Eyes Closed

by Helholden

Summary:

Morgoth Bauglir returns from beyond The Void, and draws his wayward servant, Sauron, back under his thumb with the one temptation he can't deny—his Lady of Light, Galadriel.

Written for an anonymous tumblr prompt: Dub-con fic where Sauron and Galadriel are both prisoners of Morgoth. Morgoth makes them do it again and again and watches.

Notes:

• Translation into Русский available: Закрытыми глазами by Musemanka

Presented in two parts. Part one is clean part. Part two is the dirty part. I'm posting them separately due to the sudden change in tone in order to reduce the whiplash; it felt like an intermission was needed between the two once I read over it. I also wanted to try something different with this fic, and Sauron is referred to as Sauron throughout the whole thing because I wanted to see how seriously I could take it that way. Turns out, it was easier than I expected it to be, but certainly different.

It's truly dub-con more than non-con because permission is asked for and permission is granted, but I tagged with Rape/Non-Con just to play it safe and not trigger anybody.

Chapter 1: Eyes Closed, Pt. 1

 

It is easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.

— Leonardo da Vinci, “The Notebooks”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You will serve me again as you have served me in the past,” came the deep rumbling voice from the Void, the blackness swallowing all light as it grew and grew like a dark cloud spreading underneath water. Sauron sensed it the moment the void had opened and released him, a dark presence no amount of light could ever withstand, for even in defeat his strength was mighty and insurmountable. Melkor, came the whisper from the back of Sauron’s mind. Morgoth Bauglir. A foe who had many names, just as he himself had many names.

 

However, Sauron’s pride had grown in Morgoth’s absence from this plane of existence, and now that it was back, he was not so willing to be his servant once more. Rather than answer the call, he fled. He summoned all of his power, all of his energy, into creating a veil to hide himself from Morgoth’s omnipotent mind. He would rather run for all eternity than return to his chains of slavery. There was no promise in all the world that Morgoth could offer him now that would ever make Sauron reconsider his stance.

 

Only that was not entirely true.

 

The piercing scream in his mind brought Sauron to his knees, even as he attempted to run away from it; it ravaged his spirit in a crucible of hollow ringing until he was clutching his own head, digging his fingers into his skull to get it to stop—anything to make it stop—and the scream in his mind became one out of his own lips, filling the air with a dreadful howl. He lost himself in that moment. His mortal body collapsed to the ground, defeated and weakened, and the sound of deep, heavy echoes filled his ears instead in the silence that followed the ringing noise. Footsteps, Sauron realized, as he lay there helpless after the onslaught.

 

“My, my, my,” came the deep taunting voice, one of the large steel sabatons pushing into his ribcage and rolling him over onto his back. The heavy sabaton stepped onto Sauron’s chest next, all of its weight crashing down into him without mercy. “Disobedient now, are we? How the years have changed you, Mairon.”

 

Sauron glared back at him, unable to stop himself. Morgoth was great. He was mighty. He was considerable in strength and substantial in sheer physical size, standing taller than any being Sauron had ever laid eyes on in his entire existence. He was also malevolent, cruel, and unforgiving. Uncompromising. Morgoth stood there now, his steel sabaton bearing down onto Sauron’s chest, in full armor from head to toe like a beast ready for battle. To spark his ire, it was not a task one should ever take up lightly.

 

“You have been gone a long time, Melkor,” Sauron threw back at him, his hands flying to the sabaton to try and push at it, to ease the weight of it off of his chest so he could breathe again. His lungs burned from the effort of it. “Things change when you disappear for as long as you did—”

 

Morgoth withdrew his steel foot, fury in his face, and he swung the sabaton into Sauron’s mortal ribcage, breaking multiple bones with loud cracks and sending him rolling away from him. Sauron found himself on his stomach moments later, gasping for air through the throbbing agony, and though the pain was immense, he reached his arms out for the ground ahead and tried to crawl away.

 

It was futile.

 

Morgoth descended on him in moments. He kicked Sauron again to roll him over onto his back, leaned down and grasped his throat, clenched steel fingers tight around Sauron’s windpipe, and raised him into the air by his neck. Sauron hung there, clutching onto Morgoth’s arm as he gasped for breath he could barely take in past the crushing weight on his throat. Morgoth’s eyes were shining bright in satisfaction, and a wicked smile crept up onto his pale face.

 

“You will serve me again as you have served me in the past,” Morgoth repeated with finality. “Only this time, you will be my slave instead of my servant in punishment for your reckless disobedience. When, and only when, you have learned your lesson and whelped a new army for me, will I consider reinstating you into your former position.”

 

Morgoth unclenched his fingers from Sauron’s neck, then, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. Sauron crashed into it, drawing in deep, aching breaths that wounded him with each inhalation and exhalation from his lips. Whelp. That word. It formed a deep pit in the very bottom of his stomach. No, Sauron thought, rage filling him despite the pain, and he shoved himself upright as he gritted against each throb in his body. “I am not a dog—”

 

Morgoth slammed his sabaton back into Sauron’s chest, breaking more bones. Sauron gasped, and Morgoth towered over him with a livid expression. “You are my dog! You always have been, Mairon, and you will do as I say!”

 

Sauron somehow found it in himself to laugh, though it came out as a broken chuckle. “Never,” he hissed back, looking Morgoth straight in the eyes. “There is nothing in all the world—”

 

It was Morgoth’s turn to chuckle, a deep rumble that filled the air like a quake from the depths of the earth. He turned away from Sauron, making a motion with his hand that parted the air before him in swirls—an invisible power that parted the veil between worlds and revealed a vision on the other side specifically for Sauron’s torment.

 

There, trussed up with chains of bondage that slithered and moved like living things of black smoke around her wrists and ankles, neck and waist, was the Lady of Light herself, Galadriel. She was bound to the wall by the living wisps of smoke, but her visage glowed with a blinding brilliance, white and illuminating, and it filled all of Sauron’s vision. She was unconscious, her head tilted to the side and eyes closed, but aside from her chains, she appeared to be unharmed so far.

 

His one weakness, and Morgoth had her already.

 

Morgoth approached the visage of her oblivious form, his large hand reaching out for Galadriel’s cheek as if to stroke it, though she was not really there with them—it was just a mirage. An image to show him the truth, though. Galadriel was already a captive, and there was nothing Sauron could do to stop Morgoth from enacting whatever torment he wanted to on her.

 

“I beg to differ,” Morgoth announced in turn, his voice quiet but ominous. “Your precious Lady of Light is mine now, and I offer you this one consolation as a prize if you wish to take it. In your heart I know you want it. Even I can sense your desire, your love for her. You pretend it’s not there, but it sings to me across the vast planes and veils of existence, and I knew in order to entrap you, all I needed was her.” Morgoth’s hand fell from the reflection of Galadriel’s face, and he turned to confront Sauron at last. “You can have her, Mairon. I will give her to you. Your one wish. Your one desire. She can be yours for eternity to do with as you please, and no one will stand in your way. Not even her.”

 

Morgoth closed the space between them, every footstep echoing deeply into Sauron’s mind with a pounding vengeance until he was standing beside his fallen form on the ground.

 

“Your other option?” Morgoth whispered threateningly. His eyes glowed with menace. “I can give her to my Orcs, my Trolls, my beasts, and you can watch as they ravage her body before your very eyes, but you will never touch her. The choice is yours. Her fate is in your hands.” Morgoth stepped away from Sauron, then, as if he grew bored of this nonsense. “Do not ever say I am not merciful, Mairon.”

