Chapter Text
Chapter One - The Fortress Defeated
He had been there. Of course he had.
When the Vanyar descended upon Angband, Sauron had watched his home erupt into blinding light and violence. This violence, between creatures of the Valar and creations borne from the darkness of Arda, corrupted the essence of the fortress. It burned Sauron to see the sanctuary he had worked for centuries to complete become twisted as it fought for dominance over the Valar’s army.
It was a fight he knew they were doomed to lose. Ëarendil had Manwë on his side, and Manwë worked for none other than Eru. No one could fight a winning battle against Eru, it was common sense. Sauron had planned all his battles to avoid such a fight. Yet, in the end, they had come to him. He could not escape.
The War of Wrath was what Sauron named it upon seeing that holy light descend from the sky like a righteous anger. He had been forced to watch as Ancalagon was felled by a horde of eagles. At the time, Sauron himself had been in the midst of battle, taking down as many of the warrior Eldar as possible, but he had stopped to watch Thangorodim collapse under the weight of the dragon’s lifeless body. That image would burn in Sauron’s mind for the rest of his existence as one of the worst defeats of a creature he had ever seen. It was painful to say the least.
After the dragon’s death, Sauron had given up fighting. Let the Vanyar take what they would, it mattered not in the face of ultimate defeat, but there was one thing that Sauron wanted to protect at all costs. He had to make sure that remained safe from the clutches of the Valar.
Even then Sauron knew he was doomed to fail.
Running through battles that spanned across the entirety of Gorgoroth it seemed, Sauron made his way to the front of Angband which had been sealed tightly from the inside. At the entrance, the loyal lieutenant removed his helmet and gauntlets, casting them to the floor without bothering to look where they fell. He ran his bare hand over the outer wall of the fortress. The whole structure seemed to shudder in response. Whatever spell had sealed this place, Sauron knew he was exempt. Angband itself was alive with the essence of its master; it thrummed with an actual sentience that was aware of who and what would hold congress with it. The wall where Sauron laid his hand turned murky like dark water and eventually faded into a thin film of plasma through which he easily passed.
Even with so much chaos outside, the inside of the fortress was completely calm. The dark halls seemed their usual selves, with the exception that all candlelight had gone out, but that was nothing too out of the ordinary. Sauron ran throughout stairs and hallways, searching for his last hope. He had to find it, his one last chance, and then let events transpire as they would.
Finally, the beleaguered lieutenant came to the deepest point of Angband. There was only one room at the lowest point, well below the surface of Arda and even deeper than some of the forges. It was his master’s secret room where was kept all things most dear to him. Though he visited it little, Sauron knew he would find what he was looking for there.
The stairs leading ever downward stopped when he came to a floor made from surprisingly smooth stone. It was so black that not even Sauron with his eyes of living fire could see more than a foot in front of him, so he conjured a small flame in his hand and looked around. Aided by fire, Sauron could see most of the room. His orange and red eyes scanned all the objects. He could see an iron collar of some sort, whips of nine tails, metalworks forged by Aulë himself given as gifts long forgotten...
Ah yes. Here, finally.
Sauron hurried to his prize and hesitantly reached out to it. He had never actually touched it before and even now, in the face of defeat, it seemed somehow forbidden to him, a lowly Maia. Yet Sauron knew this was the only way, so he cast aside any doubt and wrapped his bare hand around the hilt.
Grond. His master’s beloved mace. Sauron wished to offer Grond to his master as a way to remind the Vala of his ultimate strength. With this in hand, the dark Vala could cut a path away from the fight. They could leave, regroup, return again once some of the surviving orcs and Balrogs had been rallied, perhaps. It was a rough plan, but Sauron felt that Grond held some of his master’s own confidence, which ever since the start of the battle had been sorely missing. The lieutenant thought his master needed a reminder of what he could do and Grond, the instrument that had struck down Fingolfin himself, was the perfect thing.
A shudder of power ran through Sauron’s physical body as he touched the gigantic mace. Such vibrating power like this could only come from one source Sauron knew. With pride he was reminded of who exactly had made this. It would require much of the Maia’s physical strength to lift it, probably no other creature save him and its creator could do it, but this was the same spirit that had once served Aulë in the first forges of existence, so he was used to some heavy burdens.
Lifting Grond with both hands, Sauron felt another wave of dark spiritual energy flow through him, this one twice as strong as the last. It caused him to conjure an image in his mind of the source of this power, the Ainu who had melded his energy with the mace.
“Melkor,” Sauron whispered to the darkness around him, seeing his master in mind’s eye. He said the name involuntarily, like a chant, as he felt the Ainu’s essence surround him.
Upon uttering it, the darkness grew thicker and Sauron realized for the first time that actually this dark was moving. It was part of an energy of some kind. With a smile, Sauron realized that the darkness was covering the room on purpose. It had nothing to do with the room’s location, but was instead a smog-like blanket meant to shield something...
The Maia turned around, still clutching Grond. “My lord...” he began, realizing his master’s shape in the shifting shadows at the far side of the room.
