Under the Hobbit's Mask

***

In the azure embrace of a cornflower meadow, Sauron rested, skillfully concealed in the guise of young Frodo Baggins. The serenity of the moment was disturbed only by the silhouette of approaching Gandalf, and an anxious premonition of the end of peaceful life squeezed his false hobbit heart. Not that the Dark Lord was unprepared for the next act of his grand play. On the contrary, each step had been calculated since that night when, as a bodiless spirit, he infiltrated the cradle of the Baggins family. The real infant Frodo exhaled his last breath under the invisible grip of Mordorian darkness, while Sauron assumed his form, his destiny, his life. And, surprisingly, he genuinely came to enjoy this simple existence. The residents of the Shire treated "Frodo" with warmth, unaware that each day they were greeting Middle-earth's greatest deceiver. The serpent, nestled against the bosom of the good-natured Baggins family, savored every day of his masquerade. Handing the envelope containing the One Ring to the unsuspecting Gandalf brought special pleasure. Having tested himself in the role of Annatar, the Giver of Gifts, and later as the Haradrim prince Halbrand, Sauron had perfected the art of pretense. "Frodo's" questioning, anxious gaze seemed so sincere that even the perceptive wizard suspected no deceit. The plan for returning to the Undying Lands was flawless, if not for unexpected variables in the equation: an intrusive gardener and two restless hobbit thieves. Sam Gamgee, with his dog-like devotion, remarkably reminded Sauron of his own rapturous worship of Melkor in his early years. This irony of fate amused the Dark Lord, and so he condescendingly allowed the gardener to accompany him. Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin, who joined their journey, evoked memories of two bumbling orcs, craving not gold but adventures. When the Fellowship of the Ring was formed in Rivendell, Sauron barely suppressed a smile. What irony! Nine companions against the Nine Ringwraiths. And no one suspected that the tenth participant in this journey was the Enemy himself, invisibly hidden beneath the mask of the Ring-bearer. As the Fellowship progressed southward, Sauron relished the double game. His "sufferings" from the burden of the Ring were masterpieces of acting. The Ring could not subjugate its creator, but "Frodo" regularly demonstrated signs of its nefarious influence, sometimes even allowing Boromir to cast covetous glances at him—merely to intensify the tension within the group. Gandalf's death in Moria came as an unpleasant surprise. Sauron had planned to use the old wizard longer, guiding the Fellowship through dangerous lands. But the Balrog, an ancient servant of Morgoth, did not recognize its new master in the hobbit and acted on its own volition. After the Fellowship's dissolution at Amon Hen, Sauron-Frodo quietly observed with satisfaction as his plan took an unforeseen, yet promising turn. Alone with the faithful Sam, heading toward Mordor "to destroy the Ring," he was in reality returning home—to where he planned to be reborn in full power. Ahead lay the encounter with Gollum, and Sauron anticipated the game with the pitiful creature that once possessed his treasure. And beyond the gates of Mordor awaited all the might of his fortress, his armies, his true heritage. And no one, not even the perceptive Galadriel, suspected that the journey to Orodruin was not an act of self-sacrifice, but the return of the Dark King to his rightful throne. *** Lórien greeted the travelers with the golden radiance of mallorn trees and the wary gazes of elven guards. Sauron, hidden in Frodo's form, tensed inwardly when the elves, obeying Haldir's order, blindfolded him before entering the sacred forest. This was humiliating for one who once received the worship of the elves of Eregion, but now caution was required more than ever. Galadriel... A name that evoked mixed feelings in him. Once she had rejected his wisdom in Eregion, seeing through the darkness beneath Annatar's fair disguise. Now, after millennia, they would meet again, and this time his masquerade had to be impeccable. When the blindfolds were removed, and Sauron-Frodo beheld the Lady of the Golden Wood for the first time in ages, a strange feeling came over him. Galadriel stood beside Celeborn, majestic and beautiful as the very morning of the world. Her eyes, ancient and wise, seemed to see through time and space. "Eight there are here, yet nine there were set out from Rivendell," said Celeborn. "Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him." While others related the tale of the wizard's demise, Sauron observed Galadriel. She was looking at him—or through him? This was disquieting. But in her gaze, he read not suspicion, but... compassion? "Has she become so blind over these centuries?" Sauron thought with carefully concealed surprise. "Or am I truly so skilled in pretense?" Later, when the Lady offered members of the Fellowship to look into her mirror, Sauron inwardly smirked. He remembered well her abilities and magic. In bygone times, such an opportunity would have posed a danger to him, but now... The closer he was to the Ring, the stronger he became, even in this weak hobbit body. "I know what it is that you saw," said Galadriel when they were alone by the mirror. "For the burden placed upon you is too great for even the mightiest to bear." Sauron lowered his eyes, mimicking confusion and weariness. Perfect acting. "You see much, Lady," he whispered in Frodo's voice, fragile and broken. "I see your heart," she replied, and for a moment Sauron felt a prick of anxiety. "And it is full of resolve, yet fear also." "She sees only what I allow her to see," he thought with inner triumph. Millennia of experience had made him an unrivaled master of deception. Even before the gaze of one of the wisest Eldar, he presented merely a skilled imitation of an exhausted hobbit. When he, supposedly yielding to impulse, offered her the Ring, it was the pinnacle of playacting. Of course, he would never give away his creation, but he knew this offer would touch in her the ancient thirst for power—the very one that once led the Noldor to rebellion and exile. "In place of the Dark Lord, you would have a Queen!" exclaimed Galadriel, momentarily transformed, revealing her true might and desire. "Beautiful and terrible as Morning and Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun! Stronger than the foundations of the earth!" Sauron looked at her with feigned horror, but inside felt a strange admiration. Her power and pride were worthy of respect. Had she been on his side, together they would have ruled the world without resistance. But even now, after centuries, she rejected the temptation. "I pass the test," she said, once again becoming a sorrowful elven lady. "I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel." "Foolish pride," thought Sauron, depicting relief and gratitude on Frodo's face. "Like all Eldar, she prefers fading to true greatness. But her refusal is my fortune, for a meeting with her could have been the final obstacle on my path." In the final days of their stay in Lórien, Galadriel often sought Frodo's company. She saw his pain and exhaustion—perfectly acted by Sauron—and her heart overflowed with compassion for the small hobbit. "There is more strength in you than you know, Frodo Baggins," she said, placing her luminous hand on his shoulder. "And more wisdom than many might suppose." Sauron accepted these words with polite gratitude, but inwardly relished the irony of the situation. She, who considered herself perceptive, did not recognize him—her ancient enemy. Her sympathy for "Frodo" was at once amusing and useful. Before departing from Lórien, Galadriel presented gifts to each member of the Fellowship. To Sauron-Frodo, she gave a crystal phial with the light of Eärendil's star. "May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out," she said, placing the phial in his palm. Their fingers touched, and Sauron felt a slight tremor—not from fear of exposure, but from the strange realization of the completeness of his triumph. The Lady of the Golden Wood, one of the mightiest Eldar of Middle-earth, had given him, Sauron, a weapon against darkness. A weapon he would never use for its intended purpose. Leaving Lórien, the boats glided over the silvery waters of the river, and Sauron-Frodo turned to take one last look at Galadriel, standing on the shore. She raised her hand in a farewell gesture, and the sunlight reflected in her golden hair. "Farewell, Artanis," thought Sauron, using her ancient name. "When I regain my full strength, perhaps I shall preserve Lórien as a monument to your blindness. As a reminder to the whole world that even the wisest can be deceived if they see only what they wish to see." And as the boats carried the Fellowship away from the protected lands, Sauron was already planning the next steps of his return home—to Mordor, where his throne awaited and armies stood ready to march at the first command of their true master.

