Oh Well, The Tea Is Getting Hooot

oh well, the tea is getting hooot

And Comes Dawn pt iii

Pairing: Sauron/Halbrand x Reader, more ships/love triangles to come, though, so stay tuned.

Summary: the deciver has decided he must get rid of you until a stranger reignites his curiosity in an unexpected way.

Word count: 2k

Notes: let me know if you wanna be tagged. I was not expecting this many people to like this fic. Thank you so much for the feed back, I read every comment and reblog multiple times. Keep any and all feedback coming. I'm super invested in this series and have so many plans that I'm so excited to write.

Tags/warning: male masturbation, nothing super explicit but sauron has some pretty unhealthy kinks, slow burn, saurons post nut clarity is murder plotting, sauron being sauron. galadriel finally shows up, cliffhanger

“She does nothing but sit there, day in and day out. Our rations are wasted on her!” 

“All of us sit and do nothing because there is fucking nothing to do.”

Halbrand and the older man were fighting again. Halbrand had become annoyed that the other had declared himself the de facto leader of the raft, and his anger exploded when it was proclaimed you had not 'earned' your rations. He had obviously found it absolutely insane and when you made no sound or protest, he took it upon himself to make it known how insane it was. 

“I am the leader here. I have organized the rations, I have kept order, and I have directed where we go.” The other man seemed offended. He had proven himself to be rather arrogant, and you held no surprise that he would suggest such a thing or believe that he was the leader of the raft.

“Oh great Lord of the Raft. How difficult your job must be. Deciding if we die a little to the west or a little to the east.” Halbrand rolled his eyes as he spoke. 

“Be sarcastic all you want. She's lucky we don't throw her in.” 

The air stilled and a dark shadow passed over Halbrands face, his jaw clenched and in a moment he had grabbed the other by their shirt, “The moment you do that is the moment I feed you and every single person on this raft to the wyrm.” Their faces merely inches apart,  Halbrands voice was cold, full of hatred, and it sent a chill over everyone on the raft. The older man stared up at him with fear, a fear so palpable and intense that it was as if he was looking into the eyes of the great foe himself. 

“Halbrand,” you spoke softly, fingers gently wrapping around his wrist and moving him away. “This is not what I wish.”

He turned to look at you and his gaze softened,tongue peaking out to wet his lips. The air flowed again, and the darkness lifted, “You wish to starve? Because that's his wish, that's his plan. He wants to make our supply of food last longer by taking the very little portion you have. He knows you would never say anything to him, and you can not ask me to sit back and watch you starve, sweet one.” His eyes searched your face as he spoke with such earnest conviction. 

“I do not wish for you to murder in my name,” you replied in a passionate whisper. 

Halbrand nodded, sighing softly, “Then I will not,” he leaned closer to you, so his lips were next to your ear, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin. Your breath caught in your voice as he whispered softly, “Know that I would, though. If you only asked, I would burn this raft and everyone on it to keep you safe.” 

He pulled away and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you stood speechless. The butterflies in your stomach exploded. This was new. Your interactions had been purely platonic until this point. He never presented himself as someone more than a friend, and you had been content with that. Yet you enjoyed the feeling of his lips on your forehead and greatly missed them when they were gone. 

The talk of murdering everyone else was one you didn't wish to dwell on. Perhaps it was hyperbolic. Perhaps said in anger. Either way, those were thoughts for another time. Now, you would embrace the shivers and butterflies. 

“Well, your highness, she will be eating today and I will ensure it,” Halbrand gave the man a pointed look and the other simply nodded, his eyes still swimming as if he'd seen some great horror but you were too fixated on the ghost of Halbrands kiss that lingered on your forehead to pay it much mind. 

~

He'd taken the deception too far when he placed that kiss upon your head. He regretted it the moment he did it. The taste of your skin stained his lips, and it was all he could think of. Your skin felt unbelievably soft and he could just imagine what your lips would taste like, your tongue, your cunt. 

Your cunt. The thought of it had been all consuming. Warm and wet. Soft and velvety. He ached to feel it, to taste it, to take it. The thoughts had led to his current position, standing at the edge of the raft with his cock in his fist. This act felt below him but the thoughts wouldn't leave his mind and he needed some relief from them. From the thoughts of you. 

Thoughts of your cunt. 

Warm and wet. Soft and velvet. 

