Prologue: Sauron Did Nothing Wrong
Prologue: Sauron Did Nothing Wrong
“I did nothing wrong,” Sauron stated evenly.
A chorus of sighs and groans arose from the fourteen thrones encircling him. His former mentor Aule the Smith covered his face with a huge calloused hand, Nienna the Mourner quietly opened the floodgates on another round of dignified tears, while Tulkas the Wrestler and Orome the Hunter looked ready to break his spine and be done with it. Only Namo the Judge was unmoved, watching him impassively as ever next to his brother Manwe, the Elder King and Father’s viceroy within Arda, the world.
Sauron rolled his eyes at the Valar’s dramatics and idly jangled the chains binding his wrists and ankles. The very same chains that had bound his former master Melkor, their brother, when he had stood judgement here in Mahanaxar, the Ring of Doom, shortly before his siblings had banished him from Arda and into the Void.
A fate I am obviously to share, he thought with annoyance, not so much with his inevitable and long accepted fate as with the Valar’s insistence in conducting this sham of a trial. After his Ring had been destroyed and he had drifted in the wind, formless and powerless, he had assumed that the Powers of the West would either leave him to gnaw harmlessly on his failures for eternity or take their standard approach and throw whoever didn’t agree with them off the edge of the universe.
It seemed, however, that they intended to rub it in his face first.
“You actually believe that, don’t you?” Vaire the Weaver asked softly, her face burdened by incredulity and…was that pity?
Sauron considered how to respond. Vaire recorded the history of Arda; she was privy to many hidden details and circumstances surrounding the events that transpired in Middle-earth and elsewhere which escaped others. She knew that history was written by the victors; her husband Namo often called on her help when judging the souls of the dead, especially those defamed by the living. Perhaps she might have enough perspective to understand why he had been in the right. If Sauron was going to be thrown out the Doors of Night, he at least wanted to set the record straight.
“Of course. Everything I have done has been for the good of Arda and Father’s Children.”
The Valar sat still as statues, but sounds of outrage arose from scores of his fellow Maiar gathered at the feet of the great thrones. Sauron allowed himself a tiny, contemptuous smirk at his pathetic kin. Sycophants and toadies, content to blindly follow the instructions of their elder brethren and beg what scraps of knowledge and power they could from their tables. Their passivity and lack of vision had always disgusted him. Even the mighty Balrogs had only been Melkor’s slaves.
“Enough,” Vaire called, silencing them with a slender hand. “Let our brother speak.”
Yes, we’re just one big happy family, aren’t we? Sauron thought bitterly, and forced himself to nod respectfully.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began without inflection, watching the surrounding spirits with a trained eye. Smoldering rage, bitter grief, and some undercurrent he couldn’t quite identify. Contempt, perhaps? It was all to be expected.
“When I said that I had done nothing wrong, I fear that you may have mistook my meaning. I misspoke, and for that I apologize. I have made mistakes, and the greatest among them was following Melkor.”
That got a reaction. Surprise, confusion, a flickering of hope and relief tempered by wariness. Good.
“I won’t trouble you with the promises he made to me, but suffice to say he wasn’t able to keep them. In retrospect, he probably never intended to.” He turned to Aule, who refused to meet his eyes. His wife, Yavanna the Earth-Queen, glared at him venomously as she held his former mentor’s hand in support. Sauron suppressed the temptation to glare back; he’d never gotten along with that tree-loving harpy.
“Master Aule, you taught me more than Melkor ever could have, and I have regretted my betrayal of you countless times these past three Ages. My time under him was utterly miserable, and not a day went by that I did not miss the warmth of your forges.”
The Smith looked down at him with wide eyes, and moisture welled at their corners. “Mairon,” he said softly.
Sauron felt a surge of comforting nostalgia at the sound of his original name. It had been so long since someone had called him that; it brought back a great many distracting memories.
He mentally shook himself. Go away, feelings! I’m trying to be manipulative here!
“For one thing, you knew what the hell you were doing. You had clear, realistic goals for your projects and well thought out plans to complete them. Melkor, on the other hand, was horrifyingly scatter-brained with the attention span of a caffeinated hummingbird. He flitted from one ridiculous scheme to another, each more impractical and convoluted than the last, and yet I was expected to make them all work flawlessly! I can assure you that none of the nonsense that took place in the First Age was my idea, and that I saw it through only under great duress.”
Something was wrong, he could feel the eyes around him hardening. Did they feel nothing for his plight?
“That is why you regret serving Melkor? Because he had poor management skills?” Manwe asked with heated incredulity.
Sauron blinked. “Of course. His methods were horribly inefficient; I could list half a dozen ways he could have wrested control of Middle-earth in half the time with a quarter of the losses! Hell, I implemented some of them myself later on.”
Angry mumbling broke out amongst the throngs of Maiar, and the enthroned Valar traded hard, tired glances.
One of his brethren spoke up in a low but furious voice. “Was it efficiency that prompted you to have Finrod and his companions mauled to death by werewolves?!” He turned to see Eonwe, Manwe’s herald, staring at him with thunderclouds in his eyes.
Sauron frowned. “That is unfair. That pretender king and his pet hobo Beren slew my faithful servants and snuck into my stronghold under false guise, and I won our duel fair and square. Besides, my Gaurhoth were hungry, and I hate letting corpses go to waste.”
Eonwe recoiled with disgust for some reason, and barked back a retort. “A stronghold which you had stolen from him!”
Sauron rolled his eyes. “Please. I didn’t steal that tower, I conquered it. Conquest is an old, established right. The precedents I could show you!”
Eonwe fumed, but Manwe stayed him with a raised hand. “Enough. He has had millennia to rationalize his deeds to himself.” He turned back to Sauron. “You have not yet explained how any of your actions were in the best interests of anyone but yourself. What of after Melkor’s defeat? If you so loathed serving him, why did you not sue for pardon and return to us as a number of your fellows did?”
“I am glad you asked, Elder King,” Sauron replied confidently. “The reason I did not ‘sue for pardon’, as you put it, was because I saw what needed to be done, but was no longer confident in your willingness to do it. And sure enough, you did nothing.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before the smoldering anger of the assembled Maiar was kindled into wrath. Tulkas and Orome made to leap to their feet, restrained only by their wives’ soft words. Namo continued to watch him silently. Listening. Judging. Sauron felt a chill run down his spine.
Manwe’s eyes flashed with a blue light, and a clap of thunder shook the earth. “Silence,” he said, refusing to raise his voice. There was no need to; his voice was Father’s voice, and none dared to raise their own against it. “Judgement approaches. The prisoner may say what he will, ere it comes.” Namo, Master of Doom, waited silently by his side, a raven circling in the storm’s shadow.
Sauron fought the urge to swallow nervously. I’m running out of time, he thought. I have to make this good.
“When you defeated Melkor once and for all and sank the entire Beleriand subcontinent in the process, you left Middle-Earth in shambles! True, you were quick enough to shepherd your precious elves to safety, and even granted a fertile and prosperous island to that handful of Men who had managed to gain your favor. But what of those you left behind?”
He spread his hands emphatically. “Without proper supervision, the Children ran amok! Languages changed and evolved, cultures splintered and mutated, kingdoms rose and fell overnight! It was chaos!”
Sauron clenched his hands into tight, tight fists at the memory of such mayhem. Such untidiness.
“The world was becoming unpredictable! It needed to be managed! None of you were willing to get involved, to do what needed to be done.”
Sauron smiled triumphantly, and his broken spirit blazed with joy at the memory of victory, of law and order.
