Archive of Our Own

“Bind yourself to me!”

Lighting splits the inky-blue horizon, its brilliant glare briefly illuminating her golden hair. With one arm outstretched, she leans toward him, her other hand white-knuckling the rope twisting tight around the mast.

Sauron pauses, astonished by her words. She doesn’t know what he is; she cannot know. Not yet.

But that one little phrase, undoubtedly literal in its intent, has thrown his plans into disarray. She’s useful for now, no doubt about it. Her proximity to power thrums through her body even beneath the rain pouring into her eyes; the waves lashing around her feet.

She has no idea what she, in her ignorance, has just suggested. The vow she is asking him to make.

He exists to serve; it’s threaded through his very being—the foundations of his creation. And now, this Elf, this stubborn and enduring Elf, is pleading that he clasp her hand in his. That he will shield her with his body against a mighty and hostile ocean. For hours or days or however long it takes for the swell to recede.

Crawling quickly across the makeshift deck, he strains, twisting his spine until his fingertips brush her wrist.

Galadriel grips his forearm and pulls, hauling him roughly to his feet. She'll believe it’s her superior strength, that even a human heavier and taller in stature would not trouble her too greatly.

Yes, he’ll let her think that. He won’t reveal that he currently faces her, their chests almost touching, by his will alone. He will never expose that what steadies their feet is the limited power he can call forth from his rejuvenated strength. Waves roll faster beneath the raft and she nearly tumbles, but he commands the wood to hold her; it’s enough—she loops the rope around his wrist before hurridly passing it behind his waist.

“Help me,” she shouts, her teeth chattering.

He takes the rope in his hand and begins to feed it around the mast, pulling their bodies closer as she retakes the end. It continues this way for a few thunderous heartbeats, the two of them in sync until the raft lurches and the rope slips from Galadriel’s grip.

The howling wind denies their attempts to retrieve the end and it skitters diagonally across the deck, disappearing into a gap between two planks beyond their reach. It snags, perhaps on a hook or nail concealed beneath the waves. Immediately, they are brought closer together, the winding cord biting hard against their limbs.

Another swell hits the raft and the rope pulls tighter still, digging into Galadriel’s arm until she can no longer move easily.

“Well,” says Sauron, his mouth hovering above her ear. “You cannot claim this isn’t exactly what you asked.”

*****

She should still be stalking through shadows and ice, slaying the occasional cave troll.

Instead, she finds herself stranded at sea, pressed up against a man who sees polite society and spits in its face. The fact he’s already fed his people to the Wyrm has confirmed that. Halbrand is clearly one who values self-preservation above all else.

It should unsettle her. Should. But somehow… she’s strangely drawn to it. The simmering danger. The sense that something lurks hidden beneath the layers he struggles to hide from her keen Elf-sight.

Around them, the storm rages. Unrelenting and fierce; the rain stings their arms like needles. Seawater sprays into their faces, dripping down their brows and pooling in the hollow of their throats.

Galadriel peers up at him through the watery curtain veiling her eyes. Despite her strength and stature, her completely crowds her, his frail mortal body pressing hard against hers as the waves assault their fragile vessel.

She has survived much before arriving at this moment. Yet the creeping fear spreads ice-cold through her veins all the same. With each creak from the mast behind her, with each lighting strike splitting the blackened sky and meeting the crashing waves, her pulse surges a little more.

But she wants to be brave. For her kind. For beloved Finrod. He must’ve faced his end valiantly, the very best among those fighting to preserve the light.

Galadriel cannot tolerate the thought his sacrifice will amount to nothing. She has to survive, she must. And only then will the lieutenant of the Great Enemy pay for his crimes.

Interrupting her thoughts, the raft lurches violently. Rope winds tighter across her thighs, pressing her back further into the mast. She feels Halbrand straining, his attempts to prevent his weight crushing against her barely succeeding.

His head is titled at an awkward angle, shadowy eyes regarding her curiously as raindrops gather at the stringy tips of his hair. Water trickles from his brow, clings briefly to his eyelashes before rolling down his nose and gathering in his beard.

“Sorry,” he mouths after another strong surge forces him to bend slightly at the knee, his forearm squashing into her ribs.

It’s a strange thing. To be so intimately pressed against a stranger. But in many ways, it feels like she has always known him. He’s slippery, a man prepared to hurl his allies into the abyss if benefits his own survival, but he’s also strangely… alluring. There’s a roguish charm that speaks to her own rebellious spirit.

