Flames of darkness

***

Maiar and Elves do not tire; this is a truth forged in the very heart of their immortal nature. Their strength, their passion, their fury—all of it is inexhaustible, like a flame burning in the depths of the world, never extinguishing for even a moment. Myron, consumed by an inner fire, pressed his lips together irritably, his long, slender fingers nervously fidgeting with heavy rings as if trying to release the storm raging within his chest. This gesture was a harbinger of trouble, and everyone who knew him understood: the wrath of the Maia was about to erupt, destructive and unstoppable. The orc servant, sensing the approaching storm, hurriedly left the chambers, carrying away the flickering stubs of candles, like shadows of fear clinging to his steps. Adar, seated in a chair upholstered with coarse pigskin, covertly watched his lord. His gaze was filled with anxious anticipation; he knew that Myron, in his usual fervor, would sooner or later pour out everything that tormented his soul. But the silence dragged on, and that was worse than any words. Adar understood: if the Maia did not release his rage in speech, he would channel it into the torture chamber, where one of the Uruk's charges would fall in agony, a victim of their master's insatiable thirst for pain. “Tell me, my lord, what weighs on you this time?” Adar finally ventured, though every sound uttered in the presence of the Shadow required fourfold deliberation. His voice trembled with a mix of fear and concern, but he could not remain silent, seeing Myron teeter on the edge of madness. Myron froze, his gaze, sharp as a blade, piercing into Adar. For a moment, confusion flickered in his eyes, as if he saw before him a forgotten hound, and then his lips stretched into a strange, almost pained smile. “You? I didn’t even notice you enter,” he muttered, his voice soft but laced with an undercurrent of threat, enveloping like cold silk. Myron approached, his fingers, trembling and almost tender, brushing the scars on Adar’s cheek with the back of his hand, but in this gesture, there was less affection and more a desire to possess, to dominate. “I awaited your orders, master,” Adar replied quietly, striving not to flinch under that gaze. “You repented before the Valar; they await you to join the captive Maiar and return to Aman. Allow me to disband the army. We are weary of war, my lord.” A spark of malice, dark as the abyss from which he drew his power, flared in Myron’s eyes. His smile grew sharp, almost feral. “Are you certain that’s worth doing?” His voice dripped with venom, each syllable steeped in challenge. “But you yourself, my lord, wept yesterday, burying your face in my chest, cursing the day you joined Melkor,” Adar cautiously reminded, his tone soft but heavy with pain. He remembered Myron’s tears, his trembling hands, his despair, yet he could not fathom how the fire that consumed him yesterday had today turned into cold resolve. “Yesterday was yesterday!” Myron snapped with a scornful smirk, his eyes glinting like burning coals. “Today, I am different. Your caresses have healed me, Adar. I feel the strength returning to my veins, the fire reigniting. I will stay here. I will not surrender. Their judgment is a pitiful farce, and I’ve long been forgotten. Let them try to come for me!” “But Melkor is no more, my lord,” Adar countered, his voice faltering as he took Myron’s hand in his own, pressing his lips to his fingers in a gesture of submission and despair. “There is no longer any reason to fight. We have lost.” Myron yanked his hand from Adar’s grasp with fury, his fingers digging into the Uruk’s hair at the nape of his neck, forcing him to meet his blazing eyes. The Maia’s face contorted, veins of Shadow like black lightning emerging on his skin, revealing his true nature. “Melkor is gone, but I remain! They have not broken me… and they will not!” he roared, his voice like thunder that shook the walls. “Or do you, Adar, think otherwise?” The Uruk lowered his gaze, his heart torn between love and pain. He loved this being, despite all his sins and madness. He had left his people to follow him, this untamable fire that burned in Myron’s chest, his eyes blazing with fierce flame, his words that could freeze the blood in one’s veins, his gaze that stripped away will and subjugated. Adar was ready to forgive him everything—every outburst of anger, every cruelty—for the sake of staying by the side of this embodiment of passion and chaos. “You promised…” Adar began, but his voice broke. “Yes, yesterday I promised that we would be together… forever,” Myron softened, his tone almost tender, though a threat lingered in that tenderness. “I promised that our Uruks would be reborn, become a beautiful, strong people. I swore to rid them of the deformity Melkor imposed upon them. I promised to heal your ‘children,’ as you call them. I remember every word. But to show weakness now is to doom ourselves, to corner ourselves with no way out.” Adar sighed heavily, rising from the chair and shrugging off his master’s hand from his shoulder. His soul was torn between love and exhaustion, between loyalty and the desire for peace. “I no longer believe you, my lord,” he threw out, heading for the exit, but Myron, swift as a shadow, seized his arm and sharply spun him around. His elegant yet strong hand rested on the nape of Adar’s neck, pulling him closer. Myron’s gaze, cold and burning at once, pierced through him, making the Uruk’s heart race. Adar felt his knees weaken, his will draining under this look, filled with cruel, all-consuming passion. This gaze did not ask—it demanded, dominated, incinerated everything in its path. And Adar, as always, was powerless before this force, before this fire that burned in the eyes of his beloved, never fading for a moment, just as the strength of the Maiar does not wane, just as the Elves do not tire in their endless struggle. Adar stood frozen, his breath heavy, almost ragged, under the weight of that gaze that seared and bound him simultaneously. He knew resistance was futile—Myron always knew how to dominate, even without resorting to force, with merely his presence, his unyielding energy. But deep within, the Uruk still clung to hope, to that faint glimmer of light he saw in his lord in rare moments of vulnerability. He remembered those nights when Myron, broken and lost, sought solace in his embrace, whispering words of remorse, swearing that everything would change. Yet each time the darkness within him prevailed, those promises dissolved like morning mist under the rays of a merciless sun. “You always do this,” Adar rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of pain and desire. “You burn me with your gaze, make me forget everything I should remember. But how much longer, my lord? How much longer must I endure your shifts, your rage, your Shadow?” Myron slightly loosened his grip but did not let