar distrusted them and were looking for excuses to punish them. In short, direct action from the Valar could potentially create more problems than it solved.

With this in mind, Eönwë had determined that he needed to seek out an authority to whom the Elves might listen without igniting their…sensitive…feelings about the Valar.

There were still a few Elves at the command tent when Eönwë arrived, finishing up with reports from the day's work and seeing to other final duties of the day. Eönwë breathed a silent sigh of relief when he saw the tall, stern figure of Yavairë speaking to one of her assistants behind the main work table at the far end of the tent.

Yavairë looked up as he approached, her bright grey eyes taking him in shrewdly. "Yes, Herald Eönwë?" she asked as he stopped, facing her across the table. "You wish to speak to me?"

"Yes," Eönwë responded sternly. "I need to speak to you about this." He laid the crumpled note down on the table between them.

Yavairë raised her eyebrows but silently picked up the paper, uncrumpled it, and read the short message scribbled in hasty Tengwar upon it. Slowly, she set it down then looked back up at Eönwë, her expression inscrutable. "Explain," she said tersely.

"I found this in Sauron's satchel this morning," Eönwë said. "He tells me he's been receiving similar threats throughout the past year." His jaw muscle tensed, his eyes steely. "Someone here in the quarry is responsible for these notes."

"Yes?" Yavairë answered. "And you bring it to my attention…why?"

"The Valar have pardoned Sauron," Eönwë continued. "It is their decision, and their decision alone, how he is to be punished, should he ever commit an action worthy of reconsidering their decision. It is no one else's business, and certainly no one else's decision, concerning whether he ever ends up in the Void. It is possible that the Valar could see such a threat as this as rebellion against their authority and the pardon they have granted Sauron. As the one in leadership here at Corimendturë, it would seem to me to be in your best interest to make sure none of your charges could be seen to be committing acts of treason."

There was a brief flash in Yavairë's eyes and the smallest quirk in her lips. "Is that a threat, Herald Eönwë?" she said softly.

Eönwë kept his gaze fixed coolly on her. "I do not wish it to be," he said. "The Valar do not wish to overstep in matters among the Elves that could be handled by one of their own kind. As the representative of the Valar here at Corimendturë, I am simply requesting that you treat this matter with all due diligence and make sure the Elves under your command know that this behavior is unacceptable."

Yavairë turned, stroking her fingertips over the wood of the work table. Scattered across the table were maps of the quarry, charts, and various piles of reports. On top was a report with a topographic map of the north end of the quarry, marked in various places with red ink. Eönwë only saw the first few words written on the top – "Our initial surveys are showing signs of increased weaknesses in-" – before Yavairë picked it up, stacking it neatly with several others so that it was lost to sight.

"When Sauron arrived, I warned him that the Elves are not in the habit of forgetting wrongs done to them," Yavairë said at last. "There is much to oversee in running this quarry, and I find it hard to believe that it would be worth my time to seek out and reprimand one individual for expressing their just anger against one who has earned it tenfold. I am not here to coddle Sauron nor to watch over him, not at the expense of my people who were the ones who suffered because of his actions. I have sympathy for the Valar and the task they are undertaking in attempting to rehabilitate Morgoth's servant, but I have no sympathy to spare for Sauron himself. As long as work in this quarry is proceeding as necessary, Sauron is not my concern. And I shall not ask my kindred to stifle their voices or their rage against the harms done to them."

Eönwë felt anger prickling sharp at the edges of his heart at Yavairë's words. "I am sorry to hear that you take threats against one of your workers so lightly, one who has worked hard and produced many fine blocks for your kin over this last year."

Yavairë laughed sharply. "Do not attempt to prick my conscience, Herald. Do you think I am not aware that Sauron works here only at the behest of the Valar, not out of any graciousness of his own heart. The Elves owe Sauron nothing: not sympathy, not kindness, and certainly not protection. You may inform the Valar as you please about your concerns regarding the note, but I am done speaking on the matter." And with that, she turned away brusquely.

Eönwë swore under his breath and caught up the piece of paper again. So much for trying to get the Elves to take care of this rotten business themselves!

Sooner or later, if this matter was left unheeded, Eönwë was certain that this written hostility would escalate into physical violence once again. But the Valar sweeping in to take matters into their own hands was sure to cause trouble, especially if many of the Elves thought the same way Yavairë did.