The darkness cleared until the room looked as if it was lighted by twilight. Melkor stood wrapped in his usual black robe, still wearing his crown of Silmarils. Sauron was surprised he was able to cover the divine brightness of the jewels, but then, the crown was looking less bright these days with only two Silmarils as wreaths.
Moving as if on air, Melkor approached his lieutenant. His usual pale, almost translucent skin shone in strong contrast to their surroundings. The scar along the left side of his face seemed to give off an angry vibe, as it often did when the Vala was in a terrible mood. The rest of him resonated with a strange kind of sadness that shocked Sauron. He had known his lord to be less vibrant of late, particularly since his imprisonment for three ages in Valinor, but he had never equated sadness with the dark Vala. Even now, when Melkor bore the name Morgoth and walked the world trapped in a physical form that had been battered by centuries of evil deeds, he still flaunted his pride as the mightiest of the Valar whenever he could. Sauron knew that deep down, his lord was over-compensating, but now it seemed like the Vala had perhaps let down the facade.
Melkor stared at the Maia’s face intensely, so close they were almost touching noses. “What are you doing here, Gorthaur?” the Vala demanded in a voice the echoed around the small room. “Should not you be fighting alongside the rest of Angband?”
“My lord,” Sauron repeated. He got down on one knee and presented Grond like a sword. “I foresee only one way out of this fight. Thou must wield Grond as thou hast done in the past and cut a path away from the onslaught of Valinor. They bring eagles and warrior Eldar as their hosts, but with Grond, thine most powerful weapon, I could lead thee out of their path to take cover. Together, we could wait and rally the troops another day. That is my advice, my lord, as Lieutenant of Angband.”
Melkor stomped his foot in anger. The floor shook around them and Sauron had to steady himself to keep balance. “That is your advice, then? Flee?”
“Yes, Lord Melkor. There is no way to win this fight.” Sauron closed his eyes, the sting of defeat burning him as well as the shame of having failed his Vala. He thought he might never recover, but right now they had to focus on getting out of Valinor’s sight.
“Hmph,” Melkor took Grond with one hand and tossed it aside like a toy. “Do you really believe there is a way out for me? That the Valar will stop chasing me because I wield a mere mace that barely saw me to victory against a lowly Elf?”
Sauron opened his eyes. The fire of his gaze flashed in the darkness. This was the first time Melkor had ever admitted that his win against Fingolfin had been a bad one.
“No,” Melkor shook his head and turned his face to the left, so that Sauron saw only his fully intact side. That eye shone with an emotion the Maia could read only as a kind of sad realization. It occurred to him that Melkor had perhaps known he was destined for failure and that he had fought so hard for so long only as a way to defy the Valar who would have him in chains soon. How long had he felt this way? Why wasn’t Sauron able to see it the way Melkor was? Most of all, how could he help his master now that they were about to fall to their most hated enemies?
“My lord...” Sauron stood up. His spirit burned with a fire that ignited even the usual fire that made up most of Sauron’s being. He longed to embrace his master, transform into a winged vampire and carry him out of Angband, wrapped safely in his arms. Any being in Sauron’s way would know pain. Fiery pain.
But no. He could not. Sauron cast his gaze downward in shame and frustration. His spirit had never known such longing before.
“I will...remain here, Sauron,” Melkor explained. “I...do not wish to be seen. Angband will be breached soon, I can feel the outer walls trembling in fear. When that happens...you must leave here, for I cannot.”
Shock reverberated through the Maia. Leave his master? Unthinkable.
“No, my lord. Respectfully, I will not.”
Suddenly Melkor was so close to his face that he eclipsed everything else in his vision. Screeching in a sound like a hollow echo, the Vala burst out in reply, “Who are you to defy my will?! You know nothing of Valinor, of their chains, of Angainor the Unbreakable! What could a mere servant know of such things! Get out of here, Sauron before you find yourself trapped in the halls of Mandos where none enter save the souls of the cursed Edain and their filthy brood! Dost thou wish to mingle with such an unsightly lot and find thyself with no choice but to renounce my name after ages upon ages of torment?”
Melkor paused for a second, just to catch his breath. His words made little sense to Sauron, and to himself as well, but he was speaking out of anger and fear so great he thought he would go mad. The Vala calmed down slightly and took a step back.
“No,” he continued. “I will not see it happen. Sauron you must leave before Manwë’s army arrives. The eagles...their horrible claws...” He touched a hand to his disfigured face. “You do not wish to see it. I know, yes I know, that Ancalagon has fallen to them. His loss is unthinkable to me right now, and I cannot imagine heavier damage than that, except of course for y--” Before he could finish that sentence, a sentence that had Sauron’s fire turning almost blue it burned so hot, they both felt the entire structure quake around them menacingly.
Angband had been breached. Melkor screamed and collapsed. The fortress being a part of himself, the attacks that landed on its walls were like attacks to Melkor’s own body. He spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor and dug his nails into the stone so hard they left a trail of deep groves.
