#naragukil

                                      COLD and unforgiving was her gaze.  PROUDLY  , even if she lacked a Silmaril upon her brow, she lifted her pale chin. Blue eyes narrowed,   ❝ I am severely  DISAPPOINTED  in thee, lieutenant, ❞   she said. Low and dangerous was her voice, which echoed in the vast shadowy chamber. Still was she for decades upon her throne and for once she moved again since Lúthien arrival. She leaned her head down, the gleaming of the other two Silmarils brightened Mairon’s face. Her lips curled into a frown-- almost a  SCOWL . 

          Her heart : how it wept in sorrow, in bitter grief. This day would come, she had known for so long, yet it was harder than she had ever imagined it to be. The loss. The grief. The cold. She felt it all to her core, to her fingers now numb as she lie upon the ground. Her life devoid of meaning, now used up. She had given everything to the family she loved -- but they needed her no more. Her time upon the earth was SPENT. 

        It’s late, far too late for him to be awake, but sleep was never something that ever came easily to the king. Often, he spent nights sitting hunched over a heavy book, or scratching down any and all thoughts that crossed his mind on a piece of parchment in candlelight. Maybe it was a way to avoid what he sees when he closes his eyes at night, blood-soaked sands and the flash of swords, spears, daggers. Too many times has he awoken in a cold sweat with sounds of screams ( the screams of his people ) ringing in his ears.

       The bed creaks, sinks beneath his heavy weight as he settles back down on the edge. Ganondorf still isn’t sure if he could sleep now, despite having gone through nearly half of a thick novel in the span of a few hours, despite exhaustion tugging at his eyelids and making his eyes burn. He heaves a sigh, prepared to lie heavily on his side and hope that sleep comes to him, but a familiar presence makes itself known behind him.

       Sauron has been there the whole time, of course, he was well aware of how he had been watching him from the shadows on the other side of the bed. Were it anyone else, Ganondorf would have nearly twisted their arm right from their socket for daring to lay a hand on him. With Sauron, he allows the Ainu to press close to his broad back, wind his arms around his waist and fold his hands in front of his abdomen. He’s warm, he’s always warm, as if a fire burns beneath his skin.

       It reminds him of home.

       The fingers of one large hand brush over one thin wrist, then practically envelope the two hands clasped in front of him. He allows Sauron to sink into his hair, nuzzle into it as if it were some sort of wild pillow. Then he brings a hand to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles almost reverently. Such tenderness only allowed for one being.

       “We should rest,” he suggests in a voice so gentle it clashes with his usual rough tone, almost startlingly so. “But I’d need you to move.”

       He shifts then, brings his legs up onto the bed and twists at the waist, an arm winding around Sauron’s smaller frame and managing to pull him into his lap and gather him close to his chest. Ganondorf holds him as if he were something delicate, even though he is anything but. Fingers card through inky hair, and he lies back, eyes focusing on the high ceiling.

ALL  AND  EVERYTHING  AND  NOTHING;  and  all  and  everything  and  nothing.  it pulses ‘neath her flesh. HOLINESS stinging her veins. it burns her blood, a solar flare scorching it way through the maze of her body with every drawn breath. It paralyzes her, drives her to her knees where she crawls blindly to him. she wears her guise well when she must, but when her reality demands attention it is with the fury of dying stars. How dare she be entombed in such a prison?! SHE who breathed her first breath with the creator. SHE who was older than the suns and the dark. Another ugly throb of rage and pain, one that cracks the marble under her palms. She reaches out until she finds him, fingers knotting themselves in fabric, hoisting herself upright until a moon-white head rests in his lap. Her tears are a furious, luminous thing. They carve bright, burning streams down her agonized face.  ‘ why am i cursed to be this.  '  words are bitter, even in silence, sobs muffled as she presses damp cheeks against strong thighs    ‘  i cannot be human, i cannot be other. i can only burn.  ’ 

                 ❛Why , same as you , I would imagine ,   ❜   she hums , twisting the stem of a violet-stained poppy between her fingers . It befits her appearance , as does much of the field . So too , do the dark secrets which run through out the soil .            ❛   I appreciate the solitude it offers . Man dares not tread here , though they do not know the reason it ails them to do so . Yet I remember . As do you      Mairon .  ❜            The faerie posters a sweeping bow while still hovering in the air , and she lifts her head with a serene smile .