Disclaimer: Characters and setting belongs exclusively to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.
Author's Note: This story follows HoME XI, p 320:
"But the title of dark elf was also sometimes applied to Elves captured by Morgoth and enslaved and then released to do mischief among the elves. I think this latter idea should be taken up. It would explain much about Eol and his smithcraft."
And Christopher Tolkien later notes: "In a scribbled note beside the two versions of the story he said that this would not do, being too repetitive of the later history of Maeglin, and that Eol's skill was derived from the Dwarves."
He
The Silmarils pulse, and Sauron is fascinated.
He would touch them as his master lies asleep on his throne, 'cept his master never sleeps.
And the Silmarils, as sure as they are alive to make imperishable crystal change shape, so they would slip from his hands.
He thought, knows, blood would mar him if he but touches them. This troubles him little; his rooms in Angband are washed in fluids less pure: newer, and older, than these.
Nevertheless, his whole form quavered. Not in pleasure of anticipation, nor in bathing himself within it. A different sort, one that makes him feel as if he is the victim.
Yet, he wants to touch them, so very badly, if just for a moment's hope.
Hope?
Sauron shakes his head, and tries to remember the meaning of the word. He cannot. The light beats before him, so close, so close; he sees his gauntleted hand reaching to touch it, hovering near master's brow.
Sauron's face, elven fair, his garb, as night, as blood from the torture chambers, his eyes fills with the Light from the Two Trees. Blessed light.
And Melkor is awake. He sees, but he stirs himself not, letting his High Captain come. The Silmarils do their work for him.
What is a servant of his if they cannot be tempted?
--
"We followed, my brother, you and I," He paused, "And we cannot regret."
Angband was dark: its plants obsidian, its fires jet ebony. Only the Silmarils are bright, Gorthaur thought, and caressed his own naked brow.
"No?" Gothmog asked. He wore the fana as one of the Eldar he had only today destroyed. He had found it very beautiful, unsettling. And as such, he was taught, it could be sinister, "Of course we can regret, but it is not going to do much. It did nothing for the wee ones that screamed for their father."
Feanor's mouth never smiled so cruelly, and his voice was never so sordid. The sough of fire laughed around him; oddly befitting, memories said.
Gorthaur could not resist touching Gothmog's face then. Indeed, he thinks he would have wished to kiss it if it was only less.... evil.
"True, it did nothing for them. Therefore we cannot." His fingers brushed through the Noldor dark hair, "Where is the freedom Melkor promised us?" He asked lightly, leaned close, and wished that he could feel a breath.
"Freedom is slavery," Gothmog replied, and laughed, incongruously bright, "For others."
"We have our own places." He patted Gorthaur absently, "As our Lord has his, for he alone wills the ultimate freedom for all. We have ours, do you not wear a parody of their slain king to battle and still do? So high, we Maiar are free to choose...."
There was no reply. Silence. Gorthaur whispered, but what he whispered should not be said.
For a brief moment, Gothmog's eyes flashed, but Gorthaur found it becoming in that visage, and for an instant, saw something more.
He would have loved to meet their maker, his craftsman's life cried, and perhaps, even to serve him.
The chamber does not have shadows: not here, not so deep underground, not as in the Great Hall where the Light went through the walls. Touch, smell, hearing, and taste alone guided.
And mockeries always tasted sweet; they were what could be: molded, altered, with none of the labors of creating and all the elegance of a worthy idleness. The press of lips then tongue followed its ancient course. A perverse pleasure rippled a pleasant tension through the deep tunnels as shapes found each other and consummated their profanity.
--
Melkor laughed as he heard their pleas.
His captains' pleasure had not left him unaffected, or his dear trinkets cold.
They strained against him, pushing; faster and faster they rubbed against his skin, melting the ice and snow upon his crown.
The frenzied rhythm, wonderfully wild, took his mind to places where he would not otherwise see. He needed it, so adorable in its futility, in its illusion.
Nothing passes in his fortress he did not know, be it the tiniest whimper or the fleetest thought as light fingers, imitation to its last whorl, skimmed across skin that was kin in His thought.
