Deific Flame

By Bejai

"[T]he King of the Sea marched upon Middle-earth . . . and he commanded Sauron to come before him and swear to him fealty … and it came into his mind that, for the better keeping of Sauron and of his oaths . . . he should be brought to Númenor, there to dwell as a hostage for himself and all his servants in Middle-earth. To this Sauron assented as one constrained, yet in his secret thought he received it gladly."

- The Silmarillion

Chapter 7: Hostage

Sauron was irritated. These tedious inspections were necessary, he knew, for without his guidance the orcs tended to copulate indiscriminately. He had enjoyed this task long ago, when Morgoth had given him free reign in the breeding pits, his artistry aroused by the boundless power of creation. But what had been invigorating to a pupil of evil was beneath the lord of it. While his dominion rested upon individual agony, such details had become irksome in the face of opportunities for collective suffering. He would leave the spawning entirely to the breeders if he could, but they were suited only for production of hordes of foot soldiers; more specialized orcs still required his personal oversight.

The most arduous task was keeping pure some strains of immortal blood. This maintained a force resistant to the plagues that periodically decimated the population and a mob capable of fighting for centuries. Crossbreeding destroyed immortality, but the very traits that might have discouraged promiscuity tended to encourage stargazing and compassion, and so had been crushed. However, mongrel breeds had their own advantages. Adding mannish blood to a generation intensified hatred, but also a propensity toward brutalizing one another that was amusing in small numbers but exasperating when raising armies. Troll blood injected strength, but also mind-numbing stupidity. Crossing orcs with wargs had not worked, but it had been entertaining to watch them try.

Sauron lifted his black robes and stepped over a pool of blood and semen. Nearby, a bitch screamed and thrashed, her muscles undulating in labor. He rolled his eyes. No, individual agony no longer held his interest.

" 'Ere, m'lord," one of the orc breeders said as he sidled up, a squalling infant clutched upside down in its claw. The orc gave a rotting grin. " 'Ere's a nuther silver 'aired un. Whatcha want t'do wi' it?"

Sauron paused. Occasionally a silver-haired orc was born out of the rabble, and for some years he had ordered the breeders not to burn the scalps of these whelps. He had wanted to see the look on the faces of the elves who would meet them in battle. No doubt they would swiftly divine the implications behind the crown of the Sindar on the heads of these, their orcish cousins. The capture and breaking of the elf who had sired the trait, so long ago, was one of which he had been particularly proud. Morgoth had been delighted. New blood of that caliber might re-ignite his enthusiasm for the art, Sauron mused.

Sauron waved his hand dismissively, the ring on his finger glistening in the torchlight, and the breeder threw the newborn to a surly bitch who was none to pleased to get it back. The silver-haired experiment had been a disappointing failure. Any orc thus endowed was targeted by the others, who used their over-pretty companion until it died from the abuse. Sauron had finally rescinded his order, and those who were born with the trait faded back into the obscurity of mutilation. Unfortunate, as the prospect of such an army still delighted Sauron.

To his annoyance, the breeder fell into crabbed step beside him. "A good crop, eh, m'lord? Some mean bast'ds in this bunch," the breeder cackled. This particular breeder was very old, and very fat, for it had never seen the front lines. Smart and vicious, it was part of a very narrow privileged class who oversaw most of the spawning operation. This one had originally been an elf who, after precise torture, had taken to the craft. Sauron suspected that it personally sired a high percentage of the foot soldiers of each generation.

The breeder cracked its fingers. "Genius in the pairs ya picked, m'lord, genius … 'eh!" The breeder broke off and yanked one of the orcs off of a bitch, who had been shrieking but was now unconscious. "'Eh!" the breeder screamed, and backhanded the offender. "Don't kill 'er. She don't do any good if she's dead, now do she? And then th' lord's gotta pick out a nuther one for you, don't he?" The orc leered, dripping on the floor. "Ge' back ta work," the breeder said, shoving him back down on the floor. "But don't kill 'er!"

