Thinking and hammering. He always thought best while working his hands. Pouring every thought and emotion into the fire and metal. Their blade rested to the side, hammered out in one strike.
He had only himself to blame, showing her his darkest desire for her. But the greater error had been showing her those dungeons. Never had anyone broken past his spells and out of his control to move or see beyond his vision, to recognize anything he did not will. She knew what lay beneath them, in the remnants of the old fortress. She could probably sense more of her kind festering and wasting away. Enemies of old. Enemies he was still reluctant to free.
And then there was the problem of her magic. He had guided that ring's very creation, perhaps that's how it knew just how to resist his sorcery. Independent of her own desires. Almost semi-conscious in its own will. He suspected as much the first moment her light deflected his own powers, parrying him with ease. Her own inner light, her soul formed and grown in the light of Valinor itself, only amplified the ring's power. What it would feel like to wear that ring, to be flooded again and bathed in that Light. That would at last save his soul. But until then, it was clear he had to bring her under his sway further, cautious at the strength she did not know she wielded.
His mind turned back to his desirous vision he gifted her, the image of her suspended and spread sending aching arousal through his whole being. If only he could have shown her the rest of his vision, he panted as his hammer strokes fell harder on the glowing and misshapen ore before him. But that flash of her magic had taken its toll on him, fracturing and deforming his fair form, even if but for a moment.
It had been easy enough to fix, to kiss her farewell before ordering her to return to their rooms, seeming to miraculously heal him by that kiss of her light. It took him but a flick of his wrist, a bat of his eyes to shift back into human form. But she had been swayed easily. She could indeed fix him. Or at least that magic that rode her own power would bring him salvation.
He hammered out three more strikes on his anvil, the ore forming just another blade. He could make them in his sleep; in fact Aulë had made him do that very deed countless times. Sleepless nights at the forge, or nights spent almost asleep, still hammering and magic-wielding. Memories flooded in Valinor's light crept into his mind, Aulë grinning wide behind his beard, clapping him on his back so hard he stumbled forward, commending him for being truly as admirable as his name had meant. Mairon.
A snarl came from his throat, as Sauron whipped the almost formed blade across the room with a resounding clatter.
If there was any hope for redemption, any chance he could ever face the Valar again, he would have Galadriel and her ring as his own.