I do not own the characters of Sauron and Melkor Morgoth, nor the settings of Middle Earth and Valinor. Those were created by J. R. R. Tolkien.

I don't mean to make any money off this story, so please just read and, if you like, review.

He thought it was over when Sauron let go of his hands and pulled him back by his hair. He felt the flesh burned to the stone tear away. Tears streamed down his face. He wondered how the pain would ever end, and how soon, but that was not the last of it. The tears didn't wet his cheeks long.

Indeed, Sauron, still holding him by his hair, turned his head to the side, and pushed down. He screamed as the right side of his face sizzled. He thrashed, but could not break the grip on his head. It didn't let up no matter what he did. And when he was pulled back up, it was only to feel a jerk to his head he wished had broken his neck and another push downward. Both sides of his face would match it seemed.

. . .

"We're here."

Celuant was pulled up out of his thoughts and looked up. Melarbeth, Ranthalion, and Manpalan stood before him and Lastanan. They three ellon held nearly flat, clay bowls encrusted by wet sand. Two piles of wet sand rested behind them on a ledge below the plateau they'd encamped on before, but higher than the river-flooding area.

Lastanan walked past his brothers onto the ledge and fell to his knees beside the farthest pile of sand. He stripped off his outer and inner shirts baring his pale, smooth, elven skin to the sun and the brown smear of dried, warg blood staining him. Celuant watched in curiousity as the dark elf grabbed a handful of fine, wet silt and rubbed it over the encrusted layer of grime on his arms and chest, where the wounded warg had landed.

Celuant looked down at his own form. He noted the rags he still wore, grimaced, and stripped these off. In truth there was little beneath them to wipe away with his own pile of wet sand, but then he got to his hair and noticed the bits of black dust beneath his fingernails when he drew them away. These specks of dark stone had apparently been held to his scalp by his hair through all his long journey ...

. . .

"What have you done?!"

"I tell you he asked for it!"

The ellon in question just lay before the dias this time, back bloody, back of his legs bloody, arms bloody where the orcs had gripped them to drag him toward the forge. They'd tried everything. Neither the chains and hands they pulled him forward by nor the lash digging into him from behind had been enough to get him near the forge without a fight. He'd struggled and thrashed at the sight of the deep, blue light and feel of the dark flames' heat. And even when Sauron held him over it, like he had before, he could not make a thing there. His mind was too filled with fear.

"You've ruined him! He's good for nothing but the mines now!"

There was some comfort in the beating and torments Sauron was put through over his inability to ever serve in the capacity Melkor Morgoth had wanted him to. In the mines themselves though, there was little comfort indeed. He was supposed to search them for ore and gems.

Beforehand, orcs poured drinks into his mouth that filled him with energy, but burned. Oh, how they burned! And they made him want water all the more as did the heat and dust of the mines. If only he could get water! He received some and a short rest when he brought back results …

So, he had wondered through the mines, hot and thirsty, his throat, stomach, and veins, burning until he found gems. Gems would distract Melkor Morgoth's mind, even if just for a little while. Gems would never be made into weapons that would kill his kin. Melkor would never send gems off in the hands of his warriors. He would want to keep them close, possess them, himself, as always. Especially fine ones might even distract him for several moments, and do his kin no harm in the meantime. So, after getting covered in the ashes of the forge he was coated with the dust and dirt and debris from the mines ...

. . .

"Celuant!"

He spun around to see four pairs of eyes staring at him wide, focused, horror-filled. Lastannan's arms and chest had been scrubbed clear of brown, sticky residue. Celuant looked down and realized wet, crimson drops filled his own fingernails and ran down his hands. The stinging in his scalp began to register ...

Lastannan reached out, slowly, and took hold of Celuant's wrist, gently. His voice came out low and soft. "Come … we'll take you to the river now, another branch of it not far away, where it's waters lead only to the sea …"

God Bless

ScribeofHeroes