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Fear was a silly thing to build loyalty upon.
Oh, it would work for a brief time - longer, if the subject was weak or easily prone to fear. But fear clouded the mind, made liars of those that might otherwise give useful counsel.
Most importantly, fear would not give any kind of permanent hold with the strong; and those that Sauron sought out to be his servants, to give his Rings to - they were strong. He would not have weak servants.
But love…
Sauron might be, as a practical creature, be expected to discount love, but he did not. Love was not fragile vows and romantic words, he knew; that so-called love would, more often than not, blow away in the first breath of wind that threatened it. He could destroy that ‘love’ in moments. What he sought, however, was love in a purer form.
The lips of Finrod’s followers tightly pressed together, never yielding a scrap of information even as they were torn apart for the sake of their lord - that was love. Making an oath and following it beyond death, beyond the point where anyone could be expected to continue; going even into the jaws of certain death to retrieve a long-lost friend, on less than a breath of hope - Sauron knew love and the loyalty that was entwined with it well, and he was resolved to not let it belong to his enemies alone.
He had flattered kings before - and loved one, the greatest Lord he had ever served, although he strives to bury that memory most years for the pain it brings - but this is different. He searches everywhere, from courts to slums - asks lords piercing questions, looks deep into the eyes of stableboys, spends perhaps an hour watching a girl tend a market-stall. Kings made already he might find in plenty, but what he truly wants are souls that are worthy of kingly power, and those and ready-made kings seemed to overlap sadly little.
One or two, however, do. The dark-eyed Easterling boy he finds is about to become a leader - callused fingertips drumming restlessly on his sword-hilt as he hears out Sauron’s words, trying to hide his fear with impatience. Courage, Sauron offers him, with the ring he spins on the tip of a finger, and Khamûl takes both.
Sauron cares little for what he gives away, for what he gains is far more valuable; the light in a young man’s eyes, the almost painful pressure of a hand clasped on his in thankfulness, the tang of blood in the air as Khamûl pledged his loyalty. He likes Men, in a distant interested manner, their adaptability and ambition in their brief lives, and likes this one in particular for his fierce smile and quick laugh.
That - that is essential. It is odd, to choose upon such a personal preference, but he must care for them. Even if it is hidden, only if it is only in a small way - completely unrequited love has a nasty habit of breaking, or becoming twisted easily. He’s manipulated victims of it too often to trust it.
And these Men, his Nine -
He loves them. Their passions and anger and cleverness, their strengths and the flaws that he offers to help them guard against. The healer-king, gentle and vicious in equal measure, that he knows will stand at his right hand. The corsair who asks Sauron to teach him how to harness the winds. The bitter girl with her almost-black eyes who likes to pull his hair when he kisses her. He feels connected to Arda in a way he has not for some time, loving nine creatures so earthly - because for all his magic, they are still Men, and they do not lose that.
Their lives might be prolonged, but they do not think like the Firstborn; some of them learn patience, but others still speak of time as if it had its withering hold on them still.
"Khamûl," Sauron said once, interrupting his second-in-command in the middle of a speech that was growing rather too panicked. "There is time enough for everything."
"Time runs out for everyone, eventually," the Easterling king replied, more sharply than he usually spoke to his lord. He had been near-wraith, those days, the flesh that cloaked him wearing almost translucent, his bones brittle.
Sauron reached out, cupping his cheek, making the spirit beneath his skin darken like a blush or a bruise. “Not for the Nine,” he said, more gently than he had spoken in a while. “You will be by my side even until the end of days. If that remains your will, of course.”
Khamûl gave a low sigh, tilting his head into Sauron’s touch. The gesture was reminiscent of someone he had known before, a memory that made Sauron’s eyes narrow; but the haggard quality of the face, the urgency about him, was completely unlike it. Sauron cherished them for that.
"My lord," Khamûl said, and it seemed that his thoughts and Sauron’s ran near to each other, as they did more and more often these days, "why did you not choose Firstborn for your servants?"
Sauron closed his eyes for a long moment, and felt Khamûl tense a little. He smiled when he opened them.
"The scion of Fëanor’s house is well dead," he said gently, running his fingers down the brittle line of Khamûl’s jaw, the stronger line of the spirit underneath that still recalled the body’s shape. "The Three he made are a thorn in my side, but I do not think they will stand against my Nine forever."
The word, the concept, forever, hangs weighty in the air between them. Sauron watches Khamûl’s face closely.
After a moment, he opens his eyes, and smiles so that a little of his old fire lights even his physical eyes.
"We will be with you until the end, my lord," he said. "As long as it takes."
And that - that makes every effort he puts into them worthwile.