Chapter Text
Many wars were fought in Eä. Yet, none were more brutal and cruel than the War of Wrath. The War of Wars, the Elves used to call it in their melodies, though the memory was too painful. The Dark Lord was defeated, cast into the Void, never to return, to atone for his crimes. The free peoples no longer needed to fear the wicked power of the Dark Vala. But when the heavenly hosts departed from the Undying Lands, declaring war against Melkor, the consequences the survivors would face were more painful than they could even imagine. The Elves and Men were free, but many centuries would pass before their wounds were forgotten, bearable to live with.
Arda, however, would never fully recover from that terrible battle. Very close to the Gap of Ilmen stood one of the Dark Lord's oldest fortress. For, as the ages passed, one by one it was destroyed by the forces of Valinor, yet one remained. There, where no light or purity reached, the cold was as intense as Melkor's cruelty. Forodwaith, it was called, and when the Orcs and Melkor's dark army were defeated, the few survivors escaped to there. Unbeknownst to the Ainur, Melkor's dragons departed for Forodwaith, safe from the wrath of the Valar. During the battle, when the most powerful and terrible of Melkor's dragons, Ancalagon, was defeated, his fall destroyed all of Beleriand, plunging those ancient lands into the ocean, along with the memory of the sufferings endured there.
Throughout Middle-earth, the consequences of the war could still be seen, even though weeks had passed since the Dark Vala had been dragged to the Blessed Realm and forced to accept the doom of the Ainur. Yet, not even Melkor's downfall could erase all the malice and perversion he had ingrained into the foundations of Arda. Much of his essence lived on in Arda, and would live forever. But the most terrible of all his creations walked free, to tread the same path he had trod when he destroyed the harmony of the Great Song. The Valar, accepting Eru Ilúvatar's command, could do nothing when the Dark Lord's son was released from the Halls of Mandos, to find forgiveness in Middle-earth.
Protected by what remained of the Iron Mountains, Melkor's servants set out with the Prince of Angband and the Dark Lord's lieutenant. For, indeed, they would begin anew far from the ruins of the fortress where Melkor and Nienna had lived for countless years. Yet, it was not peace they sought, much less forgiveness. For forgiveness could never be won, not after so much suffering, so much death, and so much blood spilled so that the free peoples could live in peace, free from the tyranny of the most powerful of all the Valar. And, as the days passed, the Elves almost believed they were safe.
But they would never be free, not truly. For Forodwaith, the Dark Lord's heir had departed, escaping the condemnation of the Valar. The wounds of battle, too, had left such deep scars on him that not even the most powerful mercy could erase the shadow it awakened in his heart. From his birth, Nurutúrwë had never known true pain, true loneliness, until the War of Wrath. Melkor, alone in the Void, was beyond his reach for all eternity, and they could never meet again. In the Undying Lands, Nienna must remain, as punishment for her loyalty to Melkor, deprived of her own son, with all that remained to her of the Dark Vala. Some, indeed, would think their punishment just, even deserved. Even the purest of condemnations can poison the most rational of men.
And, alone in Middle-earth, unable to be with his parents, Nurutúrwë waited patiently, as a new emotion stirred in his chest, much like vengeance. Yet, it was not only the Valar who must answer for all they had done, for all they had taken from him, no, not at all. All Arda must bow before him and beg his forgiveness. Melkor's legacy, Nurutúrwë had promised himself, would be preserved, would be honored, and no people in Middle-earth would know peace, true happiness, until Melkor was avenged.
But in the darkness of Nurutúrwë's icy chambers, all he could feel was the deepest loneliness, the cruelest despair. Protected by Melkor's dark love and Nienna's pure melancholy, Nurutúrwë had never felt real pain, real helplessness. Strangely, even though he had grown up surrounded by beasts and Orcs, he had been happy; he had, above all, felt loved. All of this was lost forever, alive only in his memories. Of a time that no longer existed, and could never exist again.
Many things, too, had changed in Nurutúrwë since the war. A loss of control, a fury he still did not fully understand, dominated his very essence, worsening with each passing day. For when he begged Melkor to help him alter his Fana, so they could gain an advantage in battle, he could not imagine the consequences of that desire. Unable to fully control his first Fana, Nurutúrwë did not know how to keep the wolf contained either. And when the fury was so intense, so overwhelming, that he gave up fighting it, he simply abandoned his celestial Fana. Or perhaps, it was easier to fall asleep like a wolf, now that he could no longer be protected by his parents when he fell asleep.