He’s an unexpected mirror. She senses pain, an all-consuming bitterness set deep within eyes that seem much older than his short years. A single heartbeat to an Elf.

Simultaneously, a hidden wisdom thrums beneath the surface; a determination to achieve his goals no matter the challenges or consequences.

Galadriel simply cannot help being curious. And through the howling wind, the rain streaking his face as lighting illuminates those dark and mysterious eyes, she sees an ally. An affinity, however unexpected and unlikely, that may aid her on her quest.

Halbrand stoops as best he can, his mouth drawing closer to her ear. “Sleep, Galadriel,” he says over the din, his voice prickling along her neck. “I will keep you safe.”

She doesn’t want to surrender. She needs to remain alert, fears what might happen if his human strength isn’t enough to block the stormy onslaught. But every one of her limbs feels heavy, and her eyelids too droop under the strain.

Staying awake is draining her. She can’t explain it, for this has never happened to her before. There are not many circumstances under which an Elf will succumb to exhaustion like this.

"You’re safe,” he whispers, almost like he speaks within her mind.

He surrounds her entirely. She’s aware of his breaths, steady and calm despite their predicament. Through stinging rainwater, she can even smell his earthiness, a raw, masculine scent masked by salt.

Finally, freely and bone tired, she accepts oblivion. The sweet and temporary embrace of sleep rushes forth, and only Halbrand remains.

*****

Daybreak arrives quickly.

It’s like a lever being pulled—one moment the waves climb dangerously high around them and the next they recede, a flat calm left in their wake.

Galadriel stirs, lifting her head slowly from Sauron’s chest. She blinks, her eyes quickly adjusting to the change in light.

He hasn’t slept, not properly. But once Galadriel’s breathing steadied, her head lolling beneath his shoulder, he had meditated. If an Elf requires rest after such an ordeal, it follows that a man too will not remain awake for long.

She doesn’t appear to notice he has been watching her for a while. Since he sensed the sun beginning to peek over the horizon. Since the raft settled upon gentler waters.

“Good morning,” says Sauron brightly, enjoying the subtle flush that colours her cheeks.

“I have witnessed better,” she admits, her shoulder pushing forward a little. The ropes have yielded little during the night, and her arms remain stuck fast beneath heavy braids saturated with sea water.

He hums in agreement. Better to not admit there have been far worse dawns than this. There have been eons watching, waiting. His physical form completely unravelled until only the most basic parts remain—his corruption exposed for all to witness.

Except for there were no witnesses. Not deep within a forgotten, frigid cave with only rats and millipedes for company.

“Perhaps I might be able to get my arm free,” Sauron remarks. “The knots feel a little looser across my forearm now.” He flexes the fingers on his right hand and recognises it is likely wishful thinking. Better to try than abandon all hope.

He’s painfully aware that Galadriel can feel every movement, that he is pressed awkwardly into her ribs. Strangely, he doesn’t entirely mind it. Her proximity these last few hours has been reassuring, a balm to heal his frayed and bruised spirit. It soothes him, allows his ancient soul to calm within this fresh, untested form.

After some back and forth, he frees his hand just enough, the damp rope dragging over his wrist and past his knuckles. With a jolt, his lower arm ends up resting against her hip.

It’s difficult not to notice the subtle change in her breath. She squirms against the remaining bindings, her thigh drifting dangerously close to his groin. The thought alone warms his blood, and his traitorous cock begins to stir.

This is the last thing he needs. Being clad in flesh comes with certain drawbacks, but for thousands of years, his control has never failed him.

Until now. Now, the temptation feels too great. Now, he forgets the price that might be paid for indulging physical delights.

After all, Melkor’s debt was amassed over decades, centuries even. And he rarely interacted pleasantly with the world—pain and corruption being his only currency.

Yes, perhaps Sauron should allow himself this one bodily thrill. Because he’s playing a part. Would a man not take advantage of this opportunity? Especially one who has already made it clear he doesn’t give a damn about Elvish propriety.

Galadriel appears surprisingly amenable to the idea. She has ceased wriggling and is peering up at him with those bright, blue eyes, her chin resting just beneath his neck. He can sense her pulse fluttering, feels her contempt unravelling and reforming.

Oh, she’s wary still. She’d be a fool if she wasn’t. But after the storm around her abated, another has taken its place within her.