go, his fingers still firmly holding the nape of Adar’s neck. A shadow of something like regret flickered across his face, but it vanished, washed away by a wave of cold determination. His lips curled into a half-smile, dangerous and alluring, like the edge of an abyss beckoning one closer. “You’ve endured it for centuries, my loyal Adar,” he said, his voice low, almost velvety, but with a sharp, cutting edge. “And you will endure it further. Because you know: without me, you are nothing. Without my fire, you will grow cold; without my Shadow, you will be lost in the grayness of this world. You belong to me, just as I belong to my nature. We are bound, whether you wish it or not.” Adar closed his eyes, trying to shield himself from these words, but they seeped into him like poison, slow but inevitable. He knew Myron was right—their bond was unbreakable, forged in the fire of war and pain, in endless cycles of betrayal and forgiveness. But this truth tore at his heart. He longed for freedom, for peace for himself and his ‘children,’ the Uruks who suffered under the yoke of endless war. But how could one walk away from someone who had become their essence, their pain, and their passion? “And if I leave?” Adar asked quietly, opening his eyes and meeting Myron’s gaze. There was no challenge in his voice, only weariness and a shadow of hope. “If I refuse to follow you? What then, my lord?” Myron laughed, but there was no mirth in that laughter—only cold, merciless mockery. He released Adar, stepping back, but his presence still weighed heavily, like a shadow from which there was no escape. “Leave?” he echoed, his eyes narrowing, his voice sharp as a blade. “You won’t leave, Adar. You may think you’re capable of it, but deep down, you know: you’ll return. You always return. Because without me, your life loses meaning. You are mine, and that won’t change, even if you flee to the edge of the world. I will find you. I always find what belongs to me.” Adar clenched his fists, the scars on his face seeming to pulse with memories of the past, of the times when he first saw Myron—majestic, blazing, the very embodiment of chaos. Back then, he was ready to give everything for the chance to follow him, to touch that fire, even if it burned him to the bone. But now, that fire had become his curse, his chain, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to break it. Myron, as if reading his thoughts, stepped closer, his hand resting on Adar’s shoulder again, but this time the gesture was almost gentle, though the threat still lingered. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, his breath brushing against the Uruk’s ear, making him shudder. “We will create a new world, you and I. A world where the Uruks will be free, where the Shadow will become light for those who follow us. But for that, you must trust me. You must stay with me. Or do you want everything we’ve fought for to burn into nothingness?” Adar did not answer. His mind battled his heart, his duty against his love. He knew that every choice he made would lead to pain—either his own or that of those he swore to protect. But Myron’s gaze, that unquenchable fire, that cold, dominating heat, gave him no chance to retreat. Maiar and Elves do not tire, their passion does not fade, their struggle does not cease. And Adar, being merely an Uruk, could not resist this eternal force that pulled him into the abyss, promising both salvation and destruction. Adar felt his will melting under that gaze, like wax beneath a flame. His chest tightened, his breath grew uneven, and his thoughts tangled like threads in the hands of an unskilled weaver. He knew Myron was right in one thing: their bond was not just a choice but an inevitability, forged in the fire of their shared history, in endless battles and nights filled with pain and passion. But this inevitability was his burden, his cage, and every time he tried to break free, the chains only dug deeper into his flesh. Myron, seeing Adar’s inner struggle, leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing the Uruk’s ear, his voice becoming even more insidious, almost hypnotic. “Do you think you can find peace without me?” he whispered, mockery laced with something akin to genuine pain threading through his words. “Do you think the Valar will accept you, forgive you, give you a new home? No, Adar. You are a child of Darkness, just like me. We are made of the same chaos, and only together can we endure. Reject me, and you reject yourself.” Adar struggled to pull away, taking a step back, though every muscle in his body protested the movement. His gaze dropped to the floor, to the worn stone slabs marked by traces of past battles, much like his own soul. He tried to find the strength to respond, to object, but the words stuck in his throat. Myron knew how to wound not just with a blade but with words, with every glance, every gesture, piercing the deepest corners of the heart. “I don’t want to reject you, my lord,” Adar finally managed, his voice hoarse, almost broken. “But I can no longer bear to see my children suffer. They die not only by the swords of our enemies but by your wrath, by your decisions. If you want a new world, why must that world begin with their pain?” Myron straightened, his face becoming inscrutable for a moment, like a mask hiding a storm of emotions. But then his lips curled into a smile again, cold and sharp as a winter wind. He crossed his arms over his chest, his rings glinting in the dim torchlight, casting ominous shadows on the walls. “Pain is the price of strength, Adar,” he said with icy certainty. “Your children suffer because they are weak. But I will make them stronger. I will burn away their weakness, just as I burn away my own. You want salvation for them? Then trust me. I don’t promise an easy path, but I promise victory. Or would you rather they rot in oblivion under the rule of those who despise their very existence?” Adar clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth grated. He knew there was truth in Myron’s words—the Valar and Elves would never accept the Uruks, would never see them as anything but spawn of Darkness. But he also knew that the price Myron demanded might be too high. He recalled the faces of his warriors, their weary gazes, their cries in the night when nightmares of past and present mingled in their dreams. He had sworn to protect them, to give them hope, but every day under Myron’s rule, that hope melted like snow under the sun. “And if the victory you speak of destroys everything we’ve fought for?” Adar asked, lifting his gaze to Myron. His voice was quiet, but it carried a rare resolve for him in the presence of the Maia. “If your fire burns not only our enemies but us as well?” Myron fell silent, his eyes narrowing, a spark of something Adar couldn’t decipher—irritation or doubt—flashing within them. But then he stepped forward, his hand resting on the Uruk’s