Joined: Dec 2006 Gender: Male Posts: 22 Location: Ea Karma: 0
Dark Memories - son of Sauron- Rated Age 17 + « Thread Started on Dec 8, 2006, 6:59am »
First Age
The universe contracted, the air became cold, and chill... dark, but a darkness that was more than lack of light , it was a crushing of all hope, and all colour. The walls, once, had been white and etched with carving, now they were stained grey....as if everything wept tears of dust.
A clinging mist seeped through the delicate arches of the windows, and from beyond came terrible sounds, manic, mad laughter, growls, hisses, screams, and then there was He. Perhaps he could assume a fair shape still, but if he could, with his two children, he did not assume it, his look ripped through the eyes and into the mind, making them cower, making them feel a wasteland of something which was worse than fear, it was utter despair. Their food was little, often stale, and the water tasted as if it had lain too long in some old, rusted barrel, with a bitter tang to it. The thin blankets scratched the skin, their clothes were stark black, shapeless tunics and their feet bare. The children of Sauron, who could talk at one year, like elven children, fared little better than houseless beggars in some rotting city of men.
Cerridwen? The door opened a crack, and the girl sat up, her eyes huge and dilated, as a boy slipped through, he looked to be about thirteen in human years, although in fact he was younger, and was thin, his hair unkempt in a touseled coronal over his thin face . He spoke into her mind, and she answered him in kind.
He came across to the bed, and drew out a hunk of bread from his ragged tunic. She stared, for this was fine bread, not the black, gritty stuff, they usually were given, green with mould.
*I ''found'' it in the kitchen* he gave a white grin through the smudges of sirt on his face, and sat down, as she broke it in half and shared it with him, it tasted so fine she thought she would faint. He had stolen it of course.
*Where is he? *She asked.
He gave a shrug of thin shoulders, *Not here,* Sauron was frequently called away, that was all they knew. They knew that * He * had a master who lived in the distant north, some-one more terrible even than he. Her own shoulders relaxed from their almost permanent tension.
*Is that better?* he asked of the bread and she nodded and took his hand. Sauron supposedly ignored them, - of course he did not, he had plans for his son, especially, but their maltreatment had only forged stronger the bonds which twins invariably bore.
'' Thankyou '' she whispered, a merest cadence of breath
*************************************************
The manacles compressed his bound hands and feet, pain tore through every nerve ending of the youths body, as his father tortured him. Not to the point of death, for Sauron was very skilled at that. Elves did not mature fully until they were around forty or fifty, the Ainur blood in Tar and his twin had speeded the process, so that they looked like young adults when they were much younger than that, but the girl-child Sauron had deliberately ignored for a time. She was to go north. As a gift to his Master. The boy would be trained as a Captain of the men of the East
And then Sauron had returned to find the b*tch gone. Only one person would have risked his wrath to aid her escape, and now he would be the gift given to Morgoth , not her. He allowed the marks on his sons body to heal, before he clad him in fine robes and took him.
Saurons servants knew that his son would one day have influence and power, they saw it by the way he was trained, daily, nightly, his young body toughening under the regimen. And Tar guessed it too, and gambled that he would not be questioned when leaving .
Sauron was in Angband, they did not have much time, but he took his sister as far as he could, southwards, towards Brithiac and the forest of Brethil. Both looked like ragged wanderers, unless a chance hand had pushed back their tattered hoods, little food, weapons, yes, for Tar bore them. he had taught his sister some rudiments of swordplay to protect herself, but he trusted more to her native toughness and his fathers blood to see her through the future.
* I have to leave you now, * he had said, into her mind *Go! Run!* His voice became rough. ' I will find you again! ' He had given her a push.
It was spring in the north, but a bitter wind flowed from the north . It would have had to be an intense cold indeed for these two to feel it, but what she felt was the creeping darkness reaching out from the farthest north.
' Tar... ai no, he will know, he will ..hurt you! Come with me! Whyfor would you go back now? ' her eyes were gold, not his burning purple, filled with tears, she would not cry, she had learned very young, not to cry, all her weeping was done on the inside. She clutched his upper arms feeling the hard muscle there, from years of training. But to her, he looked shockingly young, vulnerable, and a premonition she could not shake seized her. Desperately she tried to shake him, she might as well have tried to shake a boulder. ' We can escape, you have seen maps, you know these lands! Do not go back to him!' All she had known, the only kindness, ever shown to either of them, had been from one another. Without him she was worse than lost, she was but half of a whole.