 

Through the ache of every broken bone that pierced his lungs, Sauron tried to breathe as he stared at the illuminated form of Galadriel’s body in its chains. It was not much of a choice, but he knew his decision by the time the last word had passed out from Morgoth’s lips. Slowly, he pushed himself upright onto his knees, his palms planted firmly on the ground, and he bowed his head before Morgoth.

 

“I am your servant,” Sauron found himself saying, though his body shook with every word.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Galadriel awoke in his designated chambers that Morgoth had given to him, she shot upright at the sight of him, and then she scrambled backwards against the wall behind her. Her eyes were wide, and she heaved in deep breaths, her chest rising and falling erratically with the motions. Her eyes scattered around the room, taking everything in, perhaps looking for a weapon as well, but her eyes found none except for the one he was holding as he sat there in a chair across from her, sharpening the blade against the whetstone.

 

“You’re awake,” he heard himself say idly, and Galadriel hissed at that.

 

“You,” she spat.

 

Of course, she recognized him. In punishment for his disobedience, he was bound to his last mortal form because it was significantly weaker than others he had had in the past. He was bound to it by a power even he could not break through, and shifting his appearance was not an option. At least she knew this mortal form. It would make this easier. He looked like her old friend, Halbrand, but that was not his true name. It was not even a name he had for the longest time. It was just a name. It did not mean anything.

 

Sauron stopped sharpening the blade, laying down the whetstone. “Yes, me. Is there anything else you would like to add to that?”

 

“You foul—” Her beautiful face twisted, and she swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I will do nothing for you! Keep your distance, or I will cut off—”

 

“Your threats are not necessary,” Sauron told her, sheathing his blade and rising from the chair. “I will not lay a hand on you. Not unless you ask me to.” He gazed pointedly at her. “Are we clear?”

 

Galadriel did not look as though she believed him. Her eyes flitted across the room again. “Why did you bring me here, then?”

 

Sauron sighed deeply. This was going to be a long conversation if she did not believe him. “I did not bring you here. Morgoth brought you here. You are only in my chambers because it was me or his beasts. Would you rather be with them?”

 

Galadriel was quiet for a moment. “You are one of his beasts.”

 

He nodded in response to that, pursing his lips. “All right, get up then.” He approached her, holding out his hand. “I’ll take you to them.”

 

Galadriel stared at his hand. She refused to move. “No,” she finally shot back.

 

He found himself nodding again, only this time his lips were twisted in resentment. He leaned over her, his eyes burning with it. “Stop blaming me, then.”

 

He withdrew from her quickly, not wishing to scare or startle her any further than she already was—her whole body was trembling, if that was any indication of her fear. He could only imagine her thoughts, and they were not pretty when he ventured to peer into them for a brief moment. A flash of the two of them in a violent embrace flew into his mind, and it brought a wave of sickness to his stomach. So, that was what she thought of him? It caused his fists to clench at his sides.

 

“Calm your thoughts, Galadriel,” he offered over his shoulder. “As I said, I will not lay a hand on you unless it is something you ask of me. You may have the bed. I will take the floor.” He paused, wondering how much he should reveal to her, but what was the point of hiding anything? They were both prisoners here. He might as well be as honest with her as possible. “You are only here because Morgoth threatened to give you to his creatures to ravage you as I was forced to watch if I did not accept you as a prize for a return to servitude,” Sauron revealed to her, his voice hushed. “I would choose your anger at me over your pain any day. So, go ahead. Be angry, but don’t forget that.”

 

He walked away from her after that because it was too much honesty at once, and it pained him to admit it. It was not as if in this situation it gave her any power over him. Neither of them had power here, and Morgoth could change his mind at any given moment. The threat would always be lingering over their heads, no matter what, and there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing she could do to change it either.

 

Galadriel was quiet for the longest time. He could hear the slow beat of her heart as it calmed down, even from the other side of the room. There was a vast window on the opposite side where he stood, carved out of the rock into a wide opening that stretched across the wall, and he leaned against the ledge, looking down at the quarry below as it buzzed with activity. All manner of creatures were scuttling about, tending to digs and devices as torches blazed in every corner. All of them were completely unaware of his eyes on them.

 

“What do you mean to do with me,” Galadriel demanded from behind him, “if I am to be your prize?”

 

Sauron had to think about how to answer that, but he had made up his mind from the moment he had agreed to Morgoth’s demands. He did not look back at her because he did not want to see the look on her face. She did not trust him. He knew that much already, and he did not expect her to just suddenly trust him now that they were tied in this together against their will.

 

“Protect you,” he said, “if I can.” It was the only answer that made sense, and she did not have to believe him.

 

He would do it, anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They had to keep up appearances to quell Morgoth’s suspicions, which were rising day by day. Sauron spent time in the forge to fashion a necklace for her, one of silver and white adamant stones; it was large, luxurious, and beautiful. From that necklace, he made a long lariat chain that ended in a bracelet—one that he would wear, the chain long enough to use as a leash between them. It was a foul disguise, but it would please Morgoth and avert his eyes from them, for Sauron could feel his eyes at all times. It would not do to have him question that his servant—his slaves—were not doing what he had demanded of them. Whelp, Morgoth had said. Breed. Such foul words, and they were not dogs.

 

Sauron, true to his word, had not touched Galadriel. At least, not in that way. A hand on her arm, here or there. An offered hand, one given to help her down a steep flight of steps. Once, she injured herself, and he tended to the wound for her. He slept on a cot at the other side of the room, and she slept in the bed. Since he had kept his word, Galadriel began to relax around him. They had conversations sometimes. Occasionally, he might even have said that she enjoyed his company. They made the best of a horrific situation, for they were the only ones that they could trust at the end of it all, and he was finding, albeit slowly, that Galadriel was beginning to trust him.

 

When he brought the necklace to her, wrapped up in cloth and tied shut, Galadriel accepted it warily. She looked down at it as she took it into her hands, casting her gaze back up to his eyes. “What is it?”

 

“A gift,” he told her. He noticed how she paused, unsure if she should open it. “Go ahead. It won’t harm you.”

 

Galadriel narrowed her eyes at him. She was not afraid of him, nor was she angry at him anymore. It was an odd sort of friendship they had developed here in this hell.

 

To be honest, it was the only thing keeping him sane.

 

Letting out a little sigh, Galadriel took the wrap with her and sat down. She untied the ribbon and unfolded the cloth, gasping at the sight of the glimmering ornament as it was unveiled to her. Gracefully, she reached down to take it into her fingers, lifting the bejeweled necklace into the air to inspect it more closely. As she lifted it, the long lariat chain fell to the floor, and Galadriel cast her gaze down to follow it. It was a few feet in length, and she immediately stared at him.

 

“What is this?” she demanded, an ounce of fury in her tone.

 

He sat down across from her. “Both a gift and a disguise,” he admitted. “He has been watching us. I think he means to intervene. It would quell his suspicions if you wore it.” Sauron paused for a moment, noticing how awful the whole thing made him feel. He despised it. There was not just fury in her voice; there was hurt on her face at his suggestion. It was vile to her, and he knew it. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course, but I fear what he might do to us if he finds out.”

 

“Finds out what?” Galadriel asked him, her voice firm.

 

“What do you think?” Sauron threw back at her, though it was not unkind. “Do you assume he gave you to me as a prize for us to be friends, Galadriel?”

 

She was unmoved by his response. “Is that what we are? Friends?” she shot back, ever the feisty one. He would be lying if he said he did not love that very thing about her.

 

He froze at that thought, unsure of what to say next. “Are we not?”

 

It was Galadriel’s turn to be silent. She glanced down at the necklace again, having lowering it back to the cloth he had wrapped it in originally. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “in this unsure fate we have found ourselves in, we have had little choice but to be that.”