shoulder again, this time with more force than tenderness. “Fire purifies, Adar,” he said, his voice firm as granite. “If we are destined to burn, we will burn together, creating a new world from the ashes. But I will not let you retreat. You are part of this flame, whether you want it or not. And if you try to leave, I will become your ashes, your shadow, your doom. We are bound, and this bond is stronger than any oath, stronger than any doubt.” Adar felt his heart constrict at these words. He knew Myron wasn’t lying—his passion, his Shadow, his unyielding will were as eternal as the strength of the Maiar, as the tirelessness of the Elves in their endless struggle. But he also knew that this bond could be his end, his final breath before Myron’s fire consumed him entirely. Yet, despite the fear, despite the pain, he couldn’t tear his gaze from those burning eyes, couldn’t help but feel his own soul drawn to this chaos, to this abyss that called to him with unrelenting force. In the dimly lit room, steeped in the thick aroma of exotic spices and incense, the air felt heavy, almost tangible. The scents, as if alive, flowed from the ancient walls adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and forgotten symbols that seemed to whisper of past mysteries. The flickering, uncertain light of candles cast eerie shadows on the cold stone, creating the sensation that the space itself breathed with an otherworldly life. At the center of the room loomed a bed, draped in heavy velvet of deep crimson, its downy pillows beckoning with softness and luxury, contrasting with the grim atmosphere. Myron and Adar stood facing each other, separated by an invisible wall of silence, saturated with unspoken emotions and tension that could be cut with a blade. Myron’s eyes, blazing with untamable fire, bore into Adar with such intensity that the Uruk felt his own will bending under that gaze. Myron’s hand, firm yet with a deceptive tenderness, gripped Adar’s chin, holding his face so he couldn’t look away. Adar felt the heat radiating from the Maia’s body, saw in his pupils a hunger—not just physical, but deep, almost feral, the same hunger that had once torn him from the world of Elven blood and bound him to this dark, unfathomable being. “You are mine, Adar, aren’t you?” Myron’s voice was low, dangerous, like the whisper of a storm before it unleashes its fury on all living things. “You’ve always been mine.” Adar swallowed with difficulty, his heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might shatter his ribcage. “Yes, my lord…” he exhaled, his voice trembling, but there was no lie in it. Myron’s hand slid from Adar’s chin to his long, dark hair, gripping it tightly and yanking his head back, exposing his vulnerable throat. The Uruk let out an involuntary groan, his eyes closing as Myron’s lips brushed the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving a searing trail. The pain was sweet, almost unbearable, sending waves of shivers through Adar’s body, making him feel every beat of his pulse. Myron’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Adar’s scalp, while his hips moved forward, pressing the hardness of his desire against Adar’s body. “I’ve always been yours,” Adar hissed, his hands clutching Myron’s back in desperation, trying to pull him even closer, as if hoping to dissolve into this fire. “And you are mine,” Myron growled, his voice deep, guttural, steeped in primal passion. He released Adar’s hair, but only to shove him forcefully toward the bed. Adar stumbled back, his eyes never leaving Myron, until he collapsed onto the soft velvet sheets. Myron followed with the grace of a predator, his dark figure looming over the Uruk like a shadow from which there was no escape. He straddled Adar’s hips, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his waist, trapping him in a cage of flesh and desire. “Undress me,” Myron commanded, his voice saturated with a domineering thirst that brooked no argument. Adar’s fingers trembled as he reached for the intricate buckles and ties of Myron’s leather armor, each movement filled with trepidation and anticipation. Myron gazed down at him, his eyes burning with hunger, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. The air in the room grew thick with their shared arousal, mingled with the scent of sweat, spices, and the deep, animalistic musk of their passion. Myron’s armor fell to the floor with a dull thud, revealing sculpted muscles that seemed carved from marble but burned with living heat. Adar’s breath hitched as his palms slid over Myron’s chest, feeling the firmness and strength beneath the skin. He leaned in, his lips brushing Myron’s nipple, eliciting a low, almost bestial growl from the Maia. Adar’s tongue circled the nipple, making it harden under his touch, while Myron gripped the Uruk’s head with both hands, his fingers tangling in thick black hair as his hips moved in rhythm with mounting desire. “You’re too skilled, my lord,” Adar whispered, pulling away from Myron’s skin and leaving a wet trail. His tongue slid lower, over the taut muscles of Myron’s abdomen, feeling them quiver under his touch. “Continue, Adar,” Myron growled, his voice hoarse with impatience, his fingers, now sprouting dark claws of Shadow, digging into Adar’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “I can’t wait any longer.” Finally, Adar’s hands reached Myron’s leather trousers, the fragile buckles and straps yielding to his fingers, scattering aside. He slowly pulled the fabric down, revealing the hardness and power of his master. His gaze lingered on the sight, his own desire becoming almost unbearable, straining against the fabric of his clothing. “Do you want me, Adar?” Myron asked hoarsely, his eyes blazing with untamable passion that pierced through him. “Don’t answer. I see it in your clouded gaze.” He pulled Adar closer, his neck tensing as he leaned in for a kiss, hard and demanding. Myron’s tongue invaded the Uruk’s mouth, while his hands gripped Adar’s flesh with an almost painful force. The Maia’s teeth sank into Adar’s lower lip, making him gasp from a mix of pain and pleasure. Saliva trickled down the Uruk’s chin as the kiss grew hungrier, deeper, almost feral. Adar’s hands clawed at Myron’s back, fingers digging into skin, eliciting moans of pleasure from the Maia. Myron moved his hips, pinning Adar to the mattress with unrelenting strength. His smile, deceptively innocent, could have fooled anyone—but not Adar, who knew the abyss hidden behind that mask. This was a being not born of flesh, but of stardust, one who had known the secrets of the Light yet chosen the Shadow, embracing both its blessing and its curse. It was not a man who now toyed with Adar’s body. Myron could easily take any form—become a woman, seducing and tormenting with the same passion, or transform into a massive black wolf, tearing flesh with fangs and claws while