Closing his eyes with darkness for his veil, the weight of the Silmarils lessened, but their cries increased. They were but children, after all, and wise as only children could be wise- as alarm to their elders.
They see as he does, and so young, knows naught but to react. The rhythm of Arda seemed to slow as the Silmarils struggled, morphing almost imperceptibly and very eager to escape their set. One, the last made, felt the black metal around it finally fade- its strength gone in the fight. The stone leapt, expecting air, and fell back in horror, grasped by tiny clawing, gold and iron tendrils...Where is air?
Melkor was amused. These three knew him so, loves him, and guards him as jealous children.
"We are a fine team, for love to be thus."
They quieted, and keening sobs rose.
"Bid me my sorcerer and captain."
Immediately, they came, adjusting their eyes the further they leave that dark chamber where they slept, and learned something they would not speak.
He came into his presence: immaculate, high-collared, and pale. A gash bled from shoulder to thigh.
He came into their presence: ruffled, a bit bruised, but alive.
They recoiled. In their light, it's not him at all. Someone lied. They all did. Accusingly, they looked at each other.
"My high captains verily," Melkor said, "To outrage Valar, Maiar, and Eldar by fulfilling their laws, stanching through HIS impulses even when it's merely bodies that did the deed."
Gothmog and Gorthaur trembled. They were glad afterwards, when the need was satiated. Gorthaur had looked so adoringly at Gothmog that the Capt. of Balrogs would have been tranquil if not it would ruin the fana he wore, the true fea of Feanor could tear him.
"What would thought do then, I wonder..." Melkor pondered.
Deep beneath the ground, the desecration delighted him, but he was not foolish. His fire could not be brought again to this world through parody, but if one believed enough...
Melkor indicated the Silmarils.
"Gorthaur, you wanted to touch them."
Gorthaur looked up.
"Touch it."
He wanted it, yet being commanded to do so seemed ill fitting, he did not wish it at all suddenly, and yet Melkor's every word is a command. Still, the Light, they shone into his eyes.
Each step, he felt himself disintegrating, floating into essence, drawn by their pulse. He stood so close.
Too close. Music, songs to calm, to sleep, lullabies, sank into noise.
Screaming, they shrank away.
"They do not like me." Gorthaur said to himself, disappointed.
The voice came from out of the void, "It does not matter. Touch it! You want to."
And he did, the softest touch upon those jewels. It was not so long ago that he does not remember what consecration did. They could curse; he was already cursed.
Climbing down, feet touched the ground, and his head was bowed as he stood at the foot of the dais. They were beautiful as untamed beauty be yet better because they were conscious. A tear edged toward the brim.
It was a while until he looked up again. Melkor's eyes were closed, and thin rivulets of blood streamed down the terrible face.
"You are bleeding, milord." Gorthaur ventured.
"It was worth it." Morgoth smiled blankly, his voice, "Black Hand, my disobedient child." He closed his eyes as Sauron, neither child nor disobedient to his own, screamed, for in place of the fair hand of the Noldo King, it was black, as stone, as the mud he had first shaped once upon a time.
--
All the torture chambers are on the surface of Utumno.
The sun shines upon the rough metal of the instruments, and upon the gleaming skins.
He had been here for a very long time, true infinity, the chief torturer.
He was powerful, he had not died. He did not crumple before countless eyes, countless pleading looks.
They come already broken, battered, maimed, even dead- poor children. Those last he sent into the dark, to remind those kept there of where they were, and who they were; then slowly, their eyes would film over, and they would not be able to see save by hearing and smell- the strict necessities of a soldier.
Sauron did not like death, nor did he treasure the dark save that one time, when he saw the brief flash of light and lunged for it.
In a life previous, he knew each piece of it, and longed to hold them in his hand. Then Melkor came and showed him that a series of light and dark would allow him to scrutinize the properties and formation closely. For a time, it was true, until the dark took over, and appeared twice as many as the light. Dark was simple, complete, absolute, with no variance, Morgoth told him.
