Tag: Salgant

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((Salgant/Sauron/Maeglin – NC17 NSFW – TWs for some unsolicited touching, dysmorphia, mentions of bullying. Let it be known that this fic contains hairy baras and gratuitous chub-worship. 

I freely admit that I have had this fic planned for months. Thank you for giving me an excuse to finally write some explicit crackshipping. Eru bless us every one.  

Chronologically this fic takes place after Generosity and Empathy, in the same verse. 

---

“That one.” Maeglin pointed downwards into the pit. 

Blackened stairs spiraled into the gut of the mountain, echoing with the distant pounding of machines. Row upon row of iron barred cells with iron doors lined the walls as far down as eyes could see,  giving the vast prison its name: the Iron Hell. 

Captives, fresh from the siege of Gondolin, shuffled down red-lit stairs for processing. They were not bound together; if one decided to meet death directly in the heart of the mountain, they would not take their whole line with them. Orcs hunched with whips and rods and ropes to harry them into their allotted cages, where they would wait until there was thrall-work to be done. One prisoner in particular trudged with great difficulty down the row, clinging as closely to the walls as his girth would allow while moving like a drunkard on a tightrope. 

“That one?” The lieutenant with whom Maeglin had an understanding seemed incredulous. “That one is your friend?”

“His name is Salgant, and yes, he is my friend!” the young elf bared his teeth defensively. “Now, release him before one of the guards throws him over! We had a deal!”

“Yes. We had.” Sauron blinked, slow, expression unreadable. His hand raised, and without a word the orcs stood at attention, looking to him for direction. He gestured to the straggler. “Bring that one up. Unharmed.” Then, turning to Maeglin he asked, “Any others?”

“No.” the boy hissed, nursing his splinted arm. “No others.”

---

“Maeglin?” The fallen lord of the House of the Harp shivered, damp from being hastily scrubbed, clothed no longer in green and gold silk, but in a man’s motley wool tunic and trousers; the only garment his gaolers could find that would fit him, the leggings had been chopped short at the ankles. Salgant rubbed his eyes. “Am I dreaming? Are we dead in truth, is this Mandos after all? A-are you… a phantom?”

“No phantom.” The friends met, embracing gingerly, both freshly wounded in body and mind; they did not hurry, standing together for many breaths in quietude. 

Salgant’s knees wobbled. “You fell! We saw you fall, I mean… I didn’t, I was hiding in a cupboard by the wine cellar when the dragons came, but I heard that you were up on the wall during the attack! Did you…?" 

"I was spared.” Maeglin squared his chin, not wishing to remember, or discuss, the nature of his fall. “One of the creatures with wings caught me on the way down. Not before I’d struck the mountain, as you can see.” He jutted his chin towards his broken arm, black hair swinging.

 Beneath his tunic his friend could see bandages— there was no doubt more damage than was visible. 

“…Dear Salgant…” Maeglin swallowed hard, “I am so ashamed to have involved you in this matter! There is little I can say that will make a spit of difference, but please believe me… I didn’t think… I never intended for the whole city to…! 

 "Oh, how can you even think of that now? I’m alive! And you’re alive! I’m s-so happy…!” Salgant sniffled wetly, voice breaking. “You know I can’t fight, and I’m no good with my back or hands. I heard orcs talking… They only wanted strong men and elves, for labor! They’d have killed me and eaten me for sure! You saved my life!”

Maeglin drew back with a look of pity. “Ah, Salgant! You shall have some labor. As will I! I’m sorry. There are only so many favors I may ask of him.”

Salgant, who was already quite pale of complexion, drained of color. “…He?”

“The Lieutenant and Forgemaster of Angband, Sauron. He… approves of me. I work in his forge, and soon you will too. It is not easy labor, Salgant, but I promise you will grow more accustomed to it with time! And he is not so terrible to serve. He reminds me of Rog, though I would dare not say so to his face." 

"You work. For Sauron.” Salgant’s jowls quivered. “For Gorthaur! The Cruel! The Abhorred! And you say it will not be so terrible for me, to be a slave in his smithy? Ai, Maeglin! This is the end for me!” The poor elf began to pace frantically, hands in his mousey brown hair. “He’ll take one look at me and throw us both to the wolves! Maeglin oh no, no, no what will I do!? I’m no good! I’m no good for this kind of thing! He’ll laugh! He’ll roast me alive! He’ll send me back to the mines!" 

"—Not if you can work a bellows.” Said a voice behind them, deep and resonant as the mountain itself.  The former house lord of Gondolin looked as though terror alone kept him from fainting dead on the ground. 

Sauron entered the chamber, ducking under the doorframe that had been built with elven proportions in mind. “You can work a bellows, I trust?” The enormous maia strode behind the quivering, portly lord, and bent to feel his arms. Salgant made a strangled sound. 

“Hm. Like a feather pillow. You won’t keep a forge lit with those.” The smith knelt down smoothly and patted Salgant’s wool-clothed outer thighs and calves.

“Ah. It appears you escaped the siege in very good health… Fine, strong legs. Firm, and no injuries. You’ll make fair enough time with those, I’m sure.” Then Sauron, lieutenant of Morgoth, bent and whispered into Maeglin’s ear. 

The dark elf blinked upwards, puzzled. “…What? Salgant?" 

The forgemaster gave him a strange look before taking his leave. "I will expect you both by the evening horn. Work begins early in the night. I suggest you sleep. You will need your strength." 

It was long moments before either elf dared speak. 

"Wh-what did he say to you?” Salgant whimpered, fearing whatever was expected of him that Maeglin seemed doubtful of. 

