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Sauron, once called Mairon, frowned in his sleep, a whisper teasing his ear. It was not the voice of his Lady or Celeborn. It was not the sound of that great flame he had long turned deaf to. Sauron twisted on the bed, feeling something shift in a way he had not felt since...since...
Sauron came awake with a gasp, eyes flying open to stare at the darkened ceiling. The bedroom was dark and cool. The drapes were open, letting moonlight stream across the floor and the foot of the bed. The embers on the grate were banked, the faint lines of heat peeking through the heavy ash. Sauron could feel his heart racing, the sweat slicking his throat and face and palms. And, just barely, it felt like he could hear a whisper call his name.
Sauron turned and slid off the bed on silent feet, making sure his Lady did not stir from her spot. Galadriel was protected, as she should be, with Sauron between her and all the entry points to the room. On her other side slept Celeborn, curled onto his side to face her, guarding her back as he should be.
Sauron swept the room but everything was in place. The cups of wine they'd had before bed still sat on the table by the fire. Galadriel's dress was on the floor where they had stripped it from her. The door was closed and locked, the thin whisper of power he put to the frame undisturbed. Everything was in its proper place. So why did he feel so rattled, so afraid? Afraid like...
Sauron turned his face away, eyes closed tight as the memories welled up. He stood, pulling a robe from a hook to cover his body and moved to the far door, slipping out onto the talan to stare out over the quiet woods of Lothlórien, their home for the last two Ages of Arda, undisturbed by anyone. The moon hung high in the sky, fat and full and silver. Sauron gazed at it, thinking he could perhaps still see Tilion guiding that orb across the sky. Sauron had little memory of that Maia, having spent so much of his time in the forge at Aulë's feet, learning all he could, until...until...
Sauron raised one hand on slid it over his mouth, feeling the scars on his lips and cheeks from the binding spells that had once been put on him. He thought they were hideous. He refused to look into a mirror at them even now. It was Galadriel who had been the first to press a soft kiss to those new scars, cracking something inside of him wide open by that one gesture. And it had been her, Lúthien, who had hooked her finger into the first of them, snapping that first thread and letting Sauron know that freedom was possible.
For a price.
Oh how the world had been different then. Sauron, no longer Mairon, had bent his knee to Morgoth – then Melkor – after he had quarreled and quarreled with his fellow Maiar and even Aulë himself about the moving of the Firstborn to Aman's far shores. Sauron had never agreed with that decision. The Firstborn's place was in the world, where they might create and grow and change . It was not the stagnant idleness of Aman where little was birthed aside from that which was thought up from the Valar themselves. But then...then Sauron had thought his fears had been allayed when those same Firstborn had lit up Aman like a bonfire, creating with such intensity and glory that Sauron thought that perhaps yes, this was his place, to help guide them and create with them, in the splendor of the Light of the Trees.
That was the first time he had ever seen Galadriel, though he had not known her name at the time. A niece of the famed Fëanor of the Fiery Spirit, the same elf whose genius burned in him like a forge. Sauron had caught but one glimpse of her, being herded away from the door of Fëanor's forge where Sauron had lingered as a spirit of air, just to watch Fëanor work. Sauron – then Mairon – had felt his gaze be drawn to that slim figure, those bright eyes. But that was also when Sauron had first seen friction between the Firstborn, had seen this Finarfin quarrel with Fëanor in that very same forge and almost come to blows because of it. That was when Sauron had begun to see the darkness starting to seep in through the cracks of perfection he had not noticed up until then. And once seen he could not ignore those growing rifts, could not deafen himself to the sharp whispers that were growing, could not turn a blind eye to the strife that was growing day by day in the Light of the Trees.
That was when he had fell for Morgoth's fine words. The Vala had been called Melkor then, newly freed from his chains, penitent and eager to help guide the Firstborn on their paths of creation. Sauron had listened to that Vala's murmurings, how this Melkor had feared that the glory of the Firstborn was being stifled by being in Aman's timeless halls. How the Firstborn deserved better. How the Firstborn needed a different guiding hand. It had made so much sense . Of course the Firstborn were starting to fight with one another. They were cooped up like children at the knee of the unmoving Valar who refused them growth. Of course Melkor had to take them in hand. Had to lead them to freedom, back to the wilds of Arda where they belonged.
