Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Today marked the eleventh year since Galadriel had come to the village of Arnad-Dûn. Despite her charge to be ever watchful, keenly on the lookout for sight or sound of the Dark One, over the years, she had grown accustomed to its humble charms and familiar faces. Even the churned-up lanes that caked her boots in mud had become strangely welcome. But her heart was heavy. She had stayed too long - at least a year longer than intended. The villagers would soon begin to ask questions, to whisper, to suspect. Her standing as the local healer had shielded her from scrutiny, and her reputation as a skilled hunter kept bellies full and minds at ease. But such things did not last.

Standing in her back doorway, she let out a breath, watching it curl into the crisp midwinter air. Her gaze swept over her garden - her greatest sorrow to leave behind. Since the day she had settled in this quiet corner of the world, she had tended it with care. In spring and summer, the early bulbs would give way to fragrant blossoms, and the sunlight would catch the feathery seeds of the Lorilin flowers that drifted lazily in the air. The garden stretched to the bank of the stream known as Celethrin, a wide, steady flow that wound down from the Taur-Firion, the High Wood that stood solemn and dark on the far bank. About forty yards away, at the bottom of her lawn, an ancient Ibrethil tree arched over the water, one of its great branches extending far enough to sit upon and dip one’s feet in the cool shallows.

Her house itself was unremarkable: a modest dwelling of grey-green stone with a rustic kitchen, a simple sitting room, and a small but well-stocked infirmary where she treated the sick and wounded. Her own bedroom, though comfortable, contained only a few precious relics from her true home, now carefully tucked away in her travel pack. Next to it rested her hunting bow and a sword - its fine craftsmanship unmistakable. The blade gleamed with bronze damascening, its hilt marked with the emblem of a solitary silver star. It was a weapon of importance, one she could never afford to be without.

Galadriel turned from her garden, eyeing her pack. She had checked and rechecked its contents, but there was time still before she left at nightfall. A final walk through the village and woods would serve as a proper farewell. For all the places she had wandered, Arnad-Dûn had come the closest to feeling like a home away from home, in a strange sort of way.

Stepping through the garden gate and onto the lane, she turned west toward the village. The sun, though weak, cast a welcome warmth against her back as she passed the hedgerows and dry-stone walls. She had gone no more than three hundred yards when a voice called out.

“Galwen! Glad I caught you!”

She turned to see Bailid, the tavern keeper and de facto village chieftain, striding toward her.

“What is it?” She asked, noting the crease in his brow. He looked agitated, which was unusual for him. He was a kind man who enjoyed simple pleasures of good food and bitter ale, which he prided himself on making the best. He was portly, with curly grey hair and his cheeks were reddened from either too much ale or too much meat, but he was generous and well liked. “I need your help.” He said, once he had caught up to her. “I need you to go hunting for me.”

“I thought Shyâl and Lorgìr had gone hunting this morning.” She replied as she carried on walking up the lane.

“They have, but they cut the hunt short. They found animal remains up in the woods north of the village near Mairen’s Cliff. Disembowelled they said, viciously torn apart. They got scared and came straight back to the village”

“It was probably wolves.”

“That’s just it, these remains, they were wolves.” At this Galadriel stopped and looked at him sternly. “What else did Shyâl and Lorgìr say?” She asked.

“Just that it seemed extraordinarily violent, unnaturally so judging by what was left. I didn’t think wolves killed their own.”

“They don’t usually.” Galadriel paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps it was a rival pack.”

“Whatever it was, the spineless fools brought nothing back with them, and I’ve got people to feed.” Bailid look at her pleadingly.

“Alright,” she said with a sigh, “I’ll go, but it’s already later than I would usually like to start a hunt, and I want to go and have a look at these remains myself. You may end up serving potato soup anyway.”

“Valar bless you, Gal, any help you can give would be appreciated. We’re lucky to have you.”

“Bailid, if you want to make use of Shyâl and Lorgìr, set them on watch at either end of the village. Don’t let them leave their posts until I return.”

“If you think it prudent!”

“I do.”

“Good lass! Always looking out for us.” Pleased he had convinced her, he clapped her on the back, turned and went back towards the inn. “Hurry back now!” He added with a wave of his hand.

