#rop oc

The Deceiver is a weight at her back, pressing close enough that she can feel the unnatural heat of him even through her cloak and armor. Close enough that when she chances a glance over her shoulder, she can see how the shadows pool beneath his eyes, how they gather in the hollows of his face. There is something hungry in his expression—something that makes her think of wolves in winter, lean and patient.

"Where are you taking us?"

His mouth is fever-hot against her neck when he speaks, and she can feel the shape of his teeth behind his lips. The urge to bare her throat wars with the instinct to pull away. She does neither.

"Not much farther," she manages, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. Despite how the air seems to thicken around them, pressing down like storm clouds, like the weight of his attention focused solely on her.

The sound he makes is neither human nor beast—a low vibration that she feels more than hears, traveling up her spine. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or anticipation.

When the pillars come into view, Narien's breath catches. They rise from the mountainside like the remains of something once-holy, now desecrated. Rain and wind have left their mark in deep gouges, in twisted shapes. The entrance they frame is black as pitch, a mouth opened wide in the grey stone. Waiting.

The impact of Angruin's landing shudders through stone and bone alike. Narien's dismount is less graceful than intended—her legs lock beneath her, muscles screaming from hours astride. 

The cold here bites deeper, settling into her bones, clinging to the marrow like a starving thing. She can’t quite swallow the sound that escapes her—half pain, half exhaustion. The mountain swallows it, unmoved by her weakness.

When Sauron slides down from the wyvern’s back, something is wrong in the way he moves. His limbs shift too smoothly, each motion practiced, precise, almost unnatural. He pauses, his gaze resting on Angruin with an intent that borders on childlike fascination. For just a moment, she glimpses something beneath the mask—a hint of wonder, perhaps joy, before it sinks back into shadow.

His gaze finds her, and the weight of it pulls the air from her lungs.

The wind does not simply blow here—it keens, high and hollow, a sound like grief made manifest. It plucks at their cloaks with greedy fingers, scattering loose stone into the endless dark of the chasm below. The shadows gather thick in the doorway, viscous as old blood, beckoning them closer with promises that taste of ash and defiance.

"What... is this place?"

Inside, the mountain's chill presses against Narien's bones, seeping through wool and leather until her teeth ache with it. Her words emerge as mist in the stale air: "Erair’s Hold." She can feel him listening, the weight of his attention heavy on her neck. "My uncle carved these halls. A monk's devotion made flesh in stone."

The corridors swallow their footsteps, hungry for the sound of life after so much silence. Narien's fingertips brush the wall—rough stone worn smooth by countless hands before hers, each touch a prayer or plea long forgotten.

When the passage opens, the darkness is absolute. Like being swallowed. Guttering torches cast more shadow than light, their flames cowering in their sconces as though they know what manner of creature walks among them. The pillars that rise into the gloom above are twisted things, corrupted by time or something worse—she cannot bear to look at them directly.

"And what gods," he says, inquisitive, "demanded such devoted emptiness?"

The statues watch them pass with blind eyes, their faces worn to nothing by centuries of mountain wind. Once they might have been kings, or saints, or demons. Now they are only stone, bearing silent witness to this new sacrilege.

"I know not," she whispers, though the words catch in her throat like thorns. The air here is thick with age and endings, pressing down until each breath feels like theft. As though the mountain itself rejects their presence, knowing what they bring into this sacred place. What they will take from it.

Each pulse of pain in her side brings memory: blood-slick grass in Eregion, the singing flight of arrows, the moment steel found flesh. The spear has become her crutch, though pride keeps her from admitting how much of her weight it truly bears.

 "A refuge," she says, the words thick in her throat. Her uncle's faith seems distant now, fragile as spring ice. Sacred spaces. As if anything could remain untouched by what stalks these halls.

The wound makes each step a fresh torment. Black spots dance at the edges of her vision, and she can feel wetness seeping through her bandages—blood or something worse. Her strength bleeds away like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold. Soon the stone itself will have to catch her.

Better here, she thinks with bitter humor, than tumbling from Angruin's back into the void.

"I need to tend to myself." Her voice sounds hollow. He remains perfectly still in the cavern's mouth, a dark shape cut from darker night. Only his eyes move, following her with an intensity that makes her skin prickle with animal awareness. Like being watched by something ancient and patient. Something that has all the time in the world to wait.

"Stay if you wish." The words catch in her throat when she meets his gaze. "Or find your own refuge."

She turns away before he can answer, but she can still feel the weight of his attention like hands pressed to bare skin. Like ownership. Like hunger.

The darkness swallows her whole.

2.

Smoke knows him. It curls around his form like a devoted pet, seeking the spaces between his fingers, the hollow of his throat. Sauron breathes it in, letting ash coat his tongue, settle in his lungs. Victory tastes like this—bitter and sweet at once, familiar as an old lover's touch. How fitting that destruction drapes itself over him like a second skin, like something earned. Once, he had drawn fire from nothing, bent the world's bones to his will with barely a thought. Now the evidence of ruin clings to him, desperate, as though afraid he might try to wash it clean.

But why would he? Eregion laid broken beneath his feet, ground to dust and scattered like seeds that will grow nothing but grief. Just as it should be.

Blood has dried his robes stiff as armor, crackling with each movement. An inconvenience, nothing more—this flesh is merely borrowed anyway, a vessel to contain what cannot truly be contained. Soot works its way beneath his skin like prophecy, like promise, even as the wind tries uselessly to sweep it away. As if he could be made pure again.

And then there is Narien.

She wears battle's aftermath like a crown, all savage grace and unspent fury. Grime and blood paint her skin in patterns that please him—war-marks that speak of efficiency, of brutality barely leashed. Her eyes catch torchlight like a beast's, reflecting something wild and hungry back at him. Something he recognizes.