“He said…” Maeglin’s nose wrinkled, as if he questioned his own memory. “’You did not tell me your friend was a great beauty.’" 

Salgant sat heavily upon the straw mattress that had been laid out for him. "A jest, then.” He sighed. “And only that. …Imagine! A dark lord’s pranks are no more cruel than the jesters at home! I expected something more sinister. "  And the rotund elf lord fluffed what he had been given for a pillow, and fell into a heavy sleep. But Maeglin lay awake, uncertain. 

---

"Oh…What diabolical instruments of torture!"  Salgant whimpered. "Truly, we are in hell! Oh Maeglin, I will not last long under such persecution…!”  

“Ah, no, see, that is the bellows.” Maeglin put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, nodding to the device that waited in the corner of the smithy. “It is foot-powered. You hold on with your arms up above, there, and use your body weight to push down.” He pointed to a bar above a large wooden pedal set into the floor. “The air is pumped through the tuyere, there, into the furnace, there. That makes the fire hot enough to smelt in." 

"Oh.” Salgant shuffled forward, kneading his knuckles. “And the dark lord, he could not make the bellows go on their own, somehow? Could he not, er, enchant them? With wizardry?”

Maeglin shook his head, and winced, for it hurt his wound. “He can, but it is distracting. That is how he described it to me; the more of his will he uses on mundane tasks, the less finesse he can spare towards his craft. It would be as though you were, say, stirring three different pots while measuring ingredients and reciting a poem all at the same time. He prefers to concentrate on the making itself.”  

 "I see…" Salgant tiptoed closer to the giant anvil that centered the room. “And so… this then, is where Morgoth’s evil weapons are forged?”  

“Not most of them. This is the Forgemaster’s private smithy. He works on his own devices here. Sometimes even devices of my invention! He has shown great interest in my mechanical designs.” Maeglin beamed, unashamed by this admission. Pride lit his keen eyes. 

“But… But this is Sauron Gorthaur you speak of! How is it you can be so at ease with that monster? Are you not still a thrall here?” Salgant chewed his lip and wrung his hands to redness. “Is he not simply using your ideas to achieve wicked ends? We are both slaves here! We must not forget that. Angband is full of elves, and we are standing on them! We could be back in that pit in an instant, if he but snaps his fingers!" 

"Sauron has never yet broken a promise to me! Moreover, he, at least, shows some appreciation for my work.” The dark elf retorted, back straight. “I am valued in his service.”

“Oh,Maeglin… were you not valued at home? Did not the king love you well enough?"  Salgant wore now all the knowledge of what treachery had occurred, though not rage, but rather sympathy for the bitterness that had eaten at the heart of his companion. "You were looked well upon. You had many admirers, friends…”

“NOT friends!” Maeglin snarled. “Only you were never false to me, Salgant. That’s why I saved you.  My mother’s blood gave me a place in court, but I was never loved. I was only ever tolerated! A kinless bastard of a murderer! Everyone saw what my father did, everyone knew what I was the spawn of. She knew! She would never even have looked at me if I hadn’t been the king’s nephew—" 

"But so many others looked at you, and loved you, Lomion. I know. I was always watching.” Salgant’s voice was soft, but it cut short the young prince’s rage. “You are so beautiful, so clever. How could they not love you?”

Maeglin stared, mouth ajar, and could not find any words to say ere the master of the forge strode in on thundering feet.

The forges blazed and roared in welcome. The maia, huge, dark of skin and hair, surveyed his new assistants, and gave a short nod to the first. “How is your shoulder today, Sharp Eyes?”

The young elf startled to attention. “Less sore. But still I cannot move it, nor bend." 

"Pity. Your help would have been appreciated today. Ah well. Continue, if you would, the drawings you began of those flighted machines. And Salgant—” the slitted pupils moved to second elf, pinning him in place. “Has it been explained what is required of you?" 

Salgant said nothing but his head jittered up and down. It was not entirely clear whether this was an answer or a nervous spasm. 

"Good. Begin slowly; I need a steady pace, not frantic paddling that will exhaust you. And if you let the forge get cool—” Sauron’s flame colored eyes narrowed, and Salgant blanched. “I will be displeased." 

What had sounded simple as clapping in Maeglin’s instructions proved considerably more exciting in practice. 

Salgant grabbed hold of the bar above his head and stomped onto the pedal of the bellows. The pedal went down easily, and came upwards again with the same pressure it had been given. Salgant’s knee was suddenly raised to his navel— his back leg slipped, and he went hopping into a wall.  

Maeglin did his best not to stare with worried fascination at his friend, though his quill dripped ink onto the parchment, unattended. 

Not giving up, Salgant gripped the rail once again and lowered his bulk onto the bellows. The pedal went down, and so did Salgant, as the elf lost his grip of the handhold and flailed to keep his balance. With a yelp, he was suddenly rolling about on all fours, flailing atop the seesawing platform like a beetle attempting to right itself. 

Finally, he crawled out of the inset in the floor, wheezing. The forge made a huffing sound like laughter. 

Across the room, Maeglin’s face was a mask of horror, but the lord of the House of the Harp was not deterred! A third attempt, and Salgant gingerly eased himself down on the pedal, exerting only half as much pressure as it would take to press all the way to the ground. Then he carefully pulled himself up, letting the pedal help to carry his weight. The Noldo lord gave a satisfied grunt, and all was well for several cycles. 

