The mighty Vala Melkor revelled in his nigh-unstoppable power in Middle-earth, but one thing he found he couldn't do: using his own devices he was unable to create creatures to serve and adore him as Eru (humans and Elves) and Aule(the Dwarves) had done. His fortress Thangorodrim at Angband was unassailable and his position quite secure now that he had the precious Silmarils, yet he wasn't satisfied with this. He wanted Children of his own to do his bidding and to make and do things as Men and Elves and Dwarves did in honor of the Gods. Melkor's only aptitudes were for subjugation, greed, and terror. And let's not forget deceit, for the vile spirit Ungoliant, that bloated spider-monster, helped him to steal the Silmarils and caught him in his attempt to double-cross her, and it was only his few loyal servants who helped him fight her off when she cornered him in Middle-earth.
Good help was increasingly difficult to procure.
Dwarves were far too single-minded and tough to make effective servants, even those few that were apt to his will. And Men, while their lust, greed, and need for domination at times rivalled his own, they died much too soon and were so very fickle. No sooner than one faction fell under his sway than all their neighbors were up in arms, and before long all his clever plans were in ruin. No, what he needed were useful servants bred just for the purpose, who would be accepted nowhere and by nobody else.
Elves Melkor hated, being jealous of the Firstborn of Eru, the supreme Creator of the Valar, the Guardians of Middle-earth. They were meant to all eventually return to the bosom of their Maker, and were the fairest and wisest of all the sentient beings on this mortal plane, and they died not. Grief, and dire illness and wounds can kill them, but naught else. But wait...what if he could pervert His greatest achievment to his own plans? What a delicously malicious idea...
He went forth himself to procure specimens to carry out his idea, an enormous figure of shadow and darkness but for the glitter of the Silmarils, those jewels of elven-craft who captured the light and majesty of the Two Trees of Valinor before they were extinguished by the gluttonous Ungoliant. They were affixed to a massive Iron Crown that he wore atop his accursed head, he who was Melkor and now called Morgoth. He knew at the borders of his western kingdom lay the Hidden elven-city of Gondolin, the abode of the High-elves. He had not the strength to assail their stronghold, but he could catch some Elves out on errand, perhaps. He scaled himself down to make better use of cover, and so he waited. The elves' distasteful touch was evident all around, from the annoyingly twittering birds to the retchingly pristine forest and the deer with those big moist eyes. He wanted to smash and rend it all, and he would, but not just yet.
He had humans under his sway with him and they grew restless as the distressingly sunny day wore on. Finally he felt the coming of the fair ones, galloping right to him on dainty steeds on a leisurely hunt. This hunt would be their undoing, Melkor thought grimly. The men sprang on the small group of elves, who even though taken unawares defended themselves fiercely. That is, until the Dark Lord strode into the middle of them, causing the horses to rear and scream, their riders stroking and whispering to them to calm the beasts. With a great hand he clutched at one unfortunate Elf, hauling him right off his horse, and with the other hand dragged a fair elven woman by her ebony hair. "To me!," he barked to his slaves and they obeyed, leaving the other Elves bewildered and blinking in the evening sun. He had gotten what he needed, pulling the struggling Fae behind him.
They cried and begged in their silvery tongues, tears streaming down smooth, angular faces. How they cried! He chuckled at them until their weeping wearied him, then he had his warriors gag them and drive them before the host. The men rallied as they neared the fortress at Angband, thinking they would have much sport with the new captives. "Not yet," Morgoth told them. "In time you will have your entertainment, but not yet."
"Please," sobbed the Elven hunter as his gag was removed. "Please let us go! We've done nothing to you!"
"Nothing?," snarled Melkor with a curl of his cruel lip. "Your existance is a blight to mine! You who have immortality and bliss undeserved! You who thought you could slay your own kin at the Valar's doorstep to pursue me, ME, the Lord of all Middle-earth! And your kind think to tutor me on morality?! Bah!"
"But--but we were just hunting in the woods, we have never borne arms against you," the female elf put in.
"You are one of the High-elves, are you not?," he demanded.