Swiftly Galadriel turned east back down the lane, and when she came to her house she quickly picked up her hunting bow from inside the back door then headed out again.

The path followed the Celethrin for half a mile before crossing a slate-stone bridge, winding steadily into the Taur-Firion. The trees, though mostly bare, bore the promise of spring in the small brown buds clinging to their branches.

As she climbed the wind turned colder and sharpened. She was annoyed she had left her cloak, which along with her warmer clothes was still stowed in her pack by the door. She was clad in garments more suitable for lower level walks as it had not been her original intention to venture too far today. She wore a green dress with a brown leather bodice, the skirt of which went down to her calves, with two slits in the front to allow her knees more freedom. Her legs fit snugly into a pair of plain black trousers that were themselves tucked into a pair of brown boots. Around her shoulders she wore a matching green jacket and hood. Her hair, being a luminous blend of gold and silver, was being whipped up in the wind. She tied the front locks behind her head, making sure to cover her ears.

None in the village knew what she was. None must ever know.

She drew her hood up over her head and continued on. After a while she turned left off the trail and began to pick her way northwest through the forest towards Mairen’s Cliff, which was still some way above her by two or three miles. By the time she had gotten near to the foot of the cliff she had already managed to catch two hares that were now strung over her shoulder. She was a skilled shot, light on her feet, and hares were easy hunting.

When she reached the base of Mairen’s Cliff, the stench of death thickened the air. Crows wheeled overhead, their cries echoing against the rock face. The remains of the wolves were scattered - limbs torn, flesh shredded, blood pooling darkly into the snow. And on one of the bodies, a deep slash ran across the face, splitting one lifeless eye clean in two.

'This wasn’t wolves', she thought to herself, frowning at the mess of carcases before her. She looked upward to the sky, studying it for a short while, and pondering on a doubtful notion.

The sun was arching westward and she needed to take back more than just the two hares, so she pressed on further northwest in search of game. Galadriel had travelled another 5 miles through the woods when she was nearing the north road. The hunting had been good, she had six hares in total and was striking for the road as this would make for easier travelling back to the village. She could see the track clearly now through the trees around eighty yards below her running north to south.

Suddenly she stopped and crouched low to the ground, letting the hares fall softly to the earth. On her right, a little way off and coming down the north road was a figure in a dark brown cloak. They were tall with broad shoulders but their head was bowed so she could not clearly see their face. It seemed to her that the figure had reddish hair, a stray length tumbling out from beneath the hood.

Quickly and silently she advanced down the slope, keeping low and unseen. By the time she had gotten down to the roadside the stranger was only about a hundred feet away. Swiftly, she climbed a nearby Daur tree so she could examine him more closely without being seen herself. She was light and nimble and ascended the tree with ease. Daurs were strong and broad with thick boughs, and she was able to walk out along one of its branches that overhung the road.

As he approached she could see that his cloak was weather worn and his boots, which were the only thing the cloak did not obscure, were heavily scuffed. Hanging from his left side was the unmistakeable outline of a sword. He was almost directly below her when she called out. “If you’re heading for Arnad-Dûn, you’ll find the way is shut to strangers, especially to those carrying weapons.” The man stopped and looked up, clearly startled at seeing Galadriel standing several feet above him.

“Do you make a habit of accosting people walking freely on the road?” he called upward to her.

She jumped down from the branch and landed lightly in front of him. He stepped back slightly, startled at her choosing to come down this way. The branch was several feet above the ground, and she landed close to him.

"Only those who seek to enter our village bearing arms." She raised her eyebrows and looked down at his side where the sword hung.

His hood sat low on his head so that a shadow covered much of his face. "If you knew where I had come from you would not question it." He replied. There was a bitterness in his voice.

"But I do not know, so I do question it.” She answered, not liking his tone. “Seldom do we get visitors coming south this time of year.”

"You would turn away a weary traveller?"

"Not if their need is dire. But you are not known to us. It is late in the winter, the land up here is not suitable for livestock and our stores are low. It will be a while yet until the larger game comes up from the lowlands, and you are another mouth to feed." There was a short pause as she looked him up and down. "And there are other dangers on the north road that are not welcome." She added gravely. Something about him unsettled her and she was wary. She looked at him sternly awaiting a response.

