Chapter Text
He had returned to the Iron Mountains a day prior, the scouts reported, and would reach the Eastern gates before the moon was full. Sauron had not the time to prepare more than the most basic of accommodations before his Lord’s arrival, and had hastened to align what troops they held in formation at the fortress’ portcullis, hoping the harsh lines of their stony faces and the cold glimmer of metal to be a welcome assurance of Angband’s continued strength. It must appear as though the fortifications made in his Lord’s reign had held strong in his absence, that no placid ineptitude had befallen his Lieutenant without divine instruction to guide his hand. So Sauron donned his Lord’s servants (sent to the stronghold mines of Thangorodrim in his leave) in fine robes of linen and himself in red silk- black was more respectable and more common an adornment in the presence of his Master, but red he saved for such a joyous occasion as his Lord’s return, though it was the extent to which he allowed his gaiety displayed. It would not do well to encourage repose within the troops, and only the captive Eldar would likely take any notice, let alone meaning, to his manner of dress. So he permit himself this one simple pleasure, to allow the crushed spill of anthurium on white thread- rich as fertile loam and smelling of a world long lost- to cloak his form.
When Melkor arrived at the rocky fissure that served as the barrier between Utumno and the path to the northwestern Sea, Sauron could feel in the make of his hröa the shift in the earth, the air, the very song of Arda. He paled and felt his mortal shell tremble in response but collected himself and held firm, taking his place beside his Lord’s throne and waiting in solemn silence for the fruits of his venture to be made known. The first fall of his footsteps within the fortress halls was the stroke of a forge-hammer upon cold, unmalleable steel, and within his very bones Sauron felt the raw freeze of apprehension envelop him. He waited with his head bowed and his hands clasped in his lap, nails piercing the soft flesh of his palms, drawing blood. It gathered in ruby pools, spilling down his arms like molten gold, and he licked it, cat-like, from his skin. The taste of iron on his tongue as the doors to the grand hall were thrown open and his Lord strode in, the very presence of him cloaking the room in shadow. Sauron fell from where he sat and threw himself upon the freezing stone, knees aching from the chill, teeth chattering and fingers numb. The sense of ice creeping up his back only intensified as his Master drew nearer; there was something wrong, he knew, even with his eyes closed and head pounding with cold. His Lord’s gait was slow and heavy but unbridled with armor, and the ragged rasps of his breath echoed in the space like a phantom wind. It took all of Sauron’s strength not to rise and go to him. He stayed still, screwing his eyelids shut and biting down on his cheek to stay silent until stars burst behind his eyes and he gasped.
If Melkor heard, he took no notice. Sauron heard the weight of his body fall back against the iron throne, felt the rattling sigh that left his chest, grating and monumental as a landslide, and his súlë quivered despite itself as cold washed over him in waves. His Lord was silent for a long while, the only sound the rustling of robes and the cracking of glacier ice as he breathed. Pain evident in his every noise, his every minute movement. Sauron longed to aid him somehow, to open his eyes and look up and heal whatever great hurt had lain his Lord low. He did not have to wait for long.
“My lieutenant,” Melkor said, his voice the deep rumble of distant thunder, a war drum of what-has-passed and the horrible promise of what-is-to-be. Sauron tensed at the agony in his voice, at the way his words had to fight to leave his throat. He wanted nothing more than to rise and behold him. He stood, keeping his head low, staring at the smooth volcanic slate below his feet and observing the hazy silhouette of his reflection, thin and gossamer-pale and cloaked in blood.
“Master,” He said, having to focus all his will to keep his voice from trembling, to keep from snapping his composure like a rigid bone and breaking and crying out. “The hosts of Utumno welcome your grace his return. What do you ask of your servant?” It was a risk, an implicit request, but he wanted nothing more than to demonstrate his use after so long a time. To prove himself to his sought-after post, to his nature as a Maia, to his Lord. He thought it worth it and waited quietly for a response.
