There was a cost to great efforts in Song, and there was a cost to setting your will against Power. Salgant couldn’t have sung a note even if he’d tried. Dignity was a foreign land – he was on the verge of collapsing again, half-blind with exhaustion and shaking. He made no protest at shackles or gag, and no more than grunts of pain as he stumbled after the guard. Sometimes the Balrog dragged him up the steps; sometimes he crawled. It was some shred of fortune that he made it to the offered chair on both feet, but Salgant had no mind to appreciate it.
Just keeping his eyes open was a struggle; Salgant blinked heavily at the opulent room and his interrogator. He should be terrified, and somewhere deep inside he was. But that was far away right now. Defiance – for the sake of Gondolin, and his dead, he should be spitting bile. But he was too exhausted. Even the figure of the Abhorred could not bring his nerves back to life. “I…” he began in a rasping whisper, then coughed. “It was no secret.”
It must have been Maeglin. When he’d gone on that long prospecting trip, and come back different. He had been desperate to bury himself in pleasure as though to escape something chasing at his heels. He hadn’t been surprised to see the red glow on the horizon. He’d had some sort of plan already. Salgant had found him weeping once and Maeglin had refused to say what troubled him. It must have been Maeglin. And yet Salgant’s heart cried out that it could not be so. Maeglin had been dour and grim, yes, but he had loved Turgon, loved Idril in whatever misguided form, loved the city that was now fallen. But there was no one else. Maeglin had always suspected Tuor of some treachery, had railed that Hurin’s cries would bring the hunters down on them all. But it had been Maeglin himself who brought Angband to their doorstep.
“No secret inside Gondolin, perhaps,” Sauron paced before the fire, “but for a master of Song nigh equal to Finrod, who Sang a whole battalion into rubble and required no fewer than three Balrogs to subdue– I’d say you were kept very well hidden.”
The maia pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter, pouring clear, iced water into a glass for his guest– the only refreshment he would have seen since his capture. He beckoned for Salgant to drink.
“You are not of the Noldor.” An observation, not a question. Sauron dipped his head in appraisal. “Reports say you Sang in a form of Telerin not heard on the continent since the first rising of the moon.”
A faint smile quirked the corner of his lips. “A rare pearl, then, from the far frozen north. How unexpected.”
Looming somewhat over the seated company, Sauron leaned nearer the elf’s face, inspecting his starlight-limned eyes with a soft grunt of confirmed suspicion.
“I rather wish I’d seen it. It’s been almost fifty years since I last had a proper Song battle.” He clucked his tongue. “Pity. But perhaps I’ll hear you Sing in another capacity soon. The war is won, after all. If you prove amenable to our cause, there is no need for talented individuals such as yourself to remain in irons. My Master affords many opportunities to those who cooperate.”
The implied offer lay open before him, like the glinting rim of the water glass.
Defiance would have had Salgant refuse the water. Practicality and need insisted that he drain the glass, and they won without much struggle. Salgant took the glass with both hands; leaving smears of dirt and soot on the pristine surface. This, he knew, would likely be the last clean water he’d have for some time after he stopped cooperating. It was almost impossible to drink slowly. The chill helped, as did the ice, which Salgant crunched between his teeth and swallowed. He did not speak until the glass was empty.
There did not seem to be much point in arguing about the Power’s observations, or even in panicking as that bigger, stronger form loomed and stared into his eyes. Salgant simply could not muster the energy for fear. Had it been Maeglin who hid Salgant from Angband? It must have been, but he could not dwell on that thought for long. Much good it had done either of them!
“No,” Salgant said at last. His voice was hoarse, would be ruined for days, but no longer clicked and broke in the back of his throat from thirst. “For the pleasure of a more comfortable chain? No.” He should be infuriated at the insult, and somewhere in his heart he was, but he could not reach it.
“Why, that answer was positively Fëanorian!” Sauron laughed, his expression sly as he sat himself across from his guest. “You have been spending too much time with Noldor… Such a typically stubborn and short-sighted response. You served one king by choice, and another before that by no more virtue than being born into their kingdom. This would be little different.”
He refilled the elf’s glass to the brim, but put his hand gently over the top before Salgant could retrieve it, forcing eye contact.
“I will not press you into service. I have no use for an unwilling ambassador who must be kept in check at all hours; you are genuinely free to accept or refuse without fear of retribution. But I urge you to consider this offer– at least, do not refuse until you have heard what it entails!”