She’s mesmerised by this dark and mysterious stranger. It’s in the way her lips part a little; the way she shifts her legs beneath the binding rope until Halbrand’s thigh rests between her knees.

“We should probably try to free ourselves,” he says, cordial and gentlemanly.

If Galadriel picks up the lack of sincerity in his tone, she doesn’t draw attention to it. Instead, she offers her own half-hearted response. “Yes. We probably should.”

Testing her, he slowly sweeps the hand he wrestled free down to her mid-thigh, her sodden shift bunching under his fingertips. She says nothing as he drags the material upwards, abandoning the idea to bare her completely once he realises there’s simply too much skirt.

But the gown is so thin, so transparent. It will be no match for his touch, practiced and precise.

He skims two fingers over her covered mound, delighting in the reward she offers—a quiet gasp emerging from her open mouth.

Through her skirts, he finds her cleft and circles the firm bud at her core. She sighs, nuzzling her face against his shoulder, her breath beating hotly over his salt-stained skin.

“That’s it, Elf,” he soothes, rubbing harder and faster until he feels her legs shaking. She’s trying not to look at him; her eyelids drop while her cheeks glow, scarlet dotting across her flawless skin.

There’s a quiet fury in her averted gaze too, hints that his presumption isn’t entirely welcome. Yet she refuses to tell him to stop, doesn’t even scold him for his impertinence.

Instead, Galadriel whines and buries her forehead into his chest, scarcely muffling her cries.

She’s going to come soon. He can feel it. No longer does she hold her body stiff against him and even in the confines of their restraints, she’s rolling her hips in time with his insistent thrusts.

Her gown dampens further beneath his touch, a burgeoning slick combining with water and sticking the sheer material to her thighs. With a final, breathy moan, she crests, her mouth pressing into the damp rags at his neck.

It’s risky to reach for her with his power, to brush gently against her thoughts. But he allows it only for a heartbeat, feels the liquid pleasure alighting her nerves and pooling in her quivering centre.

She’s greedy, canting her hips faster still to prolong the bliss thundering through her bones. Divine sounds still pour liberally from her throat, the most beautiful music his newly formed ears will ever hear.

But this is a means to an end. Or so he tells himself after he stills his hand. He’s certainly not enjoying the way she looks at him now, hungry and covetous. Nor does he relish seeing her plump lips that beg to be kissed, her little pink tongue darting out to moisten the cracked skin.

It has never been beneath him to dangle the mere suggestion of sensuality. It’s another way to lead, to manipulate. Even Melkor could be quietened at such times as those where he violently raged against Eru’s design.

Perhaps Galadriel too can be tamed, and he almost believes this. Until he’s struck by a startling revelation.

He actually wants to fuck her.

He shouldn’t want to fuck her.

Still coming down from her high, Galadriel holds his gaze, her pupils blown wide and searching. It occurs to him then that she’s unsure how to proceed. There can be no mistaking the effect she’s had on him; he knows she can feel his erection pressing urgently between them. During her blissful ascent, she’d angled herself just so. The intent unmistakable.

Perhaps he should offer a reward and draw another climax from her. All the better for experiencing her sweet song panted into his ear a second time.

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud crack and a thumb beneath their feet. Their tether slackens, working itself free from whatever snagged it on the underside of their makeshift vessel.

As soon as the rope loosens and falls gracelessly in a heavy heap around their feet, Sauron untangles his limbs from hers and backs away. He gropes for the crate behind them, cursing under his breath when he discovers it has moved.

It remains in one piece, though it hangs precariously over a newly splintered panel, the jagged wood reaching like claws toward a brightening sky.

“What about you?” asks Galadriel quietly, still standing rigidly against the central mast. A deep blush blooms anew across her cheeks, her eyes flitting from his face to the unsteady ground beneath their feet.

“What about me?” he enquires, righting the crate and taking a seat while he rearranges his tunic, He tries, in vain perhaps, to hide all evidence of the stubbornly persistent arousal throbbing between his legs.

Galadriel swallows and looks away, the confident manner she previously presented now absent. He knows it’s buried deep beneath a reluctance to admit aloud what she means. Curse the Elves and their guarded ways. It adds so much unnecessary obstruction to a thorough seduction.

“You didn’t…” she begins hesitantly. “I mean—that is to say…”

Sauron smirks, playfully and without genuine mockery. “No need to worry. It’ll go away in a moment.”

It’s been centuries since he last took physical form. This is the first time he has presented as a mortal man; the first time he has experienced lust surging so fiercely it consumes his every thought.

