He left again, leaving Ešl to his own musings, and food enow.
Everything he wanted, everything except the sight of the stars around him. They were framed and seemed to hang, sometimes precariously upon the high walls as if liable to fall.
The softest and most elaborate fabric clothed him, the daintiest dish fed him, and still there was no wine. But he hardly cared anymore.
He had a chain. It was long and strong, and it was complete, with all the contraptions he thought would be necessary for his venture. His secret.
The terrors of the entryway had faded into oblivion; an even more ardent emotion replaced it. As Ešl lifted his eyes, hopefully at the silver handles and its locks, he sighed, the sound mixing with the merry bubbling of the fountain behind him.
Difficulties of unlocking the doors came to him even after his fear lost itself. Annatar had a key, that much he knew, but the other never slept and despite all the smithcraft he had endowed upon him, he had not been taught how to bend and place light into glass yet.
Sometimes in nights, out of some perverse pleasure, Annatar would show it to him, detailing all the slight etches and notches upon the apparently smooth metal body and the secret of each facet upon the crystal at its end, promising that one day, he could be able to create a replica. What irony- to create a replica for his freedom. Wrestling for it had proved futile and the indignity had gotten to such a point that he broke down and wept after perhaps the twelfth time.
The tears had burned down his face, but so had the words. Annatar never showed it to him afterwards. He had stood up and left without a word, leaving him there, alone and forlorn upon thick carpet.
Ešl realized that Annatar did not know what he was doing when the latter returned several days after in the morning and kissed him until he fell into a swoon after bidding him "Happy conception day".
Time does not exist here, and whatever was said, it was. The immeasurable strength, the mystery surrounding the Dark Lord was of little importance if he could not escape, escape to the sounds that must be ringing, singing outside. Everything was always so silent here save for himself.
The building was almost alive, if he closed his eyes, it would repair itself. Three days and he had stared at the window, daring it to fix the broken frames and the bits of plaster, which it did not.
Annatar did not return this time.
Securing one end, and so sure that there is freedom in the other side, Ešl swung himself out and began his descent. Out!
The wind whipped around him and clouds swirled so that there was a sensation of flying. He could neither see his hands in their holds nor the form of the walls.
What a wonderfully cloudy day, he thought to himself and indulged in the thought of being rained upon. Droplets of moisture clung to his face and hair from the clouds, and from a distance, he could see an eagle coming closer.
It swerved away from him, but that did not matter. Squinting slightly, he could see hills and even mountains raised tall in the distance, their verdant only a little marred by the clouds he was forced to see through. Notwithstanding, the snowy caps beckoned him, like so many bright torches showing him the way home. Menegroth, Menegroth are beneath those rocks
Once a long time ago, he was lost with Nellas in the forests. There had been bright torches light outside his house marking a blazing trail in the dark. They followed it and arrived home before even Beleg could reach them.
Ešl smiled at the memory: the image of his family and friends and their thankful expressions. Justly scolded afterwards, he was happy to be home. It had been cold in the forests where even glowing night flowers took on a menacing face.
They would be happy to see him again. He does not remember how long he had been away, but the first night he laid on that bed, he wanted to go home, away from the confounding place where his fate was orc.
Each step more hurried, each leagues completed faster. Then he stood on air.
He stamped his feet, thinking it was ice beneath his feet, some evil weather working against him. Locking his ankles on the chain, he dangled upside down and his own startled face stared back at him.
The surface was cool beneath his touch, and it was unmistakably silver: his own form and the sky reflecting in its view. The hum of the metal as he knocked against it showed itself to be impenetrable. Desperate, his heart fiercely pounding, thinking there was still a chance, he turned his head, still inverted and found a slant in the view that seemed strange. It appeared that a curl here and a line there were out of place, fractured.
His legs gave way, and he fell sideways, crashing against the hard plane. Bits of ice, for there was ice in the clouds, bit into his cheek and it stung.
"Elbereth GilthonielÉ.." Ešl cried, standing upon the mirror glass, ignoring the pain, straining to see the hills and see the ground seemingly so near, "Elbereth!
When no answer came, he knew then, o how he knew. Everything.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed back up again, his hands almost slippery with blood.
He will not die, but now he wished to. Then, not in the clouds, not in front of that dead deceiver at least.
Numb, he struggled upwards, the distance surprisingly short, as if the very walls reduced in height to receive him into themselves again.
When later in the day Annatar returned, he found Ešl crestfallen, buried in the pillows and blankets.
Laying a gentle hand on the heaving shoulders, Annatar sat himself down.
"It's a mirror trick. All of it. The hills, and the skies, and the flying things in the airÉ" Each muffled sound a blow.
A terrible face, bruised and bleeding greeted him.
"I am not going to be turned into an orc am I?" Ešl whispered fearfully, another plea in his voice.
Sauron looked down into eyes terrifyingly empty.
"No." He answered, and reached a hand to touch the elf. Ešl shrunk away and curled into the farthest corner beneath the canopy.
Annatar retreated, leaving the room, leaving the tower, into the ground he went
What was amiss in those eyes? Sauron turned his eyes to the eyeless roof of his dark cavern.
Stars.
Now Sauron knew, in his deepest heart, Ešl is beginning to fade. He was afraid, because the thought hurts.
--
Of Hildorien little was spoken.
But now Melkor spoke of it.
And he is going, leaving to seduce the newly awaken Second Children.
"Why?
"Why?
"Why?
The voice echoed in the hall, pierced by the light, incongruously loud, even though it might have been just thought.
"Allies." Gothmog answered, the foresight strong in him, "Great allies. We shall not regret it.
