Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

The Gift	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2132 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Gift
- 1
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Sauron/Maglor, Celebrimbor
Warnings: Slash, M/M, explicit content, slavery, horror, gore, implied rape, implied necrophilia, character death, strong language
Summary: Sauron makes Maglor beg for something, and Celebrimbor is caught by Sauron during the war that destroys Eregion.
Author's Note: My prompts for this darkfic challenge were: wound – burn – release.
Disclaimer: None of the characters or their environment belong to me, they belong to Tolkien and I am just borrowing them for a while. I promise that when I have done I will wash Maglor down thoroughly with hot soapy water and then put him back on the beach. I further promise that I will not presume to touch Sauron at all, with hot soapy water or otherwise. Additionally, Sauron/Annatar is an evil sick fuck and I take no responsibility for him whatsoever. I make no money from this, fortunately.

The Gift
He could see well in the darkness. There was no need of light for his eyes to see by, and yet he halted just a few steps into the room. A word of command made several torches flare into life on the stone walls. Their flickering light seemed to caress the still form on the bed, casting intriguing shadows and showing off the flawless beauty of his skin. No moonlight existed here, but even if it had he still thought this was a far more appropriate way to view his prisoner. The warm orange light seemed to match the fiery red hair, and Sauron silently crossed the room to lie on the bed beside him.
They were both naked. Sauron did not bother to wear clothes when he came here, and Maglor – well, he had no need of them anyway. Barad-dûr was at last completed, and it was never cold. The elf slept at the moment, undisturbed, and Sauron tucked his own longer form behind that of his slave, splaying one large possessive hand over the flat, hairless chest. His lips touched the red hair, curved in a slight smile.
It had always been a pleasure for him, taking physical form, but now as he lay on the bed with his plaything, he reflected that he spent far longer in this body than he had before Maglor was his. The thought didn't make him uncomfortable. Quite the reverse in fact. Should he allow Maglor to wake, then the elf would fall to pleasuring the form he occupied, just as he had been trained to do. Sauron sighed at the thought of it, and his physical body began to burn with desire again.
Moving slightly, he rubbed his thickening shaft again the inviting crease of Maglor's buttocks, knowing already that the elf was prepared for him. Maglor never forgot. He let his eyes drift closed as he inhaled the scent of his slave's hair, and though he could not see, he was aware of the world around him. He saw through the eyes of his servants far away from here. It was a new sensation, and one he keenly appreciated.
A single momentary lapse of concentration, and the elf moaned quietly at his touch, pressing against him in sleepy awareness. Quickly, with a harshly whispered curse, Sauron sent the elf deep into reverie again. He did not want the elf to wake yet.
His eyes fell on the cause – the ring he himself had created. The master ring. It was partly him. Mostly it was the part of him that was concerned with other things. The new gold gleamed warmly in the flickering light, the inscription clear to his eyes. It would be the winning of this war, but it had no place here. Sauron slid his other arm underneath Maglor and held him in a kind of loose embrace while he tugged the golden ring from his finger. Due to his movement, the relaxed elf jolted in his arms like a rag doll or a corpse, and Sauron held the forgotten ring in his hand while he dipped his head to lick Maglor's exposed throat.
After all of the elf's time here, since his abduction from the beach, there was still something addictive about him. Just the scent of his hair, the taste of his skin. Even at the worst – or the best – times, when the elf was afraid for his soul or his sanity, the guilt of his wrongs pressing heavily on his heart. Even at those times he was still an elf. No matter what Maglor had done before this, and no matter what Sauron bade him do; no act was repulsive, destructive or vuglar enough to pervade the essence within. If he told the elf of this, he knew Maglor wouldn't believe him. He wouldn't believe that he still tasted of purity and freedom. He wouldn't believe that his hair smelled faintly of flowers he hadn't seen for centuries. He was an elf, and the elves were a wholesome race, even when their souls were stained with murder, even when their minds were scarred by torture and imprisonment.
