Magic

Canon compliant.  Of the lust that catalyzed the downfall of Númenor.  Ar-Pharazôn does not constantly refer to himself with "Ar" on the front of his name throughout.  Also, he called Sauron by his Quenya name because I'm lazy and can't decide if Sauron would ask to be called Mairon, but thought maybe not since he had pretty much revealed his "bad guy" status already.  Anyway, fits in with "Believe" and with "Voice".  Takes place in Númenor in the Second Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Ar-Pharazôn, Sauron (mentions the Valar, Melkor and Eru)

Warning: canon compliant, possibly insanity (or at least mental instability), manipulation and politics, irrational thinking, search for immortality

Song: Tik Tok Rok

Words: 1,226
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magic (noun): the use of means (as charms or spells) believed to have supernatural power over natural forces; an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/magic

Magic.

A strange and unnatural force to be reckoned with.  An existence completely beyond the human comprehension and completely out of their flimsy grasp.  It dazzled.  It amazed.  It entranced.  It was a mystery that captured and held the imagination captive, bound with dangerous, toxic strings of hope.

And for his people--for his own self--it could mean eternal salvation.

For what was the true difference between a fleeting mortal man and one of the ancient, immortal kindred, but ambient magic running through the blood?  Or so it was theorized by the most skilled scholars of their fields.  For how else could those undying creatures of flesh and blood have the gift of permanent longevity?  How else was it that their skin stayed forever unmarred and pale, never wrinkling or spotting from age?  How else was it that their gleaming hair and brilliant star-eyes never dimmed in senescence?

The problem was, of course, encountering the right sort of magic.  From the right source.

The tomes of elven sorcery left behind held no such secrets, and even had they, it was doubtful that they would have been any use.  Pharazôn was loath to so much as brush his fingers across them for the utter heresy they contained.  Every charm and ritual within those leather bindings seemed to revolve about worshipping the Valar like pathetic slaves and bowing with humility before their divine ruler Eru Ilúvatar--about getting down on hands and knees and begging some greater being for help like filthy worms.  About throwing away pride in exchange for nothing but empty promises.

He would do no such thing.  The Valar had long forsaken his people to the arms of death, and was it not Ilúvatar himself who had cursed his race at the very beginning of time to their doomed fate?  No... he could not turn in that direction, for there were no answers to be found.

And he could not release the hope spurred on by fear and jealousy.  By the shiver that rippled down his spine at the thought of closing his eyes to rest and never waking.

Perhaps that was why he did not merely kill the Dark Lord when the demon knelt in the mud and bared his pale throat to his newest master with subservience that set the teeth on edge.  It would have been all too easy to merely slit open that neck, to remove this thorn in his side that refused to go away and be rid of all the trouble endeavoring to keep him from conquering completely what he could reach of Middle-earth.

But there was one thing about this Sauron that captured and held his attention.

Like the Valar, he was neither elf nor man.  A being living forever in the springtime of life.  And a creature who subscribed to neither the slavish bowing and scraping before the Valar or to striving through good deeds toward the supposed blessings of the One.  This man with the fire-opal eyes did what he wanted and depended on nothing and no one but himself to achieve mighty feats of strength and power.

Maybe it was foolish.  But Pharazôn looked at that man on the ground in heavy black armor, smiling like death incarnate as unblinking eyes ceaselessly watched and waited, and felt that hope again spring forth.

Because Sauron had that magic.

The seemingly rare divine spark that so did Pharazôn desire--that light that would fill his being and put a stop to the withering of time ever so slowly chipping its way into his being, forming dips at the corners of his mouth and silvered patches at his temples--rested like a violent star underneath Sauron's flesh, radiating outwards tantalizingly.  None closer to a god had the King of Númenor ever encountered, and none would he again lest he reach the far Undying Lands across the open expanse of sea.

It was temptation as nothing before.

