#sauron's path

[mirroringdust]

I finished this!!! Chapter 5/5 now online! 28k words☺️

Rating: M for violence

Character(s)/Ship(s): Sauron, Zigur, Sauron/Galadriel and other relationships I don't want to spoil

Content Warning(s): violence, torture, blood

Subject tags: inspired by a christmas carol (but not necessary christmasy), angst, redemption, visions, illusions*

Summary: Sauron is in Numenor as Zigur ready to approach his darkest deeds when a visitor disturbs his long crafted vision (the fic experiences the question what would make Sauron turn)

Many many thanks to @myrsinemezzo 🥰

Preview:

What if it all is not worth it? Isn’t the risk too great? What if it will never end? It need not be the future, but it is a possible one. If he doesn’t change, if he does not turn around, it will go round and round in endless circles.

He does not want to walk this path anymore. It is as if he had never seen before, but now he sees, now he sees everything right here.

He has been stuck in the labyrinth of his own mind, has buried himself deep within the lost, lonely shell of himself, desperately trying to escape, desperately trying to shelter others from what has been done to him, and in the end that has only been possible by inflicting it on them himself. More destruction, more ruins, more smoke.

He was never a destroyer, he was always a creator. Yet he has lost his way somewhere in the past.

Now he sees, now he has watched this Maiar, his own soul, from the outside. It is a different perspective, but clarity comes with distance, when you take yourself out of that loop you have sewn yourself into. When someone finally cuts the thread and you let yourself fall.

And he’s falling

like a drop of rain.

He’s falling

like a shadow

losing its body

and Sauron’s falling into the depths of the unspeakable truth.

I have many names. It whispers in the darkness, loathed words, always spoken to assure him of what he wasn’t.

Every name a lie, a deception against his own despair, his flight from acceptance.

Yet acceptance has finally found its way to him, reached out its hand, grabbed him, pulled him close, entangled him. And as he is surrounded by its grip, he suddenly finds that it is not strangling him.

He trembles, he coughs, it is difficult to get any kind of air, but he does not faint. He stays on top of the pain, he perseveres.

He may have had many names, but he has become one only. He is only one.

Sauron. The abhorred.

There is a wide, long, dark tunnel that takes him in, swallows him with the darkness he knows very well, to where he belongs. And he falls, and he falls, and falls.

No more despair, no more ache fills the deep emptiness, only earth-shattering regret.

He waits for his soul to end his existence, rightly so, but there is nothing.

He falls but he never touches the ground.

Will he float forever in oblivion, just like the spirits had shown him?

But then there is something.

Read more on AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61540693/chapters/157328254

[celebrimborium]

Stop fighting me and together, let us fight them.

[saintstars]

"in after years he rose like a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost of his malice, and walked behind him on the same ruinous path down into the Void."

[testyqwcde]

When he stresses 'Sauron', it sends a chill down my spine. This is the first and last time we hear it from his lips in the show so far. But why would he call himself Sauron when he's still in denial about that name? To me, it feels like being wounded by her rejection, he seems to believe that redemption is out of reach. I don't think it's about her 'pushing him to the heights' because during their time together he was still striving toward good. No, when he shouts at her it feels like he's saying 'You reject me! Then look what I'll become because of you'.

[misspermitted]

I’m on board with the “Adar was/is Celeborn” theory purely because I want this crack exchange -

Adar/Celeborn: You cheated on me with Sauron!

Galadriel: Well you also cheated on me with Sauron so the scales are balanced

Adar/Celeborn: What?? In what-

Galadriel: You left me, your wife, for 1000 years, to have a family and children with him

Adar/Celeborn: Okay, well, you fell in love with him. Which means you weren’t even in love with me in the first place. Which is worse

Galadriel: YOU LITERALLY HAD HIS CHILDREN

Adar/Celeborn: You married me for all eternity wiTHOUT EVEN BEING IN LOVE WITH ME

High King Gil-Galad, to Elrond: Still think he’s fake and they’re not married?

Elrond: Oh no, I take it back, they’re definit- oh my god Galadriel do not challenge him to a duel there is nothing wrong with your womb gods above

[greenleaf4stuff]

TROP x social media text posts (screenshots via cap-that.com) (my other trop memes)

[902186]

his chief captain and servant.

[cilil]

cilil's Halloween special

ʚ𖦹ɞ Author's Note: It's that time of the year, revelers and travelers, and I present to you a little something I made to celebrate the season (and another milestone). This is a fun and silly choose your own adventure story with a couple of options and a tiny bit of romance and innuendo sprinkled in. I hope you enjoy (and that tungle doesn't randomly eat posts or links, fingers crossed)! Happy Halloween!

ʚ𖦹ɞ Featuring: Your top choices - Melkor, Mairon, Námo, Oromë, Nienna, Varda and Yavanna

ʚ𖦹ɞ Warnings: / (Just a tiny bit of spooky and the dork lords being their dork lord selves)

ʚ𖦹ɞ Additional mystery: Out of the seven objects described in the first scene, two are in fact real and in my possession right now. Can you guess which ones? (No, there are no hints in the story itself as it isn't about me, but maybe some of you know me or have a hunch. Happy guessing!)

It is not the first time that your fëa has found itself wandering the Path of Dreams in your sleep, though it looks different today. The sky above the great trees and hedges surrounding you is dark, stars twinkling weakly in the distance, and the only light comes from the full moon peeking through ghostly clouds. The gentle breeze carrying formless whispers from the forest is sharper and colder today, and the voices you hear are distorted and erratic. 

You wonder if this is Irmo's doing as you hasten along your path, if he has twisted the normally peaceful dream realm into one of nightmares. Or are other spirits out there that were roused by your searching thought, displeased by your presence or perhaps even curious? 

