Free

Semi-canon compliant AU.  Morgoth is gone, and Sauron is dancing for joy.  Inside.  Names are a little odd here.  Sauron is called Mairon (because I can't imagine he would address himself as "Lord of Filth" instead of "the Admirable") and Morgoth is consistently referred to as "his master", because I can't imagine Sauron wanting to call the evil mastermind Melkor like best buddies or Morgoth, because that would be giving the Noldor too much credit for naming, not to mention it would likely have gotten his head ripped off.  That said, there's nothing else to add except--oops, I messed up canon again.  Takes place at the end of the War of Wrath.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Sauron, Morgoth, Eönwë (mentions Fëanor, the forces of the Valar (note: I do not believe any of the Valar were actually present) and Manwë)

Warning: rather AU, character motivations explored, mentions torture, fantasies of blood/gore, shameless sadism/schadenfreude, world domination plots, etc...

Song: The Nexus

Words: 1,484
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free (adjective): enjoying personal freedom; not subject to the control or domination of another
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/free

It was over.  The war was over.  The vast expanses of his master's armies were finished.

As far as the eye could see, the earth was scarred, deep lacerations opening to reveal the fire of its blood beneath its thick, cracked skin.  Even hundreds of leagues away from the ocean, salt water spilled into deep trenches and formed newborn rivers spilling over to turn scorched dust to molten mud.  Mairon could barely recognize the land, for the desert had been uprooted and the mountains thrown down around their heads.  Chaos reigned everywhere, screams cutting against his ears like breaking glass as everything his master had ever worked for crumbled into utter ruin.

And Mairon smiled.

Even as the enemy blasted down the great walls of Angband and began the final slaughter, tore through the forces of darkness until black blood spilled like an ocean of death over the land, Mairon still smiled.  His lips drew side over his face, curling back to reveal the sharpened points of pure white teeth beneath.  A diabolical grin of the greatest, most potent amusement he could ever remembering feeling.

So great was the euphoria--the sublime sensation of laughter fighting and clawing to escape from his straining throat and suffocated lungs--that he began to bubble over with joy and light as he stood firmly in his place beside the dark throne--purged of its cowardly master--and waited.

Waited for the iron crown to fall.

Waited and watched.  Watched the herald of Manwë tear the remaining fire demons to shreds, his ears languishing in the beautiful symphony of their unheard pleas.  Watched golden armor glint in the light as it rained down through the destroyed eaves, touching for the first time this world of torment and misery and setting the shadows aflame.

Watched, as a hungry wolf watches a lamed sheep, as his master was dragged forth, kicking and screaming and writhing towards hopeless escape, chained like a common animal, a beast to be led forth by the neck.  The supposed king of all the universe thrown down and brought low on his knees, red eyes wide in terror and hatred as he beheld the forces of his kin destroying his world.

And oh! what Mairon wouldn't have given to reach out and claw those eyes into shreds, to see his tormenter crawl blindly across the floor like an infant!  What he wouldn't have given for the chance to spit on that filth and jeer wicked names in the Black Tongue whilst his master was powerless to retaliate!  The mere fantasy of what he could do to his master left Mairon shivering in nauseating glee, his beautiful face a mask of demonic intent.

But he did not think he could have come up with a more humiliatingly wonderful punishment than had Eönwë when the crown upon his master's brow was taken and melted--hammered by the skilled hands of the very thralls whom he kept enslaved and tortured--into a twisted, barbed collar that wrapped around the Dark Lord's throat like an armored fist.  Rivulets of blood shimmied down grayed, withered flesh and painted the ground with defeat.

And then the Silmarilli were plucked from the iron, their lights as stars, glaring hatefully down upon their former captor, as vindictive as any power of the world.  For they were their father's children, of that Mairon had no doubt.  He daren't touch them, for he could see the light of Fëanáro's eyes within--the light of the Flame Imperishable hungering to devour his sin and turn him to ash.

Beneath their light, his master's hideous form jerked in pain.  Flesh smoked and bubbled.  And Mairon could not look away for the beauty of divine wrath.

They took him away, and it was all the golden-haired maia could do not to dance about the vast, broken hall and piss on the great black throne.  Because this moment--for all the defeat and humiliation suffered at the hands of the enemy--was a moment he had been waiting for since the very beginning, since the day he foolishly bound himself to his master's side as a beast to its keeper.

The Dark Lord was unseated.  And his Lieutenant--the murderous, cunning and bloodthirsty torturer and spy--was finally free.

Free to reap his rewards.  Free to hide away in the underworld and shadows, to grow and build his power until none would be able to stand in his way.  Free to take the place of the repulsive coward who had formerly occupied his chosen profession as ruler of Arda.

