Chapter Text
NOTE: 👋 HELLO THERE! This is my first time writing a LotR story. I have been a fan since I read “the Hobbit” as a 10-year-old kid, and then became OBSESSED after seeing Orlando Bloom bring Legolas to life in 2001 🧝♂️. I have been shipping Aralas / Aragolas (I see fans use both) since that time. I have finally dredged-up the courage and time to share a little something.
In this AU set during “The Return of the King”, I am selectively-merging my knowledge of the books, the movies and the ‘Rings of Power’ series into my own head canon for this story; but I am staying mostly in the realm of the movies. My imagination is unhinged at times, you have been warned.😜
I may commission some art for this story at some point, but for now I made a cheap-n-easy collage.
Embracing Darkness
By Maia’s Pen
Prologue
Whilst disguised as orcs within Mount Doom’s foothills, Frodo and Sam were discovered and brought to Sauron. The Dark Lord reclaimed his Ring and imprisoned the Hobbits within the darkest cell of Barad-dûr. However, even reunited with his Ring, Sauron was not yet powerful enough to take a corporal form, and so . . . he took another one. One from a lineage he had long obsessed over, loathed, even feared, and whose form was as precious to the beings of Middle-earth as The Ring of Power was to Sauron.
As Aragorn and his forces fought valiantly at The Black Gate of Mordor, Sauron surged like a mighty gust of smoke and rushed toward The King of Men, whipping around him in a chaotic maelstrom. When Aragorn opened his mouth to call to his loyal compatriots, Legolas and Gimli, for aid, the maelstrom poured inside of the king like poisoned mead into a chalice. Possessed him. Became him.
No longer did Aragorn, son of Arathorn, stand before the last stand of Middle-earth. He was Sauron. Appearance-wise, he did not change, say for two things: he wore both The One Ring and a wicked smile.
Legolas and Gimli yelled in outrage, their denial and confusion devastating. It was Gandalf alone who fully understood what had befell, and what obliterating danger they faced. The Wizard bid upon the Great Eagles to save as many of his party as they could bear, and to flee back to Minas Tirith. All unfortunate others, Mordor’s forces, did slay.
~~~
Surrounded by the triumphant clamoring of his Dark Army and the ruined corpses of his foes, Sauron’s gaze was drawn to his right forefinger . . .
His One Ring gleamed as a band of firelight beneath the setting sun. It throbbed around him, through him, akin to a heartbeat whilst in the thralls of battle. Sauron stood for a long while then, inhaling and exhaling like a prisoner long buried alive, deprived of light and air, and at last released.
When his new lungs were satisfied, Sauron dragged his gaze from His Ring to another one . . . a lesser ring which rested upon his left forefinger. The Ring of Barahir. This relic of Dúnadan lineage glistened in turn. The emerald eyes of the entwined silver serpents seemed to glare with accusation, making Sauron feel something like an unworthy stowaway. Ergo, Sauron curled his fist, constricting the very snakes till they cracked. Sauron relaxed his fist and the inferior ring fell away into the dust. No ring could best him. He was the Lord of them all, and he felt grander than he had in a millennia— though, it may take him a millennia more ere he could once again take his own form.
So long as Sauron possessed Aragorn’s flesh, this flesh would not know age or rot or death. The King of Men was a divinely-enhanced vessel for Sauron to reap pleasures and necessary mayhem.
The Dark Lord turned on his heels then, summoning his forces to follow him back to his fortress. He would grant the White Wizard and those scant-remaining stragglers a few hours more to breathe. Afterall, such beings were mere gnats struggling to fly against a windstorm, they would soon be blown into nothingness.
All Sauron wanted to do was . . . walk. To breathe. To think. To climb up and down his fortress steps whilst strategizing next steps toward making this chaotic world into one of order and control, only—
Just as Sauron was about to pass through The Black Gate, he paused, experiencing a mildly unpleasant ache within his mind. He knew at once the source.
Elessar . . . Aragorn.