The problem, however, was that Nurutúrwë did not know how to abandon the beastly Fana alone, and Sauron needed to control him for hours in the dungeons of Forodwaith, before he destroyed every last survivor of Melkor's army. They needed them, and Sauron could not allow Nurutúrwë to destroy the only allies they had left. Often, Sauron found Nurutúrwë alone in the dungeons, lying silent against the cold floor, back in the heavenly Fana, without the strength to fight those visceral emotions. So, he would simply sit on the floor beside him, laying Nurutúrwë's head in his lap, while the Valarindi wept, begging for the return of his parents.
Sauron could do nothing of the sort, and he merely wiped away the boy's crystalline tears, trying to soothe his restless spirit. Of course, it did not work; Nurutúrwë was too traumatized, too needy, for Sauron's comfort to be enough to control his suffering, his pain. But he remained by his side, even when Nurutúrwë was nothing more than a beast, uncontrolled and feeling nothing but rage. Sauron had made a mistake when he refused the Valar's forgiveness, when he feared to leave for Valinor, and he knew it. Nurutúrwë had been treated like a prisoner, a threat, unable to protect himself. And he was not there for him when he needed him most.
When Sauron looked into the young god's dark eyes, as Nurutúrwë stared at the flames spreading across the fortress, he knew he was not there, in Forodwaith, at least not in his mind. His spirit was far away, still trapped in the horrors he had been forced to endure in the Undying Lands. He did not tell Sauron what had happened while he remained under the rule and watchfulness of the Ainur. Honestly, Sauron thought Nurutúrwë was not ready to talk about what had happened, perhaps, he never would be. So, he stopped asking questions, and stood by the Valarindi when he needed him, even if it was not enough. Even if it did not erase his scars.
Two months after the War of Wrath, Nurutúrwë remained alone in his chambers, even though Sauron kept him company. As an immortal, the wounds inflicted on him by Tulkas had long since healed, but that was not the true problem. His deepest, darkest wounds lay far beyond the Fana, but in the spirit, where no healing, no kindness, could cure him. And silently, he glided his fingers against Aicamaitë's blade, watching the corrupted blood drip. Of all the creations forged by Melkor in Angband, only the Iron Crown and Aicamaitë could be salvaged. And he treasured the sword his father had made, a reminder of easier times.
Nurutúrwë was not sorry for destroying the sword Sauron had forged for him; quite the contrary, the lieutenant deserved all his distrust. No matter that Nurutúrwë was alone and in need of Sauron's help and protection, the young god could not find the strength to forgive his betrayal. Adar was right, of course, he was. Sauron had lied to him for years, hiding the truth about his past, treating the Valarindi like a fool, abusing his innocent love. When Nurutúrwë was dragged in chains to Valinor, he paid no attention to Sauron's desperate cries. The lieutenant was untrustworthy, and he should have realized it sooner.
When he returned to Middle-earth free, Nurutúrwë endured Sauron's presence, realizing that the Maia had waited for him. Still, the sorrow, the melancholy, were too strong for him to forget all the lies. But he accepted Sauron's kisses, and his comforting caresses. He even pretended to be willing to begin anew by his side. Many years would pass before Nurutúrwë would exact his revenge on all who fought against Melkor, but he was learning to be patient, to outwit his enemies. In the moments Sauron was away from Forodwaith, it was Adar who came to the Valarindi with promises, with malicious whispers of Sauron's treachery. For, as Adar would often whisper to him, if Sauron had been loyal to him, loyal to Melkor, why had he not gone to the Undying Lands with him? He knew what must be done, what he needed to do to protect Melkor's legacy, but it was still too painful for Nurutúrwë to think about.
Slowly, he let Aicamaitë fall to the cold floor of the fortress, crawling into the center of the bed, hiding his face against the furs. The Elves, he had learned when he was still very young, had strange customs for celebrating the birth of children. Unlike Men, they celebrated the day their children were conceived, not the moment of their birth. Begetting day, they called the celebration, and the young god never understood the true meaning of it. Not that Nurutúrwë minded it; quite the opposite. He was uncomfortable of celebrating the day his mother had nearly died during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad giving birth to him.
But Nurutúrwë had never understood why birthdays were so important to mortals. According to Elven custom, many more years would have to pass before he would be considered an adult. It was stupid, Nurutúrwë thought, for the Elves to worry about irrelevant things like age. What difference did it make if he was not an adult, if he was capable of facing battles and fighting alongside the Orcs? Perhaps, he was simply furious at the absence of his parents and the realization that he would have to grow old without them. Since his birth, this would be the first time they would not be there, beside him. As an immortal, it should not matter, not to him, but it was painful nonetheless.