He strode out of the tent, frustration bubbling inside of him. What did the Elves gain by stewing in their own sense of self-righteous animosity and resentment?

Why couldn't there just finally be peace?

He reached the rim of the quarry and looked back briefly, before taking to his eagle form and soaring out across the plains of Valinor, the threatening note clutched in his talons.

~o~o~o~

As the evening light began to fade from the Halls of Aulë, Sauron found himself pacing restlessly across the stone tiles of his chamber floor, a strange, eager energy coursing through him. Every noise in the hall outside caused him to snap to alertness, his gaze flashing instantly to his door.

Finally, the anticipated knock came, and he leapt forward to pull his door open, revealing Miriel standing in the hallway with a pitcher and tray with an assortment of bread, cheese, and fruit.

As soon as he opened the door, Sauron's restlessness transformed into cool, languid confidence. He smirked at the Elf standing on his doorstep, his hands braced on either side of the door frame. "Back for another defeat, Elf?"

Miriel's lips twitched. "Most certainly back for a defeat. Hopefully it will be yours this time, Black Captain."

He stepped aside to let her in, and she set the tray on top of his chest of belongings. He'd already set up the Aranosarn board on his table, with two chairs pulled up, all ready for the anticipated rematch.

Miriel poured them both a cup of apple cider, and Sauron helped himself to a slice of mulberry- and walnut-studded cheese on top of a still-warm slice of rye bread. Then, without further preamble, they got down to the important business of each trying to knock the stuffing out of the other with the little wooden pieces in front of them.

The game lasted about twice as long as the one yesterday eve. Miriel now knew what she was up against, and while her overall determination was undiminished, her strategy was more careful and measured. Sauron adjusted his own strategy accordingly, matching her move for move, and finally he cleverly evaded her attackers and reached the golden corner square, securing his second victory.

Miriel shook her head as she leaned back, aggressively stuffing a chunk of bread into her mouth as she took in the results of the game. "You are obnoxiously good at this," she said, just a tiny hint of petulance in her voice. "I am going to find a way to beat you one of these days."

Sauron leaned back as well, pleased smugness radiating off of him. "You are more than welcome to try."

Miriel refilled both their glasses then returned to her seat, and just like that, the mood of the room shifted from lively competitiveness and bravado to something more quiet and calculating. Sauron let the silence fill the space in between them, letting their almost amiable banter fade into something darker and less comfortable. Sauron had long ago learned that silence was sometimes more effective than even pain at getting others to spill their thoughts, and it was a weapon he had learned to wield with great precision.

He watched the discomfort take root in Miriel, and finally, she broke the silence, just as he had known she would. "So," she said, her hands twisting nervously in her lap in stark contrast to the eager spark in her eyes, "have you considered what you might want in exchange for offering your help?"

Sauron had thought about it indeed. Probably the singular thing he wanted the most was having his powers back, but the Elves couldn't give him that, at least not right now. And he already had his plans concerning that with Erenquaro and what he'd learned of Yavanna's plants when the time came. But he was not willing to show that part of his hand to Miriel, not yet anyway.

The other thing he wanted was a way to get revenge on the Valar, and that was something he could very much use the Elves to accomplish. He'd been wanting a way to get to the Elves since his arrival in Valinor and now he might finally have one: this overly bold Elf maid with her thinly veiled anger who did not fear him and could possibly be convinced to trust him. However, he wanted Miriel to consider him a partner to the Elves, not the one wielding them as a weapon to achieve his own ends, and to do that, he would need to proceed carefully.

"Perhaps I have," he responded coolly. "But what is it exactly that you want of me? Once I understand what my role in this deal would entail then I might be willing to consider what would be a fair price in exchange."

Miriel nodded but instead of answering, she reached over to the tray and plucked off several ripe grapes which she slowly ate. He watched her carefully. He could see the thoughts churning behind her eyes and he guessed what she was considering: she knew she was crossing a point of no return and she was deciding if this was really what she wanted to do.