"Tha' one's trouble, m'lord, trouble. Proud. Mean. Which is whatcha want, but he ain't any good if he kills a nuther one," the breeder panted, scurrying to catch up.

Sauron sighed. The day was quickly becoming unbearable. "When he's done, which clearly shouldn't take long, have him killed," Sauron answered with a sniff.

"Ya sure, m'lord? D'ya wanna see if the bitch takes first?"

"No." Sauron answered. "In fact, if she takes, have her killed as well. Any orc not aware of its own fundamental worthlessness is defective, and I will not have the trait spreading"

The breeder glanced sharply up at the Dark Lord with over-bright eyes. Sauron made a mental note to have the breeder destroyed later, for the same reasons. He turned and looked across the seething pit. At this pace, he would have his army rebuilt in a few generations. The clashes in recent years had dangerously depleted the reserves. It was fortunate his enemies were too numb-witted to notice, for if they marched against him now, his victory would need to be very creative.

He moved to go, but an orc clattered down the stairs and collapsed at his feet. The brand on the side of its face identified it as one of the watch guards of the gate. Sauron kicked it, and reveled in the crunch of flesh beneath his feet. Perhaps he was not above individual suffering after all.

"My lord!" it gibbered, panicked. "My lord! I have news!"

"What?" the Lord of the Rings snarled.

"What?" Celeborn snapped. It had been a long day, filled almost entirely with a dispute between several Númenórean traders and Edhellond's harbormaster. Something about the men spitting on the dock and the elves 'accidentally' setting their ships adrift. He had understood the problem better before the parties presented their arguments. Every time they returned to the city this seemed to happen to him -- Galadriel would cloister herself in the garden with the mirror, seeking the future, while the simmering arguments that had awaited their return boiled into his hours. Why the parties believed that only he could resolve their disputes was beyond him.

Beside him, Calandil scowled sourly and let silence be his rebuke.

Hands on his hips, Celeborn stopped in the middle of the hall and tilted his head up to the mural of the night sky, breathing until he had mastered himself. He shook his head to clear it, and unbuttoned the top clasps of his tunic, which had been strangling him all afternoon.

"What?" he repeated, but his manner was no better.

Calandil lifted an eyebrow in pained patience and shook his head. "Is Galadriel at her mirror today?" he asked softly.

Celeborn sighed, and scrubbed both hands across his face. "Am I so transparent?" he asked ruefully.

Calandil chuckled. "You are rather irritated today. More than usual," he amended, hoping for a glimmer of amusement.

"I hate the cursed thing," Celeborn replied bleakly. "When Galadriel looks to the future, I can no longer see the present. I cannot tell if the world seems darker because she is walking shadowed paths, or if …" he broke off, and looked as if he was considering putting his fist through the wall. "What can I do for you, Calandil?" he asked mildly, folding his arms.

Calandil raised an eyebrow, not fooled in the least. In truth he disliked Galadriel's mirror as well, for at such times, Celeborn was considerably more than merely 'irritated,' and Calandil was left to contend with an uncharacteristic, black uncertainty. Celeborn was grounded in the present as deeply as he was grounded in Middle-Earth. His gift was in understanding now, and as such, Galadriel used him as her anchor when she reached into the howling paths of time. All things were possible in the future, both good and ill, but Calandil suspected that Galadriel forsook the paths of light in order to map the paths of misery. It was, perhaps, a necessary thing, for how else would she learn to circumvent evil possibilities? But for Celeborn, who did not see the future but felt its gnawing darkness through his beloved, tomorrow was utterly barren.

Calandil did his best to remind his friend that this was not so, but on some days reality tended to veer toward gloom. He caught his friend's elbow with a regretful squeeze. "Button your shirt and come down to the council room," he said. "Your day is not over yet."

Celeborn frowned. "What is the problem?"

Calandil spread his hands in a gesture more a shrug than an answer. "Strange reports."

"Can you be more specific?" Celeborn growled, irritated again, but started toward the council room.

