Chapter 1: Narya

No matter how unclean the slate

She always refilled his plate

Betrayed, alone, and reduced to tarry muck congealed on a cliff side, Sauron preoccupied himself only with thoughts of survival. His power had been ground fine as dust in mortar and pestle and all that remained was the acrid smell of sulfur. When at last he had absorbed enough creatures to refurbish himself whole again, a sense of futility remained and coated his human tongue like vinegar.

Above all else, he was tired. Tired of suffering, tired of being cast out to ruination, tired of endlessly foiled machinations. Perhaps it was time to put an end to the depravity and attempt to find a new purpose. To lay down roots and see if he could grow into something not entwined with rot.


His first true act of benevolence in generations came when he plunged into the frothing, roiling sea in pursuit of the temperamental She-Elf he had just met. She was sinking fast, the broken mast she had tied herself to weighing down her lithe body. He unfastened her with deft hands, not wasting precious time to question his motivation in aiding a willful, prideful enemy, and hauled her back to the surface, back aboard the pathetic remains of their makeshift raft. She sputtered up seawater as he laid gasping beside her, grappling with what he had just done- jeopardizing his own safety for an Elf, one whose admitted purpose in life was to kill him.

He had done something… good. Maybe it was not too late to correct course and begin to mend, first himself and then the ruin he had salted into the strata of the world. The deed itself and the idea following it felt like a joint popped out of place, and yet all that echoed within the shells of his ears were the words his fellow castaway had cried out to him, hand outstretched, before the damning wave had collided into her- "Bind yourself to me!"

She slept beside him, curled up like a nautilus, their legs submerged in the icy water as the miserable state of the raft could hardly support their weight any longer. She shivered in her slumber, porcelain skin tinged blue from cold, and unconsciously nestled closer to the warmth of his corporeal form. Sauron made no effort to push her away, but let her rest her arm against his, left leg entwining slightly between his, her face in the crook of his neck so close that he could smell the fragrant scent of her breath and body. He didn't understand how she managed it, after however long submerged in the salt of the sea, but she smelled only of amaranth and nectarine, as if perpetually in the belly of summertime.


After the Númenóreans rescued them and granted them safe passage to their island, Sauron considered several opportunities. First, he allowed Galadriel to explain the complex history of Númenor, feigning amazement and unfamiliarity, certain that it was convincing enough. Next, he bargained before the Queen Regent for more time in the kingdom, despite his new companion's insistence on leaving immediately (and doing them both no favors with her surliness in court). If he were to establish himself anywhere and test his tolerance for decency, where better than here?

During their brief time together he had become partial to teasing the She-Elf, testing the limits of her patience, learning what would draw out her ardor like sap from a tree. But she had resolved to go to the Southlands, and nothing could appeal to him less.

"I have been searching for my place for longer than you know," he told her once they were released from observation. Some part of him was not eager to bid her farewell.

"Perhaps some peace will do you good as well," he settled on saying before offering his hand to her to shake. She paused before taking him by the forearm, like comrades in arms, and he pulled her to him. He could not resist making one last jape, cautioning her to at the very least avoid making new enemies, but the needling was belied by the lingering of his closeness. He leaned into her face and searched deep within her irises, hoping for something he could not quite name, before pulling away and departing.


Carving out a new place of belonging proved more difficult than conquering certain lands had once been. Employment was not easily secured without a guild badge, despite Sauron's legendary prowess in craftsmanship. "I'm here to start anew," he said in attempt to cull favor with a blacksmith at his first choice of smithies but was unceremoniously dismissed.

The day certainly did not improve from there, as it ended with him behind bars. He reasoned he had shown admirable restraint to the men that first heckled him, then cornered him in an alley and instigated violence. He had warned them, even pleaded with them to stop. Their pulped, bloodied faces and bodies left lying crumpled up like tissue in the rain was a mercy. He could have killed them at any time, even meant to once they had started that business about Galadriel and how she would prefer someone of "better breeding" to him.

By all rights it should not have incensed him so- they were pointless words from insolent, meaningless scum. But he was a Maiar awake since before the Music of the Ainur, before the awakening of the Elves, of surpassing mastery and greatness- there was no finer, rarer being to be found in this age, and they had the gall to argue his pedigree as if an animal. He could hardly imagine a more grievous insult.