''Do you not see, - ah you ...! '' he raised his hands, gripped her own. For me he has plans, he would hunt us forever, if we both vanished, for you I suspect something terrible, but as long as he has me, he may cut his losses. There is no time for debate, GO! Find the Elves! South lies Doriath, the Hidden Kingdom.
Brethil, southwards, belonged to the realm of Doriath but was not guarded by the Girdle of Melian and when the Secondborn came over the Ered Luin Thingol granted the people of Haleth the land if they would aid in defending its borders and the entrances to Beleriand and his realm. This they did with honour and courage and friendship grew among the two people. The people of Brethil raised there home; Ephel Brandir and Obel Halad upon the hill Amon Obel in the midst of the forest. Eastwards, lay Neldoreth, part of Doriath proper, and under the protection of the Girdle. But the way, across the fords of Brithiac and then south east to the crossing of the Mindeb river, was exposed and too far. Sauron had many spies, he used vampires, werewolves, as well as orcs an other creatures of darkness.
In a frenzy of fear for her twin, Cerridwen allowed the momentum of Tars push to stumble her on , and then she was running. She did not stop until she reached the great trees thst formed the northern edge of Brethil. If she had looked back it would have destroyed her, for she would have seen him weeping, seen the fear in his purple eyes.
These woods were not elf woods, but to her, born where she had been, moved to other places of cold , dark dread, they emanted beauty and peace.
The scent of a fecund spring was all around her. If it had not been for her clenched fear, not for her, but for Tar, she would have believed she walked through some sweet, grace of a dream. then the trees around her became alive, as around her men armed with arrows and swords, surrounded her. She put up her hands, and stood quite still. Hands patted over her, not ungently, and removed her long knife, then a callused hand pushed back her threadbare hood. Her tousled hair fell back from her delicately pointed ears . '' Elf? ' The man spoke in the Common tongue of men, which one day would become standard Westron. The orcs in Saurons service, and the Easterlings spoke different tongues, but not too dissimilar to this, and her mind allowed her to thread words together and understand.
'' Please.. '' she said, '' there is danger, we... I am being hunted by servants of .. my,.. of Sauron, ''
They stared at her, but to them she was an elf, and so wayworn , her clothes poorer than any of theirs, that they concluded she could be not threat. '' Bring her, we will try to find the Marchwardens of Doriath''
Tar who had followed her, in secret, cloaking himself with power even from her, for her mind was confused and filled with fear, watched, his face still marked with tears. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, his young face set hard, then he turned, his shoulders rose and fell and he set his steps back north, into over six thousand years of war, of pain, of slavery , of pain, and torment and abuse.
Joined: Dec 2006 Gender: Male Posts: 22 Location: Ea Karma: 0
Re: Dark Memories - son of Sauron- Rated Age 17 + « Reply #1 on Dec 8, 2006, 7:03am »
The manacles on his wrists clinked , blood had run from his wrists, a molten, red tinged gold, but whatever metal Morgoth had formed these of, it did not char, the corrosive blood bubbled on it, but scarcely melted it. He lay , on his stomach, pain flashed through him with each movement, but under the tousled raven hair the amethyst eyes were savage, brilliant with hate, and resolve. Beside him, in dark dreams, Morgoth slumbered, his passion, for now spent. On his brow the two remaining Silmarils shone with unearthly radiance. Raising his head, Tar looked at them, they were blinding, and yet they did not blind, they seemed to make all the shadows darker, but they shone over Tars young face, shaping it out of white stone, and reflected in his eyes. So beautiful they were, that he could have wept with the grace of seeing them. He wondered if they would burn him, if he stretched forth his hand, as they had burned Morgoths, even through the casket where they had lain when he stole them from Formenos. ~ Of course they would, are you not evil, son of Sauron ~ he thought with bitter self mockery.
He dropped his face again, closing his eyes. He could feel the native power in his own body gradually lessening the pain, he knew that he had only to wait. But still, always, and uselessly , he would struggle. it was a matter of pride that he always fought.
Morgoth would only loose him when he wished to, he could only use this time to heal, and stoke the internal fires of his rage and hatred.
He turned his head away, towards the darkness whch lurked in every corner of this sombrely splendid room . He was weary, so weary with fighting and pain, and the relief as it began to fade, that had he been alone he would have slept, but dared not. Morgoth was dreaming, his dreams were like a seething thundercloud, making restless all who dwelled in Angband, for if their Master was disturbed, so were they all . Tar fought against tiredness, but his mental barriers were no match for the strength of Morgoths and the dreams entered him as he sank into exausted sleep.