His eyes fluttered, and his breath caught in his throat. He hated every second of this. He had no control. Ever since you looked up at him with those eyes of yours, eyes he wanted to make weep as you choked on his cock. He breathed a soft curse as he imagined your sweet, innocent eyes looking up at him with your lips wrapped around his cock. His thumb collected the precum from his tip and worked it around his shaft, the soft wet sounds filling the night. 

Would you be inexperienced?  Had someone claimed you before? You were his and his alone, his precious sweet one. The thought of someone else having you first filled him with such rage. He would drench his hands in their blood and paint your body with it as he fucked you. His hands around your neck, squeezing enough to feel your life thrumming underneath his fingers. 

You were his and his alone. No one else could touch you, no other lips taste you, no other cock take you. He'd burn all of Middle Earth to ensure it, torture any man who dared look at you. He'd carve his name into your flesh, lick the blood off your skin. A growl escaped his lips, the thought of his name scared into your soft skin. His hand tightened around his cock and his movements increased in speed. 

His breathing got more ragged as he got closer to his peak,  your name tumbling past his lips in a choked whisper. He could almost imagine you whining and whimpering his name, his real name.  That was what sent him over, the visual of you impaled on his cock and desperately calling his name. He groaned loudly, his seed shooting into the water. 

Breathing heavily, his eyes closed. Almost immediately, the cacophony of thoughts entered his mind. That had been a brief reprieve, but now his existential crisis continued. What was his purpose? Who was he now that his master was dead? Power and control, how could he have both without sacrificing the other?  

And then your smiling face flashed through his mind, the sound of your laugh...-

This couldn't continue. No amount of curiosity was worth this loss of control. He was a god, but his mind as of late had been reminiscent of a teenage boy. Thoughts may plague him, but he would forget you within the age. He needed you gone, dead. The longer you stayed alive, the longer these damn lustful thoughts would plague him and be his undoing. He was slowly losing his sanity because of you. 

The problem was he couldn't do it. He tried mere minutes before giving into these urges, but as he looked at your sleeping face, he couldn't bring himself to push you in and under the waves. In thousands of years, no one had been able to still his blade or stay his hand with such ease. He couldn't look at you and take your life. He could not be the one to do it, that thought alone proving to be more a reason for your death. Weakness was not something he would tolerate. 

His mind called out to wyrm, calling it to their location. If he couldn't do it, he'd give the task to something else. By nightfall tomorrow, you'd be gone. You'd be at the bottom of the sea or in the belly of the beast. By nightfall, he'd have his mind back. 

Why did the thought of your death fill him with such dread?

~

He wouldn't even look at you. You'd greeted him in the morning, and he ignored you. You sat next to him, and he moved to the other side of the raft. You watched as his eyes bore into planks of the raft. You wet your lips and pulled it between your teeth. He was your first friend in a very long time, and now you had lost him for reasons that escaped you.  You were utterly alone, lost at sea, and you struggled to find hope here. All you could do is close your eyes and remind yourself that falling into despair would do nothing more than make the situation worse and more hopeless.

You watched the clouds pass in the sky, counting them, and your fingers tapped away at the wood. Every few moments, you had to blink away the tears that had started welling in your eyes as you thought of losing another person you cared for. Suddenly, you sat up as you heard what you thought was a voice in the air. You squinted as your eyes examined the fog.

“There's a voice on the water.” You spoke quietly. 

Almost instantly, bickering broke amongst the others. To save her or not. You shook your head, “We're not leaving her to starve and die!” 

One of the others pulled her up and gave her water as you grabbed her a chunk of bread and looked for a piece of cloth or something that could bring the stranger some warmth. The bickering continued as you searched and returned with a piece of bread.

“Suppose you'll be sharing your rations?” the old man asked. 

You couldn't help the roll of your eyes, “Damn the rations,” you kneeled and handed the stranger the bread. “It's not much, but it's something. Are you hurt?” 

Before she could answer, one of the others asked, “What are you doing out here?”  

The stranger took the bread, “I was separated from my ship.” 

You looked at her with empathy. Of course, you could understand. She looked over at you as if to answer your question next, but she stopped, her eyes examining your face as if she knew you but was unable to place how. It made you uncomfortable, made your heart still. Has your past caught up with you all the way out here? 