Instead of the golden gate and winding paths that would lead you to Lórien, you find a lonely, ancient-looking pavilion. It's overgrown with ivy, nearly covering it in its entirety. You have never heard any tales about such a location existing on the Path of Dreams, but your curiosity compels you to explore. 

There is no one inside, nor anywhere nearby. It seems to you as though this pavilion hasn't seen visitors in a long time, yet it isn't empty: Pillows sit on the floor, their vibrant colours faded, surrounding a small table with various objects on it. 

You examine the objects. Which one catches your interest?

☞ An old book with a rich emerald cover and silver ornaments. Its pages are yellowed and written in an ancient language you don't understand. 

☞ A perfectly cut and polished almond-shaped gem. It seems to be a ruby or opal at first glance, shining with a warm light from the inside. 

☞ A bouquet of flowers in a carved pumpkin. The plants all look as if they were freshly cut and harvested, but upon closer examination you see that they were preserved with wax. 

☞ A bronze letter opener in the shape of a dagger. When you run your finger across it, the edge and tip of the blade are sharper than expected. 

☞ An ancient telescope with strange symbols engraved. It's pointed at the roof of the pavilion, making you wonder what you are supposed to see there.

☞ A simple silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a budding rose. It seems unassuming at first, but the longer you look upon it, the more you feel like it might have been blessed. 

☞ A diadem with countless gems and pearls. Once it has drawn your gaze, you are in awe of the way it sparkles and glitters even in the twilight. 

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!

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taglist: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-big-tits @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @wandererindreams

[lightdancer1]

An understated Season 6 AU idea:

But one I've used twice in two different ways, is the idea that Tara's death is ultimately an equivalent exchange (and that idea, and what gets sacrificed with that spell is why I like the idea of having Tara do the spell as a guidance to what she would sacrifice if it was her instead of Willow, because Whedon already told the Willow story and simply redoing what someone else did with minor revisions is plagiarism with extra steps to me, personally).

So if, in the event, Buffy still dies, and Willow discovers the prospect of that equivalent exchange and that she'd face the choice of her soulmate or her best friend in real time, I 100% think given her self-loathing and lack of value in herself on the one hand and the destructive elements of that selfless love that held the seeds of her darker, destructive elements with Oz, Xander, and Tara in three different ways that she would plunge herself into self-sacrifice and create an equally big mess without really bothering to think of how anyone else would deal with it.

Willow 100% has a dark and sadistic streak on the one hand that is never hidden so much as benefting from narrative favoritism ala Whedon. Willow is utterly ruthless and hides that behind her adorableness when she wants to. I also 100% think if she'd had the slightest idea she might have condemned Tara to that fate that she'd take it on herself instead because Buffy living is important, Tara living her own life on her own terms is important, but Willow herself living?

Why she's not that important at all and if the best thing she could do is march to destruction as a kind of savior figure, well that's just the best of all worlds.

So in short, 'Willow gets shot instead of Tara because Willow knew the entire time the actual consequences of her actions and still has the big blowup with Tara because Tara misreads things and fears the consequences of that spell and is proven entirely right just like she was in canon but in a much more unpleasant way for everyone involved.'

And of course since Willow's both a main character and one that essentially would never stay dead, she gets a plot haxx resurrection angle...but not before the price of her death would lead to a great deal of a mess.

[theworldsoftolkein]

The Oath Breakers, The Paths of the Dead | Tolkien Explained | Nerd of the Rings

The Oathbreakers, the Forgotten, the Dead Men of Dunharrow - these former men of the White Mountains have many names. Today, we trace their history from their beginnings as Second Age worshippers of Sauron to their cursed lives as wraiths in the mountains - doomed to never rest in peace, until the heir of Isildur should call on them once more.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Hehe I’m glad you liked it🤭

Theatrics (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Celebrimbor tries to expose you and your husband to the people of Eregion, but you play the role of the innocent maiden to perfection

Warnings: evil!reader, murder, manipulation, mentions of wounds, smut, light choking, blood licking, fingering, p in v, slight roleplay, slight voyeurism kink

Note: part of the evil!reader collection of fics. okay I finally said fuck it and wrote smut *throws it into the wild and runs away*

Mature content below the cut—minors DNI!!!

Chaos roars around you as you step out into what were once the beautiful streets of Eregion. Walls are crumbling, arrows are flying, Elves are scurrying about every which way.

You suppress a smile. All is going according to plan. But what pleases you even more is that at long, long last, the moment which you had been most eager to savour has finally come to pass.

Celebrimbor has learned the truth.

No more tiptoeing around him, playing the unassuming Elven smith. No more taking orders from him, no more assisting him, no more pretending like you are anywhere close to kind and innocent and sweet.

Well, with him, at least. But he is the one you had most strived to fool, ever since you came to Eregion all those years ago, not knowing how long you would have to endure the life you would craft for yourself there until your husband regained his form. When the moment came that you were finally able to stand at your husband’s side in the crumbled forge as Celebrimbor realized who ‘Annatar’ was and what you were to him, when you took in the horror in his eyes as he pointed accusingly to your beloved’s pitch black blood only to watch you lick it hungrily off his hand instead of running in terror...

It nearly made up for all the times the words ‘my lord’ had tasted foul on your lips, spoken to the smith in false submission. You serve no one but your husband—and even that can hardly be called service, when he serves you in return with equal devotion.

You wonder how much of a fool Celebrimbor will have already made of himself even before you find him, wherever he has run off to in the wake of his terrible realization. You and your husband had ensured that by the time Celebrimbor manages to speak against you, all ears would be shut to his words. The Elves once loyal to him now believe him fatigued to incoherency at best, dangerous in his madness at worst. When you had last emerged from the forge, it had been crying and holding a bloody hand, claiming that Celebrimbor had brought Fëanor’s hammer down upon it in a moment of cruel impatience with your work. An illusion, of course, conjured by the part of your husband’s power which lives within you. You have bandaged that hand now, mindful to keep up the charade.