He wants to ignore it. The urge to seize her by the throat and throw her down onto the planks. The bothersome appendage between his legs twitches at the thought. That he could roughly roll her dress over her hips and wrench her legs open, pinning her until she yields.

Galadriel glares at him now, really looks at him with something akin to hunger churning within—a storm brewing across her eyes. Without giving him room to counter, she lunges forward and raises the dagger she has, until now, concealed, pressing it gently over the junction at his neck and shoulder.

“What if,” says Galadriel, her free hand reaching to grip his upper arm. “What if I do not wish it.”

“Look, Elf,” Sauron sighs. “I’ve already taken too many liberties. Perhaps taking a few more is ill-advised.”

I will not risk being bound like Melian, he thinks.

Then, there’s the rather annoying matter regarding how seriously Elves take bodily unions in the first place. He’s already craving Galadriel’s touch more than one among his order ever should.

No, now is not the time for experimentation; hoping that enough loopholes exist to prevent such an unintentional bonding, and any suspicions it might raise. He forces down anything that would identify him too greatly, locking it tight inside the deepest crevice within his mind.

He is merely a man, and she cannot complete a full binding without knowing the truth of him.

Before he can speak again, Galadriel hikes up her skirts, still heavy with seawater, past her mid-thigh. Her skin glistens like morning dew, the wet drag of her white gown drawing his gaze higher and higher.

Spying confirmation that she is bare underneath, his breath catches, a prickly heat travelling from his neck into his skull.

Abruptly, Galadriel lowers herself until she’s balanced in his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs. Slowly, she draws the dagger’s edge across his tunic, making sure he sees as she slips it blade first into a loop at her waist.

The handle remains within her reach. A warning that should he displease her, his throat will learn her weapon’s sharp bite.

Sauron wonders too if he’ll know the scratch from her nails, the scrape of her teeth beneath his ear. He desires it. The raw hatred she has cultivate for centuries - its darkness an inky spot swirling within her light.

Galadriel swallows, a small bob rolling down her delicate neck. She sweeps her palms over his chest, he explorative touch grazing his nipples through his rags.

Another breath catches in his throat and he shifts beneath her - a futile gesture; she will feel how much he aches, his cock twitching after the raft lists to one side and her warm centre grinds into him.

There’s a wicked glint in her eyes. The slightest, devious hint that the firm roll of her pelvis was no accident.

He smirks briefly and captures her wrists, aiding her in pushing his tunic up to his stomach. His clothes are wet, as saturated as her sodden shift, but he can’t find it in him to care. They fight against the damp tangle beneath his waist, pulling the laces apart until he can shove his trousers down just enough.

During Galadriel’s quick fumbling, her fingers brush the flushed head of his cock and he hisses, the flesh still far too new. His reaction doesn’t go unnoticed and she raises a smile, sliding her hand slowly along his length from root to tip.

“You’ll be the death of me, Elf,” he breathes against her cheek, biting his lip after she squeezes, her thumb circling the sensitive underside. And she will. Her touch burns exquisitely, pleasure and agony surging with each experienced pass from her fist.

“Please,” begs Sauron, relieved that his former servants—his beloved master too—cannot see him in this moment.

Taking pity, a pity that chafes him if he indulges it too greatly, Galadriel raises her hips. Clinging to his neck, she allows him to guide his cock inside her, her tight cunt fluttering as she sinks down slowly inch by inch.

Gripping her waist, he instructs her through every undulating roll of her hips, panting a short, stuttering breath into her shoulder. The raft continues to rock gently beneath them, directing their movements, faster and closer.

Their frenzied rhythm unites, clashes, unites again and she’s ascending to a dizzying height—the storm reborn. He feels her muscles tighten, blood thundering in his ears while she moans, her fingernails digging into his scalp.

Sauron has experienced mutual pleasure before; he’s had Elves too, but never in this body. Never one like her. It feels different somehow, like every atom within his spirit is being recalibrated. A climax to rival the euphoria, the wonder when he helped shape the world.

With a laboured groan, he comes, her own climax abating while she holds his gaze, her plump lips parted.

Galadriel slows, eking out every last spasm, her whimpers quietening while his heartbeat begins to descend.

Their breaths still steadying, he peers deep into her shining eyes. An urge to sweep his palm along her jaw and beneath her lustrous hair buzzes louder than the pulse still drumming inside his head.