 

He swallowed past a catch in his throat. It was as good an answer as he expected to receive from her, but it was enough. “Will you wear it?”

 

Galadriel remained quiet for a long moment. “I will think about it,” she told him, folding the necklace back up.

 

“Don’t spend too long thinking about it,” Sauron told her. “We are running out of options.”

 

“He has not done anything to us,” Galadriel countered him, meeting his eyes.

 

“That doesn’t mean he won’t.”

 

Galadriel looked away from him. She did not dignify his warning with a response. She was not as afraid as she should have been, and it was a treacherous slope to traverse. He hoped she would eventually see reason and accept a little bit of humiliation to save them both a world of grief.

 

Galadriel was proud, though. He expected nothing less of her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s not how it works,” he retorted, pointing at the twist of the heated metal as it glowed red. “You have to hammer it and chisel the edge just right—”

 

“I know what I’m doing—” Galadriel snapped back at him, a little too loudly, and she readjusted the hammer in her hand. A deep sigh escaped her. “Give me a moment. The heat is burning my eyes.”

 

Sauron positioned himself behind her, putting his arms over hers to help guide her actions. “It’s not the heat,” he said. “You’re holding it wrong. It’s distorting the edge. Here—” He placed his hands over hers, adjusted her grip to where it needed to be, and held onto her. “Try it now.”

 

Galadriel followed his guidance, and the edge began to take shape. There was little to do in this hellscape, and he had taken it upon himself to teach her how to smith. She was getting better at it, but she had so much pride and temper that it often got in the way. He guided her hands now as she worked with the blade. He would make a veritable smith out of her yet, if only she would listen to him instead of huffing in fury.

 

“See?” he offered her. “It looks better already.”

 

“What’s this?” cut in a gruff voice, and Sauron pulled away from Galadriel, startled by the presence of an Orc in the forge with them. It was not the time of day that usually held any others, and they always had peace before at this hour. Galadriel lowered the tools in her hands and turned to face the Orc as well. He could hear her heartbeat rising. This was not good.

 

“One more hand to help make weapons never hurt an army,” Sauron threw back at the Orc, mustering up as much courage as possible to not give away the intense trepidation he felt at having been caught in a such a precarious situation with Galadriel.

 

“A She-Elf?” hissed the Orc. “Making weapons? When she ought to be whelping bastards—”

 

Sauron did it without much thought. He snatched the hot, unfinished blade and attacked the Orc with it, grasping the creature’s ruined tunic and pressing the sizzling blade against his throat, burning the flesh clean through. The beast cried out, and Galadriel gasped somewhere behind him. He felt her hands on him, trying to pull him back. The words came pouring out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Say that one more time, you filthy Orc—”

 

“No!” Galadriel hissed near his ear. “Please, no, this is not—”

 

Sauron yanked his hand back and released the creature, which caused the Orc to scuttle off immediately as it howled in pain. He was breathing heavily, watching the creature dart out of sight, and suddenly, a sinking feeling developed in the pit of his stomach. If that Orc spoke one word of what was going on to anyone else, and Morgoth heard about it . . .

 

He threw the hot blade onto the floor, not caring where it fell, and then he reached out and blindly grasped for Galadriel’s hand. “Come on,” he said, tugging her along with his blacksmithing apron still on and not a thought in his head to remove it and leave it here. “We need to go back to my chambers—”

 

“What for—”

 

He turned to face Galadriel, his eyes pleading with her. “Please, no more questions. Let’s go now.”

 

Galadriel nodded her head, clasped his hand back, and followed him. It felt as if the journey took forever, and his eyes scoured every room they passed through until they reached his chambers. He shut the door behind them, locking it, and whirled on her. The next thing he did caused a cry of shock out of Galadriel’s throat—he grabbed her apron, untying it, and hoisted it over her head by the neck strap. He threw it to the ground and grasped her dress next between both hands and ripped it, creating a huge gash in the fabric. Galadriel shoved him away from her, both fear and fury in her eyes.

 

“How dare you—” she hissed at him, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried to close the fresh tear in her dress. “I thought—”

 

“Good. You’re crying,” said Sauron, frenzied at this point. His eyes were alight with it. “Keep doing that. We need tears all over your face. Turn around. I’m going to rip another hole in your dress—”

 

“What? No!”

 

He seized her by her arms, a tight grip that he knew might hurt a little, but she had to see sense. She had to listen to him. “Galadriel, we are about to have others descend on us any moment now. I need you to look as hurt and pained as possible. I need your dress to be in tatters. I need you to keep crying. Can you do that for me?” Galadriel was shaking, but then she took in a deep breath. She exhaled it slowly, finally beginning to understand what he meant by everything. Nodding her head, she lowered her hands back to her sides. He nodded back at her, releasing her arms and cupping her cheeks. “I’m not going to hurt you, but we need them to believe I have hurt you. Do you understand?”

 

Galadriel released another shaky breath. “Yes.”

 

“Good,” he told her. “Now, I’m going to rip your dress some more, and I want you to lie down on the floor and keep crying. Will you do that?”

 

Galadriel nodded her head. “Yes,” she agreed, “I will do that.”

 

He walked around her. Taking the back of her dress into his hands, he ripped the lower half of the dress open. He added a few more random tears, just to make it look as reckless as possible, and he came back around to look Galadriel in the face. He then did something that surprised even him; he pulled her in for a brief hug to soothe her unraveled nerves, and he spoke the next words very close to her ear.

 

“That’s the last of it,” he whispered. “You can lie down on the floor now. They’ll be here soon.”

 

He let go of her, and Galadriel followed his insistence. She lay on the floor, curling into herself, and he tore off his apron, throwing it to the side. He unfastened and discarded his belt, rumpled his own appearance, and sat down. It was not much, but maybe it would do for unsuspecting Orcs.

 

The banging on his door followed shortly after, but they did not bother to wait for a reply. They busted the door down, hinges and all, and Sauron shot up from where he sat, livid. “What is the meaning of this?”

 

However, at the head of the procession, was Morgoth himself.

 

He stood tall, unwavering, and he was furious. His eyes glanced between Sauron and Galadriel. He took note of her torn clothes, but then he looked at Sauron. His lips curled in disdain. “Did you think a ripped dress would be enough to fool me, Mairon, when there is no stink of sex in the air?”

 

Sauron did not know how to answer that. He had doubted Morgoth would have come himself, but here he was, and there was no answering that question without giving himself away.

 

“Hmm,” Morgoth replied lazily, looking around the room as if he was bored. “Seize them both.”

 

It all happened in a rush. Orcs descended on Galadriel, heaving her to her feet. Hands grasped him, hauling him along as well. They were dragged outside of his chambers and through all the dark corridors until they reached the throne room itself at the center of the underground fortress. The Orcs threw both of them down onto the open floor that lay before the empty throne, and Sauron pushed himself back to his feet as he saw Morgoth approaching that same throne, his long black cloak flowing behind him across the hewn rock below their feet.

 

Morgoth swept his cloak to the side and sat down. By now, Galadriel and Sauron both stood before him. She tried her best to hold the remnants of her dress together, and a pang filled him at the sight. This was because of him.

 

The sound of a sudden clatter rang across the chamber, echoing against the vast walls. Sauron looked forward, his eyes catching the silver and adamant necklace he had made for Galadriel as it laid on the stone before him where Morgoth had thrown it. Each of its stones glittered in the torchlight. Morgoth had found it, and he was not happy about anything he had found so far.

 

“Was that to be a leash for your pet?” Morgoth inquired, though he still sounded bored. “Why then does she not wear it?”