Because Nienna was always pleased to note how he was growing, how he was becoming more and more like Melkor. Now he understood how much she feared that the Valar would drive them away, that they would take Nurutúrwë away from his parents, that every year they spent together was important to her. None of that mattered anymore, not when she was in the Blessed Realm, free, but as trapped as Melkor, unable to be with her son when all he needed most was her company. All that was left of her were the veils. Unbeknownst to Nurutúrwë, Adar had asked the Uruks to take Nienna's veils, which had been found in the ruins of Angband, to Forodwaith for him.
Nurutúrwë did not realize when he began to cry, his sobs muffled against the furs. He wept for many things, things he did not even understand. Growing up with the certainty that Melkor ruled Arda, that his father was powerful enough to protect them, defeat had never seemed possible to him, and the ruin of Angband seemed far away. Nienna, whenever Nurutúrwë needed her, was there, beside him, comforting him, assuring him that all would be well. The loss of that protection, that affection, left him sick, broken beyond expectation. When the Valar allowed him to return to Middle-earth, he hoped he could endure the separation, that he could move on. He was wrong, so wrong.
He had lost everything, completely, and he had been left behind, by everyone. Sauron, Nurutúrwë thought, was all that remained to him, but the weight of the lie, of all the things he had hidden from him, kept creating a barrier between them, keeping them further and further apart. So, Nurutúrwë wept, desperate to fill that void, to find any purpose that would make the pain more bearable. Because he was a part of Nienna, and her melancholy, her suffering, dwelt within him. But so did Melkor's fury and malice. And for a moment, he knew he should listen to Adar.
A few weeks after Nurutúrwë's arrival, the Uruk's father shared his fears about Sauron's presence with them in the fortress, fearing what his influence might do to Nurutúrwë. The young god listened attentively, nodding to Adar's bitter words, promising to consider what he was asking. The problem was that Nurutúrwë had not yet thought about it; if he were honest, he was refusing to. Adar was asking too much, begging too much, and even though he still felt anger toward Sauron for all he had hidden, the Valarindi were not comfortable with Uruk's suggestions.
Slowly, the door to the chambers opened, but Nurutúrwë did not notice someone approaching, trying to hold back his sobs, frustrated with his own inability to control his emotions. It was a weakness he could not afford, not if he wanted to follow in Melkor's footsteps, bringing Middle-earth to his knees so he could reclaim what was lost. He felt miserable, he felt abandoned. Yet, that was not true, because Sauron watched him from a distance, conflicted. The Maia was no fool; deep down, he knew Nurutúrwë had not forgiven him, at least, not yet.
Physically, Nurutúrwë had never been so distant, avoiding Sauron's kisses, staying as distant as possible. And, even if he would not admit it, after centuries of meaning nothing to Melkor, nothing more than a distraction, while Nienna was in the Undying Lands, he missed true connection. It was not just intimacy, being physically united with Nurutúrwë, as no other being had ever been, as no other being would ever be. He missed him, he missed hearing Nurutúrwë's melodic laughter whenever Sauron was violent with the Orcs. Catching a glimpse of the loving smile the young god reserved just for him, every time he was left breathless by the Maia's kisses. No, it was more than that: he missed Nurutúrwë's love.
And no matter how many times he begged, how many times he questioned, the Valarindi would not tell him what was troubling him, dismissing Sauron's pleas for forgiveness every time. Sometimes, Sauron almost despised Nurutúrwë for his perverse childishness, his eye-rolling, and his constant silences. None of it was more than the fear of rejection, and he knew it. He would never hate Nurutúrwë, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wished. So, he walked slowly to the bed, closing his eyes as Nurutúrwë's cloying, alluring scent enveloped him. Sauron spent years in Valinor, surrounded by the purity and beauty of the Valar's creations. Nothing compared to what he felt when Nurutúrwë's heavenly essence enveloped him.
“Nurutúrwë,” Sauron murmured, approaching him, letting the weight of his body against the bed alert the Valarindi to Maia's presence. Slowly, he brought his hands to his back, stroking tenderly. Surprised, the young god stiffened, but made no attempt to push the Maia away. “My boy, I am here, with you.”
Because, honestly, Sauron knew perfectly well the reason for Nurutúrwë's tears, and he knew what was saddening him. The absence of his parents weighed ever more heavily on him, yet, he continued to push Sauron away, preventing him from helping him. But he would not accept his rejection, not this time, as he lay beside him on the bed, letting his arms wrap around Nurutúrwë's waist, who sighed at the warmth of Sauron's Fana. Nurutúrwë, Sauron often thought, was too young to handle all these emotions. His moods, since the battle, had managed to be more tempestuous and irritable than ever, and the Orcs were tired of his violence, even if they endured it in silence.
