Barad-Dur, Sixty-Days after the Reclamation of the One Ring.

Sauron, Lord of the Realms of Men, basked in the glory that had encompassed his fortress citadel. From his vantage point atop the baloney of the highest chamber of the tower of Barad-Dur, he examined the bustling work of hundreds of architects, mostly gold-smiths of Rhudel, and the long, trailing caravans coming to and fro from the Black Gate, Minas Morgul, and Seregost. Wealth had poured out of the captured cities of Gondor and Rohan, and the dark lord had felt that a good portion of the loot would be best suited in the indispensable investment of vanity. While Barad-Dur had suited his needs and he adored the orchestral style of his fortress, all self-designed of course, he had grown tired of the flat black exterior. By his orders, Barad-Dur had been decorated with pure gold details, shimmering metal defining the sharp edges of the spires and forming delicate designs along walls and smooth spaces.

Despite his solitude, Sauron turned to his chamber with a dramatic flair of his shadowy cape. He strode the distance to his high throne, a seat of polished obsidian and shimmering mithril. While he did not especially care for the silvery hue of the precious metal, he found that its composition was better suited for omnisciancy. He assumed that the metal was somehow separated from the dark will his former master had imposed upon Middle-earth, allowing him to better separate his own will from the physical realm. Taking his seat, he clutched the rests and began to force his consciousness from the form he had assumed. Like a terrible flame, the will of Sauron poured from his body and into the heights of Barad-Dur. From the twin spires of Barad-Dur, his mind assumed a terrible shape, an eye wreathed in flame. Like a telescope of dark sorceries, the eye allowed the dark lord to see anywhere he so desired. He turned his attention to Gondor and the crumbling city of Osgiliath. The white ruins were clouded by billowing clouds of smoke. Factories, constructed from the ancient bricks of the former capital, were fueled by wheels churned by the River Anduin. From their gates poured many goods of war. Sauron had ordered them to produce swords and armor for his growing army of men, though he secretly hoped that they would one day churn out objects of vanity for the soon-to-be prosperous people under his will. Would not every man, woman, and child need a gold or silver idol of his magnificent image once the war was won?

Sauron looked upon the city of Minas Tirith, or Minas Orthor as its new governor demanded it be called. He was quite annoyed with himself for allowing Zagathor to take hold of the citadel. Rather than obey his orders to convert the tower into a mining complex (the white mountains it clung too were to be stripped), the Nazgul had wasted its resources by remaking it into a temple of self-worship. Statues of his old body watched over every building and his personal banner, a dark mirror of the Numenorian shield, flew over every roof. Adding Zagathor's re-leashing to his to-do list, Saruon turned to Rohan. He was amused by the sight of a small band of Rohirrim fleeing from the host of the Witch-King. Now there was a dependable minion. Sauron knew the wraith's aspirations to reign as sovereign of Gondor, though he was far too valuable as a military leader to put on the throne of Minas whatever-it-was-to-be-called. The Witch-King would have to wait for his prize.

He looked upon Orthanc and greed flooded his heart. The Ents and those of the Rohirrm and Dunlandings who took refuge within the walls of Isenguard would not die easily. The tower was made of that damned indestructible stone the Numenorians were so fond of. He might need to arrange for a manipulation of the Ents to take the fort. Was that not why he had forbidden the burning of Fanghorn Forest? While its role as a bargaining chip did provide a convenient excuse for his commanders, he had decided in private to convert the forest into a new personal place of meditation. Such places untainted by time were hard to come by in this age and he desired to keep it so. Rumor had reached his ear that another such forest existed in the north, near the land of the halflings (another matter he would deal with in its time).

With much excitement, he looked upon Ost-en-Idhil, where the Galadhrim had proved victorious in another bloody battle in the Elvish Civil War. This was another matter of immense pride for him, for he had achieved another act of terror that his former lord had not. While the elves were no strangers to the occasional kin-slaying, they had claimed to have put that darkness behind them. Yet, the First Born now slaughtered each other by the will of lords clearly suffering from some degree of madness. Not only had his influence led to the death of one of the few remaining powers that might rival him, but it also weakened the last of those who guarded the north from his advance. Sauron was quite pleased with himself.

Suddenly, a change in the air around his physical form forced Sauron to abandon his watch. Looking though his own eye once more, the dark lord stood in surprise as a foul mist poured over the balcony and into his chamber. It stunk of the dregs of the sea and a thousand foul beasts of the depths. Drawing his fell mace from the void, Sauron peered into the sickly vapor that had quickly enveloped him. Within its depths, he could make out a writhing form; a mass of slimy, snakely arms and insect-like claws. Before he could utter a belittling remark, the monstrosity lunged upon him. Sauron swung upon it in defense, shattering one of the shelled claws that stabbed at his face. He surrounded himself with fire and swung wrathfully, yet he was soon overwhelmed by the horde of tentacles that thrashed around him. His body was enveloped and it was with a desperate struggle that he kept his left hand, that which bore the Ring, away from the snapping appendages. His initial confusion and shock was quickly replaced with a blinding fury and his dark form grew red hot with anger-induced fire. The being screamed from an unseen mouth as its arms began so simmer and it released Sauron as it tried to slip away.

