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It was not uncommon for Sauron to caress her hair, but today he'd been doing it more than even he usually did.
Galadriel sat beside him on her black throne, to his right as she ever was. There she sat, strong and beautiful and terrible – the Light Queen as her lord's slaves and servants called her in reverent whispers. Clad in the black breastplate that he had forged for her, but dressed underneath in brilliant, flowing white, with her golden hair long and loose, she had been shaped by him into the vision he had showed her upon the ocean's surface so many years ago, the day she had agreed to be his queen and consort.
In contrast, he sat beside her dressed all in black. Black robes, black armor, and Morgoth's reforged black crown on his brow: the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr and Mordor, her lord, her king, her husband.
She had watched as he bent all of Middle-earth to its knees at his feet over the last centuries, by force of his armies, by the sweetness of his tongue and the deceptive fairness of his face, and by his rings. They had worked just like he told her they would, bringing the order and perfection he had so craved to every corner of their world. Sometimes, she hated him so much that it felt like love, and other times she loved him so desperately that it felt like hatred, but the two had long since become so mingled that she no longer knew how to tell them apart.
But now both hatred and love were forever overshadowed by her insatiable craving for everything that he was and by her exultation in the power that flowed through her because of him.
You bind me to the light, and I bind you to power.
It had not been a lie. But then, she had learned that Sauron did not lie. Sometimes – oftentimes – the truths he spoke carried hidden or twisted meanings, but he did not lie.
An emissary from Near Harad knelt before their thrones now, bringing a proposal from his chieftain about new trade routes. Now that there were no wars to fight and there were no longer any free peoples of Middle-earth to subdue, it was matters like these that occupied most of the Dark Lord's time when he held open court. Sometimes, she wondered if a day would come when he would grow bored with the perfect world he had so meticulously crafted.
As the emissary droned on, she felt his fingers slip into her hair, gently twining the golden locks around his hand. He stroked and twisted languidly, casually brushing out every tangle and imperfection, and she felt the backs of his fingers glide against her shoulder and her neck like a trail of liquid fire. She didn't look at him but knew instinctively when his gaze settled on her, for it seared against her skin and she could feel the bond of their wills turned towards her.
His fingers traced around her ear, stroking the downy curls of hair that rested there, as he answered the emissary and dismissed him, then silence fell over the great throne room finally. Sauron leaned back in his throne, still toying with a single long lock, and she did not need to see his face to know that he was smiling.
"Another day in a peaceful and healed world," he said. He tilted his head to the side and grazed his forefinger along her hairline. She felt the warmth of his skin and the cool touch of metal trailing down her flesh. He always touched her hair with his right hand, the hand that bore his Ruling Ring. He had never said it aloud, but she knew it was his greatest triumph: seeing the gold of his precious Ring and the gold of her precious hair brought together in his hand.
His finger traced around the taper of her ear, rubbing his Ring along its curve, then he withdrew his hand with a sigh that might have been something akin to contentment. "Shall we retire for the day, my light?"
She looked at him then and smiled, the cold smile of the Light Queen, even as her eyes hungrily soaked in the sight of him, so lordly and so beautiful in his place of power. "I should like that very much, my king."
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a scorching kiss across her knuckles. "Then come. I have something prepared for you."
Hand-in-hand, the Dark Lord led his Light Queen up through the winding staircases and through the great halls of Barad-dûr, until they reached the topmost tower where their private chambers were located.
Their suite was a large collection of rooms: a visiting chamber for the rare times when they were hosting a guest important enough to be invited to the very pinnacle of the Dark Tower, a private sitting room, a study where Sauron conducted his business of ruling Middle-earth when he was not in his throne room, a lush bedroom with a great black-canopied bed and a window that looked out across Gorgoroth, and a lavish washroom beyond.
As soon as they stepped into their chambers, Galadriel sensed the subtle change in her husband's demeanor. Although now he almost always wore his elven form, with his long, blond hair and eerily blue eyes, when he was alone with her, she could feel his presence more as Halbrand than the cold, aloof Lord of Mordor. When he smiled at her, it was with Halbrand's old warmth and the crinkle of Halbrand's eyes. It made her heart beat faster just to see the glimmer of the man she had first fallen in love with, wrapped up in the exterior of the man whom she had come to desire with all her being.