But Sauron refrains. He knows he hasn’t earned it yet, the right to hold her light within his hands, within himself. And he will. Soon enough, he will.

She’ll understand. She’ll have to—because why else would she indulge their hunger for one another? She desires power, she deserves it. And he will give it to her. He will give her everything.

Briefly, he wonders if he should kiss her now. It seems strangely too familiar, a threshold they cannot cross, and instead he simply holds her, watching.

As though she wrestles with it too, Galadriel extracts herself from his lap. Hurriedly, she straightens to her full height, barely looking his way while she rolls her dress back down to her ankles.

Possessiveness suddenly strikes him then, an inward lamentation that she denies a glimpse of the mess he’s left between her thighs. He huffs quietly, smoothing his tunic and discretely retying his trousers beneath.

Moving to sit down, Galadriel sighs and hugs her knees to her chest. Closing her eyes, she tilts back her head, enjoying the sun’s warming rays upon her flawless skin.

After a beat, she shifts. Stretching her body out upon the deck, one hand steadies her weight above the waves rolling gently around them.

Sauron sits completely still on the crate, observing quietly. Despite the intimacy they just shared, he senses she needs space, her Elven sensibilities at war with the magnitude of what she has just done.

“You having second thoughts, Elf?” he asks, leaning forward slightly.

Galadriel shakes her head. “It is… quite exhausting for Elves.”

“Humans too. Men especially,” Sauron lies. He doesn’t tell her that his appetites are endless; if she needs him, he will always be ready and delirious with want. “Might need to wait if you’d like another round.”

“No,” replies Galadriel, too quickly for his liking. “We shall not speak of this again.”

“Fine,” he says bitterly. “This will be our dirty little secret.”

“It was…” she begins. “An impulse. I do not know what possessed me.” She slowly falls closer to the deck, resting a hand beneath her cheek. “Forgive me,” she adds dreamily. “You did nothing wrong.”

Sauron softens, hoping his contrition is clear across Halbrand’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I understand, I perhaps behaved… rashly. If you need to sleep again, I will take first watch.”

She nods, a silent concession that her words struck too harshly. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

He doesn’t dare to move at first. Not until he’s sure her breathing has evened out, her eyes and fingers twitching until she falls into the deepest sleep.

Carefully, he picks his way down to her level, unfurling his body beside her. Despite his careful movements, the raft tilts slightly, water beginning to lap at his bare feet and soaking her hemline.

She is clearly too drained to notice. Her rest remains undisturbed as he slides closer, his face level with hers.

Heat blooms in his chest as he takes in every last delicate feature. His gaze traces her rosy lips; her twitching nose—finally settling on the golden locks curled in wet strands behind her pointed ear.

An Elf. It should be humiliating to be so thoroughly bewitched by an Elf.

But she is extraordinary, a headstrong and tenacious warrior among her people. Much as he despises her kind, he cannot deny she is different.

It would be glorious to have her by his side. He accepts the thought, burrowing deep and taking hold until it blooms fully formed.

Permanent couplings between his order and her species are rare, rare enough that it has only happened once before. But did they not just prove no harm would come to either of them? Even while climbing to the highest peak, his spirit stubbornly clung to physical form. And Galadriel sensed nothing.

He remains a simple man clad in rags for now. The truth will come. Later.

“Dream about me, Galadriel,” Sauron whispers, thumb lightly tracing her hairline, sweeping to the point of her ear. “Dream only of me.”

*****

Days pass and Galadriel cannot shake her fascination with him. His rough edges; the way he disdains yet seeks her counsel.

Now, in the forge, his eyes rimmed gold in the firelight, she peels back another layer. In turn, he exposes secrets she once promised to never tell.

He doesn’t judge. Well, not entirely.

It arrests her, the vulnerability beneath the bravado. She maintains the distance between them, watching his scepticism closely, the shadows framing his face as he turns.

Eyebrow raised, he asks earnestly, “what do you know of darkness?”

She knows he’s right to doubt. What could an Elf possibly know of the short and often violent lives men lead? And his ancestors fought for the shadows, through no other choice or a dangerous ambition that may yet reside within their hearts. The discord sown by Morgoth knitted into their souls.

He cannot hear it, the pulse that beats beneath each individual song. It’s only a fraction, and it is a curse that all living things bear, but enough persists in Halbrand’s aura that she can sense it.

She knows darkness. She wants to scream it, to hold onto him tightly and demand he see it.

But she wishes to know more.

