Chapter 8 - The Dark Lord

Sam is nervous all day. He keeps his apprehension at bay as best he can but he often finds his mind wandering back to his conversation with Sauron that morning. Scared though he may be, Sam will keep his promise for his master’s sake. He knows it is for the best and he holds to that conviction for the strength he needs to get through the rest of the day. 

Still, he can’t stop himself from imagining what may happen that night once they are seated to their session. Most especially, he wonders what Sauron intends to show him. He wishes now that he had asked Frodo what the sessions are like so that he will know what to expect, but he cannot ask Frodo now without giving up what is going to happen. Besides, some niggling part in the back of his mind fears that even with that knowledge, Sauron will not be gentle on him as he is on Frodo. He can’t be, not if he wishes to raise Frodo’s ire to the point where Frodo will exercise his full will. 

Every now and again during the morning, Rick casts him a sympathetic but encouraging look; it doesn’t help. Sam knows that Rick means well, but Sam has heard the stories about the previous victims of Sauron’s torture. Lord Elrond’s wife had been one. She had been tormented so thoroughly that she had to sail away to the Undying Lands to recover from her ordeal, and they say that she is one of the lucky ones. Sam must be the first person in the history of Middle-earth dumb enough to volunteer for such anguish, and he wonders if it will really help Frodo as Sauron claims. If it doesn’t, he knows what he will have to do – turn around and head back for the Shire, dragging Frodo kicking and screaming the whole way if he has to. 

With all these thoughts and worries crowding his mind, it’s no wonder he cannot concentrate on anything else. Too often, Frodo recalls him back to the present from his grim musings. Each time, Sam doubles his efforts to pay attention and remain rooted in the mild, late winter day surrounding him. He tries to feel the breeze on his face and the soft kiss of the sun on his skin. He tries to listen to the quiet all around and the call of falcons swooping to catch their prey. He tries his best but eventually the cold fright comes back to grip his stomach and twist it into knots, the bile inches up his throat, having to be swallowed, and he is lost in his thoughts and fears once more. Frodo will sooner or later notice and he will reach out and shake Sam gently again. Each time it happens, Frodo grows more concerned and Sam can see the worry and questions piling up behind those clear blue eyes.

Finally, night falls and the moon rises. Frodo insists that Sam rest and Sam does so without much protest. He reasons that given his state of distraction he will just end up burning the food anyway, yet he finds that sitting and watching the others work only allows him more time to fret. Every time his eyes fall on Sauron, his stomach clenches tighter still and he has to force the food down his throat at dinner.

Too soon, the meal is over and Rick goes to clean the dishes. Sauron sits across the fire and Frodo sits beside Sam. It’s the same as every other night except that Frodo, sensing Sam’s discomfort, places his hand over Sam’s. Also on this night, unlike any other, Sauron looks to Sam rather than Frodo for the sign to begin. When Frodo likewise nods, missing the brief exchange between Sauron and Sam, Sauron closes his eyes. Frodo follows, keeping his hand securely over Sam’s. Sam takes a moment to draw a deep breath before also closing his eyes. 

It begins before he is aware that anything is happening. At first, he confuses the warmth seeping into his limbs as heat from the fire. It tingles comfortably at the base of his neck and around his scalp, recalling to his mind his mother's fingers scrubbing soap into his hair when he was a faunt. He can even hear her humming and smell the roast cooking in the oven as her fingers work at his scalp, firm but gentle. Some small part of him knows this is not normal, but the warmth, and the memory that comes with it, is so reassuring that he does not linger over the oddity of it. Not until the warmth spreads down to his torso and sinks into his very core, weighing down his limbs, does he realize what is truly happening. By then, it is too late for him to protest or change his mind.

The present melts away, his surroundings go up like vapors into the nighttime sky as the warmth steadily increases, consuming every inch of him. He feels his flesh sizzle, smells his hair as it singes against the heat of the lava. The air chokes his breath and stings his eyes, and the molten edges of jagged rock cut into his feet, staining the ground with his blood. He gasps for a fresh breath but gets only more of the poisonous fumes. He looks about, blinking through the heated mist and the swirling smoke. In front of him, glimpsed through the vapors, is the precipice of Sammath Naur, the boiling heart of Mount Doom, and standing there is a dark figure in twisted exultation, a flaming brand of gold upon his finger.