The Ring of Barahir was a nuisance easily rid of, but this– Aragorn’s consciousness, his essence— floated within Sauron like a single stubbornly-frozen drop of water amid the endless, powerful sea that composed The Dark Lord. Sauron felt the icy ripples of Aragorn’s distress, an unsettling sensation, but easily tolerated. As Eru Ilúvatar and the entire Valar pantheon knew– Sauron had suffered far worse at his former-master’s hands. One frozen drop could never overpower– freeze-over– Sauron’s sea.
So long as Sauron’s One Ring remained upon his finger, Aragorn remained frozen and floating helplessly, a mere bystander within his own skin.
🔥 ~~~ 🔥
Part I: “An Interesting Surprise”
(Sauron)
Today is a glorious day to be The Dark Lord Sauron. Mere hours ago he was finally reunited with his precious Ring, and now he is experiencing a sensation he has not felt in centuries: surprise.
However, this is not an unpleasant surprise— like rounding a passageway to find a scowling Morgoth with a whip– rather, this is like being graced with a gift from the Valar!
A sumptuous gift. One that Sauron is, quite suddenly, voracious to sink his teeth and cock into– wait! What?!
Did such base impulses truly pass through him?
Yes, indeed they did. And Sauron is surprised, yet again, as he realizes that— he is not simply inhabiting the body of Isildur’s wretched heir, but that the mortal desires of said wretched heir have also, unabashedly, inhabited him. Just like the lingering essence of Aragorn within his mind, this is yet another consequence of possession that Sauron, for all his ages of wisdom, did not foresee.
Interesting, but not necessarily unwelcome.
Nearly forty generations of men have passed since Sauron last felt a hunger not wrought from rage and revenge. Far longer since he held a form capable of experiencing corporeal pleasures.
So here upon the high steps of his fortress of Barad-dûr, cloaked beneath a night sky so utterly black that only his heart is rival, does the fallen Maiar stand: surprised, salacious, and raptly watching as a party of four scraggly orcs march toward him. Three orcs carry torches, and the last pulls behind him Sauron’s surprise gift: a fair-haired elf bound with rope by his wrists, and not just any elf . . .
The Mirkwood Princeling. A renowned warrior and beauty. King Thranduil’s irksome son who has slain far too many of Sauron’s forces, and, evidently, the object of Aragorn’s secret, shameful lust; Aragorn’s secret, shameful love. Especially shameful since Aragorn promised himself to Elrond’s ageless daughter.
Oh, this is all becoming very interesting. Sauron is looking forward to learning a bit more about Legolas Greenleaf. And so, for the first time with real eyes– Aragorn’s eyes, now enhanced by divinity– Sauron truly looks at, truly sees, the elf that Aragorn truly loves. Though Mount Doom’s scorching smoke has smothered the gleam of the heavens, this elf seems to glow without a light, to burn without a flame. It is as though pure sunlight has been poured into a masculine form. Sauron’s prior and distant observations of Legolas did not do the elf’s physicality justice– he is a beauty worthy of song. His face holds an ethereal grace, while his body is that of a warrior– lithe, swift and strong. It is no wonder that– much to Aragorn’s great disgrace– the man passionately took himself in hand untold times whilst imagining this elf beneath him.
Sauron further studies the approaching rare creature from the tips of pointed ears to the tips of brown boots. The elf is pristine. No scratch or contusion to stain his fair skin, and his delicate braids remain tightly in place despite the recent battle at The Black Gate. Sauron wonders what Legolas would look like with his skin marred and hair mussed? And Sauron’s groin tightens, imagining the lovely creature undone and marked by manhandling.
It would appear that the elven warrior is unarmed, and his simple forest-hued attire looks even simpler without his weapons. The elf’s demeanor appears calm, oddly content, as though he were a pet being taken out for a leisurely stroll. Only Legolas’ eyes betray his equanimity as he regards Sauron stoically– stare hard, blue and cold as ice.