“She doesn't look dangerous,” the other woman spoke.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Halbrand spoke, and you were about to protest when you saw the point to her ears. Your blood ran cold, and you moved back from her. 

“Remove your hand from me, sir,” the stranger spoke, her attention returning to you. “I know your face.”

You quickly stood up and stepped back. This could not be happening. Not here. Not now. Perhaps the elf could save you, or perhaps she would convince the others to throw you into the sea. The sins of your father would never stop chasing you, it seemed. 

~

“I know your face."

His head snapped your direction at this revelation. What did that mean? How would an elf know you? He watched your reaction, the fear and shame passing over your face confirming that there was a story there. He cursed silently.

All day, he avoided looking at you. All day, he had convinced himself that you were nothing more than a naive human, that the warmth he felt had to be in relation to this new form getting used to the world around him. There was nothing special about you. Nothing at all. He repeated it over and over, though he never really believed it. He could sense the darkness and calamity swimming through the ocean towards them, the beast he had called, and he had convinced himself that your death would solve his internal struggle. 

But now, this damn elf had reignited the curiosity with vigor. It felt as if an inferno burnt through him. He had to know more. He knew when the wyrm came, he would be unable to leave you to death. You were the most curious thing, and it was infuriating. 

Who were you? 

Galadriel is having a hard time getting over the breakup 💔

This is what he actually said

oh, how obsessed i am with his hair bow (and this fic wow). alone the thought of the reader being the reason he wears it makes me kick my feet 🤭🤭

A true gift (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you share a private moment with your husband, then add a special little detail to his new look

Warnings: evil!reader, nudity, mentions of smut, but really this is just a silly fluff piece written ‘cause I’m obsessed with his little hair bow🤭

Note: set in 2x06, part of the evil!reader collection - all you need to know for this one is that reader has been married to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Your husband is a Maia, and as such never sleeps. He does, however, feel inclined to lie down with his eyes closed and be lost to the world, in moments such as now—when he is held in your peaceful embrace, your fingers lovingly stroking his loose hair.

It’s a rare moment of intimacy these days, and you cherish it all the more for it. Celebrimbor rarely allows you a moment of respite in his rush to finish the Nine, and you and your husband do your best to not disappear at the same time, so as to avoid suspicions that you share any deeper of a relationship with him than the other smiths of Eregion. Needless to say, you are overjoyed to find yourself alone with him. And in a bed, no less.

He had slipped inside your chamber under the cover of night, and sleep had been the furthest thing from your mind as you and your husband had sated your longing over and again. Naked and spent, you had pulled each other close, and so you still are now, as soft morning light pours through your window. He has coiled himself around your completely, one leg draped across your waist and his head resting upon your chest, and you do not mind his weight above you in the slightest as you hold him close. His hair is wonderfully soft under your roaming fingertips, his skin delights yours everywhere you touch.

He may not need sleep, but you would gladly drift into it. In a blissful position such as this, you would drift gladly even into death.

But you do neither, for he stirs, wishing to lift his head. You know what he means to say—that your absence will soon be noticed now that the day has begun, that you ought to return to the forge and to your plans and to your charade. You tighten your hold on him and keep his head against your chest, giving a stubborn groan.

His low chuckle reverberates into your skin.

“I know. I know,” he coos, shifting to press his lips to your heart. “I have no wish to leave.”

“But you will,” you sigh in defeat, even as he trails lazy kisses up along your clavicle. “We must.”

He hums, nuzzling your neck. Too much of you is pressed against too much of him for desire not to ignite within you at the slightest movement. It’s a bittersweet relief when he presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips and takes it upon himself to pry his body away from yours and leave the bed. You turn to your side, pulling the covers up to your chest to ward off the cold he leaves behind.

You are, however, presented with the slight consolation of watching your husband move naked about the room.

Of course, it isn’t exactly the particular image of your husband’s body, or even the features of his face that had won your affections in the first place. Your love runs too deep to be dampened by any sort of aesthetic transformation, though you do admit some forms are more practical than others when it comes to the physical aspect of your relationship, strictly shape-wise (one such as the amorphous black mass to which he had been reduced until recently, for instance, might prove a challenge in that department—yet not an entirely insurmountable one).