You make sure to fill your eyes with as much dread as any other Elf’s as you run through the chaos, searching for Celebrimbor. Your husband is out here as well, but not with you—it would serve you better to arrive separately for this little special occasion.

By the time you find Celebrimbor on the rampart, he is already quite the pitiful sight—he and Mirdania stand near a section of the parapet which had been wrecked by an Orc boulder, leaving it horribly easy to fall over the edge through the resulting gap. He is screaming at Mirdania that she has to believe him, over and over. She eyes him warily, drawing ever so slightly away, no doubt unsettled to find herself in the proximity of such a disturbed individual and a dangerous fall, all at once. Of all the Elves he could have run to, it had to be the one most taken with your husband’s charms. Oh, this is too perfect.

“My Lord, there you are!” you exclaim. His eyes widen in horror at the sight of you. Yours are awash with concern as you reach for his arm. “It really is not safe for you to be out here—”

Celebrimbor recoils, so violently he nearly knocks Mirdania off her feet as he stumbles into her. She yelps, rushing to your side instead.

“Don’t you dare come near me, you witch!” Celebrimbor spits out, jaw trembling as he yells at the guards, “Seize her!”

You don’t need to see your own face to know you have made it into the perfect picture of confusion and hurt. You exchange a glance with the guard closest to you, Captain Malendol. You’ve shared some laughs over the years, the occasional friendly conversation, even a dance or two at celebrations and the ever-so-subtle flirtation under the supposed influence of a wine glass or two. He likes you quite well, if you do say so yourself. Which makes the bafflement on his face, unlike yours, genuine.

Celebrimbor swallows painfully as realization dawns on him—his own guards no longer obey him. “She is no friend of yours,” he insists, “she never has been! She—”

The words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of your husband. He has finally joined you, silently making his appearance on the steps behind Celebrimbor, and now the smith is effectively caught between the two of you, even if the trap is utterly invisible to those around you.

“Seize him,” Celebrimbor scrambles to order, “seize them both.”

Malendol stays put. All eyes around Celebrimbor regard him with nothing but sympathy.

“He is Sauron,” he claims desperately, as truthful an attempt as it is fruitless. “Seize them! They have been lying to you all along.”

“No,” Mirdania shakes her head at your side. “Lord Annatar has been protecting us.”

“While you’ve been in your tower, giving orders that might have been the end of us all,” Malendol adds reproachfully.

You allow yourself the slightest raise of a gloating eyebrow, visible only from the angle of Celebrimbor and your husband. As intended, it fuels the rageful despair in the smith’s eyes.

“No,” he all but pleads to be believed. “No, that was him. He is Sauron! And she...” he points a finger which trembles with anger at you, “His foul lover! His depraved mistress! I saw it! Before my eyes, she tasted his blood as if in some... deranged coupling ritual!”

“By the Valar,” you breathe out, swaying on your feet. Such vulgar words would weaken the knees of a faint-hearted maiden. So, accordingly, you begin to fall in Mirdania’s direction, leaving her to scramble into a hasty attempt at holding you upright. Malendol is at your other side in an instant, helping her to support you with a firm arm around your waist.

“My Lord, please,” Malendol says, appalled. “She has been a loyal friend to us for a long time, one who cares for you greatly. How can you say such degrading words about her?”

“Was it not enough,” you burst out tearfully, holding up your bandaged hand, “that you crushed my fingers with Fëanor’s hammer? I believed it to be an accident, but... To have you question my virtue as well...?”

You dissolve into sobs. Your supposedly wounded hand flies to cover your face. The other one, Malendol takes in his, endlessly sympathetic.

The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege.

A chuckle bursts from Celebrimbor’s throat, the sound of one driven to insanity. It is funny. All of it. The trouble for him is that you, your husband and Celebrimbor are the only ones who get the joke. And the poor smith is the butt of it.

“Let not yourselves be fooled by her false tears,” he strives, in vain, to convince them. “She has no shame, no care for any of us! Her heart is black—black as his blood.” He turns to your husband as if in sudden realization. “His blood... Cut him open!” he orders. “Look at his hand, see for yourselves!”

He’s nearly gleeful as he says it, genuinely believing he has found the answer to ending his torment. Some of the pity in your eyes is genuine as you look at him with the same dismayed expression as the others’. Your husband knits his brow, as innocent as ever—and lifts his hand to reveal a cut smeared with what appears to the others as utterly natural, perfectly ordinary red blood.

Any trace of hope is drained from Celebrimbor’s eyes. He stares, wordless, jaw quivering as your husband speaks in that calm and composed tone of his.

“You may speak of me as you wish, Celebrimbor. But I will not have you besmirch a kind Elf maiden’s honor, even out of frailty of mind,” says with great sadness Annatar, the divine messenger who has most certainly never laid one pristine finger upon your most demure self. “Please,” he addresses the guards, “escort him back to the forge.”

But the guards exchange glances, hesitating. It was one thing taking orders from your husband when it came to defending the city, but it appears they do not yet dare lay hands on their supposed true lord. They are very close, though, merely in need of the slightest nudge over the edge. Such as a word from their captain, but Malendol wavers, just as torn. Ensuring that you are indeed steady on your feet, he releases you and lays a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip as if to ready himself, but hesitates to give the order. You exchange a nervous glance with Mirdania, who is still at your side, hands on your arm.

A nudge... over... the edge.

You wouldn’t even need the bond between your minds to know that you and your husband are thinking the exact same brilliantly awful thing.

You release a shuddering breath, leaning on Mirdania only the slightest bit more. At once, her hold on you tightens reassuringly.

