#admirableringmaker

There was an immediate sense of wrongness when he finally came to. Why, he could not say, beyond the obvious of wherever he was now, it was not the Halls of Mandos. Had the Valar decided to reembody him already? How many years had it been? Time flowed strangely in the Halls, and Curufin could not tell if it had been only days, or maybe centuries had passed without his knowing.

What he knew also was that the body was wrong. His fëa rejected the physical form so utterly that Curufin struggled to stand, and a terrible wave of nausea overcame him, so sudden and intense that he could not resist the urge to vomit. He felt sick. This could not be the Valar’s doing; they knew the rules of fánar and fëar better than anyone.

And as Curufin stood, to his horror, he immediately understood why he felt so horrid. Worst of all, in front of him was - face all too familiar.

“What have you done?!” Any effort from him to control the body was near impossible. Keeping balance on its own was hard enough, his height and musculature and voice all wrong. He tried to extend his arms and grab onto Sauron’s shoulders, yet only succeeded in stumbling forward into the other. “What have you… this isn’t me…! This isn’t my body, this isn’t me! Let me go!”

Auriel Bingo | accepting! | @admirableringmaker // @curufiin muse mention

Auriel tilted her head at him, a flicker of confusion passing over her features before it softened into something warmer. Whatever sharpness might have lingered in the air seemed to pass her by entirely.

“I suppose our lord was correct in saying you were beginning to warm to me, hm?” She smoothed her hands over the edge of the table, setting the card down.

🩸 Smear the receiver’s blood across their cheek. (Sauron and Pharazon) -✧- @admirableringmaker

The sacrificial rites for the Lord of Darkness had begun to take place upon Zigûr's advice and it seemed that all was going well. Nothing bad had yet happened to the isle of Anadûnê and their domain over Middle-earth strengthened. Even the altars of human sacrifice had spread from Armenelos to the shores across the sea. Soon would come eternity ensured for the King, with the sacrifice of some of his own life's source.

˗ˏˋ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 tucked a long strand of black hair behind a pointed ear was unmistakably that of an artist — long-fingered, elegant, the delicate skin marked only by the faintest blemishes of his craft. A nervous gesture, though he hoped it did not look like one!

In his other hand he held a box & his silver eyes lingered on the fair being before him, absorbed in his work. For a beat, he just... stared.

. . . Oh, how he adored him.

Merely looking at Annatar made Tyelpë's heart skip a beat and brought a soft blush to his porcelain cheeks.

Swallowing hard, he gathered his courage.

❝Annatar...❞ His gentle, melodic voice announced his presence ; soft & warm, much like the rest of his being. Nothing in him hinted at the cursed blood of his house, save perhaps the extraordinary skill of his hands as a jewel-smith.

Within the box lay a necklace of gold and rubies. Though much of his attention was largely devoted to their shared project, he had still wished to surprise Annatar with a gift & dearly hoped he would like it.

The first morning as Zigur's apprentice had been spent being drowned bathed by lady's maids, getting her hair ripped out detangled and braided, and then wrestled dressed into stuffy clothing in order to be presented to the king. By the time she was returned to Zigur, she was beyond grumpy, her large ears pinned back and a frown upon her lips as the lady's maids spun her around for the wizard to see her full transformation. From an abandoned wildling to a civilized child, she was now presentable for the king.

Dreams are a strange thing. They've always seemed somewhere between the mystical and the mundane, and lie just outside the realm of the understanding of Men.

Aragorn has never been one to remember his dreams, but there have been a few exceptions. At moments of great importance, he occasionally recalls seeing a guiding hand, or a vision of the future that gives him enough strength to drive him forward... and nightmares, while uncommon, aren't entirely alien to him either.

But this is neither of those things. The heaviness of the dread and malice he feels around him is far beyond the realm of any mere nightmare. He feels different, too - more aware than one normally would be in a dream, but that barely catches his attention; overshadowed by the creeping sensation of evil that feels like it's seeping into his flesh and bones beneath.

And in the exact moment that suffocating, heavy feeling seems to coalesce into the form of a presence, Aragorn whips around and draws a sword from it's sheath, fully alert to the greatness of the danger before him. He doesn't speak a word, but somehow, deep in his soul, he knows exactly who this is...

Sauron.

There high above the chasm of Doom, Frodo stood; no longer weary or afraid. His eyes were bound, tethered by some unholy will, to the bright golden light of the Ring as it hung upon its chain before him. It spoke to him in whispered promises of such things as freedom and belonging, and of strength.

Long had he toiled in darkness and despair, helpless to the whims of men and all creatures larger than he, but this could be changed; this could be made right. It was the folly of those who thought themselves his betters that he should be sent to slaughter so that they might live in peace. His heart lurched and a great battle waged inside of him, for that was the goal he sought, and a fine ending, sad as it was.

He would be remembered for his noble sacrifice, immortalized in song and satisfied in his death for having held fast to his conviction. But the voice of opposition grew loud as thunder booming in his ears. Why not take it? Why not rise above it all and live most deliciously?

"Master!" cried Sam, calling Frodo's attention back to the present.

Then Frodo stirred and spoke with a clear voice, indeed with a voice clearer and more powerful than Sam had ever heard him use. It rose above the throb and turmoil of Mount Doom, ringing in the roof and walls. "I have come," he said. "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed." There was an utter finality to his words. "The Ring is mine!" Seizing it in hand, he broke the chain which had carried it all this way, and slipped the Ring onto the third finger of his right hand.