#THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TREAT WITH SAURON

[thyras]

→ starlight

PAIRING → annatar (sauron) x f!oc!sabina

WORD COUNT → 1.1k words

WARNINGS → soft!sauron, mentions of past trauma, love confessions (if you can even call it that), giving of gifts

SUMMARY → after a life-altering event in sabina's life, she is now free to choose her path with all the knowledge of who she really is.

AUTHORS NOTE → so yes, i have given up writing a coherent story as it was stressing me out and i was pretty bored of writing the same stuff over again. i will just be posting from now on parts of their story because honestly i'm going where the inspiration takes me. i have so much already written for them that i felt was going to waste as it did not fit into a chronological order for the story. so i'm abandoning the chronological story but not the over arching story i have laid out for them. i would rather write what i am inspired to, so don't kill me for not going in order lol

SAURON X F!OC!SABINA MASTERLIST

There was a soft knock on her chamber’s door. She turned as she finished putting her other earring in. Sabina stood, gathered up her skirts, and walked over, opening the door just a crack to see him standing there. She opened the door more as he inclined his head to her softly. A smile touched her lips as she leaned against the door frame.

“Can I help you, my lord?” She said, looking down the corridor to see if someone was there. Ever since the whole ordeal by the river, Sabina had become paranoid that Olavi would appear out of the middle of nowhere and drag her back to him only to cage her once again. She had disappeared for a few days into her chambers, trying to unpack everything: seeing her mother, learning her parentage, and how her fate rested in the hands of the being that now stood at her door. 

It was a lot to take in, and Celebrimbor had been all but accepting of her absence for a couple of days. But she had to appear at the gathering tonight to see how her master’s help had provided a fruitful product. 

“May I come in?” he asked. She nodded, and he walked through, moving to stand by her bed. “Are you well?” Sabina looked at him, puzzled.

“Are you seeing if you need to manipulate me more than usual?” she scoffed. He sat down on the edge of her bed and shook his head.

“Hardly.” The aura coming off him was something she had never seen on him or in Olavi, for that matter. He was nervous about something.

“Are you scared of me?” she asked with a playful smile. He narrowed his gaze at her. 

“No,” he answered tartly. “I must admit I was completely in the dark on this one. He did not share much with me, but I caught glimpses of her when he invaded my mind to torture me.” Sauron looked away from Sabina’s amused gaze. “It was why I became intrigued with you.” Sabina snorted and went back to her vanity.

“Are you getting soft and sentimental with me, my dear Dark Lord?” He stood quickly and moved over to her, grabbing her wrist sharply and turning her to face him as his dark eyes poured into her.

“This poking of fingers is tiresome; I am not trying to deceive you or trick you.” His throat worked, and she watched his eyes soften back into their bluest shade. “I am trying to show you that I wish to right my master’s wrongs. I dare not treat you as Olavi did or how I was treated. With you—” He trailed off as her eyes widened and her throat worked. A lone tear touched his cheeks. “I feel like Mairon again; if I grasp harder onto you, it will right every wrong I have ever done.” Sabina reached up to wipe the tear from his cheek. 

“We both know that could never happen,” she whispered. “You require a peace I could never give you; I am driven by my need to seek power and control.” He moved to rest his head in her palm.

“But why could we not do that together?” he breathed softly against her wrist. “Just you and I healing this world, carving a path for the both of us to live our lives freely.” Sabina rubbed her thumb across his cheekbone as she sighed. 

Her dark desire for him was always deeply rooted, but now that she was completely free of Olavi, it had risen considerably. She could not say she loved him because love was not in her vocabulary after Olavi had forced those feelings onto her, but she could grow to learn the meaning of it—just like how her mother was still so completely infatuated with the man who bore her, even after learning who he was and why he sought her out.

“I cannot love,” Sabina whispered out. A smile touched his lips as he lifted his head to gaze into her sapphire ones.

“Neither can I,” he said softly before fixing a strand of hair that had been loosened by him snatching her arm. The magic of his touch twirling the strand back into its place sent shivers down her spine and caused her to close her eyes. Sauron leaned forward, inches away from her lips, hot breath covering her face as she felt his hand traveling up the fabric of her sleeve, tracing over the ripples of elegant fabric and golden detailing on the crimson fabric.  “But we will have an eternity to learn its meaning.”

Sabina waited for the pressing of lips against hers, but nothing came, and she could not help but feel slightly hurt by the lack of touch. Instead, she opened her eyes and watched as he produced something from underneath his gray robe. He placed the small pendant in his hands. The star-like shape on the golden chain shimmered and shone in the candlelight. “For you,” he held it out to her, and she took in its beauty. The diamonds encrusted in a star-like shape were something out of this world and, indeed, the work of a man so gifted in the art of forging. “A woman that has shown me that even in the darkest of nights, there will always be light to guide me where I need to be, my Silmë,” he breathed, and before she could say what was on her mind, he continued. “No trickery, no deception, no binding element, just a gift for a woman that I shall travel back to even in my darkest of nights.” 

He motioned for her to turn, and she did so, pulling her hair away from her neck so he could lay the necklace around her neck. He clasped it before placing his hands on her shoulders. Sabina ran her fingers across the beautiful jewels and smiled, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt his lips touch the top of her head.

“Thank you,” Sabina breathed while turning to face him. “But we may cause alarm if we are not down there to celebrate with Celebrimbor.” She said, moving away from him towards the door, a smile playing on his lips. “Surely you would want to bask in the glory of satisfaction for creating those rings,” She paused, and her eyes darkened slightly. “And taking what was his at the same time,” Sauron let a chuckle through his lips.

“You know me too well, my lady,” Sabina nodded and made her way out the door. She could not help the youthful maiden smile on her lips. She knew she could never love again, nor did she want to, but he was making it incredibly difficult not to.

Silmë - quenya for starlight

[celebrimborium]

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Someone asked me to expand a little on a topic that was buried down in a big chain of reblogs, so I'm doing that here--it's about the use of the archaic "thee", "thou", "thy", etc. in LOTR and what it tells you about characters’ feelings for one another. (I am NOT an expert on this, so it's just what I've picked up over time!)

Like many (most?) modern English speakers, I grew up thinking of those old forms of 2nd person address as being extra formal. I think that's because my main exposure to them was in the Bible ("thou shall not...") and why wouldn't god, speaking as the ultimate authority, be using the most formal, official voice? But it turns out that for a huge chunk of the history of the English language, "thee," "thou," and "thy" were actually the informal/casual alternatives to the formal "you", “your”, “yours”. Like tú v. usted in Spanish!

With that in mind, Tolkien was very intentional about when he peppered in a "thee" or a "thou" in his dialogue. It only happens a handful of times. Most of those are when a jerk is trying to make clear that someone else is beneath them by treating them informally. Denethor "thou"s Gandalf when he’s pissed at him. The Witch King calls Éowyn "thee" to cut her down verbally before he cuts her down physically. And the Mouth of Sauron calls Aragorn and Gandalf "thou" as a way to show them that he has the upper hand. (Big oops by all 3 of these guys!)

The other times are the opposite--it's when someone starts to use the informal/casual form as a way to show their feeling of affection for someone else. Galadriel goes with the formal "you" all through the company's days in Lórien, but by the time they leave she has really taken them to heart. So when she sends them a message via Gandalf early in the Two Towers, she uses "thee" and "thou" in her words to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli because now they're valued friends and allies. And--this is the big one, folks, that was already alluded to in my previous post--Éowyn starts aggressively "thou"ing Aragorn when she is begging him to take her along as he prepares to ride out of Dunharrow. She is very intentionally trying to communicate her feelings to him in her choice of pronoun--an "I wouldn't be calling you "thee" if I didn't love you" kind of thing. And he is just as intentionally using "you" in every single one of his responses in order to gently establish a boundary with her without having to state outright that he doesn't reciprocate her feelings. It's not until much later when her engagement to Faramir is announced that Aragorn finally busts out "I have wished thee joy ever since I first saw thee". Because now it is safe to acknowledge a relationship of closeness and familiarity with her without the risk that it will be misinterpreted. He absolutely wants to have that close, familiar relationship, but he saved it for when he knew she could accept it on his terms without getting hurt.

So, you know, like all things language-based...Tolkien made very purposeful decisions in his word choices down to a bonkers level of detail. I didn’t know about this pronoun thing until I was a whole ass adult, but that’s the joy of dealing with Tolkien. I still discover new things like this almost every time I re-read.

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

Perfect illusion (Sauron x Celebrimbor’s daughter!reader)

-> in which you have to sit by your father’s side as Sauron coerces him into finishing the Nine, realizing just how blind you have been all along

Warnings: No romance, just angst. You marry Annatar (+ implied smut) when you don’t know he’s Sauron, so there’s all the emotional torment and consent issues that come with that. Uncomfortable touching (not smut) after you find out he’s Sauron. Manipulation, mind control and victim blaming as per canon

You sit in your chair, watching your father work. A familiar thing, which you have done a million times before. Before, however, there had never been a shackle around his wrist, or blood marring his brow. There had never been rubble scattered about the workplace, or the sound of battle coming through the window. Before, there had never been The Dark Lord standing behind you, his hands weighing you down as though the ceiling had collapsed upon you.

That is not to say that they are forceful. No, his touch is soft, as it has always been, his fingers brushing your hair gently, almost absent-mindedly. At times they reach your neck or your cheek, grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. You dig your nails painfully into your own hands to keep from trembling. It’s the least, even if the most inconsequential thing, that you can still do—to deny him this small satisfaction.

“Stop that,” Sauron says, his voice deceivingly gentle as he gives your shoulder a warning squeeze. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Of course, that only makes you want to clench your fists harder. But you force yourself to open them, mindful of what might happen if you disobey.

“You once took comfort in my touch,” he says. If you knew no better, you’d believe the sorrow in his voice is genuine. “It is only comfort I wish to give you now as well.”

His knuckles brush your cheek, painfully tender and excruciatingly familiar. Though you’ve been trying to keep as still as possible, you cannot help but turn your face away, if only just an inch.

His hand stills mid-air, then returns to your shoulder. He takes a breath, quiet but long and deep.

“I have caused you suffering. That is true,” he admits, patiently. “But I assure you that this too shall pass. Once Middle-Earth is healed, and the people will see what we did here... your feelings will change.”

You can’t help how your breath quickens, chest trembling with anger. It only becomes worse when Sauron puts his fingers to your chin, coaxing you to twist your neck and look up into his piercing eyes. “You must know it pains me,” he says, “treating you like—”

“Like you have treated countless others?” your father intercedes in haste.

Sauron’s attention turns to Celebrimbor then, as your father had no doubt hoped it would. The whole time he’d been working, his eyes kept straying to you, as if to make sure you are still alive and whole. To your relief, Sauron removes his hand from your face. To your dread, he is now moving towards Celebrimbor, displeased with his remark.

“Like Morgoth treated me,” he corrects, hovering over your father.

You are not bound. You could, in theory, try to run. But you are not foolish enough to believe you could escape. Any such attempt would only earn you a shackle of your own, similar to your father’s. Though, you’re starting to believe that the cold bite of metal might just be more bearable than the silent imprisonment of your husband’s touch.

Your husband. The word twists in your stomach, carves holes into your heart. It all came so naturally to you when you spoke the vows and sealed the bond. Now, you can’t imagine how you got here. All you know are the facts of what happened, and even those no longer seem to make sense in your weakened mind.

You know who you used to be, when the world still made sense: daughter of Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven smiths. You think his talents mixed with your mother’s magic may have resulted in your gift to manipulate materials in particular ways which do not necessarily come naturally. You know the mithril had refused to be coaxed into joining with the other metals without your intervention. You know Halbrand had been the one to suggest that you try it.

You know how easily he had endeared himself to you from the moment you met, and how confusing and sharp the pain had been when he disappeared without a trace. You know how quick you had been to let him into Eregion when he returned, despite Galadriel’s inexplicable request that you refrain from doing so.

You know the transition from Halbrand to Annatar had been unexpected, if not jarring, but in the end the pull you felt towards him was unchanged. You know there were touches, desire... trust.

You no longer know why. Because there never was a reason—not a true one, anyway. Only his deception, his mind games. But at the time, you didn’t know. At the time, it had made perfect sense when, one night, you had found yourself at the dining table, anxious about giving your father the news of what had happened a mere few hours prior.

Annatar was to your side, sitting at the head of the long table, while your father was across from you. He may be the Lord of Eregion, but he had insisted that an emissary of the Valar should take the most important seat. Yet despite your father’s deep admiration for Annatar, you were not sure how he would react.

“As you know,” you began tentatively, “Lord Annatar has been a close and trusted friend to me, these past few weeks. As he has been to you.”

“Indeed,” your father nodded. His unsure smile and knitted brow told you he was at a loss for what you were leading up to. You opened your mouth, but found yourself quite tongue-tied. You glanced at Annatar, who graciously took over.

“However,” he continued, lips forming a gentle, almost bashful smile, “after a time, we found that there were... deeper feelings between us.”

Though he was speaking to Celebrimbor, his gaze sought yours. You met it, heart fluttering as he wrapped your hand in his, resting them on the table in such a way that the new ring on your finger was in your father’s line of sight.

“Annatar has proposed marriage, father,” you finally say, turning to him. “And I have accepted.”

Your father blinked, eyebrows lifting in an expression of wordless surprise. When words failed to leave his mouth, Annatar took it upon himself to break the silence once more.

“My friend, I...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant in his choice of words. “I am well aware I should have asked for your blessing beforehand. Especially since things have progressed with such unusual haste, but—”

“Oh, nonsense!” your father burst out, as if finally regaining his senses. “Nonsense, my friend, this...” A short laugh bubbled out of him as he turned to you with a face-splitting grin. “Such wonderful news! Oh, my dear,” he took your hand in his, gazing in wonder upon your betrothal ring before he pressed a kiss filled with fatherly love to your knuckles. “You could not have found a better match,” he praised.

“The same is true for myself,” Annatar said, giving you that kind smile of his that never failed to have you return it.

Relief washed over you. All was well.