She seemed to come to a decision and her eyes flashed back up to his, her expression determined once again. "The Valar won't listen to us," she said. "There's a group of us who are tired of the Valar interfering in our affairs and determining how we govern ourselves. We believe the Elves should have the freedom to see to their own affairs, to stay in Valinor or to go to Middle-earth, as we please. Ever since Fëanor's departure, the Valar have watched the Noldor who remained here in Valinor and kept their hands at our throats, and we are tired of being treated as threats too volatile to make our own decisions. We wish to join with our kindred who remained in Middle-earth after the War, but the Valar have forbidden it."

Her fingers twined into the fabric of her skirt, twisting in a gesture he had come to recognize as frustration or nervous energy. "As vile as some of his deeds may have been, Fëanor was a leader. He was charismatic and powerful, and he could sway the hearts of those who listened to him to both love and respect him. But my generation has no such leader. We do not have the skill to sway others to our ways of thinking nor to persuade the Valar to listen to us."

Her gaze remained steady, staring deep into his eyes. "But you, you were a leader, a commander. If the stories about you are true, then you excel in both manipulation and charisma." She leaned forward. "You could teach us. You could teach us how to achieve our ends and get what we desire."

Sauron tilted his head, examining her with a faint little smile, but he kept his eyes emotionless, letting them bore uncomfortably into her. "You want me to teach you how to manipulate?" His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What if I decide to manipulate you, little Elf?"

For the briefest moment, he saw the flash of doubt in her eyes, but then her determination returned in full force. "Why would you need to manipulate me when we both want the same thing: to see the Valar humbled?"

Sauron laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Fair enough. And to whom would I be teaching these arts?"

Again, Miriel faltered for a split second, but Sauron was observing her carefully enough to catch it. "Right now, me," she said, her voice steady. "And I can take what I learn to the other Elves."

He eyed her calculatingly. "They don't know you're talking to me, do they?" he asked, that flicker of a smile still on the edge of his lips.

"No," Miriel admitted. "They don't exactly trust you."

"But you do?" he pressed.

"I think you're more alike to us than the others think. More than maybe even you think. And I think you need allies, just like we do."

"Do you?" he purred in a low voice, his eyes still burning and his face emotionless.

"Yes, I do," she responded firmly. "I think we can help each other. Which gets us back around to the start of our conversation: what is it that you would ask in exchange for helping us?"

Once more, Sauron wielded the silence, letting it linger uncomfortably in the air for several long moments. Then he leaned forward, plucking his own bunch of grapes from the tray. "What could a group of rebel Elves who can't even achieve their own ends possibly offer one of the Ainur?" he said smoothly.

Miriel did not falter under his nonchalant condescension. "If you get us to Middle-earth, we'll take you with us. You would once again have a purpose and a place of authority where you aid us in establishing our own realms under your experience and guidance. No more quarry, no more Valar ordering either of us about, no more prison or threats of punishment. Maybe it wouldn't quite be what you had under Morgoth, but you would have part of your old life back again."

Sauron stared at her for several seconds then suddenly burst out laughing. Miriel blinked in confusion at his reaction before her expression quickly turned to anger. "Why are you laughing? It is an earnest offer."

Sauron shook his head, his laughter fading to a soft chuckle, his eyes still fixed steadily on her. "Because you're crazy, Elf, absolutely crazy." A grim smile broke out across his features. "In fact, you might almost be as crazy as me."

Miriel watched him carefully, obviously not sure how to react. Sauron shook his head again and held out his hand across the table and the Aranosarn board still between them. "Very well, I'll take your deal, Miriel Celebros. You have me intrigued. I will teach you everything I know about manipulation and control, and you will grant me a place in this new order of yours should you prove successful. And we both get to see the Valar humbled. I do have one question though." He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "How do I know the other Elves will go along with you, if their mistrust of me runs as deep as you say it does?"

Miriel nodded; clearly she had anticipated this question. "They don't trust you now, but I believe I can convince them. If they see that you are truly willing to help us, I think they can be convinced to work with you. My cousin is one of their leaders, and he and I are very close. If I can convince him, the others will listen."

Sauron's attention was suddenly laser-focused upon her again. "Your cousin?"

Miriel gazed steadily back at him. "His name is Saiwend Gilruinion. I have always believed he had the potential to be the leader we need, but right now he is too brash. He allows his temper and passions to get the better of him, especially in dealing with the Valar. I believe that under your guidance, he could become a force the Valar will find difficult to reckon with." She watched him closely. "You may know him already; he works in the quarry."