retaining that same untamed hunger. Yet, for Adar, seeing him in this form, bestowed by Eru, felt almost sacred. He submitted, accepting their fiery passion, letting it burn him from within, knowing this fire was his fate, his chain, and his salvation. Every touch, every bite, every moan was part of their dance, where pain and pleasure intertwined into an unbreakable knot, where Shadow and loyalty became one. Adar felt his body and mind dissolve in this whirlwind of passion, where every edge of pain and pleasure became part of his being. Myron, as if an embodiment of Darkness itself, controlled this dance with terrifying certainty. His movements were both precise and wild, as if balancing on the edge of control and chaos. His hands, strong and commanding, slid over Adar’s body, leaving trails of heat and trembling in their wake. Every glance, every whisper from Myron sounded like a spell from which there was no escape. The Uruk knew resistance was futile—not because he was weak, but because this bond, this dependence on Myron, had been seared into his soul since the first time he saw him, surrounded by shadows and flame, a being belonging neither to Light nor Darkness, yet ruling over both. Myron, sensing Adar’s complete surrender, let out a low, almost animalistic growl, his lips curling into a triumphant smile. He pulled back for a moment to look down at the Uruk, his eyes burning like molten coals, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim candlelight. This moment of stillness was deceptive—Adar knew it would be followed by a new assault, even fiercer, even more consuming. Myron leaned closer, his breath scorching Adar’s skin, his voice deep and hoarse as he whispered into his ear: “You cannot escape me, Adar. Even if you try, I will find you. Even if you hide in the deepest shadows of Middle-earth, I will burn them away to drag you back. You are my creation, my reflection. And you will be mine until time itself turns to ash.” These words, spoken with such certainty, such unshakable belief in their shared destiny, made Adar’s heart clench. He knew Myron wasn’t lying—his will was like a force of nature, unstoppable and destructive, yet magnetic, like an abyss calling one to leap into it. Adar closed his eyes, letting the words seep into him, letting them mingle with the heat of Myron’s body, with his touches that were both punishment and reward. He felt his own desire, his own darkness, rise to meet this fire, merging with it into a single entity. Myron, giving Adar no time to think, pressed against him again, his movements sharper, more demanding. The bed beneath them creaked under the weight of their passion, the velvet sheets crumpling, soaked with the heat of their bodies. Adar let out a muffled moan, his fingers digging into Myron’s shoulders, leaving marks on his skin, but the Maia seemed to revel in the pain, his growl growing louder, almost primal. Their bodies moved in unison, as if they were parts of a single mechanism built for destruction and creation, for war and passion. The air in the room grew heavier, saturated with the scent of sweat, spices, and something ancient, almost mystical, that lingered between them, binding them tighter than any chain. Adar felt his control slipping away, drowning in this sea of sensations where there was no past, no future—only this moment, only Myron, only their bond, which was both his salvation and his curse. He knew that after this night, nothing would change—he would still be torn between his loyalty to his children, the Uruks, and this irresistible pull toward Myron, who was both god and demon to him. But in this moment, he didn’t think about it. He let himself dissolve in the fire, let himself be weak, let himself be entirely at the mercy of this being who knew how to break him and rebuild him anew. Myron, sensing Adar’s complete surrender, slowed his movements but didn’t loosen his grip. His hand slid to the Uruk’s face, fingers gently yet firmly grasping his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. There was no pity or doubt in those eyes—only absolute certainty, only a hunger that could never be fully sated. “You will never be free of me,” Myron said, his voice quiet but carrying a strength that could shatter mountains. “And you won’t want that freedom. Because without me, you are nothing.” Adar didn’t reply, but his eyes, filled with a mix of pain, passion, and submission, said everything. He knew these words were true. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he fought, he would always return to Myron, to this fire that consumed him but without which he could not live. Their passion, their bond, was not merely physical—it was metaphysical, forged in the heart of Darkness, and neither of them could break it, even if they wanted to.

***

The dimly lit bedroom in Myron’s fortress was a testament to his undeniable dominion. The walls, draped with opulent tapestries depicting scenes of bloody battles and triumphant conquests, held the memory of his victories in every thread. Heavy blackwood furniture, adorned with intricate carvings of runes and ancient glyphs, shimmered in the faint candlelight, as if imbued with magic itself. The air, thick and sweet with the scent of incense, enveloped everything, like the invisible presence of the master whose essence permeated every corner of this dark sanctuary. It became clear to Adar that his words about possibly leaving his master had turned against him. Myron, as if possessed, devoured him, sinking into him with a greed that sought not only to hold but to burn into him the understanding of what awaited a traitor. His touches were both punishment and passion, each gesture a warning laced with an almost painful desire. Yet, when the storm of their ecstasy subsided, they lay on the crumpled sheets, exhausted but bound by an invisible thread neither could sever. “You know why I value this body?” Myron’s voice, low and velvety, broke the silence as he reached for a tray of fruit on the bedside table. “For how it surrenders to pleasure, how it responds to every touch. And yours too, Adar, despite all the scars and wounds.” He plucked a juicy grape and offered it to Adar, his fingers lingering longer than necessary, brushing the Uruk’s lips with deceptive tenderness. “Eat.” Adar, accustomed to such rare displays of care, wasn’t surprised. He took the entire cluster from Myron’s hand, and the latter, with a satisfied smirk, let his gaze slide over Adar’s naked body, as if appraising every line, every curve. “You wounded me by saying you could leave,” a shadow of hurt flickered in Myron’s voice, his turquoise eyes, deep as an ocean abyss, freezing as they tried to decipher the Uruk’s mood. “I won’t forget it. Hearing that from someone I’ve entrusted everything to… it was unbearable. That’s why I left a mark on your arm.” “One more scar, one less,” Adar replied calmly, feeling Myron’s heavy gaze settle on