Something in him stirs watching her move through her domain—the way she commands both beast and blade with such easy grace. Admiration would be too simple a word for what he feels. Too mortal. No, she is more like a particularly fascinating specimen, the way she cuts through her enemies without hesitation, the way power sits so naturally on her shoulders.

He might keep her, he thinks. For now.

The thought brings a particular satisfaction he chooses not to examine. Like Galadriel had been, all righteous fury and blazing light, believing herself his equal. His mouth curves remembering that defiance, how sweetly it had crumbled in the end. Even stars can be devoured, given time.

The leather pouch finds his fingers like an old lover's touch. Inside, the rings wait with patient hunger—each one a perfect trap, destiny shaped in metal and stone. His touch has already darkened the leather, the way everything he handles eventually stains.

His thoughts turn to Narien despite himself.

Queen of the dragonlords, they name her. Queen. The word tastes unfinished on his tongue, waiting to be remade. She carries authority well enough—that particular way she has of bending others to her will with nothing but a glance. But he wonders what she might become with proper guidance. If she would accept his gifts with grateful hands, or if some trace of older power might make her... resistant.

The possibility pleases him more than it should.

Time enough to shape her properly. After all, corruption is sweetest when it comes slowly, drop by careful drop.

Until even queens learn to yield.

A ring would sit pretty on her finger. He imagines how the corruption would spread—slow at first, sweet as honey in wine, until she belonged to him entirely. Though perhaps—and this thought warms him more—she might resist. His little queen, proving herself worth the effort of breaking properly. If nothing else, she promises better entertainment than the pathetic creatures who call themselves her allies.

She's vanished while his mind wandered, but he can still feel where she's been, like heat lingering on skin. Blood marks her path across stone—bright drops scattered like rubies. His eyes narrow at the sight. She hadn't seemed badly wounded in their flight, but then, Narien hoards her weaknesses close as dragon-gold. Pride makes her foolish that way.

Something dark coils beneath his ribs. If she thinks to run now, when he still has need of her, when her part in his design remains unfinished—well. His plans cannot afford such... rebellion.

The leather pouch burns against his palm, rings pressing sharp through fabric. He tucks them away with careful fingers that betray none of the hunger building in his chest. No. She will not slip from his grasp so easily. She's far too precious for that.

Her defiance kindles something ancient in him. Something that remembers exactly how to teach such lessons.

He follows her blood like thread through shadow. Like tracking some wild thing that hasn't learned it's already his.

After all, everything here belongs to him.

She'll understand soon enough.

The Hold remembers its own antiquity—dust thick as sin coating his tongue, cobwebs trembling at his passing like old prophecies waiting to be fulfilled. He pays little mind to the decay. His attention fixes solely on the blood trail leading him forward, each drop still wet enough to catch what little light remains. How quaint, that she thinks to hide from him here.

The chamber opens before him with an exhale of stale air. A bed drowned in shadow, its linens gray as burial cloth. Her spear watches him pass with its dragon-eyes, abandoned like everything else she's left behind.

For a moment, silence stretches tight as a bowstring.

Then—

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

He follows the sound, each step careful, deliberate, savoring the strange intimacy of the moment. Behind an old oak wardrobe, tucked into the rock itself, he finds it—an alcove with a bath carved straight from the mountain stone. Steam rises in soft, twisting wisps, curling and vanishing into the still, stale air. Her clothes lie in a blood-streaked heap at the foot of the bath, abandoned, half-forgotten, in a state of disarray. 

Narien sits curled in water gone pink with her own essence, knees drawn to chest like some half-feral thing. Wine-dark hair spills loose, catching what little light remains until it burns like ember-glow against pale skin. 

She doesn't notice him yet. Too lost in whatever fury keeps her spine so straight, her jaw so tight. He finds himself oddly pleased by the sight—this strange, savage creature wearing anger like a crown. There's something almost... endearing about her attempt at dignity, even now.

He stays in the doorway, content to watch. To study how she holds herself together with nothing but spite and will, glaring at stone as if it might crumble under her gaze alone. Such delicious defiance in every line of her body, even as blood seeps steadily from her wounds.

The gash in her arm weeps steady crimson, each drop a small sacrifice to the bathwater below. He follows its path with ancient eyes—the way it winds over her chest, between her breasts, dispersing into pink-tinged water like wine into clear spirit. Her body tells stories in its scars, a history written in flesh. So young, to wear violence like fine jewelry.

He can taste the copper-sweet scent of her blood in the air, mixing with steam until it coats his tongue like memories of older wars, older wounds. The tension in her shoulders speaks volumes—some deeper hurt than mere flesh, some weight that presses against her bones until they threaten to crack beneath it.

"Narien?"

Her name falls from his lips—gentle but unmistakably a command. She takes too long to find his gaze, lost somewhere in that peculiar mortal tendency toward introspection. When she does look, her eyes are dark as wells, pupils blown wide with something that isn't quite pain.

How fascinating, to watch her fragment so quietly.

The war has carved pieces from her, yes, but it's the loss that interests him more—the way it sits beneath her skin like a fever. Eregion's victory carries a price she hasn't finished paying, one that writes itself in the fine lines of her face, in the careful way she holds herself together.

"Narien?"

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Her blood keeps time between them, steady as a heartbeat. Something old and hungry stirs in him at her continued silence—he is unused to being denied attention, especially by creatures who should know better. He moves forward with careful intent, each step measured until he towers over her bath, close enough to catch the heat rising from her skin.

Still she looks through him, past him, at something he cannot see. Her stillness is almost perfect, save for the steady seep of red that paints the water in spreading rings.

