Write a story where the mouth of sauron takes off his helmet and speaks to sauron

In the shadow-shrouded realm of Mordor, the stench of sulfur and ash hung thick in the air, a testament to Sauron's dark dominion. The dark tower of Barad-dûr loomed ominously over the land, its gates ever open to the whispering winds of malevolence that swept across the desolate plains of Gorgoroth. Deep within the stony confines of the tower, a figure clad in black armor stood before a vast, flaming eye—a mere reflection of the Dark Lord’s will, yet a visage even more terrifying than that of his master. Known as the Mouth of Sauron, he was a mouthpiece of malice, a lieutenant tasked with delivering Sauron’s messages to the realms of Men and controlling the forces of darkness with an iron grip. Tonight was different, however. A tension hung in the air, a palpable unease that unsettled even the most hardened of Sauron’s minions. The Mouth of Sauron had received troubling news from the fields of Pelennor. The Men of Gondor were rallying, and their spirits, once flickering like a candle in the wind, now burned bright with newfound hope. As he paced the chamber, his heavy boots echoing on the obsidian floor, he felt an urge; a desire to cast aside his façade. With a swift motion, he lifted his arm and unclasped the helmet from his head, revealing a pale visage, twisted by bitterness and ambition. His long black hair fell around his shoulders like a storm cloud, and his eyes gleamed with a restless energy. He was not simply a servant of Sauron; he harbored his own dreams of power, dreams he had kept buried beneath layers of servitude. Tonight, faced with the prospect of their impending doom at the hands of Men, he resolved to reach out to his master. “Lord Sauron,” he began, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that resonated through the dark sanctum. “The tides of war are shifting. The Men of Gondor rally beneath their banners, spurred by a flame you have underestimated.” The Eye shifted, narrowing ominously, and for a moment the very essence of Sauron seemed to vibrate in response. The Mouth straightened, gathering his courage. “They draw strength from hope. Hope is a powerful force, my lord, yet it is fragile. They believe they have a chance while they still think they stand united.” In the flickering light of the burning eye, he felt a swell of his own ambition. “What if we turned that hope to despair? What if we were to sow discord among them, to turn their walls into prisons of doubt? I could go to them; I could whisper in their ears, unraveling their resolve like a frayed thread.” A moment of silence stretched between them, the Eye boring into the Mouth with an intensity that seemed to reach the core of his very being. The darkness deepened, swirling like storm clouds, and the Mouth felt a shiver travel down his spine. To act against Sauron’s will was an invitation to destruction, yet he could not shake the hunger for autonomy that stirred within him. Finally, the Eye pulsed, and a voice resonated, a deep growl that filled the chamber. “You wish to test the strength of your own will against that of a greater power?” It was less a question than a statement. The Mouth took a breath, summoning all of his conviction. “I do, my lord. I have served you in shadow and obedience, and yet I yearn for the power to wield in my own hand. Let me do this, and I swear to you that the kingdoms of Men shall crumble beneath their own doubts.” Sauron’s presence enveloped the chamber, a tidal wave of darkness pulling at the very fabric of reality. “You tread a dangerous path,” he cautioned. “Should you fail, your ambition will crumble into dust, and you will be lost to the void.” “I accept this risk, my Lord,” the Mouth replied fiercely. “To win is to live. To lose is to perish by your hand or those of the Men. I choose to act.” With a final flicker of the Eye, Sauron’s influence withdrew slightly, granting the Mouth a fleeting moment of autonomy. “Go then,” Sauron commanded, his tone a mixture of warning and anticipation. “Bring chaos upon their hearts. Your ambition may yet serve the greater darkness.” And with those words echoing in his mind, the Mouth of Sauron donned his helmet once more, a dark glimmer of purpose surging through him. As he stepped onto the obsidian balcony, gazing across the expanse of Mordor illuminated by crimson fire, he felt the weight of destiny upon his shoulders. With a roar of defiance, he raised his sword to the skies. The winds howled in approval. The spark of ambition glowed brightly within him as he set forth to weave his dark plot against the light. The Age of Men would soon meet their twilight, all while he spun the web of despair from the shadows, carving a path toward power not just for Sauron, but for himself.