Chapter Text
Under the looming shadow of Mount Doom, an unruly war camp of Uruks stretched for miles, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and the faint metallic tang of blood. Within the center of the camp, two crude thrones forged from blackened wood and iron stood atop a dais, watching over the gathering of Uruks and prisoners alike. Móriel sat languidly upon her throne, her golden eyes catching the light of the torches like embers in the dark. Half-lidded in thought, her gloved fingers idly stroked the coarse fur of the warg resting at her side. Its snarling maw, dripping with saliva, leaned into her touch. Beside her, Adar sat tall, his eyes fixed upon the approaching prisoners dragged forward by the ever-fervent Waldreg. The Uruks jeered as the clanking of chains and hesitant footsteps of the captives filed into the clearing, but Móriel’s attention remained distant while Waldreg’s voice cut through the din.
“Do you swear allegiance,” Waldreg bellowed, “to Adar, Lord-Father of the Uruks, and to our Lady Móriel, Daughter of Morgoth, Mother of the Uruks, and Maiden of Pain?”
The prisoners quaked beneath the weight of the question, eyes wide with terror as they glanced between the towering presence of Adar and the ethereal, dark beauty of Móriel. Some muttered prayers, others stammered weak declarations of loyalty to the dark power that had consumed their land. All who swore loyalty were branded on the nape of the neck with the Mark of Adar and Móriel. Móriel’s gaze barely flickered at their pleas and cries of pain, her hand still stroking the warg’s fur, until a particular figure was dragged forward. Waldreg pushed a man clad in rough, travel-worn clothes onto his knees. His face was bruised, his eyes steely, but there was something in his bearing—something familiar.
Sauron.
“Halbrand, The King of the Southlands turned himself in Lord-Father, says he wants to negotiate.” Waldreg spat.
Móriel’s interest piqued, her eyes sharpening as she recognized him immediately for who he truly was. Sauron, in a mortal guise, masking his power behind the pretense of this King of the Southlands. She kept her expression carefully neutral. With a voice smooth and honeyed, Móriel leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.
“Negotiate? What could you possibly offer us, your highness?”
“Let my people go.” The man commanded, standing up to meet Móriel’s eyes. He held firm even as the jeering intensified.
“Or yours will die.” he added tersely.
“Our people defeated the men of these lands, we defeated the elves who came to their aid, we even defeated their allies, the Men from beyond the sea.” Adar replied, standing from his throne and walking towards his prisoner.
“There is no one left for us to fear.”
“There is one.” The King of the Southlands retorted.
“Since Galadriel’s defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. “A power over flesh” Do you remember those words?” Halbrand continued. Adar’s and Móriel’s eyes met briefly, though they quickly returned to Halbrand as he continued to speak.
“A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Set my people free, and I will tell you where he can be found. So you can destroy him, and rid us both of his evil.” His voice seemed so sincere, Móriel had nearly forgotten how earnest Sauron could sound.
“No, Your Majesty. You will tell us everything you think you know of this sorcerer now. Or I will spill the words from your throat.” Adar threatened, his eyes locked on the man in front of him.
“If I die, all that I know dies with me. You can’t kill me.” Halbrand’s challenge lingered in the air, and Móriel watched with bated breath.
“In time, you will beg me to.” Adar countered coldly, then turned his head, dismissing the would-be king. Waldreg, sensing the conversation had concluded, struck Halbrand with a devastating blow to the stomach and drug him away into the depths of the camp. Móriel’s gaze lingered on Halbrand as he was led away, a flicker of intrigue dancing in her eyes. Her hand stilled on the warg’s head as her thoughts drifted, contemplating what she had just witnessed. Sauron, always playing his games. Always maneuvering, weaving his webs of deceit. And yet, he had chosen to reveal himself to her. A dangerous move, but one that sparked something within her. What game was Sauron truly playing, and how could she turn it to her advantage?