 

Sauron did not dignify the question with a response. He wanted to look at Galadriel, but that would have been the worst possible thing to do in this moment, so he did not.

 

“Put it on her.”

 

Sauron glanced down at the necklace, laying so many feet ahead of him. He was frozen. This was turning quickly into a nightmare in which he had less and less control over what was happening within it. After an unknown amount of silence, he pulled himself out of his reverie and walked forward, bending down to grasp the necklace and pick it up. When he turned back to Galadriel, she was as still as a statue, her face ever so proud despite the circumstances. He admired it. Slowly, he made his way back to her, pausing just a foot in front of her.

 

May I? he mouthed to her, asking for her permission. He could not do it without her permission.

 

Galadriel met his eyes, and then she lifted her chin in a subtle nod. Yes, it said.

 

Briefly, he closed his eyes, steeling himself against the onslaught of self-hatred it created as he unclasped the fine chain and raised his hands to her neck. He fastened the piece of jewelry in place and stepped back. It was beautiful on her, the fine silver chain of the lariat falling all the way down to her feet, curling itself at last upon the torn remnants of her dress there on the floor. He stepped back from Galadriel, but Morgoth’s commands did not stop.

 

“Good,” came his rumbling response. “Now, put her on all fours.”

 

Sauron turned in disbelief at that, looking back at Morgoth. “There is no need for that—”

 

“No need?” Morgoth challenged, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think there is every need, Mairon. You have not done for me what you said you would do, and after I gave to you such a fair prize? Is she not fair, Mairon? Is she not pleasing to look at? Does she not stir in you some great want, some unspeakable desire? I need proof of your fealty, and you will give it to me here for all to see, so that there may be no doubt where your loyalties lie.”

 

A cold chill passed through him. He cast his eyes back to Galadriel, who stood there ever so still, but her expression gave away her dread. She looked at him, too. There was fear in her eyes. Sauron turned back to Morgoth. “There are other ways to prove my loyalty—”

 

A piercing scream entered his mind, bringing him to his knees; it was the same crucible of hollow ringing that had ravaged his spirit once before when Morgoth first came to him, and it filled his head until it escaped his own mouth in a terrible howl. He fell to his knees. A whip came down on his back next from an Orc standing nearby, lashing him through his tunic—slicing through his mortal flesh. Blood pooled to the surface as the ringing faded from his mind, but it remained like an echo in his ears in the aftermath.

 

“Disobey me one more time,” Morgoth warned, “and I will give her to my Orcs right here in front of you. That I promise you, Mairon.”

 

 

Chapter 2: Eyes Closed, Pt. 2

Notes:

Whooo, I only proofread this once because this is most definitely the dirtiest thing I have written for this fandom! Whooo! Shame shame shame.

 

* * *

 

 

A mind not to be chang’d by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

— John Milton, “Paradise Lost”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly, he turned to look at Galadriel. She still stared forward, trying to steel her nerves against the onslaught. It was better if it was him, only it was not. Only it was not at all. Sauron rose to his feet, though the movement took much effort with the hollow ringing still echoing in his ears. His steps took him over to Galadriel until he was standing in front of her. He did not care how it looked, or if the gentle action angered Morgoth, as he slid his hand against her neck and up along the outline of her jaw, his thumb resting on her cheek. He leaned his forehead against hers until they were so close that no one could hear him whisper to her.

 

“Tell me it’s all right,” he murmured, finding his voice shaking. “Give me permission.”

 

Galadriel opened her mouth, exhaling an uneven breath. No words came out at first. She inhaled sharply. “This is barbaric—”

 

“I can’t do this unless you give me permission,” he whispered quickly, his face leaning closer to hers. “I can’t watch them—I can’t let them—”

 

She drew in a deep breath at that, almost gasping. “Yes,” came her answer, a little too quickly, but he could not blame her. It was him or those beasts, and they were not going to be gentle with her. Though with a crowd of onlookers, he was not sure how this was going to work. He certainly was not going to disrobe either of them; the act was already vile enough without adding further insult to injury, but they were not being given much of a choice. If he fought them and lost, which was the most likely outcome, it would only be worse for Galadriel. He would leave her here all alone in this hell to be tormented for their amusement.

 

There was one thing, though. Sauron could not take her without having done something else first. It had lingered in the back of his mind for some time now, though he had never acted on it because she had not asked it of him. Cupping her face with both of his hands, he closed the small distance left between them and captured her lips in the softest of kisses at first. If this would be done, it would be done on his terms, whether Morgoth approved of his means or not. He would have Galadriel enjoy this, even if it was foul. He would not have her be afraid of him. He would not hurt her to sake Morgoth’s raucous appetite. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, even as her loose hair fell forward and created a curtain around them, at least giving them some little sliver of privacy.

 

He deepened the kiss as he moved closer to her, and he felt Galadriel’s hand rise between their bodies and grasp his tunic in the front, coiling tight around the fabric into a balled fist. She parted her lips and allowed him in, giving him permission, and then she choked back a small moan in the base of her throat in an attempt to hide her own desire. He captured her lips with more fervor after that, biting down on the bottom one, his body pushing against her, need and want taking over; his tongue slid past her lips, and hers brushed his back ever so softly. He groaned at that, one of his hands slipping backward from her cheek to her hair and grasping it between his fingers in a tight grip. If she wanted this, then it was even more bearable. He could tune the rest of the world out. He could pretend it was not there.

 

He tugged her head back and lowered his mouth to her throat, a soft gasp escaping her lips. It was so quiet. She was trying so hard to be quiet. He kissed a trail across her neck and suddenly nipped at her flesh. Galadriel drew in a sharp breath, the hand coiled in his tunic tugging down harder than before. His lips traced a pattern all the way to her ear until his teeth came down on her lobe. He felt the unconscious roll of her hips at that, and then he realized with full clarity that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. They would not have to pretend, not in truth; they would only have to pretend for appearances—make it appear it was something it was not.

 

One of his hands fell between them to the rip in her dress, sliding under it. “Pull away from me,” he whispered in her ear. “Pretend to fight me. I will pull you back to me.”

 

Galadriel nodded, breathing heavily through her mouth, and then she swatted his hand away with such a ferocity that it surprised even him. “Unhand me!” she hollered out, and then she spun away from him. It was perfect. Sauron grasped her arm and yanked her back to him until he had one arm tight around her waist, locking her back against his chest, and his other hand snaked under her torn dress from behind, curling around her undergarments at her hip and ripping it from her body. She gasped again. This time, it was much more loudly than before. It gave the appearance of something else, though he could hear the desire laced beneath the surface.

 

His hand returned to her thigh, caressing the bare flesh, though it lingered there for a moment. “May I?” he repeated beside her ear, the words barely a hushed whisper.

 

“Yes,” she answered softly, making the word sound like a hiss.

 

It was enough for him. He prayed she meant it. He slid his hand over the curve of her backside and in between her legs, fingers sliding between her warmth and finding her already wet; and he couldn’t stop himself. He growled at that, descending on her neck with his lips as his other hand spread her slickness over that little pressure point near the front. He pushed down and rubbed circles into her until she was writhing in his arms, attempting to pretend she wanted away from him—but as the front of her body pulled away from him, she pushed her hips down hard onto his hand and choked back the cries of pleasure she wanted to release.

 

His arm left her middle, and he found himself covering her mouth with one hand—and for good reason. He slipped two of his fingers inside of her, and Galadriel moaned through the hand clamped over her mouth, though it came out distorted and weak. He thrust them in and out, curled them just so, and returned his mouth to her throat to kiss and lick and nip her. His motions grew stronger, more rough with her, and he slipped in a third finger until she was squirming and shaking, and then she came hard around his fingers, her body seizing tightly around them.

