Instadrabbles (delayed dribbles) by 0ur_Ouroboros

Beauties, terrors, sun, power

“My brave, beautiful Tyelpë,” Annatar’s voice is an oozing wound. He strokes the elven-smith’s cheek and tucks a fraying braid behind his ear. 

The Lord of Eregion, once so proud and beloved, hangs his head and attempts once more to free his fëa. To send it keening toward the sun.

But he only feels the terror and dark power of the man-who-is-not-a-man gripping him. And as that beautiful skin-suit of false promises and filth touches his face, it binds his fëa to the cold ground of his flesh.

“Not yet, my ring-maker, my sun. Not yet.”