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A Light in the Black	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2081 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, The Lord of the Rings or any characters. I make no money from this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-Chapter One
- 1
- 2
Author's Note: Please be aware that the central part of this chapter is also a one-shot I wrote for the Merry is Maytime prompt which you may have read before. I thought it fitting, since this story will also continue where that left off, and explore Melkor's torture of Sauron.
For now, here is the continuation. Next chapter, we will find out what happened to Mithedhel. Oh, he's all grown up, and he's probably not at all happy that a tower collapsed almost right on top of him.

Chapter One
Sauron was very deep in thought. After his panicked awakening, he had brought himself under control quickly; well, once he realised he had Maglor's fëa to shield him, of course. Now, as long as he remembered not to accidentally look outside the protective sphere of its light, he could summon the presence of mind to ponder their situation. He could see much further than the elf, and perhaps that was as it should be, yet he wished he too could be spared from glimpsing the terrors that surrounded them. They invited madness.
At first he enjoyed his power over Maglor, even in this place, despite the horror, until the elf grasped his hands and studied them in a kind of wonder, drawing his attention to something he should already have noted for himself. His missing finger, the one that had been severed when he'd lost the ring forever, had come back. Of course it meant that this form he wore was not of his own making, and that bothered him, but not as much as having the elf notice it first.
They resumed walking, Maglor leading the way on his leash. The elf had been with him for longer than he had been free, and during that time Sauron had subjected Maglor to such devastating cruelties that even Ilúvatar must weep for him. Although sexual abuse had defined and characterised those tortures to a great extent, they were not the ultimate aim. The intent was to break the elf, utterly and irrevocably; an enterprise in which Sauron could claim complete success.
If Middle Earth had been his obsession, Maglor had been his project. There were terrors he had visited upon Maglor that only he and the elf would ever truly understand. For a while he had kept his slave caged, feeding him barely enough to survive, using hunger to secure his co-operation. That had been diverting for a while. Then there had been the box.
Smaller even than a coffin, Sauron had designed it with the elf's precise measurements in mind, just a couple of small holes drilled into it to accommodate his body's orifices. He'd imprisoned Maglor in it for days, watching, waiting, listening. Hearing him breathe, and beg, and scream from inside. Feeding water and food through the gap and hearing him eat and drink. Then eventually, apologise for his bodily functions, and his weeping had changed as the defiance deserted him, leaving silent hopelessness in its wake.
When Sauron eventually opened the living tomb, the elf had changed too drastically. There was a vacancy about him that made Sauron put the box aside forever, never even mentioning it again. He needed no more Orcs. Fortunately, after a longish period of freedom and undemanding care, Maglor's vitality had returned somewhat, and Sauron had berated himself for his clumsy handling. He never repeated it. After that he had been careful, and everything he made Maglor endure was meticulously planned, no matter how brutal or extreme.
What it came down to was that Sauron knew Maglor. Had made it his business to know him. Not only did he know every inch of the elf's body and all of its reactions. He knew Maglor's mind inside and out, knew every response, no matter how slight. The very idea that the knowledge could work both ways, however slightly, infuriated him so much it blinded him to the many things that he should be thinking of.
Oh, he was enraged, so much so that he stared at Maglor's back as they walked, formulating ways to make the elf scream, and slowly, little by little, he calmed. He returned to thinking about what had befallen him; the destruction of the ring. He had been prepared for this particular eventuality, and he could not explain why he had ended up in the Void instead of being housed in the hröa of his own son as he had planned. Ezelpathân had been his contingency, but it had failed. Unless he had been deliberately placed here; a theory which held some credence now if this form had been created for him. But if he had, then so had the elf. Why? Surely they would have permitted the elf to atone in Mandos' Halls rather than this.
