[snip starter]
In the beginning, his Father forged the body he wore in the same molten furnace as the works of the Earth; he’d awoken knowing perfect affinity with each material Sang by Aulë, his own essence replete with their power. It was an act of desperate futility to bind any Maia with mere metal, but especially him– especially Sauron.
He’d begun to melt the chains as soon as they’d been hurled around him, almost without a thought. How does a foe I thought so keen of mind resort to this? His stern face wore only puzzlement as he summoned his red hammer to his hand, pulling it into being out of his own flesh– then the noise began, and his Noldor enemy sprung into practiced action.His hammer resists him. There is no magic, no Ainur presence besides himself, but something holds the weapon in the air as firmly as the fist of Tulkas, and his arms strain to bring it even an inch forwards. Red-gold eyes widen. The hammer bends– wilting as if in great heat. It disobeys his will and its solidity dispenses back into liquid potential, coating his skin, but he cannot reabsorb it. His own flesh buzzes with horrendous sound that is more than sound; the pressure without origin twists his feet from under him and he falls sideways into the wall just as surely as if the room had changed its axis. Maedhros looks at him with eyes narrowed in mad, victorious joy– the force that can incapacitate a Maia has no effect on him; he is its master.
He is frightened. He can hear the song of planets whispering from the disks of metal on the floor and ceiling, but he has never heard this arrangement before. It feels like something he should know, something the matter of his body should hold understanding of, something his Father made. It is new to him who helped shaped everything that is. He is frightened.
All the power in his muscles will not budge them from their fixed point, the coiling remains of his weapon, and the contorted lattice of metal that were the treacherous chains bind him as surely as shackles, dancing in strange liquid patterns on his skin. He can turn, but not move, twist around only to be repelled, as if the force had some malignant logic behind it. Water flows over the metal and over him, unsettlingly warm and smelling of hot metal. It drips from his face and beard the same temperature as blood, carrying his sweat with it. He does not hear what his enemy says, he does not see the runed ceramic knife until it is under his chin, tracing his sternum.
“What have you done– what is this? What have you done??” Are all the response he can give to prelude to torture, numb to any threat but the invisible hand that holds him improbably captive.
There is something singing in Maedhros’ blood, louder and louder with every step he takes towards the warped form of his captive.
It is something far more than the static hum of electricity running through coils of copper and inside the frozen conductors that should not even be conductors at all.
It is something visceral, that reaches deep enough to touch bone and make his chest hum like the strings of a harp at every heartbeat.
When the Noldo’s knife carves a precise triangle into his chest, his attention is bent entirely in frantic anticipation of an answer that never comes. Maedhros is toying with him. The chilling light catches the elf’s eyes like poison… He will not reveal the secret of this prison yet, there is too much satisfaction to be had in making his captive wait. Sauron knows this– this is his game, though he has never played this side of the board before.
But as the circuit is completed, white fire sears him where flesh makes contact with iron, and his mind goes blank.
Metal has never betrayed him this way before.
The shock of it draws a belated howl from him; it is as if his body is refusing to acknowledge the bite of a loyal hound until its fangs were bloodied thrice over. His delayed screams surprise even him.
Once, long ago, the maia had felt the gaze of Namo pass over his spirit. It had been cold and hollow, its pull unforgiving. Just beyond the agony of this strange electric fire, he could feel that same chill tug beneath the heat– it feels like dissolution. It feels like the nearest he can come to death.
The interior of his fana twists and pulls violently in opposing directions, his very atoms seem to wish to fly apart, and it is all he can do to hold the repelling forces together with brute strength of will. It is a small blessing that his jaw locks, for otherwise he would find himself begging through the roar of pain.
When he has fought in the past it was to maintain advantage; now, all thought is consumed by the urgent need to survive, to hang on, to regain control.
His eyes and flesh glow with the magnitude of this singular effort, unable to maintain the semblance of humanity any longer. Flakes of black oxide and ash peel off his molten skin. The harder he pulls himself in, the hotter the fire within him grows, and the whiter the heat of his frame…
When the core of him burns yellow-white as a furnace, he can feel the terrible power of Maedhros’s machine begin to slip. It gives him enough leverage to wrench himself off the wall, and with a drunken lurch, he takes a threatening step towards his gaoler.
“Pers… perseverance.” He hisses, smoke rising from his mouth and body. Waves of heat distort his vision, but he can see well enough to lunge.
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