#sauronwë

[verecunda]

Sauron's "contest of wills" speech was a thing of glory, not just for the dark Angbang goodness, but also because I keep imagining Eönwë's reaction at Sauron flinging himself at his feet in surrender, with the marks from his last "game" with Melkor still livid on his flesh...

It's driving me mildly insane.

[urwendii]

Day 3: War + Day 4: Mercy of @eonweweek

Pairing: Eönwë x Mairon

Wordcount: 1.8k

Warning: War of Wrath shenanigans. Dubious moral. Dubious consensual blowjob (?)

Available on ao3

The rain has been pouring without respite for the past days as  the Host settled into an uneasy victory. Too many have they lost to fully celebrate, the damp chilling bones and morales as the Elves build a makeshift camp that sprawls like a lazy snake over the broken hill. Tension still rides high as names are called, provisions numbered. Eönwë has been in council all morning, King Arafinwë and their generals debating the logistics of the following weeks. 

Beleriand is a ruin, cracks where foul fumes and liquid fires belch, streams muddy and wild forcing new paths amongst gentle slopes and collapsed cliffs. The Beleriand Elves are weary of centuries of war and colonialism and do not welcome the Amanyar as heroes. Angband needs to be cleansed and many of Morgoth's forces are still roaming the ruined landscape. 

Eönwë shivers as he tracks back to his own tent, nodding at a few soldiers. His boots sink deep in the mud and his wings hang heavy on his back, but the turmoil in his guts is the worst. He doesn't even let his surprise show when upon opening the flaps of what stands as modest, fast put up together, private quarters for the High Commander of the army of the West and finds Mairon sitting on a chair looking at him with cold resigned eyes. 

Both say nothing. 

Eönwë has been dreading meeting him on the battlefield yet the Lieutenant had been noticeably absent from all battles, leaving only a trail of sorcery in the shadows of his absence.

Four days ago, Eönwë had dragged Morgoth himself out of the fortress, repugnant and weakened as the Vala had then been, a pitiful mockery of what he should have been, Morgoth had wasted his last words hurling insults and taunting Eönwë. 

Four days was all it took for Mairon to ressurface. 

Eönwë sighs. Sharp and tired. 

"It has been a long time." 

What does one say to one who has caused so much suffering, one you used to count as your closest companion. Mairon looks at him then nods once. His hair is long and hangs past his waist, blond, almost ashen. His eyes are dark. His features, sharp and pale. If it is not for the fire burning within him, Eönwë would have thought him a different being. 

"What do you want Mairon?" He asks when silence has stretched beyond what is acceptable. 

The other Maia looks down at his hands then, demurely folded over his lap. This way Mairon looks anything but the picture of a war criminal and murderer. The truth still sits uneasy in Eönwë’s heart. The Mairon he knows– knew, is a precious memory he has forced himself to keep alive in the secrecy of his mind. 

"I am here for your mercy." Demanding and a tad haughty. His voice is higher than it used to be. 

"Why should I give it?" It's a rhetorical question. Eönwë is a war commander, has killed thousands in the last four decades, is still trying to deal with this reality and Morgoth's taunts have not helped. Of course he will give Mairon, the mercy of another chance. 

But this, this is Eönwë the Maia, the former friend and companion's wish. His Lord has sent him on a mission and that is to free the Elves of Middle Earth of evil and the Maia sitting quietly, wearing a muted dark blue robe in a pretense of repentance, counts as such evil. 

Enhanced by Morgoth's immense native power, Mairon has gifts none of their order in Aman owns. Mairon gives him a placid smile. Fake and strained. 

"I will not dignify this with an answer. But you and I know you will not discard me." 

Eönwë takes the slight with a flinch. Hurt, he strides to the other side of the tent, keeping the Maia on the periphery of his vision, then lets out a sharp sigh. Mairon if anything is the one who discarded them, him.

"You left on your own accord."

"I did." 

Eönwë shakes his head. 

"And now your master is no more and you shall have me thinking your coming back to me is genuine?" 

He is surprised at the steel in his words. Perhaps war has taken more than a toll on his ëala. Perhaps it also has turned Eönwë into a new creature. Mairon remains quiet for a few moments, head tilted as he seems to ponder his next words. At last he says, 

"Where should I hope to go then, if not where it all began?" This place is no more, Eönwë thinks angrily, suddenly and his shoves the thought, loud and pained, embroidered with the vivid images of the dying Trees, toward Mairon's mind, walled up as it is. The corner of the Úmaia's eyes tighten, the only physical evidence that he is well aware of Eönwë's despair. 