You’d be lying to say there isn’t a part of you that resents your father for giving you away so eagerly. He could not stop you no matter who you chose to wed, but with anyone else, he’d have at the very least warned you that the engagement had happened much too quickly. He’d have been more cautious of your betrothed, tried to determine whether or not their intentions towards you were true. But Annatar, in your father’s eyes, was of divine nature, and the thought of becoming kin with one of his kind had filled your father with such pride, it overshadowed all else.

You wonder if he is as ashamed of that moment now as you are. And of everything that came after.

You’re not sure if speaking the wedding vows had somehow allowed Sauron better dominion over your mind, or if you were simply too far gone by then. Little by little, more and more over time, you came to depend on your husband. When your father began acting strange and ill-tempered, Annatar alone knew of his ailment, and he alone could help him heal. He alone could provide the comfort you needed as you watched your father lose himself by the day, unaware that the same was happening to you.

He always knew when and what to say to bring you peace. He never seemed to leave your side, whether in the presence of others or alone. And you craved being alone with him more than anything else. He was an expert lover, so attuned to the needs of your flesh, it was as though he could slither beneath your skin and discern for himself which of his touches felt the most exquisite. Being near him was a delight in itself, but intimacy with him was simply addictive.

Warm morning light flooded through your window, and you wondered how you were supposed to ever leave this bed. Lying on your husband’s chest, skin to skin in the afterglow of your love-making, everything else in the world seemed so inconsequential in comparison.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked, wondering suddenly how it had never crossed your mind before. He was always by your side as you drifted to sleep—most often spent from yet another passionate exchange—and he was there to greet you each time you awoke. Yet he was not of your kind, and an emissary of the Valar seemed to you above such things as sleep.

“It is not in my nature to sleep,” he admitted, fingers tracing gentle lines up and down your spine. “But I rather enjoy laying by your side as you do.”

Your heart soared at the quiet adoration in his voice. And before long, you found yourself aching for him once more. You brushed his neck with your lips, lightly at first, and then with more insistence, making your desire known.

“Again?” he asked, faintly amused.

You lifted your head, the smallest furrow in your brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least,” he replied. If that wasn’t reassurance enough, his lips caught yours, and he moved so that your body was safely beneath his, and even the thousandth time would not have been enough.

You can still taste his kisses—and they feel like ash. You remember how each time you became one, it felt better, but only now can you see how it made things so much worse. A corner of your mind, growing larger by the day, was always occupied by him. Each time you aided in the making of one of your father’s Ring designs, you did so with thoughts of Annatar. You know now why he wanted it that way—your craving for his touch, your utter devotion to him, seeping into the Rings the Power, one by one. You think you might have known even then. But he was always careful not to push you too far, to bring you back from the brink of suspicion before it ever started to take shape in your mind.

Even when the reality of things was undeniable before your eyes.

Your last night before finding out had been spent in a dreadful haze. Sleep felt more like a waking prison as you dreamt of terrible, yet distant things, hearing screams without seeing where they came from, seeing blood and ashes on streets you felt you should but could not recognize. You were grateful to wake up and see the sunlit sky beyond your window. Its light adorned your husband’s hair beautifully, the familiar sight of him sitting on the edge of your bed bringing you further relief.

“There you are,” he greeted softly, brow creased with a trace of concern. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“What—?” Your attempt to speak ended in a cough, as if you’d been breathing dust instead of air. Annatar left your side in haste, returning but a moment later with a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, putting the glass to your lips. You took it gladly, relishing the water soothing your throat. Once Annatar had helped you sit up and settle against the pillows, you asked, as you had meant to, “What happened?”

There was pity in his gaze. “Don’t you remember, my love?”

You shut your eyes, trying to grasp at figments of blurry images. “I was outside, I think. Mirdania was there. And you. And...”

Annatar shook his head, speaking as softly as if to a frightened child. “Earlier in the day, perhaps. When you collapsed, you were in the forge, with me and Lord Celebrimbor. When you sought to aid your father in merging the metals for his latest attempt at the Nine, your efforts over these past weeks took their toll on you.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, fingers brushing your cheek. “You fell right into my arms.”

“I did?”

His words did evoke images. The memory was there, somewhere. But the more you tried to reach for it, the more your insides churned.

“Be at ease,” Annatar soothed. “You merely slept through the night. I have watched over you all the while, and I shall do so until you are better.”

Better. Yes, you would get better.

But you knew, deep in your bones, that you were not well. The sense of dread within you refused to recede, lingering in the furthest corner of your mind even in the moments where you felt the safest. Something deeply rooted in you wanted it all to be over—the work, the forging, the ailments, your father’s as well as yours. You wished so desperately for things to return to the way they used to be before the Rings, it felt as though a great fist had clenched around your heart and refused to release it. But then again, before the Rings, there hadn’t been Annatar. And your need for him hurt just as terribly.

In the end, everything hurt. Everything.

“Are you in pain?” your husband murmured. You hadn’t realized tears were already sliding down your cheeks.

You broke into sobs.

He slipped beneath the covers and wrapped you in his arms. It became even harder to breathe, and you clung to him all the harder for it, desperate to find that peace that he had offered you time and again.

“Hush, my love,” he cooed, holding you close to his chest as you wept for reasons unknown. “All will be well soon.”

You had fallen into his arms, just like he’d said. Only, you hadn’t been inside the forge, but outside, just as your mind had fruitlessly struggled to remind you. You were there when the siege alarms began to blare and chaos erupted in the streets. When you saw your husband walk amongst it, you had run to him at once. Asking where your father was, wanting to stand united with your kin amidst the unfolding madness.

Darkness had engulfed your vision instead, shrouding your memory as well. He must have carried you back to your chambers himself, crafting an illusion within your mind to match the one in which Celebrimbor was already trapped.

It makes sense now. How desperately you had clung to the very source of your misery. One cannot satisfy thirst by drinking sea water, but you, in your foolishness, had drunk enough to drain the sea.

“You chose it,” he now tells your father, speaking of the suffering he had inflicted, “not I.”

And there’s a part of you that believes him, even as another screams inside you that his words are poison. You cling desperately to the scrap of reason within you which recognizes that his claims are atrocious—that it is Celebrimbor who forced Sauron to torment him, that he is the true author of his own torment. You watch in disbelief, feeling as though you’re falling through the floor, waiting for your father to refute Sauron’s lies as if hearing the truth spoken out loud will save you from shattering to pieces at the bottom of the abyss.

And you can tell he wants to. There is defiance in Celebrimbor’s eyes as he glances to you, the fire of his will still burning beneath the burden of his torment. But, slowly and surely, he tames it. Averts his gaze in shame.

“Very well,” your father says. “Give me the blame. Punish me as you see fit. You have already taken my city. But I beg you,” his voice trembles, tears gathering in his eyes, “let my daughter leave.”

A smirk tugs at Sauron’s lips. “Your daughter...” He returns to your side, gathering your stiff hand in his and thumbing your wedding ring. “...is my wife, Celebrimbor. It is only natural that she should remain at my side.”

You and Celebrimbor exchange a despairing glance. Your father, determined to plea for your freedom—you, fearing the consequences he might bring upon himself.

“Please—”

“Father, don’t—”

“No!” he cries out. “I all but pushed you into his arms.” Tears slip from his regret-filled eyes. “That is my fault.”

Sauron takes a seat next to you, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t possibly grasp the reason for such grievances.

“She has given herself to me freely,” he says, your hand still trapped in his as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Have you not?”

You glare daggers at him.

“How could I have chosen you freely, when I never knew who you were?” you hiss. It does nothing to deter him.

“Why do you lie to yourself? You knew.” You shake your head. He nods his, insisting, “Yes. Deep within your heart, you knew.”

“Don’t say such things to her,” Celebrimbor pleads, “I beg you—”

“Such things as the truth, Celebrimbor?” Sauron asks roughly, irritated by the interruption. “Tell him, my dear wife,” he challenges, “that you never once suspected I was more than what I claimed to be. That you never felt the caress of darkness within my touch.”

You cannot look at him, or at your father. You cannot speak those words, however desperately you wish you could.

“Tell him,” Sauron insists cruelly, squeezing your hand to the point of near pain.

“I did,” you murmur miserably. Sauron loosens his threatening grip on your hand, pleased.

“Yet even as you cried yourself to sleep in fear of it,” he goes on, “it was within my arms that you took comfort. Because, in truth, you were not afraid of who I was—you were afraid of how little it mattered to you.” A last spark of defiance drives you to make the mistake of meeting his gaze, and his sickly sympathetic smile makes you shudder within his hold. “He needed to create,” he reasons. “You needed to be desired. And I needed you both.”

His arm is no longer around you, but the relief is meager and short-lived as he then cups your cheek, thumb catching the tears that have begun to fall from your eyes. He insists to hold his hand there as you flinch, screwing your eyes shut. A small sigh leaves him.

“Have I not treated you well?” he asks. “Was I not kind to you when you most needed it? A caring husband, a most... generous lover?”

“Hold your wicked tongue!” you all but growl, your head jerking with enough force that he retracts his hand. Your eyes fly to Celebrimbor, and see that he has shut his in great pain. Shame crawls under your skin. Sauron smiles in a mockery of bashfulness.

“Forgive me for speaking of such matters before your father, but it is only the truth. You must admit that. And it need not change.”

His hand returns to your cheek then, pressed more firmly to it, and you only now realize it’s the one he cut. You feel a warm wetness on your skin, and know that once he removes it, his blood, black as the pitch, would be smeared there, marking you even further as his.

“The Rings are nearly finished,” you say through gritted teeth. “You never truly desired me. What more use could you have of me?”

“Who says I never desired you?” he whispers, almost as if wounded. “I would not have made you my wife, if it hadn’t been my wish to make you my Queen as well.”

His voice is so alluring, so saccharine and familiar to your ears, it takes everything in you to remind yourself that every word is a lie. And if you grasp at reason, you can tell why he speaks them. Because of your involvement in making the Rings, you would always have some measure of influence over them, so it serves him well to have you under his control. But not only that. He would relish knowing he has subdued you to his will. That he not only ensnared the mind of the greatest of Elven smiths, but also claimed his daughter as his prize.

A storm brews in Sauron’s eyes as he senses your persisting reluctance. His fingers grip your chin, pulling you close so that his breath falls on your cheek as he speaks.

“You will say yes to me once more.”

You hate how determined he is to make it so. You hate how helpless you are to do anything other than glare back at him.

But what you hate the most is that you are not certain he is wrong.

[payidaresque]

MAJOR TROP S2 FINALE SPOILERS BELOW (i'm too excited not to share my thought)

While some of the theories we made didn't prove to be true (honestly, i never believed they would) I LOVED THE FINALE SO MUCH. Cause i got everything i expected from it and more!!

Got an epic fight that didn't last 10 minutes but almost HALF OF THE EPISODE (THANK GOD)

he really didn't want to harm her at first, JUST as i expected here, he was just being defensive at first. And the rest just happened in the heat of battle (which of course doesn't justify everything sauron did but hey, what did u expect? he's evil after all)

And while i do believe he used his Halbrand form to manipulate her (again, very much expected knowing who he is), i also believe that what Sauron said here is true — the way he paused before saying it and the way he looked at her tells me that he was actually being sincere. what he would've gained from saying it, manipulation wise? Sauron is not stupid, surely he understands that Galadriel would not fall for it (and she didn't) which kinda brings me to a simple conclusion that he said it because he wanted to say it

also, this was both sexy and twisted of him omg????? totally Sauron move, i love it!! I did NOT expect that

as for "proving his love for her", i actually think he did, in his own way?

because he could end her right there and just take the ring (rip adar and brimby btw, you will be missed 😔), but he didn't? even more so, i believe that if Galadriel didn't attack him first there, he wouldn't attack her back. As fucked up as Sauron is, Galadriel is still on his mind

And goddamn it he meant what he said. And again, she knows who he is, she knows his tricks, so he wouldn't gain anything by saying it, which again means, that it is indeed his desire: not just to rule, but to rule with her. he'd make the whole world worship her (which, again, is basically his way of saying he loves her)

and again, why didn't he just kill her and take her ring? what was the need of standing and looking at her like that? why try to presuade her, when he has no problems with taking what he wants by force? the answer is: because she is Galadriel. Because they are connected to each other and he feels it with every fibre of his immortal being. His expression is not even angry her, or creepy, like a few minutes ago, he's just... gazing at her.

even more so, here

he actually got scared when she fell, he even tried to reach for her hand to stop her for falling (and before u say anything — no, i don't think it was because of the ring — he could retrieve it any other time from anyone else as no one else for him is a match for him but Galadriel — it's her he got scared for. I'm convinced of it)

As for the mataphorical "fall of Galadriel" — well i hoped for it, but i never believed it would actually happened because of how Galadriel is (Also, Brimby's monologue from 2x07 with her kinda killed all my hopes for it so). However, i think s3 has a lot to explore, so i'm leaving a little bit of hope there)

i have many other thougts i can't process right now and i might share them later, but overall, i think the episode was GREAT! Charlie and Morfydd did wonders once again, watching them on screen is such a treat. I love them both so much!! I also might make a separate post about Charlie's and Charles' Edwards scenes were phenomenal, and I will miss Brimby dearly because of Charles' breathtaking acting

To conclude: I, personally, is fed well enough for it to last for the upcooming 2 years. Oh, and also: l'oreal paris — because you're worth it. Oh, and one more thing: he used Halbrand form because he knows that Galadriel feels for him too, and her first reaction proved it (an ass move by the way).

[the-writing-goblin]

I am once again thinking about how good the story of the second age is, and all the fun things you could do with an actually decent adaptation. Consider:

Galadriel should be exactly the same as she is in Lord of the Rings. She is older, weirder and more powerful than any elf other elf in Middle Earth. Other elves are just as unnerved by her as mortals, and dealing with her is stressful at the best of times.

Elrond should be an absolute infant. Just, complete baby face. But everyone treats him super respectfully and he has a lot of power and influence. The energy should be the same as when the super ancient and powerful vampire or faerie or whatever looks like a ten year old girl.

