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"Once, I stole Morgoth's ashen-wheeled carriage."
Galadriel shifts in Sauron’s arms. Tonight, he is Annatar; his hair cascades and liquefies with hers, an auric river beneath the moon’s lustre.
"Why?"
"I wanted to reach Father. I paid dearly."
Galadriel rises as vermilion threads unspool over his brow. A freckled tide sweeps his cheeks, the skin smooths, the body becomes slender, post-adolescent. Mairon flickers through Annatar’s vapour. Harrowingly, his naked back bears ancient carvings.
"Shapeshift all you will, he said. These shall never leave. Never. Unless..."
He shudders as elven lips anoint his scars. They radiate warmth, love, and, mayhap, salvation.