“Leave me alone,” Nurutúrwë murmured, his sobs growing louder as Sauron hugged him tighter. “I do not need you.”
“Even so, it does not matter,” Sauron whispered, stroking the Valarindi’s waist slowly, trying to comfort him, trying to show him that no matter how angry he was with him, Sauron would not go anywhere. “I will stay here with you, always, my boy.”
Nurutúrwë seemed to understand this when he let his own hands find Sauron's, allowing the Maia to intertwine their fingers. The lieutenant was willing to wait for Nurutúrwë's honesty, even if it took time. He knew full well that being with him would not be easy, much less pleasant, at times. The gods were willful, powerful, and insensitive when they lost control of their emotions. Being so young, abandoned by the Valar, prevented from being with his parents, Nurutúrwë had no one of his own kind, as powerful as himself, who could ease the burden he was carrying. Centuries would pass before Nurutúrwë learned to control himself, but Sauron would guide him.
The warmth of Sauron's Fana seemed to envelop the Valarindi, who sighed, accepting that small affection, even though his fury was as powerful as his despair. Slowly, so as not to alarm Nurutúrwë further, Sauron caressed his hands, murmuring against the young god's ear that all was well, that they were together, and that was all that mattered. Like Nienna, Sauron knew that the Valarindi could not long reject the one who had captured his heart, quickly giving up his anger and relishing the passion. But Nurutúrwë was far more difficult, far more volatile than she, yet Sauron knew how to soothe his fury. After all, even if the Valarindi did not know it, they were united, for all eternity; nothing could be more intimate, more protective than that.
“You may not need me,” Sauron whispered, nuzzling his face against Nurutúrwë’s dark hair, drowning in his essence, in the scent that should both sicken and entice him, making him more obsessed with the boy whenever they were together. “But I need you. I will always need you.”
Nurutúrwë bit his lip, stifling a sigh, as Sauron kissed his neck lightly, releasing the boy's hand only to caress his waist, preventing him from pulling away. Sauron knew what effort, what touch, was needed to break down his barriers, to make him that same passionate boy who seemed to have disappeared in Angband. Against his own fury, Nurutúrwë murmured his name, rubbing himself against Sauron, while the Maia tightened his grip on his waist, impeding his movements. Impatient, the Valarindi pressed his emotions into his lieutenant, smiling with satisfaction at Sauron's agony.
It was too much to bear, more than he was accustomed to feeling. Because he felt it all: the fury, the melancholy, the loneliness. But also the love, the desire, and the brutal passion. Nurutúrwë had admitted that he loved him, and Sauron would never forget it, nor would he allow him to forget it. Determined to force the young god to yield, he held his waist so tightly that Nurutúrwë had no choice but to remain still. But Sauron was also impatient, missing the warmth of his Fana, of him. His husband.
Sometimes Sauron could not believe they were together, that Nurutúrwë belonged to him, and always would, and no Valar, Elf, or Man, could sever their bond. As one of the mightiest Maiar in Valinor, he had never craved anything more than power, eternal glory. And Melkor had promised him all this, and Sauron was eager to conquer all of Arda. For a time, this was enough, and Melkor's distance became bearable, until Nurutúrwë returned his affections, needing his company, his passion, as much as Sauron needed him. The lieutenant was intoxicated by everything about him, more than was prudent, or rational.
“Are you feeling well, my boy?” Sauron whispered, sliding his fingers against the leather belt Nurutúrwë wore, slowly removing it from him, without the boy having a chance to understand what he was doing.
“What do you mean?” He said angrily, biting his lip every time Sauron kissed his neck, trying to tease him, trying to hear once more those sweet moans he loved so much. “Of course I am fine.”
“My boy, you do not look well.” Sauron sighed, smiling as he ripped off Nurutúrwë's belt, amused by his outraged gasp. “Do you need my help?” The Maia sneered, sliding his fingers against the Valarindi's dark robes, pressing his Fana against Nurutúrwë, who moaned involuntarily.
Nurutúrwë fell silent, cursing Sauron's existence as the Maia began to remove his dark robes, waiting for any sign that the boy did not want this, that he did not wish Sauron to continue. He would never hurt him, never force him into anything, and Nurutúrwë knew it, as much as he wanted him to continue, but he was too proud to admit it. Well, if he could not bear his own desires, Sauron thought, smiling, he would take care of him. Caressing Nurutúrwë's hands one last time, Sauron grasped the young god's waist, turning him so that he finally looked into the Maia's eyes.