"There are some elves and men here from the coasts in the south, near Umbar. They say they saw ships coming out of the west. They say it is a vast host, and red sails stretch as far eyes can see. They say it is the King of Númenor, and he is marching toward Mordor," Calandil said.

Celeborn stopped again. "What? Ar-Pharazôn himself?" he asked, amazed. He leaned against the wall, and dropped his head, massaging his brow. "Strange. I have had no reports, not from Gil-galad, not from the men of Pelargir, not from my sources within Ar-Pharazôn's court. I would have heard of this, if he had taken counsel with his advisors. Why?" Celeborn asked softly to himself, his eyes distant. "Why would the king, without the aid of any wisdom but his own, march upon Mordor? Sauron has attacked Númenórean cities, true, but does Pharazôn seek battle with him? If so, why do we not know it? We are yet his allies; surely pride would not lead him so far alone?" the lord shook his head sharply, and re-approached the problem.

"The King of Númenor marches on Mordor to … what? If not war, then …" Celeborn paled. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel! Calandil, find Galadriel. Now."

"My lord?" Calandil asked, concern snapping him straight from where he had lounged against the wall. "Why is Ar-Pharazôn here?"

"To seek alliance with Sauron," Galadriel said, coming swiftly around the corner, the future glittering in her eyes.

"The king of Númenor commands that I come before him and swear to him fealty?" Sauron repeated flatly.

The man before him gulped convulsively. "The King of Men commands it," the herald stuttered, and stood rigid as he sweated nervously under his scarlet and gold finery, for he was ankle-deep in the entrails of his compatriot -- who had just been killed for saying the same words. Yet his king commanded his tongue, and he would speak

Sauron blinked in surprise and stood from his ebony throne. The herald reeled backward, terrified, but Sauron turned with a smirk toward the great window of his tower and leaned upon the sill, his hands spread before him. There upon a hill, he could see the banner of Númenor, and the king's pavilion. The tents were as a field of flowers, filling the black borders of his land with blue, golden, and white.

Almost, he thought, almost it seemed as if he could reach out and crush them. But they were too many. It was astonishing. The power and majesty of these Men of the Sea was too much for him to face. Sauron well remembered Morgoth, chained by the Valar and taken from Middle Earth, the land boiling in his imprisoned footsteps. If this mortal king had come against him in war, it would have been the same, for even his greatest servants could not yet stand against such might. But no. He was here for oaths. Oaths!

Well. Here was an opportunity to gain by subtlety what force could not accomplish. There was an element of personal peril to it, but it was intriguing. Sauron tapped his fingers on the sill, and his ring chimed melodiously against the stone. Behind him the Nazgul stirred, concern and ambition oiling from their diseased minds as they shadowed their master's thoughts. Yes. There was a way to accomplish this. What was one more realm, one more man? He would entwine himself with this impermanent king and dissolve his enemies with acidic adulation. He had done it before. But he would leave the ring behind, hidden deep in the mountain -- the womb of his rebirth, should his plans go ill.

Sauron turned. "Lord Herald," he said, angelic. "Tell your king … tell the King I shall come."

The host parted as he passed through, alone. His white robe flowed behind him, crisp as wind on snow, and was parted at his throat and bosom. A ruby glittering on his brow, and his hands were naked. He smiled upon the men, and they bowed, dazzled. "My Lord Ar-Pharazôn, King of Númenor and all men," Sauron said, kneeling low before the golden throne. "I am Annatar of Ennor, Guardian of Mordor, and I come at thy bidding."

Ar-Pharazôn folded his long fingers, and appraised the humbled figure before him. This was not what he had expected, and he mistrusted it. "Lord Annatar," he replied sternly. "I have summoned you before me because I have long heard troublesome tidings of you. I shall ask plainly: do you claim to be the King of Men?"

