He was born hungry, a fallen Maia, ever yearning as Morgoth craved the Silmarils. Yet Sauron had his own Silmaril, one far more precious, a light so bright it called to him like a moth to flame, to doom, and to death under the dark clouds where no stars could shine. Like that same moth, fluttering over the molten lava, past the rusting weapons of forgotten wars, through the shadows of dread, it spread terror across Beleriand. And around the Rings of Power, it danced. But each time Sauron reached for it his prize slipped away, like the wind teasing through his long hair, a banner of doom against the night sky.

That light, that creature mocked him. It flitted through his mind’s halls, a dream in his endless nightmare. For centuries, millennia even, it vanished and reappeared, hiding in the world’s wild places. But Sauron’s eyes, burning with the fire of ages, saw it all. As much as he longed to crush it, to close his armored hand around it and extinguish that flickering brilliance, it remained beyond his reach. His flames followed, though. Through the fall of houses, the deaths of kings and brothers, through the starlit woods and past mortal men and dwarves, until at last he caught it.

He caged it in Barad-dûr, locked away as the Silmarils were, a rare thing he cherished above all. He gave it a ring, but it never wore it. And sometimes, he brought it out to Eregion, letting it breathe the fresh air of the west, only to return it to the harsh, dark columns of his tower. It lingered, as always, near him its beauty and spirit an unbearable contrast to the fires and black stone around them. Sauron, ever watchful, knew where it was. He felt it linger, just as his gaze lingered over the darkened map before him.

"I see thee, mîr. Dost thou seek the light?" he asked, his voice deep, a whisper of the shadow behind his words. His back turned, hands clasped behind him, yet he knew you stood there. "Or only to flee mine grasp once more?"