"I am sorry for the Trees." 

This more than anything is what angers Eönwë.

"You have lost the right to feel sorry for destruction, Sauron." 

This brings a flare of life upon Mairon's pale skin, an ugly shade of red, splotched on his cheeks as he bares his teeth. 

"Do not call me that." 

Silence, frigid and icy, falls between them. Eönwë's sword hangs heavy from his waist and he wants to remove his boots. He feels exhaustion pressing behind eyelids, pressure building at the base of his skull. At times, wearing a fana is a burden. 

He is about to ask what Mairon intends to do but the other Maia is rising to his feet. Despite the charisma he still exudes in this form, Eönwë remains taller than him, a good head above. Mairon's body is slim, waist narrow and deceitful in his perceived weakness, but tension has coiled around his shoulders as he takes one step toward Eönwë, stares at him with dull eyes then does something that makes all the air leaving Eönwë's lungs. 

Kneeling in front of him, head hunched to the floor, Mairon asks forgiveness. Or tries to. His words are carefully picked to not put the blame on his shoulders and he avoids mentioning his regrets of joining Morgoth in the first place. Eönwë isn't sure he wants to hear this anyway for he knows it to be a lie. Mairon is cunning, and ambitious and unapologetic. 

He will never regret his choice of allegiance. Still, the vision he gifts Eönwë, in this moment sends tingles to the tips of wings. 

"You and I used to be friends." He adds quietly. It's an euphemism. They used to be closer. 

"I have lost the war, and I am not delusional on what it means for my future." 

Mercy.

Oh. 

Eönwë blinks then. A flicker of understanding, for speaking with Mairon has always been like solving riddles and jumping ahead of conversations. 

"I will not harm you, nor chain you." He carefully announces and intently stares as Mairon relaxes by a barely perceived degree. 

"Will you forgive me then?" 

Eönwë shuffles, uncomfortable. 

"I will offer you a chance to seek atonement." He replies instead. 

Mairon seems clearly displeased but he nods demurely, and gracefully stands up. They are closer now than they've been in long centuries, there are pale freckles splattered on Mairon's nose and his eyelashes are a tone darker than his hair. 

Eönwë can see the flames burning behind the listless eyes, the fire that Mairon has never been able to tame down. The lips are the same. As soon as the thought has entered his mind, he feels disgusted with himself. Eönwë commands his legs to move, to put some distance with Mairon, and yet he remains there, counting every breath and exhales between them until he is sure that he has committed to memory that new face, strange yet oddly familiar in the way of Ainur. 

"I'm sorry." Mairon whispers and Eönwë bites his own tongue. 

He wants to believe it, he wants so many things. And none of them are worthy of his duties. He knows Mairon is possibly manipulating him when the other male reaches for him and applies cold lips against his own. 

He doesn't want that kiss. 

He should not be kissing him, but Mairon's grasp is strong and unrelenting as he slides a sinful tongue between lips and all but devours Eönwë's hopes and tiny breathy moans. 

Stop it, he urges himself. Stop it, he repeats over and over again as Mairon presses his lithe body against his own, grinding hips that make bright sparks burst behind his closed eyelids. 

Eönwë doesn't even remember closing his eyes and he tries to remain still, unresponsive, hoping against hope that Mairon will cease before he does something he will regret. One hand has snaked between their bodies and Eönwë gasps out loud when it palms his erection, hardening against his will. 

From there it is a whirlwind of motions and Mairon is back on his knees, freeing Eönwë from the tightness of his breeches, erection hard and flushed against his stomach. What is happening, he thinks dazed as he watches with glazed over eyes as Mairon makes a show of licking his lips before running his tongue over the flushed head of his cock. 

Eönwë whimpers, in pain and helplessness against base desire, against long buried feelings, against everything he stands for because it has been so, so long since he last has been touched this way. Stop it. He thinks again, weakly, shivering. Mairon has taken him whole in his mouth, swirling his tongue in a way that makes Eönwë's knees in danger of giving up. 

It is a sudden nose outside of the tent that breaks the spell and calls him back to reality. Suddenly he pushes Mairon away, taking a second to mourn the absence of his mouth before awkwardly lacing back his breeches. 

"Don't." He chokes, angry at both of them. Hurt and heartbroken. 

Mairon's face is unreadable until a sly smile stretches his lips. 

"Are you sure?" 