With these thoughts floating on the surface of his mind, Sauron reached out and let the golden ring rest on a table beside the bed, along with the warlike part of him. He wouldn't need it for an hour, or maybe two. Maglor was his already.
With ease he flipped Maglor to lie on his front and skimmed his large hands over the broad expanse of the elf's back. There were fading scars from his most recent punishment, but nothing lasting. Nothing ever lasted except submission, slavery and worship. Sauron let his gaze and his hands linger, practising in worship himself for a moment. He reached up and turned Maglor's head to the side, moving the veil of his hair so that one delicate ear was exposed along with his face.
His arms Sauron moved so that they stretched upwards, resting on the pillows at either side of his head. His legs Sauron parted slightly, so as to look inviting. It didn't escape his attention that he was arranging Maglor's body, or that the elf was unresponsive, neither did it bother him.
"There," he said softly when he was done, drinking in the sight greedily, feeling almost impatient to begin. "You are beautiful again, mûl nín." There was no response. Maglor's eyes remained open and unseeing. Only his chest moved a little as he breathed deeply in sleep and for a moment there was murderous intention in Sauron's heart. Then he smiled, and perhaps Maglor was fortunate that he did not see it. "I will never kill you," he promised the sleeping elf softly.
Against all of his desires, those of the wolf, the vampire and the sorcerer, Sauron stood from the bed and looked around the small cell, wondering where Maglor kept it. There weren't many places to look, after all, and underneath the table where he had left the ring was a small bottle of oil.
The ring suddenly whispered to him, of other things and other places, people that were defying him. He almost stopped to listen, torn between picking up the ring to determine the news it held, and the beauty on the bed, waiting in perfection to be claimed and mastered again and forever.
"Later," he murmured, his gaze drawn by the elf's glistening, half-parted lips, the deep blue eyes and the straight, sleek lines of his body. Maglor had lost some muscle since becoming his, but it wasn't an unwelcome change. He was no longer what he had once been. Now he was more slender and graceful, the straight lines of his body only seeming to emphasize the curve of his calves and his thighs…
"Later," Sauron murmured again, moving to rest on the bed again and covering Maglor like a shadow, shading his body from some of the torchlight. The oil was not for Maglor, but for him, and he used it liberally, taking a moment to pleasure himself as he thought about what he was going to do.
When he slid into the warm and waiting body, Maglor didn't move or make a sound, and Sauron found himself enjoying that just as much. For a while he luxuriated in his possession of the elf. When the war was won and he could show Maglor how the world had fallen… Sauron groaned in lust for that moment. How beautiful his despair would be! He controlled the elf's slow return to consciousness just as he controlled his own movements; slow, deliberate and measured. He felt the body beneath him begin to clench in tandem with his own, yet relaxed enough that he could slide deep inside again and again.
"Herdir," Maglor whispered at last, his voice heavy and thick with sleep.
"Hush, mûl nín. Do not speak and do not move," Sauron commanded as he continued. The elf sighed quietly and laid his head to rest on the pillows again. He knew this game as well as all the others. Play dead.
Sauron continued, steady, endless. His self-control was absolute and it wasn't really fair to make the elf compete with him, but Sauron did it anyway. Every pulling back was as the wave returning to the sea, every slow thrust inside was a crescendo. His rhythm was faultless, and soon he heard the elf begin to lose the battle between command and sensation. A helpless hitch of breath here, a whimper of arousal there.
With a self-satisfied smile, Sauron reached upward to clasp Maglor's hands in his own, shushing him again sternly. He almost moaned himself at the way Maglor shivered, but he didn't lose his place, always the same steady movement.
The elf began to grip his hands more tightly on every upstroke, at the point of deepest connection, and Sauron allowed it. Their bodies were synchronised, matched to each other by something as simple as rhythm. It was almost soothing.
It continued until they were both sweating and hot, sliding against each other, and the elf began to slip. Sauron felt the changes in Maglor's body, and he sighed.