Dropping her green eyes she replied affirmative.
"Then you are guilty in the Kinslaying even if you spilled no blood, you benefitted from the act by climbing on board those ships stained with the blood of your cousins! You flung the Creator's gifts back in his naive face!"
"No! That's not true!," she shouted back.
"Enough! You tire me," he backhanded her with such force her head flopped on her shoulders. "Take them to Sauron," he said with relish.
Sauron. Already the name had fearful associations. A Maiar, one of the spirits who served the Valar, he was great in cruelty and ambition, and he learned well from Melkor. Torment and lies were his playthings, and one thing he was NOT was idle. Laziness was not one of his faults. He was ever industrious in vicious schemes of his own, and Morgoth never discouraged him. "Shall I put them on the rack?," he asked his mentor.
"Nay, let them hang for a while. An experiment, if you will. Come to me after the prisoners are secured and I will tell you."
Chains and shackles hung down from the wall which he attached to the Eldar's wrists and he was taken aback when the male one spoke to him in Quenya, the High-elven language. Sauron had forgotten that he was in his most beautiful form, a likeness of the Quendi, and the hunter had taken him for an Elf and in desperation was imploring him to free them.
"Do you not know who I am?," he asked in Quenya. "I am Sauron, Melkor's lieutenant. Bringer of Pain. Captain of his Guard. Extractor of Secrets," and at this he smiled, his even, white teeth glistening in the torchlight.
"Then you are not Eldar?," the elf-woman questioned, hopes sinking.
"Indeed not! Though I do admire them from time to time." Tossing his auburn hair he grinned at her again as he left, a thoroughly unpleasant feeling.
So there they hung by their arms, until stretched muscles and nerve endings stopped screaming and receded into dull ache, and parched mouths could barely close over swollen, dry tongues. "Fingol," rasped the Eldarin lady. "Are you awake?"
"Aye," he managed to croak. "I'm still here, Miriel. What are they going to do to us?"
"I know not. If ransom they wanted they would've sent messages demanding payment."
"Do you think the others of our party survived?"
"I believe they still walk free under the Sun..." Miriel missed the Sun and the light of the Stars at night when all was still and cool, and she missed dancing upon the grass to the sound of flute and harps.
"I do hope so," sighed Fingol, lowering his blond head.
"Hope!," came a growling voice. "That word has no use here." A figure stepped into their view in the small, dim room. "I came to give you a choice of your fate." It was Morgoth, and the jewels in his crown glittered coldly, mocking the captives. "You can serve me willingly, and recieve great rewards. Or you can refuse, and your anguish will be such that you will beg me with your lilting voices for death. But it won't come, O no, Firstborn of Iluvatar. It will be pain neverending, everlasting."
"Do what you will, Dark One," hissed Miriel. "We would never bow to you!"
"I thought you might say as much," Morgoth sneered. "In fact, I hoped you would." He took hold of her narrow chin in his great clawed hand. Deep, remorseless eyes bore into her own green ones, piercing the thoughts within, and she screamed long and long. Fingol's screams of pity and helplessness joined hers after a time, feeding the Dark Lord's joy. In his jailor's office Sauron smiled, nostrils flaring as he smelled blood. "Stop! Stop it! Leave her alone," cried Fingol, unable to bear her ragged screams. He couldn't peer around his right arm to see exactly what was being done to her.
"Your race wanted this, did they not?," Melkor demanded, pressing in his gloved hand one of the Silmarils to the elf's forehead. Using his twisted will he burned Fingol's flesh, turning the sacred jewel's light to evil purpose. The heat seemed to sink into skin, into his very brain, scorching bone and soul alike. The elf-crafted artifact glowed angrily at being put to such use, necessitating the usage of a heavy, spell-protected glove. The elf bit into his lower lip to keep from shrieking in pain, to rob his tormentor of some of his glee. A small gasp escaped his lips, eliciting a chuckle from the evil Vala.
After what seemed like hours the searing agony ceased. "Still unmoved?," Morgoth queried. "Well then. Sauron, do with them what you wish."
Sauron stepped forward, cold malice in his glowing eyes.