"Do you love me, Mairon?"

The Vala's voice was as soft as velvet and rich with promise. The red-headed Maia, kneeling before the iron throne, licked his suddenly dry lips. "More than anything, my Lord."

"Then prove it to me. Do it."

"But, my Lord …"

"If you wish to serve me, you will do so on my terms. Do it. Now."

The Maia shuddered and turned his attention to the creature bound and suspended upside down from the high ceiling before him. It was an Elf, a beautiful, innocent being, caught while wandering the star-lit hills of the East. The Elf wept and pleaded with him in his musical language, blood already dripping from his brow where the hunter-monster struck him and into his long, blond hair. A table nearby held the Maia's new tools: knives and whips, dark fires and poison. Mairon never tortured anyone before. The thought appalled him, but the Vala's seductive voice awoke some deep, shameful fascination inside of him. Reluctantly, he picked up a skinning knife, razor-sharp and inlaid with spells of pain and terror. The Elf screamed and began fighting in earnest, swinging like some deranged pendulum. He took ahold of one gleaming foot and began to cut.

Mairon knelt on the floor, panting, covered in blood and gore. He did not know how long it had been until his master was finally satisfied. The shrieks of the mutilated Elf subsided now into bestial, savage, and hateful growls. The underground hall was filled with noise and echoes, but he could still hear the heavy thud of armored boots on the stone floor. He waited nervously while his master inspected his handiwork, much like Aulë used to do at the forges of Valinor. The thought of his old master lingered for a second in his mind, and then fled with a sharp tang. He could never go back now. He's stepped too far.

Sharp-nailed fingers lifted his chin to gaze into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. He could do nothing but stare helplessly, a moth caught in a forest fire.

"You have done well, little Maia. Why are you crying?"

"This was not in the Music, my Lord. The Elf was innocent and full of light, and –"

"And weak," his master cut in. "You've improved it. It can no longer feel any pain, or fear, or sadness. Look at it!" the hand turned his face abruptly toward the slobbering wretch that tried to bite the servants who came to take it away. Mairon winced, and then melted as the hand began caressingly undoing his braid.

"It has a purpose now," the Vala whispered. "It will serve me, just like you do: a perfect tool to bring order and justice to Arda. Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that why you came to me?"

"Yes," Mairon breathed, succumbing to the pleasure.

It took time until Mairon finally lost his name. Gorthaur the Cruel he was called and Sauron, the Abhorred. He served his master faithfully, deceiving others who were not as clever and malicious as he was. He never felt broken: he was made whole, strong and perfect, by the shaping hands of Melkor. And if he were filled with hate and forever lost his fair appearance – what of it? Sacrifices are necessary to achieve glory. And Mairon always did want to excel.