ALSO there should be a tall, menacing elf with visible tattoo and facial scars who just. Stands behind Elrond looking intimidating all the time. The least elf-looking elf ever. All the other elves are uncomfortable around them. Elrond should treat them like their an Aunt or Uncle. The elf is one of the few surviving hard-line Feanorians, all of whom follow Elrond. The longer you can go without explaining this, the better.

Gil-Galad is very tired, and spends a lot of time balancing one of the most famously unstable political systems in all of Arda. Galadriel and Elrond both have factions they support to strongly to be relied on to be impartial. The reason he doesn't worry much about what Celebrimbor's up to is that he's the one member of the family who is highly unlikely to attempt something batshit nuts, and his followers are mostly moderate.

Celebrimbor and Annatar/Sauron should spend the whole series playing complicated mindgames with each other.

Annatar is playing four-dimensional chess from the beginning. For him, this is an all or nothing gamble. If he can't make the rings he won't have the power to seize control on his own. He should spend a lot of time having Light Yagami-level monologues where he tries to figure out what game Celebrimbor is playing while outwardly pretending to be harmless and normal and only succeeding at this about 75% of the time.

Celebrimbor should start of thinking the stakes are considerably lower. Like... is Annatar hiding something? Yea, but he figures Annatar doesn't actually have permission from the Valar to be here or something. Not, ya know, Annatar is secretly Satan in disguise. In the first act there should be an almost comical disconnect between the amount of energy Sauron is putting in to these mind games versus Celebrimbor.

Bonus points if as Celebrimbor figures out the truth, you intersperse more and more of his family backstory. The guilt he is still carrying for a lot the things that happened in the first age. Early on bring in the fact that Finrod went into Sauron's jaws alone and it was Curufin's fault, use this as angst material. And then as he figures out who Sauron really is, drop Maedhros and Thangorodrim in like a nuclear bomb.

Because Celebrimbor has seen this play before, and he knows what Sauron does to people. It wasn't even personal then, what Sauron is going to do to him will be so much worse.

And Celebrimbor chooses to forge the three rings anyway. He doesn't give up their locations, even with everything Sauron does to him at the end. And that should be devestating.

[dinsbeskar]

Subjugate the Devil (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron has a nightmare. You are only too happy to oblige in making him forget; or:

Sub!Sauron makes a lengthy appearance. Plot, what plot?

Set in my In The Dark series, but works as a standalone (alludes to trauma mentioned in other chapters, but it is literally just smut) // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Disease by Lady Gaga, Don't Let Me Go by Raign, Like a Prayer by Madonna, Oh You Are Not Well by Chloe Foy

Playlist!

Warnings: 18+! Dom/sub - gentle dom, needy sub; just pure smut; literally Plot What Plot (though there is a bit if you squint); P in V sex; oral sex (male and female receiving); copious amounts of bodily fluids (sorry, like for real); cockwarming; dry humping; handjob; begging/denial/teasing; praise kink; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unresolved trauma; tiny bit of violence but it is just an illusion; very soft!Sauron, so tender. We make him cry and that's all I wanted to do.

A/N: I've been working on this for a few days, it is ummm filthier than anything I've ever written, like I really don't know where it came from. The warnings are just what's on the menu at this point idk.

I pictured Annatar for this one, but you guys can imagine whomever you like (@troublesomesnitch he's got that chest hair though!!) Sub!Halbrand would be a treat ngl.

Excuse the gif guys, I just want to see him cry :)

Word Count: 4.2k (!!)

Sauron does not sleep. Ordinarily.

However, you make it look so peaceful, he has to try it occasionally. Of course he usually finds you in your dreams, takes all the attention you can spare and more, leaving you wanting until waking when he can ravage you again.

Sometimes however his dreams come unbidden. Instead of slipping into your mind, he falls deeper into his own, unearthing old memories he'd rather stay buried, burned beyond recognition.

You always know when this happens; your usually calm and collected lover wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at your skin, his face in your neck, desperate to forget what his mind has shown him. He has never told you the details, but you can only assume it has something to do with his master, with his cruel and unusual forms of punishment.

Tonight is one of those nights, worse perhaps as he moans and writhes in his sleep, rousing you immediately. You can't seem to wake him from his torment, every gentle touch, every kiss to his temple only seems to fan the flames. You end up atop him, each of your thighs either side of his abdomen, trying to shake him awake.

Visions of Morgoth in his wrath; illusions of you partaking in his torture at his master's hand; pain and terror in his heart, as the nightmare refuses to cease, even as you try to soothe him.

What makes you think a servant as worthless as you deserves a love like hers?

Morgoth's words hold him in a vice grip; he can't break free, the unshed tears behind his closed eyelids threaten to leak onto his cheeks, stricken with fear and pain.

"I've got you, you're okay, you're here with me." You stroke his face, your hair brushing his chest, unsure of what to do except hold him.

When his eyes finally fly open, he grasps your arms, and with a leg hooked behind you, flips you onto your back, a dagger at your throat.

You're fairly sure his weapon isn't real, but he is a master of illusion, and pain is merely a construct of the mind; he could hurt you if he wanted to.

In this state, you're reminded of just how dangerous your husband is, even between dreaming and waking. His eyes are black, unseeing, with a terrifying expression you're sure would have annihilated any enemy he could have been dreaming of.

Your hands shaking, you reach up slowly and try to take the knife; surely enough, when you clutch at it, it disappears like smoke between your fingers, so you take his hand instead, still clenched unfeeling around his shattered illusion.

You pull his hand to your chest, letting him feel your racing heart flutter against his fingers.

Slowly but surely, you bring him back to you, his daze broken but his psyche bruised and bleeding.

Your shallow breathing evens out as the light returns to his eyes, and for a moment he looks at you confused as if his position above you is of your own making.

His eyes dart from his hand on your chest, to your fiercely fixed expression, attempting to soothe his nerves but unable to hide how shaken you are.

"Is this real?" He's still breathing hard, for someone who doesn't really need to breathe. "Are you really here? Is it you?"

He's so tender, tracing your cheekbones, your cupid's bow, gently raking your hair with his fingertips.

"Of course, beloved, I'm right here, I'm always right here." You try to hide your confusion, assuming he's still walking the line between dreaming and waking.

He slowly pulls himself away to nestle at your side, reluctant to break eye contact with you as he does so, still clutching at you to ground himself.

"What did I do? Tell me I didn't hurt you, love." He's so quiet, it's unnerving, but you take him in your arms anyway, crading his head to your chest.

"All is well, my love, it wasn't real, you're here with me, no one can touch you here." Some nights, holding him close and murmuring sweet reassurances in his ear is enough to soothe him; tonight he needs a little more from you.

All you want to do is tell him you love him, that he deserves you, that you're his, that he deserves everything you want to give him, that you ache for him when he's not by your side.

But he's hard against your hip, a fact you're trying to ignore; taking advantage of him is the last thing on your mind, not that he would protest, even when he returns to his right mind.

He listens to your heartbeat for a while, focusing on the strong rhythm to forget his waking nightmare, marvelling at how your heart beats in tandem to his, running his trembling fingers across your exposed skin, up your arm, across your collarbone to your throat, watching the artery jump in time with your heart. He knows you so well, so intimately, that when you notice his erection, your heart skips a beat, and he can guess exactly what you're thinking, not needing to peer into your mind for himself.

You feel him grind against you and you release a breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding.

"Love..." You murmur into his hair, absentmindedly running your fingers over the sensitive pointed tips of his ears. "Come now, you need to rest, darling."

He can't show you what he saw, what he went through, the horror and the agony of his master's worst torments. The image of you performing the worst of it is tattooed on his eyelids, a reminder of Morgoth's favourite form of punishment. He can't show you, can't tell you, but he can ask you to make him forget.

"I need you," he whispers in your ear, strangled groans peppering his sentiments, making you gasp, "need you to feel good, need you to know how much I adore you-"

Your eyes widen as blood rushes to your cheeks, the heat of his words enflaming your core.

"I want you too, love, but right now? Are you sure?" You ask him through ragged breath as he turns his attentions to your neck, licking and sucking and blowing cool air over your wet skin, before warming it with his tongue once more.

You're so close to giving in, wanting to give him all he craves and more, and he knows it.

"Use me," his breathy moan breaks on your skin like a wave on the shore, tingles washing down your spine, filling your core with empty warmth as he bucks his hips into yours, which respond in kind as you turn your head to meet his hungry kiss.

"I'm yours. Make me yours."

His words thrill you, but his tone makes you feel incredible; needy, wanton, desperate to please you.

You glide your hands over his torso, relishing in his hot velvet skin and the soft hair that covers him; taking your time as he tries to kiss you senseless, his heated skin glowing with sweat that you can't resist tasting for yourself, salt and smoke on your tongue.

"Use me... take me... love me..." he begs you, with less and less breath left in his lungs with each command, as you gently lay him on his back, straddling his thighs, grinding your core into the hard muscle.

You slide your hands between the layers of fabric separating your skin, stripping him slowly and laying him bare for your viewing pleasure alone.

He arches his back for you, baring his neck and thrusting his hips into the ghost of your touch, chanting your name and praying for you to take his aching cock in hand.

You trace the contours of his thighs, his firm abdominal muscles, the stiff peaks of his nipples, earning you a shudder and a moan that shoots straight to your core, hot wet arousal dripping onto his thigh.

His fingers move to gather your nectar instinctively, wanting to savour every taste of his wife, but you grip his wrist and raise it above his head, and he gasps. You've never denied him before, not in the eons you've adored him, but it turns him on beyond belief.

Sauron watches you hazily, through heavily lidded eyes, in disbelief that the goddess above him is his and his alone to enjoy and to ruin. You are a sight to behold, as your hair cascades down your back, lips parted and breath ragged; your breasts bounce as you ride his thigh, hypnotising him, drawing him deeper into your thrall.

He tries to lean up to kiss you, lave every inch of your skin with his desperate tongue, but you push him back to the bed.

"Not yet, soon but not yet." You want his mouth on you, the aching between your thighs only amplified by the distinct lack of your husband’s throbbing length inside you, but tonight is for him; he needs to surrender to you first.

"I don't think you've let go quite enough yet." Your warm breath breaks on his sensitive neck, washes down his spine, straight to his cock, throbbing in his need for you.

You haven't touched him yet, hands firmly in place on his chest; his eyes plead with you to be lenient, and as his loving wife, you're only too happy to oblige him as he continues to beg for all the care and attention you can give.

"Please, love, please, need you to-" he gasps as you run your fingers over the head of his cock, gathering the copious amounts of precum pooling on his stomach to ease the glide over his flesh.

"Is that better, love?" You can't help but smirk at his pained gasps, as you languidly stroke his shaft, circling the sensitive head with your thumb, your eyes locked on his.

His cock twitches in your hand as he moans your name, begs for release, begs for your cunt, begs to be remade.

"That's it, love, let yourself go. All you need to do is feel good for me, my love," you lean down, whispering in his ear, "please me, show me how much you deserve your release."

His breath hitches and you hear him swallow hard; his expression is a masterpiece, eyes wide, jaw slack, as he begs you to show him mercy, groaning and whimpering as you pump his length.

"Please..." It's only one syllable, but it feels like a lifetime as he chokes out his plea, tries to touch you to no avail as you hold his hands above his head, placing them in a death grip on the headboard.

"Please, what? You might need to be more specific, my darling." You edge down the bed, holding him in place as he tries to follow you, until your head rests on his thighs.

"Need you to... fuck!" He growls and curses and grips the headboard as his hips jerk and writhe to meet you.

"Need me to...? What, my sweet, tell me?" You are enjoying teasing him, perhaps a little too much, and you will pay for it later, but right now he's so deeply needy for your love and attention that he'll take whatever you bestow upon him.

"Touch me..." he groans, as his cock visibly throbs with need, "your fingers, your mouth, I don't care, I need you, you're the only one, only one who can make me feel like this..."

His pleas and whimpers cut off with a sharp gasp, as you take his cock in your mouth as deeply as you can manage. He feels the opening of your throat on his tip and loses his mind, his oversensitive flesh shooting stars up and down his spine, heat pooling in his abdomen that almost immediately spreads like wildfire throughout his body, as your fingers and tongue and lips work together like an orchestra, drawing an irresistible melody from the depths of his pitch black soul, and all the seed his cock can muster.

You pull away and let him spill himself over your thighs, your abdomen, your hands; he looks mortified but he can't stop now he's started, pearly white splattering your skin, making you his.

"I belong to you," he keens and stutters but you hear him through his orgasm, his whimpers becoming moans that reverberate through you.

You can only watch him adoringly as he finishes quaking and moaning beneath you, unable to quite believe that he is yours, even after all this time.

You sit up, licking him from your fingers, and your smile is so radiant, he forgets where he is, who he is, all the evil he has ever done. For one shining moment, it is just you and him, all he'd ever need.

"Proud of you, love, so good for me." You murmur as you lean down to kiss him softly, giving him that tiny confirmation of your affections he needs right now.

"...thank you, needed you. Ahh- Need you." He is grateful, oh so grateful, but his still-hard cock betrays him, and you can't help but grin.

"Oh love, did I not do a good enough job? Have I left you wanting?" Your faux sincerity pains him and he immediately starts apologising.

"No, no, not that, never that, always so good to me, my beautiful wife, love you so much, my sweet..." His cunt-drunk ramblings are adorable but you put a finger to his lips.

"It's okay, I know, I've got you," you smile at him; he returns it so radiantly, you have to kiss him, to be the one to destroy it.

His pretty moans flutter to your cunt, arousal dripping from you like honey from the hive, and he looks up at you, gloriously wide eyed, begging to be allowed to taste your nectar, to sate his thirst for you.

You can't help but feel absurdly powerful, a Maia fallen apart at your fingertips, never mind this Maia, this beautiful demon who vowed to never relinquish his control again. It's an honour and a privilege to see him submit to you like this, submit to himself like this, let himself just feel without exercising his need to dominate, to just let go with the one person in the world he knows he is truly free with.

"Please, my love... remake me, make me yours," His breathless plea is like no music the Valar have ever sung, his moans a spell all their own, enrapturing you even as you hold the key to his release, as you take command of the Maia who values his control of others above all else.

