3.
Sauron wore practical black. It was not the same as the black Melkor, standing next to him, now wore. The violet and red robe required more than a passing sweep of a brush to be restored to its glory. The black robe Melkor was clad in now was adorned with black pearls, polished obsidian beads and diamonds almost as luminous as the Silmarilli set in the iron crown upon Melkor's fiery hair (by some foolish mortals described as "strawberry blond").
Sauron also wore armor. A plain, but well done one, with no gleaming jewels and fancy but weak metals. He had no helmet on his head.
Melkor, after his encounter with Nolofinwё, opted not to weight himself with any armor, leaving fighting to individuals under his rule. Nowadays, he preferred a comfortable robe and carried only Grond as his weapon and - during worse days - a walking stick. Some deft hand adorned it with a silk ribbon, as if it had made it better somehow. He now leaned on it casually, his hands clad in black gloves.
Gothmog stood at the front of the Balrogs quite a bit away from the two who were standing in the center of the great hall. They faced the titanic iron gate which was being opened by two trolls on each side. Lines of orcish Guard of Honor were standing on both sides of the wide corridor between Melkor and Sauron, and the gate. The rest of the space was filled by shadows, where orcs and werewolves, and other beings serving Melkor, waited to see the foolish elf. A soft whisper of voices floated in the air, excited and curious.
A shaft of dim sunlight widened across the stone floor, thin and feeble against the shadows that loomed on both sides. In the opened gate stood a lone figure. When it was clear that the trolls wouldn't open the gate wider for this one newcomer, the figure stepped inside, slowly but steadily walking the length of the ray of sunlight.
"Sauron," the Maia felt his master's elbow touching his side. His voice was but a whisper. "Sauron, I will be taking over the treaty talks."
"As you wish, my liege, but may I inquire as to why?"
"Oh, just look at him!"
"I am looking, my liege." Sauron sighed. "In the talks, may I advise you, pay attention to what he is saying and what you are agreeing to."
"Of course! I am not an idiot!"
"Then, may I advise, stop smiling like one."
Melkor immediately schooled his features into a look of cool aloofness, his eyes gleaming with nothing more than cunning mischief. Sauron was relieved to see his master compose himself. And just in time, for the elf was approaching the protocol dictated distance from them.
He walked soundlessly, with grace and almost serene dignity. His face was pale, triangular and with pleasant features. His beauty was not striking, like Nolofinwё's, but he had a charm about himself, a charm Sauron was wary of. His dark blue eyes peered without fear nor hate, a perfect mystery akin to the night sky. His hair was long and pale, almost white as it fell down his back, covered by a dark blue mantle. Dark blue was also his tunic, a golden sash wrapped around his thin waist. He was average in height, lithe of build and had no weapon on his person other than a short knife, stuck in the sash about his waist. The wide sleeves of his white shirt were embroidered with delicate silver thread. Sauron was sure that he had at least one more knife, less ornate, hidden in the boots of soft leather the elf wore. Albeit the clothes the elf wore were of rich material and well-crafted, they were also practical and looked sturdy. He wore no flashy jewelry, aside from a crystal star on a silver chain around his neck and a ring of gold on his left hand's index finger, a ring bearing the crest of the High King of the Minyar.
Thuringwethil, clad in shadows and velvety crimson and black robe, landed on soft feet on the floor to Sauron's left, an attentive herald and messenger of Gorthaur.
"You stand in the presence of Melkor, the One Who Arises in Might, Morgoth Bauglir, the first and most powerful among the Ainur, the Dark Lord, The Black Foe of Arda, the breaker of chains, the mother of dragons, the father of orcs, the master of lies, the ruler of Angband. You stand in the presence of Sauron the Abominable, Gorthaur of the Maiar, the Sorcerer of the Isle of Werewolves, the Lord Commander of Angband."
After she spoke the titles of the rulers of darkness, the crowds watching the meeting cheered, howled and hissed their admiration to their supreme ones. Sauron looked at the audience and silence reigned again. All eyes were on the elf, so calmly, fearlessly standing there. When he spoke at last, his voice was clear and rang with silent strength. It was like a ray of light in a darkened room, giving definition to the silence blanketing the great hall, so still and tense, so it seemed to tremble in the wake of his words.
"I am Ingwion."