The figure is gone in an instant and Mount Doom melts away. Sam is transported many thousands of years into the past to a land at the uttermost West. He looks upon a land that is as green and vibrant and full of simple beauty as the Shire. The land is untouched by any hand, new and clean. Beleriand. The air is fresh, the waters pure, the plains lush, the flowering trees vibrant and radiant. 

Sam delights to see it but he no sooner soaks in this wondrous land than he spies a darkness building in the North, spreading out with poisonous fingers to leech the land of its splendor and bounty. The skies bleed black and the ground turns to burnt earth, desolate and drained of its nutrients. The trees and flowers wither away as if they had never been. At the head of the destruction rides Melkor and his servant Sauron. All the creations of the Valar are destroyed or corrupted by their hands; nothing is left untouched or unspoiled.

The vision shifts again, taking Sam to the north and east to the heart of that dark land, the fortress of Angband. Sauron sits in command of the fortress, entrusted by Melkor, the Morgorth, to carry out His wishes, tormenting captives of free peoples from the surrounding lands, tormenting them cruelly and long so that their screams and pleads for mercy fill every dark corner and dirt-filled cavern. Their cries of anguish are so harrowing they chill Sam to the core even as Sauron sits unmoved unless it is to order the torment to cease for a while or to lend his own hand to the dealings. Sam watches in horror as creatures once lovely and wholesome are stripped of their every possession, be it cloth, weapon or self. He watches as they are cut and beaten, burned and broken, he watches until they either die from the torment or are eaten by the werewolves, too weak to scream as they are ripped to shreds. Those that are not killed are slowly mutated and corrupted into creatures of darkness, as bent and cruel as the one who corrupted them but forever under his dominion. 

Battles and wars follow, battles that claim the lives of elves and men, women and children, wars that stretch on for many endless years until the ground is drenched in blood and littered with bodies and the rivers and streams run red. He watches as those who oppose the Enemy are hunted and killed, or dragged back to the Enemy’s fortress for torment. He watches as the greatest and fiercest warriors of Elves and Men fall to the Enemy, as entire cities fall and crumble and have to be evacuated. He watches as Sauron’s skills grow and become greater still. The Maia once blessed with the skills of craft by his master Aulë now contorts those skills at the teachings of Morgorth and uses his treachery and sorcery for even greater torments. Minas Tirith on the Isle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth is taken and Sauron sits in his tower on the isle even as Morgorth spreads devastation further still.

All those who oppose the darkness eventually lose. Fingolfin is crushed to death. Barahir hides but is given up at the last by Gimlor, tortured ruthlessly until he is tricked by Sauron with a vision of his wife, alive and waiting, and he tells Sauron everything he knows so that he may be with her again. Sauron happily obliges, killing Gimlor with a stroke of his blade as soon as he has the information he needs, sending poor Gimlor to join his wife at last. Then, without knowing who he is capturing, he imprisons his greatest foe, Beren, with Felagund and their companions. One by one their companions are devoured by the werewolves as they refuse to reveal Beren for who he truly is. At the last, Felagund falls protecting Beren from the wolves and as Sauron leans down to strike the fatal blow, a voice soars into the air.

The voice is beautiful and the song powerful, imbued with the artistry of the Elves and the might of the Valar. Sam’s eyes are drawn to the tower window, as are Sauron’s. Below on the bridge is Luthien, an elf maid of unsurpassed beauty and grace, and as she sings the walls of the tower quake. Beren sings a response and Luthien, hearing her love within the tower, doubles her efforts. Protected by the Hound of Valinor, none of the wolves can get to her, so Sauron transforms himself into the mightiest of the werewolves and springs to attack, fangs bared and dripping with saliva.

It is then that the vision fades, so suddenly it leaves Sam weakened and disoriented. He cries out as the warmth drains from his body and the cold damp of the night air assaults him. He sobs, lost in the tumult of the images that crowd into his head. He cries for knowing that even though Luthien and Beren escape that dread tower, they died in the end. Only vaguely does he feel Frodo’s arms encircling him and rocking him and hear his master’s voice lilt in song, that same song that Sam had sung in Cirith Ungol. He is transported again into his last vision, of Beren trapped in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and Luthien seeking him outside the tower, singing. It is not the comfort his master hopes it to be.

As he continues to sob a new vision comes to him, this one of a small cottage on a small green isle shrouded in mist. Luthien sits in the field picking dandelions as her children play nearby and Beren chops firewood, and Sam sees that they are happy in their small part of the world. His sobs cease but the tears continue to flow as the vision continues to play before his mind’s eye. He sees Luthien and Beren and their two young children, a happy family full of greatest love, and at the last Luthien appears to look at him and laugh, a laugh as mesmerizing and beautiful as her song. 

