imagine a Third Age Sauron design like ive formerly pictured, wearing a porcelain mask in the shape of a beautiful face (he isnāt dealing well with his pretty privilege being revoked), priestly robes like he had in NĆŗmenor as a priest of Melkorā aka where he was last fair and had full control over his appearance. but also imagine him with facets in his appearance from all the people who directly suffered at his hand, or made him suffer in turn.
fused permanently into the head of this form is a half-broken and filthy golden sun crown that he hides with a hood, crusted with barnacles and coral, that would sit at the back of his head, framing it. this is the crown of NĆŗmenor. beneath his robes, his flesh is melted to the shape of a set of indestructible silver plate armour, splattered with indelible blood, and carved on the chest and shoulders with the FĆ«anorian star. this was the armour that Celebrimbor was taken in. his right hand is the only part of his body that is exempt from this armour (he usually covers it with a different gauntlet or a glove that he can remove freely), and if youāre lucky (or unlucky enough) to catch a glimpse of his bare hand, you will see the missing ring finger, and around it the rest of the hand will be rotting and blackā like from a lack of circulation. barring the missing finger, this is exactly what Maedhrosā hand looked like before it was severed. and beneath the mask, what has become of his legendary beauty?
his entire face is mutilated with claw marks, punctuated by tufts of black, coarse fur, all of this framing a mouth full of enormous gleaming fangs. his monstrous, conspicuous teeth are the best-kept part of his form, Eru personally made sure of it. he is Finrod, man melting into wolf at the end. these teeth are for killing monsters. his hair hangs sparsely in lank strings of various colourā black, red, silver, gold. only one eye can open still, and it blazes unblinking like Doom itself. and around the circumference of his skull, exactly where a glorious crown of his own might have sat, there is a ridge of bulging, festering wound, always dripping with blood and pus, even giving way to bone at his foreheadā strangely, in three consecutive diamond shapes. Morgothās vile legacy weighs heavy on his brow. the sun despises him (even more than she already did) now, and he doesnāt leave his fortress out of fear, and perhaps even a little bit of shame, for he burns in the light like his miserable orcs.
Mairon cannot even look at himself without feeling the mockery of a thousand ghosts, and the fist of God tightening around his heretic throat.