His eyes trace the path of her blood, the vibrant streak against her pale skin. Her lips part slightly, just enough to suggest a whisper waiting to escape, but nothing comes—only the relentless drip, drip, drip echoing in the still air.

Without a word, Sauron reaches for the rag draped over the rim of the tub, his fingers curling around it. He dips it into the water, watching the fabric darken as it soaks up her blood. Slowly, he drags the cloth along her arm, wiping away the crimson with meticulous, deliberate strokes, the heat stinging his fingertips. Narien flinches—a small, involuntary jerk of her elbow—but she doesn’t pull away.

When the blood is finally gone, wiped clean from her skin, he leans in closer, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the wound. The contact is delicate—a mere touch, but enough to send a jolt of pain through her, enough to make her eyes snap to his with sudden, startled awareness. For a moment, her dark gaze locks with his, pupils blown wide, her expression caught somewhere between shock and suspicion.

With a faint, almost imperceptible shift of his fingers, the wound begins to close. Shadows stir at the edges of his touch, knitting her flesh together with an unseen thread, pulling the skin tight and whole as if it had never been torn. The injury vanishes, erased by a power older than the mountains that cradle them, a power as subtle as it is terrifying.

He expects relief in her eyes, perhaps even gratitude. For most, the sight of such healing, the sudden absence of pain, would have elicited thanks, or at the very least, a softening of the gaze. But when he looks up, he finds nothing of the sort.

She stares at him with eyes gone dark as wells, terror written in every line of her face. Not the meek fear of mortals faced with power beyond their ken—no, this is older. Primal. The kind of recognition that lives in blood and bone, passed down through generations since the First Age.

"Get away!"

Her voice cracks like ice in spring, high and sharp and desperate. Water surges over the bath's edges as she recoils, the sound of it against stone echoing like broken bells. Each breath comes quick and shallow—not the measured control of elvish grace, but something raw and animal that pleases him despite himself.

He remains still, letting her panic fill the space between them. How fascinating, to see her stripped of that careful pride, that cultivated strength. Here, bare of armor and pretense, she is almost... delicate. He hadn't meant to frighten her quite like this, but the knowledge settles sweet as honey in his chest.

The bloodied cloth drops from his fingers with deliberate care. Such a small thing to break her composure so completely—but she watches it fall as though it carries all the weight of prophecy, all the terrible truth of what he is beneath this borrowed flesh. Her chest heaves with each breath, tears cutting clean tracks down sharp cheekbones.

"Narien."

He shapes her name carefully, lets it carry just enough command to remind her what she is, what she was before terror took root. He has no interest in offering comfort—but there are other ways to gentle wild things when necessary.

Still that haunted look remains, that bone-deep recognition that speaks of memories older than forests. How unexpected, these tears on her proud face. This trembling in limbs made for war. Has he truly reached past her carefully constructed walls so easily?

“Begone! Leave me!” Her voice splinters on the brittle command, high and sharp, cracking like a blade against stone. She throws it at him, but the words scatter, hollow, hanging in the air with no weight behind them. It’s fear speaking—raw and cracked—not the queen of dragonlords. 

For one indulgent moment, he considers disobeying, a test to see if any trace remains of the woman who had once fixed him with a glare aflame with fury and pride. Instead, he lets the silence press between them, savoring how her defiance falters, fraying beneath the heat of his gaze.

This—this is not Narien. Narien is fierce, proud, unbreakable; she does not retreat, does not tremble. The sight before him unsettles him, worms beneath his skin in a way he cannot quite name. His mind twists around the image of her—her blood diffusing like ink in water, the tremor in her fingers as she gripped the edge of the tub. She has faced death, she has weathered storms that would break any other. Yet here she stands, shrinking from him, eyes wide with a terror that clings too close to her skin, fragile as frost.

For the briefest moment, he hesitates. Uncertainty coils within him, unwelcome and unfamiliar, stirring something he cannot name. He does not know what to do with this fractured, fearful creature that glares back at him with eyes both desperate and defiant. He does not understand this sudden collapse, this breach in her carefully maintained armor, or why panic blooms from her like smoke. Had he miscalculated so disastrously? What had cracked her open like this, this queen who ought to wear her wounds like a crown, who had spilled blood at his side? Why now does she pull away from the hand that could steady her.

Perhaps it’s the realization of her own fragility—the understanding, finally sinking in, that her pride and strength mean little when the body fractures. Or perhaps it’s the weight of her failures pressing too hard, deep enough to crack that self-made armor she clings to so stubbornly. Or perhaps, he muses with the faintest smirk, it’s the sheer contrast that unnerves her—her blood, her pain laid bare in the steam, while he stands unscathed, untouched, as if nothing in this world could lay a finger on him if it tried.

He rises slowly, unfolding to his full height with a languid, deliberate ease. This moment unsettles him, he admits. Her disorder, the chaos of her brokenness creeping into his presence, feels like an unwanted guest in the carefully ordered halls of his mind. Her fear lingers in the air, thick and tainted, and for the first time in an age, something in this world dares to move just beyond his control. He knows only that it cannot linger.

Whatever this is—this fracture in her—it must end.

Without another word, he steps back, letting the quiet pull her brokenness away like a severed thread. 

And he leaves.

3.

The bathwater has gone cold, though Narien barely notices through the tremors wracking her frame. 

Strange, how silence can press against skin like a physical thing, how it fills lungs with each breath until even thinking becomes an effort. Her thoughts move thick as sap, dragging themselves through her mind as though weighted with lead.

The water around her has turned to dirt-dark soup, blood and earth painting patterns she doesn't care to interpret. Iron coats her tongue, familiar as home, as victory—but this taste speaks only of defeat.

Her fingers find the place where his power touched her.