Eönwë closes his eyes, shoves every ounce of improper feelings back in the far corner of his mind and squares his shoulders. 

"I have given you my assent for atonement. Mairon. I am not Morgoth that I will demand to abase yourself to prove yourself." 

Fury blooms on Mairon's face, followed by what looks to be hurt and Eönwë does not have time to ponder the reason when Mairon goes back on his feet and dust his robes. 

"You know nothing." He hisses. 

Eönwë doesn't like the sliver of satisfaction he feels at Mairon's pain. 

"Maybe not, but I will not allow this behaviour. Go back with us to Valinor and ask Lord Manwë’s forgiveness, for I cannot grant you his blessing."

Something shutters behind Mairon's eyes and Eönwë has a bad omen. The Maia bows once more, wipes his still glistening lips and coldly tells Eönwë he will think about it. 

Eönwë doesn't allow himself to weep when days later, Mairon has once more vanished into the wilds. 

[verecunda]

Assuming that Lowden!Sauron was his form at the very end of the War of Wrath, that could actually go a long way to explaining why his first bid at repentance didn't work.

Like, if he'd been able to employ the Charlie Vickers puppy eyes of doom, Eönwë would've melted like a Cornetto in a blast furnace. He'd have been like "oh gosh of course you can come back to Valinor, Mairon!! I'll pay your ferry ticket and act as your defence lawyer before the Máhanaxar!" 💕

Instead he found himself facing bitchy Lowden!Sauron with his spoilt mean-girl vibes and complete inability to read the fucking room all like ☝️ "Actually, I totally deserve to come right over to Valinor and be pardoned, I said I'm sorry and everything, so that means you have to take me."

Cue Eönwë: "Yeeeaaah no, that's not how it works. If you want a pardon, boy, you'd better be ready to do some serious grovelling, and probably about two thousand years of Valinorean community service." >:|

[verecunda]

Hey. If you want to feel sad, just think of Eönwë during the great councils of the Powers during the Second and Third Ages, slipping up every so often and talking about "Mairon".

Nobody, especially not Manwë, has the heart to pull him up about it.

[verecunda]

Beset by the image of Eönwë brushing soot off the end of Mairon's nose. Maybe even giving his nose a little kiss afterwards. 😌

(Cannae take these Maiar of Aulë anywhere smh.)

[verecunda]

He's just a ho. :P

My WIP that has Eönwë in it turned me into a Mairon/Eönwë shipper even though there are zero elements of shipping them in my story. 🤣

Well done, well done.

Why is Mairon so incredibly shippable?

[verecunda]

Seeing gifs of cute curly-haired Charlie Vickers rehearsing battle scenes and imagining cute curly-haired Mairon doing weapons training with Eönwë. ☺️

(You have your fun, I have mine.)

[verecunda]

For the ship thingy: Sauronwë 🔥 🐦

YESSSS. Sorry for taking so damn long about this, I've been so bloody unwell. x___x

Anyway.

Waaaaugh, they make me INSANE. Like, the reason I started shipping it in the first place is because we have exactly one (1) canon interaction between them, but it's just so fascinating! It comes at this absolutely crucial turning point: the overthrow of Morgoth and the ruin of Beleriand. We have Eönwë, leader of the Valarin host, probably very tired and very stressed, especially if he's already dealt with Maedhros and Maglor... and then here comes Sauron, very possibly genuinely rethinking his life choices, donning his fair guise and practically throwing himself at Eönwë's feet to beg for mercy. What is going through their heads at this point? Did they know each other before Mairon went over? Why is this our first canonical example of Sauron specifically trying to use beauty to get his own way?

Basically: if you imagine that they were once lovers, then this canon scene becomes gloriously fraught! Imagine all the messy emotions that must be swirling round this meeting! All the angst, all the love that never quite went away suddenly welling up through the cracks again, all the resentment and the longing and the wondering what if? I'm obsessed with the idea of Sauron clutching at Eönwë as the one familiar thing left among all the wreckage, something bright and beloved from his old life, a sign that if he can just play this right, he can claw his way out of this pit he's dug for himself... and there's Eönwë clutching back, only too aware of his duty, only too aware that he can't trust Sauron - but, oh he wants to, he wants to believe that maybe if he plays this right, he can bring Mairon back...

It's a complete, dreadful, delightful disaster in the making. >8D

And apart from all that, I find it really fun for exploring them both as characters. They're kind of each other's opposite numbers - the herald of Manwë vs. the lieutenant of Morgoth - so it's interesting to play them off each other to see what makes them different and what makes them similar, exploring Almaren backstories, all that good stuff. And though it's not my favourite thing to do with them, there's also tasty AU potential in redemption arcs for Sauron, or corruption arcs for Eönwë.