But the deceptive ease of the work soon took its toll; the pace quickened, and by inches Salgant found himself panting, drowning in sweat, his hands threatening to slip off the bar with each stroke. Finally he tottered away from the contraption in exhaustion; his knees locked, and flat on his rear he fell with a thud. 

"BELLOWS BOY, WHAT DID I TELL YOU?” Came a roar from above the massive anvil. 

“I… I’m… sorry. I… can’t!”  Salgant clutched his chest in agony, his face crimson and blotchy. 

There came a rattling clang! as a great hammer was set to rest. Salgant’s thudding heart could not beat any faster for terror as he steeled himself for inevitable doom… 

A huge hand descended, plucking the elf up by the scruff of his tunic, and dusted him off. 

“Here.” Said the forgemaster, offering up a water skin. “I forget sometimes what is necessary for your people.” The skin was full of melted ice water, which the elf sucked down greedily without hesitation, spattering handfuls onto his blotched face. 

“…You are still wearing that wool.” The forgemaster noted. “Why did you not take it off?”  

Salgant shook his head, unable yet to speak. 

Up close, the servant of Morgoth was intimidating, yet surprisingly mannish. Only his eyes were an indication that he was not simply a strange sort of elf. A tremendous, monstrous, hairy elf, with a dwarf’s beard and chest and the teeth of a horrible hungry beast, he amended, and gulped. 

The dread maia seemed to be cataloguing the elf’s features in return. Taking stock of my inadequacies, no doubt. Tallying up all the reasons why I would be better used as bait for wolves…. 

“I have never seen an elf like you before.”  

Salgant flinched. “N-neither have I." 

There was a burning silence in which Salgant continued to sweat and gulp for air, all the while feeling the unnatural gaze scrutinizing him from above. He dared to let his eyes rest vaguely on the forgemaster’s midsection, where intricate knots of leather twined, and draped with surprising elegance over sinew and muscle and thick, black hair. 

The hand that had plucked Salgant to his feet earlier now set to stroking the forgemaster’s tapered beard. "I will demonstrate, while you catch your breath, a more efficient way to work these bellows,” he said, and with that Sauron turned, untied the knot of his forge-apron, and stripped to the waist. 

Water dribble off Salgant’s chin. 

“—To begin with, you ought discard any elvish prudery. This is difficult labor. I do not expect you to be modest." 

Many years earlier, the young lord of the House of the Harp had seen a great mountain cat spring down a mountain slope in pursuit of a chamois. He remembered distinctly how it had coiled itself before leaping, how taut and sleek it had been in motion. 

He recalled the image now in an entirely new light, as Sauron’s brown, gleaming back stretched and tensed, how the muscles in his arms stored their strength before releasing it, precise and unhurried. 

And Salgant watched, as he always did, with a sense of wonder, and awe, and a deep, lonely sort of sadness.  But in watching, he began to better understand the pace and the technique that would keep the bellows pumping with the least effort on his part. 

"Oh. I think I see now!"  He nodded, wiping curls of damp hair from his forehead. "Yes, I believe I’ve got it! Thank you!" 

Sauron looked over one shoulder. "Come, show me then. Hop on.” He swung to one side, and beckoned. 

Despite having drained the water skin, at once Salgant’s throat was dry. “Er… With you?" 

"Of course. And for love of iron and gold, take off that tunic before you boil in it!" 

Salgant hurried to comply, nerves too overwhelmed to object. Without the sweat-soaked wool hugging his body, he found that the air in the forge was in fact quite bearable. The ceiling was so high as to be out of sight, and there were eddies of cooler air that refreshed his bare skin. (He tried very, very hard not to think of how very much skin he had to bare). 

Careful not to so much as brush the forgemaster (my captor, he reminded himself), Salgant set one foot on to the bellows and steadied himself on the bar above. The forgemaster did the same; broad hands, paler and rougher on their palms, with fine, neat nails atop (he must wear gloves, he thought, to keep his hands so clean) rested on either side of the elf’s. My hands look like pastry dough! How will I ever do this work? He exhaled through his nose with a shiver. 

And suddenly it was very close work; he could feel the great smith looming at his back. 

"You set the pace.” Rumbled the voice behind him. 

There was a constant murmur inside the mountains, of pressure and fire and the echo of distant machines and voices, but for the moment, with the bellows stilled and no beating upon the anvil, the forge seemed almost quiet. 

Down went the pedal. The bellows groaned. Air rattled through the pipes and the furnace took a great breath. The pedal came up— Salgant’s thighs burned but he was no longer breathless. When he hesitated too long, or came down too quickly, the forgemaster evened the pace, and clicked his tongue in warning. Soon the task seemed little more troublesome than walking— if he were walking only on one foot, while staying in place. 

“If if you begin to tire, switch feet." 

Salgant nodded. 

In Gondolin there had been a bit of lore passed around commonly that one could always tell a servant of Morgoth, no matter how fair their disguise, by the foulness of their smell; for their souls were rank and rotten, it was said, and no shape they wore could ever mask it. 

Yet, Salgant’s nose, which was sensitive to all culinary subtleties and could gauge the freshness of milk to within a day, detected nothing foul, no note of decay or purification. 

There was a distinct smell, he observed— his nose told him it was entirely a new scent, in a catalogue by itself. It was certainly noticeable, but not unpleasant, and not human either. 

Of a sudden Salgant realized that the only sourness he whiffed came from himself. It took every effort not to yank his arms down from the bar and curl them around himself in embarrassment. He became acutely aware of how damp his skin felt, and how it stuck to itself in folds, or else flopped, or jiggled when he moved. A sound of discomfort escaped before he could stifle it, and with a lurch, his foot came off the pedal.