In total, Barad-dûr has 20,069 steps (dwarfing Minas Tirith). Sauron knows this, as he enjoys counting them all, and he holds steady upon the 10th from the ground. He means to maintain a slightly elevated position from whence to scrutinize these arrivals. The orc party stops before him, the four bowing dutifully as the elf stands stubbornly-tall– continuing to glare at Sauron as though The Dark Lord is well-overdue to receive a good glaring. Never before has such a cunty expression made heat swoop low in Sauron’s belly; made his bollocks tighten and his trousers feel too snug. Sauron is suddenly glad that Aragorn adorned a long tunic.
However, for better or worse, the close proximity of the orcs does diminish Sauron’s inconvenient arousal. The miserable creatures are garbed in sweat-soaked, filth-caked rags; their skin is gray as rot; eyes a sickening yellow like milk that has gone sour. And now that Sauron has a functioning nose again, he is reminded that they smell worse than they look.
“M’Lord!” Calls one particularly hideous orc as he shuffles forward, tugging the pretty elf along with him. The orc gestures toward Legolas with a gnarled hand that has certainly never met a wash basin. “Da elf here– well, he surrendered at the gates, he did! Insisted on an audience with you, he did!” A foul-brown spittle dribbles from the orc’s cracked lips as he excitedly adds: “Elf is saying he brings tidings of great importance! We bound him good,” the orc boasts, and for emphasis yanks the rope. The elf, for his part, seems to humor the orc and allows himself to be jerked a step forward. Sauron eyes the meager rope binding . . . it is absurd, really. Legolas could tear through them as easily as damp parchment; it is like trying to secure a cave troll with frayed twine.
Very, very interesting.
“We searched his person, Master,” another orc, eager for Sauron’s favor, pipes up. The abominable creature sounds as though he is speaking with a mouthful of worms. From the look of his slimy, green teeth, perhaps, he is? Sauron would very much like to remove the orc’s disgusting head from his disgusting body. “Da elf did not bring any weapons.”
“No, Master, no weapons.” The third, equally appalling, orc adds with a grunt; then thrusts his torch toward Legolas as though aiming to startle the elf. When Legolas does not flinch, or even acknowledge the orc’s attempt at fright, the heinous creature looks dejected and busies himself by picking his nose.
The forth orc– bloated, bald, big eared– decides to add: “No weapons at all. We took that as a sign of elven auth– er- um . . . auth-eren–cy?” The orc fumbles and spits as he struggles to find his words.
“Authenticity,” Legolas offers, voice void of emotion, and yet . . .
. . . the elf is melodious. A speaking dream. After so long spent hearing only the cacophony of the damned, this soft, yet strong, elven voice is like hearing the breaking of waves after an eternity spent lost in the most barren of deserts; and Sauron’s heart beats faster to hear him, the rhythm unfamiliar.
“Yeaaaah, that,” the bloated, bald orc grins, flaunting a single yellowed tooth as a rancid pus-like substance bubbles at his lips.
Only ages spent honing self-mastery stands between Sauron and murder. These creations of Morgoth are repulsive, foul, stinking, and stupid. Between the four of them, they unlikely have enough teeth to chew a worm, and far less sense than a worm. Orcs do not fit into the mold of perfection that Sauron has envisioned for his new Middle-earth. If orcs were not so useful, so easy to manipulate, he would obliterate them all. In fact, Sauron plans too– to replace them with betters– but not until he has strength enough to take his own form again, and that could be centuries still, even a millenia. Alas, he will need these rank creatures to fight for him until then. And so, Sauron summons one of Aragorn’s most amiable smiles to his lips, and says:
“I see.” Because Sauron does indeed see what the situation is; but he does not bother to inform the orcs that— this elf does not need weapons to be dangerous. Legolas’ bare hands are far more deadly than most instruments of iron. The elf is a lethal, wild thing feigning to be tamed.
Sauron turns Aragorn’s grey sights upon the elf. “Legolas, son of Thranduil,” he addresses in Aragorn’s direct tone-of-voice, “you are as foolish as you are fair to come here.”