"I am sorry, Herdir," Maglor groaned. "I cannot…" He didn't say what he could not do, but Sauron knew. His body was unable to continue without resolution. The elf's hands gripped his almost painfully now, and his stuttering breath was an antithesis of the slow movement he himself favoured. Again it occurred to him that it was unfair to put the elf's self-control in competition with his own. He was, after all, Maiar. But then that was why he did it. What point was there in games unless he knew he would win them?
"No… no… no…" The elf repeated the word to himself, aware he didn't have permission, and Sauron listened to him as he carried on, appreciating every nuance of delight this body could offer him. One more… Sauron sighed as the pitch of his own desire raised just a little. Another, and he closed his eyes. "Mairon," the elf murmured, using Sauron's true name as if it might help him.
"Makalaurë," he whispered in response before he was quite aware of doing it, surprising even himself with the sound of tenderness. Beneath him the elf's body gave up its hold at last, tightening around him in jerky spasms of pleasure. Sauron didn't stop for it, and he didn't even fall out of step, continuing the slow lovemaking as surely as the sun rose and set.
It was over for the elf, but not for him. At first Maglor had twitched and moaned in discomfort at the continuance of sensation, but then that too passed, and the elf's body was so pliant and relaxed now. So warm, and Sauron made a low sound in his throat of appreciation and pleasure, almost the purr of a cat, if a fearsome and dangerous one.
The elf was whimpering and crying – Sauron could feel the damp of tears against his forearm and it made him moan again. Despite his liberal use of oil, the elf must be feeling sore by now. How long had it been? An hour? Two? Longer?
The oddity of this strange relationship struck him then, and that at last made him falter. Against all the odds, was he the Maiar being seduced by Maglor's helplessness? Why wasn't the elf dead already? Why did he continue to allow this?
"Tell me your crimes again," he demanded in a roughened voice, resuming the slow penetration so that Maglor whimpered beneath him. And as the elf relayed his past glories, telling stories of death and destruction caused by his hand, Sauron saw the potential in him again, and he wanted Maglor to be his, but he wondered.
Was it possible Maglor had been left with him for punishment? He brushed away strands of the elf's hair to better see his face as he confessed to his wrongs. It didn't matter. He would never let the elf go. If they wanted him, they would have to come here and take him, and Sauron wouldn't be allowing that. Neither would he simply give Maglor back to them. The elf would continue to live… forever. With him.
"Shh…" Sauron hushed Maglor from his recollections, still taking him slowly. The elf was hot and trembling beneath him, alive and beautiful. Life was a delicate and fragile thing, Sauron knew that perfectly well, and he knew that he himself was capable of finesse. He moved his own faultlessly steady hand down, until his palm was over the elf's ribs. He could feel every shaky breath the elf took, almost sense the erratic beat of his heart as it forced heated blood through his arteries and veins. So fragile.
Consciously, Sauron allowed his self-control to slip so that the physical body he had chosen found release, and he pressed his face to Maglor's neck as he let something of himself flow into the elf. When he came back to himself a little, the elf was still whimpering, whispering his apologies as if this was truly punishment. Sauron smirked. It didn't bother him. So be it.
"You can never be sorry enough for me to let you go," Sauron told him maliciously, and Maglor began to sob.
Now that it was over, Sauron pulled back and stood from the bed, his eyes drawn to the ring that still beckoned. He could hear its voice more clearly now that the physical lust was satisfied, and he replaced the ring on his hand without a second thought or a glance to Maglor.
Worlds of thought and perception inundated his senses, almost too much for this body, but not for the sorcerer. Not for the Maiar. For a brief moment, he struggled to make sense of the multitude of voices and points of view, and then he roared in anger. The sound made the stones of his fortress sing, and finally he did look to Maglor. He had never told the elf anything of the outside world. Now he reconsidered.
"You have a nephew," he stated coldly, and Maglor watched him in silence with wide eyes, not understanding. "By your brother Curufin," Sauron elaborated, and recognition of his words dawned in Maglor's eyes.
