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| [Friday, December 3, 2004 at 12:38 am] |
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 scared |
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Beleriand had been torn and tortured, the land itself groaning under the might of the Valar. Some of the people wondered, some panicked, some decided to do something about it.
In a room deep within the maze of Menegroth, Sauron could not move. His hands were clenched, his skin pale, his lips tightened into a line.
This was Utumno's fall, and Angband's. And worse.
Is it because of us? Are they after him again, seeking to imprison him once more?
Will I be separated from him again?
He looked at the door to his room. He did not dare seek out his master, though he yearned to see if Melkor was all right. He knew he should be taking advantage of the situation, mingling with the elves, subtly taking control.
In a moment.
Once his hands stopped shaking. |
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| [Friday, October 29, 2004 at 6:33 pm] |
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 melancholy |
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The forge is empty. Outside, Sauron can hear the guards shouting as her Majesty Queen Nienor (or is it First Secretary Nienor, or President Nienor, or La Commandanta? These things change too often for him to keep track of) has ordered every living soul to clean Menegroth. He volunteered for the forge, and since he barely needs his magic to accomplish the task quickly, the rest of the time is his own.
Time flows like water as he loses himself in his work. Rings at first, as practice; he knows their forms so well. Bracelets as a natural extension, then necklaces. His hands form each link on their own, and his mind whirls in circles.
He can smell the rot and decay in the air. It touches people's minds and hearts. Arguments happen without his interference, and they will tear each other apart instead of work together. Meanwhile, what is there for him? Courtly talks and pretending, always pretending...
He wants to be at his Master's side. He wants it so badly, the feeling is a pain in his chest. He knows that they should pretend not to know each other, for the deception to succeed, but right now he would give anything for an evening of sitting at his Master's feet. Even just a word, a glance would be enough.
He dares not hope for a touch.
Tears fall into the metal he is forging, and give the last piece - a dagger of unsurpassed elegance - a strange sheen. On impulse, he decides to send it to "Malbeth". It is a good blade, as good as any he has ever made, and he can get away with explaining it as a gift to Lady Aredhel's servant so he can protect her better, he will be giving out gifts enough in the coming days...
He leaves the rationalizations for another time. In this moment, he just hurts. |
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| [Saturday, October 2, 2004 at 1:48 pm] |
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 hopeful |
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"There is smoke rising in the northwest," the woman says.
She watches the stranger's eyes, which flash once and then go dull again. He came to their settlement from the northwest. And now it calls to him again.
She packs food for him as he readies his horse. It is still the same black animal he rode on when he came, though it is now a muscled beast instead of the bag of bones it was before.
He came in the dead of night, battered and covered in dust from the road. And he led them, gave them hope, gave them victory. And when her husband fell at his side, he took care of her; without him she would have died in the winter, with enemies at the gates and food scarce. He has not given her children, but she does not begrudge him that.
She will miss him.
She brings him a last drink of wine, and he does not tell her he will be back for her. She appreciates his honesty. He rides off into the northeast and for a long time she stands there, watching.
Then she drinks herself from the cup made from the skull of her husband's killer. There are things to do; the slave market is in three days and she has to choose the ones she will sell. She needs a new bedroom slave now.
And on the road to the northwest, on the road to Beleriand, Sauron the Abhorred, the Torturer, the Deceiver, rides on.
* * *
The orcs and the goblins fall over themselves to tell Sauron of Melkor's return. He wastes no time replenishing supplies - the orcish fondness for fetid water and foul food is unchangeable, it seems - before speeding on.
Each step, each thud of hooves on the ground brings him closer.
Closer to Doriath. Closer to his master. Closer to the one entity in Sauron's world who matters.
He speeds the fell horse and feels his destination approach.
I will be with you, my Master. |
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