Legolas holds his golden head high, jutting out his chin; bold as though communing with his lesser, not the new Lord of Middle-earth. “I have come to negotiate for the release of the Hobbits.”
The Dark Lord is equal parts enraged and entertained. Rubbing his precious Ring, Sauron actually laughs, and has to acknowledge that Aragorn has a pleasant laugh. “And what, Mirkwood Prince, makes you think that I will entertain such a negotiation and not just kill you where you stand?”
The orcs chitter nervously— unsure if Sauron is pleased or vexed by their boon– as the elf continues to make defiant eye contact, flaunting how eyes bluer than ice can smolder hotter than flame.
Then, the voice of Aragorn’s dreams, sleeping and wet, says: “Estel will never harm me.”
Sauron is no longer entertained. Fury lashes within his chest. That name. He feels Aragorn respond to it– the minuscule drop of ice bobbing desperately within the waves of Sauron’s sea– fearing for the elf that he loves.
The Dark Lord inhales deeply and– when he exhales– allows his fury to roll from him in dominant waves as steam rolls forth from Mount Doom. Legolas stiffins, for he is the victim of surprise now, and is clearly battling against his own body not to squirm as he feels Sauron’s dominance like fire beetles scurrying over his flesh.
Sauron descends the remaining ten steps in two long strides, then reaches out and seizes a fist-full of the elf’s far-too-soft hair– yanking his head forward, sneering in that pretty face. The four orc guards squeal in the face of their Lord’s fury and scurry away like rodents in the presence of a hungry wolf.
With the torches gone, the darkness closes in like the bowels of Moria, but Maiar and Elven eyes rival those of cats, and the two males remain unflinching as they stare one another down. Pretty lips part to speak–
Sauron snarls, thieving whatever aggravating words are destined to follow, and tells the elf: “Wrong. Whatever you think you know– you are wrong.”
“Wrong,” Legolas answer-mimics like a pesky Mûmakil parrot, making no attempt to dislodge the pain-inducing fingers from his hair. Although, even attempting to fight back would be foolish. An elf cannot fist fight a typhoon.
“Why?” Sauron hisses with demand, fingers tightening, testing the strength of those golden roots.
Legolas answers at once: “Though Aragorn believed himself unseen in his admiration of me . . . he was not,” his expression tenses ever-so-slightly, something like wistful sadness dimming the heat within his eyes. “To be blunt, Servant of Morgoth, the body you have plundered has long-desired to plunder mine.”
Sauron stiffens at the elf's brazen words, trying to drown the flash of Aragorn’s humiliated shock before it reddens his cheeks. “Be that as it is . . .” Sauron admits– as it is indeed fact “. . . tell me, new Servant of Sauron, what stops me from plundering you now? I could take you like a beast– have you naked and under me right here,” he points to the daunting black steps “and all whilst the Hobbits remain in my cell.”
Something akin to smugness flickers over those too-fair features. “Aragorn would never force himself upon me, but— if you release the Hobbits, I will give myself to you freely.”
Irritatingly interesting.
“You forget that Aragorn is no longer here.”
“He is, lest I would already be dead.”
So haughty. Sauron grits his teeth, nails biting into Legolas’ scalp, but still the elf shows no sign of discomfort. And so Sauron shoves the infuriating creature down . . .
. . . down . . .
. . . down, until legs stubborn as oak branches buckle and kneel before the Dark King. Even as Legolas’ body acquiesces, his eyes continue to burn with that dauntless fire.
The Prince is obstinate and strong. A prideful creature. One who needs to be broken; and once he is, his secrets will spill forth, for this elf knows much. Legolas’ value exceeds Aragorn’s– now Sauron’s– desire for him. The elf knows the locations and strategies of Sauron’s lingering enemies: the White Wizard, Lord Elrond and Galadriel— the she-elf who Sauron harbored a sort of fondness for once, long ago. She is beautiful and gold of hair like Legolas, but he stands-out amongst elves as Shadowfax does amongst horses.
