Gandalf looked down at the long curved blade in his hand, troubled.
So much killing.
Just one more life, and then- it could end all this.
He had not deluded himself: the very act of sending Frodo to attempt to destroy the Ring, was a move to end Sauron’s physical life- of that, he was very certain.
There was no other way- as had been noted, there had been countless years for repentance- or even simply to cease the assaults. The only thing that ever slowed him at all, was being forced out of a body- and as soon as he was able to incarnate, it always began again.
He did not belong here.
But Gandalf had envisioned the end as coming as a sort of vague and distant event- painless, even- simple dissolution- a swift and very just disembodiment- not- not this – this planned assassination.
( murder )
Was it murder, then?
Gandalf shook his head, muttering.
How was it not- if they stole upon Sauron as he slept, perhaps, and thrust a sword into him, as he lay defenseless, unaware, even helpless?
Everything Gandalf knew of honor- and simple decency- told him that there was no honor in what they were about to attempt.
And yet, something even deeper, told him it would be the greater mercy to all, in the end.
Unhappily, he went to his bags one more time, and then picked up the chains he had secured from Aragorn.
Saruman had seen them, and asked him, in an accusatory tone, why would he bring those? We are not taking any prisoners, he had noted flatly. It was a statement, not a question.
“There is always a chance.” Gandalf said aloud, to no one.
And then he packed the chains into his bag, and went to join the others.
It was nearly time to leave.
But Sauron had problems of his own, that had nothing to do with being assaulted.
Barad-Dur stood in silent majesty, betraying none of its Master’s misery within.
In his ancient darkened chamber, Sauron lay on his huge crimson covered bed, wearily stroking his now sore member, striving yet again to bring some sort of release- anything, now, really.
It had been so long, so very long.
He could not even recall the last orgasm he had experienced- it had been many, many years ago, and in yet another incarnation of himself.
When was it, anyway?
And who was it with?
Angband? No, of course not. This was not about love- or feelings. Those had gone away with Melkor.
When was the last time that he had fallen asleep satisfied, cock limp in spent pleasure, body relaxed, instead of- well, instead of this.
His muscles were taut and strained, and his stomach was clenched in effort, as he tried yet again.
“Please- ” he whispered, nearly sobbing, and then he controlled himself. What would the Orc-filth think, if they could see and hear all this!
“It doesn’t matter.” he answered himself.
“Please, just once. Let it come, just once.”
He blamed the Valar, all of them generally, but Manwe in particular. This was their idea of forcing a warped punishment on him, since he had evaded them all these years.
In reality, of course, it had nothing to do with them at all.
But it pleased him to believe this.
It was simply a matter of a flaw in the body itself, having been formed with black magic and spellcraft, and against the express wishes of the Creator. After Numenor- Sauron was not to come to Arda again.
But he had done so anyway, and fashioned bodies for himself, very like his original one. He remembered every vein, every muscle, every hair. So it was not difficult.
He remembered now, and smiled.
The Black Easterling.
One of the Nazgul, now, but before, a mighty king of the East.
In the night of the king’s deadly deal with Sauron, they had coupled in mad and desperate lust, and he had given Sauron one of the strongest orgasms of his entire existence, taking him just as he needed to be taken, roughly, brutally, making him scream.
Of course, now the king was no longer in any kind of authority over Sauron, sexual or otherwise.
But that night- Sauron sighed deeply, remembering the shocking ecstasy of being totally restrained and dominated.
The king had rutted him nearly in two, and he had not believed such pleasure was possible with a mortal. Certainly, he had not experienced anything close to it since- since Melkor.
“Oh, Bauglir.” he moaned, one hand reaching up to caress his chest. Bauglir. Constrainer.
He arose with sorrow and frustration enshrouding him, and looked out one of the windows of the massive Tower.
A Nazgul circled slowly on an airborne beast, and as he swept past, he looked towards the window.
Sauron suddenly dared to hope...
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.