“But I was! It was I who destroyed the cancer of Numenor, freeing the world from the tyranny of Mortal rule. It was I who tutored and shepherded Man, uniting their squabbling nations under my banner. Tempering them, refining them, bringing out their full untapped potential! It was I who revealed the truth that has evaded you for so long; that the Incarnate races cannot truly flourish if they are allowed free will.”
His joy faded, swallowed by a bitter, desperate frustration.
“In the end, it was the elves who disappointed me. They proved intractable in their arrogance, remembering well their shameful history of madness and rebellion. They repaid my goodwill with treachery, and if they had just used the Rings I’d given them instead of making their own, using my designs without permission I might add, then everything would have been fine!”
He took in the faces of those around him; most of them didn’t seem nearly as angry as they had been before. He felt a surge of hope; they were starting to see sense! Their once furious eyes were wide with shock, confusion and…wait, was that pity?! THAT WAS PITY!
Sauron fumed at the injustice of it all. They weren’t looking at him like the tragic hero he was, one who had thanklessly sacrificed everything for the greater good. No, they gawked at him like their favorite hound had become rabid and was eating its own legs.
It was Ulmo, the normally taciturn Lord of Waters, who broke the stretching silence with a heavy sigh, sending a salty breeze across the gathering. “Sophistry aside, this explains a lot,” he muttered to himself.
Nienna choked back a sob. “Oh Mairon,” she said quietly. “You don’t understand at all. You never truly did, did you?”
Sauron looked around, baffled and suddenly afraid. “What? No, it is you who do not-,” he began with panicked frustration. His defense had been perfect, airtight. What was going on!?
“It’s my fault,” Aule professed wearily with his face in his hands, cutting him off. “I was too caught up in my work, and too blinded by his talent and potential. I should have seen it, seen that he needed help.”
“None of us did, husband. Only Father is omnipotent,” Yavanna comforted him, taking his hand again.
“Melkor saw it,” Manwe said gravely. “And he used it as only he could. Yes, much is now clear.” His shoulders slumped a little, and for a brief moment all the cares of the world could be seen in the lines of the Elder King’s face. He shook his head slowly, and the moment passed. He turned his carefully dispassionate gaze to Sauron, shackled within the Ring of Doom.
“The prisoner has spoken,” he said flatly. “He has shown no remorse for his sins, nor the pain and ruin they have wrought upon Middle-Earth, and upon all of Arda.”
Sauron said nothing, paralyzed with sudden, frigid dread.
The Elder King nodded slowly, decisively to the Judge at his side.
Namo stood.
His voice was not a sound so much as a force, as absolute and inescapable as gravity.
“The Doom of Mairon called Sauron is thus: exile. Thou shalt leave the Circles of Arda, and never return hence until all is fulfilled unto the will of our Father, Eru Iluvatar.” The world seemed to shift at the most sacred of names, and Sauron felt his legs crumple beneath him.
Namo slowly sat back down, and Manwe rose next to him to address the assembly. “Judgement has been given. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” echoed the gathered spirits, as they began to vanish one by one into the ether.
“Irmo, step forward, dear brother.”
The hitherto silent Lord of Dreams rose from his great seat and approached the center of the Ring, and through a thickening cloud of despair Sauron felt the Vala’s presence at his side.
“I have put your request before Father, and He has granted it with His blessings. I leave the prisoner in your hands; go in peace.” With one last glance, the Elder King was gone, and Sauron was alone in the Mahanaxar with Irmo.
Even in his stupor, Sauron found this highly irregular. He had expected Tulkas to be the one to shove him out the Doors of Night, and indeed it seemed highly unlikely that he would allow anything short of Father’s intervention to deny him the satisfaction. Yet it seemed that just such an intervention had taken place, at the request of…Irmo?
“You?! What did I do to cross you?” Sauron asked, flabbergasted. He could scarcely conceive how such a thing was possible, much less recall anything he might have done to earn the Dreamlord’s ire. The Vala was difficult to offend, and his sphere of control nearly impossible to intrude upon.
Yet somehow, somehow Sauron had managed to upset him so much that Irmo had clashed with his much more assertive brothers for the dubious honor of disposing of him, going so far as to go over all of their heads to Father Himself in the process.
Wait, Sauron had a sudden thought. Irmo also rules over visions and omens. But that was thousands of years ago! Surely, he can’t still be angry about…
The Vala put a hand very firmly on his shoulder and began to lead him away from the Mahanaxar. Travelling as unclad spirits, without physical forms, they passed swiftly west over the green fields and pristine forests of the Blessed Realm. Towards the Walls of Night. Sauron cringed.
“Is this about when I made what’s-his-name hallucinate about his dead wife so he would tell me where his friends were hiding? That was one time!” the fallen Maia whined.
“Gorlim,” Irmo replied softly but rather tersely. “His name was Gorlim. And yes, I am still angry, but that was not why I requested to preside over your banishment. In fact, I only did so on behalf of another. If you feel the need, you may ask him yourself.”
Sauron abruptly felt another presence join them, and he took in its character. He felt the brush of coarse damp wool and smelt the fragrant smoke of some strange herb. A warm basso voice reached him across the wind.
“The road goes ever on and on…” it sang contentedly.
A form coalesced beside them in a rush of soft light, an ancient yet spry-looking Man in robes of undyed linen, his long beard and hair white as fresh snow. He leaned casually on a plain staff of pale wood and smiled at them, deep laugh lines creasing his weathered face.
Sauron felt a surge of rancid, blistering hate at the sight of him, and crimson rage seeped through the cracks of his crippled spirit like molten lava.
“And so the puppet-master reveals himself,” he spat venomously. “You look ridiculous, Olorin. How long do you intend to mock me by clinging to that decrepit shell?”
The old man quirked a bushy eyebrow. “I would never presume to mock you, brother, not when you so excel at making a fool of yourself without my help.” He stretched wearily, and Sauron twitched at the disconcerting cracking noises the motion produced.
“This form may have its challenges, but I’ve grown rather attached to it over the last few millennia,” confided the old man as he rubbed the small of his back ruefully. “And please, call me Gandalf. All of my friends do nowadays.”
Sauron glowered. “How interesting. I had not been informed that we were friends. Perhaps I should check my mail.”
“We were friends once, were we not? Before you turned?” Gandalf asked quietly. “Can we not at least be cordial in the time we have left together, for old time’s sake?”
“Please, we were acquaintances at best. More to the point, friends don’t destroy friend’s industrial utopias, Gandalf.”
The former wizard rolled his eyes. “Really, Mairon? Really? You ordered numerous genocides, committed countless environmental atrocities, and enslaved two continents for thousands of years while pursuing a third.”
“Slavery is so gauche. I prefer the term, ‘societal optimization’.” Sauron said primly.
Gandalf closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? And therein lies the problem.”
“We are here,” interrupted Irmo, having ignored their exchange with his usual placidity.
With what was definitely not near catatonic terror, Sauron extended his senses back into the physical world. What he saw was far more disturbing than he had anticipated.
“What fresh hell is this?” he whispered.
Rather than the bleak, barren shore of a lifeless monochrome ocean, he found himself standing knee-deep in the soft grass of a rather pleasant meadow. Wildflowers grew in abundance among a scattering of limestone boulders, lupins and periwinkles in cool shades of violet and blue.
Gone were the grim pair of dull, black needles of obsidian and unknowable metal between which the invisible fabric of Creation simply ceased, and all was swallowed by an infinite abyss of oblivion empty of all but one’s own self-loathing and the dubious company of what most were pleased to call The Great Enemy.