But also, just the angst of poor, sad Eönwë still secretly carrying his torch for Sauron the Abhorred all through the ages of Middle-earth... you can't beat that.

Send me a ship and I’ll explain why I do or don’t ship it.

[verecunda]

When Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth overthrown, Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance to Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds. And some hold that this was not at first falsely done, but that Sauron in truth repented, if only out of fear, being dismayed by the fall of Morgoth and the great wrath of the Lords of the West. But it was not within the power of Eönwë to pardon those of his own order, and he commanded Sauron to return to Aman and there receive the judgement of Manwë.

Can't believe Jonald Ronald wrote this section and just expected me to be normal about these two. Sauron kneeling before Eönwë? Sauron putting on his "fair hue" specifically to kneel before Eönwë?? Eönwë not just binding Sauron in chains as he did to Melkor but giving him the freedom to choose to come to Valinor if he wished??? THEY MAKE ME INSANE.

[verecunda]

Gorgeous fic. Thank you again! ❤️

Rating: T

Relationships: Eönwë/Sauron (past)

Characters: Eönwë, Sauron

Additional Tags: Angst and Feels, Flashbacks

Count: 2.2k

Also on AO3

Summary: The spirit of Sauron awakens in a strange place. Written as part of @myslashyvalentine 2024 for @verecunda!

Awareness brims like embers rising in the darkest night sky. He stirs, tries extending the tendrils of his will through the fiery veins of the earth, through its bones of metal that always lent their strength. But he tires, sooner than he expects, and the effort yields nothing: no earth to speak of, nor other minds to delve into and direct. He rises with the memory of movement, finding a too-bright chamber not at all resembling his last abode.

Tall windows shed light over white walls and silvery embellishments, and as he nears, he sees plush clouds drifting close enough to touch. This development is strange, to say the least. He’s not dreamt in Ages, and this one has lasted far longer than he can contend with. An attempt to awaken, however, changes nothing. 

Behind him, there is a door. He goes to open it, gazing upon a long, airy hall, dotted with the same impossibly bright windows lavishing intruding light over pale marble floors. At the end of the corridor there are gates of green brass, supposedly the way out of here. 

There is no echo of steps as he crosses the silent, empty enclosure. When at last he tries to open the way, the doors remain shut. He tries again, forcing his will upon them with no result.

“That is futile.”

Startled at another voice, not by the suddenness as much as the familiarity of it, he turns.

“The tower will not release you,” the new presence speaks again, landing gracefully from an unknown recess, and great wings slice through the rays of light flooding the hall.

“Release m—” he begins, only to realize he is not speaking but replying to the other’s thought.

A maelstrom of memory churns so fast he wavers, rekindling the last moments of his most recent, disastrous failure. It all bursts through the dam of his temporary stupor and leaves him cowering, bringing his hands to his head—to find he has no head, and no hands to speak of. 

“Greetings, Mairon,” the Herald continues in Valarin. He is the epitome of stillness, a monolith before the houseless spirit quivering in distress and confusion. “It has been a long, long time.”

Mairon…

The reminiscence of a word lost in a flood, long ago. Once a name lavished upon him by ones who would hunt him down. 

The mote of fire in his chest—or what should be his chest—spirals in frantic apprehension.

Surprise and stupor are not sentiments he is used to, and yet he’d had a taste of both lately: with his most recent defeat and the pain of being torn apart once again, his mind barely knitting back together after the fall. The last he remembers is hunger, gnawing at himself in the shadows. And now, this.

“What… are you doing here?” he asks, dread taking over at the overwhelming power Eönwë Urion exudes before his weakened, exposed spirit. 

“I was told you’d awoken,” the Herald says simply. “As you already saw, the doors will not open. Nothing you try ever will. Your place is here, now.”

“Oh?” Ire frosts his thought before the impassable, distant eyes of his peer. “You mean, not the Void?” he asks, in a voice of thought that once might have sounded demanding. Now that he is powerless, a meld of pride and fear slithers across his ghostly expression. 

“No, Mairon.” Eönwë says, the brightness of his gaze crossed by a fast shadow. “The Outer Dark is not for you.”

“Would that it were!” Sauron, the other facet, bursts forth in impotent rage, but before the shining mail and strong wings it is a weak flare of heat. 

