The Burnt God by Taylor17387

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Punishment

Ok, this chapter turned out to be almost three times longer than the other two, so you may prefer to read it in two goes.
I tried to not deviate from canon, except with details like Melkor burning only one hand, instead of the two (I suppose he wouldn't be so stupid to touch the Silmarils with his other hand, after seeing what they had done with the other XD)
Only warnings are because of some violence and implied torture, though there's nothing explicit.
Reviews, as always, are very, very welcomed.

Drawing at the end of chapter.

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Punishment

 

Melkor tried by all means to avoid the soldiers and guards that were hiding in the fortress. Now he wanted to be alone, he didn't want the suspicious and interrogative stares of the Orcs laid on him. He knew what those stares meant: "What has happened to the Lord? Where has he been? "
So the less people saw him arriving in such deplorable conditions, the better.
In any case, as soon as the Orcs guessed his anger, they quickly dispersed and left him free way, aware of what they exposed themselves to, if they stirred the wrath of their master a bit more.
Then Melkor ordered the Balrog guards to retreat, and finally alone, went down an endless spiral staircase. In front of the last step opened the door of a chamber, to which only he and Sauron had access, one of the oldest in Angband, and that had witnessed the greatest atrocities.
Once inside, he left the casket of Silmarils on a table, and sighed with relief.
If he had spent just one more second with that fire devouring his flesh, probably he would have cried, and everyone would have noticed his misfortune.
He looked at his right hand with pity.
What had been a fine, translucent skin, now was just a large blackish spot.
Yes, definitely, that hand had been rendered useless.
And that was the hand with which he used to wield his mace Grond. Eru knew he was no warrior at all, and that the few times he had fought, Tulkas had just dragged him along the ground.
But now he really hoped to not have to fight anymore.
Leaving aside sorrows, however, he got down to work.
He opened the closet where Sauron kept the instruments of torture, and began rummaging for something that would serve him for what he had in mind.
There were iron objects of the most colourful and original forms that one could imagine,
and although Melkor didn't really know what was the purpose of most of them, since he wasn't interested in the modern techniques of Sauron, he guessed that their functions were extremely unpleasant.

"An outstanding apprentice of Aulë, indeed." he thought with sarcasm.

At last he found what he wanted: a large iron collar, perhaps to hold the neck of a large wolf. With a few fixes, he could transform it into what he wanted.

Shortly thereafter, Melkor was sitting on his throne with a crown above his forehead,
that showed to the admiring eyes of everyone the shining Silmarils mounted in it.
On the other side, he also wore a black silk glove on his right hand, that concealed from the prying eyes of everyone the shameful burns that those same Silmarils had caused him .
All those around him praised the beauty of the jewels and the great feat of their Lord, that had seized them so skillfully, and assured him, that nowhere else in the world would they look as beautiful as over his head. Besides, no one dared to ask anything about the glove, so after a few minutes of praise and celebration for his return, Melkor began to feel at home again.
When he got bored of listening to his servants reminding him how great and powerful he was, he dismissed them out of the room with a simple gesture of the hand.
And asked to see Sauron. Alone.

The order was transmitted at once, and within a few minutes, the echo of the lieutenant's riding boots resounded through the hollow vaults, announcing his arrival.
A tall, arrogant figure entered the throne room with long strides, followed by a black cape so long, that it fluttered several feet behind him, like his own entourage of specters.
He was dressed in the typical attire of the forest hunters, but always in black from head to toe, and with the sword at his side.
Sauron stood before the throne with martial air and his head held high.

- My Lord? -said simply.

"Ummm! As self-important as ever ... " cursed Melkor to himself, frowning.

-That's not a very warm welcome after three ages of absence, don’t you think? -he reproached him- Come here and kiss your lord and master. It's the least you should do, ungrateful one. -and he extended his left hand with listlessness.

Sauron bowed obediently, took the delicate fingers, and kissed the back of the hand over one of the veins that showed through the skin.
When he rose again, Melkor examined him more carefully.
Yes, he was still the same as always: white as snow, hard as glass, cold as ice.
In the sharp features of that face all the lines were cut with exquisite cruelty.
The thin and bloodless lips seemed to show a permanent gesture of disdain, and from time to time they revealed, as secret pearls, the white teeth and a pair of fangs more prominent than usual, like those of wild animals.
In stark contrast to the deadly paleness of his face, his hair was black and smooth as a mirror, cut to jaw-lenght, and always impeccably combed behind his ear.
And then there were the eyes ... Oh, those eyes! Those cursed eyes!
The right one looked like a pale and dull glass, that didn't look anywhere.
And Melkor had always wondered if it was because of an injury, or if it was blinded, or if he just had it that way to disturb his victims.
But that wasn't the eye that drew the attention of Melkor.
It was the other, the left one.
An eye that oozed feline malice, that burned with its own flame, encased inside the glass globe.
When Sauron was furious, the first sign that betrayed his anger was a contraction of that pupil. It became then a narrow slit, and upon seeing this, Orcs and creatures under his service trembled in terror, knowing that the cruelty of his superior was about to be taken out on them.
Melkor felt attracted to that eye, and at the same time he hated it deeply.
But actually, the same could be said about his feelings toward Sauron himself.
He loved and abhored him in equal measure. He loved him like a proud father that recognizes himself in his son, seeing that he has followed in his footsteps.
He abhored him, as someone that has in front of him an all too perfect copy of himself,
inaccurate and inferior, of course, but in spite of everything, too similar, too finished, too ... "real".
At that moment, Melkor leaned more towards abhorrence than towards love.

-I see that these three hundred years have treated you well, my lieutenant. While I have consumed myself in prison and show the weariness of three ages upon my face, you are just like the day I left you. You know, the day that you hid cowardly while they burdened me with chains.

Upon hearing the insidious words of his master, Sauron smiled slightly, showing a fang.

-I didn't hide, my Lord. I was just in a more convenient place than thee. As for these three ages, they haven't treated me well. It was me, that knew how to take care of myself.

Melkor shook his head, forgeting about the issue, and adopted a more relaxed posture on the throne, half sitting and half reclining.

-One day I will cut that sharp tongue of yours, Sauron, and will make you swallow it. But for now I want you to keep it, because I have a lot to talk with you.

-About what, my Lord?

-What do you mean, about what!? About me, of course! Are you not going to say anything about my Silmarils?

Sauron looked confused.

-My Lord, what is a silmaril?

-This, ignorant! -he shouted, pointing to the three gems- Don’t you think that they're the most beautiful thing you have ever seen? And they are only mine! Tell me, they are magnificient, right?

-I suppose, my liege.

-Suppose!? -muttered Melkor- Truly, Sauron, sometimes I think you did not come to me by your own will, but it was Aulë who threw you away, because of your total lack of vision and sense of beauty. Which reminds me of another important issue I have to deal with you: why does my fortress look like a wreck? Why is the throne room so dirty, why are there debris and remains of pillars all over the ground, why lay my chambers in ruins? You had three hundred years to clean it, to raise Angband again. But instead you preferred to laze around and conspire in my absence, isn't it?

Sauron heard the accusations, but remained unfazed.
That was one of the things that annoyed Melkor the most about his lieutenant, that glacial calm in the face of threats.

-My Lord, both the dungeons, the furnaces, the armory and the foundries are fully operational and running at full capacity. All useful and vital parts of the fortress have been restored. Only thy halls and chambers lay in ruins, for there was no one to use them, and I preferred to employ those resources for more urgent tasks. Our army of Orcs is ten times larger than thou rememberst it, and we have decimated the forest Elves. The dwarves hardly dare to leave their mountains, where a good number of them perished under the iron of our swords. And I have deployed troops in all strategic areas of Beleriand, ensuring effective control over those territories. Only Doriath resists us in part, and that because of the power of Melian. But thanks to the siege I've been laying around the forest without the knowledge of King Thingol, we have those Elves ready to be crushed as soon as I give the order to attack and ...

-Yes, yes, I do not care about military maneuvers! –interrupted Melkor, bored- You are in charge of war, Sauron, but I am a God. And I want a throne room worthy of my majesty and my Silmarils! Your mediocre little wars can wait. The first thing is to rebuild the halls and the external facade. I don't want my fortress to look like a mountain of rubble. I want that anybody who sees it from afar feels his heart shrinking, and that they know that Melkor, the Mighty Arising, sits once more on his throne. And that they worship my shadow, out of love or fear I don't care, but that they worship me.

Sauron suppressed a sigh of frustration.
Maybe he hadn't a great sense of beauty, or it wasn't important to him, but Melkor certainly had no practical sense.
Now he would have to attend to useless reconstruction works and leave aside the attack on Doriath. And perhaps, when he wanted to resume the war, it would be too late.
When would his master realize that battles are won with troops, and strategy, and organization, and not with crowns, or shiny jewels, or high thrones?
But after all, Melkor was a god. And a capricious god, also.
Sauron would never understand his logic, if he had any.

-Is there anything else I can do for my lord and master, Melkor, the Mighty Arising? - Melkor didn't notice the sarcasm of his voice, luckily for him.

-Yes. I want a mountain.

The flaming eye of Sauron opened wide to the unusual request. Even the dead eye gave off a spark of disbelief.

-Pardon, my liege?

-You heard it, a mountain! Is your ear as untrustworthy as your loyalty? I want a mountain that rises above the fortress, with three terrifying peaks towering to the sky, spewing clouds of ash and sulfur that blind forever the light of the stars. I don't want to see the Sickle of the Valar in the sky anymore, that insulting symbol...

-But we are already surrounded by mountains, my Lord. Do we need another one? -the look that Melkor shot at him was more than eloquent. "We'll never invade Doriath, that's for sure" he thought with resignation. And making a huge effort to seem in agreement, he said: -All right, and when dost thou want it to be finished?

-In three days.

Sauron forced a smile on his face, and pressed the hilt of the sword nervously.