The vision fades and Sam lies upon the ground numb to thought and emotion. The world returns to him: the campfire crackles and pops, the wind blows cold and brisk, Frodo’s arm slips over his shoulders and lifts him up, and Rick holds a mug of tea to his lips. He drinks deep and long until the tea is gone and soon he lies down again and drifts off to dreamless sleep.

He wakes the next morning, groggy and exhausted. Frodo lies asleep next to him, an arm slung protectively over his chest. Sam shifts his position, barely moving, but the motion is enough to awaken Frodo. He sits upright and looks down intently at Sam. “Sam?” he whispers.

“Morning, sir,” Sam mumbles. He doesn’t know what is to come next. He knows at some point he needs to explain what happened last night, why Sauron had assailed him and not Frodo. He knows his master will disapprove when he finds out. He shifts again and looks away. He hasn’t the energy to deal with truths just yet.

“Sam? Are you all right?” Frodo asks. “You look exhausted.”

“As do you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Sam replies.

“I was so worried about you,” Frodo says. He squeezes Sam’s hand in reassurance, both for his friend and for himself. “How are you feeling?”

“A might groggy,” Sam answers. “Like I’ve been drained of every ounce of energy I’ve ever had, to tell the truth.”

“Oh, Sam, why did you do it?” Frodo asks. “Why did you let Sauron talk you into that?”

“You know?” Sam asks, relief mingled with apprehension. He will not have to confess but he still has to face his master’s disapproval. 

“Rick told me,” Frodo says. “I’m so sorry, Sam. This is all my fault. If I had just done what I was supposed to do, if I had just tried harder, it never would have come to this. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? But sir, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one as went behind your back as I oughtn’t have,” Sam says.

“You wanted to help, and Sauron knew that you would do anything for me, just as he knew I would do anything to protect you if I could. This is my fault, and it’s Sauron’s, for asking this of you rather than doing to me what he should have,” Frodo says.

“I’d not have let him,” Sam says fiercely.

Frodo smiles fondly and pushes Sam back into the sleeping roll. “Rest. I’ll get you some tea and make breakfast. Rick is still asleep. Sauron went off right after our session. He hasn’t come back yet. When he does get back, I will be talking to him. Do you want to talk about what you saw?”

Sam shakes his head. In morning light, the images from last night are dim and far away, as memories half-forgotten to the depths of time. He can still feel the horror of them if he concentrates on them long enough, but that also is muted, the power of their imagery diminished. The only clear and vivid memory he still has is of Luthien and Beren by their little cottage in the mists and the sounds of their children’s laughter as they chase after dragonflies. “It’s naught you should be worrying yourself over, Master. It was just a sort of history lesson, as you might say. It drained me some, but not overly so. I can make breakfast.”

“No. You’re resting, that’s an order,” Frodo says gently, satisfied that his friend is all right. He will keep a close eye on Sam for the next few days to be sure. For now, he goes to the fire pit and begins breakfast from their stored supplies. 

The sun has peeked her head over the land and the sky is glowing pink by the time breakfast is ready. Rick is awake by then and helping with the preparations. They see or hear no sign of Sauron as they eat and clean up afterwards. Rick does not appear to be worried by this.

“Does he disappear often?” Frodo asks as he sits on a log next to the dwindling fire, his left leg bouncing in agitation. 

“He’s scouting ahead most likely, and probably gathering herbs or berries and the like,” Rick says. “He’ll be back.”

Sam isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. They cannot continue without Sauron, yet Frodo looks ready to strangle the Maia at first sight. Sam wants to speak with Sauron also. Obviously, the ploy had worked but he wanted to know the reasons for the things that Sauron had made him see.

“When will he be back?” Frodo asks impatiently.

“When he gets back,” Rick answers unhelpfully. He kneels in front of Frodo and clasps his shoulder. “Look, I know Sauron, and I know him well enough to know that there is a purpose for what he did. You just need to trust him.”

“Trust him?” Frodo spits. “After what he did to Sam? He could have just as easily done that to me if he wanted to shock me.”

“You’re assuming that shocking you was his only intention. He wants you both to be prepared,” Rick explains with patience. “You’ve had the dreams, Frodo. You’ve seen what the Blue Wizards are capable of. You’re prepared, in that respect at least, for what we are going to face. You’ve had these lessons and learned to control your gifts. In that, you have some means to defend yourself. What about Sam? He’s walking into this blind.”

