Chapter Text
Half a millennium.
The halls of Angband had been woefully quiet for nearly half a millennium, and still it seemed to echo with the resounding laughter of its long-absent Lord. The floors were loud with the clacking of fat orcish feet running amok, completing their chores for fear of displeasing the resident tyrant of the citadel, but without the Enemy’s presence even the clatter of armor and the grunting of undignified corrupted elves was nothing more than an ambient hum. The Nethermost Hall was kept pristine, and Sauron personally inspected the vast Hall daily to ensure it would be ready to seat Melkor at a moment’s notice. He busied the kitchen servants by organizing a celebratory feast each day, just in case, and ordered all of the food to be burned as soon as it became obvious that Melkor would not be returning. None of the slaves around the fortress could partake in the thwarted feast or consume the leftovers. These were the delicacies that only the Ainur would get to enjoy, regardless of the unnecessity of physical sustenance. This cycle continued daily for hundreds of years, and such a shrewd mind as Sauron’s became restless and pained in the absence of the object of his affections.
Sauron had grown weary of spending his evenings alone. This night was not unlike any of the others: the flame-haired Maia alternated between pacing aimlessly around his bedchamber and perching like a vigilant hawk on the edge of the dark chair that constantly sat in front of the north-facing windows in the last remaining tower of Angband, in the direction of Melkor’s Northern fortress. To keep his fiery locks from his face, he tied them up in a neat but loose bun at the top of his head, a ritual that had soothed him since his days working Aulë’s forge. He wore a thin silken robe draped luxuriously over his body, which had grown thin with worry, and the robe's narrow border of fur around the edges gently tickled the backs of his knees as he walked. That touch used to be welcome, an indication of luxury and relaxation, but now it had become abrasive and irritating as thousands of tickling spider legs reminding him of the solitude that hung heavy over Angband.
Without its Lord or its former forest of spires, towers, and smoking chimneys, the fortress was a shadow of its former glory. The Battle of the Powers had separated the two dark Ainur from each other and decimated the superterranean structures that made Angband so foreboding. Sauron, in order to occupy himself until he received orders —he would take anything from Melkor at this point, even insults— continually orchestrated rebuilding efforts and set the enslaved forces to work cleaning up the wreckage to restore the stronghold to the greatness it held when Melkor created it. These tasks were helpful, doubtlessly a good distraction, but not even a sleepless Maia could work all hours of the day. He retired to his chambers each night to sleep as if it was a possibility, and left each morning with another failure under the belt of his robe.
Sauron’s Eye missed nothing outside of the citadel, noting every movement of wild creatures that skittered anywhere remotely close to the gates and every cloud of dust that traveled on the occasional volcanic breeze. His gaze never caught any indication of his Master. Sometimes, Sauron would squeeze his eyes shut and reach out to Melkor with his Fëa as if to touch him and call out for his return, but there was no contact. Melkor’s power to communicate with his Maia was more powerful and traveled further, and unfortunately the effort was not able to reach as far in the reverse direction.
Frustrated and on the verge of lonesome tears, Sauron stood from the chair and threw himself onto the vast bed on the Eastern wall of the room. He spread his arms and legs as far as they would go across the mattress and found himself still unable to reach the edges or to take up any meaningful amount of space. One hand reached to his head to unpin the halo of hair that eagerly spread across the pillows as if to assist in his effort to take up space, but even this was moot in the grand scheme. There seemed to be no solution that would help Melkor’s Lieutenant to feel like he belonged in that bed, in that tower, in that fortress. Without Melkor beside him to take up that space, everything felt so hopelessly and completely empty. The rest of Arda knew the dark Vala as a cold, calculating monster who worked for his own purposes and pleasure, damning anyone else in the process. This much was true, but Sauron saw so much more of him. He knew the roaring laughter that thundered from Melkor’s center when he thoroughly enjoyed himself and the near-invisible tears that gathered in the corner of his onyx eyes when the laughter tried to overtake him. He knew the comfort and safety that accompanied his long, broad body as it lay down to rest beside Sauron’s own in that colossal bed. He knew the laborious procedures that the Vala had taken to create these bedchambers specifically to Sauron’s liking, knowing that his own preferences were unspecific and that the aesthetics of the room would delight the meticulous Eye that surveyed the ceiling of that very chamber. The golden-eyed being let his lids flutter shut, wishing more than anything that he could dream his Lord into existence: but, even then, he could never seem to dream anymore anyway.
At some point during the night, Sauron finally found solace and drifted off to sleep. He turned onto his side, habitually wrapping his arms around the last of the pillows that still held a remainder of Melkor’s metallic-charcoal scent. The orcish servant who constantly stood guard in the bedchamber remained near the entrance to the room in a deathly-still posture, afraid that any minute clinking of his armor would wake the sleeping Lieutenant. He had made that mistake before and been met with a sharp, solid ball of flame in his face.