Yet he will never like the complete darkness, darkness did nothing for him, it drives him to constant chaos- orcs were made in the dark- but so did light, apparently, at least, pure light. His left hand weighed heavy, the soft gold glove of heavy velvet did nothing to conceal the blackness beneath- a reminder against his future transgressions, if he dared any.
It would be good when he dared, when he completed, stanched his appetite, if he ever does. He had half-heartedly wished that the Maker's fea would be stronger enough to find his fana and inhabit it as if it was his own. Half-heartedly, because he knew he would not be able to let him go, and it would kill him by ripping through him when it discovered itself within his embrace. Would it be worth it, he wondered, to meet him, to hold him, to ask him, to thank him for finding the rhythm of Arda within light...and be banished to the eternal void afterwards. He wondered if he knew his name.
Polished smooth, the paths in the large square was of white marble, and separated each patch of square shaped ashen ground from the next: perfect squares, carefully placed so that blood and pieces of the body would not splatter beyond the bordering road.
"Milord.
He glanced down, and briefly closed his eyes. He hated orcs, no matter how many he saw, no matter what part he played in their making. Their forms appeared ridiculously undisciplined, lacking all symmetry.
"What?
He liked his peace- the systematic manners of the place- this mathematical art of bending strengths, each method its own equation.
"They broke my claw." The iron thing was mangled, shredded to pieces.
And the torture chambers were usually silent, at least, for a time. The Moriquendi did not scream much, they mutter, they curse. But the Calaquendi- for a people so bright and fell, they were painfully easy to provoke any reaction.
"Get it fixed.
"They can't.
"His eyes broke it.
It was not uncommon, however, for their ridiculously fierce gazes to break the metal and wood used on them. There was still a confounding difference between Aman Paradise and Arda Marred.
"Get a new one then.
The small orcs scurried to keep up with his strides.
"The officer said my term is not up yet." The small orc continued miserably, looking up at him with obscenely deep and large eyes.
"And I just started. I didn't know..." He said, what should be pitiful, but only seemed annoying.
"Stop then.
"Stop?
They stopped at the orc's station.
Small black stones crackled beneath his boots as he walked toward the vertical green stone, embedded firmly in the ground.
Sauron stood close to the ruined body upon it, feeling the faint breaths, and the acrid scents of mutilated flesh. Where is the purity of form now? He wanted to ask, and then laugh at the answer; he always wanted to ask...
Gray eyes within a swollen face saw him and spat.
"You know Him." Hoarse voice made its way through injured jaw and punctured chest. The iron collar around the Noldo's neck, stabled by two sharp prongs, had a deep scratch. It would need to be replaced....
"So do you. And now what?" Sauron questioned, and smiled, knowing that there was no more strength in that body to answer. He turned to the tentative orc nearby, still holding the mangled claw.
"Stop. And staunch his wounds. Take them to my master, and clean this place up. Enough as it is."
"My claw..." The orc faltered.
"It will be replaced, leave it in the ground."
He left, for he saw others waited by the gate, as always, in two perfect columns, their backed turned to the scenes behind. They would still shudder when they saw spectacles of his art, yet would become crueler with age, came the thought unbidden, as Sauron perceived a tall figure standing amongst them, walking forward quite determinedly.
A rope around his neck, and others around parts of person impeded his progress. At the sight of the Sorcerer, he stood his ground, his face set: eyes beautifully and utterly black.
Oh yes, Moriquendi, they have many vague stories about him....
The Elf looked very young, perhaps he still believes many of those tales, and made up more for himself
"You did not fight?" Sauron lifted a questioning eyebrow at the calm Elf in front of him. Their eyes met levelly, and there was naught but a faint scratch on his cheek.
"I see there is not point of struggle. They surprised me. They broke my weapons, and I guess," There the Elf paused, unsure why he was speaking, "Chance says that I would have a better chance of living if I can see, the fellow there," His bound hand pointed sideways, "He had a poker near my eyes."
Sauron felt himself smile.
"You are very wise."
--
"You see," Sauron said, as they came to the empty square, "You actually believe it."