He pulled her through the sitting rooms to their bed chamber, his fingers still twined with hers and his fiery eyes hungry.
"The embassy from Near Harad brought us a fine tribute," he murmured, pulling her in close until he was able to slip an arm around her waist. "New slaves, spices, rich fruits from the south. Among the wares were several items I have been looking forward all day to bestowing upon my queen." He leaned forward, his lips grazing hers tantalizingly. "I had servants prepare everything for us."
He glided around her, and the next thing she knew, his fingers were undoing the clasps of her fitted black steel breastplate. Reverently, he slipped it off her, leaving her with the curious floating sensation of no longer bearing its weight. Next, he removed her crown, a black circlet set with priceless red gems, which he had forged with his own hands in the depths of Orodruin. She sighed as he moved directly behind her, brushing her hair over the front of her shoulder as he did so, exposing the bindings of her silk gown. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to the exposed slice of skin between her hairline and the top of her dress, and she shivered with pleasure and yearning. He continued to kiss her nape as he carefully undid the bindings and the dress loosened around her. With the same careful veneration, he reached slowly down, gathering the fabric in his hands, and drew it up and over her head, leaving her standing bare in the middle of the chamber.
He did not touch her though, only took her hand again and with his strange smile that even now she found enigmatic, he led her into the washroom.
The heat and moisture wrapped around her immediately as they stepped together into the huge sumptuous washroom. A magnificent mirror, which Sauron had long ago commissioned from Rhûn, filled the opposite wall, reflecting the image of the two of them – her pale and bare, him still fully clad in black. The center of the room was dominated by a great bath, more of a pool, with marble steps leading down into it. It was filled now with steaming water, heated by furnaces below, and the surface of the water was scattered with hundreds of black rose petals. The fragrance of it swathed Galadriel in a luxurious aura.
"Let me worship you as is only right for the Queen of all Middle-earth, my light," Sauron murmured in her ear.
Her body trembled in answer to her longing for both him and the adoration that the most dangerous and powerful being in the world was so willing to pour out at her feet.
She stepped down into the water gracefully, the soothing heat instantly washing away any stiffness from the day spent in her throne at her lord's side. She sank down into it to her shoulders and rested herself backwards as he slipped a silken pillow under her head to cushion it against the hard rim of the bath. Every muscle in her body relaxed as she listened to the soft clink of metal as he removed his own breastplate and bracers, then she watched with soft lust as he loosened his outer garments and pulled off his black velvet robes, leaving him in only his fitted under leggings. Despite the warm water, a shiver not born from any chill worked its way down Galadriel's spine. She did not know how it was possible, but after three centuries of being his queen, his unearthly beauty still mesmerized her. She watched, gaze both lazy and hungry, as he collected some items from the black marble cabinet on the far side of the room before approaching her and kneeling down behind her at the bath's rim. He placed his right hand tenderly and possessively on the crown of her head. "Rest, my light, and let me bestow upon you the reverence you deserve."
He lifted a clay jar, covered in the twisting runes of Harad, and uncorked it. Instantly, a sweet, spicy perfume wafted about Galadriel, caught up in the steam of the water that magnified the scent a hundredfold. Sauron tipped the jar, spilling a golden liquid into his hands. Leaning over her, he began to lather the aromatic oil over her body, starting with gentle strokes under her jaw, then down her neck, then over her shoulders, working it into every inch of her skin with his clever fingers. Her head lulled back against the pillow, and she felt her crown brush against his lap. He reapplied the oil, and then his hands were working down her arms, all the way to her fingers, first one, then the other. Finally, he was leaning over her further so that his long hair brushed against her face, and his sweet-smelling oiled hands caressed along her collarbones and over her breasts until the tips of his fingers were swirling in the rose-studded water.