The Uruks had been steadfastly loyal to Adar all these long years. He did not seek to rule over them; did not seek to instill fear in them; he seemed to love them, and they loved him in return. But love was fickle, and the Uruks had grown as restless as Móriel of late. None of them remembered the reign of her father or the terrible might she had commanded until he was cast into the Void and her power was collared by Valar. All of the Uruks revered her and saw her as their mother, but they didn't fear her. Not as they should.
In the solitude of their shelter, Móriel moved with practiced care, her fingers deftly undoing the clasps of Adar’s armor. She worked in silence, her gaze steady as she freed him from the worn dark plates. Adar watched her, his expression softening.
“You seem distracted of late.” He broke the silence between them, a hand gently resting on her cheek. Her skin was warm, like the radiant heat of a kindling fire.
“Do you believe him? This King of the Southlands, that Sauron has returned?” Móriel asked, slipping a slight tremble into her voice.
“No.” Adar replied, his thumb brushing across her cheek.
“You saw him parish just as I did all those long years ago.” he added.
“I warned you then, it is no simple feat to kill a Maia.” Móriel retorted.
“I did not think the daughter of Morgoth would flinch at the mere mention of a ghost.” Adar replied sardonically.
Móriel's face hardened slightly, eyes narrowing. “You would risk all we have accomplished, risk our children's very freedom, on this belief? The hubris of elves still lives within you I see.” Móriel broke away from Adar's touch, and turned to leave. He grabbed her wrist in response, just as she intended, pulling her back to him.
“Mortári,” Adar addressed her with a cautionary tone but used his term of endearment for her.
“Do you remember what you vowed to me, all those centuries ago at Dúrnost?” Móriel asked softly. Adar contemplated for a moment before replying.
“I told you I would never see you bow to another dark lord again. That I would stand by you as your equal, in all matters, for all time.”
“Then I will speak with this King of the Southlands tonight. There is either truth to his claim, or this is merely the last prayer of a desperate man. “ Móriel said simply.
“I pity him.” Adar replied, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.
“Once he feels your wrath, his Majesty will long for Waldreg's gentle touch.”
Móriel’s mouth melted into a soft smile as she leaned in to his touch. Adar had been a good companion to her. Loyal, attentive, reverent, and accompanied by legions of Uruks for her to command. He saw her as another victim of her father and of Sauron, a kindred spirit in his quest for belonging. There was a part of Móriel that wished that were true. But in her heart, she felt only a ravenous endless hunger. Hunger for power, pleasure, dominion over all others, a hunger to become something truly divine. There was no room for sentimentality, she learned that lesson long ago. Her hands clutched the rough material of Adar's tunic and pulled him closer to her. With a practiced tongue, she traced the curve of his ear slowly. Adar's breath caught at the touch, his eyes darkening with desire.
“Lay with me.” Móriel whispered in his ear, her voice laced with urgency. Adar eyed her hungrily as she slipped away from his grasp. Nestled amongst the rough woolen blankets and furs that littered the ground, Móriel removed her silk shift and beckoned him closer. After all this time, seeing her laid bare before him, long hair cascading down her body like a river of night, Adar still felt as though he had strayed into a dream. His mouth found hers, hungry and unreserved as their bodies met. Adar groaned as her skin began to heat to his touch. His bare hand slid between her thighs, gently teasing and massaging her. Deliberately slow at first until he felt her mouth move beneath his, nibbling, sucking, moaning his name. Mòriel's hips rolled against him greedily, one hand clawing at the fur beneath her while the other grasped Adar's silken hair. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, causing Mòriel to whimper against his mouth. The sound was enough to drive him mad. Adar’s fingers worked eagerly, curved slightly to heighten her pleasure. Móriel bit his bottom lip as she neared overstimulation. He let out a throaty chuckle in response, nibbling along her neck, over her collarbone, and finally making his way to her breast. Adar's tongue took her nipple into his mouth and gave it a tight squeeze between his teeth. Móriel gave a sharp cry in response, he could feel her constrict around his fingers and the trembling of her body. She was close.
“Throqu-ni!” Móriel pleaded in the Black Speech. Adar's eyes met hers and she could see a smirk form from around her breast. Slowly, he continued gnawing along her body, across the tender flesh of her stomach, and down to her thighs. The momentum of his fingers didn't cease, even as Adar added his mouth and began to taste every inch of her.