The sound of battle above echoed down through the myriad levels of tunnels and mines of Angband. Reports came to him frequently, but Morgoth did not need the messengers to tell him of what transpired in his own realm. He was losing, and he knew it. The force he sent against those who pursued him was utterly defeated on the fields of Mithrim, with almost no loss to his enemy.
A lone messenger came through the door leading into Morgoth’s throne room. “My lord,” he coughed, “the Noldor have won the … gates.” After relaying his message, the orc fell to the floor, an arrow in his back. The sound of fighting became less muffled. His enemy was inside the fortress. Releasing every creature concocted by his dark imagination had availed nothing.
Leaving Sauron and the Balrogs to hold the throne room, Morgoth fled deeper and deeper into the caves he delved. He was beyond now where even his greatest servants were permitted, or even knew of, for these tunnels Morgoth alone carved. Deeper he went, over chasm and fire-pit, until he came at last to a private chamber. Therein he locked himself, putting forth his power to mask his trail.
“I only flee because I am still weak from my encounter with Ungoliant,” he told himself. The darkness absorbed his words, returning no reply. The sounds of battle and the clashing of swords echoed down to him. Then there came great thuds, shaking the walls of his mighty fortress to its foundations, and all became silent. The silence became overwhelming, the darkness overpowering, as Morgoth sat cowering in his chamber. It felt as if the darkness would choke Morgoth himself, and that is when he realized he didn’t have them. The Silmarilli! Somehow, he had left his crown in the throne room.
For a while still Morgoth sat in the dark, brooding. The silence above, and his overwhelming desire for the Silmarilli, however, eventually caused him to venture forth from his chamber. Slowly and cautiously he climbed the paths back to his throne room, ever watchful, ever wary. The silence continued, an emptiness beyond reasoning.
As Morgoth drew closer to his throne room, the faint sound of a lyre came to his ears. Then it was joined by soft singing. He knew that he should be wary, that he should return now to his hidden chamber and forsake the Silmarilli, but he was compelled to go on, unable to make any movement but towards the door at the end of the hall. The only sound, only life, in the entire fortress came in the sound beyond that door. He reached out his hand toward the doors, and the sound stopped altogether as they began to open of their own accord.
Fear filled him as he took in the appearance of the room. The tapestries celebrating his wickedness were torn down. Statues showing his victories were now in pieces. Pillars lay across the walkway, scarred from the clash of blade against stone. Weaponry and other instruments of torture and death lay strewn across the floor. A soft radiant light came from the throne, and Morgoth was compelled to enter.
As he passed the rubble of destruction, he came upon another disturbing sight: the corpses of his Balrogs. Against one of the pillars still standing rested another unmoving form. It was that of Morgoth’s chief lieutenant, Sauron. From his broken form came shallow breathing, but it was too faint for him to be anything but dying. It was as if Sauron had been left there as the least significant foe in the entire fortress.
As Morgoth gazed upon this, a voice came from the throne. “Looking for something, jail-crow of Mandos?” Merely by the voice was Morgoth able to determine its owner, and that its owner was of a fell manner. Morgoth’s attention turned toward his throne, where a form sat in an arrogant, brooding manner. The soft light shining from the throne offered little visibility in the shadows of Morgoth’s throne room. Hatred and contempt shone in the form’s eyes, and upon his brow rested an Iron Crown, once belonging to Morgoth, but now there were three empty settings upon it.
“Do you desire this?” the voice demanded, as the form’s hand opened to reveal the brilliance of a Silmaril. No longer encased by the form’s hand, the light of the Silmaril began to drive the shadows of the throne room into retreat, revealing the full majesty of the form of Fëanor, son of Finwë, and Morgoth’s chief foe. Light grew as two more forms appeared to either side of the throne. Opening their hands, Morgoth saw Fingolfin to Fëanor’s right and Finarfin to his left, equally as fey as their brother.
In awe, Morgoth could not speak or move. He could feel the heat that had scorched his hand through the casket, even from several feet away. He had no hope, unless…, if Morgoth could play to their pride… but even as he began to formulate his plan, his hopes were dashed as something sharp struck his cheek. Flinching in pain, Morgoth touched his face. Something felt strange. Looking at his hand, he saw blood on his fingers. He was bleeding! As he looked back toward the throne, he now saw all three standing before him. By the fell light in their eyes, Morgoth now perceived their anger had driven them beyond reason or guile by words. Light from the Silmarilli began to pour into Morgoth’s wound, burning him as it ran ever deeper. Fëanor raised his sword and swung down….
