Designs by Independence1776

Designs

Read Designs

It started with water-soluble ink. He hadn’t been Sauron’s… guest… for long. But one day, when he was finally healed enough to sit at the small dining table in the suite of rooms he’d been given (and still been wondering why it hadn’t been a cell or torture chamber), Sauron had sat down to write a letter in the Black Speech at the same wooden table. And in an act of considered contemplation had reached over, grabbed Maglor’s left hand, and drawn a small maze on the back of it.

The day Maglor tried to escape not too many weeks later, he’d woken from the spell of sleep Sauron had recaptured him by with the Eye of Sauron drawn in vibrant red, yellow, and black in the same place. He swiftly found out the Eye was not water-soluble, though it had eventually faded to nonexistence. Ever since, more often than not, there was some sort of design somewhere on his body. Many times, the designs weren’t even visible under his clothes. Them being visible clearly wasn’t the point. Both Sauron and Maglor knew they were there and that was enough.

Maglor hated those sessions, having to stand (or if he was fortunate, to sit) still while Sauron drew— painted— on him like his skin was a canvas. There wasn’t a single bit of him that was safe from the pen or the brush. Every inch of him had been drawn on: his scalp (the few times his hair was shaved, usually as a punishment for minor infractions), genitals carefully handled, eyelids delicately brushed. Even the Silmaril scar on his right palm wasn’t ignored; Sauron delighted in the simple tracing of the facets seared into Maglor’s skin.

The current design— one that tingled as it had been drawn on, a process that had taken all morning— was metallic silver edged thinly in black, a slowly widening line starting from the lower right corner of the cuticle on his left forefinger and spreading into curlicues, spirals matching the golden ratio, and other similar designs. It even incorporated the mithril eyelet that stuck out of his forearm.

He’d broken one too many chains in his numerous escape attempts. Sauron hadn’t let him have the relief of painkillers or unconsciousness as he’d fastened the other end of the eyelets around and into his ulna bones near his wrists and his tibia bones near his ankles. Now Sauron could and did keep him chained here in Barad-dûr. Maglor would have to give himself at best multiple compound fractures to have any chance of escaping and more likely completely shattered limbs. Given he’d ended up in Sauron’s custody because he’d slipped off a cliff when it crumbled beneath him while he’d been sneaking into Mordor to spy and broken both legs, one wrist, and a number of ribs— and that none of his previous escape attempts had been anywhere close to success— he was not in a hurry to do so again. Better to bide his time. One day, Sauron would make a mistake. He’d already changed to generally hooking a lone chain to Maglor’s left arm instead of all four limbs during the times Maglor was out of his chambers.

Maglor sighed and looked away from the design on his arm. He couldn’t see the rest of it; it disappeared beneath the elbow-length sleeve of his tunic and reappeared on his neck, branched on his cheek into a spiral, and ended with a single arc that crossed onto his nose and wrapped just above his left eyebrow, terminating at the left corner of his eye. Sauron heard him and turned away from the window, his Noldo-dark hair swinging with the movement. He’d left it loose today, though before the inking, he’d spent time intricately braiding Maglor’s hair. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sauron was an artist. Maglor wouldn’t deny that. Sauron had had plenty of years to practice. But he’d rarely done anything permanent apart from the eyelets. No tattoos, no scarifications (the collection of scars from the off-and-on torture were too randomly placed to be deliberate), no piercings. Not until now.

The needle still lay on the tray where Sauron had placed it after driving it through respectively the lobe and cartilage of Maglor’s right ear. Mithril loops now hung from the lobe and the backside of the point of his ear; a tiny mithril chain connected them. And Maglor could feel something in the metal, some sort of what mortals would call magic. He hadn’t had the time to test exactly what.

Sauron reached out and gently touched the tip of Maglor’s pierced ear. He ran a finger down the chain until he reached the lower loop. Maglor had years of practice not reacting to pain, so he didn’t flinch or pull away. “Sing.”

Maglor swallowed as Sauron’s hand dropped away as he returned to his position by the window, face visible in profile. He no longer knew what would happen if he refused. Sauron had finally claimed him as his possession. It sent a shiver down his spine.

He was three verses into Sauron’s current favorite ballad when the door to Maglor’s suite opened. Maglor stopped when Sauron raised a finger. Sauron did not turn around. The aide knelt on the red carpet. “My lord, Ar-Pharazôn’s heralds approach the main gate.”

Maglor shuddered at the smile that appeared on Sauron’s face. “We shall greet them in the throne room.”

The aide rose, bowed, and left. The throne room was near the top of the tower, only below Sauron’s own chambers. One of Maglor’s harps stood there in the corner by the room’s main entry, better for Sauron to keep an eye on him— even though he was always chained to the wall while in the room— and better to provide unobtrusive entertainment should it be required.

When the door shut, Sauron again turned away from the window. He must have been watching the heralds nearing. His eyes flicked to Maglor’s ear and he again smiled. It was much warmer and no less frightening. “You will sit at my feet.”

Maglor bowed his head and rose when Sauron passed him. The tray with the needle was left where it was. Either Sauron himself or a servant would retrieve it later. It would depend on Sauron’s mood after the audience. Either way, Maglor knew he would be in pain later from either celebration or frustration. The only question was how fleeting.

Guards took Maglor to the throne room and chained him to the throne. Sauron eventually came in and Maglor was the only person who didn’t acknowledge him. He’d pay for it later, of course, but the little rebellions were as much expected as they were not tolerated. Only when Sauron sat down and his formal red-and-black robes were arranged to his satisfaction did the court quiet from their low-key discussions. They clearly knew what would happen; preparations of some sort had been going on since the first Umbaran refugees from Ar-Pharazôn’s army had arrived in Mordor.

Something involving the Númenóreans was about to occur, and Maglor had the sinking feeling he was going to involuntarily be in the midst of it.