Just something I cobbled together about Sauron and Melkor the Morgoth. I do not represent the Tolkien Estate or Eru Ilúvater, therefore I have no claim of ownership over The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings, etc. I might, might, own the word ensorceled, which means to be ensnared by use of sorcery. But I'm sure I've heard it somewhere before.
Long sat the Dark Lord on his throne in Angband, the Iron Hells. Long sat he, brooding over Middle Earth. Of the Ainur was he, and he had seen the things which were to come. Even better than Manwë, his brother.
Yes. Here, in the dark watches of his own thought, with his face carefully schooled into that snarl of contempt which kept his minions, be they balrog or orc or something worse, far from his throne room, here he could look lucidly upon his madness. For madness it was, to rebel against Ilúvater. And the reason he rebelled...He did not repent of it, but he could admit, here, in the dark of his mind, that it was childish. He would tell no other, and slay those who claimed, falsely, to know, but he could admit it. It changed nothing, as he saw it. He was Melkor, He Who Arises In Might. Eru had said that he could change, that he didn't have to rebel, he could defy his nature. Eru! The very one who had given him the nature! Once, he had thought he understood more than any of the other Ainur what the Lord's purposes were.
He had been right about that. This did not change his ignorance. It only made it galling.
He meditated now upon some moments of his life here, in this prison he called a palace. He thought back to those moments which had pricked his pride, shown him his own fallen state. It was those strange, stray moments, not his grand defeats, that really hurt. He cringed from the wounds Fingolfin had given him, even now, but they weren't what hurt the most. Truth be told, some mornings, when the walls of his throne room seemed to close in about him, and his physical body began to cry for need of sleep, something he could never, would never give it, those wounds gave him something to focus on, something to HATE, something to keep himself going.
His mind drifted back to a time, now. A time when They had come here, to Angband. They had been so young. She, the one his spies said was called Luthien, and he, who they said was called Beren. He had hated them, of course. He hated all the Children. But when she had sang, when he had stood near her...
He was of the Ainur. He was Vala, greatest among the Ainur. He was Melkor, greatest among the Valar. He knew Eru when he saw Him. And when those two had been together...
He hated them, as he hated all the Children. He told himself this. But he could have resisted her song. He let his guard down, intentionally. He knew he was being ensorceled. He could have stopped them. He didn't.
Love moved through their very veins. He could see it. It was like...Before. Before the Theme. When he would look on Him.
Sauron had guessed, he knew. He'd been bewitched by them in his tower, as well. He'd realized, when he returned to Angband, what had befallen the Dark Lord. But he had said nothing. Melkor the Morgoth smiled a bit at the thought, cold and cruel. Wise indeed. If he'd said anything, made any accusation, his master would have turned the question into why he himself had fallen so easy to the Elf-maid, the Man and their Little Dog, too. And that was a game that Melkor played very well.
Sauron entered the room, now, doubtless emboldened by the momentary lapse in his master's scowl.
"My Lord? We have our daily reports."
He sighed. "Proceed." he said. He used to be able to collect those himself. But it had gotten harder as the years weaned on. He'd spread his power too thin. He'd used too much making Glaurung, and the other dragons. Too much corrupting men and elves into Orcs. Too much empowering balrogs, vampires, werewolves, demons and devils of every shape and size. He'd spread it around the world, so that he could call plague and storm and calamity on his enemies, and everyone was his enemy. Now, he rarely left his throne. It had even hurt to go up, daily, to go up each day and taunt Hurin. In the end, he had let him go for that as much as anything else; though truth be told, pursuing the curse he'd placed on the House of Hurin had long since lost any pleasure. He'd pursued it because he had said he would. His wounded pride at Hurin's words had begun the curse, and his pride had continued the curse as well.
He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't been listening to a word Sauron was saying. He knew no one would be listening; Sauron would enter the throne room when all other servants would find a nice hole to hide in.
"...And we have confirmed that Melian has left Doriath, at last."
Melkor knew some of what was to come to pass. He was intelligent enough, and for the moment, lucid enough, to know what his part would be. He gazed at his second-in-command.
"Sauron."
"Yes, Liege?"
"May I give you some ad vice?"
"I harken ever to your word."
"Doubtless. But heed me, Sauron. This may be the last bit of good will within me. When you become the Dark Lord, don't spread your power around. Keep it contained, as best you can. If you must portion it out, put it somewhere it can be brought to hand easily. A reliquary or phylactery; jewelry, perhaps."
"When I become – Sire, whatever do you mean?"
"Nothing. Musing in the dark, I suppose."