Author's Note:  This is a very short chapter.  I am posting it, because I want to give you all a teaser of what is going to be upcoming.  I am coming up on a very busy time period.  I am preparing a tape for a scholarship audition, so I am going to need to devote more of my time to practice than I have been recently.  I will try to post as often as possible, but there may be more delays than is my usual wont.  I also have several projects going on fanfiction.net right now, and I am still trying to keep up with them.  Don't worry, this story will not disappear.  I just wanted to explain why my posting might not be so frequent.  I hope that you will stick with me. ;-)

Smoke and ash swirled on the black air, coating every crevice of the cavernous dungeon.  Iron manacles hung from the walls, empty but for one pair.  The naked body of a male Elf hung there.  His dark hair hung in snarled hanks, and there were raised welts all along his chest and back.  Once, long ago, he thought that he had known his name, but that time was long past.  All that now existed was pain.  Pain, and the ever-present stench of sulfur.

A small part of him knew that he was deep within the bowels of Orodruin.  That he had not come there willingly.  In the welcome respite between beatings, he struggled to pull to his mind what exactly it was that he was hiding from his captors.  He could not remember how long he had hung there on the ash-encrusted wall, but it felt like eternity.  The heat of the cavern was unbearable, and his body was drenched in sweat.  A chasm against the far wall glowed a hot orange, and he guessed that it must open onto the liquid fire of the mountain.

One thing he was certain of.  He was an Elf.  There was no doubting that fact.  Once he had known the company of other Elves, as well.  Yes!  That was what he was hiding!  Those creatures which came with each new day to wield their whips of pain wanted to know about Elves.  Where could they be found?  How many were left?  What were their weaknesses?

And he knew the answers.  A morbid laugh rose in his throat.  Yes, he knew, but he would go to his grave before he would speak one word to the foul beasts.  He was an Elf!  He could withstand any pain, any torment of the body.  If he succumbed to death, he would go to the paradise of the Halls of Mandos.  He had nothing to lose.  Perhaps that was why they were so careful not to damage him beyond endurance.  They were denying him the release of death.

The iron manacles dug into his wrists, an exquisite pain.  His dark head swung back and forth like a pendulum, hanging down to his chest.  Soon they would be back, the sniveling beasts that were so twisted they could not stand upright.  The sight of their crazed visages sent chills through him, for he recognized features like unto his own: their pointed ears, the depths of their eyes.  Yet for all their familiarity they were hideously twisted, obeying a master that clearly ruled them by terror.

A sound like he had never heard before rumbled through the chamber, and he pulled his head up on his tortured neck, glancing about, wondering what new horror was to come before him.  A heaviness pervaded the air, and with it came a pulsing wrongness, the very breath of fear.  Fiery light emanated from the lava tube that served as entryway to his cavern.  It grew more intense with each passing moment, and the Elf felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

As the dread presence grew nearer, the Elf began to struggle, thrashing against his confinement, only aware of escape.  What was coming was far beyond the foul minions that had plied their whips upon him, trying to break his will.  He found that he dreaded what would appear, and he desperately wished to close his eyes to the sight that would soon burst forth.  Yet the overwhelming power that approached refused him the right to hide his face.  Against his will, he was forced to watch as a vast form of shadow loomed into the cavern.  Darkness like the black pits of night traced the shape of a fell beast, built like a powerfully muscled man, but taller and imbued with more power than any creature the Elf had ever encountered.  Fire spewed from its mouth, and crackled with its motion.

One thought only passed through the Elf's crazed mind.  Balrog!

Desperate to escape, he yanked hard against his restraints, feeling the iron tear at his skin, but not caring.  The Balrog advanced upon him, the thunder of his passage reverberating through the cavern.  If he had thought it hot before, he did not know how he could survive the terrible, searing heat that now radiated from the living shadow that approached.

Not a sound passed from the dark maw that was the Balrog's mouth.  It advanced upon the thrashing Elf until it stood with its face mere inches from the frail being, harmlessly writhing against the wall of the cavern.  Knowing the power of its gaze, it forced the Elf to stare into its fiery orbs, dancing with the fierce hatred within.  At long last, it opened its jaws and roared.

The sound was like the rumblings of Orodruin, but filled with the screams of innocents, torn from life in the midst of their joy.  If the Elf could have, he would happily had ripped off his own ears, rather than be forced to endure such a sound.  As it was, he had no choice.  Against the agony of the roar, and the demented fire of the burning eyes, there was no defense.

He would do anything to make it stop.  Anything!

He began to scream, willing the Balrog to take pity on him, "I will do what you ask!  I will serve your master!  Only, please, stop the agony!  I will be your willing slave!  Please!!!"

The Balrog's fiery lips curled in what could have been a smile.  For long moments, the roar continued, then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was silenced.  The shadow beast took two steps back, then reached out one giant hand.  With fingers spread wide, it leaned forward, laying its searing palm full across the Elf's beautiful face.

The Elf screamed with pain as the handprint of the foul beast burned itself into his skin.  When the hand was pulled away, angry welts oozed over his nose, cheeks and forehead, in the clear shape of the Balrog's hand.

In a voice of rumbling thunder the creature spoke.  "This is the mark of my master.  Your word has been given.  You have been branded.  Your will is no longer your own.  You will serve no other master but him."  Then it turned and retreated back the way it had come, its mission accomplished.

The Elf was left sobbing uncontrollably, dangling from the iron manacles, and writhing in pain.  Before he had time to fall too deeply into despair, a new voice rang through his skull.  It was as if a storm had lodged itself with his mind, and he could no more ignore the voice than he could a lightning bolt.

"You are mine, Caldarion."