his skin like a tangible touch. He lay bare, his body a map of scars, dark coarse hair, and taut muscles forged in battle and suffering. “I lost count long ago, my lord.” “That’s exactly why you’re dear to me,” Myron said seriously, lazily popping grapes into his mouth one by one. His tone turned playful as he added, “I’ve decided to take the name the Elves gave me. Sauron. Your kin, by the way.” He nudged Adar in the side with a childlike elbow, but the gaze that slid over his body was far from innocent. Reaching out, Myron squeezed the Uruk’s buttock with blatant greed, making him arch involuntarily as a wave of pleasure rolled down his spine. Not giving Adar a chance to recover, Myron pinned him down against the soft velvet sheets. His hot, damp breath grazed Adar’s ear, then his lips began a slow, insistent journey downward—from the earlobe to the neck, to the collarbone—leaving a trail of heat and trembling. Myron’s fingers tangled in the Uruk’s long, dark hair, undoing the knot he had tied earlier and braiding it again only to yank it back with force, exposing the vulnerable neck. Adar couldn’t hold back a moan as Myron’s lips touched the sensitive skin, the pain of his hair being pulled blending with pleasure, making his body quiver. Just as the pain became almost unbearable, the grip loosened, and Myron’s fingers slid downward, wrapping around Adar’s neck with firm but careful strength, as if reminding him who was in control. “How do you like it? Does Sauron sound worthy? I’ll take this name at my coronation,” Myron whispered, his voice laced with excitement, his lips never leaving Adar’s responsive skin, continuing to explore every curve. “Coronation?” Adar, summoning the last of his willpower, pushed his lover back, his voice trembling with a mix of surprise and concern. “Why do you need a crown? Do you wish to become the new Morgoth?” Myron, now Sauron, pulled back, momentarily frozen in confusion. He adjusted his long, straight locks, brushing them back, and his smile turned cold, though a dangerous fire burned in his eyes. “Yes, Morgoth’s crown,” he confirmed, his voice hardening. “When I tried it on, I felt it draw out power. By wearing it, I will claim dominion, and no one will dare even touch it afterward.” “And who will place this venomous artifact upon you?” Adar asked defiantly, though deep down, he already knew the answer. “You,” Sauron leaned closer, his lips pressing into the Uruk’s thin lips with a soft but searing kiss. Adar couldn’t hold back; his teeth clenched, and a groan escaped his throat, turning into a sharp cry as Sauron unexpectedly bit his ear. The Uruk tried to pull away, but a strong hand seized his wrist, drawing him closer, leaving no chance for resistance. “Foolish Adar,” Sauron’s voice was sweet as honey but saturated with power and desire. “You are mine, and I want you to feel it in every cell of your body.” He leaned over the Uruk, his hot breath scorching his skin, making Adar tremble with anticipation. Their bodies, bare and tense, pressed together, creating an electric charge. Every muscle, every breath was imbued with their shared passion. Sauron traced his fingers over Adar’s chest, slowly, almost torturously, as if carving invisible patterns on his skin, then his lips followed, leaving wet, burning trails. “Do you want me to tear you apart?” Sauron whispered, his lips nearly brushing Adar’s ear, his voice dropping to a low, beastly growl. “Do you want me to split you in two and fill every part of your being with my desire?” Each word struck like a blow, like a spell from which there was no hiding. “I want to feel you break under my hands, hear you scream from pain and pleasure. I want you to know you belong to me—only me.” Adar understood that to be “torn apart” and “filled” by Sauron meant surrendering not just his body but his soul, submitting to his will forever, losing even the faintest hope of freedom. Yet it was this very abyss that drew him in. His lips, dry with desire, parted, and he felt Sauron finally close the distance, his body covering him like a shadow from which there was no escape. Sauron pinned Adar to the mattress, but this time his grip was deceptively gentle, hiding a storm of passion beneath. Their breaths mingled, hot and heavy, infused with the scent of incense and the musk of their bodies. “I want to feel you, Adar,” Sauron whispered, his voice low, almost hypnotic, as his lips glided over the Uruk’s neck, leaving shivers in their wake. “Every tremble, every moan. You are mine, and I won’t let you go, even if the whole world turns to ash.” Their passion flared anew, like an unquenchable fire consuming everything in its path. Adar felt his will dissolve under Sauron’s onslaught, each breath, each heartbeat becoming part of this being who dominated him with such terrifying ease. Their bodies intertwined in a furious dance where pain and pleasure became one, where there was no room for doubt or regret—only for their bond, which was both a chain and a salvation. **Translation into English:** The dimly lit chambers, with walls draped in luxurious tapestries depicting bloody battles and triumphs, held in every stitch the memory of their cruel victories. Furniture crafted from black ebony, adorned with ancient runes and intricate carvings, seemed to emanate an ominous magic in the flickering candlelight. The air, heavy with the sweet scent of incense, enveloped everything, as if the invisible presence of the master himself, whose dark essence permeated every corner of this grim sanctuary, lingered within it. Adar, despite his inner torment, could not resist the relentless caresses of his lord, whose touch brought both pleasure and pain. He marveled at himself, at how his will, forged in battles and suffering, dissolved under the heat of those hands, under a gaze that burned through him. Sauron’s power, that of an ancient Maia, was enough to ignite an unquenchable fire of passion in Adar time and again, making his body burn with desire. The Uruk gazed at the youthful yet strong body of his master, at the sparks of mirth and mischief dancing in his eyes, as if they were a warm expression of a true, almost impossible love. Adar did not wish to leave this bed, did not want to sever this bond, but he knew they were warriors, men whose fates were tied not only by passion but also by the inevitability of conflict. While Adar himself could have accepted peace and tranquility within the walls of this fortress, Sauron burned with an untamable thirst for conquest, a desire to dominate the entire world, and the Uruk understood that containing this flame was impossible. He waited for the day when these amorous games would bore Mairon—if one could call this ancient spirit by such a name, whose appearance deceptively resembled that of a young warrior. He waited for the moment when the thirst to seize fertile lands and the adoration of Men and Elves would flare up in him with