Morgoth awoke with a start, looking around for Fëanor. Slowly, memory came back to him. The Noldor were divided before they even left Aman. Fëanor was slain in his first battle. The Silmarilli were safely in his crown. Morgoth checked his cheek. A scratch, but no blood. Looking for his crown, Morgoth saw it upon the ground, with the skin of a werewolf next to it. Lifting up his crown, he noticed an empty socket where a Silmaril had been only moments before.......
Tar snapped fully awake, tense, his muscles clenched as Morgoth stirred and groaned, in memory of his recurring nightmare. The black curls clung damply to Tars brow, but it could be seen that his finely cut mouth curved in a faint smile.
You feared them he thought, You feared those brothers and their power, their spirit, and you still fear.My kin. The Noldor!
A burning hand caught the curls of his damp hair and dragged his neck back so that he thought it would snap, he tasted blood as he bit down on his lip to stop the cry breaking from his throat .
Do you mock me, BOY? The voice was a roar in his mind, of savage hate.
This time Tar could not swallow the screams, nor hold back the tears of pain, but still he fought until unconsciouness claimed him, and his torn and bruised and battered body found its own release from agony.
Present Day
The amethyst eyes focussed. He sat up, the sheet falling back from his chest. His hand had come from under his pillow holding a dagger, the burning eyes swept the room, dark, sombre, black marble, adamant, and velvet : rather like himself; there was an intimation in him of great, sheathed power . Just as cross-breeds are often stronger that either of their pure-bred parents, just as Luthien had been able to face Sauron ( like Tar, half Maia half Elf ) Sauron was aware he had to keep his son on a tight leash, bound to his mind, so that whatever boiled and seethed underneath those amethyst eyes would never erupt and boil over and scald all it touched....
Joined: Dec 2006 Gender: Male Posts: 22 Location: Ea Karma: 0
Re: Dark Memories - son of Sauron- Rated Age 17 + « Reply #2 on Dec 8, 2006, 5:03pm »
.....the Throne Room of Angband, upheld by horror, lit with hellish light, and in the shadows slithered shapes of demons drawn to their masters side, hissing, whispering, .... in that place Tar, born eighteen years before, was as nothing. His father had opened the boys mind to all he deemed necessary for him to know, then begun his training, for he already knew what he would use the child for, who would grow tall and strong, and deadly. Noldor prisoners were kept here, and they - among others were ordered to train the boy. A place of darkness, and of terror, cursed.
And Morgoth had bade this youth be brought to him. He was huge, towering above Tar, although not so gigantic in stature as he could appear, and it seemed, in an oddly dislocating moment that he made himself become less tall - later Tar knew it was to enjoy himself more, not to be so gigantic that he would just kill with his useage. His robe was black, darker even that that, a swallowing of light, legacy perhaps of Ungoliant, and his eyes were flame, all he could see was his eyes, and above them the shining glory of the Silmarils..the two that were left, anyway, Beren had cut one from that Iron Crown. The eyes burned like flame and dry ice, and Tar who had thought he had strength, found himself shivering. His fathers hads unrobed him, and he felt terror, unable to move as the eyes burned through him over him. beautiful he had been as a child, in that haunted Isle, and growing more beautiful, pale golden skin, and Elven beauty which shone like a star. He locked his buckling knees, but suddenly hands touched him, turned him, one of them burned, it was black, it had been burned by the Silmarils within their casket, he recalled in a jerk of hysterical memory.
That burning hand touched him, and his soul rebelled, screamed , threshed wildly, for a way out. ' Saes! Daro! Saes! ' He continued repeating the words like a prayer, but he knew no-one would take notice . He gasped and choked down a sob, it burned, it hurt , and he tasted blood on his lips as the fingers forced him apart. ' Father help me, ' he gasped, in desperation and heard hissing laughter around him from the shadows - it was indeed desperate because he knew what his father was and knew he would never get any help from him, it was the first and last time he ever called his father that, - and he heard his cold, amused laughter...... this would have happened to Cerridwen, was his last coherent thought... His knees gave way, as pain tore through him using him and taking pleasure from him, and his agony and innocence, for no-one had ever touched him. He gave a whimper, a groan of pain, torn from him, even as he tried to swallow it. The pain swamped him, and he heard himself begging for it to stop...then his mind fled away, unhinged by the pain, and when he came to, burning with torn muscles, bruises, burns from that black hand , he was back in his cold, black room, And he knew then he could never break, he could never cry, his fear, his pain, would all be as food to the evil here, his father would only laugh. There was no-one to hear him, no-one to reach out to, he was utterly alone.