 

He released her mouth, and then he pushed her to the floor. Galadriel stumbled, catching herself on the palms of her hands, and she turned her head to look back at him; there was a pained expression in her eyes, and he tried to apologize with his eyes. He lowered himself to his knees on the floor with her and snatched one of her arms, turning her around to face him. He cupped her cheek again, pulling her close to him. Their foreheads pressed together once more, even though it was only for a brief moment. “I am sorry,” he whispered against her lips. “Pretend to fight me some more, please.”

 

Galadriel nodded her head in an almost imperceptible manner, and she pulled back from him, attempting to tug her arm free of his grasp. “Let go of me!”

 

He yanked her back to him, and she gasped, and then he was pushing her down onto the stone floor. Maybe the fear crept in by then and made it a little too real because, when he looked down at her face below him, Galadriel was genuinely terrified as she glanced about the open chamber and saw all of the eyes on them. Her struggle against the grip of his hands was real, too, and she tried to tear them free, her whole body wriggling below him. Her eyes flitted back to him, and she looked like she might cry.

 

That was the worst part. It made him sick to his stomach. He wrestled with her, though, not because he meant to hurt her, but because he had to still her before he could talk to her again. It took all his strength to pin her arms down, and he settled his body between her legs; briefly, he lowered his head next to hers until his lips were next to her ear again.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Galadriel,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”

 

When he pulled back to look her in the eyes, her expression had calmed, but she was still shaken. “I am scared,” she admitted, barely breathing the words out.

 

“Me, too,” he breathed back, “but I won’t hurt you.” He leaned back down to her ear, releasing one of her wrists and snaking his hand down between their bodies. “Give me permission,” he pleaded once more.

 

“Yes,” she choked out, and he raised her dress out of the way only just enough for him, making sure her whole body was still covered so that none of these beasts could see her, and he freed himself from his trousers. He was hard, but he gave himself a few quick tugs to fight back the uneasiness that threatened to overwhelm his desire, and when he positioned himself against the heat between her legs, he pressed his forehead against hers once more and looked her in the eyes. It startled Galadriel, to have him make it so intimate, but both of their lips parted as he pushed into her. She gasped as he sunk in slowly, and he exhaled a heavy breath as well. He closed his eyes, stilling as he filled her all the way.

 

He did not think about the eyes on them. Both of his hands grasped hers, fingers coiling between her own, and he used the grip for leverage as he both clutched her hands and held them down, driving his hips into hers below. All manner of shaky, uneven breaths emanated from her lips, and though he could not feel her skin anywhere else, it seemed to heighten the sensation where their bodies joined together below. She was tight and so warm, and all her muscles seemed to clench down on him, ripping a groan from his throat as he rocked into her. He picked up the pace, thrusting harder and faster, wanting to enjoy it but wanting it to be over with as quickly as possible to spare her the excess humiliation.

 

He could hear the profane grunts and laughter from the crowd watching them, and he gripped her hands tighter, trying to drown them out as he focused on the feel of her, the exquisite heat; he wanted to kiss her, but that was not possible, not here, not right now; he could feel her legs, unsure of where they wanted to go, curling around him one moment, falling loose the next. He clutched her hands harder, filling her with each thrust until she was gasping below him, and then he realized she was enjoying it—that she had been enjoying it, and her body was shaking and trembling, and then her legs wrapped around him and clutched him back—and that was when he lost himself.

 

He drove his hips into hers until it was beat after beat of excruciating pleasure, gasping against her mouth until her body clenched around him and quaked with a release that soaked him further, and he thrust harder with more viciousness behind the action until he came moments later, collapsing on top of her.

 

They both lay there in silence for a moment. The raucous laughter reached a blinding crescendo. He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to pull off of her, but he felt as though his body was the only thing shielding hers, and it felt better to lay there rather than rise.

 

“Hmm,” came that deep, rumbling voice again. “That is much better, Mairon. You may go.”

 

The dismissal was both unceremonious and humiliating. He found himself lifting off from her, tucking himself back into his trousers and fixing them, and then he pulled Galadriel’s torn dress down to cover her once more. As if in a dream, he rose from the stone floor. His hand held onto Galadriel’s as he did so, helping her to rise as well.

 

Sauron did not recall the journey back to his quarters, only that he held her hand the whole way, and that an incredible numbness had fell upon him. He remembered the busted door when they arrived and lifted it, haphazardly laying it against the entrance for some measure of privacy. What was privacy now, though, when so many had seen them do what they did? A few steps into the chamber, he fell to his knees. He felt sick. His stomach churned, and he fell forward, heaving up the contents of what little food he had eaten that day.

 

In the back of his mind, he heard footsteps hurrying off and shortly returning.

 

“Here, drink this,” came Galadriel’s voice from the left. A cup was pressed to his lips, and he accepted the cool water. He drank it to cleanse the foul taste from his mouth. Somewhere past the fog in his mind, he registered her hand brushing itself soothingly through his hair.

 

“I am sorry,” he said, though his voice was barely there.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she murmured back, and then he realized she was sitting beside him. Her arms wound around his shoulders and neck, and she hugged him. It startled him. He expected her to hate him now, to be repulsed by his touch, to want nothing to do with him. It was not as if they had been given a choice. She might have said yes, but what was the other option? To be raped by a crowd of beasts, one after the other?

 

“How can you say that?” he whispered.

 

Galadriel pulled back, her hands grasping either side of his face. She made him look at her. “You did not have to plead on my behalf. You did not have to ask for my permission. You did not have to make so much effort to shield my body from their eyes.” Her thumb brushed his cheek, a moment of nervousness gripping her. “ . . . You did not have to make it feel good.”

 

Sauron understood what she was saying, but it was not enough. “None of that makes it any better.”

 

“No, it does not,” she agreed, “but . . . ” Galadriel lost the words, lowering one of her hands from his face and dropping it to his chest over his heart. “It tells me all I need to know.”

 

“What’s that?” he ventured.

 

Galadriel simply pulled him into her arms again and hugged him a second time. She never answered him. He never asked the question a second time. Eventually, she rose from the floor, and then she urged him to follow her, taking one of his hands into hers. She led him to the bed, ushering him to lay down. He followed her lead, laying down at her insistence. Slowly, Galadriel slipped out of her tattered dress, letting it fall to the floor, but he averted his gaze because she was naked underneath it. She stepped out of the dress, and he heard her unclasp the piece of jewelry and lay it on a nearby table. Galadriel and joined him on the bed, pulling the covers over their bodies.

 

What she did next startled him even further, for she wrapped her slender arm around his chest and sidled up to him. She held him closely, her leg even curling over his, and he found himself turning in her embrace to face her and wind his arm around her body as well. It started in his chest, and then his whole body shook with it. Galadriel brushed her hand over his hair, soothing him. It was not until she touched his cheek, her thumb catching against the trails of salty tears that he realized he had been crying. He opened his eyes, staring at her for the longest time. There were no tears on her face. Her eyes shone bright, though. No amount of pain, it seemed, could diminish them.

 

Her hand stilled on his cheek, laying flat, and he did something then that he did not expect.

 

He kissed her. He could not stop himself. Galadriel accepted the kiss, parting her lips against his, which only served to confuse him further. She moaned, a quiet, soft sound in the dark, and he touched her face delicately with his fingers, and then he was pushing himself on top of her. He wanted her, but he wanted her on his own terms, and Morgoth had taken that away from them. He had ruined it, turned it into something foul and disgusting, and now they could not take it back. They could not erase it.

 

His lips broke away from hers, and he stared down at her in the darkness. “I know I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he found himself saying, “but I did. I hurt you.”