Rather, the center of the meadow was occupied by a rather handsome oak tree, its leaves stirred faintly by a cool breeze descending from distant snow-capped mountains. The air was thick with the smell of lavender and sweet clover. Sauron sneezed rather violently.
“I’ll admit that it’s been quite a while,” he muttered, squinting his eyes as if to peer past a desert mirage. “But I personally remember the Gates of Night being marginally less… pastoral.”
This insight seemed to somewhat alarm Gandalf, while Irmo silently marched him toward the oak, which was beginning to look decidedly hostile to Sauron’s eyes.
“The Gates of Night?! Merciful Father, is that where you thought we were taking you?” the former wizard exclaimed with what could almost be mistaken as concern. Sauron shrugged helplessly in Irmo’s grasp.
“Well, ‘banishment from the Circles of the World’ can only be taken a certain number of ways, right? And it isn’t as if my situation doesn’t have a rather conspicuous precedent,” he replied dryly.
Gandalf gave him a cold far-away look, and Sauron was surprised by how difficult it was to meet the pain in his eyes. “Mairon, you are responsible for inflicting an unspeakable amount of death and suffering upon the people of Middle-earth, many of whom I deeply loved. You may never truly understand how much pain and horror that you wrought upon the world, and for that I am not sure that I will ever forgive you.”
He took a deep breath, sighed slowly and heavily, and when he met Sauron’s eyes again it seemed to him that the moment had passed.
“Be that as it may, I would never be so vindictive as to petition Father for the right to personally cast you through the Gates,” Gandalf continued evenly. “I am not you, Mairon, and you are not Melkor. Not even you deserve such a fate.”
Sauron really didn’t know how to take this. “But my Doom said that I would leave the Circles of the World-.”
“Your Doom said that you would have to leave the Circles of Arda,” Gandalf corrected him patiently. “There is an appreciable difference.”
There was a rather pregnant pause.
“….What.”
Gandalf quirked an amused eyebrow at Sauron’s expression. “You’re confused? I suppose that makes sense. You were off playing Junior Dark Lord when the rest of us were briefed on this. Suffice to say, while Arda is The World, it isn’t the only world.” The Istari stroked his beard pensively. “Or, well, it used to be. And in a way it still is. Kind of. Except, not really.”
Sauron stared at him.
“…What.”
Irmo rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Olorin my beloved student, you have many talents, but teaching is not among them. Sit down and I shall explain.”
The Dreamlord pushed Sauron gently toward the broad trunk of the oak tree, and appeared entirely unconcerned when his prisoner tripped over a root and landed face-first in a patch of honeysuckle.
“Essentially,” he began. “When Father first had us Sing the universe into existence, we initially created only Arda, the World, encircled within the sphere of Ea, That Which Is. That single-”
“That single beautiful point of Being within the infinite nothingness of the Void, etcetera, etcetera,” Sauron interrupted crossly, returning to his senses now. “Yes, I remember. I was there too, if you recall.”
One of Irmo’s eyes may have twitched slightly. “You were, and I do. But what none of us knew at the time, save for Father obviously, was that the Music continued to ripple and echo across the Void long after it was performed. And though these echoes became more and more distorted as time went on, they always retained aspects of the original Music, as did the worlds that developed from them.”
The Vala quirked a little half-smile and gestured at the boughs of the tree above them. “Much like an oak tree dropping acorns that never grow in quite the same way.”
Sauron sat at the base of the oak and leaned against its broad trunk, idly picking apart blades of the long grass with his fingers as he digested this information. He frowned.
“Did you drag me all the way out here just so you could make that analogy?” he asked.
Gandalf’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “Partly. The other reason is that this place is as isolated as it is pleasant, and as such it is unlikely that anyone will interrupt or interfere with what we came here to do.”
Well, that sounds ridiculously ominous. Sauron began surreptitiously feeling around for a sharp rock, but unfortunately was only able to find a handful of delectable looking mushrooms.
“Aaaaaaand what would that be, exactly?” drawled Sauron, stalling for time amidst his own increasingly outlandish and panicked conjecture.
“Why, carrying out your sentence, of course.”
My spies weren’t exaggerating when they described him as ‘unconscionably cryptic’, thought Sauron, more frustrated than terrified now. It’s enough to make me feel bad about executing them.
Irmo glared at Gandalf and huffed with annoyance. “Really? Very well then, I will be the adult here,” he said.
He turned a level gaze to Sauron. “Certain parties are convinced, given your circumstances, that imprisoning you in the Void for all eternity is too severe a punishment.”
Irmo jerked his head to the Istar next to him. “Those parties being Father and Olorin here, literally no one else. Personally, I would gladly slam the Gates of Night on your sorry ass myself if given half the chance.”
Sauron schooled his expression to one of calm compliance, inwardly shocked by this uncharacteristic display of vitriol from the normally sedate Vala.
Damn, and I thought I could carry a grudge. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?
Sauron would know, he had been one of the quiet ones.
He turned to Gandalf, silently resolving to cling to his unlikely advocate for dear life.
“And what circumstances are those?” Sauron asked innocently.
“Namely that you, through no fault of your own, are a psychopath,” said Gandalf, not unkindly.
Sauron bristled and gave him an injured look. Slander and calumny!
“How DARE you!” he hissed. “You can make any justifications you need to about working against me. You can call me evil, cruel and more besides. But I am not MAD! I am the most logical, intelligent person I know!”
He jabbed a wispy finger toward his captors. “Stop rolling your eyes, damn you! And weren’t you just saying that I wasn’t like Melkor?”
“I stand by that statement,” said Gandalf. “Melkor is a nihilistic sociopath, his issues are completely different from yours. But the important part is that he forged his own path into darkness, and has no one to blame for his sins but his own baseless jealousy and spite.”
His eyes met Sauron’s again, and they were once more filled with that same disgusting, infuriating pity. “You, on the other hand, were tempted down your path, coerced and manipulated while at your most vulnerable,” Gandalf continued sadly. “In some ways, you are a greater victim of Melkor’s machinations than nearly anyone else.”
“I resent your implications and deny them profusely,” responded Sauron evenly, his mind racing to analyze where this conversation was going. What the hell is your game here, Olorin?
“Melkor possessed neither the skill nor the intellectual capacity to manipulate me; if you had known him like I did, you would understand. Moreover I cannot recall, in all of my millennia, ever being in a situation where I would describe myself as vulnerable.”
“I seem to recall an incident with an elven princess and a talking wolfhound-” interjected Irmo.
Sauron stiffened and reflexively clutched at the ancient white scars circling his throat.
“That was an intentional omission, thank you, and not remotely relevant to this conversation.” Sauron hated dogs; he still had the occasional panic attack.
“Do you recall the circumstances under which your acquaintance with Melkor began?” Gandalf asked patiently, not missing a beat.
Sauron had to ponder this for a minute; that was not a part of his life that he had given any thought to for a long, long time. “I was alone in one of Aule’s workshops, laboring on one of my projects long after everyone else had left.”
“Where had everyone else gone?” asked Gandalf mildly.
Sauron shrugged. “Damned if I know, some festival or another. In any case, I was-”
“Why did you not join them?” asked Irmo. “It must have been a fairly major event if all of them decided to drop their projects in order to attend.”
Sauron glared at him for this meaningless interruption. “That is a stupid question. I am a craftsman. I was working. What could possibly be worth delaying my progress for? Besides, it wasn’t as if they had invited me along. They knew I would refuse, and Aule had instructed them not to bother me.” Gandalf and Irmo exchanged a significant look.
“I think I understand,” said Gandalf wearily. “Indulge me, if you would, as I try to predict what happened next.”