Before he could topple over, an arm hooked securely around his soft and ample midriff. 

"Careful now.” Said Sauron, lifting him upright with ease. 

“Thank you.” Salgant puffed, leaning back into the steadying bulk behind him to regain his balance. 

The forgemaster looked down and arched an eyebrow. He had not yet released his hold on the elf’s midsection. “You’re a strange one to thank me. But believe me, it is my pleasure." 

They had stopped pressing the pedal, but it seemed to have a momentum of its own— Salgant realized it must be the maia’s will, as Maeglin had called it, keeping it in motion while they rested. 

Something tickled the point of his ear, and his spine went stiff as a rolling pin.  

 "I truly have never seen an elf like you before.” Murmured Sauron, just close enough to make the hairs on the back of Salgant’s neck rise. “I did not know that your kind could look thus." 

Salgant’s cheeks burned. "A-as Maeglin said, your Cruelness, my l-lord forgemaster. A few weeks, months! I’m c-certain I will be less ponderous, with time and hard work…" 

Sauron paused, his hand, cool by comparison and dry, lingered on the white slope of Salgant’s belly before withdrawing. 

"Perhaps I should find you lighter work, then." 

The elf’s eyelashes fluttered. "Begging your pardon?”

Sauron laughed, deep and velvet. “You may think of yourself as a thrall, little lord; but I count Maeglin as a friend, and his friends are mine, so long as they do not seek to overthrow the rule of Angband. You will work in my forge, for we cannot have idle hands about the fortress, but do not fear that I will punish you with harm if you should falter." 

The elf received this information with great relief, though he was not yet certain if he could trust it. 

"Maeglin has done a great service for my Master, and he has vouched for you and bought your safety. Whatever you have heard, Ido not break my word to those I count as allies." 

Salgant bent his head, not certain what, if anything, he should say. "I shall try to be useful, lord… lieutenant… forgemaster.” He offered, worrying his sore hands. 

“I have many names amongst your kind, I hear— none of them very flattering. You may call me Thû, or master, or Sauron.” He smiled strangely, revealing white teeth more pointed than they ought to be. 

 "Truth be told, I may keep you in the forge even if you are not useful here. You are quite… pleasant.“ Reaching down, he swept the leather apron over his nakedness once again. "Take a rest, if you like. I can manage the bellows for now, while I draw out this steel." 

The maia returned to his anvil, and from the drawing table across the forge, Maeglin caught his friend’s eye with a wink, as if to say "You see? I told you so." 

---

"Augh! I ache! Everything is agony!” Salgant groaned into his pillow, nearly in tears. “How will I do this again tomorrow?  My legs are on fire, I can barely move!" 

"At least you can move.” Maeglin scoffed, but without malice. His own pillow he had used to carefully prop up his damaged limb. “I used to work the bellows for him sometimes. I found it very calming. I’m sure you’ll get used to it in a few days.”

Salgant answered with a sustained wail of misery stifled by his mattress. When it subsided, there was an uncomfortable silence, where the subterranean dark folded in so thick that even Maeglin could not not see his friend a few feet away. 

“You’re not weak, Salgant. I’ve seen you on feasting days— you would stay on your feet, day and night; cooking, making preparations, kneading dough for a dozen kinds of of sweet rolls… ”

“And I ate as many sweet rolls! And slept in a soft bed, with a fireplace and lots of candles! It’s not the same!” Salgant pouted.  “…I do wish I could have kept my pendant lamp. It doesn’t feel right to sleep when it’s so completely black." 

"Orcs do not like Noldor lanterns. They hurt their eyes. But I have seen them confiscated before… I will ask if we may have one." 

"Maeglin. I cannot see you. I’m afraid that I may wake up and you’ll have vanished, and I’ll be alone here. I’m frightened." 

"Wait a moment."  There was a scuffle of feet and a sound of dragging, and a curse as an injury was jostled. 

"There."  One straw mattress bumped up against the other, and rustled as its occupant rolled across it. "I’m here. You’re not alone. And neither am I, now." 

In the dark the two boys lay together like nested spoons, careful of each other’s hurts. Salgant sighed, and felt long fingers brush the tears from his eyes, before they closed in sleep. 

---

Rations thereafter began to double. Maeglin noticed the difference first, examining the left-over meat and flatbread on his platter. "I don’t think I was ever this full after they fed me… they must have replenished the stores recently." 

"Or else they know how famished we must be after a long day’s work!” Salgant happily accepted the excess on Maeglin’s plate. He had worked himself into a greater appetite than he had ever known before. Strange, since the last thing he’d expected was to be asking for seconds of orcish fare. Somewhere in his gut he knew that he would collapse long before the work day (or work night, as it were) was through, if he did not have the fuel to run on. 

Though the pain in his limbs continued to agonize him at night, and he had not changed in bodily shape as he expected, the stairs no longer winded him, and many aches that had caused him niggling, sourceless irritation throughout the day vanished altogether. The extra food was tough and nearly tasteless, but he did not complain.

After a few more weeks had passed, and the forge stayed lit with fewer and fewer pauses from the bellows-boy, meals began to include small delicacies that were certainly not to be expected from an army’s storehouse.  

“Brandy cakes?" 

"Candied walnuts!”

“Rose lokum…” Salgant inhaled deeply and daintily licked his fingers of sugar. “I never thought I’d see these again!”

Each sweet was different, dainty, and exotic. And whenever there happened to be a special treat, the forgemaster was never too far away to note the reaction of his workers. 

This did not escape Maeglin’s notice. 

