#admirableringmaker

There was a whisper in the dark wind. The night was cold and bitter, the stars seeming distant and pale. It called his name: answer me, son of Denethor. I have much to show you. -✧- @admirableringmaker

Boromir sat bolt upright in the dark, breathing heavily and feeling a cold, wet sensation down his back. He had been very nearly asleep — if his nightmarish, uneasy fits of rest now could even be called sleep. The longer he travelled with the Fellowship, the more he felt the pull of the Ring, which had tried to draw him closer since he had first laid eyes upon it. Since he had beheld a vision of him as the great warlord and prince of Minas Tirth. The Dark Lord himself seemed to call right to him and he felt closer to him now than even he was when in Osgiliath.

He turned his head at the whispering voice, his gaze falling upon the dark-haired halfling Frodo. The eye of the golden ring winked at him in the low light from between his small fingers. Boromir clasped his hands together to stop them from trembling and narrowed his eyes at the thing. The terrible beautiful weapon of the Enemy.

'Tis foolish to even look upon you so, as has been told! Show me not what I wish but shall not have! Horrible weapon only are you.

˗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.

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.

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!”

“It is of the utmost importance, of course.”

Auriel nodded her head, though the faint glimmer in her golden eyes betrayed her. She turned without waiting for protest, the fall of her pale hair catching the torchlight as she beckoned him with two fingers.

“Come,” she added brightly, as though inviting him to a council of grave strategy rather than a kitchen.

The corridors of Angband were ever cold, iron and stone swallowing warmth as easily as hope. Yet she walked them as though they were polished halls, light-footed and untroubled, the hem of her dark gown whispering across blackened floors. When she spoke again, her tone softened into something almost conspiratorial.

“Our lord has asked for more baklava to be made,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, smile sweet as the honey used in the treat. “And he wishes for you to assist me.”

They reached the great kitchens—vast, firelit chambers carved into black stone. The scent of honey and roasted nuts lingered faintly in the warm air, a rare gentleness amid iron and ash.

“I want it to be perfect,” she admitted, stepping inside and brushing her fingers lightly over the worktable. As she moved, Melkor’s voice echoed softly in her memory, silken and amused, remarking that his lieutenant seemed to be growing fond of her. She had taken it as truth, perhaps even approval. It had not occurred to her that the words might have been meant for anything else. If there was tension beneath them, she did not sense it; if there was falsehood, she did not notice it. In her mind, Melkor’s words had not been meant to wound or provoke, but to encourage closeness among those who served him. “He works so tirelessly. If something as simple as this brings him comfort, then it should be made with care.”

archi tries to write something

Curufin was silent for much of Sauron’s outburst, staring at him impassively as the chains that bound him to the walls continued to hold. For they were no ordinary chains of plain steel; he had enchanted them with a combination of Song and runes, painstakingly etched on each link of the chain, specifically to surpress the power to manipulate Song in any who was bound to it.

He just did not think the first proper prisoner they would hold to be the Lieutenant of Angband himself.

melko gossip (the worst kind)

Who Melkor was ‘speaking’ to was unclear— likely all of his Umaiar, judging by his current temper.

It was very late and she was very drunk. That was for certain, else her tongue would not be loose enough to speak more than a passing dismissal of Annatar.