“Adar…Lord-Father please!” Mòriel cried, pulling his hair as her climax took over. She bit into her lip as Adar's low guttural growls vibrated against her, sending aftershocks rolling though her body. Loosening her grip on his hair, Móriel guided him back to her, panting hard as she rested her forehead against his. She could smell the smoke in his hair and almost taste the sweat on his skin. As Adar slipped his fingers from inside her, Móriel's eyes met his with a mischievous glint. Shifting beneath him, she spread her legs wide and invited him to claim her.
Adar pulled away momentarily, unclasping his belt. Seeing her under him, eyes tracking him with anticipation, made his chest ache with longing. Slowly, attentively, he inched himself inside her and was welcomed by the sweet sound of his name and a lusty moan. Móriel's toes curled as he filled her to the hilt, savoring the fullness of him.
“Mortári…” Adar breathed against her neck, his thrusts becoming more rapid. Móriel's arms wrapped around his body, holding him close. With each thrust, the weight of him threatened to knock the wind out of her. Móriel relished the moment, the dizzying lightheadedness, the heat building in her core. She threw her head back with the pleasure of his body pounding against hers. Letting out a primal moan, Móriel raked her nails against Adar's back, sending him into a frenzy. But before he could finish, Móriel wrapped a leg around him and used their momentum to overturn them. Now in control, she rode him mercilessly with her hands digging into his thighs. Adar used the sharp points of his gauntlet to dig into her hip and ass, while his bare thumb rubbed her clit.
“Sha-ni Adar! Sha-ni!” Moriel screamed, as their bodies crashed together violently. With a deep guttural groan, Adar took hold of her hips with both hands and thrust himself into Móriel as hard and far as he could. She could feel him spasm and the warmth of his seed spreading inside her. Móriel's body tensed around him, quivering with pleasure as the two of them rode out their climax together.
With trembling hands firmly planted on his chest for support, Móriel withdrew herself slowly. She already missed the breadth of him inside her, now feeling strangely hollow. Settling beside her consort, she gave Adar a moment to recover from her touch. Though they were already beginning to recede, she could still see the angry red marks on his chest and face. The inevitable burn of her caress. This much sustained contact, though undoubtedly pleasurable, was mixed with pain. But Adar was used to pain, and if it were by her hand he welcomed it. Combing his fingers through her hair, Adar brought his lips to hers before withdrawing again. He was utterly spent, panting softly at her side. The Lord-Father of the Uruks would rest soundly this night, but Móriel had other matters to attend to before sleep would claim her as well.
Entering the dimly lit tent, Móriel was as quiet as a lurking wolf. The scent of charred earth and iron filled the air, mingling with the lingering scent of blood. The light of a lone torch caught her eyes producing a luminous eyeshine. A hint of the true lineage lurking behind them. Halbrand, shackled to a sturdy post, sat slumped in the center of the tent, his body bruised and battered from Waldreg’s less-than-kind methods of interrogation. He raised his head slowly. Seeing Móriel step closer, his eyes narrowed with a flicker of recognition. She moved with graceful precision, a coy smile on her lips. Móriel felt a sense of satisfaction seeing him in this state, yet there was something else too, something so familiar about the scene before her. Kneeling beside him, Móriel produced a damp cloth and began dabbing it gently against the cuts and bruises marring his skin. Halbrand’s muscles tensed under her touch, but he remained silent, watching her with calculating eyes.
“This,” she began softly, her voice lilting with a mixture of amusement and nostalgia, “reminds me of when my father was particularly cross with you.” Halbrand’s lips melted into a smirk, though the pain from his wounds made it brief.
“Morgoth was often cross with me,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying that ever-present edge of defiance. “I lost track of the times.”
Móriel chuckled softly, her hand continuing to gently clean his wounds. Her touch was tender, so deceptively tender.