renewed vigor. And that moment arrived. “Today, you will proclaim me the Lord of the Shadow of Middle-earth,” Sauron declared, as he allowed Adar to comb his long, tangled hair, disheveled from their fervent embraces. “The light of this world fades thanks to Morgoth and the inaction of the Valar. Soon, I will become the lord of all Middle-earth and grant them the flame of my heart in place of Eru’s light. But not for free,” he smirked, and in that smile gleamed a sinister certainty. Adar’s heart clenched with pain. He had promised his army of Uruks that he would convince Mairon to disband the forces, to allow the founding of a free city in these mountains, leaving only guards at the borders. But he remained silent, clinging to the hope that the celebration of the coronation would delay the next campaign of conquest. “You are beautiful, my lord,” Adar said quietly, arranging the heavy strands of Sauron’s hair down his back. But his gaze involuntarily drifted to the vulnerable part of the Maia’s body, concealed beneath the thin white silk of his tunic. Dark, unwanted thoughts flared in his mind: the jagged spikes of Morgoth’s crown piercing through the delicate fabric, black ichor from the wounds soaking the pristine white material, dripping down. In that same moment, Sauron shuddered, as if struck by a sudden pain that touched his dark heart. He abruptly rose from the chair, turning to Adar with anger in his eyes. “I sense your rejection, my dear friend,” he whispered, frowning, and gripped Adar’s wrist, still holding the hairbrush. “Is my love not enough for you? Are you testing my patience? What you have conceived will not bring you what you desire. I cannot be killed! I hope this temptation that flickered through your mind and touched my fëa was merely a foolish fantasy, like everything you’ve dreamed of and destroyed yourself with your indecision.” Adar clenched his teeth, realizing he had made a fatal mistake. Thinking in Sauron’s presence was dangerous—how could he have forgotten? The emptiness in his chest, where a heart once beat, filled once more with the tormenting longing for this cursed mentor. He knew what Sauron was thinking when his eyes blazed with such fire, reminiscent of the primal Dark Lord’s flame. The Uruk understood that hiding his true thoughts and feelings from this being was impossible. Sauron read the souls of his subordinates with the same ease as one reads an inscription on a sealed jar. “Forgive me, my lord,” Adar forced out with difficulty, his voice trembling not from fear but from the agonizing desire tearing him apart from within. “But I cannot envision you as the Lord of Darkness without knowing what will become of our children.” Sauron stepped closer, his face looming over Adar, his lips barely brushing the Uruk’s cheek, searing the skin with hot breath. “Do you think I’ve forgotten them, Adar?” His voice was sharp, like a blade sinking into flesh. “They are mine, just as you are. I will not forget them, but right now, I am only concerned with you. You are mine, Adar, and I will not allow you to doubt that.” With sudden fury, he seized Adar by the collar of his tunic, tearing the fabric with a ripping sound, exposing his chest. The Uruk’s heart pounded so hard it seemed ready to burst free. Sauron’s fingers gripped the edges of the cloth and, with one sharp motion, tore it in half, leaving Adar completely bare. The Maia’s gaze slid over the Uruk’s body, blending a terrifying tenderness with uncontrollable greed, as if he wished not only to possess but to devour him entirely. Every vein, every muscle in Adar’s body responded to Sauron’s touch, reminding him who their true master was. The Maia laughed, his laughter low and restless, as his fingers glided along the lines of Adar’s ribs, leaving red marks on the skin, like brands of ownership. “You are cruel, Adar,” Sauron whispered, leaning in and sinking his teeth into the Uruk’s neck, leaving a wet, deep mark. “You know how to torment me.” Adar felt his knees buckle from the pleasure, but Sauron held him up, not allowing him to fall. The warmth and moisture on his neck made the Uruk tremble, but he struggled to steady himself, trying to even his breathing. Yet Sauron did not let go; his hands, slick with sweat and heat, gripped Adar’s chest, pulling him closer. All lessons of endurance and eloquence melted under the onslaught of this unrestrained passion. Adar could think only of how Sauron would tear him apart, how he would consume him whole. “Don’t say I torment you,” Sauron whispered, his breathing quick, commanding, scorching. “I know how much you love this. You cannot deny it. Your soul and body belong to me.” Adar, feeling his heart torn between passion and fear, closed his eyes and surrendered. He knew there was no salvation, no escape. His life had changed the moment he first met Sauron’s gaze, felt the weight of his will. Now, he belonged to him—completely and irrevocably. Sauron drew closer again, his breathing deep and authoritative, as if before a final strike. He seized Adar’s hands and pinned him against the wall, looming over him like a dark shadow. His eyes burned with a sinister fire, and his fingers gripped the Uruk’s wrists so tightly that bright marks appeared on the skin. Sauron bared his teeth, like a predator ready to tear into its prey. His movements became sharp, demanding, as if he sought to corner Adar, leaving him no choice but submission. The Uruk’s bare body glistened in the candlelight, reflecting Sauron’s own shadow. The Maia felt a wave of thirst rising within him, every muscle in his body tensing with desire. He gripped Adar’s hips, pulling him close with a harsh, almost painful force. Adar raised his hands, leaving them defenseless above his head, but there was no retreat in his eyes—only a readiness to accept whatever Sauron demanded. “Mairon,” Adar rasped, his voice trembling with strain, “do you wish to kill me? Forgive me, I only thought of our children!” “Kill?” Sauron smirked, his voice low, hoarse, laced with dark mockery. “I need you alive, Adar.” He leaned closer, his hot breath searing the Uruk’s skin. “I will make you beg for death, but I won’t grant you such an easy release.” Sauron gripped Adar’s hips, lifting him and pressing him against the wall. His member, already hard and hot, found its mark, and Adar groaned as the Maia entered him—slowly but relentlessly. The Uruk felt his body stretch, his insides clenching around Sauron, whose power seemed overwhelming. “Do you want me to stop?” Sauron whispered, beginning to move, his member sliding inside Adar, filling him completely. The Uruk moaned, his nails digging into the Maia’s skin, trying to hold on at the edge of the abyss. “No, don’t stop,” Adar rasped, his voice trembling with pain and pleasure. Sauron smirked and quickened his pace, his thrusts growing deeper, fiercer, as if he sought not just to possess but to tear Adar apart. “I want