“Mairon,” The gasp left Sauron’s chest before he could help himself. It had been long, so long, since anyone had addressed him so. It sucked the air from out of him as if struck by some heavy blow.
“My Lord…?” Pitiful. Weak. Barely a question.
“Mairon.” He repeated softly. “Come here,” Sauron nodded shakily and ascended the black glass dias to his throne, robes hitched up about his ankles. His feet tinged purple and black, bruise-like with frost. Cold enough to steal the breath from his lungs, to chase the blood from his extremities. His body in full shock, breath freezing to crystals in the air, while his fëa anchored him, still and august, to his sworn purpose. He looked up to his Master.
Oh.
The acrid stench of sweat and scorched hair met him at the tilt of his head, and a moment’s worth of adjustment to the oppressive darkness told him why; the flesh on his Lord’s torso and forearms had been scalded, robes burnt away to reveal shiny, taut skin caked with dried blood and red welts bubbling with thick, unsightly pus. His Lord’s skin was ashen-gray, from hunger or blood loss or lack of rest he could not be sure, and his eyes were dull and dark and hooded beneath a tangled mat of hair. What remained of his cloak lay draped in tatters over his shoulders, his sword sheath empty, his hands- oh, his hands. Melkor’s hands were burnt beyond ordinary injury, flesh blackened and cracked like parched earth under the desert sun. It was a wonder, Sauron thought faintly, how he could radiate an aura of such intense chill with such injuries as he had sustained.
“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Melkor growled. It was too late, he thought, to hide whatever horrors his expression had betrayed. “How soon can you mend them?”
“M-mend them, my Lord?”
“Mend them, Mairon.”
“My Lord,” He balked. Looked down at the dry, scabbed skin and wondered what, if any part of it, could be salvaged. “Such wounds are… beyond my lived experience. It would be my council to allow the healers to assess your damages and-”
“I did not summon my healers to my side. These burns are not of mortal make. I request your services, Lieutenant, as so you promised upon your allegiance to your Lord. Or do you linger in contempt of your oath?”
“No, my Lord, never,” Sauron stammered. “It is only-” He paused, contemplating, wanting to choose his words with the utmost care, as if to say something wrong would be akin to the lacerations lining Melkor’s chest, his arms, his broken, bloody fingers. “My Lord, of what make are your injuries? Surely no feeble lér-borne flame could have-”
“No,” Melkor growled, as if offended by the very suggestion. “This was no mortal covenant that scorned me so. Long have I desired… for so long have I sought…” he trailed off, a faraway look to his expression, staring at and through Sauron as if he were made of smoke. He faltered.
“My Lord Melkor?” He stammered, fear tainting his voice, staining it with weakness. “Are you well…?”
The white-hot sting of a slap sent him reeling, falling down the steps to land on the stone below with a sharp crack, and he gasped silently for air, fish-like, clutching his chest where it had struck the ground as fresh blood bloomed crimson in his mouth. He looked up at Melkor, towering over him upon the dias, and scrambled to his feet only to be pushed back, a foot pinned to his neck. His hands flew to it automatically but he did not dare to try to break away.
“How dare you,” Melkor hissed, voice cold with venom, dripping with it, poisonous and mephitic. “You know not what I have suffered for this.” the boot pressed down against Sauron’s throat and he sputtered, vision spotting with black, moldering at the edges. “Do you think me mad, Lieutenant?”
“No, my Lord, I-” Sauron choked, arching his back, fingernails scrabbling futility against his Lord’s leather-clad weight; it was like a stone upon his chest, crushing his ribs, his lungs, his bloody, beating heart. “Never!” He gasped. “Only that you were- that I wished to-” The pressure on his neck intensified and he found that he could no longer draw breath. He fell into silent, desperate acquiescence.
