The Dark Lord watched patiently as the leaders of the tribes of Dunland, Rhûn, and Harad shouted profanities and offered threats to one another. The noise inside the chamber was deafening, and Sauron observed the slaves meant to attend to their every need were trembling in fear.

In the lifetime that did not come to pass, the Dark Lord had let his Mouth, an unassuming but ambitious Man of Gondor, handle all the politics. It had taken the Mouth of Sauron a few years of negotiation with the Umbarians and Easterlings to come into the most beneficial concession. In this one, Sauron had decided to participate in the discussion in hopes of speeding up the process. However, it appears, with or without the Dark Lord's presence, the Men would still be prone to disagreements. All thirty-three tribe leaders and army generals now stood bickering in an all too large chamber. Perhaps Sauron should have negotiated with them separately instead of gathering them all in one room at the same time. It seemed he had overestimated Men's desire to please him.

While Sauron relished hate and fear, he loathes chaos and disarrays. He preferred that order was established and his followers were obedient. The fact that these tribes all had different and disagreeing rulers instead of uniting under one leader strengthened Sauron's resolve for conquest. He would rule all and ensure an effective and efficient system. He would control all and ensure peace reigned true, even if a few million Free People had to die for it.

Unbidden and unwelcome, a sour taste climbed the back of his throat. The Dark Lord's features sharpened as he frowned. He swallowed once, twice, thrice, desiring to dissipate the revolting tang. It did not quite work but the sensation became tolerable.

He noticed the tensed silence enveloping the room only after several seconds. The Dark Lord glanced up, wondering what had halted their hour-long arguments.

All the Easterlings' gazes rested upon Sauron, fear and wariness present in their countenance.

Tíbil, leader of the Dunlendings, cleared his throat. He combed his unruly dark beard and hair with thick fingers before saying in fluent Westron, "I apologize, my Lord, for forgetting my manners and responding to-" Here, he shot Madawi, chieftain of a tribe in Haradrim, a cool look. "-a barbarian's baiting."

Madawi snarled, showing off her jaggedly sharp teeth. She leaned towards Tibil, the beads in her brown hair tinkling as she laid her palms flat on the marbled table. "Do not mistake me for one of your unwashed men."

Ibaŕi, the heir of what constitutes a throne in the army of Balchoth, snorted and crossed his arms. "What? Your delicate sensibilities cannot handle a bit of dirt?"

Madawi did not take that kindly. And the arguing started anew, the chiefs and generals barely restraining themselves from maiming one another. Sauron watched them all for a few moments, but he could not find amusement at the maliciousness of Men's hearts. Instead, he felt something akin to exasperation. They were wasting precious time. He pulled out a raven-colored handkerchief from his overcoat pocket and covered his nose; although he would not admit it, on the issue regarding the Dunlendings' smell, the Dark Lord conceded that Madawi had a good point.

The hairs at the back of his neck stood up and Sauron lifted his gaze to face his observer. Ulfang, one of the very few who had opted not to join the squabbling, startled as the Dark Lord met his eyes. Sauron stared him down and the chief quickly turned his head away.

The Dark Lord wondered at the Man's thoughts for a second and not a second more, dismissing them as unimportant. The Easterlings had always worshipped him since the fall of the Númenóreans during the Second Age. The Dark Lord would let them look their fill if they would be more efficient and obedient for it.

Sauron let the altercations in the chamber continue, deciding he would let them tire themselves out. That way, Sauron reasoned, they would be less difficult to deal with.

With his free hand, the Dark Lord beckoned at a slave shaking behind a pillar. The slave's eyes widened, and his skin turned paler. With jittery steps and a bowed head, the young Man approached Sauron's seat. He halted quite a distance away.

"Y-Yes, m-m-my Lord?" he asked before audibly swallowing.

Sauron gestured for him to step closer. The young Man swallowed again before complying, standing inches away from Sauron's chair.

Since Sauron disliked anyone towering over him, he commanded, "Kneel down."

The slave quickly dropped to his knees, creating quite a sound as his legs smacked onto the floor. The noise went unnoticed as the Men continued arguing. The slave looked pained but stayed attentive.

Sauron slightly lifted the handkerchief from his mouth, so his next words wouldn't be muffled.

"What kind of tea do we have in the kitchen?" he asked.

The slave blinked. "T-Tea?"

Throughout the years, the One Ring had watched as both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins gulped down an unhealthy amount of the substance. Since the One Ring was merely a ring, it could not have registered the taste of the strange beverage. All it could know was its bearer's thoughts, and the Halflings' thoughts were filled with nothing but praises.

Curiosity had gripped Sauron when he came by the memories and now, without anything else to do but wait, he would have time to quench it.

"Uh, I, I would see wh-what is in the pantry, m-my Lord," the slave replied before hastily getting to his feet and dashing towards the exit.