 

Galadriel tilted her head back, lifting her chin. There was a look of defiance in her eyes. “You asked my permission.”

 

“What other choice did you have?” he countered.

 

Her hand cupped his cheek, holding him ever so softly. “Many,” Galadriel admitted, “but that was the only one I would have chosen.”

 

Chosen. Sauron realized something, then. What was he doing on top of her? He grasped her body and rolled them over, placing her on top of him on the bed. If she wanted this, then she was going to have to show him she wanted this of him. He would not take it from her again.

 

Galadriel gasped at that, and then she sat up, the covers falling off of her. Her naked body was beautiful in the faint light, and he allowed himself to look at it. His mouth fell open as his eyes roved over her, taking in all the curves, and then he felt her hands running over his chest, felt them tugging at his tunic, lifting it. He rose briefly, long enough to let her pull it off of him. Galadriel let it fall, her hands cupping his face and pulling him in for a kiss as she settled down into his lap to straddle him.

 

Somewhere past the fog of each tender kiss, he felt her hands leave his face and fall to his trousers, unfastening them and tugging them off his hips. Galadriel returned her body to his lap, her hand coiling around his manhood and pleasuring him. Between their kisses, a muffled moan emerged from the back of his throat, and when she rose herself and positioned their bodies just right, sinking down onto him, he let out a broken gasp against her lips. She was still wet, and so, so warm, and when she rocked her body into his, both of his arms came around her back to grasp her close to him.

 

She rode him until they were both sweating, panting, and gasping between kisses. She rode him until her body shuddered with completion not once or twice, but multiple times, and their bodies were soaked with the slick pleasure of each release she experienced above him. He did not come until after she had pushed him down flat onto the bed and held him down with one hand for leverage as she bounded up and down almost recklessly on top of him, gasping the whole time.

 

Galadriel squirmed down onto him, riding the last of it out of him as if she wanted, needed, every last drop—and his peak from her ministrations was so intense, his vision blacked out from it as he trembled beneath her.

 

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close until she was flush against his body, rolling them onto their sides and holding her like that throughout the night. His hand caressed her face and stayed there. He gazed into her eyes, wondering what was the pain in some truth when they had already gone through the worst of it. There might have still been worse things to come. They had nothing to ground them, nothing but each other. What was the harm in it? She was all he had.

 

“I love you,” he found himself admitting there in the dark.

 

Galadriel’s eyes shone bright, but it was not just the glint of light this time, he realized. She leaned forward, planting a soft kiss upon his lips, her own hand stroking his cheek and resting there to stay.

 

“I love you as well,” she admitted softly in return, snuggling deeper into his arms.

 

They fell asleep like that in each other’s embrace, safe there despite the cruelties of the world beyond this room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

While they could not take back what Morgoth had made them do, they had—in some strange way—reclaimed it and made their own narrative out of it. Here, in the safety of his quarters, they could be themselves and have their peace and happiness and pleasure, but outside of his chambers, they had to pretend to be master and slave for all to see. Galadriel deigned to the wear the chained necklace because it pleased Morgoth to see it around her neck, and for the longest time, Morgoth let them be.

 

“If he commands us to do that again,” Sauron put forward one day, “we need to have a plan to make it safe for us.”

 

Galadriel paused, her eyes rising to meet his. “Do you think he will demand it of us again?”

 

“Yes,” Sauron answered her, “if only because he is cruel. I want us to be prepared, Galadriel.”

 

She was quiet for a long time, and then she rose from her seat and walked over to him. Galadriel sat down in his lap, curling her arms around his neck, and leaned close to his ear. “Then, if he does, you may pleasure my body however you see fit,” she whispered, “and I will pretend to hate it. I will fight you. I will cry, but I want you to remember—none of it is meant. And no matter how much I struggle, I never want you to stop.” She pulled back to look him in the eyes, and then gave him the softest of kisses, both hands on either side of his face. When her lips parted from his, she added, “I know that is hard to believe in the moment, but you could never hurt me. That I know now.”

 

He swallowed past a building lump in his throat, hating what they had to plot in order to just survive and make it through another day. Preparing for it was the smarter choice. If it happened again, and they had not talked this through before it happened, and he hurt her . . .

 

“Are you sure?” he asked Galadriel.

 

She smiled at him, and it reached her eyes. A twinge of honesty that even he could not deny.

 

“Yes,” she said, and he believed her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It happened again. They were only walking through the corridors because they went everywhere together. Sauron was not comfortable with the idea of leaving Galadriel alone anywhere, not even alone in his own chambers, so she accompanied him through everything. It was his way of protecting her, and Galadriel preferred it that way as well. Today, she wore the chained necklace like every other day, the bracelet of it attached to Sauron’s very wrist, but today, Morgoth came upon them and paused in the walkway, blocking their path.

 

“Mairon,” he greeted in that deep, rumbling voice. His steely eyes cut to Galadriel, casting themselves over her form from head to toe. “Come. Follow me.”

 

It was not a suggestion. It was a demand.

 

Sauron looked back at Galadriel, unease filling him. She gazed back at him, nodding her head imperceptibly, and together, they followed Morgoth.

 

His towering figure led them to a large room, only it was empty. There were few furnishings inside of it, but one of the chairs within, Morgoth took for himself. They stood in the center of the dark room, unsure of what to do, but Morgoth made it plain almost immediately.

 

“Put your slave on all fours and breed her for me, Mairon,” he demanded. “She is not with child yet, so I suspect you are not doing your duty as often as you should be doing it.”

 

Sauron cast his gaze to Galadriel, turning his whole body to face her. Despite her reassurances in the past, he found himself caught between the same worry and self-hatred as before. May I? he mouthed to her. Galadriel’s answer was not in the form of a nod, for she was facing Morgoth’s direction. She simply bowed her head, and then she began to lower herself to her knees on the floor.

 

“Strip her,” Morgoth commanded, a vile excitement to his tone of voice. “I wanted her naked. You, too. Leave the chain on her neck, though.”

 

Sauron exhaled a shaky breath. This was worse, but he did not have a choice. Remembering Galadriel’s words, he stepped around until he was standing behind her kneeled form, and then he unclasped the bracelet from his wrist and let it fall. He untied the laces of her dress, pushing it off of her shoulders and baring her. He slipped it all the way down, his hands reaching her undergarments and pulling those down as well. When he looked at Galadriel’s face from the side, he noticed her eyes were closed. She rose each knee to help him remove it, and he was thankful for the ease in which they worked together.

 

It was a good thing they had talked about this. He could not have imagined doing any of this without her express permission, without her telling him it was all right. It was his one comfort despite the humiliation it brought them both.

 

He tore off his tunic, throwing it to the side. He kneeled behind Galadriel, pressing his hand down into her back to usher her to lay the top of her body as low as possible to the floor, her dress laying before her as a comfort between her naked body and the cold stone. Galadriel followed his insistence, her hips remaining high, and then he parted her legs and did something then that caused her to cry out in shock—he put his mouth on her sweet, slick cunt and covered her with it, drawing his tongue inward and up—and she was already slick and heady with want. If he was not mistaken, he might have said the exhibition turned her on, even if it was shameful. Shame did funny things to the body sometimes.

 

She bucked against his mouth and tongue, and then she pushed back against him, her face lowered and out of sight to hide her shame from her desire in such a lewd position. At least it was just the two of them. Just the two of them. His cock grew hard at the realization that this seemed to turn her on, and he licked and sucked her and brought his hand there just below his mouth, pushing two fingers inside the slick heat of her cunt and pumping them in and out until his hand was glistening from it. His mouth never left her either, only pushing against her more eagerly with each slip of his tongue, and she bucked harder into his face.