The skin lies smooth now, perfect as new-fallen snow. As if the wound had never existed, had never bled her essence into his keeping. But the memory of his touch lingers like frost—precise and gentle in a way that makes her stomach turn. His fingers had been unexpectedly soft against her flesh, like the first kiss of a blade before it bites deep.

She hadn't meant to bare her teeth at him like some wild thing. Hadn't intended for those jagged words to tear themselves from her throat, each one raw as a fresh wound. She can't even remember what she said—only remembers how it felt, like swallowing broken glass, like screaming into void.

The water ripples with her shivers. Or perhaps it's laughter. After all, what is there to do when you realize the monster wearing a friend's face has just shown you its teeth?

But she cannot forget the terror that had flashed through her like lightning, quick and blinding, the moment he touched her. It was irrational—dog-like, as she bitterly thinks now—and yet it had been real, the kind of terror that seizes the body before the mind can make sense of it. That sudden spark of fear, so foreign to her, still burns at the edges of her consciousness, refusing to be snuffed out.

The water runs cold, fingers pressed to the unblemished skin of her forearm. The unmarred flesh mocks her—pristine and perfect where moments ago blood had welled dark and thick from the gash. She presses harder, as if she could conjure back the wound through will alone, restore the honest pain of it. But there is only smooth skin beneath her touch, only the persistent memory of his fingers there, gentle and sure.

She hadn't meant to let him so close. Hadn't meant to give him the satisfaction of seeing her hunched and bleeding, hadn't meant to feed that hungry light in his eyes when he reached for her arm. The wound had sealed beneath his touch like wax melting backwards, flesh knitting whole in a heartbeat. Her gorge had risen at the sight—not at the healing itself, but at the intimacy of it. The presumption.

The room feels too small now, the walls pressing in as her thoughts circle, and she can’t shake the feeling that Sauron, even after leaving, is still here, lingering in the air, watching her unravel.

The bathwater drains with a wet, gasping sound—like something dying, watching the clouded water spiral away. Blood and dirt disappear down the gullet of stone, but the memory of his touch remains, stubborn as a bruise beneath her skin. Narien fills the bath again, hardly waiting for the steam to rise before she's working the soap between her palms, scrubbing at her flesh as if she might scour away more than just the battle's remains. As if she might wash away the crawling sensation of flesh knitting whole beneath his fingers, the way her body had betrayed her by accepting his aid so readily.

It takes three attempts to rise—her body protesting with each movement, her limbs slow, heavy, reluctant to obey. The exhaustion settles in her bones, thick and unyielding, as though each muscle has turned to stone. She towels off quickly, her motions mechanical, almost detached, and wraps herself in a soft pale gown and  midnight grey over robe she finds in the wardrobe, the fabric soft and worn, as though it’s been waiting for centuries to be touched again. She runs her fingers over the material absentmindedly, wondering how long it has sat there, forgotten, gathering dust in this decaying fortress. It smells faintly of age, of disuse—of a place that once thrived, now lost to time and neglect.

Pulling her cloak tighter for warmth, she grabs her spear and steps out into the corridor. The hall is empty, dim, the light barely enough to cast shadows, but at least the air is fresher here, not thick with the stagnant dampness of the bath. She pads along the cold stone floor, her footsteps soft, but the silence is so absolute that even the smallest sound seems to echo, bouncing off the walls in a ghostly whisper. 

The fortress holds its silence like an old secret, and Narien finds herself counting heartbeats, breaths, the soft whisper of cloth against skin—each sound unnaturally loud in spaces meant for armies. No servants hurry through these halls, no guards stand watch. Even the dust seems to pause in its endless falling, as though waiting for permission to settle.

The walls remember greater days. Now they lean inward like dying things, their strength turned brittle as old bone. She pulls her cloak tighter, though the chill that follows her has little to do with cold.

Since the bath, he has played at shadows—there and gone, like trying to catch smoke between fingers. But his presence fills every corner of this place, thick as incense, patient as stone. The weight of it presses against her skin, against her thoughts, until she can taste it on her tongue.

When she finds him, he's arranged himself with careful precision behind a scarred table—every fold of his robes exactly where it should be, as though even fabric knows better than to defy him. His hair catches torchlight like spun gold, while she still wears battle's grime beneath her skin. The contrast pleases him, she thinks. This evidence of how unlike they are.

A scroll sprawls across the table's surface, its edges curling with age. His fingers drift across ancient words with casual possession, as though everything here exists solely for his touch.

"Have a good bath?"

The question falls sweet as honey from his mouth. He doesn't bother looking up from his staged disinterest. Narien narrows her eyes at him, the irritation flaring hotter now, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. There is no warmth in his tone, no concern, no acknowledgment of the vulnerability she had shown in the bath—in her panic. Only this mocking, this dismissal, as if her struggles, her pain, were nothing more than a momentary inconvenience to him, a passing amusement.

"I could have done without being interrupted by you." The words come steady despite the water's chill seeping into her bones, despite how her body aches with battle-memory and lost blood.

She shouldn't provoke him. Not when exhaustion makes her limbs feel like lead, not when she can barely hold her head up. But something in her refuses to yield, even now—especially now—with his eyes on her skin.

"It is nothing I have not seen before," he says, voice rich with that particular casualness that makes her teeth ache. As though her nakedness were some quaint thing to be observed and dismissed. As though she were another curiosity in his collection of ancient things.

His indifference burns worse than the wounds. Something hot and dangerous coils in her belly, tasting like copper, like pride.

Heat floods her cheeks, a deep flush that she knows betrays her anger. It rises fast, hot, and sudden, and she is sure she must look as red as her hair now, her temper unraveling in her chest like fire. Without thinking, without hesitation, she leans her spear against the table with a loud, deliberate CLANK, the metal tip of the weapon clinking sharply against the stone floor—a declaration of her distaste. 