“We’ve been to Mordor,” Frodo says. “We both know what Evil is capable of, and Evil had better stay away from my friend.”

“Evil will,” says Sauron from behind, coming upon them with silent footsteps. Frodo bristles and stands instantly. He turns to face Sauron, his hands clenched into fists. Sauron walks past him to the horse and begins to stuff the saddlebags with some herb pouches he has brought in from the fields. “Now that you know what you are capable of and have used your gifts as they are meant to be used, we will no longer be playing children’s games. We will hone your skills until you can control them without fail. By the time we reach Khand you will be more than capable of keeping both your mind and Sam’s safe.” He ties the saddlebags closed and faces Frodo. “Think about it, Frodo. The Blue Wizards will be able to sense Sam’s presence as soon as we get within a hundred miles of their stronghold. Do you think they will hesitate to assail him, that they won’t use him to determine where he came from or who is with him? They can’t hurt me and I can keep Rick’s mind shielded without the risk of draining my powers. And now you will be able to keep Sam’s shielded, as well as your own, once you’ve gained some strength. Now let’s go. The day isn’t getting any younger.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo says. “I didn’t realize. That still didn’t give you the right…”

“Sam agreed to it,” Sauron interrupts. “The fact of the matter is that we don’t have time to play games. You needed to know what we’re going up against, both of you, and now you do. You needed to stop being afraid to use your abilities, and now you have.”

No more words are exchanged after that. They break camp swiftly and are on their way again within the hour. The morning passes in silence, each member of the company lost in his own thoughts. When they stop for luncheon, Sam approaches Sauron as the Maia tends his horse.

“Sam,” Sauron says smoothly without looking back to see the hobbit standing there. From the trap, Frodo watches them both closely. 

“I guess I know now why you made me see those things,” Sam starts awkwardly.

“Do you?”

“Mr. Frodo and I, what with all we went through in Mordor to destroy your Ring, we got off rather easy it seems,” Sam says. “I thought that was the worst possible thing as could happen to a person, but I was wrong. I was wrong about you also. You’re not the same person now as you were back then. It’s just, I didn’t really know you then, so I couldn’t see the difference that Mr. Frodo sees.”

“Now it’s Frodo who doesn’t trust me,” Sauron says with an ironic laugh. 

“He’s just feeling guilty about it coming to this is all,” Sam says. “I’ll just keep talking to him and telling him I’m fine. I am fine, aren’t I? I can’t really remember those visions too much now. They won’t haunt me or nothing, will they?”

Sauron finishes with the horse and faces Sam, looking him intently in the eyes before answering. “No, Sam, they won’t. Those aren’t your memories to be haunted by.”

Sam nods, seeing everything clearly at last. “I understand. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For that last vision, of Luthien, Beren and their little ones in their home,” Sam says. “That was right peaceful, it was. It gives me hope.”

“It was the least I could do,” Sauron says and watches in wonder as Sam walks away.  

When the hobbits are busy fixing luncheon, Rick approaches Sauron and holds Brego’s reins while Sauron curries the horse’s flanks. “What was all that about?” Rick asks.

“Sam thinks he and Frodo got off easy,” Sauron says in a disbelieving whisper. “In a way he’s right. I wasn’t at my full strength when he and Frodo entered my land with the Ring. I was distracted by the strategies of the Men of Gondor and ignored things happening closer to home. Frodo was captured and tortured but he was never brought into my hands. If he had been…”

Rick puts a supportive hand on Sauron’s shoulder, recalling the Maia back to the present before the past can grip too tightly to him. “But you didn’t,” Rick reminds him in an answering whisper. “You’re beating a dead horse.”

Brego whinnies disapprovingly at this analogy.

“Sorry Brego,” Rick says. “Look, Sauron, whatever you might have done then doesn’t matter now. That’s not who you are anymore. You’re no more capable of hurting these hobbits than I am.”

“Then explain last night.”

“You did what you had to do. Sam is wiser now for it and he understands the peril we’re walking into. He knows that the memories won’t haunt him unless he lets them, and he knows that you will do everything you can to make sure they are both safe,” Rick says. “Not to mention that we’re on a limited time schedule. Frodo needed to get serious about his lessons and now he will be. If you did them harm last night, it was only to save them from greater harm later on.”

“Thank you,” Sauron says. He pats Rick’s hand appreciatively, then goes to join the hobbits.

To be continued…

GF 11/24/2006