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his eyefire was great, his tongue was flame;
Taller than most of the Men, taller than the creatures unnumbered at the feast, he nevertheless flickers wildly like a flame in a gale under the threat of going out, crashing across dishes and flagons. The complaints sound as if they come to him through a sludge and he thinks, I am a caged thing, I want for breath. When he stumbles gracelessly from the grand banquet and into corridors wreathed in the gloaming sanctuary of the night, the only thing that stops the discontent from following is a blaze of fire in his wake that feeds from his robes, more illusion than truth yet enough with which to cloak the painful shell that binds him. Would-be assailants stay away, and that is all that matters.
In what seems like a crypt but is, in fact, merely a disused hall, the clumsy noises he makes while floundering are met with the whoosh and woof of his fires the second a tall, proud window shatters into dust. He crumples in a heap of smouldering ruin where he doesn't become aware of his own howling, guttural screams until the echoes press back on his ears. Ears. Mouth. Tongue. Eyes. Hands, he sees, and hands he Sees again much clearer as his Vision is hammered into harrowingly weak bones, sinews, and skin.
This is not who I was. This is a lie; and I am wounded by it, my heart is bloodied in this fragile ribcage. I could tear myself apart and be no more!
Greater in power than the Eldar (Certainly! Always!) but diminished into a Maia made flesh. His hands tremble.
I could perish like this!
He recalls tiny fingers dragging the illusion of mortal flesh out of the sea as Númenor finally crumbled and fell into the great chasm that even he had not foreseen. Imps? Yes, imps, those filthy vermin scurrying about in this place. Had they bound him in it, in the fairness he had donned before Ar-Pharazôn? Had they the power? No; it was another. Stretching his Sight, his Eyes see much and spread to the borders of ... Caer Scima, they search and search and weep, and he snarls in frustration like a wild thing of Dungortheb. The lieutenant is furious with himself when his skull sears with an almighty, humbling migraine, of all things, and there he sobs on the black marble floor like a bird of embers cast out of the fire-pit where it nested, spirit fracturing in despair.
Tears leave permanent scorch-marks on the fine rock.
"It hurts," he whispers to the emptiness. Alone and confused, diminished, Sauron chokes on his own terror and peers with fire-bright eyes into the middle-distance. Daunted wonder wins out. "It hurts."
Like never before.
In what seems like a crypt but is, in fact, merely a disused hall, the clumsy noises he makes while floundering are met with the whoosh and woof of his fires the second a tall, proud window shatters into dust. He crumples in a heap of smouldering ruin where he doesn't become aware of his own howling, guttural screams until the echoes press back on his ears. Ears. Mouth. Tongue. Eyes. Hands, he sees, and hands he Sees again much clearer as his Vision is hammered into harrowingly weak bones, sinews, and skin.
This is not who I was. This is a lie; and I am wounded by it, my heart is bloodied in this fragile ribcage. I could tear myself apart and be no more!
Greater in power than the Eldar (Certainly! Always!) but diminished into a Maia made flesh. His hands tremble.
I could perish like this!
He recalls tiny fingers dragging the illusion of mortal flesh out of the sea as Númenor finally crumbled and fell into the great chasm that even he had not foreseen. Imps? Yes, imps, those filthy vermin scurrying about in this place. Had they bound him in it, in the fairness he had donned before Ar-Pharazôn? Had they the power? No; it was another. Stretching his Sight, his Eyes see much and spread to the borders of ... Caer Scima, they search and search and weep, and he snarls in frustration like a wild thing of Dungortheb. The lieutenant is furious with himself when his skull sears with an almighty, humbling migraine, of all things, and there he sobs on the black marble floor like a bird of embers cast out of the fire-pit where it nested, spirit fracturing in despair.
Tears leave permanent scorch-marks on the fine rock.
"It hurts," he whispers to the emptiness. Alone and confused, diminished, Sauron chokes on his own terror and peers with fire-bright eyes into the middle-distance. Daunted wonder wins out. "It hurts."
Like never before.
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His arm dropped from around his servant that they could face each other in the shadows, and his body clenched at the sight of the fire in the maia's eyes. He loves only one thing better than well-lain plans, he thought, mouth cutting into a grin that was knife-sharp when he closed one broad, strong hand over the finer fingers of his pet.
The pad of his thumb touched the cool metal of the ring, sensing nothing, stroked it so that it rolled easily around the finger it rest upon. He moved the hand nearer to his face rather than lean to inspect it, and under the great force of his gaze, it began to heat, the fine script winking into view. "But what is the manner of its command, Mairon?"
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"Why, is it not clear? It ..."
The second he focuses his full attention on it, his smile wipes. His touches and closeness to his master are forgotten as something unhinges in a white panic, though Sauron remains very still and very silent, and for all intents and purposes he forgets entirely what is occurring beyond an assault on his very core.
Their wills have gone, I cannot call them. I cannot feel any of them. The Ring is mere metal! This cannot be. It is mine. It is mine!
