Dim torches lit with flickering green flames lead Sauron through the halls of Angband. There was little light in the fortress, torches providing light where windows could not. Light in Angband artificial and dim, the sight of stars causing rage among its residents, as such, Sauron and Morgoth had designed the fortress to let as little light in as possible.
How would Morgoth’s newest creation, Sauron wondered, fare in a world without light? The Eldar were known for their love of light, would the lack of it cause the child to break more quickly? Or would they simply fade as all others had? It would be a shame if they faded as the others who had reached their age had. Sauron would love to have an opportunity to experiment on her himself.
The child, he mused as he wandered into the dungeons, would have been an excellent bargaining chip had their father still been alive. Alas, Fëanor had perished and Sauron doubted that their brothers would want something corrupted by Morgoth’s magic.
Corrupted! How foolish these elves were. The child shone almost as brightly as any of their brothers even without seeing the light of the Trees. Yet there was a darkness to that light, one anyone else would see as evidence of their corruption. It was foolish, but elves presumed the worst of anything and anyone coming out of the halls of Angband. It gave Sauron a sick pleasure to see those thralls that had escaped being rejected by their peers. The delight he got from those reports stirring him from a foul moods whenever he thought of them.
Stopping in front of the cell that housed the child, Sauron stood silently. The torch at his back cast his shadow over the shivering child held behind bars and Sauron let a smirk creep to his face.
There were many things she -the child- was fearful of. The creatures with claws and skin stretched over their frames in such a way she wondered if it would break. She feared the woman with wings who taught her to speak. She feared the man with gold hair and violet eyes that took her out of her cell at times only to make her beg for him to take her back.
Or kill her at least, she had never known a longing for something other than death. Than an escape from whatever new torture the man with violet eyes thought up.
There were times when she thought that her father would come and put a stop to it. That hope had been all but dashed when he had come while she lay on an operating table and merely watched as she screamed.
Did she fear him? Yes. Did she hate him? Yes.
Did she love him? She didn’t know. A part of her longed for her father’s embrace, for his acceptance, a part of her didn’t want to believe that the man who created her could look at her with nothing but amusement and contempt.
She should love her father. That’s what she had been told by the man with violet eyes. He created her, gave her life, she should show him nothing but her unending loyalty.
She didn’t feel very loyal, and if she was, it was born of fear. Not love.
Mostly, she feared her father. A towering man that made the rage of fire look dim in comparison to his wrath. His gold eyes held no love for her, but watched with dark amusement whenever she was paraded in front of him.
He watched from his throne as the man with violet eyes spoke of her progress. He had watched as the man with violet eyes had sliced her open only to stitch her back up and start again.
He had no love for her.
She didn’t know why that filled her with an unexplainable sorrow.
She stared at the man in front of her cell, gold eyes watching warily as he unlocked the door and stepped in.
“Your father,” he said, and the words stung like the open wounds on her back, “Would like to see you.”
He is not my father, she wanted to say. But the words felt wrong, and died on her lips before she could speak them. She said nothing as the man whispered something and the runes on the manacles she wore glowed a bright red before dying out.
“Come girl,” he said stepping away and expecting her to follow, “You wouldn’t like it if you kept him waiting.”
The throne room was vast. Dark pillars led the way to where her father sat, on a throne of twisted metal with a crown of darkness and light shining on his head. His hair, black as the throne beneath him, fell to the ground in strands of silk.
Her own hair was kept short. Cut close to her head and letting only small strands of silver grow. She hated how she envied her father’s hair. How she envied the long strands he grew. How each time she felt his amused gaze she felt as though he was also laughing at her lack of hair.
At the base of the throne, the man who brought her in, the one with violet eyes, pushed her so she was kneeling before her father.
She ignored the heart beating in her chest, how it seemed to want to leap from its cage. She ignored the urge to want to look up at her father to see what his next move would be. She ignored every straining muscle in her that urged her to move because if she did she would be punished.
She could not move unless told to in front of her father.
Not even an inch.
“Daughter,” her father drawled, and she resisted the urge to flinch, “I believe it’s time I gave you something.”
Her heart pounds in her throat. Hope and fear in equal measure welling up inside her. Her father has never given her anything, not a name, not anything. She’s desperate to see what it is, yet at the same time she wants to tell him to keep it. She didn’t want to accept anything from him.
Not trusting her voice not to tremble, show no sign of weakness, she kept her gaze to the ground and said nothing.
“You should be grateful,” her father continued, “Weapons need no names and neither do bargaining chips. But I thought of a lovely name for you. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes, Master,” it took all her strength to keep her voice from trembling, to keep her gaze to the floor.
A name? She didn’t need one before so what changed? Had he found one fitting for his daughter? She had no doubt he was of great importance, perhaps that’s why he treated her the way he did? Was she not important enough for him yet?
Perhaps a name was a sign of affection. Perhaps it was a sign things were going to change.
She didn’t like the feeling of hope that welled up in her at that thought. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. But hope is a fickle thing and it made it’s presence known even as, unbeknownst to her, her grinned cruelly from up on his throne.
“Of course you do,” her father purred, the sound menacing, “Look at me child.”
She raised her head and met her father’s gaze. Any hope that she felt vanished as she saw her reflection in cruel golden eyes.
The same eyes she had.
“Lachrien,” her father pronounced, “A fitting name, don’t you agree?”
She didn’t know what part of her father was burning for he seemed cold as ice, nonetheless, she nodded.
Her father laughed.
“You know not of what I speak yet you agree anyway,” he mused out loud, “Are you that fearful of me, child?”
Lachrien said nothing and moved her gaze from his eyes to the ground.
Her father laughed again and gestured to the man who brought her there.
“Ensure she’s trained sufficiently,” her father says, “Make sure she remains loyal.”
The man nodded and Lachrien swore she felt his gaze burning into her back.
She wondered if the name she had been given was another thing to mock her.
She wondered if death would come for her quicker now that she had a name.