Title: The Dark Lord’s Cavern 
Author: wildemoose (KrazyActor@aol.com) 
Pairings: Sauron/Isildur, Elrond/Isildur 
Rating: R
Summary: How did Isildur really get the Ring?  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t own ‘em. Never seen ‘em. Don’t know what 
you’re talking about.
Warning: Darkfic, very non-consensual sex, slightly AU 
Author's Note: This was written for the Library of Moria’s April 
Archivists’ Challenge.  It was originally meant for the “make love, not 
war” category, but anything with Sauron becomes a darkfic, so…whatever 
floats your boat.  If you find the “Matrix” reference, you get cookies (I just 
couldn’t help myself).

      “Tangado haid! Leithio i philinn!”  Elrond shouted.  His face was 
caked with dirt and sweat, and although his elf eyes were sharp, he could 
hardly see his troops through the smoke that covered the battlefield.  
Everywhere he looked, Orcs, Elves, and Men were falling, and it was all 
he could do to keep his battalion fighting—word had just come through 
the line that their great captain, Gil-Galad, had been slain.  This news had 
brought with it a sense of despair and a hopeless loss of morale, and even 
Elrond was fighting the temptation to give in.  As the tears began forming 
in his eyes, he felt a hand on his shoulder and pair of lips at his ear.  
“Don’t give up, my brother,” Isildur whispered.  “Remember what we’re 
fighting for.”  Elrond suppressed a smile, feeling instantly renewed.  
Though a mortal man, Isildur had the elf-like ability to sense exactly what 
Elrond was thinking—and to somehow appear exactly when he needed 
him.  Elrond allowed himself the luxury of giving Isildur’s hand a squeeze 
before raising his sword to order more troops into the fray.  He watched 
his lover’s retreating form hurrying back to his own troops, and sent a 
silent prayer to the Valar that they would both make it through this war 
alive.
      
