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It is raining in the woods of Lothlórien.
Midnight has not long passed, and the skies are a dark, purply grey as water falls from the heavy, overbearing clouds onto the vast rich green canopy below.
The rain makes a gentle but steady pattering against the leaves and branches of the great mallorn trees, before the droplets drip down to the rapidly dampening forest floor. The very tops of the trees swap in the wind, branches creaking as they move.
Some of the rain falls into the swelling flow of the Celebrant River, creating hundreds of rippling circles across its churning surface. Large, golden leaves that have been shaken loose by the rainstorm are carried away in the rushing water, tumbling around boulders and bumps in its course. The ever-steady rush is a balm to the soul, soothing and calming, bringing peace with every exhale.
To anyone wandering through the forest at this hour, things are tranquil, despite the storm.
Further south, hidden away in the depths of the trees, safe from all prying eyes, is a secluded bower, protected from the rain, where there is an unexpected sight.
Nestled in a pile of blankets and pillows, peacefully asleep in each other’s arms, is the Dark Lord Sauron and the Lady of the Wood, Galadriel.
Their clothes are scattered on the ground around them, thrown off in haste hours before when he first pulled her down into the makeshift bed.
They now lie pressed together, skin to skin, their breathing in sync. Her head is tucked underneath his chin, her cheek resting against his chest. His arms are wrapped protectively around her shoulders, his hands tangled in her long blonde hair. Her left leg is thrown over his hip, keeping their lower bodies together.
Neither wants this night to end and so each has placed their own enchantments on the bower to try and extend the time as much as possible.
If they are to have a last night together, they want it to last.
But they cannot stop the dawn’s eventual arrival.
Neither has that kind of power.
Her power channelled through her ring can protect and conceal and it has given them this hidden space within her own treasured woodland.
His power can manipulate and bend wills, create illusions so strong that they are barely discernible from the real world. If he wanted to, he could create an illusion of an endless night for them both to stay in, but the world would keep turning outside of it, and all the politics and machinations and war would not stop.
So he has not, and the dawn, whilst several hours away, will eventually break across the sky.
And when it does, the pale, golden light will filter through the leaves and fill the bower, casting the sleeping figures in a soft warm glow.
He will wake first, nuzzling his face into her hair, which will shine in the morning sunbeams. He will kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, pressing his lips tenderly against her skin like she is something sacred. He wants to remember this moment, the way she feels in his arms before it all ends.
As he holds her close, he will draw lazy circles and patterns across her shoulder blades, his fingers getting caught in her hair. But he will gently extract them, careful not to pull or tangle the golden waves. But his light, little touches will cause her to stir, waking slowly in his arms, mumbling his name as she snuggles against his chest.
He will gaze down at her, his hazel eyes taking in each inch of her sleepy face and slightly flushed cheeks, so beautiful in the dawn.
His hands will trail down her body, following the familiar curves and contours he has mapped so many times before, seeking the place between her legs where she will be warm and wet still from their earlier couplings.
As his fingers start to move between her hot, slick folds, maddeningly slow at first, she will gasp and moan, already unravelling at his touch. Her pleasure is a melody he has learnt to play by heart after all these years and he knows exactly what she needs.
His breath will ghost across her collarbone, followed by hot opened mouth kisses. His worship of her body is devout, reverential, the only religion he ever needed.
He will roll her over, wrapping her legs high around his waist so he can enter her in a single thrust. Her nails will scratch his back when he begins to move faster, each of her whispered moans driving him on as they chase their pleasure together for the last time. He will press their foreheads together, breaths and pants mingling with each thrust, before they share a searing kiss.
Their releases when they come will be bright and blazing, and she will cry out as she clings to him, riding out the final wave of bliss.
They will stay in each other’s arms, as their breathing returns to normal and their heart rates slow, kissing and caressing, the dying sparks of their climax flickering and fading away.
They will whisper “mine” to each other, a word they have said many times before, whether in the middle of passionate embraces when he is still inside of her or simply curled around each other in the dark and the quiet.
And yet, they cannot belong to the other in that way anymore.
Not after tonight.
But the sun will continue to rise higher and higher into the morning sky, almost unbearably bright and glaring after the storm. They will be unable to put off their departure for much longer. Eventually they will reluctantly untangle themselves from each other and the blankets.
They will scramble to find their clothes, discarded so carelessly the night before on the ground around them.
He will find his trousers and boots as she pulls the sage green dress over her head. She will gently move her long hair to the side so he can help with the laces at the back. Once he has tied them tight, he will place several kisses to the base of her neck, before moving his lips along her jaw line and up to the tip of her pointed ear. She will turn to face him, an elegant golden leaf circlet resting in her hands and he will place it delicately atop her head.
She will hand him his tunic, made of a thick black material, which he will pull over his head, tousling the dark hair on his forehead. She will reach up and smooth the curls, before her hand moves to cup his cheek. He will lean into her touch, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm.
She will let him continue dressing, the rest of his clothes and adornments as darkly coloured as his tunic. He will pretend not to notice how her hands shake as her fingers fix the onyx clasp at the neck of his cloak, but then he is ready, and he stands tall next to her, every inch the feared Dark Lord.
She, in her sage green dress, with leaves and vines sewn across the skirt in emerald and gold thread, and her golden leaf circlet upon her head, is the revered Lady of the Wood.
They will continue to stand in each other’s arms, but their faces will change with growing melancholy as they know they cannot stay.
The clock is against them.
The battle lines are drawn and are getting ever closer.
His eyes will become heavy and downcast; the greener parts of his hazel irises darkening as he tries to conceal his rising anguish from her. She will try to ignore the rage and despair swelling in her own chest and will blink back the tears threatening to spill from her sea blue gaze.
She will reach up and pull his face down to hers for what will be their last kiss. Her mouth will move urgently, desperately, against his. His hands will come up to hold her face as he kisses her back, pouring all his fear and hope and love into this last embrace.
His hands will move from her cheeks, down her shoulders and to her hands. He will hold them tightly and raise them to his lips for a last kiss on each knuckle. Her lips will tremble at these last adoring kisses, and a small broken sob will escape her throat that will cause him to grimace.
They will then begin to pull apart, until just their fingers remain touching. They will linger here, arms outstretched, fingertips clinging for as long as possible until they finally separate. Both will let out a long, shaky exhale as their emotions, simmering so close to the surface, finally begin to break free.
Each will take several steps away from the other, moving backwards to keep their eyes locked for as long as possible, until they have to turn away, to leave this place and return to their respective realms and to the battle preparations that will have continued in their absence.
He will return the golden band of the One Ring to his finger as he walks. With every step, he will become shrouded in smoke and darkness, hardening his heart and burying everything he ever felt for her away deep down inside.
She will return the silver ring of adamant, Nenya, to her finger and with each bare footstep on the damp earth, she will shut her mind to him, a door closing with a finality that she does not want.
They must each become something new as the Age readies itself, on the edge of a precipice into which only one of them must fall.
The last things to fade will be their footsteps until those too have faded into silence, and all that will be heard will be the faint and distant sound of the rain falling in the forest.
But that is what will happen.
It has not happened yet.
For now, Galadriel and Sauron are still asleep, wrapped together in their embrace, their final goodbyes several hours away as the rain continues to fall across the forest of Lothlórien.
They are forever tangled together, but the tides of fate flow and conspire to keep them apart.
The battle for the Age is about to commence and they are on opposing sides.
So, let us leave them, for they deserve their peace, however fleeting it might be.