He grows hotter by the moment, anguish and fury bridling. Snatching himself away from the figure before him, he seethes and ignites in the large outer corridor, hands as claws as his spirit swells and pushes against the constraints put upon it. Madness beckons him back into its breast.
"No! No!" Raging, his voice thickens with the echo of his new position, and there is no longer sweet Mairon whimpering and clawing at his powerful, beloved Vala — a Maia so changed as to live as a Dark Lord compared to Curumo and Olorin's haggard, stunted little forms in the Second Age.
The air blisters with heat that would incinerate any mere immortal, any onlooking Eldar would be ash.
"Ｙｏｕ ｄａｒｅ ｓｕｌｌｙ Ｍｅ! ＹＯＵ ＤＡＲＥ!"
It is no mere tantrum, no lieutenant thrashing in battle. An Eye of flame scalds his form as he tries to return to it, blood dripping down his cheeks; fangs gnash toward the paltry ceiling. If I were myself this castle would be laid waste. The great Eye wreathed in flame flickers hither and thither, locking onto an indistinct direction as his power bristles, boiling against its bound limit to press against the Unseelie monarchs' private Void. The floor around the Lord of Mordor bubbles like living lava, black as pitch, and he throws his whole livid spirit into clawing at Powers that remain out of reach.
Come out.
"Ｉ ＳＥＥ ＹＯＵ."
And then, at the height of his frothing, flaming fury, an invisible weight, thick yet fleeting in an eyeblink, bats him across the corridor. Marble shatters, glass bursts, and Sauron crumples in a heap; bone and blood, flesh and hair.
He does not move in the lingering smoke.
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How beautiful.
Melkor watched in strange, almost detached fascination as his servant became undone. The blast of heat scorched his face; lips parted, he stood, buffeted by power the like of which reminded him of the first days of the world. His dark hair whipped back from his face like a lash of shadow, and he closed his eyes, feeling for what Mairon would do in the grip of such red rage, for just maybe—
His black eyes snapped open when he felt the invisible force move, swift as a shark in the water, and they just schooling fish, now—
The stone at his feet have hardened into warped shapes, without Mairon's heat, and his form flickers like static in shadow, reappearing beside his servant. He cast the shelter of his own power over the ruin of blood and bone, jaw set. Bid bone and flesh to knit together, though even that simple task strained him thin, forced a degree of focus that quickly set his temples to panging.
He smoothed fair hair from a fairer brow, and told himself he would not flee, he would not flee, terror would not rule him again. For they were just fish now, half-blind and mostly senseless in a world full of predators easily their match. Mouth set and eyes flat, he says only,
"I am taking you from here."
And begins indelicately to gather Mairon to him.
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"It is mine," he whispers to none by himself. His hand bearing the One Ring lies curled up protectively against his chest, covered by another. "Mine alone."
Eyes closed, he tips his cheek against his Master and wonders at the simple calming action of breathing with real lungs. Wheezing, really, after what passed for a broken Maia's panic attack.
"Do you remember Angband?" Quiet now in the aftermath of howling firestorms, he knows it is foolish to try and leave this form again, wanting to try and only stopping himself with the brush of Melkor against him. "You made it for me ...
"I think of it, still, and often."
Mordor is a fractured parody of that place.
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"I remember every stone." Sweat filmed his brow, his head ached. Had this ever been easy? Grimacing, he shook his head, reaching inward for the well of his power. Surely, there was more. Surely.
"Diving into memory...was... the only thing that gave me peace, in the Void. I remember every stone. How the great columns of obsidian would gleam like gold when you were in your power."
He walked to clear his head, the thin, gravely soil crunching underfoot, the tall, autumn-deadened grass brushing his legs in hushed, whispered sounds.
"In the Endless Dark, there is nothing. Not even yourself, if you do not cling tightly enough. Remembering and remembering and re-living every moment so perfectly you cannot forget it, unceasingly... for the Void will devour it otherwise. Passionlessly, with neither care nor consequence." Like the grass, Melkor spoke in a whisper, as if he were confiding a secret.
"Angband, I remember."
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He is sweating, sickening. Sliding to his feet, Sauron wavers but determinedly brushes back through inky black hair to cup a strong jaw. He has been wronged beyond all cruelty.
Evil they are, assuredly, in deeds and words with others, but never each other. Mairon recalls the beautiful Vala who caught his eye on Almaren and holds fast to him still.
"You will never be parted from me again, not even if Eru Himself wills it. I will stop such a course of action dead."
Fingertips slip over his Master's lips, curling their way back up a nose and across a brow as if painting him back into reality. The air is so refreshing, this rotten world could be Valinor for all he cares. He has what he wants.
"Whether you are diminished or not, if this is to be our lot, your claim upon me still stands the test of time. In any land, I am no one's but yours." His voice hushes. "I cannot heal you in turn or right the wrongs that cast you into the Void, but I will not suffer a distance between us again, I will take it into myself first so that you may go free.
"I only ask that you stay with me of your own volition if given the chance, in this world and all others."