How blind he had been. How foolish. How stupid . Sauron had bent his knee to Melkor and made such promises to him, never knowing that by saying those very words he was binding himself to a Master that was fair of face but so foul it could eclipse the moon. It was not until those words had left his lips, until he had sworn himself to Morgoth's service, that Sauron had felt it. Had felt that same shift in his spirit that had woken him that very night. It was a shift he had felt but once before, while lying at the feet of Lúthien Tinúviel, waiting for a death blow that was never to come.
Long had Sauron drawn out the punishment of Finrod and Beren in the prison beneath Tol-in-Gaurhoth. The orders from his Master had been clear, that no elf nor man should ever escape his grasp or Sauron would pay the price for it. Well had Sauron known the bite of his Master's most vicious weapons, having tried twice to leave his service and been brought back and laid low before a furious Morgoth each time. But each time Sauron had tried to raise his hand against this foolish elven lord, this Finrod Felegund, all Sauron could see was that fair maiden outside Fëanor's forge, her bright eyes looking right at him, as if he were not invisible at all. Again and again Sauron would try to send down those orders, to pick them off one by one and create such despair so that they would perhaps take matters into their own hands but the words never left his mouth. Could not leave his mouth.
And then it was too late. The roar of Huan at his gates had scattered the little spirits Morgoth had put into his service. The spies and the nominal allies Sauron had in Morgoth's vast armies fled before the wrath of the Hound of Valinor, well knowing how well Huan could track and how that hound had never once lost a scent. It had then been up to Sauron alone to go down and defend this once fair island, turned bleak and foul by Morgoth's stain. Perhaps a part of him had hoped that Huan would end him, would free Sauron of the spells that bound him so tightly to Morgoth's word. But that was not to be the case. For indeed had Huan fought him, had pinned Sauron down no matter how much he had tried to wiggle his way free, but instead of those powerful jaws ripping out his throat, Lúthien had stood over him instead, staring down at him with those dark eyes that felt as though they could see right through him.
“Do you yield to me this tower and the lives within, oh Sauron, servant of Morgoth?” That same voice that had brought down the tower about him, that had driven him out to meet his fate in melee with Huan the Hound of Valinor, was not even hoarse.
He had sneered at her then, a bitter laugh breaking free from a throat that was held tight by razor sharp teeth. He had not even felt the way his skin had parted on those canines, dripping blood onto the ground beneath him. “You fool,” he'd rasped at her, his own throat torn and brutalized by the tortures of Morgoth than anything this fair maiden could do to him. “You blind, stupid fool.”
Perhaps it was the tears that had slid down his temples then that had softened the maiden. Perhaps she had always been that way. But when Lúthien had gone to one knee by his head, had put her hand on his cheek, for once...for once all the wounds his Master had put to him did not hurt. Sauron had felt at peace, the same kind of peace he had once felt while watching the Firstborn create with such wild abandon on Aman's far shores so many centuries before.
“You are at a point where your path diverges,” her voice had dropped to a whisper. “Go one way and you will be stripped of your raiment and sent back quaking before your Master, naked and enduring the full presence of his scorn. Or,” he had not been able to look away from those dark eyes. “Or you make a choice, here and now, to break free of the one you call Master and make a new choice in the freedom you shall find.”
He'd laughed then, right in her face, until hot tears had soaked the hair of his temples. “Do you not think I have tried?” He'd wanted to spit at her. Huan's jaws kept him held in place. “I have fled that dark Master and each time I am brought back, held low by the spells and oaths I did not know I was agreeing to. Can you not see them, little dreamer? Little fool? They are written all over my face, for all to see. My Master is more powerful than you can even understand. And that mortal in my prison? Do you not see the darkness in his soul? That glut of greed that feeds all men's souls? He will betray you in that throne room, little dreamer. He will be the reason for your death before your time, for the destruction of these fair lands that my Master so covets. Better you had let this Beren die under my boot than bring him forth. One hand reaching out will vanish and that pretty voice you used against me will sing you a path of pain and torment. You'll see,” he'd wept, still laughing. “You'll see.”
But her hand had not left his face. Those dark eyes had swept over the inked swirls Morgoth had put on his skin, all his foul oaths made visible for all to see. Then one of her fingers had moved on his cheek and that same inked swirl had burned, making him arch in Huan's hold, a scream ripped from his throat until all he could taste was metal and all he could see was a bright white light.
