his eyefire was great, his tongue was flame;

[eyefire]

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.

Comments

[eyefire]

The pain filters away as Melkor's power works through him, and he jostles when gathered up in the strongest arms he has ever known. He feels like lava covered in ice-water, like dead blood without a heartbeat, no matter the meaty organ thumping in his chest and in his head.

"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.

[morgoth]

As soon as Mairon is in his arms, the shadow of his raiment enfolds them both. In a flicker, they are outside, somewhere in the low-rolling, scrubland hills in the area beyond the castle itself, which is just a distant smear of darkness-and-lights in the middle distance. The stars are bright beyond thin cloudcover, the mountains great looming shapes which crown almost every horizon.

"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."

[eyefire]

He clings to him as Melkor recounts his time in the Void; a time without time, more accurately. Hands peel free so a palm can press against his Master's cheek, warmer than the rest of Sauron and just for Melkor. An anchor.

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."