      It might have been hours, or it might have been days later—Elrond 
couldn’t tell.  The smoke and dust had blocked out the sun, and day and 
night had ceased to exist.  The world now seemed only an endless gray 
haze covering everything, revealing nothing.  The men in the ranks were 
drooping, exhausted, becoming careless; even the Elves seemed to be 
showing signs of fatigue.  Elrond himself was appalled to realize that he 
was actually exhausted.  He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the 
back of his neck, trying to relieve the tension he could feel there.  As 
Elrond did so, he realized that the battle around him seemed to be 
lessening; the sound of swords and arrows almost disappeared, and he 
could see his soldiers, weapons at their sides, staring at something far in 
the distance.  Elrond turned around.  His eyes, though weary, were still 
sharp, and he thought he could perceive a great black shadow encroaching 
onto the battlefield, blasting soldiers right and left, turning them to stone.  
Elrond’s own sword dropped to his side, and one word escaped his lips: 
“Sauron.”  Before he could shout the order to retreat, the shadow fell 
across him, and it was too late.  His men were already dead.  
      Across the field, the shadow dissipated, revealing an enormous 
black figure, already battling with someone much smaller.  It took a 
moment for Elrond to realize that the smaller figure was Elendil, his 
captain, his friend, and Isildur’s father.  Shouting Elendil’s name, he 
rushed across the field, brandishing his sword.  Those of his men who 
were still alive took heart at this and followed, shouting at the top of their 
lungs, “For Elendil!  For the Alliance!”  But again it was too late—the tiny 
group was still a hundred yards distant from the duel when they saw 
Elendil fall to the ground.  Elrond stopped his men as he watched Isildur 
pick up the sword Narsil, drawing in his breath when he realized that the 
blade had been snapped in two.  Sauron laughed at this—a long, horrible 
laugh that, even from far away, sent a shiver through Elrond’s entire 
company.  And then, instead of slaying Isildur where he stood, Sauron 
picked up the frozen man with one hand and retreated, heading for his lair 
under the mountain.  Elrond did not stop to think.  Shouting at his men to 
carry on with the fight, he scooped up the shards of Narsil and put them in 
his pocket as he ran after Sauron, hoping with all his heart that he would 
not find his lover dead in the Dark Lord’s chambers.
      The huge cave to which Elrond silently tracked Sauron was both 
horrifying and magnificent.  Elrond could see that it had once been a place 
of beauty—the walls were covered in some kind of glittering substance, 
and the stone floor was designed in an elaborate pattern.  Out of this 
loveliness, however, Sauron and his minions had created a place of pain.  
Everywhere Elrond looked he could see a different type of torture device, 
and the room stank of blood and fear and death.  Never before in his life 
had Elrond Half-Elven known fear.  He felt it now.
	In the corner of the room a shadow lurked—the shadow he had 
seen on the battlefield, though now much smaller.  Other than this 
presence, the room appeared to be empty.  Elrond crept closer, his elven 
feet making no sound as he slowly made his way across the cold chamber.  
Still unseen, he placed himself behind a wide stone pillar, close enough to 
hear everything.  When Sauron finally spoke, Elrond jumped.  His voice 
was low and hissing; like his laugh, it was haunting and terrifying, the 
epitome of evil.
	“So.  This is the mighty Isildur, son of Elendil.  You seek to defeat 
me, isn’t that so?”  Sauron’s looming form blocked Isildur from sight, but 
Elrond could hear him struggling against his bonds.  “Speak, mortal!  I 
have no patience with such insignificant creatures as you.  You will do 
exactly as I say, or you will die.  Do you understand me?”  Isildur’s voice 
was low and sullen, but Elrond could tell that he was fighting to keep both 
dignity and composure.
	“Yes.”
	“Good.  Now, mortal, let us see if we can come to an agreement of 
some kind.  I am not altogether…what is the word you use?  Evil?”  
Sauron laughed, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the stone chamber.  
“No, not altogether.  And it seems that I have something you want.  Is that 
not so?”  His hand flew through the air, and Elrond caught a glimpse of 
something gold—the Ring of Power on his finger.  The hand came to rest 
on Isildur’s cheek, and Elrond shuddered, imagining the repugnant feel of 
Sauron’s touch.  The Dark Lord’s fingers gently caressed Isildur’s jaw.  
Elrond could almost hear Isildur gritting his teeth, struggling not to cry out 
with revulsion.  When Sauron spoke again, his voice was softer.  “And 
perhaps…perhaps you have something I want.”
	“I will make no bargains with you, Sauron!  If I am to die, then do 
not toy with me.  Allow me to die with honor, as my father did.”  Sauron’s 
gentle, eerie voice turned terrible.
	“I do not offer bargains!  In this matter, mortal, you do not have a 
choice!”
	“What do you want from me?”  Isildur could hardly keep his voice 
from shaking.
	“Nothing from you.  I want you.”
	“I…I do not understand.”
	“The stupidity of your race, human, never ceases to amaze me.  
Listen to what I say.  Your body pleases me, mortal.  I wish to possess it.  
I will take your body, and in exchange I will give you the Ring of Power, 
to do with as you wish.”
	“Take…my body?”  Elrond could see that Isildur still did not 
understand—but Elrond knew exactly what Sauron meant.  To take his 
body as a lover would make a mockery of the act of love, of the sweet 
hours that Elrond and Isildur had spent together—it was unthinkable.  It 
was grotesque.  “This must not come to pass,” thought Elrond fiercely.  
“Who knows how the seed of Sauron might affect his lover?  No doubt it 
would turn him into a dark, evil creature.  Like Sauron himself, such a 
person would lose his soul.  And all know that the Dark Lord does not 
give up the Ring of Power so easily.  He has a purpose here beyond the 
mere carnal knowledge of Isildur’s body.”  But Isildur, more innocent and 
less worldly-wise than Elrond, could not see these ends.  
      “The Ring,” Isildur thought, “in exchange for a few moments of 
pain?  Sauron’s lust has made him careless.  I will take this offer.”  
Though Isildur had not spoken these words aloud, Sauron responded as if 
he had read his thoughts.
	“Good.  So much more satisfying with a willing victim,” he leered.  
“Isn’t that right, Lord Elrond?”  Elrond gave a start of surprise as he 
realized that Sauron had sensed his presence.  “Oh yes.  Did you think to 
fool me, hiding behind that pillar?  Come closer, Half-Elven.  There is no 
need to fear.  I want nothing from you.”
	“Elrond!”  Isildur cried, as the elf reluctantly stepped from the 
shadows.  “No!  Run, save yourself!”
	“Quiet, fool!”  Sauron did not even turn to look at Elrond, saying 
only, “Stand against that wall.  I cannot take you by force, Half-Elven, as I 
can this sniveling mortal here, for afterwards you will die and be of no use 
to me.  But you will watch.  And this—this piece of scum, your putrid 
lover here, will describe to you exactly what I am doing to him.  I imagine 
you may find this more painful than anything I could do to you.”  Elrond 
felt more helpless than ever before in his life.  He closed his eyes, willing 
Isildur to relax, just to submit, to—“Do you forget?  I know what you are 
thinking, Elf, and your counsel is wise.  He tells you, mortal, to let me 
have my way without struggle, that there will be less…”  He paused a 
moment before going on, as if relishing the word.  “…pain.  And I can 
assure you, there will be pain.”  The room seemed to grow cold, and 
Elrond shivered.  He could sense Isildur’s fear, and the man was terrified.  
“Face the wall, Elf!”  Though he had no intention of doing so, Elrond 
found himself obeying Sauron’s orders.  “Do not turn around.  Do not 
open your eyes, or I will kill you.  I will tell this mortal to kill you, and he 
will do it.”  Elrond squeezed his eyes tight, willing himself not to cry.  
“Now tell him, mortal.  Tell him what I am doing.”
	“He…he…”  Isildur’s voice was shaking, on the edge of tears.  
“He is touching my shoulder.  He is stroking my…”  A sharp intake of 
breath as Sauron’s cold hands ripped open Isildur’s tunic and worked their 
way across his chest.  “My…my chest.  My stomach.  My…no, please, 
no…”    
	“Tell him!  If you don’t tell him, I will.  No?  Pity.  Then this is 
going to hurt.”  Isildur was crying openly now, a sound Elrond had never 
before heard from him.  “I am touching him.  He can’t help himself; he is 
growing hard beneath my hand.  I am…I am…”  Sauron himself was 
growing incoherent, and Elrond thought he could risk turning his head 
over his shoulder, so that out of one eye he could almost see what was 
occurring.  When he did, he wished he hadn’t; Sauron was standing over 
Isildur, and Isildur was gagging as Sauron’s length went further and 
further down his throat.  Suddenly, Sauron withdrew and, with no 
preparation, forced himself inside the man’s body.  Isildur’s screams filled 
the room, and Elrond could watch no more.  He turned back to the wall, 
sobbing, hands over too-keen elf ears, trying to block the sound of pain he 
could do nothing to alleviate.  And so, Elrond did not hear Sauron’s final 
groan of pleasure as he spent himself inside Isildur; did not hear Isildur 
fall, unconscious, to the ground; did not hear Sauron’s booming laugh as 
the dark presence removed itself from the chamber.  And he did not hear a 
small piece of metal being tossed through the air, or how it sounded as it 
dropped flatly onto the stone floor beside Isildur’s head.  
	    
  “Hold your positions!  Fire the arrows!”