lordof: (Default)
mairon [sauron] ([personal profile] lordof) wrote in [community profile] edgeofglory2013-11-04 12:07 am

a l t e r n a t e 。 e m p a t h y

WARNING nsfw stuff, mentions of violence, everything

It begins, as most things do, with a whisper.

Mairon doesn't sleep. He has no need for it, and in a way it is both helpful, for having more time to do what needs to be done, yet at the same time terribly boring. It's nighttime aboard the Tranquility, according to the lights in the hallway, and Mairon's mind wanders in its past, empty fields under lightless skies.

But ultimately it is drawn to one of two long inhabitants of the fourth level of the passenger quarters, following the touch memory of hands in hair, skin on skin, and none of it his own. Even if he had felt AM's hair for himself, just to satisfy a bit of curiosity.

Power is a craving, seductive and alluring, and though AM has none now, his memories tell another story. Memories that Mairon can access without any interference on the ship's behalf, and he does it with a quiet sort of relish, sinks his metaphorical hands into the man's mind the way one might scoop up water or sand, rummages around until he finds something interesting and pulls it out. It leaks through his fingers as water and sand do, the way his powers do in this place-- but the snippets he does get are filed away for future consideration, mulling over. And, of course, potential leverage.

Oh, but he is not so cruel. Mairon leaves behind thoughts and memories of his own, as seamless as the empathy link would have been, and of a nature similar to what he had gleaned before through that link. Memories of holding a dark-haired Elf-lord in his arms, warm and laughing at first, then dead and cold and bleeding out as he's strung upon a pike in Mairon's hands, held up like a banner; of being led across a plain in chains amidst an army not his own, bowed but not beaten, and then watching with cool detachment as man after man is lain upon an altar and slit of their throats. The memory of razing an Elven city to the ground, and of standing close to a form emanating pure evil and hatred and power and drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Perhaps it would be better, safer, if he left nothing of himself behind. But then, where would the fun be in that?

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