A Candle To This Everlasting Night by plutoniumsx  

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A Candle To This Everlasting Night

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In his head, he saw the stars, every one of them twinkling at him in mock sympathy. Sometimes he saw the trees as well, their light a faint shimmer of a memory long passed. He hated it here. Before, when he had opened his eyes, the darkness surrounding him had looked him right back in the eyes. Now when he opened his eyes he saw light. The kind of light that shone nearly as bright as Laurelin and Telperion had, but when he looked down he could only imagine the shackles chaining his wrists and ankles. Because all the saw was black. The light was shining, but everything it might have touched stayed dark.

He had lost track of time a long time ago. Or perhaps it had just been a few minutes — how would he know? He didn't. He cared so so much, but in this hell-hole of darkness there was only so much you could do, apparently.

And then all of a sudden he was hearing footsteps. Ha. He really was going insane in here. Flickering candlelight was approaching him, ascended from his deepest darkest nightmares to haunt him. Illusions.

At least, it was illusions until he looked down at his hands and saw a glint of steel, doused in the faint orange glow of the steadily approaching candle.

They were coming for him.

He exhaled softly, willing the chill to leave his bones, willing himself to be strong, fiery, like a son of Fëanáro should be. He was no longer a son of Fëanáro; Fëanáro was dead and his legacy with him. He was an insignificant prisoner in a fortress bigger than anything fathomable and darker than darkness itself and They were coming for him. He was a great warrior, reduced to shutting his eyes before his enemies like a coward instead of meeting the gaze he could feel burning into his skin.

“Mai ovantanë, melethel,” the voice holding the candle drawled.

“Terribly sorry for the... negligence. You're doing quite alright, no, precious?” Rough hands threaded into his hair and his head was yanked back with a stinging pain on his scalp.

He gave a weak sound of protest, head swimming from malnourishment.

“Eyes on me, Maitimo melethel.”

He swallowed, then slowly opened his eyes. Gold hair shifting to pink; marbled skin; clothes of finest silk and leather; eyes of blackest black, two endless voids eyeing him hungrily, pierced only in the middle by a spark of gold.

There was no candle.

The flame was burning from the strangers hand, leaping high, then flickering down to a faintly shimmering glow.

Maia, Maitimo thought, even as he watched the flame, entranced. The pain in his scalp, the burn of cold air against his throat, the aches in his body; all seemed to fade to background noise in front of this.

He hissed in pain when flame made scorching contact with skin; his skin. The stranger watched in amusement.

He knew who this was, Maitimo thought. “Sauron,” he gasped, forcing the words painfully out of his throat.

“Alayondo, Maitimo,” Sauron replied with a wolfish grin. “You do remember Macilindë, no? I believe her last request was to see you again, would be a shame to ignore so earnest a plea.” There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke and Maitimo was too weak to figure out what it meant.

He just nodded. Of course he remembered Macilindë. He thought he remembered her, in any case. His mind was doing him the great courtesy of refusing to summon a clearly discernible vision of her. He thought their last interaction had been on that day, the day he had gravely miscalculated the strength of their enemy and gotten his men slaughtered and killed, and the reason he was here in the first place. Had Macilindë, his best General, then survived?

“On your feet, Maitimo. Up you get,” Sauron said, almost cheerfully. Maitimo felt a hand in his back, dragging him into what could probably be considered a standing position. He felt metal at his mouth, cold, hard, and he was already eagerly swallowing down the water before he even realized what it was. His throat was chapped and burning and Eru when was the last time he had drank something?

But then the water was gone again, and he gasped for air as it flooded his lungs once again.

“Be a Good Boy and I’ll give you some more,” Sauron whispered in his ear. “Now, off you go.” He felt a push at his back, and nearly stumbled over the chain between his ankles. “Come on.”

“I… can’t-” he forced out of his mouth.

“Oh, no, don’t be so pessimistic now, melethel. I’m not allowed to remove those. You’ll have to deal with it.”

—

Finally, after what seemed like ages of chafed ankled and throbbing headaches, Sauron stopped.

“Now, Maitimo melethel, you shall meet Macilindë again.” His face morphed into a leering grin, before he pushed open the door.

The putrid stench of death filled his nose almost immediately.

Sauron gave a small push, and he stumbled inside the room. Maitimo gagged.

“What-” he choked out. Sauron was steering him towards the middle of the room, and when he looked down, he—

“No-”

“Macil-”

He fell to his knees. His breathing was a staccato of inhales and exhales. His General was — dead.

“Now, now, melethel. Be a little more thorough. Observe.” Maitimo shrank away from his touch.

“Come now, Maitimo,” Sauron reached for the rotting corpse, and pulled something out; long, thin, wiry. Twisting and turning and writhing between his fingers. He held it out for Maitimo to see.

So Maitimo looked.

It was a maggot. And it was eating it's way through Saurons hand; right through the middle. Maitimo thought he saw small sharp teeth grinding through skin and flesh and bone; there was no blood. He was going to be sick.

“Come on, don't you see how efficient they are? I barely let them out an hour ago,” Sauron said, voice dropping to a honey-sweet whisper, as if this conversation were confidential. He felt himself leaning over.

His blood ran cold through his veins.

Macilindë’s corpse was rotting, remnants of dried blood forming hardened crusts along her body, and — oh Eru have mercy — her body was littered with millions up millions of little black spots. Not spots, he realized — holes. Her body was a canvas and the painter were the thousands of little maggots currently gnawing their ways through her corpse.

Maitimo was hyperventilating.

“Voracious little beasts, aren't they?” Sauron’s hand was on his shoulder, though it felt the furthest away from a comforting pat possible. “Wanna know how I made them?” His voice took on a distinctly excited cadence, and he set the maggot he had still been holding back down on the corpse, where it soon disappeared into rotting flesh. There was no wound on his hand.

He coughed, chest and throat constricting in pain. “N- no…” he managed weakly.

“Oh but darling,” Sauron crooned, “You’ll want to know what will happen to your body once you're dead.”

—

Maitimo had the distinct feeling that someone was driving a knife into his hand; rough edged and twisting and writhing and —

Oh sweet Eru —

But Sauron had said when he was dead.

His throat was dry, hoarse from erratic screams, his head was throbbing and his limbs were aching, the breath was leaving his mouth faster than he could catch up; his flesh was the main course.

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Chapter End Notes

Translations (quenya):

-mai ovantanë - well met (self translated, might be wrong)

-melethel - darling

-alayonde - attaboy/good boy (again, self translated)

Name Translations:

-Macilindë - Sword-song, from Macil - sword and Lindë - Song