They had been walking for a while now, and as he suspected, time was absent. Had they been walking for minutes, or days? What remained of time was a mere lingering impression. A wish, as of a footprint in wet sand, but it was rapidly losing its definition. Not just of the idea of time, but of all things. Sauron had not missed the fact that Maglor had seen his eyes as a fiery red. He'd seen his reflection in the elf clear, wide eyes. Whatever magical glamour he had possessed was dissipating quickly; but then, they were not really corporeal here. They were not pure energy either, which troubled him, but not as much as having the illusion of his perfection ruined in Maglor's eyes. It perpetuated his desire – it must hold! Else he would lose what control he had over that light.
Suddenly he pulled on the leash to make Maglor stop, and since he had altered it some time ago to a slip collar, the elf fell back with a choking sound, hands on his neck to ease the loop. Quickly, he tore off a piece of black cloth from his robes, long enough for a blindfold. For an instant he wondered about the provision of clothing – for himself anyway, Maglor was naked – then shrugged. It was not important at the moment.
Once, long ago, he had used magic to steal Maglor's sight. He would not waste what little magic he had left on that, not when there was an alternative on hand. He folded the length of black cloth and covered Maglor's eyes with it, tying it at the back of his head. The cry of dismay this produced made him smile, despite their predicament.
“Oh, no, please! Herdir, what did I do? I am s-sorry!” He trembled, and turned his body around, clearly prepared to pay for leniency with desperate co-operation, just as he had been taught. The way the elf rubbed sensually against him drained him of his anger. If his own glamour was failing, for Maglor it was worse, since he never had any to begin with. There were truths on display here, and the elf might look down and see himself as perfect and unmarred as he had always been – as he expected himself to be – but to Sauron's eyes he was quite different.
The damage done to him over the millennia was reflected in his ruined appearance. Maglor was quite horrific to look upon, but this did not bother Sauron. Nor did it dispel his desire in the least. Maglor's physical beauty had been a welcome additional pleasure, but it was not that which had ensured his fate. It had been the damage he did to his own fëa which had caught and held Sauron's attention and interest. Now, they were both dependent on it, fractured and weak as it was. There was a certain kind of irony about that.
Sauron sighed, blinked, and used a little of his fading magic to restore Maglor's beauty. The spell required far less energy for the elf than it did for him. It might last for a few minutes or hold forever, he did not know. He did not need it, but it definitely improved the scenery, and the elf would not now be aggrieved upon discovering his true visage. That could be dangerous for them both. Maglor was standing on tiptoe, his forearms around Sauron's neck, still begging for the blindfold to be removed. As the light wavered, Sauron rested hands on his waist, drawing him closer, and the elf glowed in response.
“You will wear it, mûl nín,” Sauron said. “If you attempt to remove it I will tie your hands again. Then you will be blind and defenceless in this place.”
It made a cruel smile curve his lips when his harsh threat resulted in a strengthening of the light. The elf had heeded his lessons well.
“Yes, Hîr nín,” he replied softly, pressing the length of his body against Sauron in submission.
“You like the idea of it,” Sauron murmured, very willing to be distracted from their current predicament, his voice low and intimate. “I can tell.” The elf moaned in dismay and shook his head.
“No! Please! I do not, I swear!”
Despite his protestations, or perhaps because of them, Sauron held him close, and led the length of the leash down his back, securing his hands again. “There, now. For your pleasure,” he taunted. “You have no secrets from me.”
“Herdir...”
His domination of the elf was a hard habit to break, and after all, what did it matter now? Without really thinking, Sauron grasped a handful of the elf's hair to tilt his head back. Maglor drew in a startled breath, helpless, the subtle luminescence of his own fëa suffusing his skin. He was a thing of beauty even without the glamour Sauron had bestowed upon him. He was the only thing of beauty in this place. A little bit of the living world, of vitality, and even if Sauron had not already hungered for him, he would have been completely irresistible.
Those things which did not exist here cleaved to the elf. They still meant something when Maglor was pressed close like this. To think that the last truly real thing he observed would be the elf's twisted love for him. Sauron could not help himself. He closed his eyes and gathered Maglor into his embrace. There was no time to lose, or to spare, no time for them – only eternity. His lips swept over the elf's jaw. No more distance. Time... distance... Something clicked in Sauron's mind, and he let the elf go abruptly, suddenly sensing his monumental mistake.
