Bound and Tormented

by Starsilver

Why did Sauron join Morgoth anyway? In a world where your soul walks outside of your body, things are whispered into the darkness of Utumno... Warning for non-con daemon touching, implied torture and general nastiness. Morgoth isn't a nice person. This is a His Dark Materials/Silmarillion FUSION. There are no HDM characters in it, just the concept of daemons applied to Maiar/Valar.

A/N: This piece was heavily inspired by AzureSkye23's stories - you should read them, they're much better and longer than mine. The style of writing was influenced by LCAAS and their drabble "They cannot conquer forever". I don't own the Silmarillion or His Dark Materials.

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Chained beneath Morgoth's iron throne is a wolf with golden eyes and ebon fur, who watches him with bitter, bitter hatred. A collar of dark steel rings round her throat, sharp and spiked, connected to a chain which vanishes into shadows.

She is a daemon, all in his fortress know, held in thrall. For sometimes, when Melkor rages, and the servants who haunt his throne room flee in fear of pain (death is an escape they both crave and fear), her screams echo through dark space and shadow. And later, when they return, glittering Dust (lifeblood, they hiss, and watch with hungry eyes) flows from her back. But whose, none know, save the Dark Lord himself.

It is said in Utumno (more like whispered into the eternal night), that she was Melkor's daemon, who turned on him when he slew the Two Trees and that he cannot bear to let go. (when Morgoth hears this he laughs and laughs and laughs. he hasn't seen his own soul since the Marring of Arda. he doesn't - can't, a little voice in his head says quietly - miss her.)

Deeper in the depths, others speak of his enemies, of his experiments, of those that were twisted and torn apart and remade as a shattered image. He failed to break her, it is said. Or she wasn't as useful broken, others mutter. (when he hears this, Morgoth hisses into her ear, trailing one corpse-pale hand across matted black fur, and watches with glee as she flinches.)

And deepest still, close to where the molten bones of the earth rise under the fortress, by orange red light and burning lava, they hint (not speak, never speak) oh so softly that one of his Maiar might not be as loyal as he seems, held in place with an iron chain and a wolf-shaped soul. That he is always, always plotting. And should ever Morgoth slip, it will be his hand plunging a knife into the unprotected back. (it is well that Morgoth never hears those rumors, for the whisperers would die in torment beyond belief, sundered slowly from the twisted remains of their essence. after all, the truth is a dangerous thing.)

Sauron watches the throne (or is it the throne?) with hungry eyes.