"He has… disappointed me," Sauron noted with incredible self-restraint. There were three more rings which he hadn't known about. Celebrimbor was going to have a visit from his friend Annatar very soon.
"Don't you want to beg mercy for him, mûl nín?" Sauron asked, and immediately the elf was on his knees before Sauron, a supplicant for clemency for his nephew. The earnest entreaty was beautiful enough to make Sauron feel a little charity.
"Very well, mûl nín. Since you ask it, I shall kill him instead of allowing him to linger. You have earned the release of one prisoner." He noted the shocked intake of breath, and watched as slow understanding dawned. It was a mercy he offered. "As long as you thank me," he added with a cold smile, "in advance."
Maglor looked up from his knees helplessly. "Thank you, Hîr nín," he whispered, and then swallowed. He knew what was expected of him. "Thank you for killing my nephew."
"Indeed. A less charitable person would say you lack sincerity," Sauron teased, then laughed when Maglor kissed his feet. He let the elf suffer for a while longer before leaving the room to ready his army. Celebrimbor would die, but he would regret his mistake before this was over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Consciousness was not a sudden occurrence for him this time, and that in itself was strange and worrying. Usually awakening was as sudden as stepping from forest to sunlight.
Instead, Celebrimbor first found himself aware of a whispering rattle of breath interspersed with quiet whimpers. He didn't know how long he had been listening to the sound before he realised it came from him. Shallow, aching breaths in and out – barely breathing – and with knowledge came effort. The fear that the breathing would stop wasn't a foolish one, he was sure. And though his body had sustained breath for the amount of time he was unconscious, he began to concentrate on it, frightened that in his limited sphere of awareness he would forget and life would leave him.
It didn't immediately occur to him there was a world outside, but gradually he began to separate other sounds from the background. His breathing was by far the loudest, but like the swell of an ocean, in the distance were sounds of fighting and the screams of the dying. It seemed separate from him. So quiet… far away from him and his fight for life. Celebrimbor concentrated and he was barely able to continue, but he did.
Slowly, another sense began to return to him, and he became aware he was laid on his back. Reflexively, as soon as he realised they were there, his fingers flexed where they lay on his stomach. Something was wrong. His fingers twitched again tiredly, slipping in the wet warmth of his blood where it covered the mortal wound he had sustained. The sound of his breathing stuttered in the near-silence, and he had to forget about everything else again but pulling the rattling breaths in and out of his lungs.
When he had recovered a little, he wanted to move his hand, but such was beyond him and so he continued to lay motionless, unseeing, only a body trying to survive. No thoughts, no memories beyond survival. Little by little, pain made itself known to him, and several times his breathing faltered, wavered as if to match the war in his head between fear and relief.
Over time he felt stronger, and he deliberately took deeper breaths, taking the increase in measurable pain along with the increased awareness in a kind of abysmal despair. But he saw a little now, and information flooded his desperate mind. The notion of being apart from the fighting was not a delusion. Although his eyes remained fixed in one position, he could see the canvas of the tent. The fighting continued outside – still far away – so that would mean a medical tent.
The knowledge came from nowhere, and vaguely Celebrimbor realised that meant there would be help here. The next whimper that came from his throat was conscious, but it signified nothing. No words. It wasn't even any louder. Why hadn't they left him to die? From the corner of his eye he saw himself, and he saw black arrows – more than one – protruding from his body. His fingers twitched against his will and again he whimpered.
His vision blurred and began to fade out. Desperate to keep it, Celebrimbor breathed as deeply as he dared, unable to avoid coughing around the tightness in his chest. The rattling was more of a gurgling now and he tasted blood for the first time. His own blood was on his lips, sweet and hot, not at all like the taste of death. Yet that is what it was.
His gaze had been settled, but now it jumped in a desperate need to signal help and aid, flickering to the side where it stopped again. There, directly in front of him, were the rings. Memory returned suddenly and he remembered what all this was about. The rings! They had to be kept safe! As he lay still and continued to concentrate on breathing, he remembered…
For so long they had laboured, and when the first of the rings were created there was celebration in the streets. Long had the people been silversmiths, but the sense of pride in the forging of the magical rings was absolute and almost hysterical.