-With all due respect, master, it's impossible for the Orcs and trolls to raise a mountain of those characteristics in just three days.

-Nonsense! I could build a mountain even a hundred times larger with a simple gesture of my hand. -Sauron raised his eyebrows, as if asking why didn't he do it then, and Melkor hesitated for a second- But... I don't want to. I want you to take care of it! Of course, if you are unable to satisfy the desires of your Lord, I'll have to ask someone more competent... Gothmog, for example. –he whispered, squinting slyly.

Sauron's hand clenched around the hilt.

-My Lord, the minimum amount of time to build a mountain would be six months. -replied, even more upright and arrogant than before- However, since I'll take care of the work, it will be just three. Now, if thou allowest me to retire...

Melkor nodded, a little tired of the conversation, and dismissed him with an indolent wave of his gloved hand.
Sauron bowed his head, turned on his heels and left just as he had entered,
with long strides that resonated within the walls, and the cape fluttering behind.

The works on Thangorodrim, for so had Melkor decided to call the mountain, began almost immediately.
Sauron had been foresighted during all those years, and had kept many Elves and dwarves as slaves to aid in the usual construction works. Accelerating the process at top speed, he managed to raise at least a third of the building in a month.
Many slaves and Orcs died, however, because of the harsh working conditions.
Direct supervision of the labour was provided by the Balrogs, with Gothmog in the lead,
but Sauron was the main one responsible, and was in charge of the planning and design of the structure.
From time to time, he made a round of the construction site, and upon seeing his black figure, everyone, both Orcs, and trolls, and slaves, sped up the rhythm of their picks and shovels, since they knew that the lieutenant was ruthless with loafers.
In general, the construction progressed smoothly, because fear is a great motivator,
but nevertheless there was the occasional incident.

One day a wall collapsed, and all because a group of Orcs began to argue about some stupidity while they lifted a huge stone block with ropes and pulleys.
The Orcs who held the ropes suddenly released them to attack the fellow workers who had provoked them, and then the block hit hard against the structure. It opened a deep crevice, and part of the wall broke off and fell down.
Sauron was taking his usual walk of supervision, and saw in the distance the cloud of dust rising into the sky. Seized by rage, he ran to the place of the accident and watched the scene: stone blocks thrown everywhere, some with Orcs crushed underneath, and pulverized volcanic rocks, and the broken pulley on the ground.
His shouts of anger and the sound of the whip hitting the guilty Orcs, reverberated throughout the mountain. The other workers lowered their eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of lashing. Few were those who lived to tell the tale, after having encountered the black whip of Gorthaur the Cruel.
The lieutenant wasn't done yet, and had still the whip in his hand, trembling with anger,
when a cloud of foul-smelling sulfur grazed his neck. Turning around, he ran into the black and swollen face of Gothmog, who looked at him with little sympathy.

-What is the lieutenant doing here, disciplining the Orcs that I have in my care? –he growled, with a guttural voice- I think you are overreaching in your functions, Sauron. I am the supervisor, and I take care of discipline! You can mind your own business.

-If you were really a competent supervisor and disciplined these useless wretches as it should be done, this wouldn’t have happened. –replied Sauron with a sneer.

Gothmog approached him further and released a cloud of smoke through the nose,
which fell apart upon hitting the lieutenant's face.
Sauron stared at the thick iron ring that pierced the Balrog's nostrils. He had always wanted to hook a chain to that ring, and drag Gothmog after a horse with it.

-Do you think I'm not a good supervisor, Gorthaur? Maybe it's because I'm used to deal with real soldiers, instead of being a vulgar slave master, like you.

The pupil of Sauron shrank so much then, that it almost disappeared, and with a quick flick of the wrist he lashed the hand of the Balrog, forcing him to drop his own flaming whip.

- What's wrong, Gothmog? Is your hand even slower than your brain? –he scoffed.

-Damned one-eyed son of a werewolf! - cursed Gothmog clutching his injured hand.

The next moment, the point of Sauron's sword was pressing against his cheek.

-Be careful what you say, Gothmog. If you call me "one-eyed" again, I swear that from now on, you’ll be called "blind".

The fight didn't go further, in any case, because just then Melkor's voice echoed from the depths of Angband, calling his lieutenant.

-Run, Sauron, the master requires you! He probably needs your help to redecorate the chambers. -yelled the Balrog sarcastically, as he walked away toward the fortress.

Sauron swore between his teeth. He would settle scores with Gothmog later.
However, his rival was not misled, for indeed, that was exactly what Melkor wanted.
Sometimes, Sauron wondered why his master suddenly attached so much importance to private rooms, to intimacy, even to loneliness.
Before the Valar took him as prisoner, he wasn't like that. He went across Middle Earth all the time, causing landslides in mountains here, raising volcanoes there, and changing the course of a river a bit further.
The whole of Arda was his home, and at the same time, no place was his home.
Property hadn't existed for him, nor private life. His entire existence was a constant act of fusion with the earth and disintegration of the earth, an act so public and natural as a storm or a gale-force wind. Utumno was a base of operations, indeed, and a refuge against attacks, but it wasn't a place where Melkor felt the need to return at the end of the day.
Now, however, he never left Angband, and in fact, some days he didn't even leave his chambers.
At times he wandered as a melancholic ghost through the corridors of the most isolated towers. And if then an Orc, or any other servant, dared to disturb the loneliness of the master with his presence, either by necessity or by chance, then most likely he would pay for it with blood and pain down in the dungeons.
Because Melkor didn't allow anyone to see him like that.
And Sauron wondered what terrible fate had befallen his master in the hands of the Valar, to produce such a change in his nature.

The truth was that no one was able to guess what was going through the head of Melkor at those times, and he kept his thoughts to himself.
The iron crown had become an oppressive presence, that every day weighed more and more, like a new collar of punishment. And the beams of light that emanated from the Silmarils were just a reminder of those secret burns that would mark his body forever.
Each time the ghostly glow of the jewels brushed his skin accidentally, a stabbing pain run through each of his wounds.
It began in the palm of his hand, and ascended across the arm to his neck, and then went down like an incandescent torrent to his nipples, and his stomach, and between his legs, and then went inside and climbed his spine to the mouth.
At those moments he was painfully aware of his body, of each of the nerves and muscles that formed it. That body which, although wasted away and became more fragile every day, every day also seemed to be heavier, as if the particles that formed it condensed gradually, and the matter was crushing the spirit.
It was his prison.
And sometimes, it was also a cruel master that took control of his will.
Melkor could barely admit it to himself, but the truth was that, occasionally, he felt desires and needs that he had not felt before.
He had always been able to experience pleasure and arousal, of course, and also the ecstasy, and the agony when he didn't reach it, as he had realized in the halls of Mandos.
But what he felt now was a violent urge, an order imposed by his body, with no meaning and at the most inopportune times. Then his mind became clouded, and he only craved to be touched and penetrated again.
And it was unfortunate that the will of the most powerful god of Arda was thus vanquished by the whims of vile matter.
At first he tried to console himself, alone in his chambers. But it was even worse, because the need would grow the next day. So he thought of another solution, and built himself a bed, as the ones used by the Elven kings, large and comfortable.
And there he retired to sleep whenever his anguish turned unbearable, as he had done during centuries of confinement. When he awoke, the torment was gone.
But he never dreamed again. He simply ceased to exist.
And he wondered if that feeling of not-being was the privilege that, as he had heard, Ilúvatar reserved for the Second-born.
Or if it was something similar to that void of which Mandos spoke.
If it was so, then that punishment didn't seem so terrible anymore.

In the fateful hour in which the first Noldor set foot in Beleriand, Melkor was standing in front of a mirror.
He looked with hatred and desire at the reflection of the Silmarils in the glass. So close, and yet so out of reach. A beauty that he was doomed to always look upon and never touch.
And he looked at himself as well, a pale phantom, filled with black corruption.
The last words of Mandos echoed in his head: "No matter what Manwe says. Thou shouldst keep this form forever, Melkor. In a strange way, it's beautiful".

The accursed Vala had known it all along!

When Sauron burst into the room, Melkor was trampling the broken shards of mirror, that were scattered across the floor, possessed by a homicidal rage.
The lieutenant remained perplexed for a moment, until his master seemed to calm down a bit, and then he cleared his throat:

-Ahem! If my lord Melkor is displeased by mirrors, I can make sure that they all get what is coming to them. -Melkor looked up in surprise, because he hadn't noticed the presence of Sauron. The fire of anger had been extinguished already, and he greeted him calmly.

-Ah, greetings, Sauron! What have your spies found out now? Judging by your face, I guess you know something that I don't. You have eyes everywhere, don’t you? A curious skill for a one-eyed...

Sauron smiled slightly. The words that his master addressed to him always had a double edge, and one had to be careful not to get cut by them.

-My Lord knows me better than myself. I bring news, yes, but they're not good.

-Are they ever?

-The Noldor have landed in the firth of Drengist, and Fëanor is in their lead, demanding the jewels. However, we suspect that there are still more troops to come, because we heard them talking of his brothers, and these don't come with them.

-Demanding my jewels? You speak as if he had any right over them. And where are those ill-conceived Elves now?

-In the region known as Lammoth. -Melkor raised his eyebrows, a little confused.

-Lammoth? The "Great Echo"? Where is that? I've never heard of that place.

-The name is new. It's called thus because rumours say one can still hear the echo of the ... ahem ... of the cry thou letst out during thy struggle with Ungoliant.

Melkor's white cheeks turned a shade of red upon hearing this, and two sparks flashed in his eyes.

-I didn't scream, damn, how many times I have to repeat it!? Who made up that filthy lie!? Do you think that I, Melkor, the Mighty Arising, would scream because of an insignificant eyesore, of a stinky spider? –he protested, wounded in the depths of his pride.

-I don't think so, my Lord. They're just rumours from ignorant villagers. They have also called the nearby mountains "The Echoing Mountains", and the land behind, "The Land of Echoes". They aren't very inventive.