He adjusted himself, drawing even closer so that her head now rested fully in his lap, and then his large hands were scooping up great handfuls of water. He held them over her, like a priest making an offering to his goddess, then opened his hands to allow the water to flow over her hair and shoulders. Again and again, his hands dipped and poured, and Galadriel felt the weight of the liquid clinging to her hair as the trickles of it ran in rivulets behind her ears and down her neck and shoulders.
Sauron began to sing as he continued to wet her hair, a strange melody made of words in a tongue that Galadriel did not understand, but beautiful nonetheless. She could feel him swaying slightly to his own tune, and she sensed his power weaving between them, almost as tangible as a physical embrace.
Finally satisfied that her hair was adequately soaked, he chose another jar, which was filled with another fragrant liquid. He lathered it onto his hands, still singing, then began to caress her hair with ardent passion, working the spiced soap deep into the golden locks.
It had long ago ceased to matter to Galadriel whether it was longing or loathing she felt at his touch. His hands were her world now, and they felt as familiar as her own. They formed a rhythm that matched the rhythm of his song as they worked up and down, a pattern so soothing that she felt her eyelids droop, and a blanket of warm, wet peace settled over everything. Everlasting peace. That was what he had promised her when he made her his queen and bride. Everlasting peace and power to her heart's content. And Sauron did not lie.
His power curled around her ever more tightly even now and she sank willingly into it.
His song changed, and now his power was flowing through her, incandescent against her skin and weaving through every part of her body and spirit, more intimate than any lover's touch could ever be. He was inside her and all around her, the very air she breathed, a kiss that went deeper into her than anything else ever could. His power filled every fissure of her being, pooling inside her, making her shudder with pleasure and the thrill of his touch.
His power flowed into her hair as his fingers continued to stroke her locks, and it ignited the sleeping light of the Two Trees that resided in the flowing gold. Light, pure and powerful and beautiful beyond the thoughts of mortals glowed brilliantly from her, and through their bond, she felt his fierce, worshipful exultation as he gloried in the radiance of his queen.
Then, his hands were scooping into the water again, slowly, slowly rinsing the fragrant Haradrim soap from her gleaming hair. His song changed a final time, still the same language but a new tune that wove a gentle, sensual path around them both. Her light dimmed.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours – Galadriel did not know. Sauron had that effect on her, where the two of them seemed to slip together into a place where time had no meaning. But at last, he was evidently satisfied that he had washed out her hair to his standards, for his hands fell still. She felt him lean forward, and he pressed his face fully into her freshly-washed hair, still pulsing with faint light, breathing it in deeply and turning his face this way and that to feel her locks against his skin as entirely as possible. But then, too soon, he was pulling away and she felt his absence as a cold, grey despair creeping around the edges of her world.
She heard the soft rustle of clothing as he discarded his remaining garments. Then the water sucked and swirled about her as he lowered himself into the bath beside her. He lifted her easily and slid into the place she had occupied, then settled her in his arms, her back against his bare chest. Under the warm water, his long legs pressed against hers, his thighs flush against her hips, his larger, lither frame seeming to envelope her.
She leaned back, basking in the sweetness of his embrace, and laid her head against his shoulder. His left hand stroked her hips beneath the water and with his right, he began to sultrily comb her hair with his fingers. As he did so, he nuzzled his face against her cheek, pressing possessive kisses along her jawline and teasing at the very corner of her lips. "Galadriel," he murmured. "Galadriel, my light."
Her hair spilled around them both, flowing down over his chest and her shoulders. She could still feel him glorying in it through the bond of their wills that connected them, in the light of her hair that she knew was worth more to him than all the lands of Middle-earth over which he ruled and more than any tribute from Elf, Man, or Dwarf.
Somewhere deep, deep down, she knew that she should have resisted him that day upon the banks of the Glanduin, that she should have refused his offer, and that perhaps if she had, Middle-earth might have stood a chance against falling into his hands. But that part of her had grown cold long ago.
For truly, there was nothing else as intoxicating in the world as having her light utterly worshipped by the Lord of the Rings himself.