It had been centuries since Sauron had taken a softer shape, and it was not a form he could hold for long. He’d imagined it while watching over Aragorn slumber, his mind brushing the edges of the ranger’s uneasy dreams. But the idea had lodged deeper and he couldn’t resist, considered it a jape. This mortal was clever. Through the fog of sleep, he would surely realise quickly. “Aragorn,” Sauron soothed, the higher feminine voice scratchy within his throat. Aragorn stirred, eyelids fluttering open as he lifted his cheek from the back of his hand. He sat up, steadying himself with a stretch of his other arm and still blinking the world into focus. It was subtle, the way his face flicked through a range of emotions. First the slight raise of his mouth, a ghost of a smile, then his eyes darting from the face he loved to the dark of the forest about him, the only light an orange glow upon a pile of stone and wood.
The anger arrived quickly, a shadow descending until he launched his weight into the one who dared to mock by wearing her fair shape. Purple and white silks swirled as Sauron made a half hearted attempt to fight but he let Aragorn have this one, accepting the hands that closed around his neck and the spittle that splashed against his face. “I suppose you think this is funny?” Aragorn snarled, the whites of his eyes wide with rage. “I merely wished to comfort you,” Sauron replied through Arwen’s lips, breath catching as Aragorn squeezed hard enough to crush his windpipe. “Change back!” Sauron sighed, the rush of enjoying his enemy’s anger rapidly fading into disappointment. It had been far too easy. His skin shimmered and grew taller and broader, remaining in Elf-form, Arwen’s long raven locks shortening into the sleek blond of Annatar.
Blah blah the Ainur can't take the shape of their opposite (i.e. if they're male they always present as male) but have you considered that it would make an accidental Third Age AU camping trip with your Best Enemy really fucking funny?
#WIP #myfic #TROPfic