Melkor bit his lip, furious. Now even geography was against him and conspired to make him look like a coward. It was the last thing he needed to hear.

-And there's more, my Lord. Fëanor has given thee a new name and now the Noldor use it always, and refuse to call thee by thy real name. Morgoth, the Black Enemy, do they call thee.

At that moment, the two sparks in Melkor's eyes ignited, and turned into two bonfires.

-Enemy? Enemy!? How dare they, why am I the Enemy? Hypocrites, cynics, scum! Aren't they also my enemies, aren't the Valar my enemies? They're the ones who won't let me live in peace, they're the ones who condemn each and every one of my acts, who constantly declare war on me! They are the Enemy!

Melkor had started to pace frantically around the room.
And Sauron watched with stoicism as he destroyed the furniture and tore the tapestries from the walls. He knew exactly who would be responsible for repairing the damage later.

-My Lord, they're just rumours. Names don't have more power than the one thou grantest them. Look at me. Everyone calls me Sauron "the Abhorred", but I don't care. Even thou callst me thus.

-That's because it's a most befitting name! And because no one remembers your stupid original name.

Melkor turned his back to him and walked to a window that overlooked the pits of Angband, and there he stayed, staring down in silence.
Sauron observed the narrow shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of breathing, and wondered why Melkor seemed so small now.

-What should I do, my Lord?

-This is war, Sauron. Fight for your master and defend the Silmarils. That is your duty. If you fail me, consider your name erased from my heart. Whatever the name may it be...

-Yes, my Lord. -Sauron made a nod that Melkor didn't see, and left.

The war against the Noldor.
Definitely, the attack and conquest of Doriath would never take place. In fact, it was already too late: Melian, concerned about the recent turmoil and the return of Melkor, had exhausted her patience, and had created a magical "girdle" around the forest. A girdle that was impenetrable for all evil creatures, that bumped against it as against an invisible wall.

"The cunning and treacherous witch..." –cursed Sauron to himself, as he walked briskly through the spacious halls of the armory towards the barracks of the Orcs–"Oh, Melkor! Why did you have to steal those jewels and bring those wretched Noldor here?"

He could have given his Lord the whole Middle Earth on a silver platter.
A clean Middle Earth where moss grew over the dead bodies of Elves, and the kings of dwarves grew older imprisoned under the mountains, until the last descendant of their decrepit lineage languished and died within its walls, without being mourned by anyone.
He would have given him a beautiful kingdom for him alone, away from the Valar and their horrible light.
He would have proved him how far reached his love and loyalty, if only he had let him.
But instead, his master had stolen those jewels and brought the plague of the Noldor home. And all the glorious plans of Sauron fell apart quickly, like a house built in dreams upon awakening.
Why had he stolen the Silmarils, anyway? This question didn't have a satisfactory answer in the mind of Sauron.
Those jewels had no special power, except the one of causing a slight stinging in the eyes if one looked at them for too long.
One couldn't use them to dominate the wills of others, or to see distant events, from past or future, nor did they turn their owner more powerful.
They were beautiful, yes, but beauty without purpose is a vain and hollow thing.
Actually, Sauron wasn't entirely insensitive to beauty, and in fact, while he was in the service of Aulë, he created many precious objects. But all of them had always an important purpose. And he was sure that, if he ever had to make something beautiful once more, a jewel or something, it would be with a very specific goal in mind.
If what Melkor wanted to accomplish with the theft, was simply to enrage the Noldor and the Valar, then he might as well have given them to the spider, so that she swallowed them and shunned them forever from sight. That would have left the Noldor downright disheartened, it would have destroyed their hopes, and would have prevented them from following him to Middle Earth, in order to claim them.
That would have been the logical way to do it...
But Melkor didn't want that.
Then why had he stolen the Silmarils?
Sauron had thought about this quite often, and had only found one answer, that he didn't like: Because they were pretty, just because of that.
Melkor had seen them, had become infatuated with them, and had taken them away without thinking about the long-term consequences, as he always did.
But such behaviour didn't seem to him as befitting of a Dark Lord, it didn't even seem manly. It was the typical way of acting of a capricious woman, as much it may hurt Sauron to admit it.
And he, with his cold heart and his head full of schemes, felt frustrated upon seeing the incomprehensible actions of his Lord, but also fascinated and envious.
Envious, because he would never share that violent and wild fire that inspired each and every act of Melkor. Envious because, no matter how many plans and maps he devised, or how many theories he developed, or how much information he obtained, the ultimate mystery that laid behind everything, would always elude him.
And perhaps only Melkor could sense it, because it was a part of him.

The doors of the wooden barrack, where Orcs were packed in foul conditions, burst open, and a cold breeze swept over their misshapen heads. The tall figure of the lieutenant, wrapped in black, was standing in the doorway, and his fiery eye burned with bloodlust.

-Move your lazy behinds and shake off the dust of your swords, ye can of maggots! – he bellowed, authoritarian- Soon ye will eat Elf meat again. This is war!

Upon hearing this, the ranks of Orcs stood up, inflamed, and a hoarse and brutal cry left their throats in celebration, and blackish tongues licked their lips, and rotten teeth gleamed in the darkness.
Sauron felt his spirit growing back in his chest, fed by the clamour of battle, that he loved so much. After all, war was always a happy occasion for him, and shortly thereafter, he had erased the dark thoughts that just a moment before disturbed him.

However, the first battle against the Noldor, which later became known as the "Battle under Stars", wasn't very happy.
Sauron had decided to divide the army on two fronts: the first was to attack the Noldor in the region of Mithrim, where they had been quartered, while the latter advanced against Círdan in the Falas, in order to avoid any possible reinforcement from that quarter. Sauron led that second front, and at first, the battle was favourable, with few casualties.
But then started coming messengers from the North, spirits in the form of rooks or bats,
that whispered upsetting news into his ear. The Noldor prevailed, and now the troops of Mithrim retreated in disarray toward Angband.
Sauron was furious, but kept a cool head and ordered a retreat, to aid the other front.

-"At least I can find out myself if the blood of the Light Elves is also bright, as they say their eyes are." -he consoled himself, as he rode out to meet the Noldor.

He planned to surprise them from behind and slaughter them all, but they were the ones surprised. One of the sons of Fëanor rushed toward them with a large army from one flank, and a second later, streams of black Orc blood sprung up here and there.
For the first time, Sauron could see the High Elves face to face.
They brandished the sword with no less cruelty than the servants of Angband, but he found in their faces that divine spark of the Valar, which he had almost forgotten.
And the anger showing in their eyes was breathtakingly beautiful.
While he saw them advancing in formation on the backs of their white horses, both noble and savage, raising curtains of blood in their wake, he realized that these were finally the worthy rivals that he had missed for so long in Middle Earth.
And Sauron found out, to his surprise, that even though the Elves were defeating them, a kind of strange joy trembled inside him.

For a long time they tried to resist without giving up ground to them,
but the superiority of the Noldor was overwhelming, and they ended up driving them to the Fen of Serech, where the Orcs dispersed in terror.
Sauron made it to safety on the top of a hill, and watched the debacle.
The plain was strewn with Orc corpses, trampled by the beautiful horses of the Elves.
And in the distance, the enemies rode back to Mithrim as a ghostly cloud. Everything had gone quiet.
Sauron looked up into the starry dome, and the Sickle of the Valar replied with a mocking twinkle of its seven stars.

As corollary, upon his return to Angband after the ten days that the skirmishes had lasted, Sauron came across a surprise, that was almost more unpleasant than the unexpected attack of the Noldor.
A horde of Balrogs and Orcs crowded in the throne room, jubilant, circling someone that Sauron couldn't see at first. Even Melkor had descended from the throne, and congratulated the warrior who had brought a ray of hope in the midst of disaster.
Sauron approached the group, annoyed by their happy faces at those grim times,
and finally saw who they were cheering: a huge blackish body shrouded in flames and fumes, with two curved horns on his head, and a deep laugh that resounded in each iron pillar.

-"Gothmog ..." –he growled through his teeth. And if Sauron had had some Orc at hand at that moment, probably he would have whipped him to vent his rage.

According to what he could guess, the reckless Fëanor had come too close to the fortress, and there he had met his rival. The Balrogs had wiped out almost all his companions, and Gothmog himself had left Fëanor badly injured, but the Elf had managed to escape.
At the moment Sauron came through the door, everyone was celebrating the latest news: Fëanor, the mortal enemy of Melkor, who had summoned the Noldor against him and had given him that blasphemous name, had died due to the wounds inflicted on him by the Balrog captain. And as if death wasn't enough, he had also disintegrated into ashes, through the work of some dark spell.

Now Melkor looked pleased at Gothmog. And not just looked at him, he smiled at him!
He smiled in a way that Sauron barely remembered: with gratitude, with respect, with sincerity ...
When was the last time Melkor had smiled at him like that?
Sauron made his way through the crowd and stood in the middle of the circle as a black shadow, that came to ruin the joy of the scene. The glassy eye showed such coldness that silence fell upon everyone at once.
But the other eye couldn't hide the flame of envy and resentment, and this was addressed to the hated rival.
Melkor's smile twisted into a wry grin at the sight of his lieutenant.

-Oh, my dear Sauron! -he exclaimed, in a tone of voice so sharp that it split flesh- We were already thinking that you had fallen into the hands of the Noldor as well, and that we wouldn't see you again. How do you feel after having sent my army to utter ruin?

Sauron swallowed his pride, and simply did a little martial salute with his head.

-My Lord, I did my best.

-That's very little for me. You have failed me. –then Melkor extended his left hand and Sauron leaned down to kiss it. But when his lips were already touching the skin, the Vala suddenly withdrew his hand and slapped him. A humiliating slap in front of everyone.