But in truth, it wasn't even that which drove him to murderous intent. It was the implication that Galadriel was too good for him.


She visited him in his prison cell, her conviction now set on the exasperating notion that he was some reluctant king in hiding, destined to raise his banners and rule over the Southlands. He tried time and again to put this notion down like some rabid vermin, but she was stubborn and willful in all things, including her disregard for the truth.

He eventually came dangerously close to divulging his identity to her one evening after toiling away at the blacksmith's workshop.

"You don't know what I did before I ended up on that raft," he gritted out. "You don't know how I survived. How we all survived. And when these people discover it, they will cast me out. So will you."

She did not chafe at this, but instead did something he had not anticipated- expressed understanding.

"Sometimes to find the light, we must first touch the darkness."

She went on to say he would find no peace on the island and redemption would only be gained in coming with her, and with that, she left him alone in the forge.


Desire he was no stranger to. It had taken many forms throughout his long and illustrious life, innumerable as the forms and faces he had fastened for himself. Desire for order, control, possession, domination. Yes, these he knew all too well. But desire for another, beyond mastering their mind to achieve his own ends?

His proximity to the She-Elf seeded within him an emotion that burned like a brand within his mortal chest, a gnawing yearning that had woken him time and again in the velvet of the night until the film of sweat on his skin and hot ache between his legs forced him to label the sensation for what it was- lust. He had suppressed it at first, incensed by the betrayal of the body he had selected for himself, for such a base thing was beneath him; even in the shape of beasts, he had not succumbed to such primal urges.

The beauty of the Elves was legendary, and Galadriel was haloed in sparkling brilliance unparalleled even among her race, but this was of little comfort to him. He refused to gratify himself, which only served to heighten his craving, infuriating him to the point that he could howl as if a werewolf once more.

And then, at last, a revelation- had he not once served a master with the power to break continents to bits like spice, who was still swayed like a branch in the wind by the beauty of Varda? Of Lúthien? If Morgoth himself could be beguiled by the fairest of the Elves, why should his former lieutenant alone be exempt, especially while constricted in the weak flesh of a man?

This desire was as valid as any other- and Galadriel was a gem worthy of the preoccupation of his mind. And so, that same night before he set his will to join her in departing Númenor, forsaking any progress and attempts at an earnest life as a smith, he planted his spine into the frayed fabric of his sheets and dared to grant himself some satisfaction.

It was an unnatural thing, the rough grip and stroke of his engorged member in his calloused hands, but the pleasure was undeniably sweet. And she would taste of all things sweet- of ambrosia, yes, of buttercream, of victorious conquest. A dam broke at thoughts of the She-Elf, and a desperate sound escaped unbidden from his throat, his arm moving with a swiftness it had not since battles centuries past.

He pictured first her hair, billowing golden around her slender white shoulders, and then down- down- to a perfect bare form, unblemished, reserved and revealed only to him, svelte and trembling with mutual need. Then, caressing and parting those petal-soft thighs and using his troublesome endowment for its intended purpose, pushing slowly, slowly, not into her mind but into her body, knowing the warm ecstasy of being truly inside her, the fairest to ever walk Middle-Earth.

He knew he was approaching the crashing of the tide, on the verge of erupting in flame hotter than the furnace in which he had forged all manner of steel, and he thought last of her face- Galadriel's beautiful face in flushed disarray, twisted, mouth open as if to scream, eyes wide and flashing, and he imagined her crying out in a strangled voice, not "Halbrand," but-

"Sauron!"

He roared as release rolled over him, climax coursing down to his bones. He laid panting, nearing an emotion too close to vulnerability, adjacent to shame, the concept of which had once been so dreadful that it plunged him into the cracks of Middle-Earth to hide from Manwë's judgment.

But his resignation was imploded by a realization in this act- there were joys to be found in the flesh. And he wanted more than to slake his lust with imagination- he wanted Galadriel, all of her, the real her. So when the dawn dappled rosy hues against his window and he sat clutching the sigil of the Southlands when the Queen Regent summoned him, there was no longer a choice to be made. There was to be no normal life ahead of him, and no life without her. He couldn't, he just couldn't leave her behind.