Sauron knelt beside him. He put out one hand tentatively, and let it rest on Melkor’s back. He stroked the Vala’s long black hair. That hair had once flown like molten lava but now it shone black like lava that has been cooled and crusted over with time. It quivered with his body as it shook. Briefly, Sauron tried to think of something, or someone, that could help his master, but his knowledge of healing was precisely zero.
“Leave me...” Melkor choked out. “It’s over, Sauron. Angband was beautiful in its might, nay the mightiest and most beautiful of all the structures that Eru himself has ever laid eyes on. Remember that. If you...if thou goest on to create a structure of thine own...make sure you remember Angband and how all trembled to behold it.”
Sauron let his arm fall around Melkor’s shoulders. The thin frame of the Vala shook again and he spat out some more blood. They could hear sounds crashing above them as the Vanyar and the Edain armies defiled their home. Such torment of all that he loved caused Sauron some kind of fracture internally. He would never again have such devotion to a place as he did to Angband.
“Fear...that’s what it is, Sauron...” Melkor sputtered out more words as their time wore short. Sauron could see his master’s hands shaking, from fear or injury he could not be certain. “Fear and desire...that’s what it means...to...”
But Melkor never finished his sentence because at that point they heard pounding footsteps on the stairs above them as the army approached. Just before they entered, Melkor hissed “GO!” in Sauron’s ear and then stabbed the back of his lieutenant’s neck with has hand. Reaching into the Maia’s physical form, he grabbed Sauron’s soul and ripped it out of his flesh envelope. The act caused Sauron no harm, but it forced him to disembody into his spirit form and become invisible to the oncoming force of Eönwë and his men.
Floating as a disembodied Ainu, Sauron was forced to watch as they bound his lord in heavy chains and snapped his crown into a collar to fasten around his neck. Melkor said nothing, until they cut off his feet at the ankles. At that the Vala cried out and begged for mercy. Enduring such pain as a mortal would, Sauron could only imagine his lord’s suffering and shame. It caused the Maia’s soul to fray around the edges in sorrow and longing. He had been called Gorthaur the Cruel in the past, but from then on he took no such name. The word “cruel” itself was forever shadowed in Sauron’s mind by the imagine of his lord abused and maimed in front of the self-righteous and false servants of the Valar.
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Now Sauron sat among the ruins of Thangorodrim. He had taken the form of a wolf, in part a disguise in case any Vanyar remained to scout for survivors of the turmoil, and in part because he felt more comfortable as a beast at the moment. He sniffed around the piles of rubble, searching for any Balrogs that were perhaps still lingering on their last bits of life, crushed under the rock. He had vaguely decided to follow through with the plan of rallying any remaining forces, but that was looking grimmer by the second as he had yet found none alive.
Finally he came upon the body of Ancalagon. Black scales littered the ground around him, creating a wreath of what looked like black petals around the corpse. It was surprisingly poignant. Sauron sat on his haunches and howled quietly. He wanted to grieve properly for the dragon, who had been Melkor’s favorite by far, even more so than Glaurung who had proven to be somewhat traitorous. Yet, Sauron could not give the proper respects being on the losing side of the battle. That angered him.
Truthfully, Sauron was not used to losing. Sure, they had had some difficult times in the past, the word Utumno brought some memories to mind. But even then, when Melkor was imprisoned he had left behind forces, an army for Sauron to assume command over and create murmurings of evil in his stead. Where were the whips of the Balrogs to inspire fear in the fragile Elves that now had free roam throughout Beleriand? Where were the orcs who did whatever they were told without question or will of their own because they existed simply to do as the dark lord commanded? Carcharoth and the rest of the wolves, his own personal army. He sorely missed them now.
Sauron took a moment to lay his head on his massive paws. He needed to think. Since he had joined sides with Melkor all those ages ago, Sauron had ever been the one to devise the plans. Melkor was a god who acted on impulse; he was the definition of chaos by his very nature and therefore followed no plan but his own will as it followe from second to second. Sauron had been the one to guide him through strategy, whenever Melkor was willing to listen. Many of their victories had in fact been Sauron’s victories, but the lieutenant saw no difference between naming it one or the other. He had always given prudence to everything his lord desired, capricious as the requests often were. Melkor would name the prize and Sauron would retrieve it for the praise and respect of the Ainu that Sauron worshiped above all. The system worked. Now, with Melkor gone, the bereft Maia did not know what move to make next. What was the goal? Where was the prize for him to obtain?
The black, shaggy wolf closed its red eyes. In truth, he was not ready to abandon his lord to torment and despair. The image of Eönwë dragging a bleeding Melkor out of Angband was not one Sauron would soon forget. He had to figure out a way...devise some kind of strategy to get Melkor out of the clutches of the Valar.
But how? What could be done now that there were no creatures left in the dark army?
The wolf laid on its side in defeat. Next to the body of Ancalagon, he looked miniscule, slightly bigger than one of the scales that had fallen off of him. Sauron was content for a moment to feel small, hidden among company he had kept in the past, dead though it was.
Sauron let his eyes return to their normal fiery state. Opening his eyes slightly, small flames licked outward from under heavy lids. The Maia let his mind roam where it would.