"You will not escape your punishment so easily!"

Sauron poured his will through the Ring, attacking the mind of this creature. It squirmed and twitched in pain and shifted between many forms.

"Who are you?" The dark lord demanded, for this being's mind was somehow closed from his probing. As if the Ring had lost all effect on it, the being ceased its mad struggling and began to shift between forms in an almost graceful manner.

"Oh Mairon," an unseen laughter filled the murky air, "am I so easily forgotten?"

From the mass emerged a form somewhat akin to a woman. Her bare skin was a sickly grey, hued with tinges of blue and green. Her body. from her face to her waist, was nearly that of a fair yet mighty elven maiden, though, upon her hips, her flesh seemed to be a garb of tentacles and webbed skin. This "dress" seemed to cover another mass of spiked legs and claws, again to some terrible crab.

"Gwaisagma," Sauron snapped, quite frustrated, less by the intrusion and more by the flood of questions that her presence created, "I thought you were dead."

The sickly woman laughed at this, "Do you really think that I could be killed so easily? Once I realized we were going to lose, I escaped the Battle of Angband and took up residence in the swamps of the south. You wouldn't believe how ready the men of the swamplands were to worship the first thing of power that stumbled into their filthy lands"

"So," Sauron replied, warily retaking his throne, "You are why a group of barbarians from the south begged me to kill a Dark Goddess. Apparently, a neighboring tribe kidnapps their children every year to sacrifice to their goddess."

"What other title would I take? Dark Lady?" Gwaisagma smirked, "A little beneath me, do you not think?"

"You are in my sanctuary," Saruon snapped, "I expect to be treated with respect becoming the Lord of Middle-earth."

"Ooooh," she scuttled closer to the throne, fanning her dark eye lashes, "stepping up from the plaything of Morgoth, I see."

The dark lord lept from his throne, taking her throat in his clutches.

"Who do you take me for?" he roared into her face, "That fool was no match for my mind even at his mightiest! I played the role of a loyal lieutenant so that I may pull his strings. Who do you think organized the infrastructure of his war machine? Who might you believe bred the dragons and vampires and werewolves? Gothmog? Neaglas? I was the true master of Angband!"

This rant spurred by old bitterness seemed only to amuse Gwaisagma, "And yet here you are, thousands of years later," she quipped, "Still angry that father didn't like you the best. What happened to you? You used to be better with words."

Sauron released her and stalked to the balcony, looking over his dark land. "Many things have happened, and I have come out all the stronger for them." He was silent for a long moment. "Why are you here, sea-bitch? And why did you attack me?"

"Ah, that old name." she smiled as if recalling happy memories of an old friend, "I forgot how much it used to infuriate me." She stepped alongside her counterpart, shifting again to take on the legs of a woman rather than the carapace of a beast. "I heard that you were waging a war. I thought you might want some help."

"And claim a part of the spoils for yourself. Do not flatter yourself, you are almost as much of an opportunist as I."

"Maybe."

"That still doesn't explain why you attacked me."

"I thought it would be entertaining, just like old times." She sighed with exaggerated nostalgia, "I'm quite surprised you didn't shift forms. What was your preferred form? A werewolf, right?"

"I cannot do so anymore."

"What? How did you…"

"I underestimated the level of pettiness an all-powerful being can muster."

"Oh, I see. So, you are why Numenor sank, apparently along with your body. Tell me, what do you look like now under all that armor?"

"Not pleasant."

They both stood silently for quite some time before Sauron began to chuckle softly to himself. Gwaisagma turned to him, confused. Sauron, now with an audience, turned with a dramatic swing of his cape and beckoned for her to follow. He led her to a stair case leading down from his observation chamber and into his private rooms. He led her through a long room filled with trophies, casually describing those he found interesting.

"This," he said, pointing to the shards of a sword suspended in mid-air, "used to be Glamdring, the former sword of Turgon of Gondolin and Gandalf the Istari. Do you remember Olorin from Valanor? He was a thorn in my side for many years, yet he was the first to fall in my new era."

"And this was the sword that haunted me for a thousand years." He pointed to another sword, this one intact, "Narsil it was, and Andruil it is. I might yet find a suitably ironic use for the Flame of the West."

They passed rows of crowns taken form the heads of kings and princes, and a case of nine rings guarded by silent creatures of metal and stone. There were many trinkets and such from many battles and wars, but Gwaisagma took very little interest in any of it until they stopped before a tall, iron door.

"This, my lady," due to his tone, she could not tell if Sauron said this genuinely, "is why I brought you down here. I seem to recall that, in the old days, you took a certain delight in inflicting pain upon the imprisoned."

