The black lands stretched beneath a sky of smoke and fire, where no bird flew and no wind stirred but the breath of ash. Mordor. Its name was a curse spoken in hushed tones, even in the high halls of Elrond, but now Glorfindel knew it not only as a word, but as a reality, vast and suffocating, an endless tomb of man and beast and unspoken thing alike.

He had been brought here in silence, though chains clinked with every step, cruel links of black iron that seared the skin in the heat of this place. Lurkai followed, his presence looming despite the physical distance he kept. 

The great towers rose up ahead: Barad-dûr and the lesser spires that ringed it. Smoke coiled upward in endless spirals, veiling the red glare of Orodruin, ever-burning in the distance, the eye of wrath itself. 

Yet it was not Barad-dûr that drew him now, nor the fire-mountain's glare. They led him instead toward a fortress lesser in name, but no less cruel in craft: Ost Caun-Heneb, the Tower of the Weeping Eye. Its walls were of basalt veined with red glass, and upon its battlements stood no orcs, only watchers cloaked in black, still as statues, their faces lost beneath iron helms.

Here, Glorfindel was cast into the deep places, far from sunlight or memory. His cell was black as pitch, and the very stone seemed to groan with the memory of torment. No torch burned within. Darkness was his cellmate, and silence his jailor.

Time became meaningless. Hours or days passed, fleeting, lingering, altogether too short and yet too long all at once. Hunger gnawed at him, but never fully overcame the sickness in the pit of his stomach. Sleep came only in slivers, broken by dreams not his own.

It was in such a waking nightmare that he first heard the voice.

"Do you remember the light, Glorfindel?"

It was not spoken aloud, and yet it rang in his mind like the toll of a black bell. He staggered, clutching at his temples, but the voice only deepened; gentle, insinuating, knowing.

"You bore it yourself once. Even still, you burn with it. But for whom? For what?"

He tried to silence it, to recite the names of the Valar, to call upon Elbereth... but even her star seemed far now, as if behind a veil. He had not seen the night sky in so long.

Visions came with the voice. Of Imladris in flame. Of Elrond bowed in chains. Of Caledorn dying with a blade through his breast. And of Glorfindel himself, not slain, but crowned in a helm of obsidian, with eyes like coals and a voice that others obeyed not for love, but fear.

He screamed to silence it. But there were no ears to hear.

And the voice whispered again:

"What is light, if it can be broken so easily?"

He no longer knew if his eyes were open. Darkness clung to everything: walls, skin, thought. He lost count of how many times he had tried to sing to himself, old songs from Valinor, hymns of starlight and sea. But the words unraveled now, slipping from his tongue like threads undone, fading into the hopeless black that surrounded him.

And then, his skin began to crawl, as if thousands of spiders were writhing about, surrounding him in webs. He couldn't see them, couldn't hear them, and any attempt to rid himself of them was fruitless.

And always, the whispers came.

"They left you."

Soft as breath, but piercing.

"You bled for them, died for them... and yet where are they now?"

At first, he cursed them, shouted back in fury, though his voice cracked in the stillness. But there was no answer. No footsteps above. No clang of keys in the lock. Only silence... and the whisper.

"Elrond speaks your name no longer."

"Caledorn fights without you. You were never important to them. You were a tool: their best tool, yes, but still a tool."

"You could be more."

He tried to anchor himself in memory. The white towers in Gondolin. The laughter of young elves in Imladris. The cry of eagles over the peaks. But even these began to twist.

Gondolin stood blackened in his vision now, wreathed in flame and ash. The laughter became screams. The eagles flew with bat wings, blocking out the dying sun.

At times, he dreamed of a mirror, and in it he saw a reflection that bore his face but not his eyes. They were red. And they wept flame.

"They will not come for you."

"You are already forgotten."

"But I remember you."

The voice was patient, never hurried. It did not need to shout. It only needed to be there.

Glorfindel wept, though he did not feel the tears. His hands trembled, the chains digging deeper now, not only into flesh, but into soul.