The innocence, the purity, was still there, in his heavenly countenance, even after all that had happened. His clothes, rumpled from Sauron's hasty attempts to undress him, soon fell to the floor, now that Maia was beneath him, desperate to feel anything Nurutúrwë was willing to offer him. The Creator's light was contained within his Fana, the Maia had no doubt of that, when he finally beheld the paleness of his skin, and felt how warm it felt against his fingers, after so many weeks apart. Sauron practically groaned, as Nurutúrwë stirred in the bed, lying on his side so as not to have to look at the Maia.
“Hm, what are you trying to do, Mairon?” Nurutúrwë whispered, but he knew exactly what the lieutenant was trying to do, otherwise his essence would not be more sickening, stronger than before Sauron managed to strip him.
Nurutúrwë could pretend all he wanted to be furious with him, that he did not need him, but Sauron noticed how hard he was, even when he was not looking him in the eye. Smiling, the Maia approached Nurutúrwë, embracing the Valarindi, sighing at the contact, at his warmth, even though Sauron's robes prevented him from feeling Nurutúrwë as he truly wanted. When Nurutúrwë involuntarily rubbed against him, the lieutenant merely smiled, running his hand down his stomach, as breathless as Nurutúrwë, who did not even seem to notice that he was repeatedly rubbing against Sauron.
“Helping you, hm?” Sauron said, bringing his lips to Nurutúrwë’s shoulders, pressing them lightly, then biting hard when the Valarindi tried to pull away. “I can make you feel better, if you let me.”
“I do not need your help.” Nurutúrwë growled, groaning as he felt Sauron’s hand slide down his waist, touching him lightly, so lightly that the touch sent flames through the boy’s spirit. “Hm, what are you… Creator.”
Nurutúrwë moaned, feeling Sauron's hands touch him harder, faster, as he let his head fall back. The Maia only smiled against his neck, intoxicated by the essence that had captured his sanity since the moment he learned Melkor and Nienna would have a child, even though he did not know what he was feeling, or what was consuming his spirit. Eru Ilúvatar, Sauron realized years later, planned a journey, a path to salvation for them all, and Nurutúrwë was Sauron's paradise, the creation made especially for him. And he would let nothing tear them apart. So, he continued touching the Valarindi passionately, satisfied when his teeth broke through the Fana, and Nurutúrwë's corrupted blood flooded his lips. His blood, so heavenly, yet so corrupted, and yet so sweet, was all Sauron desired, all he needed. How he had forgotten how good it felt to taste his impure sweetness, strengthening their union, making them even more connected to each other, intertwining their destinies and their immortal lives.
“I thought you did not need my help, my boy,” Sauron murmured, the young god’s blood dripping from his lips. “But you seem content with my affection, do not you?”
“I do not need your help.” Nurutúrwë moaned so loudly that the sound reverberated throughout the fortress, as he rubbed himself against Sauron, feeling how the Maia was no more in control than he was, even though it was Sauron who touched him so brutally, yet so passionately. “Just stop talking, stop whispering like a serpent in my ear.”
Sauron laughed passionately, realizing how Nurutúrwë's furious words were nothing more than that: mere words. The Valarindi was no longer trying to push him away, gripping the furs tightly, moaning as Sauron touched him more eagerly, letting the heat of his hand consume Nurutúrwë's thoughts. Continuing to kiss the boy's neck, Sauron realized he could not hold out much longer. Nurutúrwë's power, as the Maia soon realized when they first met, intensified Nurutúrwë's emotions so much that it was nearly impossible for him to resist Sauron's attacks.
“Shall I stop, my boy? Shall I leave you alone in our chambers?” Sauron murmured, laughing when Nurutúrwë shook his head, holding Sauron’s wrist, not letting the lieutenant stop his movements.
“Hm, no.” Nurutúrwë groaned, but it sounded more like a growl, surprising the lieutenant. Nurutúrwë did not look the same, he had been different since the war, but it was more than that, as if two spirits were fighting within him. “Do not you dare to stop, Mairon.”
Not that Sauron intended to stop, of course not. He enjoyed Nurutúrwë moaning his name enough to stop his movements, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to keep his mind under control. But the sensation of Nurutúrwë rubbing against him, his naked Fana against Sauron's robes, made it worse, and it was he who was loudly moaning the Valarindi's name, begging him not to push him away. Because that was what he was feeling, was not it? Fear. Fear of losing the only being in all of Arda who was like him, who made him feel complete. Nurutúrwë was his, and Sauron would rather die than be torn away from him.
“I missed you so much,” The Maia whispered, breathing in the scent of Valarindi deeply, keeping that moment in his mind, for when the memory was all that remained, again.