There was no distance. There was no space. Melkor was not only already aware of their presence, he must already be here. The elf dropped to his knees, moaning at the sudden loss of his touch, and Sauron reached to twist his arms behind his back, forcing him to stand up again. If he was right, then they were about to run.
Sauron shuddered in revulsion, but widened the scope of his perception. Past the ranks of hideous creatures that surrounded them. Further he expanded his vision, until he was in no doubt of precisely where they were, where they stood. The sudden fear in him was absolute, so vast, that for a moment he could not move or speak. Even Sauron did not dare to look up, for he would see his Master's eyes, and a shiver of superstitious fear of their relative scale made him catch his breath. He did not dare! The elf drew his attention.
“What is it, Herdir?” he asked, his voice small and afraid. Sauron looked to him, then grasped the elf's arm so tightly he could feel the slender bone beneath muscle and skin. For once, he did not mean to harm or to hurt, but he had forgotten to temper his strength.
“Run! Now!” he ordered, and he dragged Maglor towards the closest edge. When the elf could not keep up, Sauron merely picked him up easily and rushed to leap from the edge of the massive palm they were stood upon. He even managed it, and they fell together, tumbling through the endless space until they hit the ground beneath. The elf lay still, winded, trembling, and Sauron knew they had not escaped. They rested (had been caught) on another massive hand. Melkor was playing with them as if they were insects... or spiders. At least the creatures had gone, probably they had scuttled into the deeper darkness like lice.
The ground beneath them suddenly began to contract, and Sauron lifted the elf back into his arms, hurriedly backing away down one of the massive fingers as Melkor began to match them for scale. It was probably a mercy for Maglor that he was blindfolded, because as Sauron watched Melkor appear before them, it did not seem as if he was shrinking. Instead, it felt as though they were speeding away backwards and even Sauron suffered from an instant of profound motion sickness, swaying on his feet, dizzy.
Knowing exactly what was expected of him now, Sauron placed the elf on his feet then sank immediately to his knees. “Master,” he said, and beside him he heard Maglor draw in a shocked breath.
“Why did you run?” Melkor enquired. He had not bothered to make his voice match his form, and it thundered around them so loudly Sauron put his hands to his ears. Beside him, he was aware that the elf had fallen to the ground, writhing at the sound of that terrible voice, unable to protect himself from it.
“Fear, Master.” Sauron answered without shame. Honesty was the best policy where Melkor was concerned. There was no admission so worth guarding that he would court his Master's displeasure.
“Very good,” Melkor remarked at last, after a pause that made Sauron tremble. His voice was adjusted to a more normal volume, but it gave no relief. Instead he found himself reliving some choice moments of their time together, before he had become Sauron. When he had been the greatest of the Maiar. When he had been Mairon...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Melkor returned from the void, he built a fortress in the far north called Utumno, where the light of the lamp Illuin barely reached. Early on, he corrupted one of the most powerful of the Maiar, Mairon, and convinced him to dwell there.
Time passed, many thousands of years the two of them remained together, plotting. There was so much time to fill, and not much to fill it with. Mairon discovered first the pleasure of taking physical form, and he did so often, much to Melkor's dismay.
Mairon would wander around the fortress in the form of a wolf, although over time he began to prefer the form of a sorcerer with long black hair and luminous skin. Melkor tended to ignore his strange habits. He was a lesser order. Perhaps it was a weakness... when the time was right, he would convince Mairon to discard this new hobby...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For Mairon, it didn't take long for him to discover there were more pleasures to be found in flesh when he was the sorcerer rather than the wolf. He toyed with the vampire, enjoying the sensation of flight that the leathery wings granted him. His imagination was not limited to these, and he could have experimented further, but he began spending more and more time as the sorcerer.