"You have a curious knack for forging alliances, I do not need your care." 

Her gaze holds steady, unwavering, piercing through his composure with a silent demand—as though, if she only stares long enough, she might unearth whatever lies beneath that smooth, practiced mask. Yet the Maia meets her gaze without a flicker, his expression molded into an unsettling calm, observing her with the cool, idle interest of a scientist studying a specimen: something curious, yet ultimately trivial.

"Perhaps not," he murmurs, his voice soft, laced with a shadow of private amusement. "And yet, here you are. Seeking me out once more."

Her lips tighten, a flash of irritation sparking behind her eyes. She reins in the impulse, her voice emerging in a measured, deliberate tone. "Mind yourself. I am the one who offers you shelter and I am the one who can take it away." 

He lifts his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture, though the smile that tugs at his mouth is knife-thin, predatory. “Forgive me. A careless choice of words.” 

The sound she makes is all spite and steel, bitter enough to cut. She lets quiet fill the space between them, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest expanding until she is forced to expel it. "I have an offer for you." 

The deceiver’s lips split, wolfish. “Indulge me,”

She does: “Come the dawn, I will leave. I offer to take you wherever in this middle earth you wish to be delivered and we go our own ways.”

“Or?”

“You return with me to Aldrast—as a guest.”

This pulls his spine straight. “A curious proposal. Might I know the terms of this… offer?” 

It seemed nothing in this world came without clauses. Narien knew as much. She drew her own.

“At Aldrast, you are under my rule as Queen. No chaos shall be sewn amongst my people. No bloodshed.”

She watches as the offer turns in his mind, like dark tides shifting behind those eyes. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression unreadable until he finally nods, relenting.

"Very well. I will go with you."

Narien tempers her small victory with a curt nod, her fingers closing around the haft of her spear where it rests. The weight of it is reassuring, grounding her. “We will meet at dawn,” she says, her tone clipped, businesslike.

Without another glance, she turns on her heel, the spear tapping softly against the stone floor as she leaves him behind. "Goodnight."

-

Sleep refuses to find Narien. She lies in the moth-eaten bed, staring up at the weathered canopy above. The faded green fabric has a sickly hue, as though someone had died in these very sheets and, with twisted decency, allowed themselves to be buried beneath the earth. The blankets itch against her skin, the pillows are misshapen, and the mattress beneath her feels more like stone than anything meant for rest. Even the faint, cloying scent of age and disuse unsettles her. How long had this room been abandoned? How many visitors had once laid in this bed?

Narien’s fingers absently pick at the embroidery on the pillow clutched to her chest, the threads unraveling beneath her nails. She rolls the offer she made to Sauron over in her mind, the words heavy, clinging to her thoughts like damp fog. Inviting him into her home—into Aldrast—was not a decision she had ever imagined herself making. But the truth is clear enough: the Elves are untouchable without his help. He now commands an army of Uruks, a force she needs. There’s no point in lying to herself. The alliance between them isn’t born of trust or choice—it’s a necessity.

If Sauron poses a threat to her, to her people, she will handle it. She must. She would keep him contained—at least, she would try. Yet beneath the surface, something hums inside her, not quite fear, not quite anger—something akin to excitement. The thrill of ambitions she had long since buried, the kind she told herself were out of reach. There had always been reasons, hadn’t there? Her husband, her son, the fragile threads of duty that kept her from clawing at the desires festering beneath her skin since exile.

But now, with Sauron’s power so near, she feels it again—that itch—the one that had waited all along. If it was a monster the Elves had seen in her all those years ago, perhaps a monster was what she would become.

—

Morning breaks with a cruelty that feels personal, the sky a brittle blue, as if made to shatter. The cold sinks its teeth into Narien’s skin, sharp as any blade, leaving only the sting behind. Her breath clouds in front of her, thick and fleeting, a ghost in the dawn—a reminder she is still here, still breathing.

The sun rises slowly, hesitant, its light creeping over the horizon as if unwilling to chase away the night. The scent of wet stone lingers, mingling with the dampness of old earth, the memory of last night’s rain refusing to let go. Narien pulls on her war-stained clothes, the fabric stiff with dried blood and grime. The weight of it all presses down on her, but she wears it like regalia.

Her fingers split the tangled waves of her wine-red hair, combing out the knots with methodical care. The heavy mane falls back as she ties it with a worn strip of leather, the braid settling down her spine. She has always worn it long—always—and its weight is a comfort, a small piece of herself she still knows.

Her hand finds the spear, the cool metal grounding her, stilling the faint tremors that linger in her limbs. The sanctuary looms ahead, a dark hollow against the cloud-choked mountains. Far below, shrouded in mist, lies the Gap of Rohan—and beyond that, home. But here, high above the world, there is only the fortress, the wind slicing through the silence, and the weight of what is to come.

Sauron stands in the archway, black and gold robes whipping violently in the wind. His hair, like spun gold, catches the dawn, turning into molten fire under the light. He waits, unmoving, until her footsteps draw near. His gaze finds hers, sharp as the morning chill, already calculating the distance she has traveled, the weight of every step.

“Did you sleep?”

“Well enough.” Narien adjusts the scabbard on her hip. His eyes are on her, reading her, seeing too much. She wonders how much of her restless night he already knows.

“Good.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, the movement lazy, almost indifferent. “It’s not something I require.”

Of course not.

“Your beast will not settle,” Sauron murmurs, his voice roughened by an edge of irritation, the kind that seeps through despite his best attempts to conceal it. His gaze drifts towards the horizon, narrowing, as if the answers he sought lay somewhere beyond the world's edge. For a moment, the calm facade wavers, the ancient patience of a Maia, cracking. Overhead, a bellow rolls through the sky, low and resonant—a defiant challenge that thrums against the quiet dawn.