“You miss me?” Nurutúrwë moaned, almost screaming, as he cumming against Sauron's hand, feeling his dark hair begin to stick to his face. His essence, golden and heavenly, dripped down Sauron's hand, drawing the Valarindi's attention, but he avoided looking at his lieutenant.
“How could I not miss you, my Nurutúrwë?” Sauron murmured. Slowly, Nurutúrwë moved away from Sauron, turning his body on the bed so that he could look at his lieutenant, a strange heat filling his face.
Honestly, he wanted to make things difficult for Sauron, to torture him for everything that had happened. It was what he deserved, and more. Of course, Nurutúrwë had not forgotten Adar's words, and it was almost impossible not to think of all the lies as he stared at the Maia, but unexpectedly, Sauron brought his fingers to his lips, moaning at the taste of Nurutúrwë's divine essence, as if he had waited a long time for this, and the young god found it hard to resist him. And before Sauron could comprehend what was happening, Nurutúrwë reached for the dark robes the lieutenant wore, pulling them so hard that some parts tore under his strength.
Sauron liked this new version of Nurutúrwë, more impatient, more desperate, more brutal. Because Nurutúrwë had always been this way, but it was as if the wolf refused to abandon him, commanding his instincts. In the first weeks in the fortress, Sauron noticed how Nurutúrwë avoided him, but was strangely possessive of him, biting his neck when they lay together, purring against his neck whenever Sauron stroked his hair. The frequency of the bites increased as the weeks passed, not that he was bothered, quite the opposite.
The Maia enjoyed seeing Nurutúrwë desperate for him, marking him as if he were something to possess, something to dominate. And when Nurutúrwë managed to pull Sauron's robes aside, throwing the torn fabrics to the floor, it was not long before he felt the Valarindi's lips pressed against his. Yes, that was exactly what he had been missing. Quickly, he brought his hands to the back of Nurutúrwë's neck, deepening the kiss, pulling the Valarindi fully onto the bed, laying his body on top of Sauron's. The boy's muffled growls were making Sauron painfully hard, worsening each time Nurutúrwë rubbed himself against him, as if it still was not enough, as if it would never be enough. Not all eternity could control his desire.
He did not break the kiss when Nurutúrwë's hand moved down his waist, just as Sauron had tortured him moments ago, moaning when he felt the Maia against his hand. Because Nurutúrwë was tired of pretending he did not desire Sauron, that he was not completely in love with him. His emotions, stormy, conflicting, emanated from him, pressing against the lieutenant, mirroring the confused love he felt. Nurutúrwë should not be lost in his own thoughts, reliving what had happened in the past few weeks. No, Sauron needed to win him back.
“My Nurutúrwë.” Sauron whispered in his mind, reaching his hand out to Nurutúrwë again, smiling against the Valarindi's lips, who moaned at his touch, still very sensitive.
“My Mairon.” Those sweet words, whispered in his mind, made Sauron even more needy.
Nurutúrwë's essence mingled with Sauron's corruption. And the lieutenant only kissed him more passionately, biting Nurutúrwë's lips as hard as the boy had bitten his, then letting their blood flood the kiss. Blood, when mingled, when shared with such devotion, with such reciprocity, was capable of uniting two celestial beings until the end of Arda, perhaps even beyond. But Sauron knew that Nurutúrwë already belonged to him, even if he remained addicted to his blood, to all the celestial corruption that existed within the boy.
Their moans, confused, loving, could be heard throughout the fortress, but it did not matter, not anymore. Because Melkor might have threatened Sauron, and ordered him to stay away from Nurutúrwë, but they were alone in Middle-earth, beyond anyone's reach. And it was so true, the way Nurutúrwë twined his legs against Sauron's, closing the distance between them, touching the lieutenant with love, yet fury, as tears streamed down his face. When Nurutúrwë had first been with Sauron, the emotion had been so strong that he had not thought he could bear to be with him any longer. But he had, so many times over the years, that being away from him was more painful.
Sauron broke the kiss, moving his lips down Nurutúrwë's neck, kissing the pale, inviting Fana, biting until there was nothing left of him but marks. Then he heard that melodic sound he thought he would never hear again as the boy brought his fingers to his red hair, tugging hard. Nurutúrwë, after endless weeks of distance, of inexplicable coldness, was laughing at Sauron's brutal kisses, never once pulling his hand away from the lieutenant, destroying any control Sauron had ever had.
“Mairon, please.” Nurutúrwë moaned, stifling a plea as Sauron bit his neck, touching him with such passion that the young god almost begged for him to forget everything that had happened, for things to go back to the way they were before the truth was brutally revealed by Adar. “Please.”