Morgoth liked , but without the imaginatiion that Tar would come to also love. Only because Tar was developing into the finest warrior Morgoth and Sauron had, and with a quality of leadership, was he allowed to progress and grow, sent into the east. But Morgoth remembered him and sent for him at times, to punish and play with, and as Tar grew older, stronger, and more willing to fight, and more enraged at this useage, Morgoth enjoyed it the more. The stronger he became the more Morgoth enjoyed humbling him, wanting to break that fierce pride which shone in the eyes of Saurons son, the hate, the resolution not to break. It was the Eldalie pride, the Noldor pride and fire and beauty which he hated - and lusted after.
Perhaps it had been that very first time, when Tar realised that he was nothing, he was just a thing, to pleasure oneself on, that he determined to find all the ways of pleasure there were, in artistry and patience and passion , because he would never, he vowed, take any-one like that, like an animal, without finesse. He shook his head, remembering his fierce, smiling joy when the War of Wrath had seen Morgoth chained forever.
By the time he rode into Uldors camp, he had already experimented with many men and women, mostly human , and elven prisoners more rarely, and knew how to give pleasure , seduce, take, give, make the most reluctant partner explode with lust. Lebennens breaking in had been far less brutal, he only hurt him to show him who was the master.
But after Morgoths demise Sauron would use him to punish him, because he knew how much his son hated that humiliation, to feel helpless at the hands of a greater power, but he lacked the nuance of subtlty to grasp that he could have tormented his son more effectively, had he been skilled enough to make him feel pleasure, he was not enough of a sensualist to appreciate those finer points, not enough of a student of human or elven nature. Which was why it had not been Sauron who broke down Maglors defences, it had been Tar, who did understand this.
Thus it had happened, and thus it was. Two sides of the coin, one who became what he was, the other , the lost twin, who had escaped it, given her freedom by her brothers grace, and his own servitude of thousands of years, freely given so she might escape , something in him loving, despite his birth, and hers, despite his dark blood. The light that shone in him was not his fathers, it was of his Noldoli blood.
Joined: Dec 2006 Gender: Male Posts: 22 Location: Ea Karma: 0
Re: Dark Memories - son of Sauron- Rated Age 17 + « Reply #3 on Dec 11, 2006, 10:19am »
He could feel his fathers anger burning, causing Orodruin to erupt, although a hundred miles away from Barad Dur, the red light in the sky, stained the black walls of his rooms as he rose and dressed, summoned to his fathers presence. The Chamber of the Eye, the topmost course of the Dark Tower.
Veils of Shadow wove around Sauron, as his long fingers rested on the Ithil Stone, the Palantir he had brought here from Minas Ithil.
Find me the Ring, The voice beat in Tars mind like a lead weight, hot and hollow. The Ulari were searching for it, but they were known and feared.
'' And where would you like me to search my lord? '' Tar asked, calmly, there was a hiss, then the cat-like eyes swung to him, this his son, shining like an earthbound star with that unmistakable Noldoli beauty in the terrible place.
They will take it to Gondor This was what Sauron truly believed, since the idea that some-one would seek to destroy it, never crossed his mind. The fact that it was indeed now in Minas Tirith, only tallied with what he believed.
' My lord, you are preparing to attack Gondor, '' Tar replied, '' do you not need me here? ''
The terrible eyes pierced his own, he felt a rake of pain sear through his nerves, from his fathers power.
I have other commanders Tarcallion. Go.
Tar bowed and turned, his steps down from the chamber were light, he kept his face blank,
Lebennen , to my rooms, we go to Gondor,
Any time he was ordered to leave Mordor, for whatever reason, Tar enjoyed . In a life where so few things gave him joy, and his pleasures were esoteric and hardly comprehensible, save to any who had not lived his long, long life, to put Mordor behind him, on any mission, lifted his spirits.
An hour later, two figures rode from Barad Dur, the Eye watching them as they came to the Morannon, and the words were spoken to open the Black Gate,. As the sun set in the west, the two riders passed out, and turned south, ... into Ithilien.
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