He slid a finger around the rim of the glass, and the single, pure note it emitted filled the room like siren song. Then he slid it closer to his guest, and leaned back in his own seat.
“Will you hear me out? Or would you prefer to return to your cell to rest?” He gave a quick snort with a wry twist of his lips; “I’d happily offer you a room on the upper floor, but alas, I fear it is only a more ‘comfortable’ prison.”
It was truly a sign of Salgant’s exhaustion that even a comparison to Feanorions earned little more than a curled lip. The spark of anger was there, as it was for the offer at all, but there was simply no tinder to sustain it.
But he watched the glass, and Sauron’s face, and he took the water when offered. And again Salgant drank without stopping; the smoke of Gondolin burning was still caught in his throat.
“I suspect you don’t understand the hearts of elves,” Salgant suggested, once the glass was empty again. His voice was flat and inflectionless. “If you think I am so eager to serve the destroyers of my city. If you think I will forsake my kin laboring in chains below.”
“I’ve been accused of as much before,” the maia conceded, steepling his fingers beneath his beard, “but you are wrong. Do you think the Quendi are the only speaking people who know loyalty, or a soldier’s grief? The war is over, “ he repeated, “and with our many losses comes the foundation of something new; you need no longer be our enemy, but rather subjects. I would have you– or if not you, then someone else more willing– ease the transition of your people into this new era. You could save many lives, help many of your countrymen earn their freedom. I certainly do not intend to keep half of elfindom enthralled as prisoners of a war that is now concluded; that would be a colossal drain of resources and energy. Why not use your powers to help us, and in doing so, preserve what is precious to you? Surely, you did not have much stake in a war fought over Fëanorian property and a theological dispute between Valar!“
The great smith let out an explosive sigh, belying the frustration of a second-in-command who has suddenly been made to shoulder a whole empire. The fire in the hearth flared in crackling sympathy.
“…I try to be reasonable with you. I try to be accommodating…. why did Eru see fit to build a race out of pride and entitlement alone? Are none of you capable of bending even an inch to save your own damned hides?”
He rubbed the bridge of his elegant nose, brow creased in deliberation as he drew a slow, calming breath.
“Your unusual gift for Song made me curious to meet you Lord Salgant, and I would not have such talent nor beauty lost to menial labors. I had hoped you would prove more cooperative.”
Salgant took a deep breath and released it, trying to cudgel his mind into functioning at something like its normal capacity. This… no, nothing like hope, he was too drained for hope, but maybe… maybe potential. A path, a way out. Not for him, but for others. Turgon might not have understood – but Rog would have. Besides, they were both dead. Salgant had ever put the living before the dead, however beloved.
“If you know loyalty and grief, then you must also understand my reluctance,” he said, much more measured now. “Only a day or two after my city is destroyed and my king is killed, and you ask for my service? It’s been said I was cold-hearted and I admit that it’s so, but there is still blood in my veins, not ice.”
The lines of his face softened; it was not a concession, not yet, but it was nearer to one.
“Of course. You need time. We all do– this will be a difficult period for us all.”
He refilled the glass a third time, the crystal decanter emptying to its last sparkling drops. Melted snow water from beyond the peaks of Thangorodrim, clearer and less sulfurous than the stuff brought up from around the fortress; he’d had it retrieved specially. It was not what prisoners drank.
“Perhaps you are correct after all that I do not understand the hearts of the Quendi. We have lived under the same sky for centuries, yet I am not familiar with your needs, your wants. How could I know better than you what motivates your kind? It is my earnest wish to learn more, to see with your eyes. I will need assistance if I am ever to build a realm for my Master that accommodates us all.”
…If such a thing is even possible, he thought, once again feeling the enormity of the task ahead, salvaging order from the bloody wreckage of an entire Age.
It was a strange thing for an immortal Maia, sprung into existence already knowing all he needed for the task intended for him, to realize how much there was still to learn of the world he helped create. Certainly it would be a shame if an entire species had to be eradicated simply to make Melkor’s dream a reality. He hoped to avoid that. It seemed wasteful.
“As you know, it wasn’t very long ago that we were under prolonged siege ourselves. Our supplies are what you’d expect for the end of a 500 year long campaign… Alas, for the moment I cannot tempt you with more marvelous food and drink than what my captains take, and what is indulgent to an orc may not be at all appetizing to an elf,” he chuckled. “Still, I beg you to accept my accommodations while you consider your answer. Your wounds will do better for resting in a proper bed, with a warm fire and bath… And my lieutenant would not be given a second opportunity to make you take the stairs.”
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