“Look and see,” the Herald then speaks with unabated calm, a clawed hand pointing to the left. “The mirrors show us for what we are, and also moments of the viewer’s past. These you may use.”

It’s then he notices that each wall is indeed lined with mirrors. No, each wall, on either side, is made of mirrors, and as he nears Sauron sees the truth of Eönwë’s words: himself.

A wraith, with a countenance as he recalls his last bodily form. A face burned to the bone, crimson hatred blazing from the eye sockets. Clawed hands grasping at a stone seat, molten red from the rush of his fury. He feels detached from it now, though, like watching a severed limb without feeling the pain. “How long has it been since…” Since I’ve lost my dominion. 

“You’ve roamed long through the world, Mairon. Time is meaningless here, as you know.” 

“You always did love speaking in riddles,” Mairon says, unnerved at the hint of something he refuses to acknowledge. “What is this place?”

“A tower somewhere near the Gates of Dawn,” Eönwë replies, looking to the windows where a pale, blushing light blooms. “I am its guardian.”

“You mean, my jailor?” Mairon mutters, finding Eönwë staring emptily into one of the mirror-walls. “Your precious Valar have appointed you, of all people, to watch me?” If he had a throat and a mouth, he’d laugh. 

“No,” Eönwë says, and his thought has a tint Mairon has not felt in well over two Ages. “I offered.”

“You offered. And always the sentimental fool besides, are you?”

Eönwë looks his way then, and takes one step forward; nonthreatening, though he shines blindingly as he catches the light. “You are here, alone. Your empire is dust, all that you’ve twisted has been undone. All who entered Eä became part of it and that still means you as well as I, and all Ainur apart from your fallen master. No, Mairon, you are bound to the world, but with no power to shape it. You will watch from afar as it is reforged and slowly forgets you.”

Well, certainly more bitter than Mairon remembers. He watches Eönwë then, really watches closely for the first time since their incongruous encounter. The Herald looks the same, unchanged since Mairon had last seen him in that war camp after Angband fell. His long silver hair is woven down his back in intricate patterns, his determined brow adorned with the markings of his order, glowing beryl patterns swirling on his dusky skin. He wears no plate armor, and why should he? If Mairon could burn this all down and flee, he would without a second thought but it so happens he is at anyone’s mercy now. “But you have not forgotten me.”

The Herald’s lip quivers, and he shakes his head. “Indeed not. I stand here out of both duty and pity.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t stand here at all, at this moment.” It’s lowly and he knows it, but being bound is not something he’s ever withstood with grace, and he turns his sight from the Herald. Mairon has always been apt in detecting lies, and this one has, apparently, learned to be convincing enough. Eönwë, the righteous warrior of the Elder King, who could never fathom deceit nor understand wickedness. Who knew. Or, perhaps, something else drives his disbelief in that icy answer.

What if it is the truth?

The next moment he is blown to the side by the spread of great wings, bounding for the air; he’s left with the empty serenity of this place, and the image of himself, reflected wherever he turns his mind’s eye. 

“I fail to see the amusement in this.”

The frustration is clear in Eönwë’s voice as he side-eyes Mairon, who’s currently trying his utmost to keep a straight face, a beringed hand placed tactfully over his mouth.

“It’s all right, it really—” he snorts once, at which point Eönwë narrows his eyes further. “... it really is.” He reaches for the golden bracelet that’s suffered the wind Maia’s helpless tinkering even as Eönwë steps aside. “Not everyone has the inclination towards metalwork,” Mairon adds, and at Eönwë’s sigh slips the bracelet on his wrist. “But it’s wearable, I’d say.”

“Really.” Eönwë is thoroughly unconvinced, but Mairon can still sense the delight radiating off him when seeing his handiwork against the fire Maia’s skin. 

They step outside Aulë’s forges, heading down the peaceful streets at leisure. Almaren is bathed in golden light playing sweetly on Eönwë’s skin, enhancing the glittering teal of his crystalline gaze. “Come now, you cannot tell me a botched bracelet affected you so.” They’re walking close to one another, and soon enough Eönwë feels closer. “You have other skills besides…” He traces fingers along Eönwë’s forearm, hearing clearly the turmoil of his spirit. Eönwë does not hide from him, and very often Mairon finds he cannot, either. They flow into one another on waves of affinity. 

“Thank you for trying to make me feel better, but I’d hardly call that a skill to speak of,” Eönwë murmurs, looking ahead, but half a smile shines on his face. 