Still, it was a good time to be among the people – a good time to live. Something monumental was being achieved, and it made the people happy. It had made him happy too, to see it.
The first sign that something was wrong hadn't occurred until just before the savage war began. The rings, of which there were by now sixteen in Eregion, had begun to create unease in those who kept them. There were nineteen rings in existence, but three had been sent by his counsellors to certain chosen recipients. Celebrimbor himself didn't know who they were, but he didn't care to know. He assumed that the three had been sent to the leaders of the three realms – Gil-Galad, Oropher and Amroth..
Since they were magical, the rings had imparted an impression of that upon anyone who looked at them. It had always been benevolent. Most would view the rings, and walk away with a sense of peace. Some who were more receptive would hear lulling whispers. Celebrimbor had never heard them, until the song changed, and on that day he had realised his mistake.
The rings were kept together, and he had been ready to leave when he heard the first whispers. He couldn't make it out, but he removed the velvet drape from the glass case that held them, and shook his head.
They looked the same as they always had – beautiful, well-crafted – all different. Some were delicate and decorative; others were simple and elegant in design. All held a stone. The rings tended to inspire feelings of achievement and love. He had heard others jokingly refer to them as children, and at times it didn't feel far from the truth. This time was different.
Not one of them had changed. Nothing was different, but somehow Celebrimbor began to taste bitter fear. They were silent now, smug-looking. As though they had been talking together and only stopped now because the subject of their discussion was listening.
"Stop," Celebrimbor said softly, still shaking his head. The rings did nothing. He watched them for some time, until a knock at the door made him jump.
"Coming," he called out, a little more irritably than the servant deserved. With a last long glance to the rings, he walked to the door, and behind him there was such an immense image of hatred and intent that he almost stumbled. He knew if he turned there would be nothing to see. Still, he felt unprotected, and when he opened the door to speak to the servant his voice was little more than a faint whisper.
"We should prepare. Something is coming."
As he lay in the tent, struggling for every breath and for every single last moment of life he had, Celebrimbor dared to risk a regretful moan. War had come upon them so fast and with such fury they had hardly been prepared for it. Seemingly for no reason did the dark lord and his servants march upon them, but Celebrimbor knew. He wanted the rings, because the rings had told him. They had whispered to him since that night, of nightmares and blood and murder. Of horrors beyond description that haunted his reverie whenever he lie down to rest.
Never would he forget it when he first heard the sound of the enemy, forever marching. Wave after wave, never relenting, never pausing. Their own pitiable army had been pushed back easily – so easily. The women and children had already been sent away, but in his heart Celebrimbor knew that there was nothing to protect them in all of Eriador should they fall. Should this hastily prepared army fail.
He remembered all of this as he lay gasping, his fixed gaze upon the rings of their destruction, and they whispered.
It was not a true whisper, and never had been. It was a rush of something flickering across the mind. There were no true words, and as he struggled to listen with his heart and soul, Celebrimbor knew there could never be words, for the rings were laughing. More blood settled in his throat, and he swallowed before he could drown in it, certain that another breath was beyond him – but it wasn't.
There was a sudden, much closer rattle of armour and an impatient voice demanded, "Does he still live?"
Celebrimbor closed his eyes upon hearing that voice, and his hearing dimmed so that he didn't hear the answer. Now there was the sound of canvas being roughly pushed out of the way, and footsteps approached him where he lay. His eyes opened again, as though to keep them shut was an effort, and a hand covered his, forcing his body to move from its half twisted position so that he was resting on his back looking straight up at the face of someone who had once been his friend, but he was a friend to no-one.
"Do you live?" Celebrimbor drew in another painful, guttering breath, staring upwards, hearing the rings proclaim the truth. As if to confirm it, his gaze dropped down over bloodstained armour and weapons to the hand, where a single golden ring adorned his visitor's finger.