Having this superior beauty on the ground before him is giving Sauron ideas as to how he will pry all of Legolas’ secrets from those pretty lips. Sauron could torture the elf and make it quick, but . . . that seems wasteful when he finally has a body capable of experiencing pleasure again. His cock stiffens uncomfortably, straining against these confounded leather trousers at the thought of fucking the secrets out of this elf. Like a ghost of memory, Sauron vaguely recalls the unparalleled bliss at thrusting meat into meat . . . over and over and over until ecstasy’s climax is reached.
“Up,” Sauron commands, roughly dragging the elf to his feet, and finally dragging a sound of discomfort forth! Legolas winces, the sound soft and breathy and– by all the Valar– does that sound serenade Sauron’s cock and bollocks. Aragorn’s impressive endowment is about to tear-through these trousers. If Sauron is going to keep Legolas as a pleasure slave, he will have to commission much larger leg-wear.
Legolas grits his teeth (clearly to keep any further sounds of weakness at bay) then narrows his eyes into slits so slight that Sauron does not think a flea could pass through his lashes.
Leaning into Legolas’ space, Sauron yanks the golden head back, bearing the elf’s throat to him like an offering. Sauron drags his nose up the length of that pale neck, from pulse to pointed ear . . . inhaling . . . If sunlight had a scent, it would be Legolas. Something like freshly-bloomed wild flowers mixed with ripe honey, and beneath that– raw male elf. A subtle spicy musk that Sauron wants to lick and bite and swallow down. But, Sauron does not tell the elf that. Rather, his mouth finds a tender pointed ear and he growls into it: “you smell like dinner.”
Legolas shivers at that – whether from fear or anticipation, Sauron is not certain. Legolas is aware of Aragorn’s (apparently) poorly hidden desires for him, but perhaps . . . Aragorn’s desires are not unrequited?
Evermore interesting.
Sauron chuckles darkly into that sensitive ear, grazing a canine along the edge. “I could eat you alive right here, Your Majesty, and not the White Wizard, your father, and especially not Aragorn himself can save you.” Sauron breathes-in another hit of Legolas. How can any creature fresh from battle smell this good?!
Sauron releases the elf’s hair, and the fair creature is breathing just a bit harder, cheeks tinged a delicate pink. The ice in Legolas’ eyes, however, has not melted from his uptake in body heat– but, the pupils of his eyes have grown larger, darker, a shade to match Sauron’s domain. And Sauron notices that these dark eyes are fixed low . . . is Legolas . . . is he . . . looking at Sauron’s groin?
“You have kept it,” Legolas says, voice perfectly steady, and Sauron realizes – with barely contained disappointment– that the elf is staring at the weapon upon his hip, not in his trousers. Narsil reforged, now Anduril.
Sauron finds himself saying: “I have forgotten the taste of apples.”
Legolas tilts his head, not unlike a warg pup trying to discern a distant sound. “Pardon?”
“I have forgotten many things, Mirkwood Prince . . . the taste of apples, yes, and the scent of a Niphredil bloom; the feel of sunlight upon my face; of mead in my belly; the passionate embrace of a lover. But what I have not forgotten is . . . pain.” Sauron pins Legolas with a look of dangerous despair. “The horrendous, excruciating-pain from which this sword stole my precious Ring away, and my existence, nearly. So I have taken this bringer of pain, this thief of memory, and made it mine. Here this horrible sword will rest upon my hip, so that I may rest assured knowing that it will never cause me pain again.”
“If you untie me, I could fetch you an apple,” Legolas proposes, expression and tone not revealing if he plans to make a genuine fruit-fetching effort, or means to be a sarcastic wretch. Sauron would bet his Ring on the latter. Regardless, it is a ludacris offer, and Sauron’s sights blatantly travel from the pathetic rope binding Legolas’ hands and up to meet those willful eyes.
Sauron cuts the elf with a judgemental glare, telling him: “You are the deceiver here.”