A murmur of disapproval rose among those who watched, and Sauron noticed dozens of looks, between compassionate and mocking, upon his face, which was already turning red from the blow. After this, Melkor turned around and left the room angrily.
A sharp pain gripped the lieutenant.
Pain not because of the slap, or the stares, or the shame, not even because of the triumph of Gothmog... but pain because of the words of his Lord: "You have failed me."
That short sentence had pierced him more deeply than any sword, no matter how long and sharp, could ever pierce him.
A huge arm that stank of sulfur nudged him with sarcasm:

-What's happening, Sauron? Has the Elf hunter got rusty? -laughed the Balrog with his rude booming voice.- Your problem is that you spend too much time in the dungeons, torturing helpless prisoners, rather than on the battlefield, facing real warriors. But rejoice! We are celebrating today, so join the party. In the barracks of the Orcs you can drown your sorrows with plentiful wine that we reserved for the occasion. -and Gothmog elbowed him in the ribs again, insolent.

Sauron was about to punch him in the eye, but decided to hold back. Losing his temper was not like him, and he didn't want to make another scene after what had happened with Melkor. So he pushed the Balrog away and left the room with long strides, without looking anyone in the face.

Sauron spent the following days in the most miserable ostracism.
His Lord didn't call him to his presence even once, and it was obvious that this was because he had the express desire of avoiding him, not because there wasn't any task to do in Angband, since there was always.
Furthermore, the works on Thangorodrim were completed at the end of the three months promised, so Sauron's presence wasn't required there either.
Thus, sunk into a gloomy mood, the lieutenant vented his frustrations on the prisoners.
And in those days, the sound of his riding boots descending the stairs to the dungeons, was more feared than ever by the unfortunates who crowded the cells.

But that situation couldn't continue.
Luck is for those who are able to create it themselves, and Sauron was willing to disobey his master and act on his own, if thus he could win back his favour.
Then he summoned a party of trusted servants to send an embassy of peace to the Noldor. He didn't send stupid Orcs, too brutal to understand the subtleties of diplomacy, but clever and deceptive wraiths.
Through the embassy, Sauron acknowledged his defeat and assured them that Melkor was aware of the negotiations and had promised a Silmaril to the Noldor, as a peace offering. Of course, he knew that Melkor would never be able to promise such a thing, even if it was just a lie. The mere words: "I will give you one of my Silmarils", would have burned in his tongue more than molten iron.
However, the Elves didn't know this, and with flattering words he managed to convince Maedhros, the eldest son of Fëanor, to meet secretly with them, since the lust of the Elven lord for the jewels was almost as great as that of Melkor himself.

Nonetheless, those who are untrustworthy, do not trust anyone, and the Elves came to the meeting with more troops than what was agreed.
But Sauron had set the trap first, and the malice of the Noldor could do nothing against that.
The Elves were ambushed from the adjacent forests, and they killed them all.
Maedhros alone was left standing up, for that was the gift with which Sauron wanted to regain the love of his Lord.
However, before bringing the prisoner to the presence of Melkor, Sauron had to make sure that he was in the proper mood to greet him. He went a bit ahead of the Orcs that led Maedhros, and looked furtively in the throne room.
Melkor was reclined in his throne with an expression of deep boredom on his face, and he yawned from time to time.
It was therefore the right time to break in and announce the capture, as any incident, any interruption or news, good or bad, would be received by the Vala as a better alternative than boredom.
Sauron approached him with more discretion than usual, and this time he knelt before the throne, instead of doing the typical greeting nod.

-My Lord, I take the liberty of coming before thee even when thou didst not call me, and beg thee to forgive my boldness, for I bring thee a gift that, I am sure, will be quite to thy liking, and will make thee forget my faults from the past.

Melkor raised his eyebrows, without looking very impressed, but he wasn't angry either.
He was so apathetic, that he didn't even feel like getting angry. He stared long at the kneeling figure of the lieutenant, with dull and expressionless eyes, and finally took the trouble to answer:

-Don't try to abase yourself to inspire my pity, Sauron. I will not forgive you, and I'm not bought with gifts.

-I don't abase myself, my Lord, I'm just trying to be helpful. –replied Sauron, standing up again, and with a sly smirk he added:- I have brought thee Maedhros the Tall. Since Gothmog gave thee the dead father, I give thee the living son, that will be much more useful and will give my master much more amusement, than the handful of ashes of Fëanor.

Upon hearing the name of Maedhros, Melkor straightened up on the throne, his whole interest and senses aroused again.
If there is one thing that is predictable in the capricious gods, this is that, indeed, they can be bought with gifts.
And Sauron knew this very well.

-But how, when did you capture the heir of Fëanor? I haven't given any orders about it! –he reproached him. But with those words of apparent disgust, actually died the last remnants of his bad temper.

-The servants who truly know the wishes of their masters, go ahead and fulfill them without waiting for orders.

What came now from the lips of Sauron was the sweet melody of adoration, that Melkor never tired of listening to. Especially when it came from arrogant beings like his lieutenant, who rarely delighted his ears that way.
The Vala relaxed his expression and couldn't quite hide the satisfaction that he felt inside. Sauron had touched the proper strings, and it would take just a few more caresses to finish melting the ice.

-Now that Maedhros is in our power, at last we can have exact information about the number of soldiers available to the Noldor, and where they are located, and what they plan to do. We'll also know what happened to the brothers of Fëanor, why they haven't met with them yet, if they intend to do so, or if they abandoned the Western Lands at least. -continued Sauron, excited by the plentiful strategic opportunities that unfolded for them- And all this I can find out in a few days, if thou allowest me to do my job with the prisoner in the dungeons, before giving him to thee to use in the way thou findest most pleasant. During the three ages that thou wert imprisoned in Mandos, I didn't care just for military affairs, my Lord. There is a small part of the craftsman and inventor who I once was by Aulë’s side, who still lives in me. And we could say that this skill, this particular talent, has allowed me to design information-gathering techniques that are quite efficient and... how could I put it?... "imaginative".

An imperceptible smile appeared in the lips of Melkor when he noticed the perverse cynicism of his servant.

-By information-gathering techniques, you mean torture techniques, don’t you?

The small dilation of the fire pupil confirmed it. Sauron, pleased, stroked the whip he always carried at his side, and said quietly:

-If my Lord wants to witness the "procedure", he has just to accompany me down. I promise thee, thou wilt not be dissatisfied.

The idea sounded very tempting to Melkor. At least he would have some entertainment to better endure the endless hours of boredom. Although this would be only, of course, until the new toy broke entirely.
He glanced sideways at Sauron, and wondered why his glacial facade seemed only to heat up when talking about torture.
Had he, Melkor, instigated this sadism in his heart? Or on the other hand, was it something natural and inherent to the Maia? Something that was within him from the beginning, but that had been dormant until the day their paths crossed?
For a second, he laid his eyes on the cruel curve of Sauron's lips.
A fang stuck out partially, and he could see how his lieutenant's tongue slid down the sharp point, almost like a provocation.
Melkor recalled then the dream he once had in the halls of Mandos, and felt an uncomfortable tingling between his legs. He shifted in the seat, uneasy, and ordered that they brought Maedhros to his presence without further delay.

The prisoner showed clear signs of having been mistreated: the clothes torn in places, some blood on his lip, bruised spots specking his face, disarranged hair...
Melkor growled annoyed, he didn't like his preys so crushed. It made no sense breaking the spirit of someone who had already several broken bones, because he was barely going to notice anything.
He soon realized, however, what was the reason for such harsh treatment: that Elf was almost as stubborn and rebellious as his father.
He entered the room struggling with the guards, half dragged, and spitting a mixture of blood, saliva and High Elvish curses at everyone around him.
When he came before the throne, he refused to kneel at the feet of Melkor, and Sauron had to hit him in the stomach with the hilt of the sword to make him fall to his knees at last.
Melkor was pleased. Tearful and frightened victims bored him so much, that he delivered most of them directly to the Orcs.
But the Noldorin prince was a violent and interesting subject, as had been his father.
Another detail that he liked was discovering the strange colour of his hair, of a flaming red. He had never seen hair like that in the other Elves, and the novelty was appreciated.
Especially because Melkor had always had some difficulty distinguishing them from each other. Unlike the richness and variety of forms that showed the faces of his Orcs, the Children of Ilúvatar had all such a regular and monotonous build, that Melkor sometimes wondered how they recognized their children and wives.
At least, Fëanor must have never faced such a problem, in view of his magnificent offspring.

-Welcome to my palace, Maedhros, high prince of the Noldor. Sorry about the mess and gloom, but the last time I invited my siblings the Valar to Angband for a party, they behaved in quite an uncivilized way. -the aforementioned turned a deaf ear to Melkor's sarcasm, and refused to look him into the eyes. Nonetheless, he couldn't prevent the brightness of the Silmarils upon the iron crown from attracting his attention for a second. Melkor smiled pointing at them: -Do you recognize them? I have put them on me as courtesy towards you, so that you feel just like at your father's home, now that you are so far away. Tell me, Maedhros, where do they look better, on him or on me?

-On thee, the Dark Lord. For their light attracts the attention of all who look at them, and thus they don't have to see thy face.-Sauron struck the prisoner even harder than before, and he was left out of breath for a moment.

Melkor laughed:

-What's wrong with you, the ones from the house of Finwe? Do ye always have to choose the most difficult and painful path, even when they treat you with courtesy? Ye have suffered a thousand hardships to come up here to take my Silmarils, why don't ye forget about them once and for all, and put an end to so much suffering?

-Because they don't belong to thee! They are the legacy of my father, and anyone who is not of his blood, doesn't have the right to touch them.

-Oh! So your father hasn't told you the truth? What an hypocrite! You should know that he adored me from the first moment he saw me in Valinor. He loved me so much, that he was willing to leave his wife and children to come with me to Middle Earth. He was an unfaithful and lecherous Elf, indeed... He said he would give me the Silmarils, as a token of love. But I guess he didn't take very well the fact that I went away without him, and thus he started this absurd war. As for the jewels, I just took what he gave me as a gift. They are mine in my own right.