“It has been restless all night.”

Beast. The word digs beneath Narien's skin, raw and barbed, leaving behind a sting that burns. Her jaw tightens, a cold fire simmering low, kindled by the insult. Her response, when it comes, is sharper than she intends:  “She is not a beast.”

Sauron’s gaze shifts back to her, slow, deliberate. Dark eyes hold hers, probing, a hint of something that could be amusement or disdain. He presses, every syllable chosen to push, to test. “What else would you call it?”

“She is family.”

The conviction in her voice allows no room for debate. There is nothing left for him to say. Narien moves before he can think of something to provoke her further, two fingers lifted to her lips. Her whistle slices through the air, keen and commanding, echoing off the rock walls and cutting through the cold like a stone skipping across water. Silence, for a breath, and then—a deep rumble answers, unfurling across the sky like a promise made of thunder. The beat of wings follows, powerful and rhythmic, the sky’s own pulse.

The wyvern bursts through the layer of cloud, her scales a dark silver, shimmering beneath the first touch of sunlight. She is radiant, her roar splitting the air, a sound that shakes the earth beneath Narien’s feet, dislodging stones that tumble down the mountainside.

“Angruin,” Narien calls, her voice steady, a note of command mingled with something softer—something almost like reverence. The wyvern’s beady black eyes meet hers, bright and fierce, and Angruin shakes herself, the great wings folding in as she descends, shedding the sky’s weight as if it were nothing. She is not as large as her dragon kin, not as thorny or colorful, but her presence is every bit as formidable, something out of an old tale, something forged from myth.

Angruin strides forward, her steps deliberate, her movements carrying a grace that belies her size. The air shifts, the scent of rain and stone thickening as her bulk fills the cavern. Sauron’s gaze follows the wyvern, his expression a mask, cold and impassive. There is no awe, no flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, just that same unreadable stillness.

“At ease,” Narien murmurs in Nareni, her voice softer now. 

The great wyvern settles onto the stone, her vast wings folding with a rustle of leathery sinew, the sharp talons of her hind feet clicking softly against the rock as she shifts her weight. Her eyes, molten silver, never leave Sauron. Wary and unblinking, the spines along her back ripple as her muscles coil with tension, a living current beneath her gleaming scales. The saddle on her back, crafted from thick leather and reinforced with iron and polished steel, looks both battle-worn and indomitable, fitted for the creature it adorned.

It is her hand that steadies first against Angruin's neck, fingers finding the familiar ridges of scale and bone.

"Behave," whispers Narien and the wyvern's muscles coil beneath her palm like storm clouds gathering.

The beast's growl starts low, trapped and thunderous; but when Narien's eyes find Sauron where he stands among the weathered stones, his form remains edgeless, drawn in shades of shadow and smoke. Angruin's tail—thick as ancient heartwood, twice as merciless—cracks against the mountain face, and suddenly there are pebbles raining down like tears of stone, each one marking the seconds of their shared hesitation.

Something raw trembles in the space between predators. The wyvern watches him as wolves watch their own kind—all leashed violence and barely-contained knowing, silver eyes tracking each minute shift of his form. Her wariness bleeds into Narien's awareness even as muscle memory guides her up, the motion of mounting carved so deep within her bones that her body moves without thought. The leather beneath her thighs whispers its history: here where they first learned trust, there where they earned it, each scar and smoothed patch telling of leagues flown together.

She reaches down to the Maia—just as she had that day above Eregion, when smoke had painted the world in shades of ending—something flickers across his face, quick as summer lightning, gone before she can name it. His hand finds hers, and she pulls.

He settles behind her, and the ancient saddle creaks beneath their combined weight. His presence burns through leather and steel and all her careful distance until she can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing matching hers, beat for treacherous beat.

Angruin turns with a tug of Narien's hand, each step a percussion against stone. When they leap, the earth releases its greedy hold and sky rushes in to claim them, the world softening at its edges until freedom tastes sharp as newly-forged steel on her tongue.

In that space between heartbeats, between ground and clouds, Narien allows herself to forget everything but wind-song and wing-beat.

With her arms folded over her chest, Fuinhíril watched them move about the camp. There was an unceasing hurriedness to their actions, as if they might drop dead if they stopped moving for even a moment. She briefly wondered if maybe that was the way they saw it. Perhaps they had been running from something for so long that they no longer knew how to walk, or what it was to live and not just survive.

Fuinhíril was distracted from the thought by an added weight to her mind, the feel of eyes on her. It was not a surprise when she turned her head and found Adar watching her from across the way. He had been watchful of her ever since her arrival. It didn't seem to be out of disdain, or even mistrust anymore, but Fuinhíril found it difficult not to be just a little unnerved by at the very least. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though she knew it was more or less a habit of his, something he resulted in doing without much thought.

His gaze did not waver as it met her own, though shortly after having been caught out, he moved to speak with her.

“Come,” he uttered once in earshot, "I require your insight”

He lead through the camp, the sea of Orcs parting before him naturally, a phenomenon that never ceased to impress Fuinhíril, and headed for the tent where she had been feeding him what information she could face divulging. The table was bare, stripped of the maps which had previously been littered across it's surface, and the space felt oddly cold for it. As if it wasn’t already. Adar made his way around the long end of the table, pacing slowly as if in thought.

"Will you be joining us as we march on Eregion?" he questioned.

Fuinhíril watched the Uruk for any indication of his own opinion on the matter. She got the feeling that he would tell her to leave if that was his want. His eyes found hers as he awaited an answer, and she couldn't resist just one comment that would seek to rile him up.