He came to stand in front of the slab of stone, its newly washed surface effervescent in the noon sun.
There was no trace of its previous occupant, and the manacles hung limply along the sides.
It was so simple a devise to have broken so many. Merely restraint, restraint to a wall of most precious jade, iridescent green, color of growing, living things.
The end on an iron claw jutted out from a mound pebbles like an obscene claw. Sauron bent down and wondered briefly at the small orc that left it there, as if he did not wish others to accidentally to step on the sharp tines at the head and hurt themselves.
He turned around to see the Elf gazing at him with something that he seldom encountered now, though he should. Most had come too battered to care. But within the grim set of the youth's face was also curiosity. The mingled look of horror and fascination amused Gorthaur.
"Do you know who did this?" He held up the claw.
The elf said nothing. The gravity of the situation had finally settled perhaps. Already, rough -scaled hands hand pulled the ropes around his ankles, arms, and neck taut. His throat flexed convulsively, already reddened.
"A Light elf, he broke it with his eyes.
Sauron caressed the broken middle claw, forming it anew, and that point slightly sharper than the others.
"Have you seen their eyes?
Black eyes looked at him with pure desperation as orcs ripped and cut clothes apart, careful to avoid to skin, which they should not touch, on Melkor's orders- who preferred all things absolute- including injuries. The torn tunic, leggings, and boots fell around his feet, and the eyes seemed to threaten tears.
It occurred to Sauron then that this particular one was indeed, very young, as he circled the figure, perhaps nearly as young as the sun, to have no scars.
"You will," He continued, ignoring the furious stare, "They saw the Trees, and so they are never weaponless- even their stare can rent metal. Unlike you, Mordhel, and all Mordhil in Enor- make of Arda Marred, no ships to bear you anymore- to paradise, to the gods you worship.
With a wave of his hand, the orcs within the square grew still, and paused their efforts to pull the elf to the rock, its surface worn smooth, but redoubled efforts do not move statues.
"Why did you surrender? Would it not perhaps be no chance of living," Sauron swept his hand across the gruesome horizon, "No chance at all. Why did you not fight, and perhaps led them to blind, even kill you. You would not suffer as much, or shall suffer." His voice was soft, and he would have an answer.
"I will be deceiving myself, and it would be cowardly to die, to fade, with full consciousness.
Sauron fell silent. He had allied to Melkor of the Other Music. He stood still for a moment.
"I trust you do not scream when hurt. I do not appreciate noise.
The elf drew himself taller- his lessons in Menegroth now full applicable to life.
"We were taught not to," A pained look passed as a shadow across his face, "Ever since we could speak.
"I am glad." Sauron said, "I trust the Sindar and the Avari. They make good spies and miners, for they do not worry the earth here," He continued wistfully, "The Light ones, on the other hand, wonderful warriors, wonderful handlers- possessing a refreshing creative facility." He pointed to one of the orcs that held the elf in place.
"Captain of the Scouts, squire to one of their lords. Craftsman of course, he crafted his own skin, and other's skins.
He pointed to another.
"Tracker of Doriath.
Then another. Then another
"Cupbearer to Thingol, captured after his first battle, or perhaps, skirmish would be more accurate," Sauron mocked, "For you only just encountered them, and by yourself as well.
"Ele..." The elf closed his eyes. The air of Angband felt oddly cool on his burning skin.
Sauron approached, and spoke into the elven ear, sharper than the Calaquendi sort, yet of the same fine make. Sometimes, he wondered if Eru made his children temptations on purpose, all that beauty bound in one fea and hroa- and would not that make Him the greater deceiver for offering what could not be had: true to the nature of temptations- the urge to have mere emptiness.
"I have met her you know." Sauron breathed into that ear, suppressing the urge to bite it and see it bleed. He laid a hand on the Elf's bare shoulder instead, feeling the solid and smooth flesh under his hand. It pleased him.
"Tell me something." the Elf spoke, a disconcerting light in his eyes as he stared straight ahead, past checkered layout of the Courtyard of Gorthaur, "Is she beautiful as we sing?"