***

After departing from Lothlórien, the journey along the Anduin gave Sauron-Frodo time for reflection. The waterway brought him closer to his goal, to the borders of his domain. New trials lay ahead—the need to maintain the illusion of a suffering Ring-bearer was becoming increasingly difficult as they approached Mordor. When Boromir finally succumbed to temptation and tried to seize the Ring, Sauron inwardly rejoiced. This was the perfect pretext for splitting the Fellowship. Hiding behind a tree and putting on the Ring, he didn't disappear as would be expected from a hobbit, but used the momentary advantage to force events to develop in the necessary direction. Boromir's death at the hands of the Uruk-hai was an unforeseen but useful turn. The dangerous Gondorian might have recognized his true nature too soon. Now the path was clear. "You don't have to go to Mordor, Sam," Sauron-Frodo feigned protest when the faithful gardener caught up with him at the boat. "I know, Mr. Frodo. But I'm going. I promised you." "Loyalty bordering on stupidity," thought the Dark Lord, depicting emotion on his face. "But let him accompany me for now. An extra pair of hands may be useful on the journey." The journey through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes was torturous even for Sauron. The hobbit body had its limitations—hunger, thirst, and fatigue plagued him just as they would a real hobbit. But the hardships only strengthened his resolve. Each step brought him closer to rebirth. Meeting Gollum became one of the key moments of the journey. Sauron instantly recognized the creature that once bore his Ring. The pitiful, degraded being, once the hobbit Sméagol, now balanced on the edge of sanity. "How interesting," pondered Sauron, observing Gollum's dual nature. "My Ring has left such a deep imprint on him. This knowledge may be useful when I restore my full power." Pretending to be trusting and merciful, Sauron-Frodo allowed Gollum to become their guide. Of course, he knew the way to his own country perfectly well, but Gollum's appearance provided additional opportunities for manipulation. Besides, the creature knew secret paths that could facilitate entry into Mordor without attracting the attention of his own servants—the Nazgûl and orcs. "We trust you, Sméagol," he said with false sincerity. "Lead us." Gollum looked at him with reverence, not suspecting that before him was the very creator of the Ring, masquerading as a hobbit. This amused Sauron. So many creatures around, including the mighty Galadriel, didn't see the truth, even when it was right in front of them. Passing through Ithilien required special caution. Here, in the borderlands, Gondorian men, phalanxes of orcs, and shadows of Nazgûl crowded. Sauron moved cautiously, knowing that premature revelation of his true nature to his own servants could disrupt the entire plan. He needed to reach Orodruin, where he planned to conduct a ritual of complete rebirth using the power of the Ring and volcanic fire. Meeting Faramir became an unexpected complication. Boromir's younger brother possessed a sharper mind and purer heart. His penetrating gaze forced Sauron to strengthen his disguise, adding more fear and exhaustion to Frodo's behavior. "The Ring is trying to return to its master," said Faramir, studying Frodo's face. "It wants to be found." "If you only knew," thought Sauron, lowering his eyes with carefully calculated trepidation. "The Ring is already with its creator." Release from Faramir's captivity became yet another confirmation of the blindness of the virtuous. Sauron-Frodo barely concealed his triumph as they continued on their way to Cirith Ungol, the last obstacle before Mordor. The intrigue with Gollum reached its climax before the entrance to the tunnel. Sméagol's rotting heart had long planned betrayal, and Sauron saw this perfectly well, but pretended to believe the two-faced creature. In fact, meeting Shelob was part of his plans. The ancient spider was one of the few beings in Middle-earth who remembered the times of Ungoliant. Shelob served no one, but Sauron in the days of his rule over Mordor had reached an unspoken agreement with her. She received prey she could catch herself, and he got a guard for the borders of his domains. "No, no, master!" Gollum wailed as they approached the ominous tunnel. "There's danger, great danger!" "There is no other way," Sauron-Frodo firmly replied, hiding his anticipation. In the dark tunnel, when Shelob attacked, Sauron performed a perfect spectacle. The hobbit Frodo seemed paralyzed by the monster's venom. But in reality, the ancient creature of darkness recognized its master even in this tiny guise. Her venom, deadly to others, was for Sauron merely a means to induce temporary paralysis—sufficient to deceive Sam and continue the game. When the faithful gardener, thinking his master dead, took the Ring and set off to complete the mission himself, Sauron barely suppressed a laugh. Control over the situation was not lost for a moment. Even captured by the orcs of the tower of Cirith Ungol, he knew that Sam would return for him, and the orcs would be too frightened by ancient taboo to cause serious harm to the "prisoner" they considered a simple hobbit. In the tower, listening to orcs killing each other in the struggle for his mithril shirt, Sauron contemplated his triumphant return. Soon Barad-dûr would once again receive its true master. Sauron the Great would return not as a weak bodiless spirit, but in full strength, with the One Ring on his finger. Meanwhile, he continued to play the role of an exhausted hobbit, sincerely grateful to his faithful Sam who returned to save him. Ahead lay the plains of Gorgoroth, the ash and shadow of Orodruin—the final steps on the path home. "I can't do this, Sam," he whispered with feigned despair, looking at the fire-spewing mountain. "I know you can, Mr. Frodo," replied the devoted gardener. "And I'll help you." "Yes, help me," thought Sauron with dark amusement. "Help me to be reborn and reclaim what rightfully belongs to me." And Mount Doom drew closer with each agonizing step, promising not the destruction of the Ring, but the rebirth of its creator.