Shamelessly owning his deceit, Legolas straightens his arms and, with a swift twist of his wrists, snaps the rope as easily as a cave troll would a bit of frayed twine. Then, he has the audacity to raise an eyebrow– a gesture Sauron interprets as a taunt. The Dark Lord grunts, amused by this beguiling creature. Legolas is confident that Sauron will not truly harm him; he thinks himself armoured by Aragorn’s feelings. Foolish, pathetic elf. Sauron will savor every moment spent showing Legolas how wrong he is. “There are no apples in Mordor, Mirkwood Prince. No Niphredil blooms, no mead, no sunlight—”
“If you release the Hobbits,” Legolas murmurs, voice a silken chord. “I will embrace you as a lover.” He punctuates the tempting offer with eye contact so fiercely intimate that, for a heartbeat, The Lord of Mordor almost forgets how to breathe. But he will be damned if he allows the elf to notice.
“Embracing will be difficult . . .” Sauron chide-warns, jabbing Legolas in his (very firm) chest with enough oomph to squash a bug, but not to bruise. Not yet. “. . . once your arms are properly bound. I have in my possession the lesser chains of Angainor— strong enough to hold down a god.” What Sauron does not add is that Morgoth bound him many a time with these very chains in order to inflict dire punishments, often whether Sauron deserved the punishments or not. Legolas, for all his elven strength, will not be able to break them; but Sauron will use these divine binds to break Legolas.
Mordor’s Lord points to the vast stairway leading up to the dungeon-level of Barad-dûr— a mere 502 steps of the 20,069. “Start climbing.”
Legolas holds still as a boulder in the breeze and, sounding every bit the prince he is, says: “You will take me to see the Hobbits. I must see that they are unharmed before our negotiation begins.”
Scoffing loudly, Sauron grabs Legolas by his (very firm) biceps and tosses him toward the stairs. The elf endures the roughness with grace, feet not stumbling upon the first step. “Our destination is my dungeon– the Hobbit’s new home, and you are to become their neighbor. You will either march up those steps, or I will drag you there trussed-up like a hog.”
The elf clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring, eyes burning; but nods once.
“Good boy,” Sauron praises and pats Legolas’ cheek like a warg master praising a loyal mount. Legolas goes rigid, face warming under Sauron's touch, and– oh, that cheek! Skin soft as Valinor silk, and Sauron nearly drools like a warg himself, just imagining Legolas bare— the full-expanse of that luxurious, pale flesh all his to lick and bite and desecrate. “There are five-hundred-and-two steps leading up to my dungeon, and you will count each step as you ascend,” Sauron commands, which earns him a glance of curious suspicion from the elf, but he offers no explanation.
Like a good boy, Legolas turns back toward the steps and counts as he moves: “One, two, three, four, five. . .”
Within Sauron’s sea, Aragorn is raging– fighting frantically, uselessly, from inside his frozen tomb. The former King of Men is strong willed, but in a pathetic way . . . a minow trying to swim against a tidal wave. A mouse trying to out-roar a dragon. A mortal man trying to break free from the cage of a god. One and the same.
You should be pleased, Aragorn, Sauron thinks, knowing the man hears his thoughts. For I am going to give your body what it wants– what you have been too cowardly to take.
“. . . twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . .”
Sauron indulges in how Legolas’ riding leggings and tunic do nothing to conceal the firm roundness of his backside as he climbs, and indulges further hearing that wondrous voice, rhythmic and controlled, counting off each step . . . ah, beautiful.
“. . . twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . .”
Today is a glorious day to be The Dark Lord Sauron.
To be continued . . .
🔥 ~~~ 🔥
NOTE: Thank you for reading my first LotR offering! If you have enjoyed this, please consider leaving me a little kudos, or if you really enjoyed, perhaps a comment?🥹 That would make my day (and smile) shine bright! I worked hard on this!
All the best to you reader. I hope you are doing well, and being kind to yourself.
Xo Maia
Say HI! I like making new friends.
Leggy is coming to save youuuuuu, Aragorn!