"I do believe, dearest, that you made quite the mess, actually, perhaps you'd be so kind?" You gesture to the cum that still drips down your thighs, sticky and uncomfortable and definitely ready to be washed from your skin.

He is only too happy to oblige.

You lie back and beckon him to you; he works his way up your body, methodically but no less desperately, licking up every drop to please you, content to savour every inch of you. When he tries to make a detour to your mound, you gently yank his hair, reminding him of his task, revelling in the absolute control he's given you.

"Oh love, you did make a mess," you moan as you stroke his hair, "so good for me, cleaning me up, such a good husband, always so good to me."

Receiving such praise is almost cruel and unusual for Sauron, who is frankly more used to giving it to you, and receiving wrath from all others. A tiny voice in his mind tells him he should be embarrassed; but what is worship if not praise? Your devotion, your care, your undivided attention; all for him, giving him that for which he yearns above all else.

He can't resist stealing a kiss, crashing his lips to yours as he cradles your face. You taste his seed on his lips, something that feels strangely forbidden, thrilling in its taboo. The aching in your core has only intensified with his efforts, and you feel it is about time he served you with his silver tongue in the way you both crave. You push his head to your cunt, with which he gladly complies, settling between your thighs, gripping your legs firmly apart to allow him to feast on you.

Before his tongue can delve into your folds, he holds back, locking his gaze on yours.

"Please? Let me taste you, let me show you how much I love you."

"Fuck, yes, love, yes," you chant his name as he finally puts his tongue to excellent use, seeking out your swollen clit, lapping at your entrance, sucking at the velvety skin of your inner thighs.

He keeps his hands in view; you haven't told him he can touch himself, and he won't break this spell now.

Like a starving man at a banquet, he indulges in you, exquisitely. Every tiny moan that escapes him vibrates over your folds, making you whimper in return; he flicks his tongue over your entrance before sliding two fingers deep inside you, hooking them and stroking that delicious sweet spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He watches you the whole time, basking in the chorus of your pleasure.

You feel the heat coil in your abdomen, and you pull him away sharply; his disappointment is evident but you want him inside you when you finally claim your orgasm.

"Lay back, love, hands on the headboard." It is intoxicating, having your husband obey your every command, and as he settles into the mattress, looking up at you expectantly, you vow this won't be the last time the two of you play this game.

Sitting astride him, you feel as if he's never been so deep inside your cunt before now. You hiss a little at the intrusion but he's so familiar, every time he enters you, it feels like coming home. You grind your hips into him, capturing with your lips every whimper that forces its way past his clenched teeth. Tracing his firm chest, running your fingers through the smattering of soft hair, feeling every curve and contour slowly, languidly, while he writhes beneath your thighs, caging him inside your wet heat.

His strangled moans and gasps echo throughout your chamber; every time he reaches for you, you press a kiss to his palm and hold it above his head, until he learns to behave.

"No one could love me like you, care for me like you, knows how to take their pleasure from me like you, beautiful wife, only yours." He feels like he's losing his mind, slipping further into some deep quiet space where it's just the two of you, where nothing matters but you on his cock.

"Only you can put me back together, can sing the song my soul yearns for-" you interrupt his pretty words with your fingers in his mouth.

"Hush, my love, focus on me, only me, you don't have to speak, you don't have to beg for me unless you want to, just let it happen." You trace the shell of his ear with your tongue, savouring the tiny sighs that escape him, before nipping the pointed tip and relishing his sharp moan.

"Bound together, you and I, for all eternity... and I wouldn't have it any other way, sweet husband." You groan out between thrusts, every movement within you the sweetest form of torture.

No other thrill in the world will ever compare to this; your divine husband laid out beneath you, looking up at you with blissful wonder, eyes black with lust, golden hair mussed and tangled by your fingers, your name tumbling from his swollen lips like a prayer and a curse. Right now, you'd take either.

"Darling, please," his broken gasp spans an octave, jumping to a breathy moan as you descend on his cock once more.

"I know what you need, love," you moan as you ride him, the drag of his cock inside you fucking delicious, but the look on his face is a feast in comparison.

His eyes widen as he clutches the bedsheets, refusing to look away but requiring every iota of self-restraint to stay present with you, not to lose himself to the unearthly sensations you've introduced him to tonight.

"I've got you, just let it go, give yourself to me, beloved, let your mind empty-" you kiss him deeply and swallow the groan building in his chest.

"So proud of you, so good for me, doing so well," you let out a throaty moan as you clench your walls around him, feeling his cock throb within you.

"I know what you need..." You murmur as you lean over him, slowing the rhythm of your hips, "nothing in that head, cock wet and wanting, heart full and happy."

His ragged breath hitches as the last shred of self-control slips through his fingers. He thrusts up deep inside you, throbbing, aching to fill you, as you grab his hands and pull them to touch you finally, a precious relief to you both.

As he runs his hands up your bare skin, he kneads your soft flesh, worshipping every inch as if he's never beheld anything so perfect in his long life. His large hands encircle your abdomen, grasp your hips, pull your ass impossibly closer until you can't tell where you end and he begins; not that the distinction is important anymore.

He rests his hands on your back, fingers splayed as if to encompass you within his flesh, as if being wrapped around you, caged inside you, isn't enough contact, like the two of you enjoined in body and soul isn't enough, will never be enough to sate his hunger for you.

Finally, you let him lean up to join you, his torso flush with yours, gliding against you, slick with the sweat you've provoked in your teasing. He kisses you hard, tongue tangling with yours, teeth hungry, lips swollen, your breath mingling just as your souls are entwined, a maelstrom of pleasure in which you'd be happy to be imprisoned forever.

You brush back his soft hair, grip the roots, and pull his head back, bearing his throat to your greedy lips. You grind on his cock as you press harsh kisses, soft bites, to his tender flesh, laving his skin and savouring his moans under your tongue. He fucking whimpers under you, and you pull away to take him in, in all his ruined glory.

There are tears in his eyes, his lips wet and parted for your kiss; his expression is nothing like you've ever seen, so completely has he given himself to you and your pleasure.

You softly trace his throat before grasping him firmly, feeling every breath, every sob, every whimper, reverberating through you, inflaming every nerve in your body.

His Adam's apple bobs under your fingers, firm in your grip but tender in your passion. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes, falling down his glorious face and filling your heart with such love, such adoration, such utter and complete devotion, that it scares you for a moment, pushing you over the edge at last.

You clench around him, milking his sensitive cock for every last drop of seed, as you ride this new high, this indescribable feeling of power that his submission has wrought in you. You think if you could just hold onto that feeling-

"I feel it too-" his strangled moan is cut short, all the stars in the sky paling in comparison to the pleasure he feels beneath you right now.

You feel him paint your insides, his cock throbbing and twitching inside you until he is spent. Your foreheads pressed together, your limbs entangled, every breath shared in tandem; you would stay here forever. And he would gladly grant his goddess that wish, and any more that your heart desires.

You roll onto your side, limbs shaking with exertion, pulling him to join you, refusing to allow him exit from your wet heat. He huffs a small, relieved sigh, not wishing to be parted from you either.

His iron embrace never fails to comfort you, and it is especially firm tonight. Your heart swells at the thought that even after surrendering to you so entirely, so perfectly, he still needs to hold and shelter you, can't give up his role as your protector even at his most vulnerable.

"We should do that again, love." You murmur, feeling his smirk against your neck.

"Whatever you desire, my Queen," he peppers your neck with tender kisses, sensing you are close to sleep. "I am yours, you are mine-"

"And always will be." You interrupt with a sleepy smile, provoking a chuckle.

Sauron can only watch you enthralled, as you drift off, content, your limbs entwined with his, reluctant to follow you into sleep after tonight's events. Perhaps, yielding control is something he should master, he muses; after all, you did seem to be utterly delighted with the turn of events, and he is nothing if not a loving Lord, a devoted husband enthralled by his wife to distraction.

You slip into dreaming, holding onto him as if for dear life, relishing in the feeling of being so loved, so obeyed.

Your brain is empty, but your cunt is full, and your heart is happy.

[sansaorgana]

Adar is one of the best things that happened to The Lord of The Rings universe and let me explain why.

So, I've read The Lord of The Rings and The Hobbit – a long time ago – but I've seen the movies a few times. I have never read The Silmarillion or other Tolkien works related to this universe but I think it doesn't matter in what I want to say either way because I focus on the way we perceive things about this universe in the most popcultural way and I think The Lord of The Rings movies and books are the most popcultural phenomenon out of Tolkien works and most people know only them.

So, the way the Orcs are portrayed in these is... deeply concerning and I've never thought of it until Adar. But you see, they are treated as the lowest form of life that doesn't even deserve to live – a dangerous, mindless and aggressive piece of meat that has to be killed to clear the path. And I understand why the characters think this way about them but I wish there was more philosophy around them in the books and movies.

This universe teaches us we don't get to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die. That even the trees should be respected like every other alive being. And yet the Orcs are treated like the lowest form of life that don't get the same amount of compassion. And all of that in a story that is about destroying the tyrant and the evil that Sauron is. He doesn't care about any life and he wishes to annihilate whatever is on his way to ultimate power. And yet, the characters who are supposed to fight him have a similar mindset to him when it comes to the Orcs – they're a filthy race that should be wiped out of this world.

And I've never even thought about it – the way the Orcs are being treated and perceived. Not until Adar. And I think it really adds a lot of depth to this whole universe. As I said, I don't know every work by Tolkien and maybe he was talking about it in some letters or notes but that is not the knowledge that made it to the popculture.

I especially like the fact that the Orcs indeed are not portrayed as good at heart. They truly give you reasons to hate them and yet, you get to have this moral conflict because... Does it really give you the right to want to annihilate their whole race? The Rings of Power is asking the right questions with this plotline. That scene where Galadriel – one of the mightiest and fairest of all Elves – threatens Adar that she is going to kill all of his children, that they are a mockery, that she is going to make sure he sees and hears them suffering... It was thrilling in the best kind of way.

[wild-typo-turtle]

Threads - Part 11

Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)

Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!

Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.

Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.

Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives

Content Warnings: Explicit content (parts 9 and 11), canon-typical violence; loss of parents; grief/mourning. This chapter also contains very light smut.

Tag List: @morganas-pendragons, @stellar-solar-flare, @the141bandicoot; @inyx-writes44, @melmel-fandom, @hufflepufferine, @shadows-and-flowers, @xcrybaby555x, @bespectacledhuman

Face claim: Keri Russell as Linnea

Part 1 (includes A/N and credits), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (contains smut), Part 10

A/N: Well, I'm sorry everyone - I know I promised the wedding for the next chapter, but the file hit 10k and the flow was terrible, and so the first part is what you're getting now. I still plan to get the actual wedding out this week, likely Friday or Saturday! Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy this chapter. -WTT

Part 11

The afternoon sun bathed the weaving room, painting it in shades of soft, hazy pink and gold. The fabrics on the looms shone in the light; Linnea was working a white velvet on the velvet loom, and on the regular loom, she was just beginning a new test fabric in shades of grey. The sunlight turned it brighter, almost purple; she was mixing linen and wool for a soft, easy drape. And if she was successful with the charms she had planned, it would be a pattern she would share with the weavers that helped clothe the army.  

Her eyes anxiously passed over it. Her hands, idle now, twitched to work, to let out the nervous energy that filled her.

But this day was not a day for weaving.

Adabes and the servants had done their work well. All was in readiness; a sideboard had been moved into the room, and was laid with fruit and bread and cheese and various other refreshments. Wine had been set out, as well as water flavored with mint and lemon. The weaving room itself was immaculately clean, all of the tools and supplies neatly put away, all of the scraps of fabric and ends of threads swept up. 

A book sat on the table next to her, but she barely recalled the title. She had brought it to distract herself while she waited, but she might as well not have taken the trouble. There was no distraction possible.

Fortunately, she did not have to wait for long.

A stamp on the landing alerted her to the first of the arrivals, and her ears strained for a hint as to who it might be. She heard heavy boots, grunts - 

A fist thumped on the door, and it swung inward.

“The Princess Disa, of the Dwarven realm of Khazad-dûm.”

Linnea rose, and as she did so, the princess stepped into the weaving room. 

She was dressed in light grey, a silken fabric that flowed around her figure and draped in a way that made Linnea want to examine the weaving much more closely. And there was gold upon her everywhere: a heavy gold pectoral necklace with triangular pendants dangling from it, as well as gold bracelets, gold beads upon her gown, and even gold paint staining her thick dark hair and her fingers.  

Linnea wondered if such a thing had ever happened before. Disa’s husband, Prince Durin, had met and treated with Gil-galad. But had there ever been a meeting of an Elven queen and a Dwarf princess? If there had, it had surely been hundreds of years ago.

Disa stopped after a few steps, and she curtseyed deeply as the door shut behind her. 

“Lady Linnea,” she said. “On behalf of all Khazad-dûm, I thank you for welcoming me into your halls.”

It had been a careful plan that they had made together, herself and Gil-galad, debating various strategies for how they might receive the most important of their guests. They had considered a more formal dinner for this last night before the wedding, but had eventually settled on separate, more casual affairs, Linnea with the women and Gil-galad with the men. Even now, he was likely greeting Prince Durin, as well as the Elven lords that had also arrived in the last two days.

She supposed she should be grateful that there were fewer women for her to manage. Oropher had brought his queen, and his son had come as well, but Thranduil was not yet wed. And the lord of Lórien’s wife had perished some time ago. She had extended the invitation to Commander Galadriel, and to the commander of the Eastern Armies as well, but all told, she would not be working as hard as Gil-galad.

And with that thought, part of her regretted the other decision that they had made concerning that evening.  

She would not go to him that night. They would not take their tea together; they would not discuss their days; there would be no shared pleasure. They would stay and sleep apart, this final night. They would rise separately and prepare for the wedding, and only once they were ready would they see each other again.  

She knew her bed would feel empty without him. It had been easy to grow accustomed to his warmth next to her, the sound of his soft breath as he slept. But it added weight, if any needed to be added, that this was the very last night she would sleep alone. 

And besides that, it was probably a good idea to stay apart, after what had happened the previous night. After how near she had come to be standing there, greeting the Princess Disa, as a married woman. 