Sauron bowed lower to the earth. "My King, the men of Middle-Earth have needed a guardian, a king to watch over and protect them, for this is a dangerous land. I accepted this responsibility because I did not believe that you would come; I did not think that you would condescend. And yet," he said, looking up, his eyes dazzled with tears, "and yet, you are here. Long has this day been the secret wish of my heart, unspoken, for I thought it my own vain folly. The title I bore of necessity I now return to you with joy, King of Men."

Ar-Pharazôn smiled indulgently. "I had feared, Lord Annatar, that you would be unreasonable. My reports of you were not so fair."

Sauron shook his head sorrowfully. "From the elves?" he asked, rising at the King's gesture. "They believe themselves the lords of this world. My ideas, my hope for men threatens them. Long have they made war against me, fearing to embrace a new world."

"I see. Tell me, Lord Annatar," Ar-Pharazôn said, sitting forward abruptly, his eyes dangerous. "Do you have so fair an explanation for the wars and murders you have wrought on the men of Númenor upon these shores?"

Sauron folded his hands before him. "King Ar-Pharazôn, in your years of rule, I am certain that you have had need to act decisively. Strong rulers always have dissenters, who do not comprehend all their liege does for their good. I admit, I have, at times, been required to be firm. It has been needful to unite the world of men." He bowed his head. "If you believe that I have done ill, my lord, I await thy judgment."

The king smiled faintly. "I shall reserve judgment, for now. What are your intentions?"

"My lord, I cannot help but look over this astonishing legion. Such might! Such beauty!" he said, raising his voice for all the assembled host to hear. They stirred, puffed by the praise. "I have seen many ages of this world; I have seen hosts of Valar and elf, and yet, I have never seen so great an army as this, gracing my humble land. You are a revelation!" he knelt again before the king. "Lord, I believe it no vanity to tell you that I am a giver of great gifts; 'Lord of Gifts,' the elves called me, although they had not the strength to accept them. My King, I would swear fealty to you, I, and all my servants in Middle-earth. I will gladly remain here, your servant, and do the great work you desire in this land."

"Would you, Lord Annatar?" the king said, and his advisors recognized the sardonic tilt in his noble brow. "No, I think not."

"Lord?" Sauron asked, pressing his hand to his breast.

"No," Ar-Pharazôn continued. "You shall come to Númenor, there to dwell as a hostage for yourself and all your servants in Middle-earth." He dropped his voice low. "I believe you a snake, Sauron of Mordor, with a quick tongue o'er thy fangs. I prefer to keep my enemies near at hand."

Sauron tilted his head, enchanted, and stood. "As do I," whispered. Then more loudly, his voice dramatically hesitant, he continued: "I am constrained, my King. Although it pains me to abandon my lands, I shall do my lord's bidding, and return with thee."

When the army of Númenor had first passed through the country on the March to Mordor, the land had been barren, for the inhabitants had fled in fear. It remained empty as they returned until the waves were again before their faces. But there, blocking the harbor of Umbar, waited a small force clad in white and gold, utterly still save the banners that snapped in the breeze. To the right was a pendant of the winged moon of Elu Thingol, which the men Númenor did not recognize, and to the left the sun of Finarfin, which they knew from their dealings with the elves of Valinor. Above was the starry field of Gil-galad, and two elves stood alone at the forefront.

The men at the vanguard hesitated. "What is this?" the king said in amazement. Sauron came and stood beside him, and laughed out loud at the sight.

The king narrowed his eyes. "Do you know them?"

Sauron shrugged with fluid grace. "I am their gravest enemy. They are my … most annoying detractors."

"Why are they here?" Ar-Pharazôn said.

"To rescue me," Sauron said with a wolfish smile, and watched a rider break away from the elves. The king gestured for his bearers stop and commanded that the rider be permitted to pass. The herald dismounted smoothly and came swiftly before the king.

"Calandil," Sauron murmured. "Of course."