There was a certain pleasure to be found in caressing his own genitalia, something that was impossible as the vampire or the wolf, and he had to practice long before he could experience the full promise of that pleasure without losing his chosen form. It required a certain kind of concentration and reflection, almost... meditation. However, the reward was well worth it, and since time was plentiful, he indulged often.
Melkor ignored him for the most part when he did it. Or perhaps it was tolerated. The Valar seemed to keep his distance whatever the reason, until one day when Mairon was laid back on a collection of pillows, in front of a roaring fire, his hand moving slowly over his hard flesh, teeth sunk into his lip as he snarled, his body trembling and shiny with sweat, his breath heavy and regular.
Mairon became aware of Melkor's proximity. The darkness crawled with nightmares and the air blew colder than usual. Why must you disturb me now? Mairon thought – much too loudly. Loudly enough to be heard, and he gasped in fear that he might have displeased his Master with his unruly mind.
Disturb you? A voice snaked into his head, like tendrils of smoke, muddying his own thoughts until there was only room for Melkor. Mairon groaned, clutching his temples, his arousal forgotten.
Master! The pressure increased.
Do you regret our partnership, Maiar?
Never! I do not regret! I am Mairon! He felt those words with his whole being, the last especially, as if to convince himself. I choose you!
The pressure in his skull decreased, and Mairon was glad of it, although it left the body he occupied with a terrible pounding pain in its head. He lay on the pillows at an odd angle, drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. The voice of his Master was ever cruel. Perhaps he should give in to dissolution and remake himself, but he might not have the energy to return for a long period of time, and he desired release. Mairon resolved to stay, hoping the pain would lessen. But then suddenly the pain was back, worse than before. Mairon roared in that ethereal realm, while in reality the body he had made screamed silently, mouth open wide.
What do you do to yourself?
As the pressure decreased, Mairon struggled desperately for words, so put beyond his abilities he heard himself speak them with a tongue he'd never used for speech. Something in his throat vibrated pleasantly as he formed the words.
“Choose,” he managed. “Choose your body, Master. I will show you.”
There was a silence that lasted long. Long enough for Mairon to recover somewhat. He rose from the pillows with his aching head and wiped the drool from his mouth. He could no longer sense his Master's presence. Perhaps Melkor had left. But then he looked around, and his new penchant for actual speech deserted him. Melkor had chosen.
It was a gargantuan creature resembling the creatures of the unlight. Too many legs, but with the head of something more lizardlike. He couldn't be certain, since all he could see in the darkness of its visage were its eyes and gleaming pointed teeth. But then it smiled at him. Mairon heard himself whimper as he looked at it, or tried to at least. Something about its black darkness would not let his eyes linger too long. Its carapace did not shine, but absorbed all around it, as if the world it inhabited was not as real as itself. It moved forward, too quickly, its feet clicking on the stone floor. Mairon felt a sudden warmth on his legs as the bladder of the body he occupied let go.
“Something else,” he tried to say as it advanced on him, but his voice was only a whisper owing to his utter terror. “Something else, something else, something else...” Only the fear of seeing the creature in his ethereal form kept him tethered to his body. He could not look away, and even when the form resolved itself into something more palatable, Mairon knew he would remember what he had seen forever. That. That was the first form his Master had chosen. Oh, he would remember it.
As Melkor walked forward, it appeared he'd tried to emulate Mairon's own choice. Tall, lean, majestic. Long dark hair and pale skin. But his eyes were a dull red, like embers. Mairon had to look up as Melkor came to stand before him; he was taller than the Maiar by about a foot.
“Mairon is afraid,” he said, and his new voice was deep and hollow. But at least it did not drive Mairon to his knees in pain. That, at least, was an improvement. “Fear me.” He smiled, and his teeth were white, and yet Mairon could almost see the smile of the horrific creature hidden behind those new features. He gulped and backed away as Melkor pursued him.
“You flee, and you still have more courage than the rest.” Mairon forgot about the pile of pillows, and stumbled backwards over them, scrambling, unwilling to look away from Melkor.
