In the days that followed, Seraphelle began doing something she had never done with anyone before.
She observed Sauron—not as a pawn, but as a mystery.
He didn't react to flattery. He wasn't provoked by threats. He didn't seek validation. He just… moved forward.
As if following a blueprint seen only by himself.
That puzzled her. And intrigued her.
One night, she went alone to the dark garden behind the palace—where only unblooming trees stood.
Sauron was there. As usual.
"You always knew I would come," she said.
"You always come when you want to understand something," he replied.
They stood side by side, gazing at the dark lake. Seraphelle spoke first.
"Do you ever… tire?"
The question was too human. Too simple. But Sauron didn't evade.
"Yes."
She turned, slightly surprised.
"Why do you continue?"
Sauron was silent longer than usual.
"Because if I stop… everything I've done will be meaningless."
Seraphelle tightened her grip slightly.
"Or because you're afraid to see… if you stop… who you are?"
This time, Sauron didn't answer immediately. Not because there was no answer.
But because—for a very brief moment—
He felt as if he were speaking to two people at once:
Seraphelle.
And… his former self.
A version of himself who once believed in order as a form of creation, not imposition.
"I am no longer that person," he said.
But his voice… wasn't as certain as he intended. And that bothered him. A complex feeling, as if he were caught between:
The monster he had chosen to become.
And the thing he had destroyed with his own hands.
Seraphelle stepped closer.
"I don't think you were ever just a thing," she whispered.
Far away… Snow White slept in the little house of the seven dwarves. But that night—the dream wasn't a green forest.
It was…
Ice. Endless.
Wind howled through the black steel walls. Torn flags fluttered in the blizzard.
A colossal fortress. Cold. Lifeless.
Only will.
A name appeared—not in words. But in feeling. And a strange familiarity
She whispered in her sleep:
"…Angmar…"
At the same time— Her fingers curled slightly. On her skin—a faint circular mark appeared. Like traces of something that once existed… or will exist. The wooden house creaked.
No wind.
But the temperature was dropping. Not enough to freeze the water. Just enough to make the fire in the hearth burn lower. One of the dwarves turned in his sleep.
"It's so cold…" he muttered.
Back in the palace gardens. Seraphelle looked at Sauron.
"You believe you are saving the world," she said.
"I believe I am making it… sustainable," he corrected.
She looked at him for a long time.
"So what if there were a world… where you wouldn't need to do that anymore?"
Sauron almost laughed.
"It doesn't exist."
But as he said that— He felt a tiny pain in his chest.
Not physical. Not magical. Just… the memory of ability.
Seraphelle realized. And for the first time—she didn't see him as a force, or an ally.
But as… A being trapped in its own story.
That night, as they left the garden, the distance between them was no longer the same.
Not closer. But… more dangerous.
Far north, in her sleep, Snow White trembled slightly.
"…Angmar…" she repeated, softer. And in the darkness of her dream—Something… heard.