Sauron waved him on impatiently. “Whatever,” he snapped. “I’m in no position to deny you your games.”
“I imagine that, before this encounter, Melkor would at times come in to discretely observe you working at a respectful distance, saying nothing and being as unobtrusive as possible. As such, you and everyone else had become accustomed to his presence in the forges and workshops, finding nothing unusual about him being there whenever it suited him,” Gandalf began.
“Yes, but that was common knowledge,” Sauron confirmed indifferently. “Though his presence never caused problems, Aule did not like having him around and was not shy about complaining about it in public.”
Gandalf nodded slowly. “But Melkor did not keep his silence in the workshop that day, did he?”
Sauron shook his head, his brow furrowed in recollection. “Apparently he had overheard an argument between Aule and myself earlier. I had requested some rare materials for my project, and Aule had refused me with some worthless excuse about ‘extreme risks to public health’. Melkor offered to change his mind.”
He chuckled at the memory. “The next day, I arrived to find the materials I wanted neatly piled in a lead box on my workstation. Apparently, Aule had spent most of the previous day’s festival being berated by everyone and sundry for ‘neglecting his students’. I later asked Melkor how he did it, and he offered to teach me in return for a few favors.”
“And it was only a matter of escalation from there,” Gandalf muttered pensively, stroking his beard. “Yes, that adds up nicely.”
A contemplative silence fell for a few moments, or rather it would have if Sauron hadn’t begun loudly tapping his foot almost immediately.
Gandalf met the former Dark Lord’s eyes slowly, patiently.
“I don’t suppose you would care to share your insights with the rest of the class?” Sauron asked primly.
There was a sudden snorting noise, and both Maiar turned in surprise to look at Irmo. The Vala had the sleeve of his robe over his mouth and was doing a poor job of imitating a coughing fit. After a moment, the Dreamlord recovered his aloof, regal bearing and stared at them placidly, as if daring them to make something of his outburst. His juniors elected the path of discretion.
“What I mean to say,” Gandalf replied evenly, “is that much of your behavior these past Ages can be explained by the fact that, for a very long and formative period of time, nearly all of your positive social interactions were with Melkor.”
He met Sauron’s eyes with a piercing blue stare, and held out his hands emphatically. “Melkor.”
Sauron’s retort froze on his lips. He felt his insides grow cold for a few, agonizing moments. Melkor was no one’s idea of normal. He had seen that hollow, infantile madness up close many, many times. Could he have been tainted by it, all those eons ago?
Yet logic prevailed, and he scoffed at the idea. “Really? Just like that, I’m supposed to be some sort of emotionally-stunted, socially inept basket case? My political career would beg to differ.”
Gandalf and Irmo traded a look.
“Your words, not ours,” the former Wizard replied demurely. “I was going to say that you are almost completely unable to form meaningful relationships or engage in social interaction outside the context of manipulation and power games.”
Irmo cut in. “You are also an obsessive-compulsive egomaniac whose delusions and tunnel vision border on self-destructive. Not to mention that your sense of empathy is so microscopic that you barely qualify as sentient.”
“Harsh, but true,” Gandalf agreed ruefully. “You have a long way to go, Mairon.”
The meadow was quiet. Sauron reflected on their words, pondering them with all his might.
And then he laughed. Hysterically, contemptuously. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
“Is that what this is all about?” he finally wheezed. “You’re trying to redeem me?!”
“I feel a more accurate term would be ‘salvage’, but yes, that is the plan,” said Irmo.
Deluded fools, Sauron thought smugly. You can’t fix what isn’t broken.
“And who shall be my would-be counselor?” he sneered. “You, Olorin? Going to put that famous wisdom and patience to use?”
Gandalf clicked his tongue. “Heavens, no. Not even I have what it takes to deal with you long-term; no one in Arda does. Which is why we’re sending you to some ‘specialists’.”
Sauron kept sniggering. “You’re actually doing this? You’re sending me to another world? For therapy?”
“We won’t force you, of course. We are simply giving you a choice,” Irmo assured him with a small, frosty smile. “You can either live out the rest of Time somewhere pleasant where you can do no harm and might actually learn something-”
The Vala’s eyes glowed with a harsh green light. “Or you can spend eternity in the Void. Alone. With Melkor.”
Sauron’s eye twitched. “Therapy World it is,” he said. “Now, how are we going to do this?”
“Just close your eyes and lie down,” Gandalf said with a triumphant grin. “Lord Irmo will send your spirit down the Path of Dreams until you reach your destination.”
He patted the former Dark Lord on the back. “Cheer up, will you? If everything works out, maybe Father will let you return when the world is renewed at the end of time.”
Sauron scoffed at this false comfort, but did as he was told.
“Just don’t make me wear pastels or write poetry,” Sauron begged reluctantly as he closed his eyes.
“I make no promises,” he heard Irmo say.
And then he knew no more.
Iron Ember Chapter 1: Land of Confusion
When Sauron awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he had a body. A healthy body at that, strong and hale, without the sickliness and fatigue that he had become accustomed to after his Ring was taken from him.
For a moment, he felt a surge of insane, desperate hope, only for it to be snuffed out like a candle flame when he reached for his Power and found…nothing. No, he was still a hollow, frail shell of his true self.
Still, he felt...not whole, but solid. Like he could get up and meet the world head on, without the first gust of wind out of the West tearing him to shreds.
It’s a start, Sauron thought, with reluctant optimism.
Though his eyes were still closed, he could feel gentle morning sunshine on his skin, and many years’ worth of soft loam from an ancient forest beneath his back. Birdsong filled the air, and a loud rushing sound told of a nearby river.
The thought of water helped Sauron to notice the dryness of his mouth and throat, and he sighed in annoyance. Bodies were useful tools, but like any tool they had to be maintained. Still, he would cope.
He flexed his limbs, preparing to lift himself off the ground, and in doing so made a disturbing discovery.
“You can’t be serious. You just can’t,” Sauron whispered. Half to himself, half to the cruel, cruel universe.
He was a quadruped. A thrice-damned quadruped. The former Dark Lord held up his erstwhile hands, and opened his eyes to confirm the nightmare.
Hooves. He had hooves. Hooves didn’t have thumbs.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” His scream of despair echoed through the forest, scattering a flock of brightly colored birds.
Sauron hauled himself up as he began to hyperventilate. It wasn’t his new form itself that was the problem. He was a shapeshifter by nature; he had been a quadruped many times before, and he knew how everything worked.
But it had never been permanent before!
I’ll never work a forge again, he thought numbly, as ice crept through his veins. The idea was almost incomprehensible.
Sauron had played many roles. He had been a Dark Lord and a god-emperor, a general and a spy, an advisor and a saboteur, a student and a teacher. But he had always been a craftsman.
A smith.
The caged, tamed heat of the forge. The perfectly controlled, perfectly precise blow of the hammer, shaping strong and stubborn metal in perfectly predictable ways. Cowing and cajoling it into conformity, wheedling and flattering it into place. Cleansing it of flaws and imperfections until only simple purity remained. Taking something crude and chaotic and refining it into a thing of value and purpose.
That was the core of his identity, the fundamental concept from which he was born in the thoughts of his Creator. It was the lens through which he saw everything around him, and the driving force behind his every goal and deed.
And they have taken it from me.
Sauron’s vision was slowly tinted red as despair turned to rage. His was a rage as strong as an earthquake, as violent as a volcano, hot as a star’s heart, and older than Time. Nations had burned in that rage. Millions had died.
And yet, Sauron was calm. For in the shadow of rage had come spite. Bottomless, black, toxic spite.