On a certain shift when Salgant tarried long in his morning routine as he was sometimes wont to do, he came to the forge somewhat late and unannounced, rounding the stairs into earshot of a conversation that was proceeding without him. 

“…is not the point! You know what I mean!”  

Salgant stopped mid-stride, hearing the timbre of his friend’s voice. 

“Are you jealous, my apprentice?” Followed a deep chuckle. “You know I am fond of you, yet you have never asked me.”

The breath caught in his chest and his blood pounded. This was certainly not for his ears, and yet… with guilty curiosity, he bent to listen. 

“That is not how courtship works!” Maeglin’s voice came again, exasperated. “Courtship is a dance! A slow meeting of wills, and subtle hints until one’s meaning can be deduced. It’s… it’s poetry, not a transaction!”

“Isn’t it?” Sauron’s voice growled with amusement. “Well I suppose a grand lover such as yourself would know. But as for me, I prefer to ask. With words, mostly, and sometimes gestures." 

Salgant felt a familiar heaviness in his breast, but was not without happiness for his friend. Of course he is fond of Maeglin, who wouldn’t be? 

"Yet you have not asked.” One could practically hear the dark elf’s sly grin. 

“No, not yet.” Came a deep, whimsical sigh. “Perhaps today.”

“I think you will not dare!”

“I beg your pardon, apprentice. You will dare nothing of me." 

"Fine. I can hardly stop you. But know that if you hurt him—”   Salgant held his breath, craning to hear. “—I will find a way to make you sorry. Somehow. I mean it. He is my friend." 

"Indeed." 

How confusing… the elf thought. Has Maeglin met a new friend here? Or perhaps an old one? I wonder if I know them…

He decided to take a few cautious steps back up the stairwell, then wait a few moments before proceeding down again, skipping into the forge as though nothing at all was amiss.  

"Every apology for being late! Forgive me, I hope you were not greatly delayed.” He made a quick bow to Sauron and then to Maeglin, preparing to swing onto the bellows as usual. 

“Oh, we had not yet started!” The forgemaster said with an expansive grin. “Happily for you. In fact, I was planning a small celebration today— though it is nice to hear you are eager to leap to work." 

"A celebration? I wish you’d told me! I’m quite good with parties. I would throw them all the time in Gond… back home. I could have helped!” He pressed his palms together, happy to be given an excuse to forget his earlier eavesdropping. “Was that the reason for the rose lokum?”

Sauron’s eyes narrowed and gleamed. “Did you like that?” He purred, hands clasped behind his back. “There is more."  With a gesture he produced (from where was anyone’s guess) a small wrapped bundle, tied with silk ribbon. From the smell of sugar, it was clear what the bundle contained. 

Salgant gasped. Maeglin stared at the forgemaster with sharp, serious eyes, unblinking. 

"I had to hide these away just for you. My Master, you see, also enjoys such sweets.” Sauron continued. “If he knew you had them, he’d come gobble them up, and you with them. So they are our little secret, yes?”

“Oh dear. I think that’s best.” Salgant clutched the small parcel in concern. “But, what is being celebrated?" 

"Well—” Sauron stroked his pointed beard, “Primarily, the end of the Finwëan menace and our conquest of Beleriand and all its kingdoms." 

Salgant gave a small hiccup of shock. "C-conquest?" 

"Surely you knew!” The forgemaster folded his huge arms. “The sons of Fëanor have all scattered or fallen, Doriath is in ruin… there is no longer any force in Beleriand that can raise arms against us. Gondolin was the last Noldor stronghold. When it fell, my Master’s triumph was complete.”

“…Even if he is one Silmaril short of a crown…” Muttered Maeglin. 

“HOLD your tongue!” The voice that had purred now snarled with fangs bared, and the glittering eyes shrunk to thin slits of fire. “You will not speak so basely of your liege in my presence!” And Sauron was suddenly very much larger, and darker, and less beautiful than he had been a moment earlier. The forge, unlit, glowed with passing lights. 

Salgant had not realized how safe he had begun to feel around him, until he no longer felt so. 

But the moment passed, along with the darkness and the unnatural fire. Maeglin looked as though he’d been turned to chalk. “I’m sorry.” He said quickly. “Forgive me.”

Sauron waved a hand. “It is forgotten. Now, let us turn our thoughts to happier subjects— to the uncontested rule of Angband in the East, Lord Melkor’s victory, and to the building of a better, freer Arda." 

The two elves exchanged glances, unsure what to say. The forgemaster chuckled. 

"You do not see it yet, but this is the beginning of a brave new era; one in which we may finally become true friends, on equal footing.” The lieutenant knelt, his eyes now creased and almost kind. “You are no longer the enemy here. Now, you are subjects in my Master’s kingdom, and subjects who have already served him well! There is room at last for my Master’s children to spread and thrive, and we will begin an era free of the stifling laws of the Valar! One where all the unwanted, all the bastards of Eru, may live as they please. And my Lord… my Lord may begin to rest, and heal, and become golden and lovesome in himself again.” He took a deep breath, tremulous in his mighty chest. “…Is that not worth celebrating, my elves?" 

 Maeglin reached out and clasped one of Sauron’s offered hands firmly. "It is.” He said, resolute. 

But Salgant hesitated still. “…What of the thralls?” He asked, muted in the wake of the grand speech. 

“Ah…” The forgemaster licked his lips in contemplation, choosing his words carefully. “They are prisoners of war, you see. They will be treated as such. Those who are amendable to my Master’s rule will be released in due time. They have labored long enough, I think. But others… they may continue to be thralls, or else they will be exiled into the wastes, or else, I fear, killed. Such is the way of regimes. When they change, there is blood. But I have hopes that with patience and persuasion, many will see the wisdom of my Master and simply choose to live their lives under his banner in peace." 

