Summary: Melkor allows Sauron pick his prize.
A/N: For Lord_Yaulendil. Happy birthday, dearest friend! You are awesome and amazing, creative and capable, special and super freaking wonderful. You know, I'm not good at positivist and you know how shitty my writing can be. By Varda's tits, you saw my first English texts.
Apologies, that it's not The Dark Crystal, but with any luck you will like it.
I might have gone a little overboard. Like... just a tiny bit. You know, Gokuryūha kind of tiny bit.
A Prize
Gaze upon this world, oh, ceaseless observer of happenings. Turn your restless eye towards the land beyond Moritarnon, eager traveler through the endless void of the abyss between worlds, where even the black holes turned into cold, lifeless vapor and where the stillness of particles brings no hope for change or evolution. Witness the vast tapestry of colors and textures, the proud mountains and forested hills, the river valleys and shores of Beleriand, where the Children of Iluvatar dwell. Let your keen gaze wander to the North, where, in the shadow of imposing, massive triple peaks, the plane of Anfauglith stretches. There, hidden under the volcanoes bleeding smoke and ash into the cold air, the fortress of Angband lurks, like a predator waiting to ambush an unsuspecting prey that would dare to wander into the desert controlled by the ruler of this land.
Bones of those, who dared to assume they could release this land from the shadow,, now were scattered all over the area, in an attempt to scare off more idiots. Some people just couldn't get a hint without some gruesome display. One would have thought a bunch of lost battles would make them realize that no cavalry can breach an iron gate guarded by werewolves, dragons and orcs a plenty - not even mentioning the Maiar that breathed fire and drank lava at exactly five every afternoon! - and affixed to an Eru damned slope of an active volcano.
But no, Children of Iluvatar needed a clear message. Preferably in short sentences. With words not longer than two syllables.
So, yes, my keen observer of the things that occur, look upon the bones of the fallen, the vulchers flying overhead, the clouds of dust and smoke covering this bit of Middle-Earth from the eye of the most nosy younger brother to the Dark Lord. Pause for a moment and you might hear (like the most exasperated sisters-in-law to the Dark Lord) the sound of heavy machines working under the ground and behind the walls of the fortress. They are wicked machines, being created by the servants of the Dark One, so there is little use telling you that they are pumping fresh - well, fresh for Anfauglith - air to the lower parts of the fortress or aiding in reducing the amout of man labor in the various workshops across the giant complex. We all know that progress is wretched and deserves to be discarded, for it can bring only suffering and - Eru forbid - allow lower classes some free time to ponder matters befitting only the minds of wealthy and well-bred individuals.
There, in the shadowy recesses of the last stronghold of the Dark Lord, our story takes place. Behold and do not hesitate to reward the nyarnamatiar that weaves it, who cracks the Door of Night open for you to peer into the lands beyond, where the Ainu don their flesh to interact with the Children of Iluvatar and their creations.
.
Deep within the mighty walls of Angband, behind an utter maze of criss-crossing corridors, in the heart of the stronghold, hidden like an obsidian pearl in a clam, was the throne room of the Dark Lord of Arda.
The dark chamber was spacious. In the obsidian throne room, adorned with banners of falen armies and cities, bleeding colors of rainbow against the majestic darkness of the walls upon which they were hung, met two males.
One sat on the ebony throne, adorned with comfy pillows and an intricate pattern made from shards of obsidian. His red hair fell down in luxurious waves down his back, covering the shoulders of the black robe he wore. It was made from velvety fabric and draped elaborately on his lithe body, but in fact it was quite simple and easy to put on and take off. Blue eyes shone in his face, intelligent and cunning, enchanting and mesmerizing. Upon his brow a somewhat crude, yet still stylish iron crown sat, adorned with two jewels that were the only source of light in the room.
At the foot of the throne steps knelt on one knee the second individual in the chamber. His golden eyes reflected the light of the jewels, like eyes of a cat would mirror the light in the dark. His brown hai was braided neatly away from his face, the tail of his braid falling over one of his broad shoulders of a smith. He wore a somber, simple black and brown robe that only by the finery of its fabric revealed that he wasn't a mere commoner. He wore a plain armor, but somehow it looked as if it had been made of black mithril, reflecting the light of the jewels.
"So?" asked the Black Foe of the World, playing with the embroidered edge of his glove.
"My liege, the campaign in Barad Ce'bab h was a success," Sauron, the bominable, lifted his eyes to look upon the black throne, his face calm but his eyes blazing with the excitement of won battle and pride that he could carry out his master's comand quickly and exactly.