He tried to speak his name, but ended up coughing, feeling the blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. The hand left him, and his companion turned his back, stalking over to the glass cabinet that contained the rings as if he could no longer look. But Celebrimbor understood now, and when Annatar reached out to unlock the cabinet, he twitched on the bed, as close as he could come to attempting escape.
"Do not bother," Annatar noted without looking around, and selected one of the rings seemingly at random. Celebrimbor made a gurgling, desperate sound of denial when Annatar walked back to him. Amazingly, he managed to shake his head when Annatar took his hand, and his eyes were wide, beseeching mercy though he knew it was hopeless. Annatar smiled coldly.
"This is going to hurt me far more than it hurts you," he declared, and as Celebrimbor watched, Annatar slid the selected ring onto his bloodied finger. It was a mockery of a marriage, and Annatar's lips quirked as if he heard the thought. But then there was no time for further delirious impressions.
It was like being touched with fire, and Celebrimbor managed to scream as his body arched up from the bed. This must be the end, and yet it wasn't. He settled back in place still breathing, watching as Annatar stumbled back from the bed, clutching his hand to his stomach as if in pain, the gold of his own ring blazing brightly as it caught the light of the candle.
Annatar laughed breathlessly as if he enjoyed it, still clutching himself as he backed into the material of the tent, leaning his head back to the canvas. The fire raced through Celebrimbor's body and he writhed, unable to watch anymore as fiery blood spread through each artery and vein, repairing and healing him faster than even his own elven body should.
There was a balance between life and death, and only when it began to move into the favour of life did Celebrimbor understand precisely what was happening to him. He had never truly understood his own elven nature until that very moment. Never in all of his long life had he truly realised what connection meant; connection to the world and to Arda. To the Valar and to Ilúvatar himself. Now, too late, when that connection was severed – he did.
He screamed again because he could, because his soul was lost in darkness, like a single candle against the night. Every tendril of his mind was in touch with it, like a cancer. It made him recoil, but there was nowhere to go. He felt like a lost child as Annatar recovered and walked towards him, absently caressing the ring he wore with his fingertips. It made Celebrimbor shiver delicately, feeling the ring he himself now wore respond to the touch.
With a sudden burst of clarity, Celebrimbor moved his hands together, to get rid of the ring and free himself from its devastating effect.
"Stop." That one word was louder than thunder, though he knew Annatar only spoke it, and he covered his ears instead of removing the ring.
"Now," Annatar began, moving an unseen stool close to the bed and settling upon it, apparently completely unharmed. "Let us see about these arrows."
"Stay still," he suggested, his voice once more carrying all the command of physical law as he studied the arrows that still protruded from Celebrimbor's body. At a spoken signal that sounded ugly to Celebrimbor's ears, an orc entered the tent. A few more of the guttural sounds later and Celebrimbor was screaming again as the arrows were pulled from his body.
No one could survive this, and yet he did, his body only healing enough that he was not close to death, the wounds remaining perhaps simply to cause him pain. Annatar had revealed who he was now, and Celebrimbor had known it from the moment the rings began to speak to him, but still a part of him hoped. He hated it that he hoped, but he could not help it, and he knew that his fate would be worse now than if he had been allowed to die.
Still, he felt disconnected from everything he had known before, unable to touch anything of value with his mind, and he whimpered when Annatar looked at him.
"Celebrimbor," Annatar said with a soft sigh. "You have disappointed me."
"I defy you," he spat out in fear and fury. "I will be used no longer." He felt it in the blackness surrounding his mind before he saw or heard it. Outside the tent was a commotion. Shouting and jeering that came closer until the perpetrators must be right outside. Against his will he stared at the blank canvass of the tent, and he smelled the burning of the torches. A lone, angry voice called out – an elvish one – and Celebrimbor started. Annatar placed one hand on his and he settled back helplessly.
The mob was outside now, and it must be a sizable one. The light from the torches shone onto the canvas, and shadows emerged, the light outside being brighter than the single candle that shone inside. A solitary, slender figure, surrounded on both sides by darkness.
