"Speaking of manners..."

"I am horribly deficient in them," he agrees. "Welcome to my tower," he says, "Newly cleaned of pests and rennovated." The wooden door swings open. 

Well then the polite thing to do is enter.

Mygwainor's tense, though she's trying not to show it. 

There's a sitting room they can awkwardly stand in. 

They weren't really looking to stay for too long.

He follows them in, an intense, burning presence in the back of their minds.

"What brings you to these lands?"

"It's the fastest route from Nargothrond to Angband."

"Few people go to Angband, lately, who aren't orcs."

"We're not intending to stay long."

"Why go at all?"

"My father demanded a Silmaril from my betrothed in exchange for giving his blessing to our wedding."

"...Does he know who she is, because if he does Thingol has weirder standards than I was expecting."

"No. He does not."

"And you do? I'm surprised she was that honest."

She takes Mygwainor's hand. "I trust her."

She squeezes Luthien's hand, examining Ares, but not talking yet.

Sauron turns to her.

"The Silmarils are yours, though the simulacrum won't hand them over - that thing is incredibly annoying and stupid, by the way, my workload has quadrupled."

"But you could have anything of Angband you want, if you just took your crown back."

"Your workload is truly the greatest tragedy of this Age," she says, voice drier than any desert. "I'm not coming back to those chains. All's fair in war, and I cheat."

He inclines his head a little.

"She has another life to live, now."

"With you?"

"Yes. With me."

He hums.

"I'll trade you passage, then," he says after a few moments, "If you step the simulacrum back and let me run the show."

"...After we've passed back this way."

"Fair."