Sauron lifted an elegant brow. The slave did not wait to get dismissed. He would have to punish them for such disrespect when they come back with his request. Sauron turned to observe the bickering happening once more. Men had such short lifespans and yet they opted to waste their time on frivolity.

He tapped his fingers upon the ornate table, golden ring clinking against the wood. His mind went over battle strategies, advantageous terrains, green fields, weapon suppliers, stews for armies, and the bloodied forms of Elves, Men, and Maiar.

Several minutes later, the same slave came walking in, accompanied by another. Sauron snapped out of his musings at their entrance. Both slaves carried a tray filled with steaming cups. The cups contained liquids of different shades of brown, red, and white. Sauron tried not to let his surprise show as two trays were placed before him. He was unaware that tea could come in different hues. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins had only partaken in honey-colored ones.

The Dark Lord removed the handkerchief from his nose and the full fragrance of the beverages hit him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Warm and soothing with a hint of sweetness, the smells wafted across the room.

The dignitaries' aggressive discussions tapered off as each of them curiously turned to look at the source of the aroma.

Sauron ignored them as he opened his eyes and stared at all eighteen cups. The slave kneeled before the Dark Lord's seat once more and said, "M-My Lord, th-these are all the k-kind of t-teas we have at the moment."

Sauron hummed, golden eyes darting between each item. After a few moments, he reached out for one that appeared to be the chamomile kind that the Baggins were fond of drinking. He took a sip and the flavor of crisp apples burst upon his tongue. A touch of sweetness ran along the inside of his mouth, the sensation light and airy.

Someone knows how to make good tea, flitted by his mind and a feeling of contentment washed over him.

The Dark Lord hid his pleased reaction and instead, addressed the slave with a blank expression. "Were you the one who brewed all of these?"

The slave trembled again, fright evident in his expression. He hesitated before admitting, "Y-Y-Yes, my Lord."

Ask his name.

"What are you called?" Sauron asked before taking another much larger sip of his tea.

"M-My name i-is Vatii, my L-Lord."

The Dark Lord gave no gesture of acknowledgement and proceeded to finish his drink.

"What is that?" Ulfang interjected, brown eyes wide as he leaned forward from his seat to get a closer look.

"It has a . . ." Tíbil sniffed, eyes briefly closing. ". . . pleasant smell."

Sauron placed down his empty cup and claimed another filled one. Knowing that his silence would prompt more irritating questions, the Dark Lord gifted them an explanation. "It is tea - a beverage made from different kinds of plants and herbs."

The tea in the second cup tasted a touch sour and half as sweet.

Fruity, crossed Sauron's mind as he finished it. All the while, the Dark Lord noted the sudden silence and lack of movement in the chambers. He ignored the unspoken inquiries buzzing in the air, preferring to enjoy the quiet while it lasted.

"My Lord?" Ulfang called out after several moments.

Sauron carefully took a sip of his third cup before raising his head and acknowledging the chieftain.

Ulfang gestured towards the brewed teas with his head, expression oddly determined. "Try one?" he asked in accented Westron.

Sauron glanced at the remaining cups. The Dark Lord doubted he could finish them all before they get cold. So, he made a dismissive motion at the cups and went back to the one in his hand.

Ulfang bowed in gratitude before claiming a black-colored tea. The other chiefs watched him, restless but still not making a sound. He took a drink and then immediately spat it back. He smashed his cup, splattering its contents all over the floor. Without explanation, the chieftain lifted a hand, planning to slap away the cup from Sauron's hands.

The Dark Lord foresaw his intention and acted accordingly. He transferred his grip on his tea to one hand, and unsheathed his sword with the other. In less than a second, the tip of Sauron's blade was pointed threateningly at Ulfang's throat. The chieftain froze, and the rest of the Men tensed, fingers flitting by their respective weapons.

"M-My Lord-"

"Think carefully," Sauron clipped, voice low and eyes blazing with anger. How dare this Man raise a hand against him! "Your next words may be your last ones."

"Poisoned!" Ulfang exclaimed. "The-These teas are poisoned, My Lord!" Even with a sword on his throat, Ulfang moved his head to cast a venomous glare at Vatii. Vatii flinched violently and fell sprawling onto the ground in fright. Ulfang growled, "He placed something vile!"

Sauron's furious gaze snapped towards the slave, his sword arm ready to swing and eliminate two traitors at once.

Vatii vehemently shook his head and stuttered out, "I-I-There is n-n-no poison, my Lord! P-Please! I w-would never - I d-didn't -"

The slave's trembling frame and sincerely frightened expression cooled Sauron's temper slightly and brought him back to reason. Very few substances in Arda could negatively affect Sauron's physique and so, Ulfang's worry was for naught. The Dark Lord, however, was well-versed in the taste and presence of almost all types of poisons and venoms. Yet, he detected none of them in the three cups he had consumed.