His current form, however... Lord of Gifts, indeed. It is the finest of male specimens of whom you are given a most generous view, and he damn well knows it. He takes his sweet time sauntering across the room, each movement slow and deliberate as he treats you to the sight of his tall, perfectly sculpted body. His long hair falling over his shoulder blades, the elegant line of his spine, the plump globes of his buttocks—oh, the bastard. Showing himself off as if you are not in a state of constant desire for him, like you’re not literally his soulbound wife already.

Or maybe it’s you slowing time with your eyes as you look at him, precisely because of how utterly and hopelessly smitten you are.

Whatever the case, a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances your way. You look on, shamelessly, as he recovers the clothes he had carelessly discarded the night before, and methodically (as well as tragically) begins to dress himself back to decency. He’d had a new garment made, one more suited to his tastes now that his previous modest, light-grey robes had served their purpose of conveying his most pure intentions to Celebrimbor. This outfit is an intricately patterned black with a golden band at the waist, the imitation of leaves raining down his collar area and left shoulder, and a discrete glimmer that looks as though stars have been trapped deep within the fabric of his sleeves.

You’d loved the sight of him dressed in it so much that, paradoxically, you had taken tremendous pleasure in stripping it off him. He was a gift in too pretty a wrapping for you not to greedily reach inside for the wonders you knew lay there, meant only for you.

But if you had it your way and peeled it off each time the mood arose, you would never get anything done. Perhaps, once you are King and Queen and have plenty of servants to carry out your orders, you shall be free to confine yourselves to some ornate bedchamber and reemerge only after days on end of having your fill of one another.

For now, you must allow his newly tidy appearance to remain intact. He is nearly ready to join the others in the forge, the only unruliness left about him being his loose and disheveled hair. You particularly enjoy how softly it falls upon your shoulders whilst you are beneath him, and he certainly takes pleasure in your tendency to fist your hands in it and tug at the roots, causing all kinds of entanglements. It’s nearly sad, how easily he can undo the sensual mess. One power-wielding hand smoothing down the tresses, and his hair looks as though it has been brushed to perfection with a thousand thoroughly administered strokes.

That done, he sits down at your vanity and picks up the last accessory he must arrange upon himself—the headpiece he’s been wearing since he became Annatar, the partial imitation of a crown which curves around the back of his head, serving to hold his hair practically away from his face whilst accentuating the divine nature of the presumed Lord of Gifts.

Lord of Gifts.

Your love-addled brain is stricken with an idea too wonderful to go unheeded.

“Oh, let me,” you say, suddenly rising from beneath the sheets. It takes but a moment to put on a nearby nightgown, not nearly enough for your husband’s questioning eyes to drink you in the way he attempts to, but you are too enthusiastic to care. It is best anyway not to let his gaze set your skin ablaze when you must wait for the following night to have him tend to the flames.

His brow knits in slight amusement, but he indulges you and halts in his movements, waiting for you to come to him. He must think you mean to arrange the headpiece in his hair yourself—thus stealing another few touches before you leave the bedchamber and must refrain from doing so for the remainder of the day. And he is not too far from the truth. But as soon as you are standing behind him, you take the accessory from his hand and toss it casually upon the bed, reaching for your comb on the vanity table instead. Now, your husband frowns, unsure.

“My love, as much as I would like an excuse to prolong our stay—”

“Oh, shush,” you chide. “This will take but a moment.”

With nimble fingers and the help of the comb, you part his hair at the temples and brush it into satisfyingly neat sections. It’s an improvisation, really, but you set about the task you have in mind with nothing but determination and a nice little hum on your breath. Your husband sits with the sort of quiet compliance he reserves for your benefit only, and you know that he is relishing the sensation of your fingers gently handling his hair as much as you are. At times your fingers more or less coincidentally brush over the pointed tips of his ears, and the lightest flutter of his lashes betrays how sensitive they are to the touch, the very same as those of any Elf.

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and give him a playful smile as you work on his hair. The vision you had in mind is beginning to take nice shape, and you bite your lip in concentration as you try to guide each golden strand precisely where you need it to be.

“Pass me that hair tie, will you?” It’s a bit further away on the vanity table than the previous ones you had used, and you are busy keeping together quite the intricate design. Your husband obliges you—but his hand catches yours as you take the tie from him.

“My love,” he says, mirth dancing in his eyes in the mirror, “I do hope you have not managed a knot so vicious that even my power cannot see it undone.”