***

The plains of Gorgoroth greeted the travelers with suffocating air and ash swirling in the heavy atmosphere. Sauron-Frodo walked through his domains as a stranger—a strange sensation for one who once ruled over every stone of this land. In his hobbit guise, he observed the armies moving along the black roads of Mordor, and in his soul, a triumphant march resounded. Soon they would serve him again not as a faceless eye, but as an embodied lord. "We must be careful, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam, hiding behind a rock at the sight of an orc patrol. "The enemy is everywhere." "There is no enemy here," thought Sauron with inner amusement. "Only a master returning home." The arduous journey across the Mordorian wastelands provided numerous opportunities to demonstrate feigned exhaustion from the Ring's influence. Sauron masterfully played the role of Frodo, gradually losing will and mind under the burden of dark power. He stumbled, mumbled incoherent phrases, and clutched the Ring with maniacal obsession. Sam watched him with growing concern, not suspecting that each movement, each glance from his master was part of a carefully calculated performance. When strength seemingly abandoned Frodo completely at the foot of Mount Doom, Sam displayed truly heroic self-sacrifice, hoisting his master onto his shoulders. "I can't carry the Ring for you," Sam said, breathing heavily as he climbed the mountain slope. "But I can carry you." Sauron felt an almost physical pain from the irony of the situation. The faithful hobbit from the Shire carried on his shoulders the greatest enemy of the free world. Carried with love and devotion worthy of better application. The path to the volcano's crater, winding among flows of solidified lava, was the final stage of the long journey. The air here was scorching, saturated with sulfur and the fury of earthly depths. For Sauron, this was like returning to his origins—it was here, in the fire of Orodruin, that the One Ring was forged. And here his final reunion with his creation would take place. In Sammath Naur, the Fire Chamber atop the mountain, Sauron's plan was to reach its culmination. An ancient ritual, requiring the fire of Orodruin and the power of the Ring, would allow him to shed his hobbit shell and be reborn in his true form—majestic and terrifying. But fate, as often happens even with the most carefully thought-out designs, prepared an unexpected turn. At the last moment, when they reached the volcano's crater, Gollum appeared, driven by an insane desire to reclaim his "precious." Sauron was ready for this. His plan had always anticipated possible complications. When Gollum attacked, latching onto the invisible figure of Frodo who had put on the Ring, Sauron allowed the struggle to unfold naturally. He could have easily destroyed the pitiful creature with a single movement, but this would have revealed his true nature to Sam. The struggle on the edge of the abyss became the decisive moment. Gollum, in a fit of mad triumph, bit off the finger with the Ring, but miscalculated his movement and stumbled, falling into the fiery abyss with his precious prize. This should have been catastrophic for Sauron's plan, but the Dark Lord was prepared even for such a turn. At the moment of Gollum's fall, he activated an ancient spell woven into the very structure of the Ring—a backup measure unknown even to the wisest of the Eldar. When the Ring touched the molten lava, instead of being destroyed, it released the concentrated power within it in the form of an energy pulse. This pulse, invisible to Sam who stood frozen at the edge of the abyss, connected Sauron's essence in Frodo's body with the essence contained in the Ring. Externally, it appeared the Ring was destroyed—Barad-dûr began to crumble, the earth shook, lava rose from the depths of the mountain. But this was merely appearance, scenery for the eyes of witnesses. "It's over, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, helping his master escape from Sammath Naur onto the slope of the erupting mountain. "The Ring is destroyed." "Yes, Sam," replied Sauron-Frodo with a blissful smile that held double meaning. "It truly is finished." They sat on a rock amid lava flows, surrounded by the apocalyptic landscape of crumbling Mordor. Sauron gazed at the fiery sky, feeling how the power released from the Ring slowly transformed him from within. The process had begun, and now he needed only time—time he would easily obtain when they were rescued. The giant eagles that appeared on the horizon were an expected element of the finale. These ancient creatures always came to the rescue at critical moments, and Sauron had counted on their intervention. The rescue of the "heroes" was the final stroke of his grand plan. In Minas Tirith, Sauron-Frodo was received as the greatest hero of the Third Age. King Elessar knelt before him, elves sang songs in his honor, dwarves brought gifts. The entire free world celebrated the little hobbit who had saved Middle-earth from darkness. "They don't understand," Sauron mused, lying in a luxurious bed in the citadel of Minas Tirith as healers tended to his wounds. "The darkness hasn't disappeared. It has merely changed form." The transformation within him continued unnoticed by those around him. With each passing day, the will of the true Frodo, remnants of which still remained in this body, finally faded, while Sauron's essence grew stronger. The released power of the Ring, which had flowed into him during the ritual at Orodruin, slowly restructured his physical form at the cellular level, preparing it for subsequent transformation. At Aragorn's coronation ceremony, when all the allied peoples gathered together, Sauron observed the new rulers of Middle-earth with quiet satisfaction. They had won the battle but lost the war, without even knowing it. "What will you do now, Frodo?" asked Arwen, daughter of Elrond, who had become Queen of Gondor. "Where will you go after all you've experienced?" "I think it's time to return home, to the Shire," he replied with a gentle smile. "I need peace and time for recovery." "Time to complete the transformation," he thought. "Time to prepare for a new era." The return to the Shire was a temporary stage. Sauron-Frodo knew he needed to find a secluded place for the final stage of his metamorphosis. And such a place existed—the Uttermost West, where Ring-bearers were granted the right to sail with the last elves. The farewell to Sam, Merry, and Pippin at the Grey Havens was filled with false sadness and true triumph. Sauron boarded the white ship that would carry him and the last Eldar to Valinor, with secret exultation. The great Valar, thinking they were inviting an exhausted hero for healing, were in fact admitting ancient evil in a new guise into their blessed lands. Standing on the deck of the ship sailing into the sunset, Sauron-Frodo took one last look at the shores of Middle-earth. Behind him, Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel conversed quietly, not suspecting that beside them stood their greatest enemy, preparing for a new ascent. "The first part of the plan is complete," thought Sauron, gazing at the eastern horizon disappearing in the distance. "Now the real game begins." The white ship glided over the waves, carrying westward a being once known as Sauron, now ready to bring darkness to the place from which it had once been banished. The circle was to close, and a new story—to begin. The white ship, carrying the last elves and a secret passenger, crossed the Sundering Seas, heading toward lands hidden from mortal eyes. Sauron-Frodo