It is the second time Ereinion has done this. The first had had her nearly cracking her own spine in half at the feel of his tongue between her legs. And while that first time had been pleasurable beyond belief, it is even better now; with repetition comes perfection, and she lies there moaning and incoherent as he tastes her. Her slender legs are over his broad shoulders and his hand teases, two fingers slowly slipping in and out of her in rhythm with his lips and tongue. 

And once she’s had her pleasure, he slides up her body for a deep kiss. Neither of them is wearing much at all, and he’s on top of her, and her thighs are tight around his hips, and it would be so easy. 

So easy.

He looks into her eyes, and a word from her would shatter his resolve - what is left of it. She looks back at him, and a word from him would shatter hers.

And perhaps that knowing, that unwillingness to speak it but willingness to accept it, is what stops them in the end. What has him rolling off of her, wrapping trembling arms around her trembling self, holding her until the fire ebbs a little and they both have their breath back.  

It is not much longer to wait. 

She drew in a breath, and made her own curtsey to Disa, whose eyes widened at the movement. 

“Princess,” Linnea murmured. “You are most welcome, and I thank you for gracing my hall with your company.”

As they took each other's measure, she found that she liked the look of this Disa. Elrond had returned late last night, with Disa and Durin accompanying him; this was the first sight Linnea had had of the Dwarf princess. She had met more Dwarves than most Elves, due to the merchants that had frequented Eregion, and their ways were not so strange to her. There was a strength about the princess that ran as deep as the mountain she called home; she could be a formidable ally, if the seeds that Linnea was planting eventually bore fruit.

Disa smiled, folding her hands in front of her. “My husband may have made his grand protests, but he understood the honor you showed us with the invitation. If he'd kept saying no, I would have dragged him here by his beard. And he would have thanked me for it in the end.”

Linnea laughed; the words conjured an image of herself doing the same with Gil-galad, only by his hair. She wasn't at all sure she'd win that fight, although it might be rather amusing to attempt it.

“Please,” she urged. “Help yourself to refreshment, if you like. I am sure you must be tired from the journey.”

Disa needed no further encouragement. She made her way to the sideboard, looking appreciatively at the array of food that was laid out. “We did keep a fast pace. No time to spare, to get here in time. And we'll be needing to head home again as soon as the wedding is over.”

Linnea nodded. She could guess the reasoning behind it, the maneuvering for the throne that they had heard whispers of even in Lindon. Gil-galad’s thought to use their wedding as a message, inviting the prince and throwing their support behind the candidate most friendly to Elves, had been a sound one. Part of her disliked that they had to consider such things, but the rest of her knew that that was the life she had chosen. Almost everything would be political now.

“Then I shall do everything I can to ensure you enjoy your time here,” she said, smiling as Disa took a plate and began heaping it full. 

��You've certainly made a good start,” the princess said, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth. “A full stomach goes a long way to ensuring a smooth road.” 

Linnea chuckled again. Now that this first greeting was over, her nervousness was beginning to settle down, and she felt confident enough to join Disa at the sideboard and pour herself a glass of wine. She watched as the princess turned, starting to glance around the room even as she ate, and her heart fluttered with pride at the look on Disa’s face. The Dwarf woman was impressed. 

Her eyes landed on the frame loom, and she let out a satisfied sound. “I knew I'd like you when Elrond said you were a weaver,” she said, beginning to walk to the loom. “Do ye know what it's going to be yet?”

Linnea nodded, walking over to join Disa at the loom. “If all goes well, it will become the pattern for a cloak for Lindon's armies. It is something my mother was very gifted at - laying protective charms on the threads. I learned much from her.”

Disa's brows lifted, and the impressed look was back on her face. “I thought I could feel something from it. There's a sort of vibration, isn't there?”

Linnea knew that other Elves could feel the art to varying degrees, depending on their sensitivity. Most would have at least a feeling of safety and protection. But to actually sense the charms at work? She could do it, especially if it was the art of someone she knew well, like her mother and father. So could other weavers. But a Dwarf? 

She groped for words, stunned almost beyond speech. “How is it you can feel it?” she managed. 

Disa smiled, satisfied to be affirmed. “We Stone Singers use our voices to resonate with the mountain that is our home. Aulë granted us the gift to sing to the rock so that we may take from it properly and know where best to leave it undisturbed. This fabric has a song of its own, for those with the ear to hear it.”

A thousand questions leapt to Linnea's mind. If she had had her way, she would have spent every moment until the wedding the next day interrogating Disa about what exactly a Stone Singer was and what resonating meant. A fancy crossed her thoughts of arranging a visit to Khazad-dûm; the logistics and politics of an Elven queen visiting the Dwarves were second to wanting to witness this stone singing for herself. 

But then Disa hummed.

Linnea felt the fabric come to life at the sound, as brief as it was. The charms she had laid so far were subtle, more experimentation than anything else. But at the sound of Disa’s voice, the intensity increased tenfold; she could feel the faint protections even without touching the fabric. The magic radiated off the cloth, rolling off it in waves. 

Disa’s eyes had gone wide. She could feel it too.

All thoughts of propriety fled from Linnea’s head. She rushed to the loom, laying her hands on the fabric, the better to feel what was happening. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Disa was stammering. “I did not know - “

“No.” Linnea was running her hands over the cloth, only half-hearing. “No, do that again…please…”

Disa hesitated, but finally did as asked. She hummed again, louder that time, and there was more effort behind it. The hum had dimension, and the fabric responded accordingly; it was like sunlight striking a piece of crystal, scattering rainbows in all different directions. 

She couldn’t help the smile, the grin that came to her lips, as the hum faded. She turned to Disa standing next to her, and the look between them transcended any and all difference between Elf and Dwarf.

There was another strike upon the door.

“Queen Tinnaril, of the Woodland Realm.”

Linnea straightened up, trying to calm her expression. The weaver in her grumbled at the interruption, wanting to ask Disa to hum again, perhaps even sing - and the rest of her laughed at that part, that she could even think of wanting a queen to leave her alone.

But she was a queen now, too. Or would be, by this same time tomorrow.

Tinnaril came through the door, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts - not even when she saw Disa standing by Linnea’s side at the loom. The queen of the Greenwood was of a height with Linnea herself; they were Sindar kin, smaller and shorter than their Noldor brethren. Tinnaril’s hair was icy blonde, the same as both her husband and her son, and her leaf-green eyes were shuttered as they swept about the room.

She was clad plainly. Oropher had desired to live a simpler existence than the rest of the Sindar and the Noldor, and his followers had merged with the Silvan elves of the Greenwood many years ago. Tinnaril’s gown was a sage green fabric, without embroidery or jewels; the cut fit her well, and she wore a filigreed silver circlet, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest that she was royalty.

Linnea had known such, and had dressed carefully for the day so as not to make Tinnaril feel uncomfortable or annoyed. Her gown was one of the simplest she owned now, a dusky lavender with only a small amount of gold detailing around the cuffs and the neck, and she had bade Pendes forgo any jewels in her hair. The only concession she had made to ornament was the thin gold circlet tucked in her curls.

Tinnaril had stopped a few steps from the door, and she carefully folded her hands in front of her. “Forgive me for the interruption,” she said, her voice even and calm. “I was unaware you were occupied, Lady Linnea.”

“No - of course not, you do not interrupt.” Linnea moved away from the loom, extending her hands. “Be welcome, my lady. And thank you for making the journey.”

Slowly, Tinnaril took the offered greeting. Her hands were cool and smooth in Linnea’s; she squeezed for precisely the correct amount of time, and then released.

Oropher and Tinnaril had arrived two days ago, and since then, Tinnaril had kept to herself. Linnea had sent messages of welcome, invitations to meet, but all of them had gone unanswered save this one. She wondered if Tinnaril had only come now out of a feeling of obligation. She had asked Gil-galad to tell her of the queen, that she might know what to expect, but he had had as little to offer as Arondir all those months ago.

I am sorry, melethel. I have met her seldom, and she spoke but few words. She lives apart from court. 

Linnea had known that from Arondir, but had still shaken her head in amazement, wondering how such could be. She could not imagine wanting to live apart from Gil-galad, and he had smiled when she had said so.

Nor I you. May the Valar grant that it is always so between us, my love.

Tinnaril was still standing there just looking at her, and Linnea fumbled for words. “Queen Tinnaril, this is Princess Disa, of Khazad-dûm. She and her husband Prince Durin are great friends of Lord Elrond.”

“I see.” 

Disa made another curtsey - although Linnea noticed that it was much shallower than the one the princess had given to her. “Your Grace.”

Tinnaril raised one thin blonde brow, making no move to return any sort of gesture, and Linnea fought the urge to gulp. There had been conflict between Oropher’s people and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm; Oropher had moved his rule ever northward to avoid the expansion of the Dwarf realm. Linnea had counted on the goodwill of the wedding keeping things civil - as indeed it had, with helping to mend the rift between Durin and Elrond after Eregion.

Perhaps this had been too much to ask, as she beheld the chill in Tinnaril’s eyes. But on the other hand, she wasn’t leaving. 

“Do you practice a craft, my lady?” she asked, desperately trying to find words to fill the silence. “I believe you are aware I am a weaver. Princess Disa and I were just speaking of her art as well - she is what the Dwarves call a Stone Singer. I was not familiar with such.“

Disa nodded eagerly; clearly she felt the tension in the room as much as Linnea did. For a moment, Linnea appreciated the ludicrousness of the situation; she was more allied with a Dwarf princess than a queen of her own kind. 

“It isn’t spoken of much outside of our own people,” Disa said. “The work of the Stone Singers is sacred. We safeguard the mountain, and in return, it allows us to call it our home.”

Tinnaril’s lip curled slightly. “Your work has borne fruit, it would seem. We hear the ceaseless noise of Khazad-dûm throughout the Woodland Realm.”

Linnea’s throat tightened again, and her heart sank. Gil-galad had been working so hard to forge an alliance with Oropher; the Woodland Elves were proud and distant, those ties were as fragile as the finest-spun silk. This couldn’t be helping matters at all; for all she knew, she was not just breaking those thin threads but setting them aflame.

She had been shocked before. She had spent most of the last months in a state of disbelief. But what Tinnaril did next outstripped it all.

The Woodland queen turned, and Linnea's heart sank even further; she hadn’t thought that that was possible. She could feel Disa’s worried eyes on her as Tinnaril walked back towards the door, and she tried to think of something to say, anything - 

Tinnaril swung the door open, and she leaned out to catch the attention of the guards outside.

“Send to my rooms,” she commanded. “Fetch my harp. The brown leather case, near the hearth.”

Linnea stared. Disa stared.

The door swung closed again, and Tinnaril turned back to face them.

“I have lived with Dwarven noise all my days,” she said firmly. “If I must continue to be subjected to it, I would know whether there is any pleasantry to be had. My craft is my music, Lady Linnea, and if the princess consents to it, we shall make some together.”

Linnea turned slowly to Disa, who looked as stunned as she herself felt. The princess could not manage words; she simply nodded. 

Tinnaril’s lip curled again. But this time, there was warmth to it.

“Very well.”

It was long hours later when Linnea finally sat at her dressing table, letting Pendes comb out her hair. 

They had indeed made music. She herself could sing well enough, although nothing compared to Disa, but had no skill with an instrument. And so she had been content to watch and listen, and weave a little, as the queen and the princess had passed the hours in song. Galadriel had come by, as well as a few others, and they had enjoyed the music and refreshments. But none had remained for very long. 

It had reminded her of her parents’ shop, on those occasions when they had hosted musicians. The fabrics had seemed to weave themselves of their own accord, with the distraction of the melodies. And Taucion had had a fine voice; he had often sung along as they worked. 

The memories still hurt, a little. But they also reminded her - as had the afternoon - that she had the opportunity to make new memories. She could invite singers and musicians to her rooms, to spend the afternoon with the weavers.  

Pendes finished and bowed, and Linnea turned. Lavan was just coming in from her nightly circuit of Linnea's rooms, and she shifted to be able to look at them both.

“Is all ready for the morning?”

Lavan nodded. “Yes, my lady. We will arrive at the normal hour.”

The feast was set to begin at midday; her normal rising time would be ample to prepare. Her dress was hung carefully to air out, and really, there was little enough to do that was not part of her regular routine. 

She smiled at Lavan. “Very well. Then I bid you both goodnight.”

They bowed and left, and Linnea rose from the dressing table, slowly wandering back into the main room. It would be early to retire to bed, but perhaps it was a sound notion? The following day would be long and busy.

And the following night.

Her cheeks heated, as she settled herself by the fire, lacking anything else to do. She cast a glance to the side; she had her own kettle, and could have easily prepared tea for herself, but it was not the same any more. Evening tea was no longer solitary, it was a shared time, and the idea of drinking it alone seemed sad somehow.

There was a small stack of books on the hearthside table, and she glanced over them. She had been reading the works of Pengolodh, last of the Loremasters, in an effort to learn more about the history of the Noldor. But as captivating as the words were, having enough focus to read seemed the height of fancy.

Melethel.

That candle slowly lit in her heart, the one she'd become more used to feeling now. It was always there, banked and softly burning, but it came to life each time Ereinion reached out to her. She had an easier time hearing him than he did her as of yet, but that would come in time.

She smiled at the sound of his voice in her mind, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. Meleth nín.

Was your afternoon enjoyable?

More than I had dared hope. She summoned a memory of Tinnaril and Disa together, experimenting with what Tinnaril had admitted was one of her own original compositions. It had been just the three of them at that point, Linnea at the loom, and it had gladdened her heart to see the differences between Elf and Dwarf put aside in the name of creating something beautiful. And she felt Ereinion’s happiness as he beheld it. And yours, aran vuin?

This time she felt him sigh; felt a touch of the weariness on him. As well as could be expected. Oropher is proud. He lost no opportunity to jab at Durin. I am grateful Elrond was there to mediate, otherwise I might have exiled them both from Lindon permanently.

Linnea laughed softly, her eyes still closed. I am sorry I was not there with you. 

You had your own work to do, my love. And by your account, you accomplished it admirably. There was a pause. I miss you. I cannot recall why we thought being apart tonight was a good idea, but I regret it now.