They called me the Cruel, he thought. And rightly so. I tortured people. I had them killed. Horribly. But I never took a man’s hands. Never. How ironic, that his oh-so-holy kin had surpassed him in cruelty.
Sauron listened for the sound of the river and followed it, grinning wickedly even as he pushed through the thick brambles in the undergrowth. I’ll show them.
Based on how his body was moving, he surmised that he was some sort of equine. A relatively small one at that, unless the trees around him were just unusually large. The parts that he could see when he craned his neck were charcoal grey in color, so perhaps a donkey or mule.
So this was their plan? he thought contemptuously. For me to live as a beast, hunted by predators and scrambling from one meal to another? I’ll show them. The sound of the river grew closer.
That couldn’t be it, though. They had mentioned sending him to ‘specialists’. An even more infuriating thought occurred.
Perhaps they mean for me to be found by some peasant or tramp, to serve as a beast of burden and learn about humility or something asinine like that? I’ll show them.
Arrogant fools. He wouldn’t play their game, not if it meant losing his hands and with them everything that made him who he was. The sound of the river grew closer.
While the memory of his last drowning in the Downfall of Numenor was still quite uncomfortable, it was still the most convenient method available at the moment. I'll show them.
Once he destroyed this stupid body, he knew that he wouldn’t be given another. It would be straight to the Void for him. Forever. He’d been resigned to that anyway, and if he could spit in the eyes of his enemies one last time, all the better.
Sauron found the river. Pulling himself free from the briars that wound in between the trees, he approached the bank with a purposeful stride. The river was wide enough to sail a modest ship through. The water was flowing swiftly, and a cursory examination told him that it was deep enough for his purpose. I’ll show them.
As he prepared to jump, Sauron happened to see his reflection on the water’s surface. Some sort of equine, yes, but nothing like anything he had ever heard of.
The basic body shape was the same, but his limbs were far cobbier than they should have been. They were stocky and muscular, lacking any of the spindly boniness that normally characterized equines. Most of his body was a solid dark grey, but his mane and fetlocks were a peculiar shade of brownish-red that didn’t belong on any sort of horse. It reminded him strongly of rust, or the color of a coal slowly dying in a cold hearth. His muzzle was short and blunt, with an unusually expressive mouth, currently scowling. His eyes-
Sauron gaped in shock; his eyes were huge. Enormous, blindingly white ovals with large golden-yellow irises and rapidly dilating pupils. They had to be half the size of his entire head, it was baffling that they weren’t crushing his brain like an egg.
“What the hell am I!?” he exclaimed, utterly baffled.
“Oooh, existentialism, huh? Are you a philosopher?” a loud, lispy voice asked.
Trying to move as little as possible, Sauron raised his head very, very slowly.
In the middle of the river in front of him, seemingly ignoring the swift current, was an enormous dragon-like creature. It was covered in bright purple scales and had a full head of fluorescent orange hair, as well as bushy eyebrows and a comically large mustache. When it spoke, it flashed a set of razor sharp teeth.
“I took a class for that in college. Interesting stuff!” the creature went on as Sauron continued to freeze in place.
“Say, are you okay there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” It started to lean toward him.
His purpose forgotten, Sauron’s instincts took over as he frantically tried to scramble away from the flamboyant but obviously dangerous carnivore. In doing so, his hooves suddenly slipped on the wet grass and he fell backward away from the riverbank.
For about two feet, until his head hit an unfortunately placed boulder.
As he lost consciousness once again, it occurred to Sauron that he may have underestimated the universe’s desire to mess with him.
Dr. Horse listened carefully to his stethoscope as he examined the unconscious pony that the sea serpent had brought them. The colossal, mustachioed fellow had not been able to fit inside Ponyville Hospital, and had raised quite a ruckus until they had agreed to examine his charge. The hospital staff was quite busy dealing with a recent outbreak of food poisoning, and couldn’t afford to have the near-hysteric leviathan accidentally knocking down the walls or otherwise disturbing the patients.
The nurses had laid the stallion on the operating table, as all of the beds were occupied, and Dr. Horse had begun a basic examination for triage. After a few moments he removed his stethoscope and grunted in satisfaction. Heartbeat’s normal, he thought ruefully. At least something about him is.
Medically speaking, his new patient was rather….interesting. His present condition seemed healthy enough, minus the loss of consciousness and the large bruise on his head, now covered in an ice pack. Average in size for an Earth Pony stallion, he was muscular in a thin, whipcord sort of way that suggested a life of active labor, especially his forelimbs. No, it was the history of injuries that Dr. Horse was concerned about.
First there was the mess of thick white scars that covered the grey stallion’s neck, all of which strongly resembled the bite marks of a timberwolf. Based on the sheer mass of them, as well as the apparent depth of the lacerations and punctures, Dr. Horse was astonished that the fellow had managed to survive five minutes, let alone the apparent years which had passed since he had received the wounds.
Especially since it appears that he had received little to no medical treatment for them, the doctor thought with a shudder.
Secondly, and potentially just as worrying, was the jagged vertical chunk that had been gouged out of his patient’s right forehoof that looked uncomfortably like a knife wound. Dr. Horse had treated a few ponies who had gotten a little clumsy while chopping vegetables, but the forcefulness of the cut made it look almost intentional.
He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. The implications of that were unthinkable, and he was far too professional for such wild conjecture. Still, it was clear to him that this pony had led a rough life. As a doctor, it was the least he could do to make sure he got back on his hooves again.
Dr. Horse grabbed a flashlight from a shelf with his horn and carefully opened the patient’s eyelid with his hooves.
….Huh. He’d never seen a pony with yellow eyes before. It was a little unsettling. Still, the patient didn’t show any other signs of jaundice, so it must be natural. Odd.
He shined the flashlight into the patient’s eye and sighed. Definitely a concussion, he thought as he wrote it on his notepad, disappointed but not surprised. This presented a problem.
The patient needed bedrest and to avoid over-stimulation if he was to recover effectively. Unfortunately, there were no available beds in the hospital due to the recent food poisoning outbreak, and none of his current patients had recovered sufficiently that they could be discharged.
Before he could ponder this problem further however, he had the wind knocked out of him by a powerful kick to the chest.
“Steven Magnet!” Rarity exclaimed with surprise and concern. “Are you quite all right, darling?”
She had been on her way to buy some new fabric when she had noticed her semi-aquatic friend loitering in front of the hospital, wringing his hands and looking terribly stressed.
“Rarity!” the serpent sobbed. “I’m so sorry! I swear, I didn’t mean it! It was an accident!”
The unicorn winced as her friend began crying in earnest, rattling the windows of nearby buildings. A pony in a nurse’s uniform stuck their head out of the hospital’s doors and shot Rarity a pleading look before ducking back in.
“Steven, I know you’re upset, but please calm down for a moment,” she said in the most soothing tone she could manage. As she continued to console him, Steven’s wails eventually diminished into mere whimpers.
“Oh, I’m sorry Rarity. I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” he said, drying his tears with the long, trailing ends of his mustache.
Rarity forced herself to smile at this unseemly habit. Steven was a dear friend with a good heart and excellent taste, but he had yet to master certain niceties of polite society. “Quite alright, darling. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Rarity had to calm her friend a couple more times, but eventually got the whole story out of him. Such as it was.
“What in Equestria would anypony be doing in the middle of the Everfree Forest by themselves?”
The whole area was full of all manner of dangerous creatures and strange phenomena, such as weather that appeared spontaneously without being created by Pegasi. Not to mention that the forest was almost completely unmapped and unexplored. And though she prided herself on not judging others on their appearance, part of her couldn’t help but think this scarred fellow sounded like some sort of outlaw or scoundrel.