"If the Lord Father permits it, of course" she simpered.

Adar sighed, fixing her with a glare that even some of the strongest Elven heroes would cower from. He didn't reply, though pulled a folded piece of parchment from a pocket, and leaned over the table as he unfolded it to reveal a map. He placed it down in front of her, and trailed his first finger through the forest north of their location. Fuinhíril leaned her palms on the table as she watched.

"This is the way we will travel"

He didn't continue, and Fuinhíril glanced up to find him watching her.

"Right…" she prompted him to continue, though only received a raised brow in return. She smirked a little upon realising, "you would like my approval?"

Adar rolled his eyes subtly, resting his hands on the table as if to mirror her, "I should like to know if we will meet any resistance"

"No" she relented, "I would have recommended this way, had you asked"

The statement sounded far more bitter than she intended, and Fuinhíril winced. If anything, it was her who sought approval, and the disclosure of that made her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her fingers made their way to the tear in her waistcoat without the command of her mind, fiddling with the loose threads. Her gaze flicked upwards to find him watching the action, and she became aware of how her body had moved of its own volition, immediately halting her movements.

His eyes found hers with a small amount of hesitance, "you understand that my children will not take orders from an outsider, correct? An Elf, no less"

Fuinhíril scoffed to deflect her embarrassment, "an ironic sentiment"

Adar tilted his head, his eyes growing intense, dangerous in only a second. He went to speak, but Fuinhíril pushed off of the table, interrupting him.

"Ávatyara ni" she spoke quietly.

He seemed almost surprised by her apology. Almost, since it was always hard for Fuinhíril to tell exactly what he was thinking at any given time. He regarded her with the same stern look, though there was no malice in it now, no feeling of discomfort.

"Manan paktaldë lé i yára quetil?" he asked.

Fuinhíril hesitated a moment, though ultimately relented, "enna quetilnya ná"

Adar narrowed his eyes at her, appraising her with traceable suspicion, "How old are you?"

"It is unbecoming to ask a lady such things, is it not?" she retorted, the edges of her lips quirking in a smirk.

Adar leaned forwards marginally, challengingly, "whatever made you think I cared for such proprieties?"

Fuinhíril wouldn't say it, not now at least, but she couldn't help but think that ordinarily he was someone who cared to bear himself in a ‘proper’ manner. There was an elegance about him, a nobility. He conducted himself as such, speaking almost as a politician, dancing around the fact of the matter always. Though, she acknowledged that he had also never spoken especially rudely to her, even when the same couldn't be said for her.

"Older than you presume, I would wager" she replied finally.

He hummed thoughtfully, and moved back from the table.

"Well," he started, gesturing to the map, "as I say, that is the route we will take. I do not believe that Sauron expects us, not so soon in any case"

Fuinhíril's light smile faltered, as much as she tried to remain neutral, "indeed"

Adar released a breath, regarding her as if trying to figure something out with a subtle shake of his head.

"Fuinhíril… what are you doing here?"

"You asked me to—"

"No" he stopped her firmly, putting to bed any pretence that she didn't know to what he referred, "why are you really here?"

She didn't reply, so he continued.

"I cannot truly believe it is just curiosity that brought you here, and I will not entertain it being the reason you have stayed"

Fuinhíril remained quiet, collecting her scattered thoughts. It was still too early to reveal what had brought her here, she determined, but the mere thought of it made her eyes sting. She blinked a few times to clear her eyes of the mist settling over them.

"I have stayed because I believe in the goal you seek to achieve" she relented. It was not a lie, after all.

"And what is it I seek to achieve, do you determine?" Adar questioned, his voice as steady as it ever was.

"Sauron's demise"

It sounded so simple leaving her lips like that, so easily achieved. The corner of Adar’s lip twitched, acknowledging the juvenile phrasing, and he nodded slowly.

“Why do you seek this?”

“Why do you?” Fuinhíril shot back with her regular immediacy to deflect questioning. She could see Adar’s jaw grind subtly, either at her persistence or the nature of the question. Most likely both.

"I would have thought it perfectly obvious" he spoke softly as his head turned downwards to the table. His voice was so quiet, almost alarmingly so, and when he looked up at her through his lashes, assessing, Fuinhíril was met by an unwilling vulnerability. He lifted his head to face her once more. "You know who I am, what I am, you have made that plain” he uttered, his tone still soft but with an underlying sharpness, "you know why"

Fuinhíril just nodded, staying silent as a child being scolded for speaking out of turn. She could feel her eyes lining with unshed tears as her unblinking gaze was fixed on the Uruk ahead of her. She understood the pain in his eyes all too well, and now that it was visible to her, just peeking over the top of the wall that he had built around himself, it was hard to ignore. It was hard not to dwell on its origin.

“So tell me,” Adar leaned on the table once again, drawing closer to her, "why is it that you want the same thing?"

Her mouth opened to speak, but no words would come. A single tear slipped from her eye unbidden, mocking her inability to form a sentence, or a thought for that matter. Adar’s eyes followed its path as it slid down her cheek, but he said nothing. It was the salty taste of the liquid reaching her lips that finally snapped her from her reverie, and she breathed in shakily, breaking her otherwise impassive expression.

"Is it not reason enough simply to believe it is the right course of action?" she posed the question with a steadiness of voice that surprised her.

Adar’s gaze shifted back to hers, "if that is your true purpose"

"It is" she replied quickly — far too quickly, and Adar shook his head a little as he moved back.

“I cannot say I take your word for it, though it is reason enough” he admitted, and she exhaled deeply, a perfunctory sigh of relief before he added, “for now”

Fuinhíril found the Uruks to be rather amusing. It wasn’t that they tried to be, or that there was anything particularly droll about them as a species — the opposite in fact — but the manner in which they acted around her made her lips quirk without much thought.