“Come,” she says, beginning to tug you away, “let us get you some water.”

You nod, visibly grateful to follow her. You halt after a couple of steps, however, just as you are passing Celebrimbor, and turn to him as if with sudden determination. At your back stand Mirdania, a gap in the wall and the field of raging Orcs below, and before you is the smith glaring daggers filled with more disdain than you even imagined he possessed. You meet that scornful gaze with nothing but a pained smile.

“I forgive you, you know,” you murmur, only just loud enough for the guards to catch your words as well. “Get better soon, my dear friend.”

Whether it’s your words, imbued with such sickly saccharine affection, or the hand you lay upon his shoulder with utmost gentleness, Celebrimbor loses his last shred of restraint.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars.

It happens quickly, much too quick for anyone to notice exactly what occurred (as was, of course, your intention). Celebrimbor shoves you away with all his strength, causing you to crash into Mirdania, and—perhaps she might have been able to catch herself, if not for the flick of your husband’s wrist which makes her trip over her feet and tumble over the edge of the rampart, screaming all the way down into the Orc-riddled mud field below.

You certainly possess the power to keep your own balance, but you still yelp and stagger through the couple of backward steps that have you nearly slipping off the edge as well. Malendol, however, manages to catch you in the nick of time, as you had seen he was already desperately rushing to do. He yanks you toward him, and you collide with his chest only for your legs to play the part of finally giving out. The heroic captain keeps his hold on you as you crumble to the ground, hyperventilating.

Celebrimbor’s “No!” rings out as he stares down at the fallen Mirdania, but she is just as lost as any sympathy the guards still held for him. You scramble on your hands and knees to look over the edge just in time to see an Orc bring a hatchet down upon her, and shriek her name as you burst yet again into sobs. You keep them coming, loud and miserable, as Malendol helps you to your feet and you fall into his arms with enough force to push him a few steps back, burying your face in his neck.

Discreetly glancing over your shoulder, you see your husband speaking with Celebrimbor. But so loud are your cries, and so intent is Malendol on offering you words of comfort over them, that the others cannot hear their trusted Lord Annatar strip Celebrimbor of the last of his fight with a final threat. Finish the Nine, and I will spare your city.

This time, when your husband turns to the guards and repeats, “Escort him to the forge, please!” they comply without question.

It’s only once Celebrimbor is out of sight that you begin to quiet your sobs, pulling away from Malendol.

“It’s all right,” he comforts you, releasing you from his embrace but still resting his hands on your arms. “He shall trouble you no longer.”

“He meant to throw me over that wall,” you whisper, voice laced with terrible guilt. “Poor Mirdania died because of me!”

Your husband is standing a few feet away, gazing sorrowfully down to where Mirdania lies dead. He had, after all, made his preference of her quite apparent to the others. It would seem odd if he did not spare a moment to mourn.

“No, not because of you,” Malendol insists. “It was but the doing of Lord Celebrimbor’s troubled mind. You must not hold yourself responsible for anything he has done or said.”

“What he said... Oh, what he said!” you whisper, mortified, and lean closer to Malendol as if to conceal your words from your husband, “How am I to face Lord Annatar now?”

“Please,” your husband speaks, and you turn as if startled to find him coming to you with a most sympathetic gaze. “You have not the slightest reason to be ashamed. I only regret that you had to endure such vile accusations, and witness such tragedy. You must not blame yourself for it.”

“Such is her nature, my Lord,” Malendol says, his hand now at the small of your back in a gesture of kind support. “Of all the Elves in Eregion, she is least deserving of such scorn, and suffers the most for it.”

Oh. Between embracing you as you cried on his shoulder and the sheer affection in his voice as he sings you praises, he might as well have gone for a little tea with the Orcs, too. Forget the whole siege—now you doubt your husband will let him survive the hour.

Lord Annatar, however, offers the captain a most gracious smile.

“Thank you, captain,” he says, “for being a most loyal friend when your friendship was most needed. I shall see to it that your honourable deeds are well rewarded.”

Malendol bows his head respectfully, blissfully unaware that his ‘reward’ will very much resemble Mirdania’s.

“Performing one’s moral duty is a reward in itself, my lord. Come,” he turns to you, “let us bring you to safety.”

“No,” your husband says—a fraction of a second too quickly. The slip is much too brief to be caught and the recovery utterly seamless. “You are needed in battle, Captain Malendol. I shall see to it that she makes it safely back inside.”

Malendol exchanges a glance with you, and upon your slight nod, he says, “Of course.” As if on a sudden impulse, he turns to face you, taking your hand in his.

“Fear not, my friend. We shall prevail,” he vows. And leaves a gallant kiss on your knuckles before he takes his leave.

It’s all you can do to school your expression as you are left alone with your husband—well, ‘alone’ in the sense that no one’s focus is trained on you at the moment, but you can hardly risk one of the soldiers catching a glimpse of your triumphant smile when you had gone through so much trouble to earn their sympathy. As such, you meet your husband’s composed gaze with a somewhat shy one, quickly lowering your eyes as though you do not dare hold it for long.

He does not speak a word as he walks you back into the tower, never once attempts to place even so much as a guiding hand at the small of your back. There is the sound of destruction around you, the screams of Elves, but loudest in your mind is the tumultuous blend of emotions within your bond. So proud, so satisfied, so hungry for each other the high of victory in your wicked plans has made you, the very air thrums with the vibrancy of it.

And as if that was not potent enough, there is also that sweet possessive ire you love to rouse within each other, even when you are well aware that no being in existence could ever truly come between you. For them, to merely glance in longing at one of you is a death sentence from you both. Mirdania had sought out your husband’s touch, Malendol had dared embrace in comfort one who belongs solely in her husband’s arms. It matters not that they were allowed, even led into it. When you and your husband play such games, collateral damage is a given.