He began to wonder if the voice was truly other.

Or if it had always been his.

"You are the fire they tried to bury."

"You are the wrath they feared."

"Let them see what they made."

Somewhere far above, a door groaned open on rusted hinges. Footsteps approached, slow, deliberate. And for the first time since his capture, Glorfindel did not cry for rescue.

He waited.

The footsteps grew louder, echoing down the long spiral of stone. With each step, the air grew heavier, thick not with smoke, but with the pressure of something vast, old, and awake.

The door did not creak. It opened, soundless, a pale light flooding into the room. Glorfindel's eyes forced shut involuntarily, even this small amount of light blinding after what felt like an eternity in shadow.

A figure stood there, veiled in dark robes that shimmered like oil over water. He was not clad in blackened armor, nor was he a terrifying visage of evil. Yet his presence filled the chamber and Glorfindel's mind fully, all else forgotten.

Sauron.

He did not wear a helm, nor bear a weapon. His face was beautiful in the way a dying star is beautiful: majestic, radiant, and utterly terrifying. His eyes were black, not empty, but full, deep as a chasm. In them, Glorfindel saw things not meant for the minds of the living; cities burning, stars dimming, children weeping into the ash of the world.

The chains on Glorfindel's wrists hissed and tightened, as though bowing in recognition.

Sauron stepped forward with measured grace, stopping just short of the slumped elf.

He did not speak at first; only studied him, his gaze inscrutable.

"You're... Not real," Glorfindel croaked, his voice harsh and grating from disuse.

For a moment longer, the Dark Lord did not speak. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and at length, his voice came: not loud or harsh, but low and smooth, like cold silk drawn across a blade.

"The proud flame of Gondolin, brought to embers in the dark. Did you think your light beyond reach? The brightest fires cast the darkest shadows."

Glorfindel said nothing. He had no words, only the heartbeat thudding insufferably in his ears.

Sauron crouched. His hand, pale as moonlight but veined with shadow, reached forward and gently lifted Glorfindel's chin. His grip was cold, colder than metal, yet soft. 

"I do not hate you," he said.

It was not a lie. And somehow, that was worse.

"You have been wasted: tossed into battles where kings sent you to die. Twice now, they let your fire burn to protect their crumbling halls. But I have not come to destroy you. I have come to offer you what they never would: purpose."

Glorfindel flinched, but could not look away. The room seemed smaller now, his thoughts quieter, as if the voice within him had bowed in deference to something greater.

I do not offer chains," Sauron said. "I offer release. From guilt. From failure. From the burden of carrying their hopes while they fall. You have seen it, haven't you? Rivendell will burn. Gondor is already ash. Your companions are dead."

Glorfindel trembled. Tears welled again in his eyes.

"You still mourn them?" Sauron asked. "Then wield vengeance in their name. Burn the West that sent them to their ruin."

A silence fell, long and trembling. And then Sauron rose and turned without further word. Before he passed through the door, he spoke once more, quietly, without looking back.

"When you are ready, come to the mirror. I will show you what you truly are."

And he was gone.

Yet the room did not feel emptier. Only colder. Glorfindel stared into the dark.

And found it staring back.

=====================

Days, months... Perhaps years or even centuries passed, and Sauron's words echoed over and over in Glorfindel's breaking mind, circling like vultures over a dying beast. He had no way to mark the passing of time. The darkness had no rhythm, no change.

And then the torture began.

It started with the simple things: sleep withheld. A draught of foul water one day, nothing the next. His body wasted, shriveled beneath the once-noble frame. His fair skin blistered in the damp cold of the dungeon, or scorched beneath the sudden blaze of unseen fires.

Then came the iron.

Orc-hands gripped him by the arms, dragged him from the floor like a carcass. They tied him upright to a stone pillar slick with old blood and ash. The whip they used was not leather, but chain, barbed and heavy. With every strike it bit, and when he refused to scream, they kept going until he did.