“I choose you,” he replied, repeating his earlier insistence. He, Mairon, would not go back to them. No matter what Melkor did, he had made his decision, and it was the right one. The skin of his legs itched with drying urine, and Mairon concentrated, becoming incorporeal just long enough to be rid of it, not quite losing his tether to the form he took.
“Do not try to escape me, Mairon!” Melkor shouted, and his voice was too loud. The stones of the fortress vibrated, and again Mairon held his hands to his head, over his ears. All he could hear was a high-pitched buzzing, and as his sense of hearing returned he heard himself saying the same things over and over again.
“No! Master! I stay! I obey!”
“Good.” Melkor spoke as if just to make him quiet, and Mairon could hardly think with Melkor's new body pressing him down, where he followed Mairon onto the pillows. At last Melkor turned away to the side.
“What do you do to yourself?” The same words again, spoken gently this time. Mairon looked into Melkor's eyes, suddenly comprehending in a kind of shock. His Master did not understand the pleasure he gave himself. He soon would. Mairon smiled.
“Do as I do,” he said firmly, becoming the instructor in this for his Master. He took his cock into the palm of his right hand; it was soft and flaccid, but would not be so for long. He knew how to touch it to make it hard. He squeezed slightly and drew his hand up, feeling the blood move down to begin filling it as he watched Melkor attempt to copy him. It was an interesting sensation – like a rush. It didn't make him dizzy. Instead it was the opposite. His awareness increased, tenfold.
After watching Melkor, he looked back to himself and opened his hand a little, to demonstrate the correct pressure of his fingers. Melkor copied him again, his smooth cock filling out too. Slowly.
“It is... pleasant,” Melkor allowed, continuing the motion with his hand, quickly learning what felt good and attending to it. His Master's breathing was heavier, loud in the space. Mairon touched himself more slowly, watching Melkor's hand on his cock and his face. He would not stay to the end, Mairon knew. Even Melkor would not have such control without practice. Yet he said nothing.
Melkor moaned, lifting his head to watch himself, then letting it fall onto the cushions.
“I will stay!” he cried out, as if aware the end was near. Mairon gasped as Melkor turned his head to look at him, burning resentment in those red eyes, as if aware Mairon had neglected to give a warning. “I am Melkor. I will stay.” Mairon shook his head.
“You will practice,” he replied. “Just as I did.”
Melkor growled and turned attention back to himself, but before he could find his release, his form dissolved into the ether, while the room echoed with his dismayed cry. Mairon smirked and continued to work towards his own release slowly, letting his mind settle. At least until Melkor disturbed him.
Follow me... Now...
Again, the voice invaded his mind until he had forgotten all but the sound of it. He tried to stay, but it was hopeless. His nose and ears began to bleed with pressure, and he made pained sounds of misery as the body he occupied clung to life.
You will not finish until I do.
The link between himself and the body he favoured was broken, and Mairon followed Melkor into dissolution, his release denied for the first time. It would not be the last...
Perhaps it would surprise Maglor to know that many of the same techniques he had used on the elf were first used on him. That the first of the Orcs were elves who could not withstand the tortures that he, as Mairon, had endured first. That somehow he had survived things which had changed lesser Maiar into Balrogs. He had no sympathy for himself. That was the most useful lesson he had learned from those times. That being the case, how could he be expected to show anything but malice and a desire to dominate? When he came to Melkor, he was half-made. Melkor had finished the job... and now. Now nothing mattered but Melkor's pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“And just what do you have to say for yourself?”
Maglor blinked under the blindfold, his hands twisting behind his back, and he felt something inside him burn painfully under Melkor's direct regard. He had an imaginative image of himself, twisting on the floor like a maggot. Even blinded as he was, Maglor felt Melkor's scrutiny as a terrible burden. There was nowhere to hide, and Maglor turned away desperately, cringing. He would never speak his one clear thought, but it did not matter, because Melkor heard it anyway.