The moment you are inside the tower, you expect some kind of climax to the tension—you are most eager to be ravaged by its force, whether he should devour your lips to celebrate your flawless performance or crowd you against the wall to thoroughly replace the captain’s innocent touches with his ruinous ones.

But he does neither. He remains as impassive as though you are still being watched. Provoking you into lighting the fuse of the impending explosion yourself. Very well, then. You shall do so gladly.

“Pity about Mirdania, though,” you remark nonchalantly as you ascend the steps to the forge. “I would have liked to see her face when she realized the object of her little infatuation was the Dark Lord himself.”

“Fear not, my love,” your husband says, eerily calm and without looking back as he walks ahead of you. “We shall soon have the pleasure of a similar realization on Captain Malendol’s face, right before I run him through with his own sword.”

Unseen by him, you smirk.

“Well, he was rather eager to save my life,” you goad. “Perhaps he has earned the privilege to die in blissful ignorance after all.”

Only your footsteps fill the following silence until you reach the top of the stairs. You’ve barely climbed the last step when he turns around and—you yelp as your husband quite literally sweeps you off your feet, whisking you bridal style towards your bedchamber, instead of the forge. A giggle escapes you as you cling to him, quite pleased with the reaction you have elicited.

“Tell me, my love,” he says, kicking the door shut behind you, “what need have you of a common Elf captain to save you from falling,” you are unceremoniously released onto the bed, with your husband climbing over you not a moment later, “when you are bound to one of the Maiar who would sooner destroy the foundations of the earth than let you slip from his grasp?”

His hand is sliding up your thigh, lifting your dress on its way. He is a Maia possessed, caught between the high of triumph and the thrill of the chase at which you two so like to play, and you can hardly think of a witty answer when his fingers are only a breath away from where your flesh aches for his touch the most.

But a wicked thought prevails, and you shove him away with all your might. Still, it’s the shock of it rather than your force which knocks him to the side, allowing you to scramble off the bed. It’s almost comical, the half-confused, half-enraged look he gives you.

“Lord Annatar!” you gasp, ostentatiously doe-eyed and quite scandalized as you smooth down your dress in haste. “Surely you do not mean to lure me into some... ‘deranged coupling ritual’?” A little smile flashes through your little act while you savour Celebrimbor’s earlier words on your tongue. “And in the midst of a siege as well!”

You back away from him with slow, tantalizing steps, watching in delight as his gaze darkens in a deliciously sensual threat.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” he says, standing from the bed to walk towards you with all the patient grace of a wolf stalking prey. “Acting the innocent little maiden. Prone to fainting at the merest... suggestion of impropriety.”

His strides are larger than yours, and before long he is close enough to surge forward, swiftly closing the distance between you and grabbing hold of your neck with his blood-coated hand. You gasp as your back suddenly hits the wall, closer than you had realized it was, leaving you pinned between the cool stone and your husband’s body. Your hands fly to his wrist and his lips hover close to yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss. You chase it just to be cruelly deceived as he evades your mouth, a wicked smile upon his as he lightly but decidedly pushes your head back against the wall.

“Be grateful, my innocent little smith, that there is a siege,” he says in a lurid whisper, releasing your throat to bunch up the skirt of your dress with both hands, “for your fellow Elves are far too distracted to hear you fall apart beneath my touch.” Your undergarments are pushed to the side, and you are so wound up that even the maddeningly light press of his fingers between your legs draws a loud whimper from you. Your husband leans into your ear as you shut your eyes, hips helplessly chasing the slow little circles he makes around your aching bud. “I should hate for anyone to ‘question your virtue’.”

His tongue makes a mockery of your own words from earlier, just before you feel its warmth at the hollow of your throat. You arch your neck as he licks upwards, long and slow, towards your jaw, gathering the blackness his wounded hand had smeared onto your skin. That same hand is now splayed over your rampant heart, holding you down as you fist your hands in the fabric of his garments and writhe with the pleasure he languidly stokes between your thighs. He kisses you, and when his tongue plunges past your lips, your mouth fills with the sweetly metallic taste of his blood, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. You moan, long and wanton, whining for the firmer, faster, deeper touch he is withholding.

Your husband chuckles. It infuriates you.

“Oh, but you loved it too, didn’t you? When he—ah!” You suck in a sharp breath as he slips two long fingers inside you. Your wetness makes it easy, your body welcoming the familiar intrusion with nigh unbearable delight. It takes great willpower not to shut your eyes, to hold his gaze as he curls his fingers expertly, right where he knows it feels the most divine. “Did you not like it when he called me yours?” you insist, breathlessly. “Did you not want to show them yourself?”

If possible, his eyes darken even further, and his fingers pump inside you with more vigour. “Had it not been utterly counterproductive to our purpose,” he says, voice low and gruff, “I would have taken you right there upon the rampart and proved him right.”

The image is so sudden and vivid before your eyes, it pulls a pitiful mewl from your throat.

“I would have let you,” you gasp, and crush your lips to his with desperate abandon. “I want them to know.”

A guttural sound escapes his throat, and all of a sudden he withdraws his fingers, leaving you achingly empty. You think your legs might give out if it weren’t for his firm hold on you as he pulls you to the nearby window, twisting you around so that your back is against him and you plant your hands on the waist-level windowsill for support.

“Look,” he rasps out in your ear. “Do you see our soon-to-be army, my love? The very first of our devoted subjects?”

In the distance, Orcs holler crude names at each other, ready battle devices, send an endless rain of arrows over the walls of Eregion. It isn’t a pretty sight, but the terror it strikes in the hearts of their enemies and their power of destruction shall be wielded by you and your husband in the near future—and that is no small thing.