you, Adar,” Sauron growled, his voice saturated with primal passion. “I want you to feel me in every cell of your body. I want you to scream my name as I dominate you. You are mine, and I will prove it to you.” His movements became frenzied, each thrust like a blow, shattering the boundary between pain and ecstasy. Adar cried out, his body trembling with strain, but he could not resist. Sauron was too vast, too powerful, and the Uruk felt his will breaking under this onslaught. The Maia did not stop; his passion was like a storm, sweeping away everything in its path. Each thrust was like a bolt of lightning, tearing him apart yet binding them as one. Adar felt his insides clench around Sauron’s member, his body stretching to take him fully. He cried out as Sauron entered him, his voice shaking with pain and pleasure. “You are my toy, Adar,” Sauron growled, his voice hoarse with desire. “And you always have been. Admit it.” Adar, gasping from pain and pleasure, could not respond. His body, his soul—everything belonged to Sauron, and in that moment, he understood that he would never break free from these chains woven of passion and power. The dimly lit bedroom in Mairon’s fortress, now calling himself Sauron, was a sanctuary of his boundless power. The walls, covered in tapestries of bloody battle scenes, preserved the memory of his cruel triumphs. The black ebony furniture, etched with ancient runes, radiated an eerie magic in the candlelight. The air, heavy with the sweet scent of incense, was imbued with the dark essence of the master, whose shadow enveloped every corner of this grim refuge. Adar, the elven prince who had lost his honor and joined the Darkness, was torn between passion and doubt. His heart, once burning with love for Mairon, now clenched with pain and fear. He could not resist the relentless caresses of his lord, whose touches were both punishment and pleasure. Yet deep within, Adar felt that this beautiful visage concealed a core of malevolent emptiness, sowing death. Every word, every glance from Sauron was steeped in deceit, and yet the Uruk could not escape his iron grip. He marveled at how his will, forged in suffering, melted under the heat of those hands, under a gaze that pierced through him. Sauron’s power, that of an ancient Maia, was enough to reignite an unquenchable fire of passion in Adar time and again, but at the same time, he felt his soul slowly fading, consumed by this darkness. And yet, he resolved to act. Adar, who had betrayed the Light for the Darkness, destroyed the Shadow. The Shadow of Morgoth, rising from the ashes. He killed the one who had promised him everything but took far more than he gave, the one whose beauty seemed fairer than the sky and stars but proved to be merely a mask for a monster. Sauron was butchering one of the Uruks who dared oppose his proclamation as the new lord, and in that moment, Adar realized: come what may, he would kill this monster. If he failed to kill him, he would at least show everyone that he had tried. Adar walked at the forefront, his heart freezing with the last breath of the being he once loved. He could not imagine it would succeed. Morgoth’s crown, driven into the Shadow’s back with its spikes, instantly defiled his form, shattering the beautiful illusion. The crown’s poison burrowed deeper into the Maia, sapping his strength, tearing the façade of beauty to pieces. Adar recalled Mairon’s final gaze—there seemed to be a flicker of remorse, a plea to Eru to take him up. But Eru turned away. In that moment, Adar felt no pity. He was destroying rot, burning out infection. But when Mairon’s fëa exploded, enveloping the lands around the fortress in death, an unrelenting fear gripped the Uruk-hai’s spirit. He convinced himself he had won. In his hands was Morgoth’s crown, but a vague consciousness whispered that Morgoth had long since abandoned it, penetrating Sauron’s fëa deeper than Adar could have anticipated. Unwittingly, he had done the dark forces a service. Adar departed, hastening to lead his children far from the cursed lands, but he kept looking back, teeth chattering from the cold. Here and there, he glimpsed two burning eyes of an enormous black wolf, the form his lover often took. He felt that gaze upon him from the blizzard, dancing a dance of death and rebirth. Adar was afraid, and with good reason. “Who are you?” he called out to Halbrand, a man who had nearly killed him for reasons unknown but then saved him from the dagger of the wild elf Galadriel. Adar remembered everyone he might have wronged, but this “king” was not on his list. That gaze… Where had he seen it? What did it “scream” to him? Adar felt a longing from the moment he had killed Him. Everything he had dreamed of, after ridding himself of the red-haired obsession, lost meaning without him. And now he saw someone vaguely resembling Sauron. Halbrand—no, he didn’t remember such a name. Too young for Adar to have crossed paths with him, to have earned such hatred, such a thirst for revenge. A revenge not feigned or imagined, but seeping from every pore of this strange “boy.” Yet behind that youth and roughness lay cunning. Halbrand, with his charming smile and deft words, was a master of deception. His eyes, warm at first glance, concealed a cold calculation, and every movement was precise, as if he were playing a game where Adar was merely a pawn. He sought out the Uruk himself, even surrendering as a prisoner, feigning nobility. But Adar sensed a trap. Could someone without lineage or kin be so selfless as to save their people? He had not encountered such in the Southlands. “Who are you?” Adar wondered, savoring Halbrand’s groans under the generous tortures of his minions. But the Uruk’s heart gave the same answer, one he desperately tried to push away. “He is the one you’ve longed for,” the thoughts echoed in his mind. “He is the one you cursed and doomed to eternal darkness, binding him to Melkor’s crown with the power of blood and spirit. He is the one who has come for retribution. He is Sauron.” Adar peered into Halbrand’s pain-ravaged face. Why was it he who brought news of Sauron’s resurrection, unsettling him not with the news itself but with his appearance? The same mole on his neck, the same well-groomed, strong fingers, the same gait, voice, high forehead. And most importantly, the same smile: cold, with barely lifted corners of the lips, full of condescending mockery. The turn of his head, the way he carried himself—all of it stirred Adar to trembling. Halbrand’s cunning was in every gesture: he pretended to be weak, but his gaze betrayed an ancient, inhuman strength. Adar couldn’t explain why these mannerisms tormented his soul so, but he decided to play along with the daring man. He pretended to believe the mortal’s lies. But he knew: a mortal would have died long ago from such tortures. Adar felt who stood before him but dared not admit it to himself. Could his