#60: No, THIS Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life!

Mar
24

Date: June 17, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: completely humiliated

I thought things couldn’t get any worse than they were yesterday. I was wrong.

Today I was hovering over the maelstrom where the seas are still rushing into the great chasm that was once Angband. I’ve dropped my physical form and have been manifesting as a naked fëa, just for mobility’s sake. Also, I didn’t want anyone to see me blubbering my eyes out over the loss of a billion years’ hard work and effort. And in spirit form, only other Ainu can see me.

Then some other Ainur saw me.

Somebody cleared their (metaphorical) throat, and there revealed was the spirit of Eönwë. He’s the lick-spittle who took over my position as Chief of the Maiar when the Valar rebelled against Melkor. His official title is “Banner-bearer and Herald of Manwë, which is pretty retarded since immortal anthropomorphic personifications of eternal verities don’t really need flags or bugles to make their wishes known. But whatever.

“Hearken, o Sauron, spirit of Craft,” he said, intoning in that bullshit Biblical way that lesser Ainur use when they want to seem all serious (whatever a “Bible” is). “The bonds that Morgoth has lain upon you are strong. But redemption still lies within your grasp.”

The bonds that Melkor laid on me? This from the asshole who polishes Manwë’s buttocks on a nightly basis?

“The Powers of Arda call on you, Sauron, to return to Taniquetil in Aman, and place yourself in judgment before Manwë Súlimo. Admit to and repent your crimes, against the Valar and Maiar; against the Children of Ilúvatar, the Elder and the Younger; and against Eru Ilúvatar Himself, and you will know justice, and forgiveness.”

Now, you know how you always wish later you had thought of something really clever to say, something witty and cutting that would really put someone in their place? That esprit d’escalier, when you think of the perfect comeback ten minutes too late? That always happens to me. Because what I wish I had said — what I wish I had said — was, “no, thank you.”

But I couldn’t concentrate, and all I could think of to say was, “listen here, you piss-ant little shit-bag. I wouldn’t give Manwë the Dickless Prick the life-altering honor of licking the Orc-pus off the bottom of my iron-tipped boots, much less let that syphilitic sideshow freak hold me in so-called ‘judgment’ over deeds I committed, by right, as Chief Lieutenant of the True Lord of the Earth. So why don’t you go back to your satin-lined hidey-hole in Aman, lube yourself up, and insert yourself right back up into Manwë’s distended rectum where you belong!”

And with that, I made to leave. But there were more Ainur present, and I recognized them both, unfortunately. One was that jackass Curunír, the useless little Craft spirit who used to spy for me in Almaren way back before the Second War. He was apparently still afraid of me, because he was hiding behind the allegorical skirts of another Maia — Olórin, that sanctimonious jackass whom I almost killed in the First War. Of course he would be here at my lowest possible moment.

“Sauron,” Olórin said, “reject not the pity of Manwë, for there are those in Aman, of your own people, who love you still.”

Pity? Pity?? If I had harbored any fleeting desire to limp simpering with my tail between my legs to Valinor to cower at the heels of Manwë the Dickless Prick, it was obliterated in that moment. Pity? Suck my big, fat, hairy werewolf balls.

But, before I could share with Olórin my deeply held, well-reasoned, and carefully-worded thoughts on the matter, another Maia appeared. And you know that whole bit about “lowest moment of my life?” Yeah, well, up until this moment, it was my freakin’ birthday party. I didn’t know what “low” was.

A voice spoke — a gentle, musical voice, more beautiful than any other amongst the Maiar. “Mairon,” it spoke, “my beloved Mairon, do not speak so harshly, nor let bitter feelings mar thy beautiful spirit.”

Mairon? Nobody ever calls me Mairon. Not in billions of years. Not since the Timeless Halls. Not since her.

Not since Melian.

There she was, being beautiful, and sweet, and loving, and caring, in all her glorious lover-betraying Elf-buggering glory. My Melian.

“Set aside your hate, and anger, and pride, and willfulness, and desire for mastery,” she implored me, with as much condescension as you might imagine. “Join me, Mairon, and return to your people. Together, we will create things of beauty for all to enjoy.”

I have to admit, I just looked at her for a long time. I mean, where the hell did she get off? Seriously! She left me. She betrayed Melkor. She shacked up with an Elf. She spawned the half-Elf abomination that razed my tower, murdered Draugluin and stole Melkor’s shiny rock. She led the Elves of Doriath in revolt against me, and then abandoned them to slavery and death the moment her Elven boy-toy was dead.

And I’m supposed to ask for forgiveness? Me?

I should have attacked. I should have assumed the form of a great werewolf — huh, bad idea, open water, um… a great Fire Drake, or a Sea Serpent — and ripped her freaking head off. I should have reduced her to a quailing spirit of misery and remorse, plaintively singing laments over the face of the waters until the Last Battle. I should have destroyed her, and Eönwë and Olórin and that other one. Bitch called me Mairon.

But I didn’t. I just fled. And they didn’t follow.

Worst. Day. Of. My. Life.

 

3 Responses to “#60: No, THIS Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life!”

  1. Ashi says:

    RRAAAAAARRR, that SUCKS man!
    Just sos ya know, not ALL of us Wargs got butchered in the last battle. Luckily for myself, me an my mate were off in the far East havin a little holiday when that chit went down over in Beleriand.

    I feel for ya man. Those bitches asking YOU to repent? Bull- Fuckin- SHIT!

    Well, keep us posted on what your next plans are, us homies gotta stick together.

  2. Loviatar says:

    Yes – that was a pathetic display. For all your power and the countless ages of your existence you have the emotional maturity of a spoiled, 14 year old boy. You need a strong hand to guide you if you truly wish to become that which you imagine yourself to be. Dark Lord? Hardly.
    In my realm, I would allow you the honor of being my piss-boy.

  3. Orc#7 says:

    Well this sucks. We are promised what? All the elf-flesh we can eat and (finally) a dental plan if we can take Beleriand. And we do it. Great. Then what? The pits get swallowed by the waves and our fearless leaders either get thrown into the outer-dark or run away crying because his ex was willing to take him back. Well woop-de-doo. Well, looks like I’m going to have to go to Monster.com to find myself a new job.

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