Maedhros smiled with bitter sarcasm.

-Is that the version of the story ye tell in Angband? Because actually, our father told us something very different. He said it was thou the one who constantly stalked him, and that the day thou appearedst at our home with indecent proposals, he told thee to go back to Mandos.

-But of course! What would he tell his beloved wife and children? However, it's curious that you mention Mandos. In an ironic twist, now it is he who keeps him company at the house of the dead. Tell me, isn't it funny?

-Yes, very funny. –replied the Elf defiantly. And although he was lying on the ground, still he refused to bow down his head. -As funny as an Elf closing the door in the face of the most powerful being of Arda. As funny as a spider eating the Dark Lord alive. I've heard some very interesting things about Morgoth the Enemy. If thou wantest, I can keep talking about them...

This time, Sauron hit him in the mouth, and Maedhros screamed in pain, spitting blood and a tooth.
Melkor had gone pale, and any trace of sarcasm that could have been in his face, was replaced by grim concern. He got off the throne in a hurry, and grabbed the prisoner by the hair with unusual violence, forcing him to raise his head and look into his eyes.

-It seems like you have inherited from your father the beauty, the sense of humour, and the bad manners. -hissed in his ear, with reconcentrated hatred -We'll see if you keep any of those three things when I'm done with you! - and towering over him, he ordered the guards: -Hang this vermin by the wrist on the highest peak of Thangorodrim! And may his torment be unending, don't let him die of hunger or thirst, and no one must listen to his ravings! Send an embassy to the Noldor, and tell them that if they want to see him again, they will have to lay down the arms.

The foul clutches of the Orcs closed around Maedhros arms, and he squirmed in disobedience.

-You are wasting your time, Morgoth! An oath binds me and my brothers, and we'll rather die than renounce the Silmarils. The Noldor will never lay down their arms, we'll never give up on war!

-I know, and I don't care. In any case, I wasn't going to release you either... Oh! And remember this in the future, Maedhros: my name is not Morgoth, it's Melkor, the Mighty Arising. -after saying this, Melkor took a knife from the guards at his side and cut a lock of that fascinating red hair.
Then he ordered to take the prisoner away, and the last curses of the Noldo were lost in the distance, muffled behind the thick iron doors that closed at their backs.

Melkor leaned back on the throne and fiddled with the lock of hair nonchalantly, ignoring his lieutenant, who looked at him between stunned and annoyed.

-My Lord, why hast thou done that? I thought thou wert going to leave him with me for the interrogation. Of what use will he be now, hanging from Thangorodrim? I can't bring all my instruments up there every day, and he will be too weak to speak.

Melkor looked at him askew, and simply said:

-I don't know. I changed my mind. Now I want to hang him by the wrist. It's something I've wanted to do for some time.

-But my Lord, thou canst always hang him later. Let me interrogate him first, please, and then...

Melkor interrupted him by placing the red lock in front of his face:

-Watch this Sauron. Have you ever seen an Elf with hair of this colour? It seems like fire. I wish our wolves were of the same colour. Here, keep it. -and he placed it in his hand.

Sauron sighed and swallowed his frustration with bitterness. It was no use arguing with Melkor anymore, since he was no longer listening.
He closed his hand around the lock of hair and left.

Melkor's eyes followed him as he walked away.
The truth is that not for all the world he would allow Sauron, precisely, to interrogate Maedhros, of all the Elves. Maedhros was the son of Fëanor, he had lived in the Western Lands, and he knew too much about him and his time as a prisoner of the Valar. Undoubtedly, the lieutenant would have asked him about military matters but... what would have prevented the Elf from letting out also other kind of details during the interrogation? Details more... compromising?
He could have spoken about his humiliation in the halls of Mandos, about how shamefully he had surrendered to the Judge, about how he had become his plaything.
Or even worse, he could have talked about how the Silmarils burned any impure being that touched them.
Then Sauron would necessarily notice the glove on his right hand, and would draw his own conclusions. Then he would also understand that his master was trapped in that body, since he wasn't able to get rid of the injuries.
And Sauron would know about his weakness. He would know EVERYTHING.
Melkor worried at the thought of the ambitions that would wake up in the cold heart of the lieutenant, if he discovered that the Dark Lord was no longer as powerful as before.
He would conspire against him, yes, that was certain, and therefore it was vital that such information never reached his ears. Melkor knew that one must be wary of enemies, but even more so of allies, especially if they are powerful and very close.
But despite everything, he didn't want to dispense with Sauron, not yet. He was useful still, and there was no reason to throw him away as long as his secret was safe.

Moreover, during the next three years, the lieutenant turned out to be his main source of entertainment.
All the fronts stayed quiet and the Noldor didn't attempt any new offensive.
The only relevant news that reached them, was the painful journey of Fingolfin through Helcaraxë. Apparently, Fëanor had decided to burn the ships after landing at Middle-earth, and leave his half-brother abandoned on the other side of the world.
Knowing this, Melkor felt a renewed respect for the creator of the Silmarils, and regretted not having brought him really to Angband, as promised. There was no doubt that he had an evil heart, and he would have been a good servant, after convincing him of joining the opposite side through persuasive "reasons".
But now Fëanor was dead, and Fingolfin was still far away, so nothing of this did really matter.

Thus, with so much calm around, Melkor didn't find anything better to do than accompanying Sauron to the dungeons each day, to see him testing his "techniques" on prisoners. Down there, in the asphyxiating lower vaults of Angband, where no breeze of air ever reached to drive away the stench of death.
And the Maia was honoured by the interest, more apparent than real, that his Lord showed for those tasks. Because usually, the work in the dungeons was despised and frowned upon among his colleagues. Gothmog hated it above everything else, though Sauron suspected that this was actually because of the Balrog's sensitive stomach... or so he liked to think.
Even Melkor felt revolted by it from time to time, but in spite of this, he spent the idle hours, every day's the same, watching Sauron while he wielded the whip and opened red channels on the backs of those poor devils.

However, on more than one occasion, the Maia surprised his Lord staring captivated, not at the punishment, or at the blood, or at the prisoner that writhed in pain, but at HIM, at him himself.
Melkor followed with the eyes each flexion of his arm, and the sweat streaming down his neck, and the twistings of his spine, and then the lieutenant had the impression of seeing some sort of fire burning secretly behind the black and opaque eyes of the Vala.
At those moments, Melkor, feeling exposed, tried always to divert his attention to something else, and suddenly scolded him for having an instrument lying on the floor, or dirty, or rusty. Even when just a second ago, he hadn't been bothered in the least by the disorder, or the stains, or the rust that covered it.
And while Sauron cleaned or picked up the object in question, he felt over his body that stare again, that was eager, and yet, strangely shy.
Unfortunately, one day Melkor had become too enraptured by the image of his lieutenant in action, and had come closer to him than was usual, and this happened just the day in which one of the new machines failed...
In an instant, both Sauron and his Lord found themselves covered in black blood and intestines of Orc. Melkor stormed out the room, and spent at least two hours stuck in a hot bathtub, cursing in the ancient language of the Valar, that fortunately almost nobody understood anymore.

After that, a week passed in which he didn't talk to Sauron or went down to the torture chambers, though later he reappeared as if nothing had happened.
But from that day on, Sauron decided that there were better things to show his Lord than his refined sadism. He led him then to the rooms where on numerous occasions, and especially during the chaining of Melkor, he had tried to experiment with various creatures to make them stronger, smarter or more effective.
"Body redesign", he called it.
And as always, Melkor smirked upon hearing the cynical euphemism.
There, on an operating table, bound by the wrists and ankles, a hapless Orc groaned in pain, struggling between life and death. He was a small one, rather useless, and showed signs of having been abused beyond what he could be expected to endure.
Melkor looked frowning at his lieutenant; he had never liked that others took the liberty of disfiguring his creations, especially if they did it in such a gratuitous way.
Sauron shrugged:

-I have tried by all means to make out of him a new breed of Orc, one that is taller and more powerful, and with better qualities for leadership. But it was to no avail, my Lord. However, my intention was good...

Melkor interrupted his explanations with a curt wave of his hand, and told him to bring a torch to the table.
The air of the dungeon was already very thin and the fire barely burned. On top of that, the smoke it produced, mixed with the strong smell of dried blood, had turned the atmosphere so stuffy that it was almost unbearable to mortal beings.
Under the light of the torch, the miserable creature could see the face of his creator leaning over him, and the inscrutable blackness of his eyes produced him terror, but also a quiet resignation. And then he stopped squirming and groaning.
Melkor placed his left hand, the one he had always uncovered, over the rough neck of the Orc, and bent down to get to his same level. Approaching his mouth to the ugly ear, he began to whisper something in that language that existed before all things,
the language in which the Ainur sang for the first time in front of Eru. Older, even more primal, than the language of the Valar, and in some ways, terrible to listen for mortal ears, for it follows the rules of other spheres, that those who inhabit the world aren't meant to know.

Sauron had almost forgotten that language, and now it returned to him from the unfathomable depths of time and memory. The voice of his master exerted over him a magnetism so strong, that he had to make a great effort to not disembody himself right there, and run to merge with the spirit of the Vala.
However, that voice had a very different effect on the Orc, who contracted in the middle of torment, not because his body was tortured, but because it was his soul what was being twisted now.
And amidst the violence and screams, Melkor remained calm all the time, and kept whispering very quietly, almost sweetly.
Almost with love... If not for the abject creature, at least for the act of creation.
When he finished, he blew his breath over the mouth of the unhappy Orc and stood up.
The left eye of Sauron still burned, inflamed by trance, and he had still trouble keeping his spirit quiet and trapped between the four walls of flesh.

-Do you see, Sauron? This is how it is done. –said Melkor simply. The Orc now lay asleep, and his breathing was placid and regular. -But you will never be able to create new races in the same way that I can.

-Why dost thou say that, my Lord? -asked Sauron, very hurt by the words of the Vala.