Do you think to tempt me to come to you? She chuckled again, letting him feel the warmth his words brought to her. We seem to have found a way around it, even so.

There was an answering chuckle, an answering warmth. I do not. I shall hold to our agreement. But perhaps…

There had been no specific images in her mind up till then, except for the memory of the prior afternoon. But a scent reached her nose, the scent of growing things and wildflowers, and there was a warmth all over her skin - as if she were outside in the sun. 

And finally, she could see it, fading in from the dark behind her eyes.

It was the field she’d taken him to, that afternoon after his training session. They were lying on the same blanket, in the same position; Ereinion’s head was in her lap, and her hand was gently stroking through his hair. 

“I think of this day so often,” he murmured. “How it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before.”

She smiled. The ósanwe had grown so strong; it was as if they were really there. She could hear the chirping of the birds and the buzz of the crickets. Ereinion's hair was like silk beneath her fingers, just as if she were really touching it.

“You had never laid in a field after a picnic before?”

She was teasing him, and he smiled up at her, reaching for her free hand and bringing it to his lips.

“I had never laid in a field with my wife,” he said softly. “I had never set my sword down after training, only to see my wife coming to me with a laden picnic basket. I had never felt so loved, melethel - until the next day, and the one after that, and the one after that. All the days since that very first, you have given me more love than the one before. I can only hope I do the same for you.”

She took their entwined hands and nestled them against his chest, right over his heart. “You need not wonder that for an instant,” she murmured. 

He sighed contentedly, closing his eyes, not speaking. She ran her fingers over the back of his hand, letting him enjoy the peace for a few moments before she spoke again.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

His lips curved. “More than I have ever been, for anything,” he said softly, eyes still closed. “I feel that I have prepared for this all my days. Even the night before my coronation, so long ago - I did not feel such. I had never expected to be High King. And it was a hurried affair, with war raging, and my chief concern was to have it done with.”

“I wish I could have been there,” she said, stroking her hand through his hair again.

“I do not.” His brow creased, remembering. “As much as I would have been glad of you, melethel. It was a hard time, and our people lost much. I would not have lost you as well.”

There was a catch in his voice. She had a guess as to its source, especially given the direction that their conversation had gone. His sister Finduilas, taken captive by orcs while he had still been a child during the Wars of Beleriand, and ultimately slain.

She squeezed the hand she held, and pushed out through the ósanwe, lighting her own candle in his heart to give him comfort.

“You never shall,” she whispered. “After tomorrow, we will never be parted, not truly.”

Her words brought the smile back to his lips, and he squeezed her hand back. “And you, melethel? Are you ready?”

In answer, she bent, pressing her lips to his. They might have been in a vision, in a place conjured by the ósanwe that was not real, but the kiss was no less warm nor loving for it. She felt him holding her hand tighter to his heart, returning her kiss, and nuzzling against her nose as she released his mouth.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I am.”

It was all she could say, and all that needed to be said. It drove the last of the long-ago shadows from his eyes, and he reached up, running his thumb over her cheekbone.  

“I am grateful for this time with you, but we should not remain here long,” he murmured. “It is not so taxing when we are so close. But I would not have you tire yourself tonight, not when tomorrow holds so much for us.”

She could feel it - just a slight drag inside her, a faint pull on her fëa. It was worth it, to have had even a few moments, and also worth it to know that this sort of an interlude was even possible. There might be times in the future when they would have to be apart, when this would be the only way they could be together.  

But it felt so good to be with him. This memory was precious to her too, and it was so calming, sitting here with her back against the tree. It soothed the restlessness she’d been feeling; after this, she could rest, and wake refreshed to everything that the next day would bring. 

“Let us stay a little longer,” she said softly, and was rewarded by his smile. “Just a little longer, meleth nín.”

Continue to Part 12

[artist-issues]

Hello, yes, it’s Halloween Week and I’d like to say one more time, here, because nobody wants to hear it elsewhere:

The death and darkness is part of the Story the Year Tells, and ignoring it is bad, but so is treating it like a good thing.

The only thing good about monsters, evil, death, and darkness, is that it all ends. But if we skip to “it’s gone,” then we miss the use we have in remembering it.

If you take the shark out of Jaws there’s no emotional climax when the main character says “I used to be afraid of the water.” If Scar doesn’t rule the Pridelands for a while, nobody cares that Simba’s coming back. If Sauron’s blanket of darkness hadn’t spread so far over Middle-Earth— if Gollum as a nasty grotesque character hadn’t existed because he’s “too scary” and “too dark”—or even if we’d seen less of him—then it wouldn’t mean as much when the good guys win. You wouldn’t care as much when Frodo is tempted by the Ring, because you’ve never seen how bad that can get, because you never got to see and dwell on Gollum, for a minute.

Halloween is the Gollum of The Story the Year Tells.

The spirit of it, the part where we remind ourselves darkness and monsters exist, but we don’t live in an UNHEALTHY obsession with them, has always been that.

The World goes “let’s make evil and monsters celebratory and awesome.” If the church goes “no we shouldn’t celebrate evil and monsters, we should totally ignore them instead!” then who is putting monsters and evil in their proper place?

Who is saying, “evil exists, monsters are real, we were once dead, we were once walking in darkness, we were once monsters, that’s why it’s SO AWESOME that we’re a new creation in Christ?”

Nobody. The world gets to go “there’s no such thing as evil, evil is actually a cooler version of good! Witches are neat, werewolves are awesome, and vampires are sexy!” And Christians get to go, “no there’s no such thing as evil, Christians don’t think about evil, the just think about pumpkins and hay bales.” But actually all you’re united in is ignoring evil.

God uses death as His do-boy. He uses dead imagery to describe parts of the salvation story. He allows decay and rot and skeletons and warping to happen, on some level, because He fixes it. And in the fixing, it shows off His character. If you pretend the darkness isn’t real or isn’t relevant, then the darkness doesn’t go away. It just gets to decide how it’s perceived. If there’s a werewolf in the room with you and you go, “I don’t do werewolves,” and turn your back guess what, it’s just going to eat you from behind.

Do what the ancient people did. Tell stories about the monsters as a cautionary tale, and describe how to get rid of them, because as dangerous as they are, ha ha, they don’t get to win.

We’re supposed to take the way the world has warped good instincts and un-warp them, not pretend they don’t exist.

So what I’m saying is, carve jack-o-lantern faces with your kids and talk about how the light shines through the dead thing. Dress them up as goblins and werewolves and then don’t let them have any candy until after they’ve taken the costumes off, and go, “see, you were once dead in your trespasses and sins, but now, in Christ, you are a new creation!” And then give em the candy. Write stories about monsters that get cured when they don’t deserve it, or monsters that are unstoppable by anything except pure sacrifice.

But don’t write out the monsters, that’s not your job.

Happy Halloween.

[suzannahnatters]

Having shared my RINGS OF POWER s2 eulogy, and while assuring you all that I am also mourning the loss of one of the best things about the show, I would also like to take a moment to defend the decisions being made by the showrunners and writers here.

Before I get started, I just want to acknowledge the members of my writers' group. This post owes much to our discussions. Anyway, when it comes to Adar's death, there are three reasons why I'm not calling his death pointless, or blaming the showrunners for bad writing. The overall reason is this: Adar represents the show's efforts to treat Orcs like people. In this sense, his character was a blazing success. Look at us all, with a hopeless crush on an Orc? Success.

But let's go a bit deeper.

SIMON TOLKIEN'S EXECUTIVE MEDDLING

The fact that Simon Tolkien made an EXCELLENT call in asking the showrunners to keep Adar around for an extra season...still doesn't stop what he did from being executive meddling, or from causing tricky ramifications in the second season. Adar was a first-season antagonist, brilliantly well-written, but ultimately only intended to be a supporting character. The decision to keep him on, suddenly made him more charismatic, more mysterious, and more sympathetic. Given how he'd been set up as a warm-up baddie...season 2 suddenly turned around and made us think he was here to stay. The writers had cornered themselves: on the Tolkien Estate's behest, they had a dark horse who was about to run away with the show. I'm not going to fault them for going ahead with their original plan, because they would have had to retool subsequent seasons massively in order to fit in an Adar redemption arc, and you can't necessarily do that when the whole arc of your story is already planned.

JRR TOLKIEN'S LEGACY

All of us have written things we're not proud of. JRR Tolkien wrote a story world with something problematic hard-baked into the foundations: an entire race of beings for whom genetics determined ethics. Can you even imagine what it must have taken for him to get to the end of a long life spent in the dedicated pursuit of this story world, and to have the courage to admit that he might have been wrong? That really isn't something most authors are capable of. When Peter Jackson went to make LOTR and HOBBIT into movies, he did nothing to scrutinise this issue. His Orcs are flat: monstrous, comic, but never people.

TROP challenged that, and exercised significant skill, care, and wisdom in doing so. But they are still attempting a faithful adaptation of Tolkien's source material. We know where this story is going. Galadriel will end up in Lorien with her elf wifeguy. The Orcs will fall under Sauron's dominion and become his tools, enslaved to his will with the Ring. I did fantasise about Adar being Celeborn, and possibly some of his "children" getting to nope out of Sauron's dominion or even be turned into Elves. But we now know that was never on the table. The Orcs were always meant to fall to the Enemy. But here's the point: for the first time in the history of Tolkien works and adaptations, TROP allowed them the dignity of a fall. Going forward in the show, the Orcs won't be monstrous cannon fodder: they'll be people we knew, people we were pulling for, people whose deaths matter. They are, not a waste, but a tragedy.

TOLKIENIAN TRAGEDY

Look...there's nothing more Tolkienian than a beautiful disaster of a man who dies far too early.

And yes, I know that it's something we've seen before and wish storytellers would move away from - the Moment of Grace that never becomes anything more than a Moment. The villain who has a five minute redemption, then dies conveniently so that the heroes never have to work through the messy business of forgiveness and accountability (although I always did wonder how it would play to see a redeemed Adar, possibly Celeborn, living the rest of his life as a redeemed Uruk among people who hold an undying enmity with his children). It's happened so often that when I, Suzannah Rowntree, sit down to write a six book series where the irredeemable villain has to live and build a new and more accountable life for himself, there's startlingly little template for it, at least in Western media. We live in times that are starved for happy endings and genuine redemption arcs. I wanted so badly for Adar and his "children" to be blessed, and not cursed, by this narrative. So I get the rage. I get the grief.

But tragedy is still a valid art form. Again, all this is a function of the show successfully making the Orcs matter. And the reason the Orcs needed to matter is because they are about to be enslaved to Sauron. They were so close. They genuinely could have been good. Adar could have led them into an alliance with the Elves against their enemy - but instead, just like Celebrimbor, just like Galadriel, they are deceived by him. They turn to him out of fear that their father figure is treating them like cannon fodder, and now they have no one to advocate for them. And that's the tragedy of their situation.

We might all be a little tired of tragedy, but it's still valid, especially insofar as it never, ever forgets to treat its characters like people. Did the writers have to choose tragedy? No. Adar might have lived and undergone a redemption arc.

But the writers didn't have to give Adar a redemption arc, either. Any more than they had to so deeply humanise the Orcs and their father. It's not perfect writing, but it's not bad writing, either. Indeed, for a Tolkien adaptation trying to both honour the author's work and scrutinise his failings, in my opinion it's doing brilliantly.

And...honestly, I'm kind of happy that they left me wanting more, and better, for Adar. Because now I get to write that story myself.

[coriphallus]

A little rant on patch 6 and the implications for bg3's future

Okay, bear with me for a sec its gonna go somewhere eventually. My first bg3 run (thats spammed here on this blog) i played ascended astarion/dark urge romance where i picked the reject bhaal and become the absolute ending.

as it was my first playthrough on release i was vibrating off mt seat and i didnt really have elaborate HCs or anything, i was just doing a quick evil run until the bugs get sorted out. i didn't think much beyond "yes this dude would want the shiny stones for himself"

first time i saw astarion enthralled, i was confused. he asked me to do it, he was quite insistent on it since the beginning of the game. i was confused for a couple of hours, digesting the entire game i just played. Then it hit me; the game was calling me out. it was telling me ive been stupid for not having seen this coming and at that point i felt awe.

it was right, everything pointed to this, it was right in front of my eyes all i needed was to connect the dots that the game laid out quite visibly and i was just too caught up to see.

'well my durge would never do that' didnt matter because thats exactly what the companions thought. Gale thought the powers of an insatiable weave wouldnt corrupt him, that he'd stay true to himself, shadowheart thought shar had blessed and her she'd guide her, that she could be her true self under her influence, astarion thought he'd be free, that he'd cherish the bond he'd made with the player but at the end of the day power reveals; and when that power is acquired through the corpses of thousands its quite evident that Absolute power corrupts absolutely. IT WAS IN THE FKIN NAME.

it was a shining bait i was so focused on getting my hands on that i didn't look back to see the mountain of corpses i had to step on to get there. the game was telling me 'HEY LOOK AT EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE TO GET HERE, LOOK AT WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE OTHERS WHO THOUGHT THEY COULD ACHIEVE THIS, DO YOU THINK YOU'D HOLD HANDS AND SING KUMBAYA WITH YOUR FRIENDS AFTER ALL THIS?'

just as there was never an option where frodo could stab saurons flaming eyeball and sit on his throne with the ring on his finger and sam at his side, there was never an ending i could get my 'happy ending' the way id like it to. i wanted frodo to remain in middle earth and have some peace in the end, i didnt understand how he was 'too changed' to remain and sam wasnt when i first read the books. i was angry even, that i didnt get what i wanted. it wasnt like tolkien haphazardly put together an ending out of his ass bcs he didnt know what to do with the characters, its not that he didn't think while writing that the fans would hate it, he wrote a story that achieved its catharsis by reaching its narrative conclusion. it couldnt have done that any other way. it was deliberate. i may not have understood or agreed at the time but it was the story he wanted to tell, and it wouldnt be one of the greatest stories ever told if the writer wanted to please a 10 y/o like myself.

it was never out of character for my durge at all, i was just blissfully avoiding the NARRATIVE.

months later we get this absolute narrative abomination:

and all i can say is im worried.

im worried bcs this is a clear disrespect to the story they've written, im worried bcs if they can do off with huge plot elements and beats such as this just like that it shows a lack of commitment to their own plot and if a huge Point of the game can be treated like a minor mistake than what else can? was is just a lack of oversight that laezel gets killed under vlaakith? can it be waved off if enough vlaakith loving gith players come together and shout loud enough that they want to ride alongside their queen with their gith gf?

what part of the game is tangible to hold on to, and after two years worth of patches that are made to appease the fans at the expense of the story, will it still be the game i fell in love with?

i dont blame the fans for wanting, i blame the devs for delivering. that they could sacrifice the integrity of a pretty straightforward story bodes ill tidings for the future of this game.

yes i wanted this feature, but i was glad i wasn't given it. i may have been confused and slightly miffed that i didn't get to reign supreme with my evil bf, but i immensely respected the game that could call me out on it. i wish they could show the same respect to their own writing.