Battle still came naturally to him. His ears, even as weak human ears, hummed perpetually with the bolting of blood, the cracking of bones, the splintering of resolves- and the most relished sound of all, the clatter of armored knees dropping to the ground before him in submission. When Adar laid prostrate before him, Sauron meant to drive his spear into him as many times as his orcs had stuck him like a pincushion. The only things that stayed his hand were the frantic pitch of Galadriel's voice behind him, and the fleeting thought that perhaps he had deserved that agonizing, would-be death.

Sauron did not expect redemption. Repentance could not make amends to the dead- a lifetime of atonement would be a trickling crevice in the mountainside of evil he had wrought.

And yet…

"Be free of it," Galadriel told him, face muddied from battle, silk-spun hair braided back with dampened strands framing her cheeks in gold as bright as mithril. It was not the first time she had freely dispensed her absolution, brushed aside his past with a thrust of grace, but this time her words reached his chest. The font of her light flooded into him, healing, scorching, foreign as the shores of Valinor. A balm for wounds so deep they were harbored in the blue of his veins, the black of his heart that seemed to beat again for the first time in centuries, an iceberg rupturing so violently he nearly choked.

"I never thought I could be," he said, "Until today."

He understood, at last. In the past he had been receptive to, even partial to, alliance and allegiance. But this feeling was far more than camaraderie. No. They were bound, inextricably, kindred in passion and power, equals in fortitude of the mind. Never had he been so wholly understood and exonerated still, and by one so fair of face, no less. He no longer cared about revenge. About starting anew. He only cared about…

"You," he meant to tell her, "You are my purpose." But these were not the words he said to the She-Elf.

Instead, a tongue that had picked the locks of a thousand minds felt as lead and stumbled before her like a child. "Fighting at your side, I… I felt… If I could just hold onto that feeling, keep it with me always, bind it to my very being, then I…" he halted.

"I felt it too," she acknowledged immediately, and with ease. He looked at her, and she met his gaze with what seemed to him a confirmation that their minds were as one. He lingered in the cerulean of her stare, intoxicating, more revealing than palantíri, reveling in the full scope of a future with her at his side.

Morgoth had coveted Varda but could never possess her. Sauron had surpassed his master- the beautiful, mighty Galadriel had sought him out and chosen him, with full knowledge that he had sewn discord and done evil. He would ensure that none would forget it. She would reign for the remainder of her long days in splendor, her virtue enshrined in unlimited dominion. A fitting reward for the tamer of the tempest within him.


When he awoke in Eregion, healed from his wounds, the first thing he asked was if Galadriel was there. He realized he was speaking to none other than Celebrimbor, the only being in Middle-Earth whose skill in forgery surpassed his own, and he almost laughed aloud at how his fortunes had aligned like constellations. He had nurtured a connection with the She-Elf strong enough to both temper and elevate him to his fullest potential, and now the means to his original plans had fallen into his lap.

An ideal reign could finally be realized, and it would be the salvation of all. Just as they would have to perfectly measure the alloys to craft the rings, he had at last found a perfect balance, between his own darkness and Galadriel's light. And so- he was making two. Two rings, to rule them all. Unbridled power, shared, and so stabilized. She was the answer.


The sediment of every grand design eroded beneath him the moment Galadriel threw the scroll at his feet and asked him who he was. He evaded her words like knifepoint until there was nothing more to be done- she knew. She knew everything.

"Tell me your name," she choked, tears misting her eyes. This was the last thing he wanted, but his next words were like a long exhale, the naked truth a relief unparalleled only but to the pleasure he had granted himself with thoughts of her naked body.

"I have been awake since before the breaking of the first silence," he said. "In that time, I have had many names." She struck at him as quickly as an adder, and he caught her arm with equal swiftness. His options were limited, and there was nothing to be lost in attempting to sway her within her mind if reality was already forfeit.