No logical explanation exists for the reason she is drawn to him, like a bright light being carried deeper into the blackest night. An endless cavern threatening to swallow her whole, and yet within it, her flame will never sputter. Light is strengthened by the dark, and the shadows will flee.

She could drive the darkness from him. Reclaim the notes, the original song, that still flows within his mortal blood.

Something changes in the atmosphere and Halbrand softens, his doubtful expression settling into another. There’s a curiosity there; an admiration.

Galadriel isn’t naive. She knows men and their habits enough to recognise lust. He’s exhibited it frequently in her presence, though has been too polite to resume their reckless dalliance upon the raft.

Stretching out her arm, she invites him closer, knowing that she should not encourage him. And as though reading her mind, Halbrand hesitates, his gaze dropping briefly to her open palm.

He drifts slowly toward her, his own steady hand seeking hers. Or so she anticipates.

Instead, she finds the breath knocked from her as he grabs her wrist and pulls. His mouth descends on hers, their bodies flush while he firmly holds her waist. His other hand slides across her shoulder to her neck, yet he takes great care to leave her hair untouched.

The kiss is urgent; a plea for forgiveness. A claiming. Everything that disturbs and fascinates Galadriel surges beneath his touch, a quiet moan rumbling in his throat.

Halbrand pulls away, peppering small kisses upon her lips before he shocks her further. He falls to his knees, his warm cheek scraping gently over her stomach while he clasps his hands at her lower back.

He inhales deeply, eyelids fluttering shut and his mouth moving in a silent prayer.

Without hesitation, Galadriel threads her fingers in his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head upward. “Open your eyes, Halbrand,” she commands.

He sighs. Moss green and golden flecks twinkling as he beholds her.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses. “I know it was about fear, and survival, but try as I might, I can’t forget.”

Boldly, he risks her ire and nuzzles his nose against her abdomen, dragging his face obscenely close to her centre.

She hopes, as his open mouth wets the silk, he can taste her arousal through her dress. That he’ll accept the breadcrumbs she scatters, and give in to the temptation still simmering between them.

Yes, it was about survival, about being glad to be alive.

But it’s also because she craves him. Desperately and decisively.

She makes her choice then, accepting his devotion. In glory, they will burn together, reassembling the ashes into something new. Something beyond power.

*****

He pushes her against a wall and makes a home underneath her skirts. Until his knees ache upon the flagstones. Until his jaw begins to numb, his tongue dutifully tracing her seam, flushed pink and flooding his mouth with the sweetest nectar.

Galadriel comes apart more than once, completely lost to the worship he offers. And then, when she’s had her fill, her thighs still quaking around his ears, she grips his covered head, directing him away.

Obeying her silent command, he emerges, her gown sliding slowly over the top of his skull. He peers up at her devotedly, ignoring the way her breasts heave with each calming breath. No, it was her beautiful face—a blush colouring her cheeks and sweat gathering at her hairline, that his wishes to behold.

“Halbrand, I—” she begins, delirious with pleasure.

The false name angers him; squeezes around his heart. A reminder of the lie. More than anything, he wants to be known to her now. He almost confesses it.

Not the abhorred. Admirable.

How he hopes she will recognise his gifts, the reason he was plucked from Ilúvatar’s thoughts. He would pay for his misdeeds, but his purpose, his future can be found anew, basking in the glory of her. Her light. Her goodness.

Her thumb sweeps across his beard and he gladly accepts it between his lips, her release smearing from his chin to his tongue.

She bids that he take her to his bed, and with some reluctance, he obliges.

Galadriel deserves better than to be thoroughly fucked in such meagre chambers. He tells her in far prettier words after she sprawls upon his simple mattress, her hair shimmering over threadbare pillows.

He covers her naked body with his own, presses his hard cock inside her slow enough to wrench a frustrated whine from her throat. He chuckles and kisses beneath her ear, whispering that soon, he’d take his throne and place a glittering crown upon her head.

And then he will have her again, in rooms fit for a queen. Her skin will know only the finest silks; her ecstatic cries ringing out among jewels and tapestries brought as gifts from far flung places.

He laments that his kingly duties might distract him. But he’ll always return to her, promising to lay her upon her back or set her thighs astride his hips; plucking another thunderous, bone-shattering climax from her soft and pliant body.

A tear leaks from Galadriel’s eye the moment she shatters beneath him again. He kisses her salty cheek; enjoys the way she curls her fingertips in his beard and encourages him to claim her heated mouth.