"It seems very reasonable when you say it like that, but…."  Salgant shook his head and snorted. "I am a simple, petty lord… I was never much good with politics." 

At last he took the smith’s hand, and when he did, he was rewarded with a handsome smile, and a soft, chaste kiss upon his knuckles. This made his head grow very light, and his palms damp. 

"You will have time enough to consider politics later. Now, I wish for you to be joyful, dear Salgant, and know that you are free if you wish to leave, but if you wish to stay, that too is welcome. …exceedingly welcome.” A second kiss, less chaste, dusted his fingers, lingering especially on their padded, pink tips. 

The elf’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Where was Maeglin? When had he slipped away? Something peculiar was going on… 

“I very much enjoy your company, Salgant. I enjoy the sight of you, the sounds and smell of you. Every day you have given me the gift of some beautiful sight that I will keep as a treasure in my memory. Soft, fulsome Salgant! I could look at you for an age! I have never in all my days seen one of the eldar who woke such desires in me. Would you—”

The dark maia would have continued, but Salgant began to chuckle, a high, reedy sound that contained no merriment. “Such jokes! Ah, such jokes, I thought perhaps I’d left them behind, but here again, they have followed me! You are very funny, my lord, well played!" 

He looked around the forge for Maeglin, hoping he would return now that the prank was over. He had a very strong desire to run back to his room and hide in the darkest corner until he sank into the earth. 

Sauron, lieutenant of Morgoth, looked utterly bewildered. "You find me amusing? I did not jest. I only wanted to know if you wished to go to bed with me. Is that such a distasteful notion to you?” His eyes were almost canine in their pleading. 

“Distasteful!” Salgant scowled, a nearly unknown expression for his round face. With a jerk he tore his hand away, balling its short fingers into a fist. “Of course it is! Do you think I enjoy it? Being taunted and mocked for things I cannot have? I have lived my whole life in the shadow of them, forgive me if I do not see the humor in pointing them out!" 

"I was not—" 

”Even you!“ Salgant found himself carried by the momentum of his own emotion, unable to stop and marvel at the startled expression on Sauron’s face, or be overwhelmed by mortification at his own bluntness. "I suppose I should have expected it from one they call The Cruel, but even so! Do you know how happy I’ve been here? Despite everything? I have never felt so useful, so, so…” remembering words from his first day in the forge, he choked, “—valued.”  

Hot tears ran dribbling down his large nose; he was beyond hiding them. 

“…’Little Pig’ they used to call me. And ‘coward’. ‘Scared of his own fat shadow’… I never rode to battle, I can’t dance, I can’t forge a nail… In Gondolin I was safe, and comfortable, and entirely, absolutely miserable! All I knew and called home is gone and burned to ashes, and… and… I don’t care!"  His gave a laugh which peaked in a hysterical cry. "I would have torn the city down myself, stone by stone, if I’d know what it felt like to desired by someone like you! I must really be a monster! I must belong here! Here in the dark with all the other ugly, unwanted things… here where at least the monsters are kind to one another! I m-m-must be-be-belong here…!”  

He could no longer stand. And just as if it had been his first exhausting day at the bellows, Salgant went to his knees and covered his head with his arms, quivering. The little package of sweets slid to the floor, unopened. 

Something warm and heavy touched the crown of Salgant’s head, smoothing its stray curls. 

“It is astounding, how cruel the blessed can be."  Sauron stood above him, and the tips of his rough fingers stroked the elf’s cheek. "Here amidst the damned there is brutality— but we we look after our own, no matter their appearance or origin…” He smiled. “You have a great deal in common with your friend, you know. He too left that city and came to me in tears. My lonely, lovely pair of outcasts…" 

"I am—” Salgant snuffled wetly, “not lovely." 

"You are unbearably lovely.” Sauron barked a laugh, putting a hand to his brow as if to shield his eyes. “The instant Maeglin pointed you out to me, I burned to have you under me. You cannot know the torture it was to have you so close, and not to touch you every moment.  Believe me when I say I cannot fathom that you are not considered the pinnacle of beauty amongst the Quendi!”

Salgant’s tears began to dry, and he managed the start of a merry giggle. “Me, the pinnacle of beauty? Not Luthien?”

“Luthien too had her merits, but if you’ll pardon my saying, not your delicious full moon of a belly that I could plant my face in—  Ah, pardon! I am becoming crude, and overheated. Perhaps I should adjourn, and give you space in which to think?"  The forgemaster inhaled deeply, regaining his composure and sweeping back his ringleted hair. "Yes, I think that would be wise. Good evening, master Salgant. Please give my regards to Maeglin. If you need me…. simply call." 

And with that, he strode out, with slightly less poise than was his custom. It had been a very strange victory celebration indeed.

---

Already waiting in their room, Maeglin wore a cat’s smug smile. "Well? How did it go? Did you turn my over-confident mentor down cold, as he so richly deserves?”

“We… I…” Salgant pressed his lips together, and exhaled loudly. “Oh dear, it’s complicated! I am a fool, a blubbering, ridiculous fool!”   This confession seemed to deflate him, and he slumped to the mattress and put his head into his pillow, groaning. “Maeglin, why must everything be so difficult, and painful? Even pleasant things?" 

"Painful? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” Maeglin rose suddenly, a cold fire raging in his eyes. 