The night passed without incident, excluding anxious breaths and close calls from the servant. Mornings in the Iron Mountains were not significantly lighter than the nights, but the air always shifted from a tired, ashen atmosphere into a brighter sensation tipped with fresh dew. The bustle of workers indicated that the citadel was waking, as well, and it was this sound that woke the acute ears of the Maia. He hadn’t realized that he had fallen asleep, but once the realization hit he squeezed his pillow tighter and kept his eyes closed just a bit longer to savor the sensation. There had been no dream in that fiery head; only he blissful darkness of rest. Sauron broke that darkness by cautiously opening his eyes and letting them lazily bring the room into focus. All was as he left it: a burning candle on the side table, the pillow clutched in his pale hands, the dark slumbering body beside him—
Sauron gasped loudly and snapped to attention, at first in fear. He sat up with the pillow still clutched to his chest as his defense systems assessed the situation. There certainly hadn’t been anyone beside him when he had fallen asleep, and yet, here, unmistakably...
“Melkor?”
Sauron’s voice croaked with morning and incredulity. One hand reached out in an attempt to ascertain that the creature beside him was no mirage, but held it back. If this was an illusion, it was a beautiful one. Perfectly executed. He stared in wonder at the hard lines of Melkor’s jaw, the curve along his Adam’s apple, the firm planes of his face that seemed to be pulled straight from stone. He watched the breath flow easily between those lips he had yearned so much for, each exhale puffing a strand of raven-black hair away from his Vala’s face and every inhale drawing it back.
Sauron spoke the name again, this time reaching forward to touch the bare chest of the sleeping Vala. He was real. He was warm and present and breathing and real. The touch pulled Melkor’s attention and he let an eye open, lifting immediately and instinctively to meet his companion’s face. Sauron felt his stomach flutter as if that look had suddenly awoken hundreds of bats living within him.
“Mairon,” Melkor replied, a slow grin sliding over his lips as he let his other eye open and his consciousness acclimate to the waking world. No one called Sauron by that name anymore. He had stopped being ‘Admirable’ long ago. Melkor, though, called him by the name he took when the two first met, the first title given to the dreadful and beautiful Lieutenant of Angband.
Sauron’s eyes filled with incredulous tears and he lowered his body to the mattress, lying beside his Lord and reaching out with both hands to hold the ashen face between his palms. Melkor chuckled lightly at the attention and lifted one hand to hold one of Sauron’s as it pressed to his face.
Melkor watched his Maia cautiously, trying to understand the tears. Despite his inability to comprehend this kind of raw emotion, he was nevertheless sensitive to Sauron’s affections and acknowledged them the best he could.
“It has been too long.” Melkor’s voice rumbled from his chest like the promise of a coming earthquake. “I felt your call.”
Sauron sniffled a little and scooted his body habitually toward the warmth of Melkor’s in a desperate effort to close the distance.
“500 years,” Sauron whispered, sliding his hands upward to tangle his fingers in his Lord’s hair. “You- I can’t believe you’re here..”
Melkor shook his head a bit and released Sauron’s hand to reach out around the Maia’s waist. “I cannot stay long. Utumno needs its Lord.” He grinned lazily and leaned his head forward into Mairon’s grip. “But in this moment, my Lieutenant needs his Lord more.”
Sauron’s eyes flooded with helpless tears and he nodded a little, lifting one leg and catching the back of his calf on Melkor’s hip in order to swing his body over into a straddling position. Melkor lay back with his hands on Sauron’s waist and looked up at him with that loving but curious gaze he reserved for gazing upon the Maia. Sauron had seen that terrible, fearsome face contort into wicked expressions as it watched the Enemy’s black machinations come to pass, as he tortured his enemies, and as he succeeded in fooling yet another of Eru’s helpless, stupid children. Never before had that face cast such love on another being than Sauron, however. He never would.
Hesitantly, Sauron leaned downward toward his Vala’s lips, but his brief hesitation was interrupted by Melkor’s eager kiss. He tasted just as Sauron remembered: like the smoke of a long-burning fire. Melkor slid one hand up his partner’s back, drawing goosebumps as it traveled from the narrow hip, over the silken fabric of Mairon’s robe, and finally landed in a firm but gentle fist in the Maia’s orange-red hair. Sauron returned the touch with eager shivers and more urgent kisses, barely breaking away from his Lord’s mouth before pressing another to his lips like a man starved. Melkor’s unoccupied hand grasped Sauron’s thin, pale thigh and squeezed tightly, leaving dark blue bruises that would heal in no time at all, but the contact coaxed a gasp from the Maia’s throat: more beautiful than the Song he had sung at the beginning of Eru’s creation. Melkor broke the kiss and lifted his dark eyes to his Lieutenant’s golden ones, keeping him locked in that steady and complete eye contact that bound the two to each other. No words needed to transpire between them for the communication to ring as clear as if it had been shouted, and that knowledge brought a light smile to Sauron’s lips for the first time since the First Age began.