Sauron gave a contemplative glance at the dark liquid pooling around the ground by Ulfang's feet.

Black tea, his mind supplied. Well, black teas are an acquired taste. They're brewed more bitterly than any other tea.

The bitter tang had perhaps surprised Ulfang's palate, and he had mistaken it for poison. Sauron almost lost an ally and a useful slave over a misunderstanding. The Dark Lord removed his sword from its precarious position over the chieftain's neck. Ulfang let out a small sigh of relief and the tension in the room decreased minutely.

Then, Sauron bristled amid sheathing his blade, a sense of wrongness slapping him. It took him a pregnant moment to figure out the problem.

Black teas are an acquired taste. How did Sauron come by this knowledge when today was the first time he had tasted such a drink?

Mayhaps it was knowledge he gained from the Baggins? The Dark Lord rummaged through his memories, skimming through the years his ring kept the Baggins company. No specific instances stood out; in the years where his ring was in the possession of the Halflings, neither Bilbo nor Frodo Baggins ever drank a drop of black tea.

Black teas are an acquired taste. He could not have gotten it from the Baggins. Then, how did Sauron know?

A chill tickled the base of his spine. As trivial as the issue was, it was a large addition to the ever-increasing strangeness occurring recently around him.

Something was amiss, and Sauron intended to resolve it quickly.

But first, he had to calm the waters. The Dark Lord searched the teas before him until he found one with a similar color to the cup Ulfang had picked. He replaced the cup in his hand with it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ulfang stiffen.

To Vatii, the Dark Lord commanded, "Tell me the taste of this tea."

The slave clumsily got to his feet and leaned forward to see it more clearly. "O-Oolong, my Lord, I believe. It-It taste a b-bit bitter, my Lord. Bu-But-"

"Drink." Sauron held out the cup towards Vatii.

Vatii took it and gulped everything down at once. He grimaced at both the heat and aftertaste of the beverage, his nose scrunching up. The Men and the other slaves stared at him expectantly for several minutes, and Vatii shifted uncomfortably. When the slave didn't drop dead, everyone looked uncertain as to their next course of action.

"There is no poison," Sauron said, breaking the awkward silence. "Perhaps the tea had not merely been to your taste, Chief Ulfang."

Vatii vehemently nodded, wide eyes alight with realization as they turned to Ulfang. "Yes, that must be it, my Lord! Black teas are not eve-"

"You will speak only when spoken to," The Dark Lord reprimanded sharply, angered that the slave seemed to be forgetting his place.

Vatii's mouth promptly shut closed with a click, and the color drained from his face.

Sauron picked up the tea he had abandoned earlier. Several of the Bórian tribes planted and harvested beets, and the said vegetable were their main source of food. The Dark Lord suspected Ulfang, being of the tribe, would prefer a sweeter drink.

He handed his tea to the chieftain and Ulfang took it hesitantly, confusion evident.

"Mayhaps that will satisfy your palate." Sauron nodded at the cup. "It is the sweetest I have tasted so far."

Ulfang switched his stare between the Dark Lord and the beverage in his hand. The army generals and other chieftains, who had been oddly quiet for a long while, watched the scene, expressions ranging from baffled to amused. Concluding that he had no choice, Ulfang lifted the cup to his lips and took a small drink.

Sauron looked on as the chief's face morphed from wariness to pleasantly surprised. Ulfang gazed down at the tea with new eyes. Sauron was pleased that he had guessed correctly.

Seeing the Lord's expression, Tíbil ventured with a query, "May I also try one?" He cleared his throat. "Only, I have not even heard of such a drink existing."

Sauron gave him the smallest of nods before getting a new cup for himself. Tíbil approached the gathering of teas and plucked one after a moment of contemplation.

"We grew plants for teas," Madawi shared, stepping nearer towards the steaming cups. "Good trade with neighbors." The chieftain made a gesture to the teas, silently asking for permission from the Dark Lord.

Sauron refrained from sighing. So that he would not be interrupted any more from enjoying his drink, he said aloud, "Any of you may choose a tea of your preference." To Vatii, he advised, "I suggest you make more."

The slave saw the suggestion for what it was - an order. Vatii nodded rapidly and headed for the kitchen once more.

Given permission, the lords, leaders, and generals each picked up a cup, undoubtedly curious. They conversed with each other, describing and discussing the taste of the tea they ended up with. Their voices and tone were calm, a stark contrast to the cacophonic shouting matches occurring just minutes ago.

Ulfang bowed deeply from the waist. "Lord Sauron, please forgive me for the trouble I've caused."

Sauron stayed silent, letting Ulfang squirm for a good while. Then, he said magnanimously, "Make sure it would not happen again."

Ulfang straightened and nodded jerkily. A few minutes later, Vatii entered, carrying more steaming cups.

❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤

The tea-drinking session lasted an hour. Sauron dismissed the Men shortly after that, informing them that they would reconvene the morning after. The Dark Lord knew the Men would exchange only a few words before everything devolved down to bickering once more. Sauron would have to decide on a plan of action to lessen nonsensical and chaotic arguments amongst them.

Sauron also planned to resolve the restlessness surrounding his thoughts before his any of his plans proceed further.

The Dark Lord went inside his chambers, shoulders determined set in a determined and tensed line. He replaced his leather-made clothes with a night shirt and soft-padded trousers. For the next few hours, he would have to be comfortable.

Then, he sat on his bed and slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes and retreated within the Songs tying his being together.

Sauron's fëa had been torn to shreds by the destruction of his ring and had been weary from being thrown across time. The Dark Lord feared that all the endeavors he had undertaken had done irreparable damage to his fëa. If so, neglect would lead to irreversible madness - his madness.

Not every being was gifted with the ability to grasp and understand the Songs resonating within themselves. Maiar, with their ability to control the Songs of Arda, have the power to visualize their fëa like an actual scenery. Given such, Maiar were able to recall everything in perfect clarity, solve problems in quick succession, and control their body's processes. The mindscape of each creature in Arda with the ability differed, each determined by their races and experiences.

For Sauron, his mindscape took the form of the only place where he found solace: a blacksmith's workshop. Hammers and chisels of different sizes hung upon the nails on the wooden walls. Metal pipes and blocks littered the desks and floors while scrolls were kept neatly inside a barrel on the corner. Two anvils sat in the center of the room, a rusting pair of tongs placed atop their smooth surface. Fire emanated from the eternally lit forge, warming and lighting up the chambers.

The sight of it sent a small pang of nostalgia through Sauron. The last he had glimpsed his workshop was when he was creating his ring. It had been far too long.

The Dark Lord ran his fingertips against the tools on the wooden desk, each touch igniting a distant memory or offering an offhanded idea. He continued skimming through his memories and experiences, through his thought processes and sentiments.

When Sauron turned his attention to the tools hanging by the walls, he finally found something amiss. Where small pliers should lay, only bereft nails stood hammered. Swages, fullers and drifts were also gone from their respective containers and places. With each discovery, Sauron grew increasingly alarmed. While missing nails and metal blocks could be forgiven, the Dark Lord's fëa could not persist long without such important tools. How could have Sauron lost so much of himself and not notice sooner?

Flames of anger sparked in him, frustration and hatred taking root upon his fëa. But before he could reach out to the physical realm and lash out against the whole of Arda, a speck of dirt caught his eye.

His fury cooled from surprise as his attention flicked to the ground. Observing it closer, Sauron realized that it was not just a speck. Parts of the floor were splattered and smudged with mud and dirt. Footprints made by incredulously large feet marked half of them. Confusion filled him, and his mind sought to make sense of it all.

Sauron kneeled and delicately pressed a finger upon it, fighting down a flinch of disgust. The touch evoked nothing from Sauron. The misplaced earth was truly foreign to his fëa. Was this a curse? An enchantment of unknown purposes? How had Olórin place a curse upon him during their brief contact? The possible answer troubled the Dark Lord further.

Then, as if the wool had been pulled from his eyes, Sauron saw it. He paled, gingerly picking himself off from the ground.

For there, in a corner opposite of the forge, was a door.

There was a door in his workshop where there should have been none. The workshop should have contained the entirety of his fëa. How could the door leading to anywhere else exist?

A terrible suspicion bloomed in Sauron's mind, the pieces of an impossible puzzle falling into place. The Dark Lord hurried to the impossible door, hoping to disprove his conclusions. He slammed against it and the wooden thing opened easily against his assault.

Sunlight blinded him, and he lifted an arm to shield his face. When his eyes had adjusted, a pinch of real fear pierced him.

A very blue sky laid overhead, the sun casting glaring morning rays. Not a few feet away from the Dark Lord laid the beginnings of a garden twice the size of his workshop.

There, in the middle of the field, kneeled Bilbo Baggins, a straw hat upon his curly head and fingers digging through the dirt.

❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤

A/N:

Whop-te-doo, I'm back to writing! Man, 2017 had been an interesting year and for some reason, it sucked out all of my creative juices. I thought I finally got tired of writing. But, here now, I'm glad to get back to it!

I've been dreaming about this story for a while so I finally finished a chapter! I have so many things in store for Bilbo and Sauron and I really hope I get to share it with you guys.

Hopefully, my muse would let me update a Suicidal Journey soon . . . Oh, if you have any questions, please feel free to PM me! I don't usually reply to reviews (but I'm so happy to get them!) so sorry about that .

Constructive criticisms are very much welcome!

Have an awesome day, y'all!

~ Vividpast