“I don’t know!” Steven exclaimed. “Maybe he got lost and was trying to follow the river out.” His reptilian eyes began to well with tears again. “He could have followed it downstream to Ponyville just fine if I hadn’t spooked him! He could have brain damage! He could be dying! Oh, it’s all my fault!”
He started to sob again, and the hospital’s windows resumed their rattling. Ponies in the street covered their ears, and the nurse pony reappeared at the hospital’s entrance, this time accompanied by a security guard. Rarity cringed.
“Steven, darling, why don’t I go in and check on this stallion of yours? I’m quite sure he’ll be alright, but I will ask the front desk when he might be released.”
This seemed to reassure the distraught serpent, and Rarity sighed a little. She didn’t like leaving the boutique unattended for too long, but she could certainly spare a few minutes to help put a friend’s mind at ease.
No sooner had Rarity walked through the hospital’s doors was there a great ruckus in the lobby. One of the doctors was clutching his ribs with one hoof while the nurses and security guard tried to corner a charcoal-colored Earth Pony stumbling around with a panicked expression. Based on his coloring and his unusual scars-
Oh dear, that must be him! Rarity thought anxiously.
“Sir, please!” one of the nurses urged. “You have a concussion; you need to sit down immediately!”
The stallion’s only response was to make a mad, stumbling dash past them and to the hospital doors. Right towards Rarity.
Fortunately, before she was forced to protect herself, the disoriented pony stumbled and fell on his flank to the tile floor. He was immediately restrained by the nurses and dragged to a wheelchair, where he remained with a dazed expression on his face. Shortly after, they began pushing him back down the hallway, holding onto him all the while to keep him from getting up again.
What in Equestria have I gotten myself into? Rarity asked herself as she followed after them.
Sauron’s head swam, and for the first time in millennia, he cursed himself for a fool. He had allowed himself to panic not once, but twice!
The creatures- Ponies they call themselves, based on their eccentric pronouns, he reminded himself.
The ponies, after his ill-advised escape attempt, had restrained him and wheeled him back to the room he had awoken in. Despite his initial impression and the abundance of strange metal implements, it seemed that this was not, in fact, a torture chamber.
The apparent male that had been in the room with him when he had awoken was examining his flank where he had fallen to the tile floor. The careful prodding of his bones was enough to tell Sauron that this individual was some sort of healer.
Before he could contemplate the absurdity of equines having trained medical personnel, he nearly gaped in shock as the pony began to write notes using some sort of… telekinesis. A soft glow came from a stubby little horn on its forehead, answered by an identical glow around the rapidly moving writing stylus.
Sauron stole a surreptitious glance at the other ponies in the room. The two female ponies gently restraining him to the wheeled chair had no such horns, and seemed to be under the authority of the horned male. The last pony in the room did bear the mysterious horn; the white, violet-maned female that had followed them in and was watching the proceedings with a worried look on its face.
Based on his observations, Sauron deduced that these quadrupeds operated on some sort of morphology-based caste system. It made sense that individuals with the dexterity necessary for skill-based tasks like writing and healing would occupy a higher strata of society than their more bestial kin.
Unfortunately, and perhaps inevitably considering the circumstances under which he had acquired this body, Sauron was of the latter group.
He resisted the urge to gnash his teeth in frustration. Not only would his ‘condition’ hamper his smithcraft, it would also limit his social mobility. Which was probably intentional.
We’ll just see about that! he thought, repressing a wicked grin. If his handlers intended this to be a humbling experience, then his course of action was quite clear.
Let’s climb some ladders.
“I’m terribly sorry about that kick, good sir,” Sauron lied easily, feigning a contrite, embarrassed tone. “I’m afraid I was not in my right mind at the time, Mr. …?”
The healer pony looked up from his examination and gave him a wry smile. “It’s quite alright. You’re not the first pony to panic after waking up in a hospital, and you certainly won’t be the last!”
He extended a hoof toward him and, after a moment of fumbling, Sauron was able to interlock it with his own and shake it. There was an odd sort of … adhesion on the surface of his hoof, almost like magnetism, that let him firmly grip the creature’s appendage. Sauron’s eyes widened.
“And it’s Doctor. Dr. Horse, at your service, Mr. …?” the healer pony inquired.
Sauron just stared at their interlocked hooves with a look of sheer incomprehension. “…Um…Huh.”
A tense moment of silence followed, and every pony stared at him in concern. Sauron shook off his stupor and, realizing what was being asked of him, felt ice in his veins. He didn’t know enough about these creature’s naming conventions to create a believable pseudonym! They would realize that he wasn’t one of them, and it would only be a matter of time before he was killed or experimented upon!
I only have a few more seconds before they start getting suspicious, he thought rapidly.
He scanned the room, noting the positions of each pony. By now, the hornless drudges had relaxed their grip on him, believing (foolishly) that he would cooperate.
If I take them by surprise, I should be able to break away and reach those surgical tools before the ‘doctor’ and its servants can react.
The white and lavender female was between him and the door. Troublesome.
I should take her hostage; they will be slow to attack if one of their elite caste has a knife at its throat.
The creatures were exchanging furtive glances. He needed to act soon.
No, a hostage situation would be too dangerous. I still have no idea what those horns are capable of. Better to just cut its throat and escape in the confusion. Sauron clenched his muscles in preparation.
“…Could it be that you don’t remember your name?” Dr. Horse asked worriedly. The horned female gasped and stared at him with huge, concerned eyes.
Sauron quickly relaxed his muscles. He knew a lifeline when he saw one.
“It’s strange,” he mused aloud, doing his best to sound confused and anxious. “I feel like I know it, but when I try to…” He shook his head, artfully widening his eyes in distress. “It’s just not there!”
During his display, Sauron covertly monitored the reactions of the ponies in the room, namely the two horned ones. Based on their facial expressions and body language, they were both feeling sympathetic to his ‘plight’, but not to a degree sufficient for effective exploitation.
Let’s step it up, then.
“Who-who am I?” he stammered, carefully injecting the optimal amount of panic and anguish into his tone. “I can’t remember anything! How did I get here, what happened to me? Please, tell me!”
Fortunately, it seemed these ‘ponies’ possessed the same silly herd instincts as humans. The female in particular was beginning to yield to his expert handling.
Yesssss, pity me you fools! Sauron thought with malicious glee.
“Well unfortunately, temporary amnesia is an occasional symptom of concussions,” Dr. Horse said in an apologetic tone, stroking his chin. “What is the last thing that you can remember?”
Sauron feigned a mental struggle for a few seconds while he crafted a good lie. Like all good lies, it would need to be built around a core of truth.
Time for the killing blow.
“I-I think I remember being chased into a forest by many ponies. They all-,” he shuddered convincingly. “They all looked like me, but they were yelling and throwing rocks at me.”
Sauron broke out one of his more advanced techniques and activated his tear ducts. It had been a long time since he’d had to use that one.
“I think they were my family! But why would they-? I don’t understand!” he sobbed, still watching his marks carefully as they exchanged furtive looks. Shock, horror, sadness, and, now that it was finally useful, pity. One of the nurse ponies rubbed him on the shoulder consolingly.
Excellent.
Dr. Horse was at a loss for words, but his professionalism quickly took over, and he took comfort behind it.
“Well, if it is any consolation, your memories should return soon as your symptoms subside. I’m sure that things will make more sense in context.” He sighed, and decided to address the difficulty at hand.
“In regards to your recovery, sir, I’m afraid there is a complication that we need to address.” Dr. Horse’s nurses gave him pleading looks, but he just shook his head. There was no helping it.