“It isn’t a knot,” you retort, lightly swatting his hand away from yours so you can finish what you started. You shake your head in faux disappointment. “How little you trust me.”

“I trust you with life, my flesh and my soul,” he declares solemnly. “My hair, however, is a different matter.”

That would earn him another scandalized swat, if your hands weren’t occupied with the finishing touches to your little masterpiece.

“There,” you grin triumphantly, at last satisfied with what you have accomplished. It’s almost ridiculous, the youthful delight that takes over you. An echo from a distant life that was so long ago, it barely feels like it was ever yours. It brings a small pang to your chest—but you ignore it as you cradle your husband’s head from behind and place an adoring little kiss to his hair, right above your handy work.

With a small, not unkind sigh, he picks up a hand mirror from the table and turns around on his stool so he may align the reflection with the one in the vanity mirror, see for himself what you have accomplished:

An utterly precious, superbly elegant hair bow.

“A true gift,” you say proudly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “for all of Middle-Earth.” Your fingers drift to his chin, and nudge it upward so he meets your gaze. “But for me, especially.”

Without looking away, he sets down the hand mirror and takes your wrist, planting a kiss to the palm of your hand.

“It is fitting,” he admits, a teasing lilt to his tons as he idly plays with your fingers. “It shall be a pity, when I next bed you, to see such beautiful work unraveled by the very hands which crafted it.”

“Oh, I am not ruining that,” you assure him, striving to sound like you mean it. “Whatever you may do, I shall keep my hands firmly to myself. Or rather, to other parts of you,” you add, shrugging as if in afterthought.

The underlying challenge in your voice is swiftly accepted. Your husband stands and faces you with a mischievous gaze, cupping your cheeks.

“We shall see,” he murmurs against your lips, right before he claims them in a parting kiss filled with lurid promises. Then he pulls away, smiling innocently. “See you soon, my love.”

You are reminded, as he leaves, how futile it is to pretend like you may ever part without your body and soul aching for his return before he even steps out of your sight. But all eyes which look upon him today shall see the work of your loving fingers that he proudly wears upon himself—another small consolation to which you cling whilst you wait for the victory that shall make all your sufferings worth it.

Previous fic with same reader -> As one

Next fic with same reader -> Jealousy

he‘s such a cutie pookie

charlie vickers training to be a smith

oh wait, you’re words are making me blush so hard rn 🤭 this definitely is valinor — and ofc i like it!! i’m so excited what will come next from you 🫶🏽

bound

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: reader is captured from the comfort of her home to serve the Dark Lord, Morgoth. his loyal servant lures her further into darkness

warnings: some fighting, but nothing really

word count: 2,3k

author’s note: i had an idea in my mind for weeks now and really wanted to write a witch!reader but i’m not sure how it will turn out if i start writing more for it. consider it a one shot for now

The chains dug mercilessly into your neck and wrists, every movement reminded you that you would not be so easily free. You cursed yourself for being so reckless, for becoming too careless, too comfortable in your own home. He needed a healer or so they said when they stormed in the middle of the night and dragged you away from Greenwood. Your body covered in wounds, dried blood clinging to your clothes as they threw you into a cell and laughed as they left.

You were aware of who Morgoth was, how could you not? Forodwaith was a fortress that not many dared to cross into and not many managed to leave unharmed. Every fight, every battle you tended to him, much to your dislike. He nearly killed you the first time you refused and left you unconscious for days from one single blow. The next time you didn’t fight back, you told yourself it would be easier to stay compliant until the opportunity arose and after centuries of waiting it did.

Morgoth was defeated, you should rejoice, then why didn’t you? Years of torment left you numb and still chained in your cell with no light of hope for freedom.

You awaited your end and as the last bit of light shone into your cell you heard it, an orc staggering through the halls, his steps uneven as if he drank too much ale, and perhaps he did. You move to the shadows and wait, your hand lingers by the bars as the orc passes through, one precise cut is all it takes for him to stumble onto the ground.

Your hand holds a bone, carved to a sharp point and for a split second, you think back to that faithful day when it landed in your cell. Months it took you to carve it, your nails broken, your hand cut by the many stones you used to chip away piece by piece at it.

The orc crawls to you but you drive the weapon into his neck, his scream dies as it pierces his throat, you grab the set of keys at his side and retreat your weapon. You unlock the cell and your chains, a breath of relief goes through you as the weight is lifted but your moment of joy has to wait, you’re not free yet.