“Show me how much you are still mine.” Sauron whispered, kissing Nurutúrwë.
Honestly, when had he stopped being his? Nurutúrwë thought furiously, knowing that Sauron knew him well enough, and knew deep down that no matter what, he would remain in love with the Maia, even if he was foolish, even if they could never truly be happy together. They were doomed, and always would be, but none of that mattered, not when Nurutúrwë cumming against Sauron's hand, feeling his essence against his waist, while Sauron looked at him. A look so passionate, so intense, that even when he came, he did not look away. His full attention belonged to the young god, as if he had finally found the answer in his divine face, to something he had long sought.
Nurutúrwë could not bear to look at him, not knowing what needed to be done, what was expected of him. He expected Melkor to always be there, beside him, commanding Arda, ruling Middle-earth. He did not want that power, that responsibility. The Orcs counted on him, Adar counted on him. And he had stood by him when he needed him, when Sauron had done nothing but lie to him. When Nurutúrwë sat up in bed, pushing Sauron's hand away, he could still feel the Maia's burning gaze on him, scrutinizing him.
He needed to be alone, he needed to think away from them all. But time was becoming an enemy that Nurutúrwë could not fight, not alone. Hot, melancholy, and disappointed tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat on his cheeks. If Sauron noticed he was crying, he said nothing, while their essences still felt warm against his sweaty chest. And the Valarindi hoped he would leave, that he would turn his back on him, as he had done before, so that he could bear his anguish in peace. But the Creator, in his eternal wisdom, had plans that not even the beings of Valinor could comprehend.
“Nurutúrwë,” Sauron murmured, sitting up in bed. Slowly, the boy closed his eyes, feeling the lieutenant's kisses against his back, shaking his resistance. He did not want to give in, not anymore. Not after what he had discovered, and yet, it seemed so difficult not to return that pure, yet corrupt affection.
“Hm, Mairon.” The Valarindi whispered, his eyes closed, sighing as Sauron slid his tongue against his back, teasing the young god, even though he tried to pretend he did not care, that he was not affected.
“I love you, Nurutúrwë,” Sauron said, and even though it was a mere whisper, he had never sounded so confident, so certain, as in that moment. Surprised, he turned sharply to the lieutenant, ignoring the tears that stained his pale face as he stared in disbelief at the Maia. It could not be true, not now. “I have always loved you, and I should have said so before, and I am sorry. But being taken from you… when they took you, I did not think I could survive without you. Please, do not try to push me away. Whatever I have done, we can fix it. Together.”
No, Nurutúrwë thought, it was too late for them. Too late to restore what had been destroyed. When he did not answer, closing his eyes, trying to stop more tears from falling, he felt the warm touch of Sauron's hand on his face, caressing it. Showing that he was there with him, even if Nurutúrwë did not want his company, even if he was disappointed with him. So, he let Sauron turn his face, pressing his lips against his. Nothing else mattered; this was all that remained for them. In the shadows of the fortress, the Valarindi knew he would have to choose a side, even if the consequences were devastating.
Desperate to silence his own thoughts, the young god pushed Sauron back against the bed, without breaking the kiss. Because he felt lust, and anger, but also passion and forgiveness in the lieutenant's kiss. And all Nurutúrwë wanted from Sauron was his love, but those easier, simpler days, when they lived in Angband, and the Valarindi still believed they could be together, that they could all live in peace, were brutally ripped from them. Those dreams were not real, and no matter how much Nurutúrwë wept against Sauron's lips, returning the kiss, they could not make up for the lost time.
Breaking the kiss, Nurutúrwë smiled sadly, pressing Sauron against the furs as the lieutenant's hands reached his waist. Caressing his Fana, the Maia waited, letting him take control, letting him test his own limits. He was tired of being treated as fragile, vulnerable by everyone, especially Sauron. What right did he have to try to protect him, to love him unconditionally, when everything they had experienced was nothing but a lie? It was too painful, and Nurutúrwë wanted to wake up from this nightmare.
“Be a good lieutenant, and open your mouth for me, Mairon,” Nurutúrwë whispered, brushing his lips against Sauron's, who looked at him with nothing but lust.
Like a true servant, like a man utterly devoted, Sauron did as Nurutúrwë asked, opening his mouth for him, groaning with satisfaction as the Valarindi spat into his mouth. Everything about Nurutúrwë consumed even Sauron's purest thoughts, and he did not let him pull away before pressing his lips against Nurutúrwë's, groaning as the Valarindi kissed him back. The boy brought his hands to Sauron's face, pushing the lieutenant away, who groaned in frustration, noticing the young god's malicious smile. Before Sauron could question what he was trying to do, he groaned incoherently as Nurutúrwë sat on him.
