At the summit of Taniquetil, the highest mountain of Arda, stood Ilmarin, the celestial palace of Manwë, Lord of the Winds. On that day, the immaculate splendor of the place was darkened by a heavy atmosphere, for an ancient scourge was about to be confronted with his crimes before the Powers of Arda.
Twelve of the fourteen Valar sat in silence, their majesty surpassing all mortal perception. Yavanna had not yet arrived, for she herself was guiding the prisoner. As for Aulë, he had refused to appear, broken by the betrayal of his former pupil. The absence of the Smith was laden with meaning.
Among the guests stood those whom the world had called heroes: Gandalf the White, the wisest of the Istari; Elrond of Rivendell; Galadriel of Lothlórien; and finally Frodo Baggins—the Ring-bearer. The small hobbit stood in tense silence, lost amid overwhelming grandeur. Yet none present doubted that he had borne a burden greater than all the others.
A shiver ran through the hall as the mithril doors opened with solemn slowness. The procession appeared, led by Yavanna. At its center, chains of Eldar gold bound the neck, wrists, and ankles of a being whose dark aura persisted despite his weakening.
Sauron—once Mairon the Admirable—walked forward, his eyes fixed straight ahead. His ancient beauty, restored by the powers of the place, stood in stark contrast to the shadow that emanated from him. Despite his defeat, the terror inspired by his presence still lingered.
The guards forced him to his knees. His eyes swept across the assembly, and an imperceptible smile brushed his lips.
The Herald declared in a loud voice:"Sauron, once Mairon the Admirable, stands here to answer for innumerable crimes against Arda and the Children of Eru. Betrayal of the Valar, alliance with Morgoth, enslavement of the Free Peoples, massacres, corruption of Men and Elves, the creation of the Rings of Power, the destruction of Númenor, an incalculable number of—"
"Stop wasting your saliva," said the Dark Lord in a bored voice. "All the acts I have committed, which you see as atrocities, are to me my glory."
An icy murmur swept through the hall. The Eldar stared at the Dark Lord with hatred. Yet some of the Valar turned away—not out of fear… but regret.
Gandalf stepped forward slowly. He looked at Sauron with gravity, but also… a trace of compassion."Mairon. There was a time when you were the most radiant among us. Your knowledge, your passion for order, your ability to shape the world… You were an artisan of good, not a tyrant. What broke you?"
Sauron's eyes turned toward the old man. He studied him for a long moment, as if trying to discern a familiar shadow beneath this new form."Olórin. The shadow of the wandering sage. I remember you—in the gardens of Lórien—when you feared shining too brightly. Tell me… is it him, there?"
His gaze fell upon Frodo. The hobbit felt a chill crawl up his spine. He could not endure that gaze—burning and cold at once, like a dying fire beneath ash.
In a soft, almost sentimental voice, Sauron spoke:"You. Little bearer. You saw me. You heard me. You tasted my power."
Frodo trembled. His right hand clenched as if to grasp something that was no longer there. He stammered, his voice breaking:"I… I didn't want to… I…"
Sauron smiled cruelly."You didn't want to… and yet you did. You put the Ring upon your finger. You desired it—so much that you nearly betrayed your friend, the companion who followed you to the very gates of hell. Admit it: part of you regrets no longer possessing my power. Tell me—would you like to return to the summit of that volcano, when you had seized something so precious?"
At those final words, Frodo clutched his head in pain, the voice resounding in his mind like war drums.
Gandalf immediately placed himself before the hobbit, arms outstretched, like a grandfather shielding an innocent child.
"Enough," Gandalf said sharply. "You will not have him. Your words will no longer stain Arda."
Sauron replied mockingly:"Always so eager to play the moralist, Olórin. Tell me—did you show the same concern when you sent all those mortals to fight your war?"
A heavy silence fell. Frodo, still trembling, gathered his courage. He stepped forward, gripping Gandalf's sleeve. In a low but firm voice, he said:"You failed, Sauron. Not me. Not Sam. Not us. The Ring is gone. And you… you are alone."
Sauron stared at him for a long moment. A shadow of pain crossed his eyes. For an instant—fleeting—his mask cracked. He spoke in a voice almost human:"Alone… yes. And yet I saw you all. In the tower. In my Eye. I saw you struggle, love, betray. You fought for a world… that will forget you. And the Free Peoples will one day realize they have chained themselves to a dreadful fate."