“To the most loyal of my servants,” Melkor said quietly, ignoring the purple tint flushing Sauron’s cheeks, painting his lips and eyelids as if frozen in ice. “I confide my greatest conquest to. To my trusted and most valued Lieutenant, I give the honor of sharing in this newfound glory of mine.” The foot lifted, relinquishing its weight, and Sauron sat up, gasping. “But to this feeble,” He was kicked down again, sharply, the metal toe of Melkor’s boot digging into his ribs. “Meek-tongued,” Another blow and he stayed down, clutching at his chest, too hurt to think. “Servile excuse for a lame elf,” Sauron fingered at the spot Melkor had struck, feeling the bruise, the crack, the indentation of muscle and sinew and bone like a broken cage. If there were tears in his eyes he did not feel them. Melkor strutted back to the throne, sitting down painfully and flexing his ruined fingers. “Nothing.” He spat. “Nothing.”
It took Sauron a moment to collect his bearings. His head was spinning, ringing with some eidolon toll, and as he rose shakily to his feel he felt something inside of him splinter and rupture, flooding his mouth with blood. He did not dare to spit it upon the floor and instead swallowed it down, hot and salty and metallic in his throat, and suppressed the urge to retch.
“My Lord,” He murmured weakly, voice barely audible, run through and gutted. “Never would I… not in word or thought or deed… ajudge you so. I merely wished… merely wanted to…” He doubled over on himself, arms wrapped around his abdomen, fighting back the nausea through bated breath. “To fulfill my utmost duties to you… as your servant. Please,” He fell again to his knees at the throne’s base, both out of reverence and exhaustion. Pressed his lips against the shoe that had left its prints upon his throat. “Forgive me my ineptitude, my Lord. I will serve you in all ways you see fit… whatever those may be.”
Melkor was silent for a moment, staring down upon him, considering. Sauron could feel his gaze upon his back, freezing to the point of anguish, but he stayed still, head bowed, whole body aquiver. Finally, his Lord moved, tilting Sauron’s head up to face him with his boot. Sauron choked back a groan and Melkor made a small noise of amused appraisal.
“Very well, little Maia,” He smirked, cold, eyes as hard and unflinching as flint. “You will do well to redeem yourself for your weakness.”
“Yes,” Sauron smiled, wild, desperate, pleading. The corners of his mouth stung with the strain. “Yes, my Lord, anything.” His voice broke and fell to almost nothing. A silent plea, a push of tongue and teeth and throat yielding nothing of substance at all. “Anything.”
“Very well,” Melkor said and stood once more, striding past him to the hall’s entrance and throwing open its great oaken doors. Sauron followed, unsteady on his feet, in his wake. “If you are too inept to heal my grievances with skill alone-” Sauron flinched as if Melkor had once more raised his hand to him. “Then I will allow you to glimpse the source of the pain I have endured. What I show you, you are not yet to reveal to anyone. This is a request I have for you, and for you alone.”
“Yes, my Lord.” He panted, eyes wide, chest straining against his robes as he fought for breath. “Of course, my Lord.”
Melkor led him down the long hallway from the main court to his personal chambers in the Southern wing of the castle, where stood in wait a congregation of his personal handservants, cheeks still sunken and eyes hollow in their skulls from their time in the dark and dank of Thangorodrim. Something hunched and blackened lay, curled and whimpering, in the corner. Sauron grimaced and side-stepped around it as it reached out feebly for his robes, croaking from its red gash of a mouth, unintelligible. The room stank of burnt flesh and Sauron covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, trying his hardest not to vomit.
“Have you prepared for me what I have asked of you?” He asked, his voice sharp and edged with steel. The lesser of his servants quailed under his stony gaze, but the oldest amongst them stepped forward, her graying hair long and unmarred by past dishonor.
“Yes, your grace. We did have to-” she paused, hesitant. “Improvise our measures, however. It appears that the stones were indiscriminately… damaging.” The thing in the corner moaned and clung to the legs of one of the servants, who drew back, cringing in disgust.
“Do take that outside,” Melkor ordered, lip curling, and two of the attendants took the thing by what remained of its arms- blackened charcoal stumps, fingerless, caked with dried blood- and dragged it, gurgling horribly, out the door. A sharp, squelching noise in the hallway, and silence fell.