"They are weak, newly born.
Gothmog quirked a smile in his Feanor form, he scarcely do without it now, finding special pleasure in the shocked stares as he paraded within Sauron's domain.
"Ah, but the potential, and they are so anchored in their hroa. Mortals," He chewed the word carefully, considering the flavor, "They have an indomitable life force in them in order to survive, and they can never fade even if we do the most despicable things upon their bodies. In part, stronger than elves, though not as hardy at the first glance.
Sauron refused to look at him.
"The Sons of Feanor wishes another parlay," He entreated the figure upon the dark throne, "And they are full of artifice, there had been heavy losses.
Gothmog shuffled back, his handsome mouth twisting into a sneer. He turned to Sauron.
"We lose theirs and win theirs, do you know that sorcerer? you the progenitor of all those.
"And as a parent, suppose I should be hurt by that accumulating tollÉ" Sauron replied, "What do creatures of wild do when their young are hurt?
Clearly confused, the Captain of the Balrogs turned his head and implored his father.
"I am leaving." Melkor declared again, the resonance of his tone deafening.
Rushing forward, Sauron knelt down and placed his hands upon the black iron greaves.
"No!
He stared at nothing.
"Gothmog shall die, at my command." Sauron muttered.
"I am leaving." Melkor said again, hardly more than a whisper, to him.
"Yes milord.
Thuringwethil flew as a shadow passed the archway and reluctantly Sauron left his place by Melkor's feet.
Melkor plucked at his iron crown, tearing at it with great talon-like fingers, the Silmarils' light was as a blessed arc in the air.
It was the second year of the First Age.
Annatar is Lord of Angband, and all the Silmarils are entrusted to his care.
But when he held them within his hands, they were silent.
--
The tepid water slid down, leaving the broken skin behind, making each line more vivid so that the smallest cuts appeared as fatal gashes of color.
He bathed the grime and blood away from him, but not the bruises nor the various small wounds.
Ešl refused to allow him to mend the crisscrossed injuries, shallow and deep that marred his skin.
"It does not matter anyways." He said, watching the ragged lines turning black from the invisible poison in the air, "I am going.
"No you are not." The vehemence shocked Sauron, but the words were true, specious voice and face be damned.
"How would you stop me?" Asked Ešl coldly, looking away. All over, he hurt; as if a thousand cold needles were working his flesh, and acid were poured onto his joints from the inside.
The light, soft as it was, make him want to shut his eyes. However, the explosions of colours don't end, painfully dizzying in their iridescence. And all the colors were cold, blue and white and terrible green. His entire body was sore, as if his fea decided that the hroa is not worth it anymore and was straining for flight, rather unsuccessfully, like him.
It had been possible before.
"You would stop yourself. The virtue of you being here would do that for me." The words were so soft that it eased into the addled scheme of that stormy mass of lights and half-lights and echoed within it.
Someone held him, and he was floating, wrapped deep in the rich fur of something. A million little hairs tickled him against his pain, and dimly, he could feel the shape of his naked body.
"I want to fly." He said, the words harsh, grating against his raw throat. Maybe he should not have screamed for Elbereth so loudly, or for Eru. He had strayed into the wrong music, drifting in from some unfinished measure into a violent change of mood.
The visage of Annatar was as it ever was: handsome, impassive, almost lazy, the effect spoiled by the hard eyes carrying an enameled quality. He turned his face away from the sight.
Red, orange, yellow and variant shades in between; the warmth of the corridor struck and burned his vision, and tears refused to come and blur it. A cool hand descended and touched his brow while his head ached, pounded upon by blunt metal tines.
"Does it always hurt so much?" Ešl asked, before everything fell, "Before Mandos claims us?
Annatar's head lowered to peer at the luminescent skin and the damp curls of hair that tangled upon the perspiring forehead. The air of Angband holds the Black Breath, every space suffused with it, and now Ešl refused for his injuries to close.
Dying, dying
The idea occurred that the elf would eventually venture escape. The consequence were always unpredictable, and he had failed to consider. Sauron saw the brief flicker of light within Ešl's eyes before they were quenched. Sounds roared within his ears, the crashing of tides against cliffs and he remembered that the nature He gave them, not even his children could know, just like His, His will, His music, still solely his.
The lips had parted, emitting faint puffs of breaths, too faint.
"It depends upon the manner." He answered.
Tightening his hold as the blank black eyes fluttered shut again, the long lashes resting so peacefully, Annatar tread upon wind and stairs, and mixed matter in his swiftness.
He never knew elves could fade like this, he had never seen it. He heard of how Miriel laid down her life in sleep, he knew the Quendi tenets and limits, he witnessed failed experiments of his hand, but he has never seen it.
Never seen it because it never mattered before, there had been always more.
Symmetry was never so appalling as it was in that moment. It went against his very nature to find it so. The perfection of spirit he thought he had attained crumbled, and maybe only crumbled because he was Maiar, and furthermore, a Maia who took part in Melkor's rambling tune.
Up the winding stairways, banisters exquisitely carved, he took him on top the unfinished towers with the half-completed roof. The rocks and broken pavement crunched beneath his feet. Kicking the loose stones apart, he knelt, and arranged the drape better to shield the elf from the fierce winds.
"I am going to show you the stars," He soothed the figure within his embrace, "You want to see them.
In the vague haze, Ešl heard the mellifluous voice. Straining eyelids to open, yet all he felt, all he saw, was a great cold.
Live or die: death was ever an abstract, like what would happen if one became lost outside the girdle.
The skies were dark, but Annatar promised he would see the stars. Then, surely he could appeal again.
--