When the wounds closed, they opened them again. When his breath steadied, they drowned it in filth.

His name... Glorfindel, they tore from his mouth, syllable by syllable, until he could not remember if he had ever spoken it aloud fully.

Still he would not yield. So they brought fire.

They pressed brands of blackened steel against his chest and back; not symbols of Mordor, but of Gondolin, twisted. Mocking. He bore them silently, but the stench of burning flesh clung to him for days.

Then they used light. Seared into his eyes, blinding pulses of brilliance conjured by the will of the Dark Lord himself. He who had once walked in the light of the Two Trees now trembled beneath their twisted imitation. 

"You died for them once," Sauron said, standing in the doorway, arms folded.

"And they squandered your death."

He spoke with no anger. No hatred. Only certainty.

"But I will give you life. Purpose. Eternity."

Glorfindel was thrown back into the cell. Days passed, and wounds reopened with every breath, every shift. Maggots bred in the cracks of stone, and the smell of rot hung in the corners.

The next time they came, it was worse. They showed him the world.

A mirror of shadow, held before his bruised and broken face. In it, he saw them: Caledorn, Gerithor, Halbarad. Slain. One by one. The West fallen. Not by war, but by collapse. Abandonment. Weakness. Infighting.

And then, as if it had always been waiting, came the final torment.

Sauron himself entered. The orcs fled before him like roaches fleeing candlelight. He stood over Glorfindel's limp form and knelt, slowly, reverently.

"What have they ever done for you but break you? I do not need your obedience, only your vision. Stand beside me, not as slave, but as a king."

Glorfindel's mouth moved, dry and bloodied. A whisper.

"No."

A pause. Sauron tilted his head: not in rage, but in admiration.

"Good," he said. "It means there is still something left to shape."

He stepped back. The orcs returned. The mirror was placed again before him.

"We'll try again tomorrow."

And they did.

=========================

The light ahead flickered with no source. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat echoing through the marrow of the stone. Glorfindel stood before the mirror, though he remembered not how he had gotten there. In recent days, he could no longer tell when he was awake and when he was asleep, what was torture and what was reprieve. Before him, the mirror waited, though it bore no frame, only a sheer surface of obsidian, polished until it gleamed with the shimmer of false stars.

He saw his reflection.

But it was not his face.

It was him, as he might become. Eyes aglow with a molten gleam. A circlet of black silver upon his brow. His golden armor now forged anew in darker hues, twisted yet beautiful. And behind him, all bowed: Elves, Men, even Dwarves. Not with chains, but with peace. With willing submission.

A voice came behind him. Calm. Close.

"Now you see."

Glorfindel did not turn. He didn't need to.

Sauron stepped beside him, his reflection appearing unbidden in the mirror's face: taller than memory, hands clasped lightly behind his back, robed in flame-woven silk that did not burn.

"They never understood," he said softly, like a teacher correcting an old lie. "They feared me because I did not kneel. Because I saw their squabbling kingdoms and broken oaths and thought: this can be better. Is it such a sin to seek order?"

Glorfindel said nothing. The mirror's reflection still held his gaze.

"You've walked the long road, son of Gondolin. You've seen them falter: Isildur, Gil-Galad, even the wise Elrond. Proud names. All flawed. How many times must the world break before someone refuses to let it?"

Glorfindel's breath trembled. The warmth in Sauron's tone was worse than hatred. It was sincerity.

"You were made for more than their fading hope. You were born of fire, risen from death itself. You are not a servant of the light. You are the light... If only you would claim it."

And in that moment, Glorfindel did not feel bound.

He felt powerful.

No chains. No pain. No fading memory of Elbereth's song. Only the mirror, and the figure within it, strong, certain, adored.

"Walk beside me," Sauron said, his catlike eyes glowing mere inches from Glorfindel. "Not as slave. Not as captain. But as equal. Help me end the age of ruin. Help me bring order to this dying land."

Glorfindel closed his eyes.

And for the first time since his capture... He did not know what he wanted.