Surrender after the War of Wrath by Uvatha the Horseman

Captured

Tired of running, Sauron approached the encampment of the Valar.

Captured

Near Angband, FA 1000

He put on a fair form and made his way back to the tent city that had sprung up on the plains before the gates of Angband. The gates of Angband were smashed, Thangorodrim had collapsed, and oily black smoke roiled through the collapsed roofs of the fortress.

When he was evading capture, he was afraid, but once he decided to surrender, all he felt was tired. He felt like he was moving underwater, or trying to walk through hip-deep mud. Walking was an effort, and he was so weary, he could have fallen asleep on his feet right there.

He felt apprehensive about approaching the camp. A line of Elven warriors guarded the perimeter. They carried kite-shaped shields and were heavily armed.

He pushed back his hood so his face showed, and spoke to them in a friendly way. He knew from experience it’s easy to shoot an anonymous figure, but less so a person with a face and a voice.  

When they saw him, they drew their swords. Each of the archers notched an arrow and raised his bow. In an instant, half a dozen steel tips were aimed at his heart.

It occurred to him that he should have removed Melkor’s badge before he approached the camp. His error might cost him his change to surrender. His mouth went dry.

Very slowly, he held his hands away from his body.

Their leader addressed him with contempt.

“Sauron Gorthaur.”

He hated that name. Sauron was the Elvish word for filth.

“Put your hands behind your head.”

He laced his fingers on top of his head. His hair felt greasy, and there were leaves in it.

The line of warriors closed in a circle around him, their weapons drawn. There was fear in their faces, and he noticed that when he looked at them, they pulled away.

One of the Elves returned with three young Maiar. Mairon didn’t recognize them, but they knew who he was.

They pushed through the circle and came towards him.

“Don’t move.”

He kept his hands on his head.

The Maiar approached him, their weapons drawn. Two stopped just out of reach and watched him closely, while the third one circled around behind.

Unseen hands roved over his body. He felt his sword belt being unbuckled, and a knife was removed from his boot. Confidential papers were taken from his pockets, a personal letter, battle plans, the names of spies. He should have gotten rid of those things earlier, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

He felt a leather cord wrapped around his wrists two or three times, then cinched tight and knotted. His fingers started to swell.

“Come with us.”

He walked between them, each of them gripping one of his arms.

They brought him to a large tent. It must be a command tent, because guards were posted on either side of the entrance. In front, a pole supported a large banner.

The wind was still, so the banner hung slack. He couldn’t read it, so he didn’t know who he was about to face. Oromë, whose hounds and hunters he had run from. Or worse, Tulkas. If it’s Tulkas, I’m going to get hurt.

The wind picked up and lifted the banner. Eönwë.

He sagged with relief. Eönwë was a good person, and he believed that other people were basically good, too. More important, at the core of his being, Eönwë was kind.

If anyone could be manipulated, it was Eönwë.