Perhaps it was pity that stirred in him then, later he would argue that it was just an eccentric cruelty. But Sauron answered.
"Yes."
"Oh." The youth smiled, ever so briefly, and all his youth, all that is proudly elven in him gleamed like fierce diamonds.
They closed quickly upon him then, smooth iron and steel chains in hand to replace the rough ropes. And Sauron walked away, the sound of struggle curled with others, and faded behind his steps.
Melkor's orders.
--Sauron could not sleep in his chambers. He did not need to sleep; yet, he desired it then, and he could not.
Summoned, he had entered the throne room, and lowered his gaze quickly, avoiding the Silmarils.
Melkor wanted a storm from him. Melkor wanted more arts. Melkor wanted twisted bodies to do his bidding, and he wanted them quickly- any way possible.
Somehow, the image of the young elf kept rising into his mind.
Twisted bodies, ugly things. He was an apprentice of Aule; he created beauty. He was Maia; he sang, hating alterations. He wanted Middle Earth so he may give it layout. Mountain here, lake here, forests there, a fair city in concentric circles- marvelous geometry. Melkor seemed understanding, the desire to have things to his will.
He gave the orcs to the captains, batches at a time. The day he led those things to battle would be the day he was no longer himself, Sauron thought.
Is she beautiful as we sing?
Oh.
Is she beautiful
BeautyÉThe faith of it
Everything else is true then
He provided what, comfort?
He could not forget the Elf's face. Perhaps it was the fault of the Silmarils; they tend to burn his mind after a while in their presence. Reminding him
They were bright as he remembered. But not more merely bright, they confound his mind, inserting broken figments, like jotted lines in the strange red notebook of his fleshly heart.
Melkor warned him, not to interfere. He warned himself, not to interfere.
It's efficient. The system is efficient. He will be made an orc before the next day. So why did he wish to see him again?
Silmaril reincarnate, the thought came suddenly: unmarred, unblemished, and young enough to know little more than fear and other's opinions and presume their passions as his rightful, at some future time.
Very fair, and of course, fairer than any others he had seen for a long time. Gothmog did not countÉ Sauron let the thought trail off, dressed, and went to find the source of his complaint.
The twilight would have filled the sky rife with stars if they were not in Melkor's domain. Here, the skies were clouded.
Though eyes may differ, however, all Elves glow, some greater, some less.
Sauron felt himself hurrying. He would not be hurt yet, not until the morning anyways, but all those around him would be. They had found, a very long time ago, that breaking the body immediately does not do much, and lengthens the process instead; rather, the sufferings of others around them effect more deeply, and makes them malleable. The elf should not be hurt.
Sweat shimmered on the naked back, and the elf had his forehead against the rock. Stretched spread-eagle, he was yet unhurt, though stray pebbles from nearby had left several bruises.
All around, the contorting bodies of several Light Elves chatted rhythmically of twisted tendons and torn flesh.
The small orc Sauron had seen in the morning sat at the right corner of the square. At the Lord's approach, he stood up quickly.
"Shushluk, excuse me sir. We had not begin yet because the captain asked the lieutenant and he said that we were not suppose to do anything, and this being a curious thing that the elf had no wounds to pick I was just suppose to sit and guard him until the dawn, so please do not hurt me." Shushluk cowered into the corner after that, and Sauron paid him no attention.
He stood behind the elf, and placed one pale hand at the nape.
"What is your name?
There was no answer of course.
"Tell me and I will let you down." He whispered.
They had laughed at him, and then some cameÉ. carried and strugglingÉpast his sideÉeyes widened when they saw himÉ, his arm was broken because they were searching for him and followed the tracks. Now they are going to die because of him, and if he escapeÉthere is nothing more
"Ešl." It was said softly, so soft that Sauron had to strain to hear.
Sauron stroked the dampened black hair then caressed the naked back, pausing mid-spine. In the darkness of the night in Angband, he could see the tears from the day finally falling at night.
Still lightly touching the dark hair, he spoke to the hesitating Shushluk.
"Give him to me.
--