“In order for your condition to be reversed, you will need a few days of bedrest. Unfortunately, we have no space available in the hospital, and will not be able to move any of our current patients for the foreseeable future,” the doctor explained gently.
As he watched the horned female’s face shift between fretful and pensive, Sauron had to fight a smirk. Fight it hard.
This is too easy.
“B-but I have nowhere to go!” he exclaimed. “What if I can’t find someone I know who can take me in?”
Sauron decided to push a little more. It couldn’t hurt.
“Or worse, what if I’m found by those ponies who were chasing me?” he continued with an edge of fear in his voice. “What if they’re already here? Oh, I don’t know what to do!”
He covered his face with his hooves (which was still weird) and peeked between them to observe the aftermath of his dramatics. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Ah, um, excuse me, Dr. Horse,” a hesitant feminine voice called out as the violet-maned pony stepped forward.
Sauron let himself smirk, then. Just a little.
This is not how I thought my day was going to go, Rarity thought as she pushed the wheelchair through the streets of Ponyville.
Steven had, of course, been overjoyed that his charge was going to be ok. He had wanted to stay and help but, after many assurances and the omission of a few details concerning the strange stallion’s condition, her serpent friend had been happy to go on his way.
“Thank you again for your incredible generosity, Lady Rarity. I am dreadfully sorry to impose upon you so,” said the rusty-maned stallion, craning his neck slightly to look up at her.
Rarity smiled back at him. Despite his rough appearance, she had seldom met such a courteous and well-spoken pony. How she had misjudged him!
“Oh, there is no imposition at all, my good gentlecolt! I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t help you in your time of need.”
Rarity wasn’t the Element of Generosity for nothing. It simply wasn’t in her nature to turn away a pony who needed her help.
She chuckled. “And it’s just Rarity, dear. Don’t let my sense of style fool you, I’m no court Lady! Just a humble, if rather successful, fashionista.”
The stallion returned her smile. “Still, it shall behoove me to find some way to express my gratitude. One good turn deserves another, after all.” He looked away. “But I’m afraid I must disagree with you, Rarity. I know a lady when I see one.”
Rarity colored slightly at this praise. This nameless pony was turning out to be quite charming!
The mysterious stallion was looking around at the passing buildings with an expression of keen interest. Rarity found herself wondering where exactly he was from, and indeed if he had ever been to a town like this before. He had been found in the Everfree Forest, so he may well have come from a small village or homestead somewhere on its edges.
Even besides that, she couldn’t imagine how confused and scared he must be in a strange place with no friends and no memory. And yet here he was, taking the time to be so very gracious and polite!
After the simply awful time he’s had, the poor dear needs all the help he can get, Rarity thought with conviction. Giving him a place to rest for a few days is the least I can do.
“Is that…is that building made of desserts?” he asked dully.
Rarity saw where he was looking, and giggled despite herself. “Oh no, perish the thought! Though I must say the decorations are quite convincing from a distance.”
They got a closer look as they approached the intersection the building was situated on.
“That’s Sugarcube Corner, where my dear friend Pinkie Pie works,” she continued. “Her cakes are simply divine, you must give them a try once you are feeling better.”
Her charge continued to look rather nonplussed. “Her name is..Pinkie..Pie?”
“Er…well, it’s actually Pinkamena Diane Pie, but don’t call her that,” Rarity replied sheepishly.
They travelled in silence until they rounded the corner, when the stallion suddenly stiffened in his chair.
“And… the giant, twenty-story crystal treehouse?” he inquired softly after a few moments.
Rarity looked at him in surprise. It seemed he really didn’t remember anything at all!
“Why, that’s the Castle of Friendship! It’s the home of my friend Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship,” she answered patiently.
He just stared up at her like she had grown a second head. “WHO, the Princess of WHAT?”
An asylum, thought Sauron. They said I was crazy, so they sent me to an asylum.
These creature were apparently ruled by alleged immortal demigods, or ‘princesses’ as they preferred to call them for some reason, who claimed to control the movements of the sun and moon, among other things.
That wasn’t the crazy part. No, that was normal. In his conquests across Rhun and Harad, Sauron had come across many kings and emperors who had made the same claim. He had, of course, killed them and claimed that it had really been he who made the sun rise and the moon set all along.
It wasn’t like they could prove him wrong.
Hell, they might actually be immortal demigods and he wouldn’t find it unusual in the least. As a Maia, he was basically one of those, after all.
No, the crazy part, the absolutely gibbering insane part, was that one of them used to be mortal. An ordinary mortal ‘unicorn’, as the horned ones were called, had apparently achieved apotheosis through the power of… friendship?
What?
Oh, and there was also a Princess of Love, apparently. Because if socialization could grant you divine cosmic power, then why not basic reproductive instincts?!
Sauron found it all deeply offensive. As a being who had participated in the creation of the universe, born of the very thoughts of the Creator Himself, he very much resented any mortal being put on more-or-less equal footing with him, especially through such…saccharine means.
An asylum, he concluded. And the lunatics are running it.
He would deal with these blasphemers in time. For now, he needed to focus on the present.
At present, his oh-so generous host Rarity was prattling on about her various ‘friends’ whom she ‘simply must introduce him too!’
Indeed. A baker, a farmer, a beast-tamer, some sort of weather-shaman (she had been vague)? Oh yes, and A PHYSICAL GODDESS WITH MAJOR POLITICAL POWER WHOSE VERY EXISTANCE WAS AN ABOMINATION. He looked forward to it.
Yes, though Rarity was not as important a member of the political structure as he had hoped, she was indeed very well connected.
The silly beast will make an excellent pawn, Sauron thought. As Rarity stopped at a store to pick up some rolls of fabric, carrying them effortlessly with her horn, Sauron spent a few minutes congratulating himself on his cleverness. As was his custom.
“Well, here we are!” Rarity exclaimed, drawing Sauron out of his reverie.
They stood before a tall cylindrical building, garishly decorated with elaborate pillars, turrets, and statues in a lurid assortment of colors. A sign above the door proclaimed it the “Carousel Boutique” in large, curling letters.
Sauron repressed a sneer at such wasteful and excessive architecture. He did not know what a “carousel” was, but there was no way this edifice would have passed any of his 172 building codes back in Mordor. He would have had it torn down and the materials salvaged for the blast furnaces where they belonged.
“You have a lovely home,” he commented as they drew closer to the building.
“Why, thank you! That’s sweet of you to say,” she replied with a smile, which Sauron forced himself to return.
“Sweetie Belle!” Rarity called when they reached the door. “Could you get the door for me? I’m afraid I have my hooves full at the moment.”
After a few seconds the door opened, revealing a diminutive unicorn that greatly resembled Rarity, save for a curlier, more lightly colored mane.
“Welcome home, Rarity,” exclaimed the apparent juvenile with a high-pitched cheerfulness that made Sauron clench his teeth. He felt her attention be suddenly drawn to him, with all the wide-eyed wonder of inquisitive youth.
“Wow, who’s your new friend, Rarity? Is he OK? I thought you just went to get some cloth?” Good grief, was she actually bouncing?
The larger pony tutted at her. “Sweetie Belle, please! Don’t be rude. This is…ah…,” she hesitated awkwardly, but Sauron was prepared.
He had learned enough by talking with Rarity about her various associates to know that these ‘ponies’ utilized a naming system which centered around metaphorically descriptive epithets with variable binomialism and an inconsistent, possibly optional use of surnames. He could work with that.
“It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you. Sweetie Belle, was it?” he interjected, simulating a warm smile. “My name is Iron Ember. Ember for short.”