They had been on the road for all of a few hours, setting a good pace, and in that time had managed to prove two things to be true of all their kind; they made for awful actors, and were far more inquisitive than they let on. Fuinhíril didn’t doubt that their disdain was authentic, they had undoubtedly been hunted by Elves for all their lives, but it was the way they showed it that made her chuckle.

She caught their nosy glances, remarkably unsubtle as they were, and upon being caught they would snarl, bare teeth, grit curses in the black speech through their fangs. If it weren’t so inherently foul a sight, Fuinhíril could have found their juvenile peevishness to be almost endearing, in its own particularly gruesome way. They were evidently fascinated by something about her, but were belligerent in showing it.

Perhaps the bravest of them, an Orc trudged right beside her, footfalls heavy and breath disturbingly laboured as they looked up to her from their stooped posture.

"If you've something to say, Uruk, then you'd better say it" Fuinhíril spoke up, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. The Orc grunted, evidently irked by getting caught despite how obvious their presence had been.

“The Lord Father told us not to hurt you” they spoke harshly and bluntly, “why?”

Fuinhíril regarded the Orc, noting that the gauntlets they wore bore a striking resemblance to the ones worn by her Elven kin from Lindon. She put it to the back of her mind for the time being.

“Why ask me, and not him?”

The Orc scoffed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound, “I wouldn’t question him”

Fuinhíril’s eyes moved away from the Orc, skimming across the rest of them to find that once again, Adar watched her like a hawk. It was still as disconcerting as ever, perhaps more so with the last words they had shared. She brought her focus back to the Orc beside her as a distraction, deciding to answer the question.

“I would suspect it is because I am not inclined to hurt you in return”

The Orc growled, “you lie”

Fuinhíril rolled her eyes with a light smile, “I see no reason to lie, when the truth is so simple”

They didn’t seem all that satisfied with the assertion, a string of unimpressed grunts being emitted.

“What is your name?” She asked, though the Uruk looked up at her as if they didn’t understand the language she spoke in, so she reiterated, “what do they call you?”

A snarl followed, the Orc’s nose scrunching to bare their teeth. Fuinhíril waited patiently, not yet dissuaded by the reaction. She wouldn’t go so far as to say it was the reaction she was hoping for, but it wasn’t surprising. There was no reason for the Orcs to trust her, she knew that. Really, she hoped to prove to them that it wasn’t out of the question.

It seemed a ridiculous thing to say, to admit she wished for companionship from what she had come to know as such a lowly form of life. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

“Kharzug” the Orc finally replied, and Fuinhíril’s lips turned upwards despite herself.

“I would say it is a fine name, though I do not know its meaning” she prompted, but Kharzug just gave her an odd sort of look.

“It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a word”

“Every word has meaning, Uruk. Otherwise what would be the point of saying them?”

Kharzug grunted, and if Fuinhíril wasn’t mistaken, she could hear the amusement in it, “it's just a name, to tell me apart from the others”

“You use the word 'just' too liberally, Kharzug” she informed her, leaning in her direction just a little to show it was only meant in jest. It was unclear whether the Orc understood such things, but she continued nonetheless, “a name is the most important of signifiers, there is nothing mere about it. It is you, and you are it; your entire character, your story, your desires and ambitions, are all held within it”

Kharzug huffed irritatedly, “you're talking nonsense”

A laugh bubbled up from Fuinhíril’s chest, a genuine and warm sound that felt out of place in the present setting, “if you say so”

A silence fell over the pair, not unpleasant but equally not agreeable. The heavy footsteps and breathing from the other Orcs around her suddenly invaded Fuinhíril’s senses once more, and she had to shake her head to rid herself of the uncomfortable feeling.

It was truly bizarre that she was here really.

There were a few Elves she could think of that would be alarmed by her absence in the Woodland Realm. She could imagine the look on their faces upon finding out that she marched beside a legion of Orcs. It wasn’t something she wanted to imagine. They would undoubtedly call her crazy, say that she’d lost her mind, but for a reason that she was far too hesitant to define — the reason she had left to begin with — she could honestly say she did not care.

Usually she was used to the comfort of a soft bed to land in, a glass of fine wine placed in her hand on her command, more food than she could hope to eat in a lifetime if she so desired; but here, she felt no such inclinations. Thankfully, Kharzug interrupted her thoughts before she could dwell on it any further.

“Is it normal for names to mean things?”

Fuinhíril looked down to the Orc at her side, who looked admittedly puzzled.

“It is common among other mortal races, but less arbitrary for Elves” she shrugged

“What does that mean?”

Fuinhiril smirked, unable to stop herself, “most Elves are named specifically with a meaning in mind”

“What does yours mean?”

She cocked her head with more amusement dancing in her eyes, “I have never met such a curious Uruk as you”

“I’m not!” Kharzug spluttered, utterly disgusted by such a ridiculous notion, “I don’t even care”

Fuinhíril tried desperately hard not to laugh as she angled her face to the ground. She peeked up after a moment and saw the most disturbed frown contorting Kharzug’s face, combined with all the huffing and puffing brought on by being confronted with the observation. When she quietened down she thought to answer the question.

“Lady of darkness” she muttered, and Kharzug looked up to meet her gaze once more, “that is what it means”

“I don’t care” Kharzug gnarled back.

Fuinhíril just chuckled at her petulant tone, “indeed”

elvish words/phrases — q. quenya & s. sindarin, in order of appearance:

q. Ávatyara ni = forgive me

q. Manan paktaldë lé i yára quetil? = why do you speak in the old tongue?

q. enna quetilnya ná = it is my mother tongue/first language