You toss the orc into your cell and hide him in the shadows, his legs peeking in the light, a small diversion should anyone look for you. You grab his weapons and lock the cell, you step quietly on the stone and hear an orc at the end of the path, you hide in the shadows but they do nothing to shield you from his view.

The orc attacks you and another joins, you stumble back as he kicks you in the stomach and you duck to avoid his blade. Your eyes flash with anger as you cut at his calves and stab him from behind, the other orc receives a dagger thrown at his head, both of them land with a thud. A moment passes as you compose yourself when you hear the orcs coming to inspect the noise.

You do your best to hide and cover yourself with a piece of fabric that was tossed on the floor, a foolish hideout but your mind did not cooperate how you wanted it to.

Morgoth took whatever rational thinking you had left and shattered it to pieces, he prided himself that a Silvan Elf could be so easily broken.

The orcs leave and you walk away as quietly as you can. The halls continue to stretch as you walk down and you hear a voice and chatter of orcs, you realize it’s the throne room but where Morgoth usually stood, another took his place, his most loyal servant. You hear him before you see him as you take a glance from the column that shields you on the gallery.

“For I seek a new kind of power.” his voice commands in the place but you see his hands fidgeting slightly. “Not of the flesh, but over flesh. A power of the unseen world.” you scoff under your breath.

Those were your words.

As you laid in your cage he visited you, a strange occurrence it was as no one has talked with you in centuries. Not a real conversation at least.

“I see why he has kept you around.” he says as he strides towards your cell. The cut that previously adorned his face now completely healed. “No healer of his has ever survived that long.”

You do not answer, your mouth too dry to fire back any response. He had no orders to come to you, his curiosity got the best of him for he knew you were not simply a Silvan Elf, something else resided in you, something that he could use.

“It is not very often that an Elf would separate from their people… I wonder what caused your decision for such an act?” he says and you look up at him, his red hair neatly combed, not a mess you saw after the orc brought him to you.

“Why did you let Morgoth corrupt you?” you ask suddenly and he arches an eyebrow in amusement.

“She speaks.” he responds. “What makes you think he corrupted me?”

“You used to serve Aulë, the very smith of the Valar. How can one turn to darkness so swiftly?”

He waits before he speaks. “Shouldn’t you know?” a breath catches in your throat, for that single question makes you rethink some of your choices. It’s no secret to why you left, you have all but became a whisper on their tongues, a passing shadow.

No respected Elf should dabble in the dark arts.

“You may have reached for it but you do not know how freeing it can be once you let it in completely.” he responds and you walk closer to the bars that separate you. Your hands rest on the cold iron as he steps closer. He takes a longer look at you but you don’t avert his gaze. “You could be free of this.” he taps the chains around your wrists. “You could be more than just a Silvan Elf, cast out by their own.”

Your lips part to speak but he leaves as quickly as he arrived, leaving you to ponder over his words.

Oropher knew you’d grown too accustomed to studying it, your hands reflected it as they grew darker at your fingertips. He saw how quick to anger you’ve become over the simplest things and had no choice but to cast you out. People started to talk.

The balance in his kingdom could not be disrupted so quickly.

Solitude has become your friend in the long years, the trees surrounding you a solace and the spiders crawling over your head an omen for the Elves. They knew you practiced magic, but even the smallest dip into the dark had set the pond to ripple through. The spiders ran down from the north and near the Elvenking’s Halls, leaving webs and plundering the forest ever so slightly.

It’s a few months later when he appears before your cell again. He’s been known to seek you out every now and then.

Morgoth never knew that his loyal servant would spend his time in front of your cage.

You don’t hide in the shadows this time and walk closer. He studies you again, his gaze unyielding as much as yours. Morgoth took his time tormenting you and yet you stand without a trace of any pain, you’ve learned to hide it well.

“Have you come to gloat?” you ask him. He was there as his master placed wounds on your body, carved marks into it to condemn you, should you ever return to the Elves. He shakes his head.

“Believe me, I did not take pride in witnessing it.”

You’re surprised. “Does your wretched soul have a heart?” you ask with a hint of sarcasm. You’d be a fool to believe a word out of his mouth and yet you feel a hidden intention beneath it. “What do you want?”