You nod, letting the thought sink in and add to the onslaught of elation already driving you wild. Your husband coils one arm around your stomach as the other wraps around your throat once more and he pulls you into him. Your bare folds meet his clothed erection, and you push back against him with a wanton moan, desperate for the friction.

“They shall be followed by Men,” he continues, rutting against you with animalistic greed, “and Dwarves, and Elves, until every single soul in Middle-Earth has been brought to their knees to worship at the feet of their King and Queen. Then, we shall at long last stand together before them all.”

“A love greater than ever was or ever will be,” you say, high-pitched and breathless, as if you are repeating words you have told yourself a thousand times. “All shall aspire to be us, yet none shall succeed.”

You are released abruptly. You hear the shuffle of fabrics, and sure enough, the swollen tip of him is soon nudging at your entrance.

“And how beautiful you shall be, my love,” your husband whispers, the sheer reverence in his voice a stark contrast to his lurid words, “with a crown upon your head, and my cock buried deep within you.”

He slides in to the hilt, quick and powerful, and you cry out. You could take him a million times, in a million different ways, and yet the perfect fit would never cease to steal your breath. He withdraws only to thrust back in, then again, setting a punishing rhythm which is nearly enough to obliterate any semblance of coherent thought from your mind. It would be so easy to let him plough into you just like this until you come undone, yet you crave something else. More.

“Wait,” you plead, planting a hand onto his hip to push him away. “Let me... let me...”

He does, letting himself slip from you with a rueful grunt. You turn to face him on unsteady legs, to look upon his face as you had so longed to—the only reason which had given you the will to interrupt your pleasure as you did. Your eyes never leave his as you seat yourself upon the windowsill, lifting your skirts once more. “I want all that,” you confess as he nestles his hips between your spread legs. “But I want you more.” He groans as you stroke his length, then guide the weeping tip back to your entrance. “I want it with you, or not at all.”

Your voice is so thin, it nearly chokes out at the end, your chest constricted with emotion—with the fear of being forced to let go as you have been before, always present in the deepest corner of your hearts. Something flickers in your husband’s gaze, the same anguish which wrenches at your soul.

“My love,” he breathes out the words as though they are the last thread by which his very existence hangs. “My love,” he vows and prays and fiercely claims as he nestles himself in your tight heat once more. You don’t know which sinks deeper into you—his swollen cock or the look in his eyes, which remain devastatingly locked with yours as he joins your flesh. Perhaps there is some innocence left in you to be ruined after all, for so raw and disarmed you are left by this union, tears spring in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. Your husband gathers them with his lips and tongue as he rocks into you anew, far from gentle but less brutal than before, with deep, long thrusts that leave you too weak to sit up if it weren’t for his arms holding you to him.

Outside, the battle rages on. Inside, you fight to prolong this, to wring every last drop of the sweet torment that is your ascent to the peak of your pleasure. You lay a hand over your husband’s heart, feeling it hammer on in tandem with yours as he drives into you with increasing urgency. You are reduced to a string of incoherent mewls as you bury your face in your husband’s neck, mindlessly licking and biting at his skin.

His sounds of pleasure are less loud, but much deeper as they reverberate beneath your lips. You want more—so you fist your hand in his hair, with no mercy for the carefully-crafted bow at the back of his head. Crafted by you, on a playful whim the very morning before the siege began—he’d teased and claimed you were sure to ruin your own work the next time he would bed you. You don’t even think of that now, consumed by pleasure as you tug and pull with abandon, feeling the fair tresses come apart beneath your fingers. It drives your husband even wilder with lust than he already was, and he grabs your face to devour your lips as he spirals closer to his release.

Your own takes over you in an abrupt instant, right as your husband reaches between you to rub your swollen bud above where you are joined. You sob into his mouth, trembling as your hips thrash in a confused attempt to both escape and chase the unbearable height of pleasure thrust upon you.

Your husband fucks you through it, pulling you close and cooing in your ear, calling you his and ‘love’ and all sorts of adoring things in Black Speech through his own heavy breaths. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged moan as he finds his pleasure, and you feel it echo through your bond with nearly as much power as your own. His seed will not take unless he wills it so, and neither of you wish for that, but you still clench around him longingly, greedy to draw every last drop of him as deep within yourself as possible, because it is him. You’d spend each second of your life with him inside of you, if not for the impracticality of it.

Once spent, your husband remains as he is, simply holding you to him. He cradles your head in his hands, pressing sweet kisses to your hair, and you are too weak to do anything but sag against him whilst you regain your breath.

“Why, Lord Annatar,” you whisper, smiling tiredly, “I’m starting to suspect you might have impure intentions towards me after all.”

He gives a soft chuckle, pulling away to look at you. “Whatever gave you that idea, my lady?”

The innocuous words are followed by your husband gently withdrawing himself from you, leaving a great, leaking mess between your legs. The only response you can give is a soft groan as his fingers gather some of his spend from your sensitive folds, and gently press it back inside of you where it belongs. With a small, satisfied hum, he steps away to tuck himself back into his garments. You press your legs together, sighing contently at the delightful ache left in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

“However will you keep up this innocent act of yours,” your husband muses, “now that I shall be dripping down your beautiful thighs with every step you take?”

“Please,” you say coyly, standing up and fixing your dress as though your undergarments are not soaked beyond hope beneath it, and your legs don’t still feel a bit unsteady. “I’ve managed before.”

He smiles knowingly. “Indeed, you have.” He pulls you close by the waist, as if you haven’t just parted from one another. “Always so eager to wear me,” he praises, and there is nothing insincere about your flustered little smile now. It’s true that you delight in wearing what he gives you, whether it be his spend nestled between your legs or a less secretive gift. Which reminds you of the gift you had given him to wear. You lay a hand on his cheek and coax him to turn his head silghtly, pouting when you glimpse the mess of tangled tresses you have made in his hair.