"Oh, how sweet of you to remember," due to her tone, he could not tell if she was genuine.

"You see, I spent nearly one hundred years warping the minds of nine kings in order to turn them into wraiths under my will. I gifted each a ring of power, and then slowly used my own ring to corrupt their hearts and minds. Eventually, their souls were trapped in the void and their bodies were nothing more than puppets that would eventually be discarded. The results of all that work was worth the trouble, for I have nine powerful and nearly immortal commanders at my disposal. However, I recently came upon an interesting development. Three rings of power, far more powerful than the nine, fell into my grasp. What was I to do with them? Well, allow me to show you my pet project."

Sauron swung open the door to a pitch-black room, though the sounds of pain issued at the sound of the iron clashing. With a flick of his wrist, he illuminated the small chamber, and Gwaisagma gasped with delight. At the far end of the blood and excrement-stained chamber hung three mortals, two men and a woman. Their naked bodies dangled from the ceiling by the wrists, and they were mutilated and emaciated. Despite their agonized and drained appearances, a faint glimmer shone from each of their fingers and their infected, pus-seeping wounds seemed to glow with a sickly essence.

"Who are these beauties?" Gwaisagma stepped closer, excitingly examining the prisoners.

"These were leaders of the realms of men who defied me. The man in the middle, he was a descendant of Isildur, a Gondorian king who attempted to kill me. This man swore to finish what he started and take the throne for himself. Look where that got him. The man on the left was the son of a steward on Gondor. He could have been a mighty commander of Gondor, for he had both a sound mind and a brave heart. I believe I have shattered both. And this maiden here was part of the royal family of Rohan. She nearly killed one of my mightiest servants, but she was doomed to fail, just like the rest.

You see, I overwhelmed the hearts and minds of the Nazgul through subtly, but they could not reach their full potential, not without a great deal of suffering. That was why, when I was given a second opportunity to perfect the method, I took three men of great power and mind and subjected them to my will under three mighty rings and immeasurable suffering. Not only will this produce a stronger wraith, but it will also do so much faster. Now, feel free to play with them as you see fit."

With a sinister yet gleeful grin stretching across her face, Gwaisagma turned to the men in the center and tore her claws across his face. He yelped like a beaten dog. The four long gashes across his face simmered with a faint mist which she assumed meant was part of this transformation Sauron referred to. She heard a clang of iron and turned to see that Sauron had left her alone with the three.

Damn, I missed him…

Returning her attention to the half-dead prisoners at her mercy, she began to work.

Nearly three hours later, Gwaisagma found Sauron in a sort of lounge where he was reading upon a long couch. He had replaced his suit of armor with thick black robes, yet his head was still covered by his helm.

"Did you have fun?" he said once he realized she was present.

"More than I've had in years," she replied, falling next to him. "It is so much more enjoyable when they cannot die. Though, I should warn you, one might have the egg of a particularly nasty crustacean incubating in his stomach."

"That's quite alright." The dark lord returned his attention to his tome. He soon felt the cold body of the Maia touch his own, sending wave of tension through his muscles. "I would rather you not do that," he said through gritted teeth.

"What's wrong, Mairon?" She inched closer, making an effort to make sure that her breasts were pressed against him. "You didn't mind this kind of contact nine thousand years ago."

"I know what you are doing and what you hope to get from me. You should know that you that you will get no such pleasure nor favor from your current actions."

"Why not?" she asked as seductively as she could manage.

"You see, when one loses his body through irretrievable means, he loses the ability to partake in the pleasures of the flesh. He cannot taste meat or wine. He cannot have meaningful contact without feeling pain. And he cannot feel any desire for another's body, making him completely resistant to seduction."

Gwaisagma slid back, more disappointed than angry, yet her frustration was clear upon her tongue. "At least let me look upon your face so that I may know you are not lying to me."

"No."

A long moment of silence passed before either spoke again. "I will show you," Sauron sighed, "so that you will see that I am no longer Mairon."

Slowly, Sauron removed his helm. At the sight of him, Gwaisagma stepped away in horror and disgust. He rose, looking upon her with his true, shamed face: blackened soot for skin; liquid fire for blood that leaked from his cracked visage; an empty, dark socket beneath his brow; and a flaming cat's eye in the other.

"Yes, sea bitch, look upon me, foul and disgraced as I am. I wish not for your body as you now do not wish for mine. You will gain nothing from acts of seduction or groveling. I will take you as an ally, but never as a friend nor a lover. Is that clear?"

"As crystal." Composing herself, Gwaisagma strode from the chamber without another word.

"I am in need of a general." Sauron called after her hesitantly. "Until the new wraiths are ready, I lack a suitable commander for the Eastern Campaign. I plan on sending an expeditionary force into Rhun to dethrone the current government. If you so wish for it, you are granted control of that force."

She stopped, turning to the dark lord with a wicked smile. "I would be more than happy to."