He places his hands on the bars. “You come rather quick to anger.” he exclaims.

“So you’ve come to lecture me.”

“No, no. I would not dare.” he raises his arms as if in surrender. He lets his hand fall and he grabs your chains, he traces the iron before his fingertips go over the blackened fingertips, you feel a quick sting under your finger and notice he drew your blood. You look at him with a question. After a moment he asks the one thing that has been on his mind. “Have you considered my offer?”

You look down at your hand and the blood as you heal yourself. “Is that what you call it?”

“You and I are not so different.” he begins. “Both lured by the darkness, bound to it whether in this life or the next.” his eyes watch you as you use your magic and he smiles softly. It’s a strange sight coming from him but you suppose it goes hand in hand with his twisted nature.

“I did not chose it. I did not want it.” you lie and make yourself believe in the truth of your words.

“Then how did it come to being in your life, hm? Surely you must have sought it out, any scroll, any passage in a book that could help you understand it.”

“Hold your tongue.” you warn him.

“I think you did want it. You craved it, in fact.” he says and whispers. “You could have the world at your fingertips, within your reach. No Elvenking to ever exile you again.” his voice grows softer as he says it and a part of you wants to believe him.

“You’d make me a tyrant.”

He shakes his head. “No, not a tyrant.” his words are left hanging in the air.

You step closer until you reach the bars, he doesn’t step back. “And if I agree, what then? I’ll have the power of the unseen world but what of the lives of others?”

“It will be in your path to decide what you should do with them. A power over a world you would see fit.”

You laugh and turn away from him. It dies down as you mutter to yourself, the bit of your mind that Morgoth has twisted makes itself known. “A power over flesh.”

He tilts his head as he listens, he knows you could be a valuable ally to his scheme, you simply need a little persuasion. “You’ll be at peace once you let it in.” he leaves you once again with his words echoing in your mind. No use of the dark magic takes toll on your body, even if it’s a quick spell your mind yearns for the familiar warmth of it.

His words don’t leave you for days.

Peace.

Something you haven’t felt in a long time. Could it be the answer?

“Doubt me at your peril.” he says and after a moment an orc attacks him. He stabs him in the eye once, for a split second he observes before plunging it into him again and again until the orc lays dead on the ground. You look down at Sauron as Adar comes with Morgoth’s crown, he looks up at it and his eyes wander to the place where you stand. You hide behind the column and hear the roar of orcs, you look down to see them attacking Sauron, the black blood pools around him and you use the commotion to run to the exit, no orc sees you, no one follows as you run through the land with your feet bare.

You run as fast as your legs are able to take you and a blast from the fortress knocks you down. When you come to it you see the snow and ice surrounding the area.

It came from the fortress. You feel a pang in your chest and hear a passing whisper in the back of your mind. You think nothing of it but a part of you wants to return and see for yourself.

You shake your head from the thought and begin to march forward.

As you walk through Forodwaith you reach a road, despite being miles away from your prison the snow covers all land and now it makes you wonder if it could be Sauron’s doing. You don’t get to think over it as a searing pain goes through your head, stronger than before.

Your knees buckle underneath you as you cradle your head, trying to make the pain go away. You don’t feel the ground when you fall unconscious.

Softness is the first thing you notice as you come back to it. The light shines through the balcony and the curtains flow in the wind, a familiar face sits by the bed. Her voice is muffled in your ears when she calls your name.

“We have all thought you were gone.”

You sit up on the bed as you take a look at Galadriel. You cough and rub at your eyes. “I would not be so easily killed, Commander.” you look around the room and notice the guards at the door. You look to Galadriel and her gaze is sorrowful.

You knew this day would come, Oropher made sure of it that every Elf was made aware of you.

A witch.

An Elf who was seduced by the dark magic. You hide your hands within the long sleeves of your dress. It is then that you notice the torn clothes you wore for years are gone.

You sigh and get out of the bed. “Lead away.” you say and you follow her through Lindon. You see the looks the Elves give you, the whispers where the word “Morgoth” lands on their tongue with such ease.

Lindon is ever beautiful as you remembered. Trees soaring around you, birds flying above you. And yet you feel the sickness that lies upon the land.

You look up as you reach the Great Tree and notice the black veins curling around some leafs. You give a short nod to the High King but his expression is ever so serious.

You dread his judgment.