"Yes, I know who he is," Sauron murmured, and suddenly his mind was rushing, bursts of thought exploding throughout his consciousness. Saiwend. Of all the Elves that Miriel might be related to, she was Saiwend's cousin. He had to stop his limbs from trembling with the sudden wild excitement coursing through him. It could not have been any more perfect if he had planned it. Perhaps he was not utterly devoid of good luck after all.

Miriel evidently took his silence as a conclusion to their conversation. She reached forward, picking up one of the Aranosarn pieces and fiddling with it. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then addressed him again. "You told me that perhaps you would talk to me of the lands across the sea. I…perhaps you would be willing to tell me a little?"

Sauron eyed her, still distracted by the sudden barrage of thoughts triggered by this new knowledge of Saiwend and Miriel's kinship. What he really wanted was to be left alone now so that he could order his thoughts and begin thinking of a way to use all that he had learned to his advantage, but at the same time, he was aware that Miriel was his key. He shrugged mentally. Storytelling was not his forte, but he was in a good mood and willing to humor her, especially if it instilled in her the trust for him that he deeply needed her to have if all this was to work.

With all that in mind, he smiled benignly. "What do you wish to know?"

Miriel brightened instantly. "Did you have a favorite place in Beleriand?"

Sauron remained silent, quietly surprised by the question. It was not something he had ever given much thought to. Finally, he answered, his voice slow and measured.

"Not far from Tol-in-Gaurhoth, about a two hour's ride to the north, there was a wide lowlands between the Ered Wethrin and the Echoriath through which the great river Sirion flowed. It was here where the Fens of Serech were."

He let his mind stray back to the time when he had been the Lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Master of Werewolves, the dread Sorcerer of the North. "I would go out with my scouts from time to time, if there was something I deemed that warranted my attention, and often we passed through the Fens on our way north into the Anfauglith or to Dorthonion."

He allowed a small hint of a grim smile. "It was easy to get lost in the Fens, if you didn't know the safe paths. Easy to take a wrong step and plunge into murky, weed-filled water that would cling to you and pull you down. They were dangerous, even deadly, if you did not treat them with respect."

He stroked the edge of the table in front of him automatically, running his forefinger back and forth across the grainy wood. His smile grew slightly more genuine. "But they were beautiful as well, perhaps all the more lovely for how dangerous they could be. They were filled with all manner of wildflowers and plants – orchids, asters, tall reeds, sedges that would whisper a strange, haunting song when the wind blew through them. They were excellent hunting grounds as well; we would shoot down the plumpest ducks to roast over the camp fires in the evening until the grease sizzled in the coals."

It was as if he was there again. He could smell the memory of the savory, greasy ducks on the spits, hear the rough-housing of the Orcish scouts and the snarling of their wargs, feel the crisp bite of the air that came down from the mountains on either side of them. He would sit at the entrance to his tent, watching, always watching, his black cloak wrapped around him, little more than a shadow with burning eyes looking out over the darkening wetlands.

"But it was at dawn that the Fens were the fairest." Back and forth across the table his finger ran. "The rising sun would catch on all the pools of water and make them glisten; it would look like there were red and orange diamonds scattered all across the lowlands."

He did not voice how sometimes, when he had needed to clear his mind, he would saddle one of the wargs when it was still dark and ride to the edge of the Fens. He would leave the warg there and walk through the tall grass, the moss and peaty ground soft under his feet, following the safe paths that only he and his scouts knew, listening to the mournful wind in the reeds and sedges and the gurgle of streamlets, until the sun rose above the highlands of Dorthonion. Nor did he speak of the quiet, nameless longing that would rise in him sometimes, when all was quiet and dark and he was alone in that treacherous wilderness, and how sometimes he even imagined that the wind in the reeds had a voice that spoke to him and called him child.

He shook the thought away. "But the Fens of Serech are no more. They lie on the bottom of the ocean, along with everything else in Beleriand that once I knew."

He looked up to find Miriel watching him, and her expression was both fascinated and softly sad. "Is that what you wished to hear?" he asked her.

Her eyes met his, and she nodded. "Yes. Yes, it is."

They stared at one another, until Miriel dropped her gaze and reached across the table to clean up the leftover grape stems. "I'm sure you'll be wanting to get some rest," she said, her voice suddenly hurried. "Thank you for your time and for our…discussion." She looked up at him again, almost appraisingly. "I think we'll be able to work well together. I hope so at least." She gathered up the tray and pitcher. "Have a good night, my lord."