-Because creating life is an art, not a science. And it requires a great sacrifice that you are not willing to do. No, you are too dead inside to understand any of this.

With that said, Melkor turned and left the dungeon haughtily, leaving Sauron sunk in utter misery. To his shame, the rebellious spirit would not calm down, and it still fluttered within him like a caged bird, with no other desire than following Melkor upstairs, and then inside, inside, until he reached the very core, until he discovered what he was missing .

When they returned to the dungeon the next day, a change had come over the Orc.
He was larger and his arms had begun to develop some muscle. The fangs also seemed to have grown, and his eyes phosphoresced like two slits of evil, more fierce and bloodthirsty than before.
Sauron checked fascinated the signs of evolution, and hundreds of plans for the new race sprang into his mind at once. The balance of the war would tilt significantly in their favour if they could raise Orcs like that in sufficient quantities, and so he explained it to his Lord.
But Melkor seemed distracted and looked around the room, rather than at the Orc in question.

-No, no, Sauron, I do not care... I'm a little tired of these creatures, so ugly and miserable. Now I want something else... A creature with hard scales of iron, which no weapon can pierce.

-Scales... Dost thou mean like a fish?

-Yes, but one that flies.

-A bird?

-No, not a bird. Something like a snake...

Sauron felt downright lost amid the strange course of his master's reasoning.
Melkor got close to some iron hooks that hanged from the ceiling, and took them in his hand for careful examination.

-And I also want it to have this in its claws...

-So it would be a snake with... legs?

Melkor let go of the hooks in disgust upon noticing the flesh scraps that stuck to them, and turned to face the lieutenant. His left eye had a questioning look on it, and the Vala watched it thoughtfully for a few seconds.

-And I want it to have fire inside. That it spits flames. –he concluded.

Sauron was trying to form a mental image of the new creature, and although he had the impression that his Lord was just improvising with its features, he realized that something very interesting could come out of there. A sly smile appeared then on his thin lips.

-Do not worry, my Lord. Thou wilt have thy serpent of fire. Just let me take care of providing thee with the raw materials...

Thus began the breeding of the later-called "dragons".
And these terrible and colossal monsters, capable of dismantling an army in seconds, began nonetheless as small reptiles, as insignificant snakes.
Melkor and his lieutenant watched them grow day by day inside the dark and secret cells, they watched how from the belly and thorax of the snakes emerged lumps that turned into legs, how their fangs filled with poison until they oozed, and how the breath of the beasts began to smell of sulfur.
When the cells became too small, they moved them to the huge underground pits,
and there the worms continued getting fatter, and they became cunning and warped.
Among these, the first and most corpulent, and the most perverse, was the one they named Glaurung. This was the one Melkor loved most.
However, they failed at making them develop wings and fly, but that detail could wait for later.

Those were happy days for Sauron.
The breeding of dragons became a personal and secret project, in which only Melkor and he had a place. And from this work emerged a kind of intimacy between the two, as intense as it's possible with a god, that Sauron could have never imagined before, not even in his wildest dreams.
Those monstrous reptiles were indeed their progeny, born of the unholy union of the Vala and the Maia. Melkor had conceived them, had gestated and taken them from inside him. But he, Sauron, had been in charge of feeding and strengthening them, of making them hard and cruel as steel, to protect the mysterious spark that his Lord had placed in them.
There in the darkened caverns, together, they watched for hours the iridescent reflection of the metallic scales, waving as silvery ghosts under the torchlight.
They watched the hypnotic pupils of the great snakes shining for a second in the darkness, and then disappearing.
And also there, one day, amidst the vapours and sulphides that came from the nostrils of the creatures, Sauron felt a warm breath caressing his neck, entirely different from the stifling air of the pit. When he turned, he saw his Lord leaning over him with his eyes closed, and apparently inhaling the scent of his skin and hair.
Melkor let out a deep sigh, and opened his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Melkor turned around and disappeared behind a cloud of steam.
Sauron shrugged at the eccentric behaviour of his master.
He didn't understand why he could have done that, especially considering that after a hard day of work, his own body odour should not be too pleasant.
But anyway, the fact that Melkor approached him so much should be a sign of confidence, and with that Sauron was satisfied.

Yes, those were happy days. But not just because of those moments of intimacy with his master. In addition, the reptiles that he had obtained for the experiments were none other than the abominable pets of Gothmog, that he raised and cared for with great trouble.
And Sauron felt a great pleasure whenever he saw the Balrog desperately looking for his beloved animals, that disappeared in a misterious way every few days, and that he would never find again, at least in their original form.

After the three years had passed, however, the happy days got to the end.
The first sign that something terrible was coming appeared in the skies of the West,
while Sauron rode through the edge of Doriath, searching for a breach, however small, in the girdle of Melian. Suddenly, the black night paled, and a white light opened clearings between the leaves of the trees, and projected shadows that were not there before.
The lieutenant stopped his horse and looked up, surprised. A huge white disc, dim and full of holes, had risen above the Great Sea, released into the air from distant Valinor.
It seemed an ugly and sick sphere to Sauron, that had just come to bring a poor clarity in the otherwise beautiful darkness of night. It was an absurd and unnecessary addition to the sky, an insult from the Valar, no doubt.
Unfortunately too, the object's appearance reminded him painfully of his right eye, that white and dull glass, and realizing this, the insolence of the Valar infuriated him.
Spurring his horse, he hurried back to Angband.
The new light made him feel naked, as if the enemies of the West could see him better now, and track his movements across the plains that separated him from the Iron Mountains.
When he entered the fortress and stood before Melkor, he found him strangely agitated.
He paced across the room, and from time to time peered anxiously from a small window, to make sure whether the new heavenly body was still there.
He barely exchanged a few words with his lieutenant, and soon he wanted to withdraw into the bedroom. Sauron suspected that his master would want to sleep now for a while, but he'd never understand that habit of resting that he had acquired after his return from Valinor, especially when there was always so much to do in Angband.

The second warning of the Valar, and the most ominous of the two, found Melkor sleeping again.
The boots of Sauron, and his cries calling the Vala, echoed through the vaults of iron with unusual energy that day, and when the servants saw the expression on the lieutenant’s face, they moved out of his way frightened.
As there was no answer from anyone, Sauron walked hastily to Melkor's bedroom, and found a couple of Balrogs standing guard by the door.

-Halt! The Dark Lord has given orders that no one is to disturb his rest. So no one comes inside, neither dead nor alive! -warned one of the Balrogs.

And they crossed their swords in front of the door.
Sauron was almost overcome by that anger that he usually tried to suppress so hard.

-Step aside, stupid, and go out there! Then ye will know why I come in such haste to warn the Dark Lord.

But since the guards were standing stubbornly, Sauron decided to vent his frustration once and for all, and taking the whip out, he crossed the faces of the Balrogs three times with it. Then these looked at each other, stunned for a second, and then pounced on him.
Sauron knew he had no chance against two Balrogs together, with their flaming whips and large bulky bodies, so he dodged the blows with feline agility, and then quickly turned into a bat. The furious Balrogs chased him through the corridors of the fortress, while he kept hovering over their heads, occasionally biting them.
They were willing to crush the lieutenant if necessary, even if he was the right hand of his master Melkor, because the hatred that Gothmog felt for him had passed, of course, to the rest of his troops.
Sauron went to the lower floors and finally entered through a trapdoor into a cellar, with the Balrogs following suit. Once he had them inside, he disembodied, went outside, and closed the trapdoor with a spell, after recovering his usual shape. The Balrogs pummeled the door, demanding that he took them out of there immediately, and yelling thousands of obscenities at him, but Sauron didn't listen anymore.
Later he would take them out of there...
Or maybe not, it would depend on his mood.

With the path cleared at last, he returned to Melkor's bedroom and entered carefully.
The room was plunged into darkness, and he lit a lamp that was at the entrance.
He had rarely been in that room, only when Melkor called him to discuss some matter concerning war, and he just happened to be there at that time.
Now the big black wooden bed occupied the center, and numerous tapestries and rugs with twisted arabesques adorned a floor and walls, that once had been bare, when Melkor didn't need privacy.
The Vala slept deeply on his left side, covered with some dark sheets, and Sauron could hear his calm breathing even from the entrance.
He approached slowly, fascinated by what he had before him.
The expression on the face of Melkor was so changed, that if it wasn't for the crown of Silmarils that still rested on his head, he would have had trouble recognizing him.
There was no longer anger, or irritation, or suspicion, or pain, in any of the lines of his pale face. And although the effect would last only as long as the Vala remained asleep, Sauron had the impression that his Lord had returned to his original state, before the music of the Ainur introduced the first discrepancies in his soul.

But as sweet as his rest may seem, Sauron had to wake him, and he didn't know how.
He tried to talk to him, but it wasn't enough, and he didn't want to yell at him, for that would be quite insolent.
He noticed then that the sheet had slid down a bit, and exposed his shoulder and right arm, strikingly white against the dark background. It was strange how, even sleeping, and although he seemed to have undressed completely, he was still wearing the black silk glove on his hand.
That was suspicious, and Sauron felt a strong temptation to remove the glove and finally discover what it was that his Lord tried so hard to hide. But he couldn't do something so bold. And besides, his duty now was to warn his master about what had happened, not to pry into his secrets.
Given his options, he decided to touch Melkor slightly on the shoulder to wake him up.
That wasn't very respectful, of course, and in fact, Sauron had never touched his master anywhere else but on the hand to kiss him. But it was still a better idea than shout in his ear, or throw a bucket of cold water over his head.
By touch, his skin seemed incredibly soft and warm, and he could feel each one of the bones beneath. Sauron knew by heart those bones and joints. He knew how they sounded upon disjointing, or how was the feeling of dipping a sword between them.
Now, the fact of verifying that his master had the same bones under his skin, and that he could probably feel the same pain, filled him with mixed feelings.