Calandil ignored him, although his jaw was set. The Lord and Lady had perceived that Ar-Pharazôn wished alliance with Sauron, but the presence of the worm in the midst of the host keened ominously. This was worse than they had imagined. He inclined his head and said cooly: "Tar-Calion, King of Númenor," the men shifted uneasily at this elvish rendition of the king's name, which Ar-Pharazôn had disdained when he took the sceptre. "Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Belfalas greet you in the name of Gil-galad, High King of the elves of Ennor. They received tidings that you had arrived on these shores, and did not wish the auspicious event to pass without proper reception. Will you hear them?"

"They speak in Gil-galad's name?" the king asked.

"They do," the Calandil answered.

Ar-Pharazôn sighed. "I wish no quarrel with my former ally. I will hear them."

Calandil bowed shortly and turned away.

"Their names seem almost familiar to me," the king mused. He glanced at Sauron. "Who are they?"

"A pretender and her puppet," Sauron said quietly, putting his hand on the king's sleeve. "They were once the rulers of Eregion, but were too weak to hold the land. Now, they scrabble on the shores of Belfalas, and call themselves a lord and lady. But they have no authority over the heir of Eärendil, rightful king of all the East -- and all the world, if you will take it. They are far beneath you. Permit me to dispense with them."

Ar-Pharazôn tilted his hand in reluctant assent, and Sauron bowed formally before moving to stand before the throne. He folded his hands serenely behind his back and waited for his enemies. From behind, the king narrowed his eyes at the scene unfolding before him as the two elves approached. A strange triangle, indeed, gleaming with points of unequal radiance, although later he would not be able to remember if Annatar outshone the elves, or they him.

"Nerwen and Telpe," Sauron effervesced, spreading his hands wide. "An unlooked-for boon, indeed! It has been too long since we sat together." He moved to kiss Galadriel's hand, but she stepped back, her chin coming up. "And how are you, Galadriel?" he asked, his voice low as he studied her face. "Do I see a new radiance in you? New jewels, perhaps, a new ring?"

He glanced at Celeborn and chuckled condescendingly. "How unfortunate that old quarrels have driven us apart," he continued. "And how are your children? Let me see -- Galadaran is called Amroth, and dwells in Lorien, and is in love with a maid who will have none of him. And Celebrían dreams of Imladris, and half a man. I promise I will visit them both someday."

Celeborn looked past Sauron to the king. "Ill company you keep, Tar-Calion," he said.

Sauron stalked around the couple. "He sees the advantages of permitting me to dwell in his fair realm, as I did in yours. You recall the wonderful things that came of that alliance, do you not?"

"This is folly, king of men," the elf-lord said, turning a scathing glare on Sauron. "This parasite is a canker in any land where he dwells. The last to make an alliance with him died spread in pieces on pikes."

"True, my lord!" Sauron cried. "But only after he had betrayed me. But … he betrayed you as well, did he not, Galadriel? In more ways than one," he continued, and glanced significantly at her hands.

She disregarded him with an icy calm. "Lord King," she said, "why would you take Sauron into your councils? Your fathers have long fought him, and for good reason. I perceive that you are full of vision and grace to match them; why would you choose to disregard the wisdom of your kin?"

"Lady," the king said gently, as one would speak to a child, "he is not my counselor, but my hostage."

"A strange hostage, walking unbound and speaking to your guests in your name," she answered shortly.

"I have given him my word," Sauron said adoringly. "And how could I oppose such magnificence?"

Ar-Pharazôn smiled indulgently. "He serves my will. I have the strength to control him. I have ambitions for this world, and he is merely a weapon toward that end."

Galadriel closed her eyes, questing for patience. "What end?"

"Immortality," he whispered rapturously. "Godliness. I could so easily rule all the world, from Valinor to the lands of the East."

Beside her, Galadriel could feel Celeborn bristling in rage and despair. She could also feel him biting his tongue, for blunt reality would not sway this egoistic king, particularly when juxtaposed with Sauron's oozing flattery. "King Ar-Pharazôn, there is another who already occupies that role … " Galadriel began reasonably.