spent long hours on deck, ostensibly immersed in melancholic contemplation. In reality, he was preparing for his encounter with the Valar—ancient deities who had once banished his teacher, Melkor-Morgoth. As they drew closer to the Undying Lands, the transformation within him accelerated. Elves on the ship, including Galadriel, noticed strange changes in the small hobbit—sudden bursts of inexplicable energy, moments of acute perspicacity uncharacteristic of a simple Shire-dweller. But they attributed this to the influence of Valinor's proximity, healing wounds of body and soul. "You look... different, Frodo," Gandalf remarked one day, carefully studying his face. "As if the light within you has grown brighter." "I feel changes, Gandalf," Sauron honestly replied, using this admission as part of his disguise. "As if the weight of many years is beginning to lift." "You cannot imagine what changes, specifically," he added mentally. When the outlines of the Blessed Realm finally appeared on the horizon, Sauron felt a surge of ancient emotions. Valinor—the land from which he had been banished eons ago, when he still bore the name Mairon and served Aulë, before joining Melkor. Now he was returning—not as a repentant prodigal son, but as a wolf in sheep's clothing. The first meeting with the Valar was a test of his acting prowess. In the Circle of Doom, where Melkor himself had once been judged, they now honored the hobbit who had destroyed the greatest weapon of Darkness. Manwë, Lord of the Winds and king of the Valar, welcomed the arrivals. His gaze seemed to penetrate the very depths of the soul. Beside him stood Varda Elentári, Queen of Stars, whose light was unbearable for creatures of darkness. "Frodo Baggins of the Shire," pronounced Manwë in a voice like the breath of a mighty wind. "Your deed has brought peace to Middle-earth. Here in Valinor, you shall find healing from the wounds inflicted by darkness." Sauron bowed his head in a sign of humility and gratitude, restraining an inner storm of emotions. To stand so close to those who had banished his master, who had rejected him, was almost unbearable. But he endured this moment, as he had endured countless trials throughout the millennia of his existence. "I am grateful for the honor bestowed," he said in Frodo's voice, perfectly conveying hobbit simplicity and sincerity. "But I do not feel like a hero. I simply did what I had to do." These words elicited approving glances from the Valar. Modesty was valued in the Blessed Realm far more than pride in one's deeds. In the days that followed, Sauron-Frodo became acquainted with the wonders of Valinor. He was provided a small house on the outskirts of Tirion, the elven city on the green hill of Túna. All around stretched the endless gardens of Yavanna, the fields of Oromë, and the silver fountains of Ulmo. Gandalf—or Olórin, as he was called here—often visited his little friend, telling him about the mysteries of Valinor and the wisdom of the Valar. He did not suspect that his pupil actually knew about the Undying Lands much more than he allowed himself to show. "You're recovering quickly, Frodo," Olórin observed one day. "Your eyes no longer hold the shadows of Mordor." "This land heals," replied Sauron with an enigmatic smile. "I feel myself becoming... whole." And this was true—the transformation continued. With each day spent in Valinor, the power received in Orodruin strengthened, nourished by the special energy of the Undying Lands. Frodo's body gradually changed from within, becoming a vessel for something much more powerful than a simple hobbit. Especially useful for Sauron were visits to the libraries of Tirion, where ancient scrolls dating back to the Years of the Trees were kept. Under the pretext of studying history and wanting to better understand the world he had entered, Sauron gathered information about Valinor's defense systems, the rituals of the Valar, and forgotten places of power. One evening, when Varda's stars shone particularly brightly over Valinor, Sauron received an unexpected invitation. Estë the Healer, spouse of Irmo-Lórien, wished to meet him in the Gardens of Lórien—a place of healing for souls and bodies. Sauron became wary. Estë possessed the gift of seeing hidden wounds and ailments. Could she notice his true essence? But refusal would arouse suspicion, and so Frodo humbly accepted the invitation. The Gardens of Lórien were filled with fragrances unknown to Middle-earth. Silvery mist swirled between trees whose leaves changed color from silver to gold with each breath of wind. In the center of the gardens, by a lake with water resembling liquid starlight, waited Estë. "Welcome, Frodo of the Shire," she said in a voice like the rustle of leaves in a summer garden. "I have been observing your healing since your arrival." "I feel much better, thanks to the generosity of Valinor," replied Sauron, carefully controlling every intonation, every gesture of the hobbit body. "Your external wounds are healing well," nodded Estë, and her eyes, ancient and wise, momentarily flashed with insight. "But I see in you... a contradiction. As if two essences struggle within one body." Sauron tensed inwardly but remained outwardly serene. "The Ring left a deep mark," he said quietly. "Sometimes I feel its presence, even knowing it has been destroyed." Estë gazed at him for a long time, and Sauron felt as if she could see through his disguise. But then the Valië smiled and offered him a cup of silvery liquid. "Drink this. It will help you find inner harmony." Sauron knew refusal was impossible. He accepted the cup and slowly drank its contents, ready for any reaction his transforming body might have to the Valar substance. To his surprise, the elixir caused no harm. On the contrary, it accelerated the transformation process, integrating Sauron's essence with Frodo's body at a deeper level. What was intended as healing became a catalyst for his metamorphosis. "I feel... peace," he said, and this was not a lie. The contradiction within had indeed diminished, but not in the way Estë had intended. After the meeting with the Healer, Sauron-Frodo began the final phase of his plan. Now that his presence in Valinor was fully accepted, when even the Valar considered him worthy of their trust, he could proceed to search for the source of his final transformation. This source was to be Ezellohar—the hill where once grew the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, destroyed by Melkor and Ungoliant. Even after the Trees' destruction, the hill retained residual energy capable of transforming the essence of one who knew the proper rituals. On a quiet night, when most of Valinor's inhabitants were celebrating the Midsummer Festival, Sauron-Frodo slipped away from Tirion and headed for Ezellohar. The hill was in a forbidden zone, but knowledge gleaned from ancient scrolls helped him bypass the protective barriers. Ezellohar greeted him with dead silence. Once green and alive, the hill was now gray and lifeless. But beneath the surface slumbered power—primordial energy of creation, remnants of the Trees' power, created by Yavanna herself. Sauron began the ritual, recalling ancient words pronounced in a language older than Valinor itself. His body—Frodo's body—glowed from within, as if the blood in his veins had turned to molten gold. The pain was unbearable, but Sauron continued, knowing that beyond this threshold awaited a new form of existence. At the ritual's climactic moment, the earth beneath him trembled. From the depths of the hill rose a pillar of silver-gold light—the last breath of the Two Trees, preserved in the earth