Mairon bumps a hip into him, and when they reach the fire Maia’s abode, takes a hold of Eönwë’s hand. “Oh but it is.” His amber eyes languorously follow the curve of Eönwë’s mouth, remembering how his body sang beneath it. He leans closer, “And I have need of it.”

Eönwë grins—beautiful, devastating—and follows Mairon when he turns to walk inside with a lazy stride. 

He’s going to strike the traitor down. His bloodied armor clinks haphazardly, weighing on his aching limbs. The Herald who led the host of the Valar paces before the gold-and-silver marquee glimmering in the sunset over lands and seas forever changed, over skies bruised with war; over the flaming mane of dirty hair and ruined armor of the Maia kneeling before him. 

His eyes are downcast as M— as Sauron stares into nothingness, looking for all the world like he’s lost it all. 

Eönwë runs a hand through his disheveled hair, disgust and anger warring as he brings his palms to his mouth, drags them over his face, breathes deeply. “Why have you come?”

No answer. Eönwë has always been the patient one, the one to offer chances. But this, this creature before him, so foreign and painfully empty, is not the one he knew long ago. “On your feet.” He cannot stand seeing the lieutenant of Angband prostrated before him, and he’s never known hatred—but now, looking upon that beautiful, timeless face and the seeding malice engraved upon it, he thinks he might have an inkling. 

“I do not…” The pale lips move, then pause.

Eönwë waits, seeking the flaming eyes carefully turned from his. He steps closer, unable to bear the sight much longer. “Why have you come to me?”

“I do not know... I have... nowhere else to go.”  Hollow voice, hollow stare.

His palm itches to reach for his sword, if only to damn himself too and to know what it feels like. Bitter is the memory of a day lost in the mires of time, when Mairon most certainly knew where he was going and with whom. 

But no, he will not be petty, though the ancient ache comes alive like molten rock cracking the surface of the earth, burning all in its path. 

He’s made the right decision, he tells himself that night when rest will not come, repeating the refusal over and over in his mind. 

The pardon is not mine to give.

“Not mine… not mine...” he whispers to the night. 

When he hears a stir, instead of reaching for his weapon, he lingers. He knows. And again, he will not be petty or a liar when the tent canvas trembles and a sheer form with blazing eyes steps inside. He says nothing, does not shrink back when warmth envelops him with primal urgency, a forgotten scent of embers and copper on his tongue.

No, Eönwë has never known hatred; but his insides are scarred by the same talons now gripping and clawing at his bare shoulders, and wishes he did.  

He will go mad, as mortals do. Day after day, if time can even be considered such, here, in this barren place of wind and silence, he wakes and takes the stairs, up, then down, then up again.

Soon, he gains something of a physical form. Mairon does not even know what or whom to curse anymore, so acute is the need to busy his mind with something, anything.

He gazes at the mirrors sometimes, conjuring memories. Days of glory, fallen empires, failure. Again, and again, he swam against the tide. Always he lost, but did he ever fight. He wanted freedom, he wanted to bring order to this wretched world, one they had abandoned but, no—

And it is then he realizes: he is tired. His spirit no longer craves the past, nor yearns for absolute control or greatness. 

“In the end, what was it all for?”

He knows the Herald stands behind him, and that is whom he asks. After all, Eönwë is not one to deceive. There was no streak of such in his Song. 

“I was hoping that one day… you might be able to tell me.”

He might be smiling, Mairon can hear it in his voice. For the first time in a long while, he thinks, he can also feel the bitterness beneath. It brings a measure of relief, though why that is, he cannot say for certain. Mairon gazes into the mirrors of memory. He looks beyond the years of dominion, before strife and wars, betrayal and pride, and before Time; seeking Almaren.

[verecunda]

Feeling that Sauron/Eönwë mood...

*lies down on the floor with a cold cloth over my eyes*

[verecunda]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Eönwë/Sauron | Mairon Characters: Sauron (Tolkien), Eönwë (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Past Relationship(s), Angst and Feels, Flashbacks Summary:

"If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in his beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape. " —The Lord Of The Rings, Book V, J.R.R. Tolkien

 The spirit of Sauron awakens in a strange place.

Right. Bear with me here; I’ve got a fair amount to catch up on. But first I have to squee over my most recent exchange gifts.

First, my gift for this year’s My Slashy Valentine: this beautiful Sauron/Eönwë fic by @ruiniel. Heartbreaking in all the ways this pairing excels at, but also with a subtle ray of hope. Thank you very much again! <3