Sauron gave her a thin smile. "Good night…Miriel."

~o~o~o~

Aulë was in the forge warehouses, directing several of his Maiarin and Elven assistants with a new cartload of raw gems, when he felt the gentle but insistent touch against his mind. Recognizing the High King's presence at once, Aulë opened his mind, allowing Manwë in. The distance between them was enough that they could not share words, but Manwë's emotions and intentions were clear – he was worried about something and wished to speak privately. Aulë sent back a wordless acknowledgement and a mental picture of his private quarters. Manwë's own acknowledgement flashed through his mind a second later, and then the High King withdrew.

Aulë excused himself from the warehouse and made his way across the lawn to the north wing of his Halls where his quarters were located. It was dark and quiet when he entered, and he lit the candles lining the room with a flick of his powers. Then he stood, hands on his hips, waiting for Manwë and listening to the silence.

He still half expected to hear the soft clip of pruning shears, or the rustle of vines, or even the sound of a humming voice coaxing the plants to grow, but there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

An aura of power filled the room like a sudden gust of wind, then Manwë clothed himself, appearing in all his majesty in the center of the room. Aulë inclined his head respectfully to his superior Power. "Please make yourself comfortable, my King. Can I get you anything? Wine? Miruvor perhaps?"

Manwë considered for a moment. "I wouldn't say 'no' to a glass of miruvor. Thank you, Aulë."

A few minutes later, both Valar were seated in Aulë's private reception room, Manwë with a glass of the sweet Elven liquor and Aulë with a mug of ale. "How fares it at Ilmarin?" Aulë asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Manwë's sky blue eyes met his, bright yet troubled. "I wish I could say 'well' but alas I cannot."

Aulë's expression dropped. "What seems to be the matter?"

Manwë's gaze did not leave his. "Another patch of the rot has been discovered, this one on the outskirts of Lórien. It is spreading, Aulë, and spreading ever more rapidly."

Aulë felt a sensation like a fist squeezing around his heart, but he did not say anything, merely taking another sip of his ale, but the drink tasted ashen in his mouth.

Manwë leaned forward. "It is increasingly clear that this rot will not disappear on its own. It will keep spreading and it will get worse, unless we do something about it."

The fist squeezed tighter. "And what do you wish me to do about it?" It was only after the words left his mouth that he realized how cold they had sounded.

Manwë drew his chair closer, his gaze even more intense. "We have seen such things before, though not in Valinor – wherever Melkor's influence and the notes of the Discord have found a hold – but this time the Discord comes not from without…but from within."

Green eyes and brown waves of hair curling with vines flashed through Aulë's mind. "Aulë," Manwë continued, a quiet intensity to his voice, "you know of what I speak."

Aulë pushed his chair back roughly and rose, walking heavily to the window where he stared out into the star-dotted night. "So the Valar blame me for what is occurring, do they not?" he asked, and once again his voice was cold and hard.

Manwë rose as well, joining him at the window and placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Not blame, no. I understand why you acted as you did, but it is the responsibility of all fourteen of us to act in the best interests of all and find a solution to this problem before it poisons all of Valinor."

Aulë gripped the window sill tightly, his sooty fingernails digging into the wood. "And what solution do you propose?"

Manwë was silent for several seconds before speaking in a careful, reasonable tone. "It has been more than a year since Yavanna departed, Aulë. All we ask is that you consider speaking to her of reconciliation."

Something stirred inside Aulë, something dark and rebellious. "So it is my duty to speak of reconciliation, even though it was I and mine who were wronged? Should the responsibility not rest on the one who committed the wrong to seek forgiveness?" He turned to glare darkly at Manwë. "Why are you speaking to me rather than to Yavanna?"

A tired expression flashed across Manwë's ageless face. "We have spoken to Yavanna – Vána at least has tried to do so – and the roots of her anger and her refusal to speak to you still run deep."

Aulë threw up his hands and stomped away from the window, plopping himself ungracefully back down into his seat. "See! Even if I desired to speak to her or forgive her, what good would it do if she is unwilling to speak to me herself?"