Sauron falters then, desperately chasing his own release, its power threatening to unravel his fair disguise. Until his divinity consumes every shadow, enveloping every gasp that escapes Galadriel’s parted lips.

She attempts to close her legs after he withdraws, but this time he anticipates her movements. With lighting quick reflexes, he grabs her knee and pushes it toward the mattress, his ravenous gaze drawn to her glistening slit.

“No,” he growls, perhaps more possessively than he’d like at this delicate stage. “This time, you’ll let me see what I have done to you.”

“Halbrand—”

“—shh,” he whispers, settling over her again, his fingers plunging inside her. Hushing her again, he lowers his face to hers, stilling her lips with a sensual kiss.

Galadriel squirms beneath him, attempting to spare her still sensitive clit from further attention. Yet she tilts her pelvis up from the bed, desperately seeking a friction she pretends to deny.

It raises a smile next to her mouth. “Can’t decide what you want, can you?” he says, his smirk broadening.

Lifting his head, he makes his disappointment clear. Her eyelids are screwed shut, and he desires nothing more than to look upon her face while leading her to the precipice again. “Look at me, Galadriel,” he says. “I want you to look at me when you come.”

Her head lolls against the pillow, her hips undulating faster and faster with each pass of his fingers delving into her slick. Obscenely wet sounds grow louder, his previous spend mixing with her renewed arousal as he pushes it back inside, his thumb swirling over her clit.

“Too much,” she gasps over and over in her own tongue. Until she begins to babble, the phrase lost to her exquisite whimpering.

Maintaining the ruse, he has to obscure his understanding. “In my bed, you’ll speak your pleasure in the words I know, Elf.”

“It’s too much,” she repeats, the swiftness of her compliance hardening his cock to distraction.

Within his arms, her back bows. Limbs unfurl, stretching, and the sheets bunch beneath her straining fingertips. She tries desperately to keep looking at him, tilts her chin so far back that she risks his playful ire.

Sauron’s thoughts slither at the edge of her mind. His fingers continue to work her, her body so alight with bliss that she scarcely notices his presence.

He knows she’s tiring. But she can’t refuse what he offers, blood surging and lungs exhaling another enchanting scream.

“I know you’re tired, Elf,” he coos. “But you can take me again, can’t you? Two more, one on my fingers, and another on my cock. That’s all I ask.”

Galadriel’s toes curl against the bedsheets and she climaxes again, moaning hotly into his wanting mouth. It’s all consuming, splintering her soul and knitting it back together while his fingers continue to slide wetly into her cunt, prolonging the agony.

He can’t wait a moment longer.

Rolling her onto her side, he’s slides into her exquisite warmth before her trembling subsides. He lightly grips her chin, his thumb pushing against her jaw while his fingers fan across her throat. More sweet promises whisper over her ear, the point nipped between his teeth.

How Sauron wishes he could open his mind completely to her in this moment, to let her truly see. But the risk is too great, not while Middle-earth is so close now.

“I need you,” he gasps, kissing her neck. “Tell me you need me too.”

In an act that could only be divine confirmation, Galadriel reaches up. Clasping his hand in hers, she cries out for a final time and he spills inside her anew. Her claim upon his heart, his ruin, unassailable.

*****

Tucking her beneath inadequate sheets, he vows to return and wake her before suspicions will arise at first light. He dresses quickly and returns to the forge, its fires still burning.

A man might be concerned that in his haste to bed a radiant beauty, the unattended workshop could’ve burned.

But Sauron doesn’t worry about such a calamity. His enchantment to keep back the flames persists. Not even a clever Elf will have noted its presence, for there is ancient wisdom older  still than her tree-lit eyes.

He sits upon a stool, retrieving the stolen pouch from the tabletop where he left it. Another risk, he supposes. Though there aren’t many who will creep into a forge at this later hour.

In the dim light, he turns the sigil over in his palm, raising it before his face. He ponders it, the curious turn of events that lead him here. He only snatched this token because it may prove useful. A trade he could make for information; a way to blend in among men and their dysfunctional kingdoms.

He recalls Galadriel spying it after it slipped from his tunic, the way it aroused her curiosity. She’s dogged him for days now. Believing he’s not what he claims.

Well, he chuckles sardonically, she has that right at least.

Can he be what she needs him to be—does he desire the betterment she offers?