“Oh, but you are dead,” he advised with malicious joy, and his voice made Maglor imagine those things that crawled in the shadows, hungry for the light only to be burned by it. “Didn't my lieutenant tell you?” Melkor tutted, and Maglor felt the Valar's attention shift away from him at last. He sagged in a kind of relief.
“A son of Fëanor, and you have broken it,” he said simply.
“Yes, Master.”
“And you let it enjoy itself?” Melkor laughed, and it echoed in Maglor's ears, gloating and sardonic. “You have grown weak in my absence, Maia. Why the glamour?”
“To save him from observing his true appearance. It would have been injurious to me if he did.”
“To save him...” Melkor mocked, and Maglor whimpered. His amusement was an affront to Maglor's fëa, and he couldn't have said why, but it made him imagine something unthinkable: his Master, screaming. He twisted his hands again, and wished he could cover his ears.
“Did you forget that you had blindfolded it?”
There was a longish pause, and while Maglor struggled to understand all the information he had been given, he could not help but notice it. “No, Master. I –”
“You,” Melkor sneered, “care for this thing. Why?”
Again, there was a pause. Maglor's mind was racing. If he was dead, why wasn't he finally with Mandos? Had he been left to the darkness here? Something in him felt like it must break at that thought. And then why did he need to be saved from observing himself? Was he disfigured in some way? If he was dead, did it have something to do with how he had died? He suddenly remembered looking up as the dark tower collapsed, seeing the structure break apart above him.
“He is mine,” Sauron declared, and the words seemed to carry a power and resonance all of their own. Maglor turned his head blindly towards the sound of his Master's voice, and he could not remember every cruelty he had endured under the shadow of Sauron's hand; that was impossible. Only enough to understand that the immensity of his suffering had forged something, even if that was only an expression of possessive intent.
Yet he felt it when Melkor's attention returned to him, was almost aware of his proximity. If he did not know better, he would swear he was laid out at the feet of a God: a helpless sacrifice. “I recall how fond you were of those fleeting physical pleasures,” Melkor said, considering, and Maglor felt himself freeze in horror as the weight of Melkor's hand came to rest on his stomach. His mind furnished him with a vision of Melkor crouched over his prostrate form, looking him over, and his touch felt wrong somehow – revolting – as if they were oil and water. “Is it so very pleasing?”
“He hurts. He cries,” Sauron said, then paused, his voice dropping a few notes deeper. “He loves.” Maglor whimpered to hear himself described in those words. “He pleases.” Maglor almost choked. “And his wretched gratitude afterwards is very appealing.”
“Perhaps I should try it,” Melkor commented, sounding intrigued. “What say you, Fëanorion?”
The Valar's fingers moved on his skin, and Maglor moaned, but not with arousal. His touch was as destructive and painful as fire. Where his fingernails dragged, it felt as though his skin was sliced open, leaving a festering wound. He could not imagine what a more intimate touch would do to him. Dead he may be, but he hadn't felt so until he imagined that awful fate.
Then at last Melkor laughed dismissively. “Go back to your Master, then,” he said. “I will try you later, when you do not flicker at the mere touch of my hand.” Maglor wished to move away, but Melkor's hand still held him still. The next words he heard in his head, as if Melkor was speaking only to him.
Perhaps you will be more amenable when you know yourself better, Fëanorion. I will make a mirror just for you. You may gaze in it to your heart's content, for as long as you wish, aware that it is too late to change anything.
As he heard that, he imagined it, seated in front of a mirror in soft candlelight, brushing his perfect hair. But the face that stared out at him... Maglor screamed, while in the vision given to him, his mirror image smiled, all lopsided and wrong, as if his face had melted like the wax of the candles. Then the hand on him was gone along with that terrible image, and all he could hear was laughter that echoed in his mind as he was drawn back into his Master's embrace.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Erm... I scared myself. Thank you for reading if you got this far. Comments welcome and will be responded to here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/55964-pippychicks-lotr-fiction-review-responses/
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A Light in the Black