“No! No, nothing like that. Though you are dear to me for asking… I am fine. Only confused, and feeling too many things at once." 

"I am sorry.” His friend sat heavily beside him, knees tucked against his narrow chest. “You of all people deserve something good that is also simple, if that is what you desire.” Maeglin twined his slender fingers with his friend’s. 

“I am not certain that what I desire is… a good thing.”

The dark elf scoffed. “We are Golodhrim traitors serving the Dark Foe of the World, who has won, and is now simply the Dark Lord of the World. What else is there to do now, except seek out what makes us happy and hope that it lasts?” He squeezed the clasped hand. “I do not give a fig if what we want is good or no. …I am only glad that you are with me, whatever else happens." 

Then he lay his head next to Salgant’s, and sweetly, pressed him with a kiss, tasting salt and sugar. 

The once-lord of the House of the Harp blinked and sputtered. "Twice! Twice in a day! I’ve gone all my life without so many kisses! What curse are you all under?”  

Maeglin laughed, and the two embraced, one all hard angles and the other soft curves; both glad in each other’s company. 

“Thû… is very fine of body. And charming. And I would not doubt that he finds you equally fine. He would make anyone a lucky bedmate. But if you do choose to go with him, promise me you won’t let him break your heart? You must remember that he is not like us; he is, first and foremost, a lieutenant, and the servant of a Vala. Even if he cares for you, he belongs body and soul to another. Let him be sweet with you, and love you, but love yourself more. Can you promise me that?"  Maeglin’s brow rested against Salgant’s, his sharp eyes closed. 

"I promise.” Salgant smiled. “I too, love another." 

---

The chamber that Sauron took him to was not accessible by any stair. 

When the elf had called, he had been lifted into the shadows, and in a whirl they were somewhere else in the fortress; a room lit by heavy braziers in each corner, with a low bed, richly dressed in many vast pelts, left by animals that no longer roamed the middle earth. It did not look as though it were a bed for sleeping in—indeed, he knew that the maia did not require sleep, therefore the very existence of the bed made him wonder if facilitating trysts were its only purpose. The idea made his stomach do a nervous flip. 

"I needn’t tell you, I’m not very experienced in these matters… um…” Salgant fumbled. “I hope you don’t think I’m not excited. I am! Only… don’t want to disappoint you." 

"You—” Sauron rumbled, licking his lips, “could not disappoint me if you tried." 

Still standing, Salgant felt the the tickling of hairs against his skin, and the gravity of something solid behind him, something breathing, where the warm, furred belly of the smith met the small of his back. 

He closed his eyes. His ears twitched, and listened. He heard deep, eager breaths, and the subtle mouth-sounds of swallowing, and wetting lips. 

He felt two rough palms hover just above the skin of his plump arms, before closing around them, stroking down from his shoulders to his bicep, and then up to his throat, under his low-slung chin. Large fingers paused at each point they found fascinating, pressing dimples where they rested. One traced the pink tip of his pointed ear.

Salgant gulped, struggling to breathe, feeling heat rise up his throat. He closed his eyes all the tighter; somehow, that made it easier to accept the thrill of being touched. 

He squeaked as his buttocks were grasped and lifted, then dropped, bouncing. Hands squeezed the folds of his sides, held onto his hipbones like handles and swayed him, forward and back, bumping him against the hard wall of muscle behind. Then reverently, the hands eased down the globe of his belly, tucked underneath it and let its weight settle heavy in their palms. There was a stuttering sigh from behind him and a cut-off moan. 

The elf bit his lip and shivered; the hands went on to stroke and send ripples through his midriff— it gave him an uncomfortable, delicious, guilty pleasure that made him blush furiously and turn his head. 

"Do you like that?"  Sauron’s voice in his ear sounded drunk. "Do you like it?”

Salgant nodded quickly, chest heaving. He’d nearly bitten his lip bloody. 

Suddenly there were teeth pulling at the base of his neck, as fingers clawed into the middle of him, squeezing and kneading him. Overwhelmed with sensations, so intense he could not tell yet if they were painful or exquisite, Salgant’s head rolled backward and a whimpering cry escaped him, loud and shameless. Sauron snarled greedily and licked him from collar to ear, spinning the elf around and pulling him up into a fearsome kiss. 

“Let me fuck you.” He hissed, rocking on his feet. 

“I’ve never done… I don’t know that I can…”

“I don’t need to enter you to fuck you. There are so many ways. Please, please let me show you…”

He nodded. 

Sauron growled happily, kissed him again, and fell heavily to the bed, taking Salgant along with him so that he fell atop the smith’s chest. Sauron was hairier than the statue of Aulë Salgant had seen in the city square. It was rather shocking to his elven sensibilities, but then…

I’ve never met anything furry I didn’t like, he resolved, and buried his nose in the thick track of hair running down the center of the torso beneath him. Where Salgant’s flesh nudged against the smith’s hardened body, it flattened and pooled. He felt like a dew droplet, beading atop a slab of stone— it was not an altogether displeasing image, which surprised him, and made him smile. It did not displease the smith either, apparently, judging by the hitch in his breath and the tremulous hands that made to touch and fondle him as though they were starving. 

At once the smith rolled to one side and slid over a lacquered tray filled with little jars and fluted bottles. He leafed through them, humming with deliberation, before choosing. Oil, fragrant as carved wood, spilled over his palms, dripping between his gleaming fingers. “Kneel for me. Legs apart." 