It’s woven through his creation to serve. He’s committed to it twice now, with mixed results. As a king he’d be expected to lead, a fresh position for one of his standing.

Yet Galadriel could be a queen, his queen. And do kings not often cede to their queen? Especially one so fierce, so ardent in her own ambitions.

Snatching the pouch from the table and rising to his feet, he makes his final decision.

Halbrand, the low man turned king, will return to Middle-earth.

Sauron, the deceiver wearing the lost king’s skin, will prove himself to the Elf. That his intentions are noble. He will repair all he has ruined.

And either way, he will claim Galadriel as his bride, his queen. His equal.

*****

In the decades beyond, Sauron resents the twisted form he’s forced to inhabit now. Too much of his immortal spirit had been claimed by the Ring, his skills diminishing with the bodily destruction he’d endured while Númenor was swallowed into the abyss.

His vanity smarts most. Now Mairon no longer cloaks the abhorrent creature lurking unseen—the corrupting flames within lick at his bones and scorch his flesh. He’s in so much pain, tormented by what he is and always shall remain.

There is the smallest part however, the tiny voice gnawing in his skull, that fears her rejection will endure forevermore. He knows she hates him still, but the handsome shape she once adored is gone and along with it the last fragments of hope, of his sanity.

How could she ever desire the monster he has become? Her light will burn away his darkness; no longer would it illuminate the hidden pathways he keeps within his heart.

She will recoil in his presence. And more than ever, she wants him dead.

Perching upon the bed he keeps only for her (she has never set foot in this chamber) he loses himself in a treasured memory. Dark walls melt away, revealing an endless grey sky. The mattress beneath his thighs thins and compresses, the crate’s familiar surface, streaked with seawater, pressing firm into his broken skin.

It should embarrass him, to be reduced to conjuring her likeness; the sodden shift that clings to her curves discarded this time.

He’s drunk on the memory, every scar upon his flesh alight as he guides her phantom onto his cock. In this illusion, he’s whole again - his beauty no longer tarnished.

Halbrand’s shadow remains ever-present beneath the burning pain stretching across his bones. But only here, folded within a memory, does the low man truly surface. The rough, coarse skin chafes yet comforts, its familiarity a welcome distraction from the creature Sauron has become.

Gripping Galadriel’s waist, he pulls her closer, her rolling hips meeting his desperate thrusts. Her ecstatic cries mingle with his and she clings to his neck, her nails digging crescents into the skin there.

Throughout, she looks at him. But she doesn’t see. He merely fucks an empty shell, an echo of what once existed between them.

He kisses her cheek and groans, spilling deep inside her, into nothing.

It should enrage him. Knowing the rapturous spasms she continues to pull from him amount to nothing more than a daydream. Or a nightmare.

Eternity is an awfully long time to be tormented by her shape, his palm grazing the softness along her flanks, her floral scent filling his nostrils as he threads his fingers through her beautiful hair and breathes deeply against her neck.

She continues to grind her centre over the root of him, her movements increasingly vigorous until she throws back her head and cries out.

The voice is never quite right, lacking in the covetous venom he would gladly receive. This time, she nips his earlobe between her teeth, her movements completely in tune with his direction.

“Aranya…”

He accepts this distorted reality, his heart fluttering fiercely when she speaks it aloud a second time. The voice is almost indistinguishable this time. Almost.

It’s a bitter comfort, that not everything within this memory is a lie.

Sauron recalls every delectable gasp, every twitch beneath her skin. Her climax swelled with the waves still lapping at their ramshackle sanctuary, stretching onward like the clouds rolling and parting above, golden light peeking through the gaps.

His own pulse surges, her insistent thrusts threatening to pull another release from his insatiable loins. He could stay like this forever, joined body and soul until time itself would cease. There will only be her. The light and the dark threaded through his very creation.

He’s never wanted another so much. Never felt anything like the rage that consumes him while she takes and takes. Her euphoric moans join with the song of her soul, with the notes that rise within his spirit and make him forget, however briefly, about his ruin.

But after.

After Galadriel trembles, her orgasm still shuddering through every limb while she squeezes him tight. Then, her lips flush red and part. Her hips slow. She clings desperately to his his neck.

After.

Those glassy eyes rake across his face; a light focuses and shines.

She’s not a puppet anymore. Not now. One hand slowly skims along his collarbone, cups his stubbled jaw. Her steadying breath whispers close to his mouth and at last she speaks, her gaze filled with longing. With regret.

“I felt it too.”

FIN.