 

He turned his fingers inside of her and curled them forward, adding pressure to that little sweet spot at the front, and Galadriel could not stop herself—she cried out sharply, coming hard on his hand and into his mouth and he lapped it up to revel in the taste of her before pulling his hand away from her and unfastening his breeches to remove them. No matter what, she would enjoy this every time. He would see to that.

 

Kneeling behind her, he used the same hand that was inside her to wrap around his cock and give it a few quick tugs to make sure he was as ready as he needed to be—and then he pushed it inside of her, Galadriel both shuddering and seizing up as he did so, a gasp of heady pleasure escaping her lips. She thrust her hips backward, sinking onto him all the way until he was buried deep inside her, and despite the hedonistic pleasure, that was when he realized this looked too mutual for Morgoth’s benefit, so he grasped the chain dangling from Galadriel’s necklace and wrapped it around his wrist and tugged back on it.

 

It was not hard enough to hurt her, but strong enough to lift her head. What followed next was an agonizingly gratifying pound of his hips into hers, sending his throbbing cock deep into her with each thrust, and Galadriel gasped and cried out loudly each time he filled her all the way. His fierce movements hid the way she pushed back against him to meet each thrust willingly, so Morgoth would not notice it, would not see it—and her hands grasped for purchase onto her discarded dress on the floor, trying to steady herself against every pleasurable shock each pummel sent into and all the way through her body.

 

He quickened his pace until she was screaming, and he did not look to see if Morgoth was happy about that or not—he tried only to focus wholly on the feel of her, the intense, slick heat of her as her body clenched around his length and she came hard all around him. Galadriel fell loose below him after that, her limbs all weak and half-splayed out, but he kept thrusting deep into her as her body reached one immense wave of shock after another, after another, until her pleasure had soaked both him and the floor.

 

He came with an exploding release behind his eyes, blackening out his vision and causing him to almost fall against her, his hand catching her back to steady himself.

 

“You did good, Mairon,” came Morgoth’s voice through the intense haze in Sauron’s mind. “See to it that you get her with child soon. I am tired of waiting.”

 

His eyes closed against the degradation of the words being spoken to him.

 

If this was not hell, then he did not know what hell was at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It happened many times in many different ways. Morgoth seemed to thrive on the disgrace and dishonor it bestowed upon them, and the redder their cheeks were in the aftermath, the better. One day, Sauron was fashioning weapons in the forge, and the heat of it must have gotten to him. He was deep in intense thought with his work, Galadriel not ten feet away from him sitting down at a table, when a bright spark shot up from the molten blade, but it was not colored as a natural spark should have been colored. Astonished, and wary, Sauron passed his hand over it in the air out of curiosity. The spark came back, and this time, it bent to his will.

 

His eyes flashed bright at the realization. Something was happening. His magic, his power, was coming back to him.

 

In the very same moment as if the two events were entwined together, Galadriel grew sick at the table and bent over herself. He whirled around to look at her, and she raised her face to his gaze, a pained expression on her face.

 

“I think I am with child,” she admitted to him softly, though her voice shook with tremendous fear. “I have been sick for some time.”

 

Sauron dropped his tools. He should have been scared, too, but he was surprisingly calm. He walked over to her and kneeled before her, taking her hands into his own and holding them with a firm grip. “Everything will be all right,” he reassured her, and Galadriel’s expression twisted into one of pain.

 

“How do you know that?” she demanded, fearing the worse—for them, for their child.

 

His hand reached out and cupped her cheek. “Don’t worry,” he said, remembering the spark above the molten red—and what it meant for him. A smile crept to his face, filling his eyes with an unnatural light. “I have a plan.”

 

 

Chapter 3: Eyes Open, Epilogue

Summary:

“They will separate me from you,” he heard himself say as the celestial chorus of voices soared overhead, louder and louder in unison over his own. “When we land.”

The mere suggestion of it was clearly an affront to her. Galadriel’s face wrinkled in disgust—a valiant effort of defiance, even in the face of their only salvation.

“They can try,” she rebuked, gripping his hand tighter below her own. His hand, trapped between the warmth of her hand and the warmth of her gown, was somehow soothing despite the warnings in his heart. He could hear them, crooning lower in a deep reverberation beneath the high-pitched voices joined together in a trilling chorus above the depths of the sea.

Notes:

I’ve returned to this one for an epilogue as well as to offer an explanation of events after the cliffhanger of Part 2. I’ve received many requests since this story's inception of what happens next, and while I don’t have the time to flesh out a longer story at the moment, it was nice to return to this one again after so long and write a little bit more in this universe. Originally, they were always meant to escape on a ship and sail West, finding a safe haven in Valinor. I had thought a few times to add more to this universe, but for now, this will be all. And it feels very fitting. I hope you all enjoy this epilogue very much. ❤️❤️❤️

I listened to Sam Barber’s “Indigo” on repeat while writing this. A very beautiful song, and very fitting for their circumstances here.

 

* * *

 

 

No story ever ends, does it? It just leads into others.

— Rick Riordan, “The Tower of Nero”

 

 

* * *

 

 

As the dark veil of clouds parted like two curtains lifting up from the sea, a light shimmered in the distant fog over the water, radiating with a thousand sparkling tendrils made of many colors into an opening wave of blinding rays in the sky above the tumultuous waves. That molten spark jumped in front of his vision, even though it was no longer there—a subtle reminder of what they had just escaped in the deep bowels of the earth.

 

He held the base of the mast with his fist enclosed tight around the pole, the jostling waves rocking the ship back and forth as he stared at it—knowing it was infinitely better than whatever they were leaving behind.

 

Sauron recalled the clamoring horde as it had descended upon them, as they had looked back, running for their lives, stumbling once over the boards—towards the docks, towards the ship, stealing it out from under the gaze of Morgoth’s soldiers and beasts, all hollering and shrieking for blood.

 

He blinked, and the vision was gone—but his heart still pounded from it. From the excitement of running free and the fear of would they even make it away.

 

Somehow, they had. Against all opposition.

 

Despite everything standing against them.

 

He had something to live for, though. Something to fight for—for once.

 

He glanced back over his shoulder. Galadriel sat by the stern, holding her belly within her hands. She was seasick and months with child. Normally, her constitution was strong, but here—it was weakened, though not by any fault of her own.

 

He released the mast, stepping over a rope, and headed towards her. With the ship still jostling through the waves as they began to calm, he made his way carefully towards Galadriel’s side and sat beside her.

 

At first, it was quiet. All he could hear was the waves sloshing against the bow.

 

“Are you all right?” he ventured hesitantly, wanting to reach out a hand to touch her, but he waited. He waited for her answer.

 

“Yes,” Galadriel replied, lifting her head. “I am all right.”

 

“And the baby?”

 

A slight curl of her lip almost formed a smile as Galadriel glanced down, running her hand over the protruding bump in her gown. “Yes, she is all right, too.”

 

His eyebrows raised in slight surprise. “—She?” he then asked, wondering how Galadriel even knew.

 

“Well—” Galadriel caught herself, sighing softly. “I hope it is a girl.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I have always wanted a girl,” came Galadriel’s gentle response.

 

He felt something of a smile itching to find its way onto his face, curving the corner of his mouth upwards. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes,” she murmured, running her hand over the bump once more.

 

He lifted his hand, pausing it just above her own. “May I?”

 

Galadriel raised her eyes to his, meeting his gaze. The blue of them shone with an impossible brightness, reflecting the sparkling lights through the veil across the sea—the shimmering lights of the Blessed Realm, reaching out to welcome them. They were called the Undying Lands, for nothing ever left there for long.