[rey-jake-therapist]

We better get some real good Saurondriel content in the finale, because if the showrunners have been trolling and baiting us all this time and we’ll get Galadriel outright resisting Sauron and cast him away with Nenya or some Marvel-type sh*t, a huge chunk of their audience will be pissed.

I don’t understand what they are playing at here. Yeah, the kiss was strategic and not romantic, but wtf would they have that happening on-screen? No one will be happy about this scene, not the shippers (Elrond x Galadriel will), not the (actual) lorebros, and even the casuals might cringe. I would have picked a kiss between Galadriel and Adar any day, over this.

Ok, you may have seen my opinion on the kiss already : I don't mind it at all and I think it was very well done, in a way that there was no confusion possible about its nature. Now I can see many are confused anyway and it's understandable, but I found it the most platonic that a kiss on the mouth can be, and Galadriel's reaction said it all : "bro what?" was what her face said. She looked as stunned as if her own brother had kissed her. If you look closely it's very clear that he's gving her something, so she was also surprised by the subterfuge. And Elrond says, "forgive me," before doing it. Of course he's asking that because he regrets how he treated her, but I think it''s also a pre-apology for what he's going to do. To warn her that he's about to do something WEIRD and that she must play along.

It's quite confirmed by Morfydd Clark in the BTS interview : she said that Galadriel didn't think Elrond would be so bold (in the sense: bold enough to risk it all to allow her to escape, I think); when the interviewer expressed her surprise, Robert laughed goofily (he's so adorable, I can't). Then they were asked what he was doing, to which they answered: "he was giving her a pin!". End of story. There was no reason to talk about it more because it was all that it was.

So to be clear, I didn't intepret it at all as "Elrondriel baiting". Are there really many shippers, anyway? Everybody knows that Galadriel will become Elrond's mother-in-law, even the showrunners ackowledged that fact in an interview. Since the beginning their relationship is sibling-coded.

Why making it happening? Because otherwise the audience wouldn't understand how he gave her the pin in the first place. He couldn't put it in her hands because there was no way to do it discreetly. Kissing her was the only way, truly.

Personnally, I would have preferred it if it had been the Orc who discusses Adar's orders who would have released her, but well, they went for that instead... There was definitely a desire to surprise the audience and see their reaction. I must say my first reaction was a big "yikes!" because it really felt as watching two siblings kiss, and I'm pretty sure it was how most people reacted.

I keep seeing this kiss being accused of "breaking the lore", but it doesn't break anything. They didn't get married suddenly because Elrond kissed her to give her a pin... I must say that when I've read about the leak, I didn't believe it because in my view, it would make their relationship awkward and ambiguous. But I didn't imagine that it would happen in front of witnesses, because there was no other choice! For some reason, I thought that Elrond would sneak into Adar's camp and kiss her to give her the pin while he could give it to her in a completely different way. In this case, it would have felt awkward and would have inserted some unnecessary drama into a plot that doesn't need that.

An Adar/Galadriel wouldn't make any sense whatsoever, imho. Shipping them is very cool and fun, I found myself imagining scenarios where a romance between them could actually work, but it's not at all what the show is heading for.

No one can say how episode 8 will turn out, if it will be satisfying for the Haladriel shippers or not... We can now be quite certain that the kiss that Morfydd hinted at was this kiss, so there won't be a Saurondriel kiss. But is it really that surprising? We talked so much about the possibility that I caught myself hoping for it, but tbh I'll be content if their scene is emotional and isn't limited at "I hate you! I hate you more!" and useless fighting.

The only hope I have for Haladriel in episode 8 is that Galadriel realizes that Sauron didn't fake it all with her. I don't know how they'll manage that, but it's the most we can truly hope for, imho. The showrunners said episode 8 would be emotional... Now we just can wait and see!

[starspray]

Power & Desire: The Silmarils vs The One Ring

Can also be read on the Silmarillion Writers’ Guild

Every so often I see discussions in fandom about the Silmarils and the One Ring that end up equating them—treating them as though they are direct parallels to one another. This always happens by way of bringing the Silmarils down to the level of the Ring, often treating characters’ refusal to surrender the one Beren and Lúthien retrieved as the result of the same kind of corrosive possessiveness that the Ring induces, which renders its bearer literally unable to give it up willingly or destroy it.* This reading is not just wrong, it undermines the agency of the characters involved and undercuts the tragedy of The Silmarillion. The Silmarils and the One Ring are made by very different characters for very different purposes. They also act in the narratives of their respective stories very differently.

What do the Silmarils and the Ring have in common? They are both the titular objects of their respective books around which the major plot turns, it is true. They are both made by powerful individuals, and are desired by many different people, and when they are lost and/or stolen their makers are desperate to retrieve them. Characters die for them, and kill for them. At this extremely surface level reading they do, indeed, seem very similar. But the deeper you look at each object the more glaring differences show themselves, until you realize that they do not parallel, but rather oppose each other.

Due to the nature of each narrative it’s much easier to see the full nature of the Ring and the effect it has on people around it. It is an object created explicitly for evil and malicious purposes: One Ring to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them. Sauron makes it so that he can ensnare all others who hold rings of power, “for he made that Ring himself, it is his, and he let a great part of his own former power pass into it, so that he could rule all the others. If he recovers it, then he will command them all again, wherever they be, even the Three…”

The way the Ring works is that it sneaks into the bearer’s mind and starts to twist their thoughts to its own purposes. It wants to be used, and it wants to isolate its bearer. It makes itself desirable so that its bearer will do all kinds of mental gymnastics to justify the means by which to take and keep it. See Gollum’s insistence on his “birthday present.” See Bilbo’s tale of winning it in the riddle game. At the Council of Elrond he says: “But I will now tell the true story, and if some here have heard me tell it otherwise”—he looked slidelong at Glóin—“I ask them to forget it and forgive me. I only wished to claim the treasure as my very own in those days, and to be rid of the name of thief that was put on me. But perhaps I understand things a little better now” (emphasis mine).

You can see it in Isildur, too. The films misrepresent this scene: Elrond says nothing of dragging Isildur up Mount Doom to try to get him to destroy the Ring; he says that “whether we would or no, he took it to treasure it” but at that time there is no way anyone present could know what kind of effect the Ring would have on someone other than Sauron, because Isildur is the first person after Sauron to hold it. But Elrond telling the story has the benefit of Gandalf’s recent decades of research, and the reader also can see the red flags popping up almost as soon as Isildur touches it. He “will have [the Ring] as weregild for my father, and my brother” he claims, which is a similar kind of justification to Bilbo’s story of winning the Ring instead of finding it. Weregild is, per dictionary.com: a term used in Anglo-Saxon and other Germanic countries for “money paid to the relatives of a murder victim in compensation for loss and to prevent a blood feud.” It’s something paid to prevent further bloodshed. It would have been weregild if Sauron had handed it over after Anárion had died, as part of some kind of peace brokerage. But it can’t be weregild if you’re taking it off the dead body of your enemy; it’s too late by then. Isildur does have every right to it as a spoil of war, and no one disputes that right. But the fact that Isildur has to change it and further justify it even in his own mind is a sign that the Ring is already working on him. And if that is not enough (which it might not be—weregild is a very archaic term), Tolkien further illustrates the effects of the Ring taking hold on Isildur in the document that Gandalf discovers in Minas Tirith’s archives: “But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the words of Sauron the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.”

This effect of the Ring is not something that can be defeated easily. Only twice is it given up willingly: once by Bilbo, who needs all of the help Gandalf can give him, and once by Sam, who has born it for a very short time—and even then “Sam felt reluctant to give up the Ring and burden his master with it again.” There you see another justification—perfectly in character for Sam to want to spare Frodo, but also a thought that the Ring can latch onto and use, to twist for its own purposes.

And though Sam is able to return it to Frodo with relative ease, he tries to compromise: “If it’s too hard a job, I could share it with you, maybe?”

Frodo’s reaction illustrates just how far gone he is—made more tragic by his awareness of it:

“‘No, no!’ cried Frodo, snatching the Ring and chain from Sam’s hands. ‘No you won’t, you thief!’ He panted, staring at Sam with eyes wide with fear and enmity. Then suddenly, clasping the Ring in one clenched fist, he stood aghast. A mist seem to clear form his eyes, and he passed a hand over his aching brow. The hideous vision had seemed so real to him, half bemused as he was still with wound and fear. Sam had changed before his very eyes into an orc gain, leering and pawing at his treasure, a foul little creature with greedy eyes and slobbering mouth. But now the vision had passed. There was Sam kneeling before him, his face wrung with pain, as if he had been stabbed in the heart; tears welled from his eyes.

“‘O Sam!’ cried Frodo. ‘What have I said? What have I done? Forgive me! After all you have done. It is the horrible power of the Ring. I wish it had never, never, been found. But don’t mind me, Sam. I must carry the burden to the end. It can’t be altered. You can’t com between me and this doom.’”

And that is only looking at what it does to people who possess it. Saruman never comes near it, but the mere desire twists him from someone noble and wise and good into a miniature Sauron. Boromir also falls—he is a good man, an honorable and brave and ambitious man desperate to protect his home, and the Ring takes that and twists it until Boromir breaks and attacks Frodo. The Ring is a thing made with evil and malicious intentions, for explicitly evil purposes, and it cannot be taken and used for good—in fact it will take even the best of intentions and twist them to evil. Gandalf knows this, and that is why when Frodo asks if he will take the Ring his response is immediate and vehement:

‘No!’ cried Gandalf, springing to his feet. ‘With that power I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly.’ His eyes flashed and his face was lit as by a fire within. ‘Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself. Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me! I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused. The wish to wield it would be too great for my strength. I shall have such need of it.’

And Galadriel has a similar response when Frodo offers it to her. There is of course her famous description of what she would become were she to take it, but then Sam says to her:

‘But if you’ll pardon my speaking out, I think my master was right. I wish you’d take his Ring. You’d put things to rights. You’d stop them digging up the gaffer and turning him adrift. You’d make some folk pay for their dirty work.’

‘I would,’ she said. ‘That is how it would begin. But it would not stop with that, alas! We will not speak more of it.’

That is why the plot of The Lord of the Rings centers around the Ring’s destruction. Everything else—the battles, the politics, the power struggles, Aragorn’s rise to kingship—all of it is secondary. And the Ring itself is an active player. I will not go so far as to claim it has sentience, or any kind of active thought, but there is a significant part of Sauron’s will and his power held within it, and there is a drive to be found and kept and used—and ultimately to return to its maker.

The Silmarils, on the other hand, are the greatest creation of Fëanor at the height of his powers in Valinor:

For Fëanor, being come to his full might, was filled with a new thought, or it may be that some shadow of foreknowledge came to him of the doom that drew near; and he pondered how the light of the Trees, the glory of the Blessed Realm, might be preserved imperishable. Then he began a long and secret labor, and he summoned all his lore, and his power, and his subtle skill; and at the end of all he made the Silmarils.

As three great jewels they were in form. But not until the End, when Fëanor shall return who perished ere the Sun was made … shall it be known of what substance they were made. Like the crystal of diamonds it appeared, and yet was more strong than adamant, so that no violence could mar it or break it within the Kingdom of Arda. Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as is the body to the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life. And the inner fire of the Silmarils Fëanor made of the blended light of the Trees of Valinor, which lives in them yet, though the Trees have long withered and shine no more.

Fëanor’s motives in making the Silmarils are not wholly clear—whether he had some foresight of the death of the Trees, or whether he just wanted to see if he could do it, or to show off his skills, or what. But whatever his motive is, it is not to enthrall or ensnare anyone. On the contrary—while the Ring seeks to isolate its bearer, the Silmarils, though “even in the darkness of the deepest treasury [they] of their own radiance shone like the stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvelous than before.” They are at their most beautiful when out in the light, where they are most likely to be seen and enjoyed by everyone.

They are then hallowed by Varda. To hallow a thing is to to make it holy, and in the case of the Silmarils it also means that “thereafter no moral flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered”. The mortal flesh bit is contradicted later when Beren handles one with seemingly no issue, but Beren is an exception to many rules, and what remains consistent is that nothing “of evil will” can touch the Silmarils and come away unharmed.

Like the One Ring, the entire plot of The Silmarillion is the great desire of various characters for the Silmarils. This begins with Melkor, whose lust for them inflames his desire to destroy Fëanor, and the friendship between the Valar and the Elves. But this should come as no surprise to the reader; Melkor has historically lusted after sources of power and Light, going often into the Void in search of the Flame Imperishable. The Silmarils themselves are not doing anything to Melkor; they are the objects of his desires, but not the source.

This pattern continues throughout the The Silmarillion. Fëanor and his sons swear their famous Oath, but the Silmarils don’t make them do it. Then Thingol tells Beren that he must retrieve a Silmaril before he can marry Lúthien, he is setting what seems to everyone present to be an impossible goal, especially after the Dagor Bragollach and the breaking of the Siege of Angband. I’m not saying that Thingol does not actually want a Silmaril; he is very happy to have it once he gets it, but it’s a very different desire from the kind inspired by the Ring much later. Then someone is the bearer of the One Ring, the last thing they want to do is give it up, as discussed above. But the Silmaril that Beren and Lúthien retrieve from Morgoth is passed around without any issue through many different hands. Nowhere is it even implied that Elwing, for example, has trouble giving it to Eärendil to take to the Valar, or to take with him when he sets sail in Vingilot.