“You were right,” you admit, somewhat regretful, “I did ruin the bow.”

“Like the merciless creature that you are,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. When you pull back, his appearance has already been restored. It isn’t quite as meaningful, now that his power did the work instead of your hands, but you suppose you’ve been gone long enough already. Now that your hunger for each other has been sated, your husband shares that sentiment.

“Come, now,” he says, taking your hand and making for the door. “I believe Celebrimbor is in need of encouragement with his work.”

“What are we, if not encouraging?” you quip, and gladly follow his lead.

Previous fic with same reader -> Reveal

Next fic with same reader -> Old wounds

[mirroringdust]

Stave 4 - The Last of the Three Spirits

Come back to me!

He falls to the ground, sees everything around him explode, sees nothing but a faint memory of something that was life, that was his life. But it's not over. It is never over. His life has been full of torment and it seems to continue. He does not know where all of this is coming from, but he knows whoever is doing this to him does not want to do him any good.

You could have chosen good. You don't know what good is.

But isn't it still worth it? Wouldn't it all be lost if he just gave up? How could he, how could he give up after all he's been through to get this close to defeating the Valar, to reaching the pinnacle of everything he's ever wanted to do.

Galadriel's words are still ringing in his ears.

This is not good. This is good, it's a feeling of warmth and giving warmth to others. The small acts of kindness that light the way. 

But don't they all become useless when your life is endless, shouldn't it be the greater good that should guide your path? After all the dark deeds he has committed, to paint them as worthless would be the greatest sacrilege.

He covers his ears as if that would help in any way. It has gone on too long now, all the turmoil in his mind is making him tremble, making him stagger and fall again.

He looks up, raises his head into the grey cloud, opens his eyes, searches, but there is no one, only this hollow, fulfilling silence, heralding a never-ending loop of consequences of violence and loneliness.

“It may not be good,” he whispers, his voice shuddering, hesitantly pressing against the clouds of fog. He feels his eyes fill with tears. It is this outer air that makes him feel weak, that puts these weights onto his whole soul, pushing him down. It’s only this. “But it will not all be in vain. After all of this there will be glory, there will be admiration, there will be peace.”

A tear fights its way down his cheek, slowly creeping over his skin and dropping down into a deep puddle at his feet. “It will not be worthless. It will not be worthless. It will not…”

His words lose their power and his voice trails off. For a moment he just sits there in this nothingness and he thinks he is back where he started, where it all began. Have they taken him away? But then there is a disruption, a distant sound, then a rippling of the mist before him.

It condenses, coalesces into a mass, and then he hears it. That voice that shakes him to the core and sets all his senses on high alert. All of a sudden, every one of his numb muscles tenses and his eyes search frantically for the being that caused this reaction. Even before it manifests itself in front of him, Sauron knows it, even before he sees it, he has risen, but he cannot escape. Not from it.

He is trapped in its clutches.

Melkor.

(continue on AO3, hope you enjoy!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61540693/chapters/165978748#workskin

[saurongorthaur9]

I adore Charlie's attention to detail with Sauron's mannerisms, and I particularly love his angry finger wiggle.

It shows that Charlie really thinks through Sauron's mannerisms. On the surface, it's kind of a cute, funny little mannerism, but if you think about it, it has a much deeper, darker implication.

Why? Because when we see Sauron using magic, particularly in Season 2, it's often by flicking his fingers or twisting his hands.

We see it most obviously when he uses his hands to control the elven guards and force them to kill each other. We also see it when he flicks his fingers to throw Mirdania off the wall.

With that in mind, it seems obvious what the "angry finger wiggle" really is. He wants to use magic. He wants to literally blast apart his surroundings and kill everyone in his path. He's doing everything to control himself to not let loose his magic, and it manifests as the little finger wiggle.

[fatcatlittlebox]

I cannot tell you how profound it was to me that Charlie confirmed this week in interviews that his understanding of Sauron is that he is NOT this great, omniscent mastermind. I had written metas before that this was how Sauron was being depicted in ROP but to have it supported by the actor was still a little surprising because that has been debated for awhile. Furthermore, Charlie has said now several times that when he plays Sauron playing another persona, whether Halbrand or Annatar, he believes that Sauron is fully invested and reinvented as these people. He 100% believes. And I think that is such a provocative idea. I am totally dumbfounded by it. Because how do you go from this:

To this.

How hauntingly tragic his "Halbrand" era was. It was the closest thing to peace he had found in thousands of years and he got to that place by doing something so uncharacteristic. He took a chance. This Maia, who is obsessed with control and order...he gambled. And won. Until he lost. Why and how the hell did he think pretending to be a mortal king, offering to bind himself to his sworn rival, allying himself with Light would possibly succeed? He had to know it was a near impossible feat. The path he had taken before was probably charted with logical, measured decisions and weighed with statistical probabilities. But not this one. It wasn't hubris or arrogant ambition. It was hope. He believed and that belief was sparked and buoyed by Galadriel.

This is why this shot right here is so symbolic and poetic of this period in his life. Look at Halbrand here. As so many times before where it concerns Galadriel, he looks unsure. Vulnerable. Look at how he holds the pouch and how he stares at it. It's as if his fate rests inside. This is a crossroads. Then he throws it on the table like dice or a coin toss. He seems to have made up his mind. Probably because he had estimated and concluded that following Galadriel was probably not going to work. But then, at the last moment he changes course.

The fact that the camera stays on the pouch for several beats emphasizes that 1) this is a pivotal moment 2) it was impulsive. Sauron had already left and then came back. (12 seconds-- I counted). Just like the raft on the Sundering Seas, he came back for Galadriel. He makes a bold choice. Again! One not even the gods would have expected. He takes a chance. A monumental one.