When his vision had cleared Huan's hold was gone and Sauron had found himself on his side, curled into a crescent, arms wrapped tight about his body. Lúthien stood by his head, staring down at him. In the distance Sauron could hear her mortal lover and Finrod speaking, the murmurs of their men coming up from that dark prison step by step.
“A choice you now have, Sauron, once called Mairon,” she had said. Her eyes had blazed with a Fire he had thought he had long forgotten. “Your words have given me much to think on and for that I will give you this in turn. Once a single strand is snapped a net will unravel. Do with that as you will.” And with that she had gone, stepping past him to where those voices were growing louder and louder. Sauron had barely been able to drag himself away, hiding in a small hole in the ground, letting go of his physical form until that party had left, not looking back at the ruin that had trapped them.
It was then that Sauron had realized that the bonds Morgoth had wrapped him in were weakened. That there was a scar on his face where none had been before, right where Lúthien's finger had pressed in and where that pain had swept through him head to foot. Sauron had trembled then, feeling the edge of that bond digging in, right where he could get a grip on it and pull.
Sauron did not know how long he had stayed in that tiny hole in the ground, screaming and screaming and screaming as he pulled out every spell that had been wrapped about his spirit, trapping him in Morgoth's service for all time. By the time he was free he'd felt as weak as a new born foal, a terrible trembling dug deep into his bones. The only thing he could think about then was that fair maiden he had seen outside Fëanor's forge, her eyes so bright and fair. Something about her had called to him, even as shadows had moved over his skin, free now of Morgoth's foul powers but touched now by something that felt so light he could not fear it. Her name he had read on his wrist as he had drifted into Doriath's dark bowers, flitting between shadows until he found her in a moon-lit glade, staring up at a clear night's sky, at a heavy full moon, just like the one he was staring at now.
Sauron had never doubted his decision to bend his knee to his Lady. Only he and she – and later Celeborn – had known of the word written on his wrist. And, much, much later, of the second word that he allowed to be seen on his other wrist, a second name when he had only wanted the first.
“You are troubled,” his lady said from behind him. He did not know how long she had been watching him.
“Dreams,” he said to the moon. He felt her join him at the balcony's edge, both of them staring up into the silver light, almost the same shade as Telperion's glorious light. “I dream of a voice calling to me. I dream of...” He swallowed, hard. “I am afraid,” he whispered. He could not look away from the moon.
He heard her sigh and a warm hand settled over his. “I dream of a bower but not the one that is ours. I dream of an Arda darkened by loss and bloodshed. I dream,” her fingers curled over his. “I dream of a Mirror and an empty spot in our bed. I dream of a terrible choice. Of a ring.” He turned his head to see her looking out over their forest, her eyes gleaming a bright white with a power he could not name. “That instead of a Dark Lord there would be a Queen, not dark but beautiful and terrible as the dawn, treacherous as the seas and stronger than the foundations of the earth!”
Sauron gasped, tearing his hand out from under hers and pulling his Lady into his arms. “No,” he said into her hair. “Do not go there, my love. Do not make that choice. It is not here. It...” He shuddered, the knowledge of his dreams settling at last. “I have created no such thing that would corrupt you so. I am not him,” even now Sauron refused to speak Morgoth's name. “I swear to you,” he whispered. “I am not him.”
Her hands came about him, holding onto him just as tight as he held onto her. “I know,” she whispered back. “But something is coming. I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the very air. Something has changed, but I cannot say what.”
Sauron loosened his arms as she pulled back from him, staring down into that same fair face that had caught his eye so long ago. Her gaze swept over him, her eyes still so clear and sharp even now. “Do you hear it?” She tilted her head to one side. He shivered at the look in those eyes. “Do you hear it? It is calling for you, even now.”
He shook his head. “I don't. I won't.”
“Sauron,” her smile felt like a knife to his throat. He felt her gather his hands in hers. “It is already here. And it is a part of you, whether you want to admit it or not. From whence it came I cannot say. But it is here and we cannot be blind to it. They're all here. They've come for us. All of us.”
“Who has?” He could not look away from the Light in her eyes.
Her smile grew, even as she lifted one hand to his face. His breath froze in his throat as he caught that hand in his, staring down at the strange strip of pale flesh on her perfect hand, different now than from where he had kissed her just hours before. “Not who,” she said into the silence between them. He looked up at her. She blinked and two tears fell from her cheeks, splashing onto their hands. “It's what,” she said. “The Rings have come. We must prepare.”