for eons. This light enveloped the hobbit's figure, transforming it, reshaping the very essence of his being. When the light faded, no longer did Frodo of the Shire stand upon the hill. Formally, it was still a hobbit body, but it radiated an aura of ancient power. Eyes, once blue and guileless, now flickered with golden fire. The skin acquired a slight metallic tint, and movements became fluid, like those of a Maia. Sauron in Frodo's renewed body experienced a moment of pure triumph. Now, while maintaining the external form of a hobbit—an excellent disguise among the Valar and Eldar—he possessed a significant portion of his original power. He was no longer limited by the weaknesses of a mortal body. His return to Tirion went unnoticed, but in the days that followed, the city's inhabitants began to note strange changes in the small hobbit's behavior. Frodo became more solitary, often seen meditating on high towers, gazing eastward, toward Middle-earth. Gandalf, concerned by these changes, came to visit his friend during one such moment of solitude. "Something has changed in you, Frodo," said the wizard, carefully studying his face. "You look... not as before." "Isn't that what one expects from Valinor?" replied Sauron with a subtle smile. "Changes. Healing. Transformation." "Yes, but..." Gandalf fell silent, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, he thought he saw golden fire flash in the hobbit's eyes. "There are different kinds of transformation, Frodo. Not all lead to light." "Light and darkness are merely two sides of the same coin, my dear Olórin," said Sauron, using Gandalf's true name for the first time. "Did you not teach me that?" Gandalf stepped back, his face darkening. "I never told you that name," he said quietly. Sauron realized he had made a mistake. The power overflowing within him had caused him to lose caution. But instead of retreating, he decided to reveal part of his truth. "You are right, Olórin," said Sauron in a voice that no longer fully imitated Frodo. "I know much more than a simple hobbit from the Shire should." Gandalf took another step back, his hand subtly moving toward his staff. Millennia of experience told him that something incomprehensible and dangerous was happening before him. "Who are you?" he asked, and his voice, usually gentle and friendly, acquired steely notes. "And where is the real Frodo?" Sauron laughed—a sound too melodious and deep for a hobbit throat. "The real Frodo never left the Shire, Olórin. He died in his cradle many years ago when I sought a new vessel for my essence. You have befriended a ghost for many years." Gandalf's face contorted with horror and anger. The sudden realization of the truth hit him like a physical blow. "Sauron," he exhaled, and this was not a question. "It's always pleasant when old friends recognize you," replied Sauron, straightening up. Even in a hobbit body, he now radiated an aura of power and ancient threat. "I must admit, this was my best reincarnation. Even Galadriel did not recognize me, though she once prided herself on her perspicacity in Eregion." Gandalf raised his staff, preparing for battle, but Sauron stopped him with a gesture. "Don't be a fool, Olórin. We are in Valinor. Any manifestation of power of such magnitude will attract the attention of the Valar. Do you really want to start a war here, in the Blessed Realm?" The wizard hesitated, understanding the truth in his adversary's words. Direct confrontation could lead to catastrophic consequences for all of Valinor. "How..." he began, trying to comprehend the scale of the deception. "How did you survive? The Ring was destroyed. We all saw the fall of Barad-dûr." "Appearances, my dear Olórin," answered Sauron with a smile of superiority. "In Orodruin, I performed a ritual unknown even to the wisest of the Eldar. When the Ring touched the lava, it was not destroyed—it released the power concentrated within it, which returned to me. And the fall of Barad-dûr? Merely a necessary sacrifice. Buildings can be rebuilt." Gandalf looked at him with horror and involuntary admiration for the audacity of the plan. "Why are you telling me all this now?" he asked. "You could have continued the masquerade." "Because I no longer need full disguise," replied Sauron, stepping forward. "I have achieved what I wanted—rebirth in a new form. And as a token of old... friendship, I offer you a choice, Olórin." "What choice?" Gandalf asked tensely. "Join me," proposed Sauron, and his voice took on hypnotic notes that once seduced the elves of Eregion. "Together we can change Valinor. Don't you see the stagnation of the Blessed Realm? The Valar have frozen in their perfection, unwilling to develop and change. We can bring a new era—an era of growth and transformation." Gandalf listened with a stony face, but Sauron saw that his words found resonance—not in the wizard's heart, but in his mind, always thirsting for new knowledge and understanding. "You were always a creator, Sauron," Gandalf finally said. "Before you became a destroyer. That is your tragedy." "Creation and destruction are two sides of the same process," objected Sauron. "One cannot build anew without destroying the old. Even Eru understood this when he created Arda through the music of the Ainur." Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase. Someone was climbing toward them. Sauron and Gandalf exchanged quick glances. "This is not over," said the wizard. "It never was," agreed Sauron. The door opened, and Galadriel stepped onto the platform. Her eyes instantly assessed the tense situation. "What is happening?" she asked, shifting her gaze from Gandalf to Frodo. "Lady Galadriel," said Sauron with perfectly calculated Frodo-like intonation. "I was just telling Gandalf about strange dreams that have been visiting me lately. Dreams of the Ring and... of its creator." Galadriel looked at him intently, and Sauron felt her mind touch his thoughts. He allowed her to see only what he wanted to show—images of nightmares haunting a tired hobbit. "These dreams are but echoes of the past," she said finally. "They will pass with time. Valinor will heal even the deepest wounds of the soul." Gandalf looked as if he wanted to object, but remained silent. Sauron knew the wizard would not risk making accusations without proof—the consequences of both error and truth would be too serious. In the days that followed, a silent duel unfolded between Sauron and Gandalf. The wizard kept his eyes on "Frodo," trying to find evidence for his suspicions or, perhaps, a moment when Sauron would make a mistake. For his part, the Dark Lord continued his study of Valinor, gathering information and planning his next steps. The culmination came during the Winter Solstice festival, when all the residents of Tirion gathered in the Great Hall for a solemn ceremony. Gandalf, unable to bear the tension, addressed Manwë and Varda directly, expressing his suspicions. "Lord of the Winds, Queen of Stars," he said, kneeling. "I must inform you of a troubling discovery. The being we know as Frodo Baggins is not who he appears to be." Whispers of surprise and concern swept through the hall. Sauron, standing to the side, maintained composure, though inwardly preparing for confrontation. Manwë gestured for Frodo to come closer. "Grave accusations have been made against you, hobbit of the Shire," said the Valar. "What do you say in your defense?" Sauron stepped forward, and the entire hall fell silent, watching him. The moment of truth had come earlier than he had planned, but he was ready. "I will answer these accusations," he said, and his voice was no longer Frodo's. "But