Ulmo raised his voice with authority:"Enough. You still seek to worm your way into hearts like a poison. You are judged here, not invited to preach."
Tulkas roared:"Enough words! Let the judgment begin!"
Manwë rose from his throne, the wings of his sky-blue mantle billowing behind him like ancient winds. His voice, mighty as a distant hurricane, rang out:"For your crimes against Eä, Mairon, I condemn you to join your master in—"
He could not finish.
A wave of darkness suddenly surged from the floor, erupting like a column of ink. The air itself seemed to freeze, and the walls of Ilmarin—unyielding since the creation of Arda—trembled under the force of the intrusion.
A guttural roar, rising from the depths of the Void, shook the minds of all present.
"SILENCE."
The Valar recoiled. Even Ulmo, Master of the Oceans, stood frozen. For that voice… it was not merely Melkor. It was the echo of the primordial Abyss—the forbidden fruit of the Ainulindalë, corrupted since the first ages of the world.
Black mist surged toward Sauron. The chains binding him shattered like glass. The guards were hurled against the walls by an invisible force. The golden collar twisted, liquefied, and slid to the floor like a melted tear.
"Master… is it… is it truly you?" Sauron said, surprised yet intimidated by Melkor's presence.
The smoke formed a cocoon around him, pulsing like a diseased heart. Shapes swirled within—vast wings, fangs, screaming faces, fragments of wars from ancient times.
The voice of the First Dark Lord resounded like the cry of countless ravens:"You swore loyalty to me millennia ago. It was through my teaching that you became a being feared by the Valar. And today, I—Morgoth—come to reclaim what is mine."
Then the mist forced its way into Sauron's mouth, eyes, and pores with unspeakable violence.
He screamed.
Not a human scream. Not even an Eldarin one. But a dissonance—a fracture between two entities of the primordial Order. His body arched and twisted, his hands clawed at the void. His eyes turned black, then red, then entirely white. His voice began to speak in several tongues at once—some forgotten, others never meant to be uttered.
Inside Sauron — The Conflict
An endless desert. An ashen sky. And alone at its center—Sauron.
Or rather… what remained of him.
A black maelstrom descended upon him, taking the form of an immense Melkor forged of lightning and chains."You were never more than my reflection. I am the source. The primal fire. The scourge of the world. The enemy of the Gods. You belong to me."
Sauron, kneeling, rose to face the one who sought to take everything from him."No. You showed me the path—but I built my own kingdom. I imposed order! Not chaos!"
Melkor answered with amusement and authority:"Order? You lost. You humbled yourself. You were judged like a beggar. You want to survive? Then surrender. Let me act. Let me take control. Let me rule."
The desert trembled. A volcano erupted from nowhere, flames devouring the sky. Sauron staggered, his form partially unraveling, as if he were about to dissolve into nothingness.
But then—deep within him—a spark. A memory. A black tower. A stone throne. Armies of the faithful. Fear. Control. And then the image of a woman from a distant past—a woman for whom he had damned himself.
Sauron roared in fury:"I am not your puppet! I am Sauron! I am the Lord of the Rings!"
A shockwave burst forth, driving back Melkor's shadow. For a fraction of a second, the desert froze, bathed in a harsh light from nowhere.
Melkor snarled, bitter and enraged:"You refuse… You think you can resist? Even weakened as you are?"
"I am not your vessel. You were banished. You were forgotten. I… am still here," Sauron defied him.
Back in the Throne Hall
Sauron's body hung suspended in the air, his shadow writhing in all directions. His limbs convulsed, as if he were fighting himself. A crimson light glowed in his chest, pulsing in opposition to the black mist.
Varda cried out in horror:"He… he's resisting?"
"By Illuvatar!" Tulkas roared. He and the other Valar were bound by shadows, temporarily restrained.
Then, with an inhuman scream, Sauron exploded in a burst of flames and darkness. The smoke dissipated. The palace ceased to tremble.
But he was gone.
No body. No ashes. No trace.
Only a suffocating silence—and the gaze of Manwë, hardened by wrath.