He had become so absorbed while stroking the joint and exploring each of its corners,
that he didn't realize that Melkor tossed uneasily. Finally, the icy fingers of Sauron upon his shoulder pulled the Vala out of his lethargy.
And when he opened his eyes and found his lieutenant there, at the head of the bed and touching him on top of that, all the negative emotions appeared on his face again: the anger, the irritation, the suspicion... and a little bit of fear and confusion.

- Sauron! What are you doing here? –he exclaimed, retreating a bit. The Maia quickly put his hand away, embarrased –I had ordered that no one bothered me, how dare you to break into my room on the sly? And why were you touching me, what were you plotting, you traitor!?

The Vala covered his arm and shoulder again, as if he was ashamed of revealing even that little skin.
Sauron was quick to apologize, before some horrible suspicion about him occurred to Melkor.

-I'm very sorry, my liege. I didn't want to enter thy chamber this way and startle thee. But something unusual happened, a phenomenon in the sky. And I think thou shouldst go out immediately to see it.

Melkor frowned, still angry, but the strange news gave him a bad feeling, and he felt compelled to go out and see for himself the aforesaid phenomenon.
He ordered Sauron to turn around and look at the wall while he dressed.
The lieutenant obeyed, but as he heard behind him the sound of fabrics unfolding, rubbing against each other, and sliding over the body of his master, he began to feel uncomfortable.
Very uncomfortable.
Never before had he thought about imagining Melkor, precisely Melkor, naked.
He was a Vala, a god. It was assumed that nudity was unthinkable in him.
But now, while he heard him dressing, he couldn't stop developing mental images of him, and wondered how he would be under that robe, whether he would be beautiful to behold or not. The express prohibition of turning around and looking, only made things worse.
Thus, when the Vala finished dressing and ordered to be taken to the phenomenon, Sauron sighed with relief.

Melkor didn't seem to notice that the Balrog guards had disappeared from the door.
He was probably still a little bewildered by the sudden awakening.
After touring numerous corridors and climbing long flights of stairs, the lieutenant led his Lord outside, where a strange clarity had suddenly changed the appearance and colours of everything.
Melkor squinted and looked around, confused and almost unable to see anything.
An unpleasant feeling began to boil inside him, and then, when he looked to the West, he encountered the horrible phenomenon.
A monstrous fireball, immeasurable, devoured the sky over the distant horizon of Valinor, and its rays slowly moved eastward, threatening to scorch everything in its path.
There was the last fruit of Laurelin, the swollen and hypertrophied tumor that had sprouted from its branches, rotten by poison. It was the eye of the Valar, the eye of the Valar upon him, Melkor, and now they could see him, now they could pierce him with their stares wherever he was, they could see him inside and outside, and he would have no secrets for them anymore, no, no secrets at all.
And when the terrible eye of fire shot through him, each and every one of his wounds burst into flames inside, as answering in unison to the call of the great star.
The burn of the Silmarils, and all the other burns Mandos had caused him, triggered the most intense pain that Melkor remembered having ever felt.
Neither Tulkas' beatings, nor his defilement by the Judge of the Valar, nor the touch of the Silmarils, nor Ungoliant closing her jaws on him, could compare to that torment.
Melkor thought he would die right then, and would be reduced to a pile of ashes, as had happened with Fëanor.

Sauron heard a shrill cry beside him, and when he averted his eyes from the star, he saw the figure of his master huddled and trembling on the floor, in the midst of agony.
The sunlight caused him some discomfort, but certainly nothing like what his Lord seemed to be suffering.
Alarmed, he run to his side, covered him with his black cape, and led him back to the safe darkness of Angband.
For a few seconds, Melkor remained semiconscious in his arms, still groaning in pain,
until the coldness of the halls and the embrace of his lieutenant began to extinguish the flames that ate into his body.
Then he looked up, and when he saw the black figure of Sauron surrounding him with the cloak, as a bat with outspread wings to protect him, he pushed him with a shove,
and walked down the hall, staggering like a dying man. Upon coming to the throne, he fell to the ground, rested his arms on the seat, and buried his face in them.
Sauron watched his body shuddering, and wondered if it was possible that a Vala sobbed.
He wasn't sure of what to do in that situation: say something to him?, comfort him?, approach him?, leave him alone?
Therefore, he stood in the doorway, motionless and silent.
From the back of the room reached him the faltering incoherencies of his Lord:

-The Valar... It's the Valar, they've come to get me. They want to burn me... They want to burn my skin and entrails, and pierce me with fire again... again. And their eye... their eye still looks at me... But no, no, no! They can't overcome me, I am the mightiest! I ... -then he rose and began pacing around the room as insane, screaming and cursing: -I'll finish every one of them off, everyone, everything if I need to! Even if I have to sink the whole Beleriand and drown myself in the shadows, I'll drag them along in my fall! There's no forgiveness, no forgiveness for what they have done to me! And Eru as well, I'll finish Eru off too! And let his eternal curse fall upon me, if he dares! Let him curse me for a thousand millennia, I curse them for a thousand times a thousand millennia!

He stopped abruptly in the middle of his ravings and stared at the lieutenant.
There was madness, and intense pain, and fear in those eyes. Melkor didn't seem to have seen Sauron until then, and upon noticing his presence, he ran to him and grabbed his arms vehemently.

-Sauron, Sauron, my right hand, you have to do something! Cover that horrendous torch of heavens. I don't want it, I don't want to see it anymore, do you hear me? Make it go away, make its accursed light extinguish! –he demanded, shaking him like crazy.

Sauron didn't understand, what did his master expect him to do against a star of the Valar? He knew perfectly well that his little power was useless. But Melkor appeared to have suffered a deep shock because of this new light, and even now he trembled a little and looked at him with watery and feverish eyes.
He wasn't in his right mind at that moment, and needed to calm down before he could speak with him.

-My Lord, my Lord, calm down, I beg thee. –he whispered gently- This was the first time that thou hast faced the new light, and I see that thou hast been seriously injured. But that's just because thou wert unaware. Thou hast a great power, and the Valar can't harm thee or reach thee from the distant West. Thou art safe, do not worry. And that pathetic luminaire will soon cease to torment thee, as soon as thou recoverst and regainst thy strenght.

Melkor shook his head.

-No, no, no. You don’t understand. They have burned me. He burned me in his halls, did horrible things to me. I cannot stand that ball of fire up there, it must be quenched whatever it takes. Quenched or... - the eyes of Melkor gave off that characteristic brightness that showed when a crazy idea crossed his mind. He released Sauron and remained thoughtful for a few seconds- ... or hide it. Hide the light! –he exclaimed triumphantly- Sauron, I want that the peaks of Thangorodrim spit much more smoke and much more black, to conceal that hideous light, to never see again that aberration! Three peaks aren't enough, I want nine, nine peaks! Build another six peaks, and make them all vomit thick clouds of filth and ash. Do it, Sauron, do it for your Lord!

Sauron had been petrified. His master couldn't really believe that it was feasible to raise another six peaks above the fortress.

-My Lord Melkor, what thou askest me, I cannot do. Thangorodrim is already as high as it may be. If we build another six peaks, even if we build just one more, the walls of the fortress won't support the weight of the mountain and they will come down. The structure was designed to have only three peaks, not nine.

Melkor's face darkened, and a spark of anger flashed menacingly in his eyes, heralding a storm.

-What is it, it can't be done? What do you know about that, huh!? You know nothing, you don’t know more than me!

-I was the servant of Aulë in past times, my Lord, and one doesn't spend several millennia besides the blacksmith and builder of the Valar, without acquiring some notions of architecture.

-Ah! So now you are the Maia of Aulë again, isn't it? Maybe I should send you back with him, to see if he's as merciful with you as I am! –and Melkor leaned threatening over him.
Sauron felt his master's evil transpiring from every pore of his skin and hitting against his face, but he stood firm in his convictions.

-I don't want to go back to Aulë, and if thou commandest me to build nine peaks over Thangorodrim, I will build them, and shall satisfy thy wishes as I have always done. But nonetheless, I assure thee that the mountain will fall down. Because there are physical laws in this world that no one can change, not even thou.

The corner of the Vala's mouth contracted with a nervous tic, and seeing that his lieutenant held his gaze impassively, and that those mismatched eyes only returned coldness and indifference, he felt such hatred towards him, that he almost struck him.
But eventually, he restrained himself, turned around, and strode across the throne room.
Before disappearing through the doors in the background, he gave him an ultimatum:

-Build the nine peaks of Thangorodrim, or take the place of the son of Fëanor hanging from them! -and slammed the door when he exited.

Sauron did a slight nod, and muttered to himself:

-Even when thou art wrong, my Lord, I fulfill thy orders as best as I can. And if the whole fortress has to collapse on our heads, so be it.

Thus the works of Thangorodrim, that Sauron believed to have concluded long ago, had to be resumed.
At first he had harbored the vain hope that the madness of Melkor was something fleeting, and that he reconsidered it and stopped the construction. But of course, that didn't happen.
The light of the Sun seemed to have scorched his reason as well as his body,
and in the days that followed, his mental state was deplorable. He ordered to block the few small windows that were in Angband, terrified by the idea of light seeping inside, and he never left his chamber while the giant disk of fire was still suspended up in heavens.
Fortunately, this disk moved across the sky like its whitish fellow, and when it disappeared in the West, some peace could be enjoyed again.
However, even if it was a passing star, it made the construction works very distressing. Orcs were harmed by its light, and were so weakened, that often fell from the heights, they stumbled, they threw the stone blocks, or even died without further ado, maybe of dehydration. They had been forced to do without the trolls, because in their case, the rays of Sun were so harmful, that they turned into stone.
And Sauron felt also uncomfortable. His eyes stung, he suffocated terribly under the heat, or red burns appeared on his skin.
Only the Balrogs seemed to cope a little better.
And the slave Elves, who, of course, welcomed the new eyesore of the Valar as something beneficial.
Sauron spit upon their names every time he saw them looking with hope to the East, awaiting the arrival of the fireball.
To make things worse, he received word that Fingolfin and his men had finally come to Middle Earth. And these news caught him immersed again in absurd plans to lift mountains, when he should be organizing an army to welcome the newcomers.
As had happened with Doriath, when they wanted to attack the Noldor, it would be too late, and they would have reorganized and become strong.