not as Frodo Baggins, but as who I truly am." With these words, he activated the power gained at Ezellohar. The hobbit body glowed from within, transforming before the eyes of the astounded audience. His height increased, facial features changed, becoming more noble and simultaneously frightening. When the transformation was complete, standing before the Valar was no longer a hobbit, but a tall Maia with golden eyes and an aura of ancient might. "Mairon," gasped Yavanna, recognizing her former fellow Maia. This name, which Sauron bore before his fall, before joining Melkor, resonated in the hall like an echo of forgotten epochs. "I prefer the name Sauron," he replied calmly. "It more accurately reflects my essence." The hall erupted in exclamations of horror and disbelief. Elves stepped back, recalling the wars of past ages in which this Maia was their greatest enemy. Manwë rose from his throne, his face like a storm cloud. "How dare you defile the Blessed Realm with your presence?" he thundered. "You, who betrayed your brethren to serve Darkness!" "I came not to destroy, but to transform," replied Sauron, addressing not only Manwë, but all present. "Valinor is beautiful, but it has frozen in its perfection. There is no development, no evolution, no future—only an eternal present. I propose change." "Your 'changes' brought only destruction to Middle-earth," interjected Varda, her voice cold as starlight. "You have no right to propose anything to Valinor." "Do I not?" Sauron smirked. "Then who has the right to decide the fate of the world? Only you, the Valar, who have withdrawn from the affairs of Middle-earth? Or perhaps the elves, who abandoned mortal peoples for their own comfort?" His words hit their mark. Many elves, especially those who had recently left Middle-earth, still felt guilt for those left behind. "Each of my steps, each action in Middle-earth had a purpose," continued Sauron. "I sought order in a world full of chaos. Unity of peoples under one rule. Was that evil?" "Your 'order' was built on fear and enslavement," objected Gandalf. "You did not unite, but subjugated." "Sometimes that is the only way," Sauron parried. "The free peoples of Middle-earth warred against each other for centuries. Only fear of a common enemy forced them to unite. Perhaps my methods were cruel, but the end would have justified the means." Silence reigned in the hall. No one expected such argumentation from a being considered the embodiment of evil. "Enough," Manwë finally pronounced. "Your words are skillful, Sauron, but they cannot hide your true intentions. You will be judged for your deeds." Sauron smiled—not maliciously, but with bitterness. "Judged by those who abandoned Middle-earth to its fate? Who allowed Melkor to freely destroy what you created? Who for centuries observed the sufferings of mortal peoples from the safety of Valinor?" His accusations made some Valar lower their gaze. Even Galadriel, always confident in her righteousness, looked pensive. "If you wish to judge me," continued Sauron, "then first answer: why did you allow one who was supposedly the greatest enemy of the free peoples to freely enter Valinor? Where were your protective barriers, your vaunted wisdom, when I, hidden in the body of a hobbit, crossed the Sundering Seas?" This question remained unanswered. The Valar exchanged glances, realizing the scale of their misjudgment. Sauron understood that direct confrontation with the Valar on their territory would not bring victory. But his goal was not to defeat his opponents, but to sow doubt in their hearts and minds. Doubt that could become the seed of future changes. "You have not answered my question," he continued, addressing the silent Valar. "Why could you not recognize me? Perhaps because after eons of isolation in this perfect paradise, you have lost connection with the reality of Middle-earth? Or perhaps because deep in your hearts, you acknowledge the rightness of my goals, if not my methods?" Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who had always been most sympathetic to the affairs of Middle-earth, rose from his place. "Your words contain a measure of truth, Sauron," he said, causing a wave of whispers among those present. "We have indeed become too detached from the fates of those lands. But that does not justify the evil you have wrought." "'Evil' is a label that victors hang on the vanquished," replied Sauron. "Was not the destruction of Númenor evil? Was not the drowning of an entire island with thousands of innocent inhabitants an excessive punishment for the sins of their rulers?" This strike was aimed at the most vulnerable spot—some of the Valar still doubted the rightness of that catastrophe they had caused by appealing to Eru to punish the Númenóreans. "You manipulated the kings of Númenor, inciting them to rebellion against us," objected Varda. "I merely opened their eyes to the truth," countered Sauron. "To the injustice of a world where some are granted eternal life in paradise, and others—a brief existence ending in uncertainty. Was not their anger justified?" Gandalf observed this exchange of views with growing concern. Sauron was a master of persuasion, and even here, before the very Valar, his arguments found resonance. "Enough discussion," interjected Manwë, seeing confusion among those present. "Sauron will be confined in the Halls of Mandos until a decision is made about his fate." "But first," added Varda, "he must tell us what happened to the real Frodo Baggins. Is the hobbit Ring-bearer alive?" Sauron shook his head, and in his golden eyes flashed something akin to regret—sincere or artfully acted, it was impossible to tell. "Frodo Baggins died as an infant when I took his body," he replied. "This was many decades ago. The one you knew as Frodo—was always me." This truth struck those present deeper than any previous revelations. So there was no hero-hobbit. There was no selfless feat. The entire story of a humble Shire-dweller who sacrificed himself to save the world was a lie from beginning to end. "What of the Ring?" asked Elrond, joining the conversation for the first time. "It was destroyed in Orodruin. We all felt the moment of its destruction." "You felt the release of its power," clarified Sauron. "But that power did not disappear; it returned to me, its creator. The Ring fulfilled its final and greatest function—it became the catalyst for my rebirth." Mandos, the silent judge of the dead, approached Sauron. "Will you go willingly to my halls?" he asked in a voice as ancient as Arda itself. "Or will force be required?" Sauron assessed the situation. Open resistance against all the Valar would be futile, even considering his increased power. But he had another plan. "I will go willingly," he answered. "But first I wish to make a proposal." "What proposal can a prisoner make to his jailers?" smirked Tulkas, the most warlike of the Valar. "I propose participation in a new Song," said Sauron, and these words seemed to change the very atmosphere in the hall. All the Ainur, both Valar and Maiar, remembered the First Music—the great symphony from which Arda was born. Then Melkor's voice introduced dissonance, which became the source of all the world's misfortunes. But the idea of a new Song had never been openly discussed. "What do you mean?" asked Manwë, and in his voice there was curiosity instead of anger for the first time. "Eru created the world through Music," explained Sauron. "But this Music was distorted by Melkor's dissonance. Everything that has happened since—wars, suffering, disrupted harmony—is a consequence of that original disharmony. But what if