"What are you doing? Why do you all watch me? Attack!" A clear voice called out, and Celebrimbor's heart almost broke. He shook his head, but watched as if commanded as the lone figure turned from one side to the other in bewilderment. Instead of going to either side, suddenly hands pressed against the canvas of the tent, just shadows.
"Antael," he murmured, not meaning to be quiet but somehow unable to raise strength for the moment. Annatar looked sharply at him, and he smirked.
"Where are the three other rings?" he asked pleasantly. Celebrimbor shook his head and outside the warrior he had fought alongside grunted in pain when a larger shadow approached and made a sudden suggestively violent movement.
"Where did you send them?" Annatar questioned again, and this time Celebrimbor shook his head in disbelief. And again his friend paid for his silence.
"Don't!" He looked to Annatar now and saw only Sauron. The childish hope that had been within him died, and closed his eyes. "I do not know," he admitted quietly. "Please…"
Sauron laughed softly, and outside Antael paid for his admission. "How unfortunate for him," he noted.
The sick game went on and on, and the confusion of the warrior outside soon passed into indignant screams and demands for an honourable death, and then, eventually, broken pleas for mercy. Celebrimbor listened, and he sobbed for the one outside. Some time ago he had passed from telling the truth, to telling Sauron whatever he thought would sound best, but that hadn't ended it.
Outside now it was quiet, and had been for some time. There were still suggestive grunts and movements that Celebrimbor felt sickened by, and in his heart he wished Antael's soul peace and healing with Mandos.
"He still lives, I believe," Sauron said, watching him, reading his mind, and Celebrimbor shuddered. As if to prove Sauron right, a single gasping pain-filled groan passed through the thin barrier to where they were. This was quickly followed by words in that ugly, guttural language and some slight jostling. "While he lives his body will still be warm," Sauron taunted.
Regardless of the pain and his injuries, Celebrimbor surged to a sitting position and leaned over to grasp Sauron's shoulders. "I do not know!" he shouted. "I cannot give you the answer because I do not know!"
"Of course you do not know," Sauron replied with a raised eyebrow, and grasped Celebrimbor's hand. "If you had known this would not have been so entertaining."
Disgusted, Celebrimbor watched as Sauron held his hand – the one with the ring – and unthinkingly caressed the silver circlet. The blood on his hand had dried, and as the ring slid from his finger, it flaked away from his skin and he watched as if entranced.
"Your pain has been enjoyable, but it is time for me to return it to you," Sauron whispered confidentially. "I was only borrowing it for a while." The pain… Celebrimbor remembered it, but after what he had seen he had no wish to beg for his life. Sauron smirked, and for a moment longer he let life remain.
"Did you not know that the thought of it is forbidden to your kind?" he asked, referring to Celebrimbor's willingness to die, and then slid the ring from his finger.
The elf fell back down on the bed as the semi-healed wounds suddenly blossomed with fresh red blood. It was quite an enchanting sight, almost beautiful, and Sauron watched for a moment as the elf died, his breath coming once, twice – he waited for a third breath that never came and then shrugged.
"I release you," he said with a mocking bow of his head and stalked outside to the orcs and the elf that lay broken, bleeding and violated on the ground. Celebrimbor had been like a father to this one – that was something he had picked up from the elf's thoughts. What use was a dead elf? He fingered the ring in his hand in thought, looked to the orcs, then the the body inside the tent, and lastly to the elf at his feet.
"Does he still live?" he demanded of his servants quickly… and Antael did – for a little while longer.

~ finis ~

Translations:
Herdir – Master
mûl nín – my slave
Hîr nín – my Lord

Author's Note: Aulendil is listed as one of Sauron's possible true names, meaning 'devotee of Aule' as opposed to Sauron, which means 'abhorred one.' Thank you for reading; I hope you were suitably horrified. Comments welcome. :)
I have now finally updated this to take account of finally knowing Sauron's true name. When I wrote this fic way back when, we didn't.
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The Gift