“Yes, well, your penchant for ambition often aggravated him.” She teased studying his face. “And yet, here you are again. Spinning your webs, even in chains.” Móriel added, dabbing the cloth against a particularly deep cut, causing him to flinch slightly.
“Adar believes you are just a pretender—a king of a people long forgotten. It’s almost endearing. Could you imagine if he were to discover who you truly were? With how much he loathes even your memory.”
Halbrand raised an eyebrow, leaning his head back against the post.
“And you?” he asked, his voice low, testing her. “Do you loathe me too?”
Móriel paused for a moment, her hand hovering over his skin as she looked into his eyes. Her expression softened, but only slightly.
“Loathe? No.” She leaned in just a little closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You have always been… beguiling. A rival, a kindred spirit, calling to my very nature.” Móriel’s lips hovered just above his, tantalizingly close. It had been so long since he tasted them, held her soft scalding flesh with his hands and teeth.
“But prone to arrogance and never heeding sound counsel when presented to you.” she withdrew slowly giving him a knowing look. Halbrand chuckled darkly.
“I had a long time to reflect on your words. While you were here, playing wet-nurse to an army of orcs, and warming my would-be-murderer’s bed.”
“They have served their purpose, most enthusiastically.” Móriel purred, unwilling to fall for the obvious bait. The charged silence between them lingered for a time, neither wanting to break first.
“I have missed you.” Halbrand sighed, his eyes softening in feigned affection. Móriel scoffed, but her face lacked any sign of irritation.
“I have missed you too, Mairon.” There was a charming lilt to her voice as she spoke his name. A name he hadn't heard in an age.
“Now, I'm not fool enough to expect the whole truth.” Móriel began, setting the damp cloth aside. “But you revealed yourself to me on purpose, why?”
“Because, you will expedite my release from these shackles.” Halbrand said giving his chain as sharp tug. “So I can free you from yours.” He added.
A fit of uncontrolled laughter burst from Móriel's chest. The Vallar themselves had shackled her, suppressing the vast terrible power she had once wielded as her birthright. There was no force on Middle Earth that could break that. Was there?
“A noble pursuit, truly.” Móriel's laughter faded as she met Halbrand's gaze, expecting a glint in his eye, a vicious grin, but there was nothing. He looked at her expectantly, a slight furrow of his brow. He was serious.
“How?” Móriel couldn't contain the slight tremble in her voice, subconsciously touching the hollow of her neck.
“There exist three rings of power, forged in Eregion, which will reverse the very will of the Valar and restore the Great Tree of Lindon.” Halbrand explained, his voice low and conspiratorial.
“You forged these rings?” Móriel asked, her eyes searching his for any sign of deciept. Mairon had once served Aulë, the smith of the Valar, he had such knowledge. Móriel could feel her heart begin to pound in her chest.
“Inspired. But after I arrive in Eregion, my influence will help forge the rest. Seven for the Dwarf-Kings, nine for the race of men, and one for you my Ash Burzum.” the deep guttural sound of the Black Speech leaving his lips sent a tantalizing chill down Móriel's spine. His eyes locked onto hers with a fire she hadn't seen since that fated day at Dúrnost.
“Out of the goodness of your heart?” She asked, eyes narrowed skeptically.
“No.” Halbrand replied with a dry laugh. “But I would rather not make the same mistake twice. I need you Móriel, and if the price is restoring you to your former glory, so be it.”
Móriel contemplated his words carefully. There was enough history between them to fill tomes. Memories of exhilaration, pain, lust, torment, and satisfaction flooded her thoughts. She couldn't trust him, there was obviously a cost to these rings, one that would benefit him greatly. But she had to take this chance…no matter the cost. Móriel's hand clasped the chain around his neck, gently pulling him closer until her mouth hovered next to his ear.
“Then you have me Mairon.” Her answer was soft, delicate, like the vow of a lover. Twisting the chain slowly in her hand, she pulled him tighter, until her mouth touched the lobe of his ear as she spoke.
“But cross me, and you will long for the mercy of my father.”
Halbrand's eyes darkened and a subtle smile touched his lips. He was happy to let Móriel think she had the upper hand… for now.