we could fix this? Create a new Song that would rewrite reality?" "That is... impossible," said Aulë, but doubt sounded in his voice. "Only Eru can begin a new Music." "Is that so?" objected Sauron. "We are all parts of Eru, especially you, the Valar. In each of us is a spark of his creative power. Together we could create a new harmony—not canceling the old, but complementing it, correcting distortions." The idea was so audacious, so revolutionary, that even the most hostile of the Valar toward Sauron hesitated. The possibility of correcting the original error of creation, eliminating the root of all Arda's misfortunes—this was a temptation difficult to resist. "This is heresy," pronounced Mandos. "We cannot interfere with Ilúvatar's design." "Have you not already interfered when you drowned Númenor?" countered Sauron. "Or when you hid Valinor from mortals? Each of your actions changes the course of history preordained by the Music. Why not do this consciously, purposefully?" Galadriel, who had been listening attentively to this exchange of views, stepped forward. "I have long fought against you, Sauron," she said. "But I must admit that there is a grain of truth in your words. We have been passive observers for too long. Perhaps the time has come for more active participation in Arda's fate." Her support, albeit partial, changed the atmosphere in the hall. If even Galadriel, Sauron's implacable enemy, saw sense in his proposal, perhaps it deserved consideration? Manwë raised his hand, calling for silence. "Sauron's proposal is too serious to make a decision immediately," he said. "We must consider it and consult with Eru. Meanwhile, Sauron will remain in custody in the Halls of Mandos." Sauron bowed, concealing his satisfaction. The seed of doubt had been sown, and now it would grow. Even if his idea were not accepted immediately, it would remain in the minds of the Valar, gradually changing their worldview. As guards escorted him to the Halls of Mandos, Sauron exchanged a glance with Gandalf. In the wizard's eyes, he saw understanding—Olórin had realized his strategy and its potential consequences. In the Halls of Mandos, surrounded by the spirits of the dead, Sauron waited. Time for him, as for all Ainur, had a different meaning than for mortals. Days blended into years, years into centuries. But he knew his words were working, slowly changing the very structure of Valinor society. Periodically visitors came to him—Valar and Maiar wishing to hear more about his idea of a new Song. Even Galadriel visited him several times, driven by a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "Why did you really come to Valinor?" she asked during one such visit. "What is your true purpose?" Sauron gazed at her with the long look of his golden eyes. "Perhaps I grew tired of the endless cycle of creation and destruction," he finally answered. "Perhaps even beings like me can aspire to harmony instead of chaos." "I don't believe you," Galadriel shook her head. "But part of me wants to believe. And that frightens me most of all." "Fear is the beginning of wisdom," smiled Sauron. "One should fear not change, but stagnation." A thousand years passed before the Valar made their decision. A thousand years of discussions, doubts, searching for an answer. During this time, much had changed. Middle-earth developed in its own way—the Fourth Age gave way to the Fifth, humans became the dominant race, magic gradually left the world. Valinor remained unchanged, but in its immutability, there was now a sense of discomfort, an awareness of limitation. Finally, Manwë appeared in the Halls of Mandos with a decision. "We have discussed your proposal, Sauron," he said. "And we turned to Eru for counsel. The answer came not in words, but in a sign, which each of us interpreted in our own way. Most of us see in this sign approval for the idea of a new Song." Sauron restrained his triumph, limiting himself to a measured nod. His plan had worked—even if it took a millennium to see the fruits. "But," continued Manwë, "we do not fully trust you. The new Song will be created under our guidance, not yours." "I never aspired to the role of conductor," Sauron humbly replied. "I merely offer my voice as one among many in the choir." Thus began preparation for the greatest event since the creation of Arda. Valar, Maiar, elves—all inhabitants of Valinor gathered on the great plain of Ezellohar, where once grew the Two Trees. There they rehearsed the new Music, exploring harmonies and dissonances, striving to create a sound that could heal the original wounds of creation. Sauron participated in these rehearsals as one of the Maiar—not standing out, but not hiding either. His musical talent, inherited from his service to Aulë, allowed him to make valuable contributions to the overall composition. Gradually, even the most skeptical Valar began to acknowledge his mastery and the sincerity of his intentions. Gandalf observed the proceedings with mixed feelings. On one hand, the idea of a new Song capable of healing the world was beautiful. On the other—he still remembered who Sauron was and what he had sought in the past. "Have you truly changed?" he asked one day, when they were alone after rehearsal. "Change is the only constant in the universe," replied Sauron. "Even Melkor began as one of the greatest Valar. Even you, Olórin, changed after your death in Moria. Why should I be an exception to this rule?" Gandalf looked at him, trying to see beyond the golden eyes to the true intentions of his former enemy. "Because your changes always led to even greater deception," he answered. "From Mairon to Annatar, from Annatar to Zigûr, from Zigûr to the Dark Lord, from him—to Frodo. Each transformation was a new mask for old purposes." "What if this time there is no mask?" Sauron quietly asked. "What if I truly am weary of endless struggle? Even Melkor was eventually defeated and cast beyond the world. I saw his fall and understood the futility of opposing Eru's design." "That I do not know," admitted Gandalf. "And perhaps I never will. But I will watch you, Sauron. Always." "I expect nothing less," smiled Sauron. "After all, the best friends are made from former enemies. They never lose vigilance." Preparation for the great Song continued. Centuries passed in rehearsals, in fine-tuning each voice. Elves, whose musical mastery was legendary, contributed their melodies, reflecting their love for stars and forests. The Valar added fundamental themes of the elements—water, air, earth, and fire. The Maiar created complex interweaving, connecting major themes with minor ones. Sauron's role was special. As the only one present who had served Melkor, he knew the Dark Vala's dissonances from within. This knowledge allowed him to propose counter-melodies capable of neutralizing the original distortion without completely destroying it—for even dissonance was part of Eru's design. "We cannot and should not strive for complete harmony," he explained during one rehearsal. "A world without contrast between light and shadow, without the struggle of opposites, would be static, dead. Our goal is not to eliminate dissonance, but to integrate it into a broader harmony." This philosophy, once considered heretical, now found understanding even among the Valar. They began to realize that their own pursuit of perfection, of absolute harmony, had led to the stagnation of Valinor. Manwë, initially the most skeptical of Sauron's ideas, over time became his attentive listener. "I am beginning to understand," he admitted one day, "that our isolation from the problems of Middle-earth was a mistake. We sought