Free to carry out plans that had been in the works since before years had been numbered and elves had first beheld the stars.

---

And no amount of words and promises would change his mind.

"While I would not wish to doubt thy sincerity of regret, my brother, thou knowest it is not in my power to pardon thee."

Eönwë had not changed in the least.  Still irritatingly arrogant and still disgustingly loyal.  A dog that could not function without his master dictating his every word and action.  It sickened Mairon to even be near the other maia, the weak and will-less waste of time and space.

But he had put on a tearful, frightened face and let his renowned beauty do the rest.  It was hard to call him a liar and claim he had no heart and no sorrow and no remorse when he knelt in the dirt and pleaded for mercy like heartbroken, sniveling vermin--as if he hadn't been forced to do worse to trick his old master.  Compared to the Dark Lord, Eönwë was about as daunting as a wet, mewling kitten.  They could lock him up and drag him in chains, but no self-righteous servant of the Valar would ever commit the atrocities on his person that his master had so relished.

Part of him was grateful.  The rest of him sneered at the pitiful creature before him, who thought himself so powerful but in truth might as well be the lowest of thralls.

"Please, Lord Eönwë, my brother, thou needest to understand!  Thou dost not know what he is capable of!  I was frightened!  I was coerced!"

The tears came ridiculously easy.  And Mairon almost lost control over his simpering façade at the pity shining in pale blue eyes as they looked upon his quivering form.  It was a bite to his pride that the aspiring Dark Lord could barely tolerate.  Would that he could have ripped those eyes out of their sockets--that would teach Eönwë to forget about compassion and worthless sympathy in a heartbeat.

But that would be counterproductive.  The Lieutenant bit his tongue.

"I understand.  I cannot imagine how thou couldst fight against a Power as he.  But nevertheless, I cannot help thee.  Only my liege and his brethren may give thee thy sentence, my brother."  A hand then touched his shoulder, squeezed in what was meant to be a reassuring manner, and it took every ounce of control and patience Mairon possessed to keep in check his natural irascibility and avoid pulling out his knife in order to dismember this fool for daring to touch his body without leave. "Believe me, my liege is generous.  Thou wilt be granted clemency if, in fact, thou dost feel remorse for thy actions.  Thou hast nothing to fear."

The problem with that plan, of course, was that he didn't feel remorse.  For anything.  And he couldn't hide that fact from Manwë any more than he had been able to hide his dark inner demons from his old master.  Returning to Aman in chains would lead to nothing but further imprisonment, a long sentence in a cold, gray cell or waiting hand-and-foot like a slave on some elf or maia.  Serving the community.  Proving his worth as a good man.

It made the maia want to roll his eyes in disdain.

"V-very well... I shall return with thee.  To Aman."

Let that tide over Manwë's dog for the time being.  Mairon had absolutely no intention of returning to a life of servitude and ruin, not when so much power was finally within his grasp and his greatest obstacle had been removed from his path without him so much as lifting a finger.  Eönwë was even bidding the Eldalië to leave the eastern shores, and that would leave behind easily-corrupted men and greedy, prideful dwarves.  Undefended, sacrificial pawns.

Susceptible victims.

Mairon was already licking his lips at the thought, even as he watched his fellow maia walk away.  If Eönwë had turned at that moment, he would have seen the hot glimmer in incandescent eyes, writhing wickedly with glee and lust for world domination.  Finally unbound.

Finally free.

And no one would stand in his way.  Not this time.
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Forgive me.  I know it claims in Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age that Sauron "repented" and was "ashamed" and almost went back to Valinor because of that.  But I can't see it at all.  Someone like him doesn't feel sorry for what he's done, at least not at the drop of a hat.  Frightened, maybe, except my head-canon tells me that he's a psychopath and psychopaths do not feel sorry for what they do.  In fact, when they're caught they're more worried about being unable to continue than they are about the consequences of their actions.

Thus, Sauron is concerned with keeping himself in his position of power where he can terrorize and bully the world to his heart's content.  Sure, he doesn't want to be caught, and he's avoiding it, but fear is not his motivation.  His motivation is hedonistic self-satisfaction and the lure of potential power.  That's what I see in his character anyway.  Tolkien may disagree with me, but he isn't around so it's a moot point.

Moving away from my psychotic character-analyzing tendencies, this idea was born whilst listening to the song The Nexus by Amaranthe.  This is the first time I have ever listened to anything they've done, but I rather enjoyed it.  Even the almost-screamo part.  Normally I'm not into that at all, but after a few rapes of the replay button I got over it.  Anyway, this story could have gone suicidal or angsty or even happy, but I like diabolical and I blame this song for that.  They were only, you know, murdering people in the video LOL.

*cough* So yeah.  That is all.