Rarity gave a delighted gasp. “Oh, how wonderful! You’ve remembered!”
Sauron grinned up at her. “Yes, I think it’s starting to come back to me. No doubt such excellent company has already hastened my recovery.”
Rarity smiled and laughed, but Sweetie Belle simply gave him a look that he found oddly difficult to interpret.
“Well, Ember, allow me to introduce you to my younger sister, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity supplied.
The young filly smiled politely and extended a hoof, which Sauron took gingerly. “Charmed,” he said, shaking it briefly.
“Sweetie Belle, this gentlecolt is going through a bit of a rough patch right now, and will be staying with us for a couple of days until he’s well enough to be up and about,” Rarity continued, pushing the chair gently inside.
Sauron looked around and saw a large central room festooned with large mirrors and a multitude of faceless wooden pony statues. Each of the statues was festooned with elaborate and often gaudy outfits, though a few were admittedly quite tasteful. A number of doorways branched off from the central room, and a spiraling staircase rose up to the upper floor.
Sauron noticed the young filly had taken her sister aside and was talking quietly with her. Naturally, he strained to listen.
“Are you sure about this, Rarity?” Sweetie Belle asked uncertainly. “How well do you know this stallion, exactly? Did you just meet him today?”
Sauron found this sentiment reasonable, if inconvenient. Truthfully, he had been surprised how readily his host had volunteered to take a stranger into her home, especially one she shared with a child. Still, he wasn’t about to complain.
I guess I’m just that good, he thought smugly.
“I understand you concern, dearie, but please just trust me for now,” Rarity replied quietly, her tone kind but uncompromising. “I promise, I’ll explain later. For now, can you please help me get him up the stairs to the guestroom?”
Sauron’s stomach lurched as the wheeled chair he was sitting in rose gently into the air surrounded by a soft cloud of pink and purple light.
“Steady now,” he heard Rarity say as the ponies climbed the stairs, with he and the chair floating between them.
Sauron balked a little at this casual display of power, but his unease was quickly overtaken by self-satisfaction.
An excellent start, he mused to himself. There will be no stopping me this time.
The Dreamscape was a quiet place during the day. A seemingly endless expanse of soft, silvery fog, interspersed with the dreams of those few ponies who slept under the bright gaze of the sun. Infants, the elderly, invalids, and the occasional lazybones, it was a simple task to ensure that their sleep was untroubled.
A tiny newborn colt stirred in his slumber, troubled by the simple fears and needs of the young. Food, warmth, love; if only all of her beloved subjects were content with such small and honest concerns. She softly enveloped the precious child’s fledgling dream in her power, as she had done for countless others over the centuries, and gently urged him back into the waking world. His parents would be happy to see to his needs.
She felt a sudden stirring in the mists. Faintly, as if from a great distance, she could hear a deep, soft voice raised in song. She could not understand the words, or tell if there were any words at all, but the sound of it sank deep into her spirit, somehow intimately familiar.
The pony’s dreams around her seemed to resonate with the song, growing clearer, more vivid and intense. In their now gleaming facets she could see reflections of things far away, echoes of ancient days, and shadows of things yet to come. Shrouded in the midst, an immeasurably vast presence approached, like a great whale emerging from the ocean depths.
“Well met, Princess Luna,” the presence whispered. “It is a pleasure, as always.”
The midnight blue alicorn smiled warmly. Since the founding of Equestria, save for her dark years as Nightmare Moon, she had watched over the ponies as they slept, protecting them from the night’s terrors and shepherding their dreams. Only recently, though, had she learned where the dreams actually came from.
“Greetings, Dreamlord Irmo,” Luna replied. “The feeling is mutual, my friend.”
It had been quite a shock to her when she had first encountered the great spirit, or Vala as he called himself, and humbling to discover that the universe was much older and infinitely larger than she had ever imagined. To think that there were worlds out there, full of all sorts of strange and fascinating people, which were so far away that they could only be reached on the Path of Dreams!
Since then, the two of them had often met in the mists of the Dreamscape, and it pleased Luna to no end to have such a wonderful companion ease the loneliness of her nocturnal duties. She had never known anyone with such a deep understanding and appreciation for her work, and their closeness in thought was such that Luna felt she could confide in him things she would never discuss with anyone else, not even her sister.
“Was the … ‘subject’s’ transfer successful?” Irmo asked, sounding reluctant to broach the topic.
Luna nodded gravely. “Yes, I was able to bring him into Equestria, though he didn’t appear exactly where I intended. The power you encased him in was just enough to allow him to form a body.”
The fog churned silently, and Luna felt as if she were standing on the edge of a great sea, watching the gentle waves as mighty currents twisted and turned in the deep depths beneath.
“You… need not do this, Little Moon,” Irmo said at length, using his pet name for her. “You could still refuse, and deny this mad scheme of Olorin’s. I can find another way of dealing with the malcontent. You need not take this burden upon yourself, and those you love, for our sake.”
Luna could feel the concern in the Vala’s voice; concern for her. It reached out like a thick, warm blanket, trying to shelter her. Luna found it quite touching; it had been so very long since anyone had regarded her in such a protective, paternal way. It was a sentiment she shared, and as they had passed the lonely night watches in story and song, Luna had come to regard him as an almost grandfatherly figure.
It was true that when the Dreamlord and his student had approached her a short while ago, seeking her aid, she’d had her reservations. To allow such a vile and monstrous spirit, a veritable demon whose vast history of wickedness made even King Sombra look like a schoolyard bully, to live among her beloved subjects? Yet for the love of her friend in need, and at the wise words and reassurances of his apprentice, she had accepted.
Irmo had passed his prisoner’s ruined spirit down the Path of Dreams, and for just a few moments Luna had cradled it in her hooves.
It was a tiny thing now, barely more than the faintest, flickering spark. The distant, broken echo of something once terrible in its power and beauty, it continued to cling to its pathetic half-existence with iron-hard determination.
It had pulsed feebly with impotent rage, bitter resentment, and a ferocious wounded pride. And yet deep within, Luna could sense a core of desperate, aching sadness, and the gnawing guilt of a sacred duty left unfulfilled.
It was at that moment that, despite her revulsion for this wretched creature, Luna’s heart was moved by pity. Pity, and a horrible sense of familiarity.
In the early centuries of Equestria, Luna had been content to hold dominion over the night while her sister Celestia ruled during the day. She had fallen in love with the darkness’ gentle stillness, the moon’s soft light as she guided it across the sky, and the timeless beauty of the stars. She had wished for nothing more than to share the night’s wonders with her dear subjects.
Yet the ponies slept all through the night, oblivious to its subtle majesty even as they praised her sister and the sun she raised every dawn, Luna had slowly grown bitter and jealous. If they refused to appreciate her and all she offered them, then she would force them to. They would love her just as they did Celestia, even if it meant making sure they never saw the sun again!
Thus began Luna’s transformation into the monstrous Nightmare Moon, plunging Equestria into chaos as she rebelled against her sister and plunged the world into eternal night. With great reluctance, Celestia had been forced to banish her to the moon, where she had she nursed her grievances in solitude for a thousand years. She had returned to Equestria in great wrath, seeking to reclaim her birthright and exact terrible vengeance upon those who had wronged her. If Twilight and her friends had not saved her…
This could have been me, Luna had realized. How can I deny him his chance for redemption, when I deserved it no more than he does?
Luna at last turned to Irmo and said in reply, “I thank you for your concern, Grandfather, but I must do this, for his sake as well as my own. If anyone can save this Sauron, it is Twilight Sparkle and her friends.”