"There was another who occupied the role 'King of Men,'" Ar-Pharazôn interrupted, his voice growing annoyed. "I need only take what is mine, and I am taking Lord Annatar. I am weary of your nagging. You shall have to find another enemy. Unless you think you have found one now before you, and plan to stop me?" He laughed and gestured widely to his assembled host, their spears glittering under the sun.

Galadriel bowed her head. "We cannot stop you," she said, and looked into his eyes. "But I prophesy that you have forged your own ruin."

For a moment, the king said nothing, taken aback and chastised, for he could not endure her gaze. "Threats?" the king hissed, his eyes averted.

"It is not my hand or acts that shall bring it to pass, child," she answered sadly.

Ar-Pharazôn sniffed and shook his head in disbelieving amusement. He said no other word, but gestured sharply forward and galloped toward the sea.

Sauron smiled and bowed. "I shall not forget what you tried to do here," he said, and followed the king.

The elves stood aside as the gleaming army jogged past them, and the men murmured in discomfort as the ancient eyes followed them with pity, and some wavered in their hearts. But the greater portion lifted their heads with bravado and spit in the dust at the immortals' feet, so great was the pride of men at the noontide of their might.

Galadriel stood side by side with Celeborn upon a bluff and watched the red sails disappear into the horizon. "We have failed again," she said softly.

"What do you foresee?" he asked.

"I do not believe we shall see Annatar again," she answered. He glanced sharply at her, but she continued, her voice breaking. "Alas, I do believe we shall see evil again. I know not how, but this will break the world. I see such death, Celeborn. Children drowned on the waves…" A tear tracked unchecked across her cheek. "A shade haunts my dreams; a voice cries to me from a churning pit, nearly familiar, but I cannot place it for its desperation. The waves tear my limbs with burning weight, and I taste the salt of the sea upon my lips ere the water, cold, so cold, stills my blood! All is darkness, and I cannot find the surface in the depths."

He looked down, and caught her hand tightly in his. At his touch, she gasped and looked up to the sky before pulling him nearer.

He smoothed the back of her hand. "Did you notice?" he said at last. "Sauron was not wearing his ring."

"I saw," she said, her eyes downcast.

He clenched his jaw. "If the ring remains in Mordor, some hope may yet be in this. There is a possibility that it could be retrieved and destroyed …" he trailed off.

Galadriel smiled sadly and turned his face toward her. She traced his jaw with her fingertips, and held his gaze. "By whom? Beloved, I would not trust even you with the ring. Would not it whisper its seduction into your heart? And I know that you would not trust me. So whom do we send? Elrond? Amroth? Calandil? Celebrían?"

He closed his eyes, conceding the point. Who could withstand the ring? Certainly not the mighty. "Galadriel," he whispered, "how can we ever win this? So long as the ring exists, the world will always be within its thrall, whether Sauron bears it or another. How do we fight such perpetual malignancy? How do we destroy a weapon that we are afraid to touch? Even if we could obliterate it, would evil be ended?"

Her eyes replied sadly, although he already knew the answer. Disharmony had been sung into the world at its very beginning. It was in the depths of the earth, in the chaos of the sea, and even in their own hearts -- else why would they fear their own dark demons?

"Why are we doing this?" he asked in despair, though he knew that answer as well.

She turned back toward the sea. "Would you forsake our world?" she asked.

"No," he sighed, and straightened his shoulder. "What now do we do?"

Neither knew. And, indeed, there was nothing to be done, for the hissing words of Sauron the Deceiver would soon push the sails of the Sea King to the uttermost West. Not fifty years hence, the mightiest of all men would challenge the Valar themselves.

And in response, Manwë on the Mountain would defer to a higher power.

continuing …

Next chapter: the destruction of one world and the forging of another.

A/N: I recognize the unfortunate description of Galadriel's dream of death on the waves, considering recent world events. I considered not including it, but it was necessary at this point in the story. My thoughts and prayers are with our brothers and sisters of this planet who are still suffering from the nightmare.