It's exhilarating, especially now that we have a bigger picture of the actual choice he's making. It's so hopeful. So audacious. So human. So NOT Sauron. And in letting himself fully embody and inhabit the life of a low man, he's never been more connected to Middle Earth, never been more real in this world. The stakes mean something different. He's tactile, emotional, reactive. His actions and relationships have more gravity. His footsteps and words have weight. He's not a puppetmaster. He's alive in the world, an ocean of color.

Contrast that with his Annatar phase. As Charlie portrays him, he is completely detached. Floundering. There's a vacancy to his presence.

As I said before, I think Sauron left apart of himself in Halbrand. It's almost as if the piece of him that was human, that grounded him, was severed. And in doing so, Annatar glides through the world as if in a dream and he were made of ice and shadow. Look at his manner and how he moves. He's imposing but almost inert. His expression is dazed and distracted. His heart is somewhere else. With someone else. Or maybe it's because he actually isn't there. It gives an added layer of meaning to Adar's supposed "message" to Annatar -- "Where is he?" Because why is he so clearly disengaged? Where does his mind wander off to constantly?

Again, I'm left pondering how do you get to that, from this?

I'm left shaken at Charlie's performance. He is truly an amazing, gifted actor. There is a reason he plays such a stark contrast between season 1 and season 2. To go from that simmering volcanic intensity to such an emotional void. It's like watching the collapse of a star. I get the sense that there is a rich backstory there that the audience is not privy to. Not yet.

[yolixpan]

You know what bothers me about Gil-Galad forcing Galadriel to take the boat to Valinor?? She was right: Sauron was still alive and something evil was being brew (not by Sauron himself, but a plan of his design). She needed to be in Middle Earth.

Even if Galadriel had went to Valinor, Adar's plan was already in the workings and a new era of darkness was going to happened. If she had went, no one would had stopped Sauron or began to question him in Númenor. No one would had tried to helped the Southlanders that were in the middle of the conflict. Sauron's ascend to power would had been unstoppable.

The Elves would had fade without the rings of power that Sauron as Halbrand helped to create (well, only the idea and because he didn't want Galadriel to go); and they would be forced to returned to Valinor leaving Middle Earth unprotected. Numenor, the Elves, the Dwarfs and The Men would had never form an alliance to face the Dark Lord... so, Galadriel was right in not leaving.

I also hate that Galadriel is seeing as the cause of the the problems instead of recognized as a truth teller. She is an outcast even when is proved that her instincts were right.

Gil-Galad wanted Galadriel to leave for Valinor because they had "foreseen" that her actions would keep evil alive. And yet, it was also THEIR actions in trying to send her away that led to that very thing happening. If they hadn't sent her to the Sundering Seas, she never would have encountered Halbrand on that raft

[winwin17]

I want to talk about Legolas and singing. (Hang in there, because it starts out a little silly but turns meaningful.)

How many times do you think he just broke off into song during the Fellowship's quest? Well, one time he's like, "Let me sing you this song about Nimrodel!" He also sings to himself in the middle of the night when he's on watch. When the Three Hunters reunited with Merry and Pippin, they relax and smoke their pipes - except for Legolas, who lounges next to them, looking at the sky and singing softly to himself.

He sings to the horse of Rohan when it freaks out about the Paths of the Dead. He stops in the middle of recounting a story to the Hobbits, breaking off to sing a song about the lands they passed through, which feature in the account he's telling. When he goes to see Merry and Pippin in Minas Tirith, people watch curiously, not only because it was odd to see an Elf and Dwarf at ease with one another, but also "Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men, and he sang an elven-song in a clear voice as he walked in the morning...." And then later he mentions that he hopes to bring some of his people to the region - but he gets distracted thinking about the river, which leads to the sea, and he wanders off singing to himself of the sea.

We know singing is important to all Elves, but it seems to me that Legolas randomly sings more than maybe the average Elf does. Maybe it's just because we get to see so much of him compared to some of the other Elves - but either way, I like to think this is his way of keeping his hope up.

Legolas is from Mirkwood, and not only that, he's a prince. He possibly remembers when his home was still called Greenwood, before the shadow of Sauron came over it. Being that Mirkwood was one of the last Elven realms preserved in Middle Earth, it must have grieved and angered the inhabitants to watch this evil befall. Years were spent trying to fight back the Shadow over Mirkwood. It stands to reason that Legolas had a significant role in that. No doubt he took this very personally, trying to defend and preserve his people and their beautiful realm. At times it seemed that the Shadow was driven back, only to return again. Among the Wise, it was highly suspected that Sauron would make another comeback and the age of the Elves in Middle Earth would be over.

And yet Legolas keeps singing. He sings folk songs from his people, he sings of beautiful lands far and wide, of ancient heroes who gained renown fighting the enemy. Maybe he even made his own songs, too. And in the face of the darkness, when it seemed the Shadow would swallow everything up, the only thing he could do to keep his courage was to keep singing. I'd like to think that's part of why he's developed the habit of just singing to himself sometimes. That, and the fact that he just likes to sing and express himself in song, and he possesses a buoyant spirit. But where did that come from? Is it just a personality trait, or something more, something fine-tuned in the Shadows of Mirkwood in defiance of Sauron?

When Legolas sings, it comes from a hard-bought hope cultivated by years of trial. Greenwood may become Mirkwood, but the Greenleaf is still green, and he's not about to let that change, though it takes him to a battle against all odds at the Black Gate itself. He, too, sings to remind himself that the Shadow is only a passing thing. It cannot vanquish the joy and hope and wonder at the beautiful things of the world that overflows at random moments. And that's why we love him, silly moments and all.