"Elaborate," Melkor smiled, obviously pleased.
"Thine army of orcs under this one's command fell on the unsuspecting human castle, lanketing it with foul smoke and bringing fire and iron to punish the for their foolishness and refusal to bow down to thy grim will. The twin towers of their fort fell and the lamentations and screams filled the night. We put the survivors in chains and they will serve thee well in the mines and on the fields, forever regretful of issing the opportunity of being thy servants instead of slaves. The captured leader of the humans will be led before thy throne shortly."
"Splendid!" Melkor all but clapped his hands. He was mindful not to do such a thing, after centuries of ache he rarely forgot the need to be gentle with his battered body.
"This one has one regret, master," spoke Sauron after a moment of pause. "The army tho uallowest this one to lead proved too effective and this one had no chance to test the new siege engines. May this one be allowed to do so in the near future?"
Melkor's eyes burned with wicked glee. With the eager troops and Sauron inventing new things to improve their progress, taking over Beleriand was swift and made him almost forget the losses and pains of the previous centuries.
He was in such a good mood that he decided to reward his lieutenant.
"I spoke of a prize for destroying Barad Ce'bab, but I think one is warranted. Tell me, what you desire, Sauron, and I shall grant your wish."
The dark Maia pondere the offer, not willing to speak hastily. He smiled at last and bowed his head.
"If this one's liege allows such a thing, this one wishes to sit upon thy throne."
Silence was thick like an Easterling drink of dark beans.
"Come," Melkor said, touching the hilt of Grond, leaning against the side of the throne, then pushing it a bit further to the side. The Maia rose and approached the sitting Ainu, obedient and careful in his step up the stairs. He loomed over Melkor, who looked up int his face. A lesser being would have felt threatened by the way Sauron stood just in front of him, his aura powerful and intoxicating, his golden eyes mesmerizing. Melkor smiled.
"Am I to assume that you wish to sit in my lap?"
Sauton leaned in, just a bit, his gaze never leaving Melkor's face, even when he squinted at the light of his jewels.
"This would be this one's wish" he purred.
"Then I allow you to sit upon my throne," Melkor said with a wicked grin. The weight of the Maia was almost too much for his leg, but he cared not for the ache in his leg. Sauron knelt on his lap, his powerful thighs pressing against Melkor's. He laid his hands on the Dark Lord's shoulders and smiled almost innocently, like Mairon of old.
Melkor had seduced him to leave One's household, but sometimes he wondered if it wasn't Miarin who had seduced him. He didn't waste time pondering that matter now, for he was a being of impulse and his impulse was to kiss his Maia senseless - which he did. Melkor was fire and ice, extremes of height and depth, Sauron was like a geode, a gem hidden well in the darkest depths of the earth, guarded by layers of rock-hard control and cunning.
When they kissed, Melkor felt as if the world was holding its breath, awaiting a great cataclysm - and a cataclysm was the excitement, the rush of oiling blood, the heartbeat racing and skipping when Sauron's hands rubbed his body through his robes. He gripped at his Maia, his tonuge passing into his mouth wih no resistance from Sauron. He tasted like magma, like acid seeping through limestone, like ancient, dry riverbeds and crumbling hills. He tasted like metal, hot and glowing, and smelling of possibilities of the shapes it could be forged and twisted into.
Oh, Melkor had missed his lieutenant dearly over the past months and he wanted to take him into his private chambers to see if Sauron's passion would disintegrate his bed again. There was no joy quite like making Mairon sing a song praising his power, no power so potent as the tempest they wrought together, no satisfaction like watching the way his most loyal and powerful Maia heaved in the wake of their dark union of flesh.
Melkor broke the kiss and smirked, opening his mouth to command Sauron to take them to a place where no one could witness the things he wanted to do to him, when he heard the doors of the throne room open and a procession of soldiers and captives entering. For a split second he wanted to lash out at them for breaking their moment, but he decided against it. Sauron was somewhat breathless and his eyes burned, but he wouldn't like it if his newest slaves were to be slain, along with his prized troops.
Melkor decided that a - short - time of waiting would make the real prize for Sauron's victory that much better. He could exert some control over himself, after all. The Maia in his lap shifted form, probably unwilling to let their soldiers to witness their commander straddling their
When the fallen ruler of Barac Ce'bab entered the great throne room, he saw the Dark Lord upon his throne, a giant black cat laying across his lap. The dark Ainu stroked the cat's head and leaned in to whisper in a pointed ear.
"I want a revolving throne, Sauron. Forge me such a seat and I will have you sitting upon it whenever you like."