Manwë walked back over to the table but did not sit. "We know it is not easy for either of you, to be torn apart by such anger and hurt. Our hope is that if you are willing to talk to one another, to simply see each other, that you might remember your love that has endured since the beginning of Arda and find it in yourselves to seek a place of balance where you might be reconciled once again."

Aulë looked up at Manwë, and both pain and anger flushed his face dark under his bushy beard. "Do you think I have forgotten my love for her?" he asked, and his voice broke as he said it. "Do you think I desire this strife between us, or that my heart was glad to cast her out from my Halls?" He took his head fiercely and took a large swig of his ale before locking gazes with Manwë once again, and now there were tears in his metallic eyes. "Do you know what my heart most longs for, Manwë? What I would have if I could? All my loved ones living safe and well in my Halls. For an Age, I have mourned the loss of my Nauron, my Mairon, my child, and wished that he was safe and here under my protection once again. But his return has cost me the love and presence of my wife. Do you think that is how I wish it to be? Do you not think I would do anything to have them both back at my side, in peace, in safety, in love, if I could?"

Manwë sat back down. "If that is what you wish, then extend the palm branch of your love back to Yavanna once again. It has been a year since you spoke to her. Perhaps her thoughts regarding Sauron have changed and softened."

"But could I trust anything she said or any reassurances she might give me?" Aulë's expression turned pleading. "She lied to me and schemed behind my back to destroy Sauron, knowing full well how deeply it would hurt me."

His eyes scanned Manwë's face, desperate yet not even sure what he sought. "He's been doing so much better since she left. He's opened up to me again, and I can see how much more comfortable and safe he feels now. She was terrorizing him, Manwë, right under my nose. How can I ever trust her in my Halls again, or anywhere near him?" He swallowed the lump in his throat. "If you know a way, Manwë, then tell me, for Eru's sake!"

Manwë was silent. He took a deep sip of miruvor then sighed, looking back up at Aulë. "I wish I could tell you that I have a solution, but I do not, Aulë. We are not necessarily asking that you welcome her back into your Halls nor allow her access to Sauron. Right now, we're simply asking you to talk to her. Perhaps if you both come to some sort of understanding, some simple peace, it will stop the spread of the rot. The earth is crying out for help, your help. Please do not turn a deaf ear to it."

Aulë sat in moody silence for several minutes, nursing his drink and ruminating on Manwë's words. In his heart, he knew what Manwë said was reasonable and something bittersweet tugged at him, a yearning to see Yavanna again. But then he remembered the grim satisfaction on Yavanna's face at Sauron's second trial and her cruel glee at inflicting a punishment on Sauron designed specifically to break his spirit. He remembered what Sauron had told him this past year after Yavanna left, of the abuse the Tree Queen had inflicted upon him in the shadows. His eyes flashed with angry power as he looked back up at Manwë, and a tremor shook the room.

"And if simply speaking to her does not stop the rot, then will you expect me to forgive her fully and welcome her back to my Halls? Will you expect me to sacrifice Sauron's wellbeing?" The tremors increased. "When Yavanna herself is willing to beg forgiveness for her wrongdoings against both me and my Nauron, then I will speak to her and only then," he growled. "This rot is her fault, not mine, and it should lie with her to make amends and fix it."

Deep sorrow welled up in Manwë's eyes. "Aulë, please reconsider," he said. "We need you, my dear old friend."

Something vicious rose up in Aulë. "Then why don't you order me to speak to Yavanna?" he snapped. "You're the High King. I would be beholden to obey you."

"Because that is not how I rule," Manwë said firmly. "I do not wish for my reign to be one of force and fear, the way my brother ordered his realms. And in this matter, I suspect it must come from the heart. Yes, I could order you to speak to Yavanna, and I believe you would do so, but there would be no true healing nor reconciliation from such a forced reunion."

He rose, setting his now-empty glass down gently on the table. "I will not order you as your king, but I will beg you to reconsider as your friend. This bitterness is not good for you, Aulë, and it will grow. Like Yavanna, I fear you may become the very thing you once loathed if you let it consume you."

He moved towards the center of the room, before turning a final time. "The earth is suffering. Please consider helping your fellow Valar come to its aid, Lord of Earth."

With that, Manwë unclothed himself, and a gust of wind took his presence away, and Aulë was left with the dregs of his drink and the silence of his empty chambers.