former lover disguise himself so skillfully? Yet the bearded, filthy vagabond, rumored to be not only a deceiver but also a thief, couldn’t possibly be the great Ainur. Adar finally convinced himself of this when Halbrand, feigning humiliation, kissed the ground at his feet and swore an oath of allegiance. Sauron could not be bowed. No, Adar decided, this is not him. But doubts continued to gnaw at him like hungry wolves. What if Halbrand’s cunning was just a new mask for Sauron? What if he had returned to finish what he started, to claim his soul and body once more? Adar felt longing and fear mingle in his heart, unable to discern whether he wanted this to be true or feared it more than anything. Only when he spat at Galadriel did he see the same longing and regret in her eyes. He had miscalculated, letting the impostor go to Eregion. Halbrand deceived the elf as well, making her fall in love with him and breaking her heart, showing how blind and foolish she was compared to him. Adar smirked. His beloved hadn’t changed after his miraculous resurrection as a man. He elegantly wrapped everyone around his finger, even postponing personal revenge against Adar for some greater purpose. From that moment, Adar understood that Sauron would not explain himself to him. And so, he returned the ring to Galadriel. Receiving treacherous stabs from his “children,” he saw Him. The one who had come to bid farewell, kneeling before him. “I told you I would catch up,” Sauron whispered with a soft smile. “Why are you so foolish?” These were the last words Adar heard as he slipped into oblivion. For those who betrayed the Light, the Halls of Mandos are closed. From now on, his fëa was bound to the Shadow forever… In the unseen world, where shadows of the past and echoes of fëa intertwine in an endless dance, two spirits met again. This place, devoid of time and space, was woven from fragments of memories, pain, and unquenchable passion. There was neither light nor darkness here—only a gray mist, permeated with the echoes of past suffering. Adar, whose fëa was torn apart after a treacherous death at the hands of his own Uruks, felt his essence tremble with anger and longing. Before him loomed Sauron, whose form, even in this realm, was deceptively beautiful: tall, with fiery eyes in which ancient malice smoldered, but also something else—a shadow of regret, skillfully hidden behind a mask of arrogance. “Adar,” Sauron’s voice was soft, almost tender, but it carried a steel edge, “did you think you could destroy me? You, a pitiful shard of elven pride, dared to raise a hand against your lord? And yet, look where we are. You haven’t rid yourself of me, just as you haven’t rid yourself of your love for me.” Adar, whose fëa still bore the imprint of his final moments—betrayal by the Uruks, incited by Sauron’s cunning plan—shuddered. His voice, hoarse with pain, was filled with rage, yet it trembled with uncertainty. “You lie, as you always have, Mairon! You sent my children to tear me apart, knowing I couldn’t resist their will. You wove this web like a spider luring its prey. But I saw your weakness; I drove Morgoth’s crown into your back! Why are you still here? Why can’t I break free from your snares even after death?” Sauron laughed, and his laughter was like the clinking of chains binding the soul. He approached Adar, his presence almost tangible, like the heat emanating from red-hot iron. His cunning, as ever, was flawless: even in this world, he played, manipulated, knowing every weakness of his former beloved. "Oh, Adar, you still haven’t understood. Morgoth’s crown did not destroy me; it only bound us even closer. You thought you killed me, but you merely gave me a part of your fëa. And your uruks... They were nothing but tools. I whispered to them in their dreams, stoked their fear and anger until they turned against you. You yourself gave me this power when you betrayed the light for my sake. You chose me as your lord. And now, even in this world, you cannot escape. You are a part of me, just as I am a part of you." Adar stepped back, his fëa trembling with a mix of horror and attraction. He felt Sauron’s words, like poison, seeping into his very essence, corroding the remnants of his will. But he could not remain silent, could not refrain from challenging him, even if he knew he would lose. "You speak of power, but what have you given me besides pain? I loved you, Mairon, I gave you everything I had, and you took even my children from me, turning them against me! You call this a bond? This is no bond; it is a curse! Why won’t you let me go, even now? What do you want from my broken soul?" Sauron fell silent for a moment, his fiery eyes narrowing as if contemplating what new game to play. Then he spoke, and his voice grew quieter, yet all the more dangerous for it, like the whisper of a serpent before it strikes. "I want what I have always wanted, Adar. Your loyalty. Your love, even if it is laced with hatred. Do you think I do not feel pain? Do you think I do not remember how your hands touched me, how your eyes looked at me with adoration? But I am Sauron; I cannot be weak. I cannot let you go because you are the only thing that makes me... alive. Even in this world, I will not give you up. We will suffer together, or you will return to me, as you always have." Adar shuddered. His fëa, tormented by memories of passion and betrayal, was torn between the desire to throw himself into the embrace of this monster and the urge to flee, even if there was nowhere to run. He knew Sauron was lying, knew his words were just another trap, but deep within, he felt a part of himself still wanted to believe. Sauron’s cunning lay in always knowing how to strike the most painful chords, how to make Adar doubt himself. "You speak of suffering," Adar finally said, his voice full of bitterness, "but you are the source of all suffering. I will not return to you, Mairon. I would rather dissolve into this darkness than become your toy again. But tell me, if you are so bound to me, why didn’t you save me from my uruks? Why did you watch as they tore me apart and did nothing to stop them?" Sauron smiled, and in that smile was his entire essence—cold, calculating, yet with a barely perceptible shadow of pain. He stepped closer, and his presence became almost unbearable, like a fire that burns even in the unseen world. "Because I knew it would bring you to me here. Death is merely a beginning, Adar. Now we have eternity to determine who is right. You cannot run, just as you cannot stop feeling what you feel for me. We are bound, and this bond is stronger than the will of Eru. You will be mine, even if you resist." Adar remained silent, his fëa trembling with horror and longing. He knew Sauron would not let him go, knew this game would last forever. But deep within his soul, a spark of hope still flickered—or perhaps it was merely an illusion crafted by Sauron’s cunning?