“Now then,” he said to the remaining servants. “Do show me what innovative solution you came up with to preserve our empire’s greatest treasure.” The implication was clear. Any lesser servant would have cowered, but the handmaiden stood tall and steady and held his gaze. Sauron didn’t know whether to scorn her for her insolence or admire her steadfastness. He chose the former and scowled.
“This way, your grace,” She said, leading the way deeper into the room and into a hidden chamber with stairs leading down into the fortress’ catacombs. Four servants followed, brandishing torches. Sauron staggered down the steps with difficulty, clutching the railing and stumbling to keep up with his Master’s striding gait. He tripped on the hem of his cloak and caught himself, fingernails scrabbling against naked stone. He coughed and red splattered the wall in minute pinpricks.
“My liege,” A servant ran to his side and knelt beside him, offering out a hand. “Are you alright?” Sauron sneered and knocked him away.
“Do not deign to touch me!” He spat, and the servant flinched back, cowed. “Gajumat dorr! I have no need for your aid.” He strode ahead, teeth grit against the pain, and as he passed Melkor he thought he saw the corner of his mouth twitch up. Wiping the blood from his lips, Sauron made his way down the stairs and came to the cellar’s basin. He blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a great stone room, carved out from the earth and so wide that he could not see the extent of it. A carpet of rich black lined the floor, its fine velvet surface marred by ink and cold and the wax of a hundred burnt-out candlesticks dripping from their lantern bowls on the walls like stalactites. Sauron shuddered and drew his robes tighter about himself.
“Take me to them, then,” Melkor’s voice rang in the vast expanse of the chamber, and as they made their way down the long stone hall, Sauron felt a peculiar sense of warmth begin to envelop him, chasing out the cool, damp darkness and giving way to something… else. Something different. A strange light flooded their path the further they walked, and the light of the lantern-flame began to pale in comparison; it was as if the anar itself rested in the bowels of Angband.
Eventually the floor rose to meet a great stone dias in which a mortar had been carved- it was out of this that the light was streaming from, blinding white and warm as the kiss of a sunbeam upon the skin. Melkor and the dark-accustomed servants shrank back, while Sauron was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, bathing in its glorious, honey-gold heat. He ascended the steps, trance-like, and peered into the vessel.
This must be beauty, he thought, in its finest and purest form. Like metal forged and heated into a fine stream of molten fire, it was light captured and solidified and refined. Huge, raw gemstones, clear like glass but sharp as diamond, radiating with a pulsing, living heat that seemed to breathe. It pulled at him and he reached down within the bowl, brushing the stones with his fingertips. They were hot to the touch, searingly so, so that anyone but a Maia of Aulë could not have contended-
Ah.
He turned to where Melkor stood, ahead of the servants but still averting his eyes, a burned hand raised to his face to block the blinding white light of the stones.
“These… my Lord?” Sauron asked quietly, biting back the mingled pity and astonishment that threatened to crack his formal facade. “These caused you such injuries?”
“No,” Melkor snarled, turning away from the dias altogether. “I suffered such pain for them. They are the túra Silmarils, crafted from the light of the Trees of the Valar by the Ñoldorin elf Fëanor. That is what I sought upon my departure; they are my prize for the anguish I endured. No Eldar-borne brat will seek to take them from me so long as my kingdom stands.”
“May it do so now and forever, my Lord,” Sauron said softly, learned response falling automatically from his lips as his mind swam, muddy with shock. He was still frozen at the basin’s lip, half turned towards his Master and half towards the gems that swam in such heavenly light below him when Melkor’s voice wrenched him from his haze.
“Now that you have beheld my treasure and learned of its make, tell me, my servant…” He extended his hands again, blackened and broken, and Sauron drew in a painful breath, waiting for the blow to fall, for the impossible question to strike him and leave him a useless and broken thing. Sauron met his Master’s eyes and thought that, behind their sheen of cold calculation and anger and pain, there lived a glimmer of fear.
“How soon.”