He conjured a rolling green meadow, baked in yellow sunlight, assuming the form of her brother that had perished by his hand. For all her venom, Galadriel could not resist the face of her lost kin, her beloved Finrod, and her fury dissolved just enough for Sauron to begin stitching together a ploy. He manipulated the cross brace of his puppet so that her brother's voice harped out soothing platitudes, encouraging her to accept that her sworn enemy aimed only to save Middle-Earth, to usher in an era of peace. To his dismay, even Finrod's visage was not enough to sway her- she stood and strode away from him, the wildflowers at her feet tangling into weeds behind her.

"Galadriel," he called, panic rising in his throat like bile. "Come back to me. Galadriel!" She kept her back to him, taking every sprite of his hope in her retreat, each step further plunging him into a yawning chasm.

"LOOK AT ME!" he bellowed.

He had transported them back to the raft where they first met, where he had saved her and she had unknowingly saved him- given him purpose, exoneration, a hunger he had never known.

"You deceived me!" she cried.

"I told you the truth!" he argued, eyes pleading, attempting to shuck away her doubt like wood shavings. "I told you that I had done evil andyou did not care. Because you knew that our past meant nothing, weighed against our future."

"There is no such future," she hissed. But he sensed her hesitation, a momentary twitch in the corner of her lips, her mouth as red as a wound. He bloated with newfound confidence, shifting to wring out her uncertainty.

"Isn't there?" he murmured, directing her gaze to the stilled water around them. She peered into it to see at last what he had seen for so long now, the culmination of their bond- her crowned at his side, enshrined in glory. She bristled at the vision, but Sauron was close enough to feel something within her shift on its axis, the doldrums in her soul quickening to sparking embers. He reached out and stroked the delicate contour of her jawline, cupping her chin and turning her face gently to look at him.

"You would make me a tyrant," she rasped.

"I would make you a queen," he said earnestly, his smile saccharine and bright.

"And you. My king. The Dark Lord," Galadriel forced out, her voice little more than a whisper. He shook his head.

"No. Not dark. Not with you at my side. You told me once that we were brought together for a purpose," he said, caressing her shoulder. "This is it. You bind me to the light. And I bind you to power. Together, we can save this Middle-Earth."

"Save? Or rule?"

The question surprised him, as the answer was so obvious.

"I see no difference."

Perhaps it was the pinprick he noted in her resolve, or the intense conflict rippling in the sapphire of her eyes, but he had become assured his enticement would be successful- he did not expect what she said next.

"And that is why I will never be at your side."

The initial crack of shock blistered into anguish, then calcified into scorn.

"You have no choice," he sneered, mouth dry as if packed with gauze. "Without me, your people will fade, and the shadow will spread and darken to cover the world. You NEED me."

But Galadriel was immovable, all the iron in her that he had admired coldly unweaving the tapestry of his plans strand by strand. This had all been for her- and it had all been for nothing. The well of blackness within Sauron brimmed and then overflowed, and he erupted in wrath.

"What will they do when you tell them that you were my ally?" he roared. "When you tell them, Sauron lives, because of YOU!"

"And you will DIE because of me!" she screamed back, and he howled in rage, the bitterness of her denial shooting through the patchwork of his veins like mercury. He cast her down, leaving her to wallow underwater within her mind, doomed to drown as she originally would have without him.

She did not perish, of course, as Sauron left her actual body in a shallow stream, relishing the knowledge that she would lay there in mental torment as he fled. He had been betrayed before, even flayed and bled out by his own army, but never had he felt more spurned. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly, his wishes rising like carbonation only to be chewed open like stitches and smattered into the mud? He started his long journey toward the only place left for him, thinking of nothing else but driving his fingers into the mirror of what could have been and breaking, breaking, breaking.


The three Elves arraigned their precious jeweled gifts in reverent wonder as Sauron observed from Mordor within his mind, shrouded in volcanic soot. They had stolen his creation for themselves, and he was alone. Rejected. Cast out. Again.

For a fraction of a breath, he pictured himself in a dazzling white throne room with his arm snaked around the deep curve of Galadriel's waist, all that he had wanted realized, as she beamed up at him with unconditional adoration and proclaimed with pride, "My Lord."

Then his ambition and emotion, hand in hand, fell to the marble below and shattered like diamond glass.