Nurutúrwë's moans were weak, and he seemed desperate to scream how much he needed Sauron, their saliva still keeping them connected by the broken kiss. But he would not give in, not so easily, biting his lip to stop himself from begging for Sauron, from begging the Maia to stay with him, even if it was a lie, even if Arda would never be with them. None of that, he could say, so he closed his eyes, pushing away the confused thoughts, feeling Sauron's tender touches on his waist as he sat on him, too breathless to care that the lieutenant was controlling his movements.
Willing to torture the Maia as much as he was being tortured, he brought his lips to his neck, kissing lightly, brushing his teeth against his delicate Fana. Sauron continued to moan, holding tightly to Nurutúrwë's waist, while the Valarindi's hot tongue slid against his neck, almost marking him, almost proving that he belonged to him, and only him. In truth, this was just another of the peculiar behaviors Sauron had noticed in Nurutúrwë since he had learned to change his Fana. There was something more bestial, more possessive, more uncontrolled about him.
He was not just licking his neck, but moaning incoherently, biting hard until blood ran down his tongue. Yet, Sauron knew it was not just that, because when he pressed Nurutúrwë more tightly against him, gasping with the movement, the Valarindi practically growled, and his whispers in Black Speech were too garbled, too breathless, to be understood. Because he still grieved, Sauron knew it, and he wanted to take all his sorrow out on his lieutenant.
Yet, Sauron did not care if he was brutal or cruel to him; that pain was almost a reward if it meant Nurutúrwë would remain by his side even if he was angry with him, even if it took a long time for things to return to normal. It did not matter, because still, they were made for each other, were they not? It was so right, the way Nurutúrwë sat on him, whispering Sauron's name, his true name, as if it were a prayer, as if it were a pure melody, even though he was corrupted. If Nurutúrwë was not his salvation, the one who would lead him to the light, then let them fall together into the darkness, to wander the Void together.
When Nurutúrwë abandoned his attack on Sauron's neck, kissing the Maia again, he could feel it in their desperate kiss. The Valarindi's tears, like his moans, were so intense that they mingled with the kiss. Sauron could never ask the Valar for forgiveness, not after what they had done to him, not after being forced to watch Nurutúrwë being dragged to the Undying Lands as spoils of war, as a prisoner. But he still regretted not having been there. In Middle-earth, all he had thought about was how frightened Nurutúrwë must have been there, alone, not knowing what would happen to him.
“I love you so much,” Sauron whispered, breaking the kiss, moving the Valarindi harder, faster, feeling how heavy his heart seemed with memories of war. “My Nurutúrwë, my boy, my prince.”
So, Sauron just kept murmuring how much he loved Nurutúrwë, how much he needed him to stay by his side, as he ran one hand down Nurutúrwë's waist, smiling when the boy moaned loudly, feeling Sauron's hand against him, the movements mirroring how Sauron forced him to sit on his lap. For weeks, he had waited for Nurutúrwë, for a chance to prove that what they felt was real, that they were meant to be together. If it was Ilúvatar's intention for them to remain together, why choose separate paths? Consumed with desire, Nurutúrwë moaned his name, smiling at Sauron, breathless, and so radiant, he almost seemed like the old him, before he lost everything to the Lords of the West. Pressing his forehead against the Valarindi's, Sauron groaned, feeling him cumming against his hand, making it impossible for him not to join Nurutúrwë.
“Mairon,” Nurutúrwë whispered, and Sauron noticed that he was crying. Ever since the Dark Lord had been defeated, he had spent most of his time crying, and Sauron hated to see him like this, so broken, so helpless.
“Shh, I am here,” He whispered, refusing to let Nurutúrwë move away, or leave his lap, as he wrapped his arms around him. “I will always be here, I am not going anywhere.”
Nurutúrwë simply nodded, sobbing, hiding his face against the Maia's neck. Perhaps, things were not as they once were, and Sauron was not foolish enough to think it was only the war that upset Nurutúrwë, or the distance from his parents. In truth, he suspected who had provoked these confused feelings between them, and even though the boy refused to be honest, even though he insisted nothing had happened, Sauron could sense how that small hope, that innocence, which seemed to exist only in Nurutúrwë, among all the beings that lived in Angband, was fading.
For now, he would accept his hatred, until he could prove that they needed to be together, that the balance of Arda needed it. And when he held Nurutúrwë tighter, stroking his back, murmuring against his ear of the times when Middle-earth was still very young, and the Valar walked freely in Arda, and the Valarindi smiled wistfully but contentedly against his neck, he could almost believe that everything would be all well.