Salgant did as he was bidden, waiting curiously as the smith moved behind him. "Oh!” Liquid silk rolled over his shoulders and down his back. It was the most luxurious sensation! His mouth fell open in bliss as the oil was spread gently over his thighs and stomach, over his rump and down his legs. The maia seemed interested in spreading it between his thighs and buttocks, purring and rumbling deep in his chest. 

When he moved to anoint Salgant’s sex, the elf jumped and squeaked. “I don’t—! It’s alright, you needn’t." 

"Needn’t?” Sauron lilted. “I would hate for you to be too dry, my love! Every inch of you should be slick and glistening… slippery as you were the first day at the bellows, and as fragrant.”

Salgant was appalled. “I reeked when I first started! I was sweating a river!" 

There came a strange, moaning chuckle from the smith. "You have no idea. Bury me in that scent, and I am yours for the taking. I surrender: Salgant of the House of the Harp has conquered me! Let it be sung!" 

"You are an awful beast!” Salgant laughed, covering his face. 

“That I am; the worst that ever was. Who could blame you for being overcome by such a dreadful creature? Come, let me devour you. I will do it ever so gently…" 

He crooked a finger between Salgant’s legs, light and coaxing against the pert mound of his sack. "Don’t be ashamed. Please. You are so beautiful. I want to see you exhausted with pleasure— do not flinch to tell me what you desire." 

"What you’re doing now is w-wonderful.” Salgant shut his eyes. “It’s just that I don’t do much with, ah, my sex. Even… um. Even when I’m alone. I do other things." 

"Ouh? How intriguing.” Sauron thrummed. “What things? Let me have a guess… do you attend to these?" 

He plucked at the elf’s peach-tipped breasts, rolling each nipple between thumb and finger.  Salgant gasped. 

"Perhaps this?” He stroked his belly, patting it and sending tremors down to his loins. “Or… this?” Gently he spread the elf’s cheeks and circled the puckered entrance between them. When there was a hiccuping groan in response, he laughed. “Oh yes. I think is the perfect place to start." 

What happened next was not something that Salgant ever imagined would occur between two individuals who fancied each other. 

The smith rolled the elf forward onto his knees and elbows, and himself bent low, kissing the ripe globes of Salgant’s ass and pulling it open. Salgant felt the bristle-roughness of his beard tickling the most alarming place, and the vibrations of a deep, rattling moan, before a tongue set about lapping his entrance. He squealed and balled fists, burying his face into the bed furs. Shame and embarrassment knocked on the door to his conscience, and for once, Salgant slammed the door upon them and bolted the lock. 

"Oh- ooooh sweet Valar, that’s so, so, good!”

“Leave the Valar out of this.” Said Sauron’s muffled voice. And Salgant did not argue. 

Between the sounds of extreme appreciative ecstasy coming from the mouth against his ass, and the wet tugging and easy stretching that it brought, Salgant all but spilled himself, teetering on the edge as he felt his balls palmed and jostled. Then the smith straddled and lay against him, reaching around to pinch and tug Salgant’s erect button of a cock while grinding his own formidable one against the cleft of his slippery backside. His belly swung beneath him and the smith clutched its pliant bulk with obscene eagerness. 

“Oh yes— Oh, how you delight me! You are perfection. You are so… ah… Salga— AUH!”  

And Salgant felt a hot silky rain upon his back, and promptly shuddered, rutting against the smith’s coarse palm until he too arched and came, dripping onto the overhang of his belly. 

Both collapsed; falling to one side heavily, Sauron crushed the plump elf to his chest and exhaled mightily. He kissed the crown of his head, breathless. “Thank you." 

Salgant, emboldened, tried to reply ”my pleasure“, but it burbled uselessly in a mush of syllables, and he gave up, going limp against the great arms that encircled him. There he lay, for who knows how long, being stroked and kissed and drifting in and out of dreams, smelling the uniqueness of the maia and the amber oil and the fur covers and their spent passion. He could not remember a time when he felt so relaxed, so at peace with himself. 

"My Master…."  murmured Sauron, perhaps half asleep himself, "was full and soft and lovely as you, once; in the days when he loved himself, and loved others to love him.”  

Salgant’s ears twitched, intent though drowsy. 

“Maybe, now the war is won, he will be again. I hope so.” The forgemaster gave a sigh, and buried his proud face into the elf’s hair, eyes shut. 

---

In the days that came after, two elves and a maia made their bed all together, and shared an understanding that went beyond their work together in the forge or in the bedroom. 

And in the years after, when the maia’s Master slept but could not shake off his great weariness, and did not become full and lovesome in himself again, but rather hungrier, and thornier, and more fearful of treachery than before, the elves spent their time more with each other.

And Maeglin, the traitor of Gondolin, as promised become a great captain of Angband, and he wore a silver mask into battle that hid his identity from the world. His machines served not only to stamp out rebellion but to aid in transportation and mining and labor, easing and often replacing the work of thralls. 

And Salgant, who was kind and loved comfort, found his place amid the hatchlings in the rookery, where the dragons of Melkor made their nests, and in the kennels where wargs whelped their pups. He took special pride in caring for the creatures that elves found ugly; and no wrinkle-faced bat nor fang-filled wyrm went uncherished or unspoiled. 

And when the Valar in their terrible glory marched across the seas to war, Maeglin, captain of Angband, stood against them in futile battle with his war machines and his cunning, and was trod to death beneath their feet. 

And Salgant, unwilling to leave his charges, did not escape the nursery when the peaks of Thangorodrim crushed under the weight of fallen Ancalagon, the black dragon. 

But the fate of those two who lived after the fall of Gondolin was not forgotten— nor that healing and trust could be found sometimes in the most unlikely of places.