Her hair was ever-wrought of beaten gold, shining with the moonlight of silver upon its tresses when held up to the light. The colors danced inside of it, blooming gold and shy silver, songs of ancient Valinor trembling between the tresses when one knew what to look for. Songs of Doriath, of another Maia’s hands coming through her strands, and for that Sauron could melt the very stones beneath him from the fires of his anger—and a part of him did. The walls of the room pulsed angrily, almost as if it was inside the cavernous chest of a great beast breathing in and out in its rage, and the air shimmered around him.
The orcs trembled, trying their best not to faint dead away from the incredible and overpowering heat, while Sauron wove his beautiful jewelled fingers through the hair he had cut from Galadriel’s head after he had Sung it out, arranging the strands in ever so neat, precise lengths in his lap. Even when cut, it still retained its beauty and its life.
It would do no good wearing something that Melian had touched and had Sung to, and Sauron could tear her eyes out because Artanis was his now, but such things were petty. The thing that truly mattered was that Artanis was indeed his and not going anywhere.
He picked up her hair and parted his lips, flaming eyes dancing in excitement as they roved across the entire length of it, picking out where the air of Middle-Earth began to intertwine with the pure air of the Blessed Lands, all whispered into existence by Manwë, even of where the Light of the Trees indeed made their imprint upon the strands. Never even close to the Silmarils, although Galadriel would say otherwise, but a memory of how it looked, more like.
Still, so much of it was already tainted, especially with the presence of that other Maia.
So, he Sang. Softly, but every little sound pressed against the air that it was a wonder anyone was still able to breathe with it being forced down like that, while he combed his fingers slowly through the golden tapestry in his lap.
To catch those little undesirable bits, those horrid parts that Sang of other Maia and an air that did not belong to the lands of her birth, of an ellon’s whispers caught that he yanked out with enthusiasm, scattering those memories to the winds and leaving them where they lay. Even more useless now, but his Mordor would take care of it easily. Everything that he did not need was crushed and turned to ash. He stripped the hair bare, leaving it glowing of the Treelight only, while weaving and Singing upon his fingertips as he worked.
The orcs on watch were indeed whimpering now, the divine voice of their Lord painful to their twisted ears, and Sauron took no notice as he wove his light into the hair. Memories of Lorien, Eregion, Doriath...Not, not truly important. All that mattered with him.
When he was finally done, her hair fairly glowed like a candleflame with the amount of beauty and radiance he had extended into it. But all was not done yet. He braided, up to three, four, five strings for a braid, and wove it just as well as any seamstress would, all the while keeping up his Singing. Demanding order, perfection, and forever strong.
At the end of it the hair glowed like the greatest molten gold one could make, set with fire and glittering stone. Its five strands were so complicated and woven together in patterns that the eye was impossible to follow, but they were not supposed to. Silver and flame spun around each other, strands of shimmering gold caressed by a gentle light wholly different from the Trees and yet complimenting what was already there.
Sauron finally stood and tied the rope around his robes, grinning. Now, I shall pay her a visit.