In fact, so bold and insolent was the new captain, that he dared to plant himself in front of the very gates of Angband, and knock on them, as requiring audience.
That happened when the Sun was at the top, and its heat was so unbearable, that all the servants of Melkor had taken refuge in the lower levels of the fortress.
Through the thick walls of iron came the echo of trumpets, and the defiant cry of Fingolfin: "Morgoth, coward, dare to come out and fight!"
And at that, Melkor called his lieutenant terrified, and started saying that the Valar were outside, that they had come to chain him again, that Sauron should go out to negotiate, and over a thousand follies.
It took a while for Sauron to calm him down, and convince him that there was no Vala outside, but just a pathetic Elf whose sword could do nothing against the Dark Lord.
Of course, when Melkor came to his senses, Fingolfin was gone a long time ago, bored of waiting and a little embarrassed by the utter indifference with which he had been welcomed.

Soon thereafter, the fourth peak of Thangorodrim was finished, and Melkor decided to take revenge on the Noldor by sending a thick cloud of smoke over the Lake Mithrim, where they camped. Thanks to the new crater, the vapours were blacker and thicker than before, and managed to hide the Sun, though only temporarily.
Still, Melkor was very satisfied with the result, and this fueled his desire to continue building a peak after another.
Furthermore, Gothmog assured Melkor that he was right with everything, and that the works progressed perfectly well, just for the pleasure of going against Sauron.
And Sauron knew that the works didn't go well at all, because cracks had begun to appear along the new summit, and even worse, along one wing of the fortress.
They were imperceptible cracks, but they were there nonetheless, and each day they became longer and deeper.
The lieutenant warned about it several times, but didn't find listening ears in anybody.
What Melkor wanted was that the construction was completed as soon as possible, even if they had to do it in haste, and what he wanted to hear was that everything went according to plan, even if it was a lie. So this is what did and said all the servants of Melkor.
Eventually, Sauron tired of repeating the same warnings over and over again.
And thus, he said nothing when the cloud of smoke cleared, and found that Maedhros had mysteriously disappeared. In any case, as Melkor didn't leave the fortress anymore, he wouldn't realize he was missing. So it was best to spare him the displeasure, and spare himself his anger.

The mirage of peace would soon come to an end and in the worst possible way.
One morning, Melkor was in his quarters as usual, sitting on the edge of the bed, and examined with indifference a map that the spies had brought him a while ago.
Isolated as he was now, those maps with markings that indicated the locations of the enemy, were his point of contact with the outside world, and with what happened at the borders of the kingdom.
While he compared the new map with the one from the previous week, checking if the Noldor had expanded or not, a strange creaking was heard through the fortress walls.
He looked up, startled, and then discovered a crack in the wall of the bedroom, which snaked from the roof and quickly sank in the ground.
A racket, even louder than the one caused by the Valar while they tore down Utumno, shook the entire structure. And a cascade of stones, rocks, iron and cement precipitated from the highest levels of the fortress, to the deepest vaults. Part of the room ceiling collapsed before the eyes of the astonished Vala, and a mountain of rubble and twisted beams fell from above just a few feet away.
Had he moved from his place just a little, Melkor probably would have been crushed.
He watched the pile of rubble for a moment, puzzled and without reacting in any way,
as if he didn't really understand what had happened. And as he looked at the destruction around him, a disturbing thought began to form in his head.
What would have happened if those huge blocks of stone had fallen on him?
He was a god and therefore immortal, about that there was no doubt. But his body, however, could be damaged, and he was locked inside it, so any injury he suffered would be irreversible, and he would have to endure it for all eternity.
A shiver ran down his spine, and suddenly he felt very cold.
Never before had Melkor been so aware of his own frailty, of how vulnerable he was now, of how dangerous the world had become.
He threw the maps to the ground, and left the room seized by a hellish fury.
Balrogs and Orcs ran to and fro in a rush, stunned by the sudden collapse. When they saw their Lord shooting through the halls like an incandescent comet, they swirled around him with curiosity. But Melkor had no eyes for them at the time, and there was only one name that he repeated over and over again, roaring with such force that the intact pillars also threatened to fall down.

-Sauron! -The lieutenant turned upon hearing his name.

He was standing outside the gates of Angband, looking toward the heights, where the fourth peak of Thangorodrim had completely disappeared, and returned to its amorphous original state.
Surprisingly, Melkor had come out as well, despite the sunlight that was already starting to burn him, and he was shooting a look of demented hate at him.

-You... You! I ordered you to oversee the works, to take care that everything was fine! And what have you done, huh, what have you done!? –he bellowed, approaching him, and rising above his head like a tower of shadow.

But even then, Sauron remained calm.

-As my Lord said, I built a new peak for the mountain. And as I said to my Lord, it has come down.

-No, you are lying, all that is a lie! This... This was your idea and... - Melkor felt his sight failing him for a moment. The light drilled every inch of skin and flesh, and ran through his bones as corrosive liquid. In the midst of torment, and with an infinite effort, he looked up. Then he saw all that had happened to the mountain, and a new unpleasant surprise was added to his discomfort- Where is my Elf, where is the Elf with the red hair!? Sauron, where have you carried him?!

-My Lord, I have no idea of what ...

-Silence, traitor, silence! This is all your fault, you have built my mountain wrong on purpose! I know what you want, Sauron, you want to put an end to me and take my place. You wanted to crush me under the rubble, isn't it true? And sit on my throne, and place my crown over your hateful eyes!

Melkor's gloved hand closed around the neck of the Maia with steel strenght, and the lieutenant gasped for air.

-No, I would never do that. Replacing thee, the most powerful god of Arda, is such an absurd and impossible goal, that I would never waste my time with it.

Melkor squinted. How could he trust that ambitious Maia?
How could he trust someone that wore on his face the two heaven lights that caused him so much pain: the pale orb of the Moon, and the fiery globe of the Sun?
His hand squeezed his neck even harder, and Sauron noticed his trachea and Adam's apple giving way to pressure.

-Foul traitor, you know neither honour nor loyalty! –he hissed- But I'll teach those things to you. Just as I ripped you from the arms of the Valar, as I turned your light into darkness, and molded you to my taste, now I will make of you a humiliated and fearful servant. I'll teach you to respect me! And the first step of your learning will be that of punishment. A terrible punishment, befitting of a terrible betrayal!

Saying this, Melkor dragged him into the fortress, still holding his neck.
The Vala shoved Sauron through the spacious halls of Angband, and a host of Orcs gathered on both sides to witness the lieutenant's fall from grace. Many had waited eagerly for this moment, since they still felt the lashes of the black whip on their backs.
And upon seeing the hated torturer thus held by the neck, like an animal, they were greatly pleased.
The boldest among them even tried to point out at him and laugh, but changed their minds when they saw the constricted pupil of his left eye. After all, Sauron never forgot insults, and his punishment wouldn't last forever.
Melkor finally stopped in front of a thick wall in the lower floors, and threw Sauron to the ground in front of it.

-Now, worm, you will pay for everything you have done. For your pride, and your rebellion, and your lack of loyalty. And you will suffer the same punishment that was imposed on me by the Valar, and will know what it is to be locked in a hole during whole ages, while the world around forgets about you little by little.

Right after, Melkor ordered them to bring him his mace Grond, and he opened a hole with it, not very big, on the outer side of the wall, leaving a space in which he planned to immure the unfortunate Maia.
However, it wasn't necessary to explain his intentions to Sauron, as he had already guessed the thoughts of his master.

-My Lord, if this is what thou wantest to do with me, that's fine. I just want thee to know that I've never meant any harm to thee, and that I feel no resentment, because I know it's fear and pain what makes thee act like this. –he said from the floor, his voice cracking but quiet.

-Fear and pain! Indeed. And that's all you will feel over the next centuries, until I get bored of the punishment. If I ever do. Now get naked! –he ordered, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Sauron began to unbutton his shirt, and the mischievous smiles of the Orcs became even more apparent.

-No, not thus, stupid! -shouted Melkor- Thus!

And with a sudden movement of his hand, he pulled away the carnal envelope of the Maia, and he was reduced to his bare minimum: a pale and trembling ghost.
The look of his Lord pierced him painfully, and all the Balrogs around, that could still see him, chuckled and muttered in a low voice. Gothmog was in the front row, with a broad smile of satisfaction on his face. And Sauron felt his pride humbling a little, but only a little. There wasn't much room left in him for shame, since everything was occupied with the sadness of being rejected by the only being he loved.
With nothing more to say to each other, the former lieutenant entered the gap in the wall, and the slabs started hiding the torchlight as they were put in place.
The last thing he saw were the angry eyes of Melkor, and the disappointment they showed was a last stab at his now fragile spirit.
When all the stones were placed, Melkor sealed the wall with a curse, and Sauron was left in total darkness.

From that moment onwards, time became meaningless to him, and he only lived in an eternal moment of cold and despair.
Stripped of the body that had hitherto protected him and served him as a barrier,
his spirit felt more intensely than ever the desire of being near his master, but now more than ever, he had been separated from him.
The Ainur hadn't been created to be alone. They were thoughts born from Eru, and every thought tends always to associate with other related thoughts.
Without the filter of flesh, Sauron understood this then, with bitter clarity.
And in the midst of darkness, pressed inside the narrow space, he recalled again the song of Melkor, the one he had sung in the beginning of times.
And he murmured it to himself, trembling with grief and love.

That was how Sauron, the proud lieutenant of Angband, received his punishment for a crime he hadn't commited.
And the world forgot about him for a while.