Everything about the Dark Lord screamed youth and beauty, from his healthy, rosy skin to the ocean of curls loose upon his broad shoulders, free of dull gray strands crinkling weakly in death.  Looking upon his newest prisoner, Pharazôn lusted--not after the body--but after that seemingly innocuous state of utter perfection.

If the Valar could not give unto him that which he desired, perhaps the magic of this wily creature would serve just as well.  Perhaps it could be taken.  Or perhaps it could be given.  Or perhaps there was yet a path to traverse which involved neither--but if anyone would know such a path, it would be a being such as this one before him.

Pharazôn was not about to allow this chance to slip away.

Thus, Sauron was not going anywhere until he hefted over the secret to gaining that much-sought immortality.  Pharazôn did not care if he had to wait decades, so long as he did not have to wait forever.  And if the maia proved stubborn and uncooperative after spending years in a dinky, wet cell with minimal food, the king was not adverse to turning over his adversary to the torture chambers to loosen that pretty, sly tongue.

But it never came to that.

And, in retrospect, that was the first abnormality in the entire following ordeal that should have sent him stumbling backwards in suspicion to avoid getting his fingers bitten off by the very source of power he had been searching to harness. To keep himself from being ensnared within the very spell-work he sought to bring under his control.

Because magic should never be offered so willingly.  Indeed, who would offer it so willingly as had the Dark Lord with his catlike smirk of satisfaction and his scorching, amused eyes?

"What could you--a prisoner without an army and without freedom--possibly have to offer me?"

That infuriating, knowing smile again. "Knowledge, my lord."

"Continue."

"Knowledge of the key to gaining immortality, my lord."

Such words were sorcery of their own accord.  Sauron had not even needed an incantation to enchant his new followers.  And looking back, Pharazôn still did not care about such blatant manipulation.  He didn't care if the Dark Lord was lying through his teeth.  He didn't care if the alabaster beauty was scheming to escape or somehow turn this situation to his advantage.  He didn't care about anything but becoming powerful enough to take that immortality from whoever had the strength to give it, be in the Valar, Melkor or the One himself!

And if Sauron was the key to that victory, he would delve into all the mysteries of black magics--all the torture of innocents and deaths of his citizens and sacrifices of gallon upon gallon of blood--if it meant that he would never lie weak in his bed, knowing with terrifying certainty that his final moment was approaching, taking his final breath before entering the distant unknown.

Whilst the elves were allowed to stay forever in their bliss.  Blessed and loved over his people.  Blessed with that otherworldly spark.

He would have that magic.  He would live forever, eternal king of this eternal kingdom.

One way or another.  He would.

And thus began the fall.
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You'd think I could have come up with something more metaphorical for a prompt like this, but love = magic is such an old and overused cliché that it almost makes my stomach churn.  So I went for the real deal, as it were, and this is the result.  To be honest, it's more or less "Believe" from the opposite POV, but it's also Ar-Pharazôn characterization.  I haven't ever really written him much before, and I was in the mood to touch upon Númenor again today after reading a story about Ar-Zimraphel a day or two ago on AO3.

In any case, it's not that fascinating of a piece, fairly straightforward, but I went with it anyway.  And the music has nothing to do with the prompt other then that I've been listening to it for the last three hours and thus would be lying if I said I was listening to something else when I wrote this LOL.  Tik Tok Rok is basically a version of Kesha's Tik Tok done by VerseCity that I happen to enjoy listening to (and yeah, laugh it up, I like the original and some of the parodies, too) and dancing to.

Moving on... this is all I have for today.  I was actually in the middle of a very long story all day, which I blame for my lack of brainstorming this morning.  And I have a couple other projects I'm poking at.  Commissioned smut to write.  Etc...  But hope you enjoyed it anyway, ne~

PS: I found a picture to go with this story.  I guess I don't exactly agree with the hair color, but I'm sure Sauron could change it at will anyway LOL.  Sauron by anastasiyacemetary (on their tumblr Aesthetics of Ugliness).