to preserve the purity and perfection of our world, but instead deprived it of vital force." "Perfection is static, and therefore—dead," agreed Sauron. "True life is always in the process of becoming, in the dialectic of opposites." After two thousand years of preparation, the day arrived when the new Song was to be sung. All inhabitants of Valinor gathered on the plain of Ezellohar. In the center stood Manwë, ready to conduct the greatest choir in the history of creation. Around him stood the rest of the Valar, forming an inner circle. Maiar, including Sauron and Gandalf, formed a second circle. Elves were positioned in an outer circle, their voices meant to add special nuance to the main themes. Before beginning the Song, Manwë addressed Eru with a prayer, asking blessing for this audacious endeavor. The answer was silence, but in this silence there felt approval—or, at least, the absence of prohibition. "We begin," pronounced Manwë, and raised his hands. The first notes were almost inaudible—the soft breath of wind, the whisper of leaves. Then the voices of the Valar added their themes—deep, fundamental melodies reflecting the foundations of creation. The Maiar wove in their counterpoints, creating complex polyphony. Finally, the elves joined in, their pure voices soaring upward, as if striving to reach the very sky. Sauron entered with his part at precisely the appointed moment. His voice carried the memory of Melkor's dissonances, but transformed, integrated into a new harmony. It was the voice of shadow acknowledging its inseparability from light, the voice of chaos finding its place in cosmos. When all voices united at the Song's culmination point, something inexplicable occurred. The space around the singers began to change—not physically, but on a deeper, ontological level. Reality became plastic, responsive to the sounds of the Song. From the earth at the site of the former Two Trees, golden and silvery shoots began to rise—not copies of the previous Telperion and Laurelin, but new plants combining their properties. These new Trees radiated light that was neither day nor night, but contained elements of both. The vision of reality expanded for those present. They could see not only Valinor, but distant Middle-earth, and even lands beyond. The boundaries between worlds became transparent, permeable. In this moment of supreme unity, Sauron recognized a truth he had sought throughout his long life. The order he had striven for by creating the Rings of Power and subjugating peoples could not be imposed from without. True harmony arose only from the free interaction of opposites, from their dynamic equilibrium. When the last notes of the Song dissolved into the air, silence ensued—not empty, but filled with awareness. Each participant felt that the world had changed. Not radically, not catastrophically, but fundamentally. The rift between Valinor and Middle-earth, between divine and material, between light and darkness had not been eliminated, but transformed into a bridge. "What has happened?" whispered Galadriel, looking at the new Trees growing where once Melkor and Ungoliant had committed their evil deed. "We have healed a wound in the fabric of reality," answered Manwë. "Not completely, but enough to begin the process of restoration." Sauron was silent, experiencing a profound inner transformation. His centuries-old plan had reached its culmination, but the result was unexpected even for himself. He had sought power over Valinor, the transformation of this world in his own image. Instead, he himself had been transformed, becoming part of a new harmony. Gandalf approached him, peering intently into the golden eyes of his former enemy. "You too have changed," he said. "I see it." "As have you," replied Sauron. "As have we all. The new Song has changed not only the world around us, but ourselves as well." In the days that followed, it became clear that the Song's effect had spread far beyond Valinor. In Middle-earth, people reported strange dreams and visions, sudden insights and creative breakthroughs. The boundaries between the physical and spiritual worlds had thinned, allowing a freer exchange of energies and ideas. The Valar, for the first time in many ages, began to actively interact with Middle-earth. Not directly, not through crude intervention, but through subtle influence, inspiration, support. Ulmo spoke to sailors through the sound of waves, Yavanna blessed fields and forests, Aulë inspired craftsmen and artisans. Sauron, once the greatest enemy of the free peoples, found a new role. His understanding of darkness and chaos enabled him to serve as a mediator between opposites, a translator from the language of shadow to the language of light. He worked with Estë and Irmo, helping to heal ancient traumas and fears in the souls of living beings. "You have truly changed," Galadriel said to him during one of their conversations. "Or were you always thus, but concealed your true essence?" "I have been many beings throughout my life," answered Sauron. "Mairon, servant of Aulë. Sauron, lieutenant of Melkor. Annatar, giver of rings. Frodo, bearer of the ring. Each was real in his time. And what I am now—is also real." The new Trees that grew on Ezellohar became the symbol of this new era. Their light, containing both gold and silver, day and night, was a reminder of the possibility of integrating opposites. Around them, the inhabitants of Valinor often gathered for meditation and conversation. Sauron often came to the Trees in solitude, reflecting on the strange turns of fate. His plan to conquer Valinor had transformed into something entirely different—participation in the healing of the world. Was this his victory or defeat? He no longer knew. And, surprisingly, this ignorance brought a special form of peace. One day, sitting beneath the Trees, he noticed that he no longer felt the thirst for power that had been his constant companion for millennia. Instead came a new feeling—the desire to create without destroying, to change without subjugating, to unite without absorbing. "Perhaps," he thought, looking at the intertwining of golden and silver light in the foliage above his head, "this is true transformation. Not a mask donned for deception, but a genuine change of essence." And in this moment of deep realization, it seemed to him that he heard the distant echo of Eru's laughter—not mocking, but kind, rejoicing in the return of the prodigal son from darkness to light. But was this truly the end of his journey? Or merely a new beginning? Sauron smiled, looking at the horizon where the light of the new Trees met the infinity of the heavens. In this world, changed by the new Song, possibilities were boundless. And even one who had once been the Dark Lord could find a new path to light. A final question haunted him, one he would perhaps spend eternity pondering: Had he conquered Valinor as he had once planned, or had Valinor conquered him? The answer, he realized, mattered far less than the journey that had brought him here—from darkness to a new form of light, from conquest to creation, from the shadows of Mordor to the radiance of the reborn Trees. For in the end, even the greatest of deceptions had led to an unexpected truth: that harmony could not be imposed, only discovered, and that sometimes the most profound victory comes in surrender. As the light of the new day bathed Valinor in its mingled silver and gold, Sauron—once the greatest deceiver of Middle-earth—found himself, for perhaps the first time in his long existence, free of deception. Whether by chance or design, by victory or defeat, he had finally come home.