 

All roads led back to it. At least, for their kind—for his kind, and hers.

 

And reflected back to him in her eyes, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Though he feared it, too. His fate was far more uncertain than hers. He could run from Morgoth for all of time to the ends of the earth—but all roads led back to Valinor, and he had many sins to atone for along the way.

 

The way home. It was once his home, but it had not been such for a long, long time.

 

Too long to remember when he had left—and why.

 

The memory was ashes on his tongue.

 

“Yes,” Galadriel spoke, breaking through his thoughts and bringing him back to the present moment. Gently, she took his hand into hers—and guided it towards her belly, hovering them both in the air just above her gown. “You may.”

 

She did not place his hand. She let him do it himself.

 

He hesitated again. A part of him feared touching her without her express permission, but she had already agreed, and so maybe it was all in his head—and it was. The profane grunts and jeers from the crowd, cackles above them and all around like a cavernous echo of shame—the raucous laughter reaching a blinding crescendo.

 

He closed his eyes, pushing it all away—and slowly, he lowered his hand until it touched the warmth of her belly through the soft fabric of her gown, a little life growing inside of her. A little life that they had created together. He had never made something before of pure intent. All of his creations had been tainted and tarnished by the twisting of his will against the natural workings of the world—but this, this was pure, and so it was different somehow from all of the rest.

 

It was one of the few good things he had done with his life, even if the circumstances themselves had been barbaric.

 

This was not.

 

This was beautiful, and it was theirs.

 

He opened his eyes, staring down at his hand as it rested against her belly and the life inside of her, her hand laying on top of his own.

 

He cast his eyes out over the sea. The veil grew closer with every moment that passed them by as the ship sailed its own true course through the parting waves ahead of the bow. A fresh mist, falling softer than the lightest of rains, pattered upon the face of the deck and dampened their cheeks and foreheads with the arms of its welcoming embrace. As the droplets fell upon them from within the mist, its touch tickled their shoulders while the glimmering lights beyond the veil of the horizon descended down from the clouds, surrounding their ship with the glittering sea and a prism of ethereal light reflecting bright and pure throughout the misty haze.

 

In the distance beyond the veil, voices sang out—an Elvish song of beauty and grace. Their voices rose up in a haunting echo over the sea, a ghost song from the shores of Valinor—unnerving to some, glorious to others—delivered in a greeting towards the oncoming ship of passengers to its shores.

 

To him, it was unsettling—but it was only unsettling because of the news it brought with it.

 

He glanced back at her, wary of the path they had taken—but it had been the only path known to them, and the only path they could crawl a way out of the torment and slavery that Morgoth had dug into the bowels of the Middle-earth upon his return.

 

This was the only place they could be free—but, of course, it came with a cost.

 

All good things came with a cost.

 

“They will separate me from you,” he heard himself say as the celestial chorus of voices soared overhead, louder and louder in unison over his own. “When we land.”

 

The mere suggestion of it was clearly an affront to her. Galadriel’s face wrinkled in disgust—a valiant effort of defiance, even in the face of their only salvation.

 

“They can try,” she rebuked, gripping his hand tighter below her own. His hand, trapped between the warmth of her hand and the warmth of her gown, was somehow soothing despite the warnings in his heart. He could hear them, crooning lower in a deep reverberation beneath the high-pitched voices joined together in a trilling chorus above the depths of the sea.

 

“They will,” he echoed softly in reply, pausing for only a moment to let the final word sink in, “—succeed.”

 

Galadriel lifted his hand upwards to press it into her chest, raising their arms between them. “You were as much a prisoner as I,” she argued. “They will see that. They have to see that.”

 

He stared off into the distance beyond the bow of the ship, the glistening horizon becoming nothing more than a blur of sparkling lights within his field of vision.

 

“I have debts to pay,” he murmured, turning back to look at her. He could feel the mist upon his face, cleansing him of the fear. “I will have to pay them, one way or another. It’s the only way out. I see that now. I will have to face it, whether I want it or not.” He grasped her hand harder within the clasp of his own, leaning closer towards her face. “But until then,” he whispered with the smallest of smiles upon his lips, “we will have this moment to ourselves, and I want it to be a happy one.”

 

Her eyes glistened on the verge of tears instead of the mist, brighter and bluer than he had ever seen them before. She fought them back as best as she could, so that none of them fell. “I wish not to be parted from you,” Galadriel admitted, her voice breaking. “I will plead for you. They cannot deny me entry into Máhanaxar—”

 

“They will allow those to speak on my behalf,” he concurred knowingly, his head tilting slightly to the side. A damp lock of hair fell upon his forehead. “As well as against it. You know the rules.”

 

“I will speak to him,” Galadriel hastened on, gripping his hand between both of her own. “Frodo—”

 

“—You think he will plead on my behalf?” he asked, more curiosity than disbelief. “After everything he went through?”

 

She paused, caught between a thought and a feeling as they each rushed through her mind, lips parted in both wonder and confusion. “Yes,” breathed Galadriel, heaving out the breath in her lungs as it hit her, and her eyes lit up. “Yes, he will plead on your behalf—and Mithrandir—”

 

“—High names you bring to my council,” he said, but there was doubt in his tone, laced beneath each word.

 

Galadriel’s face turned hard as stone as she stared him down, her eyes no more than an unblinking stare. “Do not mock me.”

 

Wearily, he closed his eyes, feeling the hefty weight of the water droplets upon his lashes as they slid down each strand with the burden of the world in each sphere. Lowering his chin down to his chest, he realized he did not wish to argue with her in these final moments that they might have together—for a very long time.

 

Drawing a deep breath into his lungs to calm himself, he exhaled it softly into the wind, opening his eyes once more. “I do not mock you,” he murmured back in assurance, curling the length of his fingers around the soft curves of Galadriel’s knuckles. “I thank you—” came his choked whisper, “—for all that you have done, and for all that you will do.” He swallowed past a catch in his throat, dry and patchy behind his tongue. “I do not deserve it—but I welcome it, all the same.”

 

“They will speak on your behalf,” murmured Galadriel in return. “I know they will. I will talk to them. They have compassion in their hearts—as well as reason, and you are not beyond either.”

 

He could hear the voices growing louder in symphony from beyond the veil, weaving all of the tales of the world together in a single song. They were not Elvish voices, he soon realized, but something much greater in power and beauty—something more like him; some of the voices rang out of the depths of the ocean, a deeper resonance within their chords, and others soared out of the sky, light and airy with the call of the breeze. Some yet sang through the trembling leaves of blossoming trees far away on yonder shores, while others crept into the music from deep rumblings beneath the mountains.

 

All of it came together in the most beautiful melody. Tears stung his eyes as he listened to it, as he soaked it all in; closing his eyes against the wave of the music, he could almost recall that first song, the very first song that sung everything into existence in the beginning.

 

It sounded something like this; the beginning of life—the beginning of everything.

 

“They will show mercy,” whispered Galadriel, fearful and yet somehow still hopeful of the words she spoke; whether they were for her or for him, he could not say.

 

He opened his eyes against the blinding light as it fell upon them, warm and golden, silver and pure—the light of the Two Trees, reborn in a new form from the ashes of an old world that was no more, and yet somehow was—once again.

 

The tears fell from his eyes, hot and burning flames against the cool mist dotted upon his cheeks.

 

He clenched her hand closer, unable to let go.

 

“Perhaps they will,” he agreed.

 

She said nothing, but held his hand closer—as the light of Valinor from beyond the veil enveloped them whole in a glistening waterfall of silver and gold.

 

 

 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Morgoth Made Them Do It