This is my first fic in English. Sorry for any possible mistakes, English not my first language.
Drama, original female characters, original male characters, second and third age, Sauron needs a hug, gray moral. Don't believe Sauron, he's evil.
Chapter 1.
The evening settled over the southern palace gently, as if draping a warm cloak over its walls. Low bonfires were lit in the inner courtyard. The air grew thick with the scent of flowers, hot sand, sandalwood, and spices.
Mairon sat on a low carved stool, leaning slightly forward, holding the darbuka as though it weren’t an instrument at all, but an extension of himself. His fingers flew over the drum’s skin—sometimes soft, barely a whisper, sometimes sharp and commanding—weaving a rhythm that slipped into the blood of everyone standing nearby. He sang in the language of sand and wind. The Maia’s voice settled over the drumbeats, intertwining with them into a pattern that made you want to either weep or laugh, forgetting everything else. In the firelight, his claws flashed, and his fangs glinted in a smile whenever he laughed at someone’s joke or encouraged one who was too shy to step into the circle. And on his finger, the One Ring shone with golden light.
Around him, the Haradrim whirled in bright scarves and copper bracelets, their movements like the flight of birds. Simple guards, who weren’t on duty tonight, clapped along and hummed tunes they didn’t know the words to—but they felt the meaning.
“Erielle!” he suddenly called out, never missing a beat, turning his head just enough to catch her gaze. His eyes, in the firelight, seemed almost golden. “Come here! Let this evening be yours too!”
She froze in the archway. But he… was waiting for her to join in.
So she stepped forward—hesitant at first, then bolder. She didn’t try to copy the intricate steps of the southern dancers; instead, she moved the way her heart sang, letting the fire and the music guide her.
Mairon smiled—wide and open—and in that moment, he didn’t seem like an ancient lord at all. He was simply someone who had gathered everyone together so that no one would feel alone.
“May the earth remember our steps! May the fire see our faces!” he shouted, and everyone around him took up the cry, launching into a new song.
Lirin stood a little apart, leaning against a column, watching the celebration.
“He knows how to do this,” he said quietly when Erielle paused for a moment to catch her breath and stepped over to him. “He knows how to be not above people, but with them.”
“I used to think his power was a wall,” she said. “Now I see it’s a circle. He draws everyone in so that no one is left outside.”
Lirin inclined his head slightly in agreement.
“Exactly so,” he said calmly.
Erielle stepped back into the circle, and this time she wasn’t afraid. She laughed, spun, let the fire paint golden patterns on her dress, and felt the fear slip away.
And Mairon kept playing. His fingers never tired. His voice never grew weak. He looked at his people, at each of them in turn, as if he wanted to memorize this evening forever.
Later, when the fires had burned down to embers and the others had either gone to their chambers or lain down right on the warm stone to gaze at the stars, Mairon and Erielle remained alone in the courtyard. He sat on the edge of the fountain, his hand trailing in the water, while she settled beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder.
The silence didn’t feel frightening now. It was warm, like a blanket draped over your shoulders on a cool evening.
“You know,” Erielle said softly, gazing up at the stars, “I realized something. This sense of you being everywhere… it isn’t about controlling everything. It’s about making sure no one is left in the dark.”
Mairon only smiled, flicking his tongue over his fangs, and the inscription on his ring flared a little brighter for a moment.
