Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
HURRIED STEPS carry him away from the gathering, away from dignitaries of far lands and well known allies. The thick clusters of people would not have alienated him much, he was a predator walking among husks, though what bothered him were the conversations. Lies hissed from behind concealing hands, smiles and social butchery. Mordu was good at crafting words, though this he was not trained for. Which is why must endure… as a Herald to be.
The absence of the host was noted — of course it was, people had their eyes everywhere they shouldn’t be and he could answer with half-truths and straight out lies. Truth is he did not know where the Master was, it seemed as though the very ground has swallowed the Úmaia. Which was strange, was it not? Excusing himself unhurriedly Mordu thought that the very best way to start the search would be Sauron’s quarters.
Long legs carried him quickly through the hallways and corridors ‘til he reached the embossed doors where he skidded to a stop. He has not come here yet, would not ever dare to come here without an explicit request. Alas, desperate times required desperate measures, no? Using the rapper he let his hand rest still. “ My Master? The people wonder about your whereabouts, it seems you are direly missed at this soiree. ”
The shuffle of feet alerted him before he could be surprised by the knocking, but he drew a deep breath all the same.
He could decide not to answer, and lurk in silence behind the door– but what a coward that would make him. It was his fête after all, a celebration of the temple’s lavish gifts, and he’d run away like a petulant child.
The voice was familiar; one of his disciples, the one that sounded like wet silk drawn over slate. Sauron steadied his breath, tucking his hands in the sleeves of his dark robe, and rose to answer.
“Ah, Mordu. The excitement of the evening grew somewhat tiring; I sought a moment of peace to clear my head,” he intoned with practiced tranquility. “Please relay to them that I hope they will forgive my absence, that I am contemplating the greatness of the Giver amidst this revelry. I will return… return shortly.” He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
It had been a mistake to open the door. If he’d only given his message from afar, he would not have had to look the dark haired youth in the eye, noticing for the first time how his spidery figure cut such elegant lines through space, and how sharp the planes of his hawk-like face became when accentuated by shadow and lamplight. He damned the sensitivity of his own perceptions, willing himself to look away, though it was too late to disguise the slackness in his jaw, or his wandering gaze.
Had the young herald always been this striking? So thin and hungry-looking; long, strong fingers poised in waiting, a faint bluish shadow under his eyes, and the blush of recent exertion rising in his cheeks and throat and lips…He put a hand to the herald’s jaw, thumb resting lightly against his pointed chin, hardly knowing what he was doing. “…You do not seem one for parties,” he said, low; a silent invitation to ignore assigned duties.
Already he bowed, so very eager to carry out his Master’s message and let his words be known. Cool blue eyes continued their aloof assessment, somewhat detached from the tension in this room. A tension that seemed to grow, to build, but ever so softly. Gently almost.
It felt improper and Mordu shifted slightly, trying to find the reason, to make sense. Quickly he picked up on that detached look in all too bright eyes, they seemed to flicker a low burning flame… Maybe that was because Lord Sauron’s jaw open, ever so slightly. It depraved the flame of oxygen. A thought that would have made him grin had the situation not been so strange.
He felt scrutinised, every detail of his being absorbed by those hungry eyes. While he remained unmoving on the outside, he shivered gently on the inside, that very gaze cutting right through him. Mordu felt like he was seen /truly seen/. It was as uncomfortable and horrible as it was awe inspiring. Embers glowed in his stomach, blooming into a teasing warmth that was desire more than anything else.
“… My Lord?” Pale skin burned where it was touched, the raw power in those digits vibrating against flesh and bone. Though what exactly was this? Never before has he seen Sauron this way… so painfully human. “Parties do not amuse me, I would deem them a waste of time if the cause wasn’t so important.” His voice too sounded somewhat distant, hollow and yet filled with the alien warmth within him.
“The cause is important, yes…” he repeated, almost as if to remind himself, “but the revelry will be a sacrament to the Giver, with or without my presence. They do not need the help of a high priest to enjoy food, wine, and each other.” His thumb traced over the herald’s lower lip. “Forget what I said before– you needn’t tell them anything. Particularly as you seem to disdain the company of drunks and merrymakers.”
What a strange bird this young man was… ink black hair and eyes, features so prominent and bird-like he was almost ugly, so striking he could be nothing but handsome. There was something delicate to his sharpness; Sauron fancied he could see the pulse of his blood under the skin. Fascinated, the tips of his fingers followed his gaze, down the lines of Mordu’s neck to where they met in a ‘v’ at his sternum. He unfastened the first clasp of the herald’s tall black collar, then the next, peeling back the dark garment to reveal a triangle of parchment-white flesh, so pale as to be nearly translucent, as if he had never seen the sun, like something waxy and beautiful that had grown in a cave.
(Certainly, he had seen the man’s soul well enough to know that whatever he resembled, it was poisonous. He’d chosen him for that– the lack of empathy that let him carry secrets deadly to his fellows, the inner isolation that drove him apart from the crowd downstairs. It was good to have a few in one’s service who would flinch at nothing).
“…If you do not wish to rejoin them, herald, you are welcome to stay here with me. I would not mind your company,” he murmured, blinking slowly as if in a stupor. The curve of that throat, the masculine jut of larynx, the way it dipped each time the lad took a nervous swallow, it was all exquisitely sensual in his current state. What did the rest of him look like under that raven mantel? Would he stand at attention just as he did now, and submit himself to inspection? Sauron licked his lips, his fingers lingering on the third clasp like an unasked question.
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