Thingol’s desire for the Silmaril I mentioned above; it comes closest to mirroring the kind of obsession triggered by the Ring, but it is not the same. Although “as the years passed Thingol’s thought turned unceasingly to the jewel of Fëanor, and became bound to it,” which sounds a lot like Ring-esque obsession, it does not drive him to isolate himself, or to keep the Silmaril hidden away where only he can see or find it, the way Bilbo keeps the Ring in his pocket and never takes it out when others can see it. Thingol does become “minded now to bear it with him always, waking and sleeping,” but by its very nature that can’t be done secretly. There is also no use to the Silmaril the way there is to the Ring—it cannot turn one invisible, and it does not give one power over others. The Silmarils have a power—more on that later—but it’s of a very different kind.

An explanation can be found for Thingol’s obsession through a study of his character arc and his relationship with Valinor and the Trees (which is another essay unto itself). Thingol, along with Ingwë and Finwë, goes to Valinor as an ambassador, and when they return to Cuiviénen there is nothing in the text to indicate that he is more or less enthusiastic than his companions to convince the Eldar to go to dwell with the Valar, and he in fact leads the largest faction of the Eldar over Middle-earth on the Great Journey. It is only by chance (if chance you call it) that he stumbles upon Melian in Nan Elmoth, where “a spell was laid on him, so that they stood thus while long years were measured by the wheeling stars above them; and the trees of Nan Elmoth grew tall and dark before they spoke any word.” Famously, they remain lost in Nan Elmoth so long that Ulmo comes back to get the Teleri that have lingered to search for him, and under Olwë many of them depart, and those that remain give up the chance to get to Valinor—and that includes Thingol when he finally returns to them. Thingol does not choose to remain behind; he gets left behind. And when The Silmarillion speaks of Thingol’s desire to go to Valinor, it specifically says that it is the light of the Trees that he desires: “Greatly though he had desired to see again the light of the Trees, in the face of Melian he beheld the light of Aman as in an unclouded mirror, and in that light he was content.”

Fast forward to the Flight of the Noldor, and Thingol learns that Morgoth has destroyed the Trees (and murdered his friend Finwë), so that even if he were to reach Valinor, their light is gone forever. Fast forward to the Dagor Bragollach, and the Siege of Angband has broken and Beleriand is swiftly growing ever more dark and dangerous as the power of Morgoth grows. Then Beren comes, and the Quest happens, and now Thingol has a Silmaril. He no longer has to be content with the reflected light of Aman in Melian’s face, however unclouded a mirror it may be. Now he has the real thing, a real piece of Laurelin and Telperion at Mingling. Of course it might become an obsession.

Less readily explainable is the Dwarves’ decision to insist upon the Silmaril and the Nauglamír as payment, when Thingol commissions them to combine the two. They have been coming and going between their mountain halls and Menegroth for many generations by now, and there is no mention of any kind of prior dispute over payment—certainly not one that results in bloodshed. Yet when Thingol goes to take up the finished Nauglamír they “in that moment withheld it from him, and demanded that he yield it up to them, saying: ‘By what right does the Elvenking lay claim to the Nauglamír, that was made by our fathers for Finrod Felagund who is dead? It has come to him but by the hand of Húrin the Man of Dor-lómin, who took it as a thief out of the darkness of Nargothrond.’”

This does sound rather like the Ring-induced desires we see in The Lord of the Rings, although the Dwarves do not mention the Silmaril. It is Thingol who decides that that is what they want—whether he is correct in this assessment is, in my opinion, debatable. There is another form of treasure that warps people’s minds and desires—dragon gold. And the Nauglamír has just come from Nargothrond, that was for several years under the control of Glaurung. I have thus far only cited the published Silmarillion but at this point I do want to point out that in a previous draft of Thingol’s demise, the gold that Húrin brings to Thingol is, explicitly, cursed.

In the draft of the Quenta Noldorinwa found in The Shaping of Middle-earth Húrin and a few outlaws arrive at Nargothrond “which as yet none, Orc, Elf, or Man, had dared to plunder, for dread of the spirit of Glómund [Glaurung] and his very memory.” There they find the dwarf Mîm, who has come to Nargothrond and “bound [the treasure] to himself with many spells.” Húrin’s companions kill Mîm, “and at his death Mîm cursed the gold.”

This is the gold that, in this version of the story, Húrin takes to throw at Thingol’s feet, and it is this gold that Thingol then summons the Dwarves to make into the Nauglamír in which to hang the Silmaril. The text in this version is extremely explicit about the hold that the cursed gold takes over Thingol and also over the Dwarves who come to work with it. “Yet also they [the Dwarves] lusted for the Silmaril,” is added almost as an afterthought.

In the published Silmarillion there is no explicit curse, though the description of Nargothrond when Húrin comes to it is almost exactly the same as the earlier Quenta, and if one is familiar with The Hobbit, one might remember what else Tolkien has written about dragon hoards. When Bilbo witnesses Thorin’s dealing with Bard after Smaug is slain, the narrator says that “also he did not reckon with the power that gold has upon which a dragon has long brooded … Long hours in the past days Thorin had spent in the treasury, and the lust of it was heavy on him.” This is commonly called the dragon-sickness; its effects are varied in The Hobbit, affecting some more strongly than others—such as Thorin, and also the Master of Lake-town, who “being of the kind that easily catches such disease he fell under the dragon-sickness and took most of the gold and fled with it, and died of starvation in the Waste.”

One can thus infer that both Thingol and the Dwarves of Nogrod are also susceptible to the dragon-sickness, and also to fatal amounts of pride. This puts some of the blame on the Nauglamír, but still none at all on the Silmaril.

None of this is to say that the Silmarils are not desirable. The entire plot of The Silmarillion hinges on their desirability. But in this they are passive objects, unlike the Ring that actively seeks to ensnare new bearers whenever it can. What power lies in the Silmarils lies in the light of the Trees that lives inside them, and that light was made by Yavanna, and is holy and life-giving. The people of Sirion believe that “in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships,” and that seems to play a much larger part in their refusal to surrender the Silmaril to Maedhros than the fact that it is an heirloom of Lúthien and Dior. Considering the state of the rest of Beleriand at this time, there seems to be some truth to that belief. It is with the Silmaril also that Eärendil and Elwing are able at last to pass through the barriers around Valinor and come to the shores of Eldamar.

And, much later, it is the light of that Silmaril that Galadriel captures in the phial she gifts to Frodo, and though that phial might be considered as much a reflection of the light of Aman as lives in Melian’s face, there is real tangible power in it—power that works against that of the Ring (and the Witch-king) in the Morgul Vale as the Witch-king and his armies pass by:

There was no longer any answer to that command in his own will, dismayed by terror though it was, and he felt only the beating upon him of a great power from outside. It took his hand, and as Frodo watched with his mind, not willing it but in suspense (as if he looked on some old story far away), it moved the hand inch by inch towards the chain upon his neck. Then his own will stirred; slowly it forced the hand back and set it to find another thing, a thing lying hidden near his breast. Cold and hard it seemed as his grip closed on it: the phial of Galadriel, so long treasured, and almost forgotten till that hour. As he touched it, for a while all thought of the Ring was banished from his mind. He sighed and bent his head.

Later in Shelob’s lair Frodo brings the phial out, and

for a moment it glimmered, faint s a rising star struggling in heavy earthward mists, and then as its power waxed, and hope grew in Frodo’s mind, it began to burn, and kindled to a silver flame, a minute heart of dazzling light, as though Eärendil had himself come down from the high sunset paths with the last Silmaril upon his brow. The darkness receded from it, until ti seemed to shine in the center of a globe of airy crystal, and the hand that held it sparkled with white fire.

Frodo gazed in wonder at this marvelous gift that he had so long carried, not guessing its full worth and potency. Seldom had he remembered it on the road, until they came to Morgul Vale, and never had he used it for fear of its revealing light. Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! he cried, and knew not what he had spoken; for it seemed that another voice spoke through his, clear, untroubled by the foul air of the pit.

And this is only the light of the Silmaril that Galadriel has caught in the water of her mirror, not the Silmaril itself—a fragment of a fragment of the light of the Trees. It stands and acts in opposition of the Shadow, whether of Morgoth or of Sauron.

All of this has been to say: one can compare the roles that the Silmarils and the One Ring play in their respective stories, as each lies at the center, but there the similarities end. The Silmarils are desirable for their goodness; the Ring is desirable for the malicious power that it promises any prospective bearer. As objects of power they are the antithesis of one another, and for a reader to treat or regard the Silmarils as they would the Ring is, quite frankly, wrong. The motives of a maker matter in Middle-earth, and whatever his deeds later, one cannot equate Fëanor at the height of his power in Valinor to Sauron at the height of his in Mordor.

Bibliography:

1. The Fellowship of the Ring, “The Council of Elrond”, “The Shadow of the Past”, “The Mirror of Galadriel” 2. dictionary.com, entry: weregild 3. The Return of the King, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol" 4. The Silmarillion, “Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor” 5. The Silmarillion, “Of the Ruin of Doriath” 6. The Silmarillion, “Of Thingol and Melian” 7. The Silmarillion, “Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië” 8. The Shaping of Middle-earth, “The Quenta” 9. The Hobbit, “The Gathering of the Clouds” 10. The Hobbit, “The Last Stage” 11. The Two Towers, “The Stairs of Cirith Ungol" 12. The Two Towers, “Shelob’s Lair”

[fantasyquests]

Rewatching Season 1: Some thoughts on episode 2

1. Accident vs. destiny. Here we have a thematic parallel between the Harfoot storyline and the one concerning Galadriel. Nori says to Poppy that she feels she was destined to find and help the Stranger. On the other hand, Halbrand observes that Galadriel doesn't strike him as someone to whom things happen by accident -- she creates her own destiny. These themes are very important in Tolkien's work, and we have encountered them in The Lord of the Rings, as well: for instance, Bilbo was destined to find the One Ring, and guided towards finding it by the invisible but potent forces for good in Tolkein's universe, probably the same forces that guide Nori in helping the Stranger. Nori has a hunch that she's doing the right thing, but this is constantly challenged by various adverse incidents (such as her father spraining his ankle while doing the work that she was supposed to do, or the Stranger inadvertently killing fireflies).

When it comes to Halbrand and Galadriel, this motif has a different twist, and I wonder if Halbrand (Sauron) stresses the importance of Galadriel's free will because he wants to hide his own manipulations. ("You are here on this raft as a consequence of your own actions, not because I have arranged it.") It's interesting, for instance, that the moment the storm at sea begins, we hear Sauron's theme in the background. Is it possible that he has summoned a dangerous storm in order to get closer to Galadriel? Technically, I assume a Maiar is capable of creating a storm, since we saw Saruman doing it in LOTR.

2. Elrond and the question of time. What bothers me is, how come Elrond is not suspicious when Celebrimbor tells him that he must complete his great new forge by next spring? This is the very same episode in which we are told, very explicitly, that the Elves are normally very leisurly about time and perceive it differently from mortals. "Twenty years is a blink of an eye for an Elf", as Durin says to Elrond, and this different perception is the cause of rift between the two of them, as Elrond did not realize to what extend he had neglected their friendship. But if this is how Elves normally treat time, then why doesn't Elrond ask Celebrimbor to explain his urgency?

3. True creation requires sacrifice: Celebrimbor makes this remark while he and Elrond talk about Feanor's hammer, which is responsible for creating both beauty and pain. Towards the end of the episode, we see another magical object -- the hilt key to the dam in the Southlands, which requires Theo's blood in order to be activated. An ominous parallel, suggesting to us that Celebrimbor's ambition is not entirely wholesome (much as I love his character).

Episode 1 Episode 3 Episode 4 Episode 5

[fatcatlittlebox]

“Many sources” = people trolling and “trust me bro” 😂 Your anon wasn’t around during the “Game of Thrones” leaks craze of the 2010’s and it shows; like 99,9% of the leaks were fake and trolls. Do these people actually believe Amazon would ever allow any trustworthy leak about their most secretive and well protected scene from S2 to hit the Internet? The answer is no. All these “leaks” are fake, speculation and fans trolling. And if Amazon is allowing the “Galadriel and Elrond kiss” trainwreck to be talked about so freely, that’s your give away it’s fake and it won’t happen. If it was true, there would be damage control already to prevent further discussion about it (unless the Galadriel and Elrond kiss is the actual damage control).

Yup. I remember the GOT leaks back in the day. I’m sure the showrunners do too, for better or worse. I’ll say for the most part they’ve been REALLY good at keeping these kinds of things secret. We know that the rumor was a kiss for sure. My caveat is that it was the leaker who interpreted the said kiss blows up canon geneaologies. Yes, Morfydd confirmed there was a kiss but NEVER said who the characters involved would be. ��🏻‍♀️

I just think between what Rob Aramayo has said and the direction his character’s arc is going, I don’t see them bridging their differences that quickly. They are on opposite sides, philosophically and intellectually about what the rings do and how they should be used; he is also extremely wary of what the face of good and evil are. Galadriel has been on the frontlines, crossing swords with evil for so long, she’s become familiar with it and, in Elrond’s mind, too familiar with it. He has a very inflexible view of the forces at work in Middle Earth: anything touched by evil is stained by it. Galadriel thinks that is because he is too unfamiliar with evil and I think that’s a common tense dynamic the writers are touching upon when you have politicians (which Galadriel has called Elrond before) and warriors argue their opinions.

The psychological term for what Elrond is doing is called “splitting.” Now imagine you are Elrond and trying to fight the threat of Mordor, then Sauron in Eregion…like he’s already furious with Gal regarding her role in Sauron’s resurgence and her lying about it. And then he’s going to find out that she has broken bread with Adar. Another villain. That might be a bridge too far. In his mind, he’ll probably feel that Galadriel has lost her ethics, if not her mind. He’ll have to decide if he’s going to amputate the disease or treat it. To your point, I don’t see where a kiss fits in any of that.