After some time, he removed his hood. Under the fading sunlight she was surprised to see that his hair was not red after all, but a chestnut brown that fell in waves stopping above his shoulders. Short stubble covered a sharp jaw, and his cheekbones sat proudly below a pair of rich hazel eyes. His nose was straight and well proportioned, and had a faint but curious cleft at the tip, which was almost unperceivable but for the right light. It seemed he was both young and old at the same time. To Galadriel’s reckoning he could not be more than thirty-five in human years, but the lines around his eyes suggested a life of either too much merriment, or one beset with heavy burdens of which he had endured more than his fair share. He was undeniably very handsome and Galadriel noticed a melancholy in the green of his eyes that now seemed like deep wells filled with eclipsed memory, down which it would be easy to lose oneself. She felt now obliged to also lower her hood.

As she did so, a sudden change came over the stranger’s face. He smiled warmly. "Perhaps we can start again,” he said, “what might I do to convince you I am but a weary traveller seeking only refuge, and a hot meal?" His voice was lighter now, and the northern twang of his accent came through more strongly.

Galadriel thought for a moment. “Tell me where you’ve come from, and why you head for Arnad-Dûn. Then I will decide if you are worth vouching for. Your name would not go amiss.” She said, cocking her eyebrow.

“Ha!” He laughed, “well I’d better make my story a good one then. A lot seems to be riding on it.” He looked at her from under his eyebrows with an amused look. Galadriel said nothing and waited for him to continue. “My name is Halbrand. I’ve come down from Ost-Heryn.”

“I know it,” said Galadriel, “the town of the North Guard. It’s fifty miles from here.”

“Right you are!” He replied.

“And what brings you south?”

“Warmer climate.” Halbrand grinned, knowingly. In truth the difference in temperature was piffling between a distance of only fifty miles, of which both he and Galadriel were well aware.

“You will need to go a long way further south for that.”

“Who says that’s not my plan?”

“And what plan would that be?” Galadriel was getting impatient now.

Halbrand could see she was perturbed and decided to be more forthcoming, if only slightly. “A fresh start.” He admitted.

Now it was Galadriel’s turn to smirk… “So, your running from something.” Her voice was more probing than before, and Halbrand’s expression had lost its cheek at this assumption.

“I’m seeking a new home, that doesn’t mean I’m running.” He said, more defensively now.

“What was wrong with old one? Come now, you want me to vouch for you.” She folded her arms across her with a pert look.

There was a long pause before Halbrand offered an indignant answer. “If you must know… Orcs attacked it four days ago. There’s nothing left but dead bodies and burnt homes now.”

Galadriel’s mouth dropped slightly and her eyes became wide and guilt-laden. But there was something else behind them, a desperate need to know more. “Orcs? They’ve come this far south?”

“It would appear so. Along with… other things.” His tone was ominous.

“What other things?” Galadriel pressed him now.

Halbrand looked at her gravely, a flash of pain darkened his brow. “Beasts.” He said, unwilling to offer more.

“Beasts?” She answered sceptically, unsure of his cryptic tone.

“Take a look for yourself if you doubt it. Just follow the smell of wood smoke and burnt flesh once you’ve gone about 40 miles or so.”

She shot a look back east towards Mairen’s Cliff. “No… I believe you.” She said solemnly. She looked back at him sympathetically now. “You were the only survivor?”

“I’m not sure,” he responded. “There was a lot of panic. People were running in all directions. All I know is that I have met no one else on the road south. Except for you.”

“Why not just say this?”

“Perhaps I wasn’t ready to face it.”

Galadriel checked herself. “…I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened to you.” She said, feeling ashamed for scrutinising his story so doggedly.

“Not your fault.” He said, and a moment passed in quiet commiseration.

Finally, Galadriel spoke, looking up towards the sky having made her decision. “The sun is passing swiftly. It will be dark before we make it back to the village. We should get going. There will be room enough for you at the tavern I should think, and a hot meal.”

Halbrand nodded and gestured for her to lead the way, but before doing so she asked him for a moment so she could fetch the hares from back up the slope. Once she got back to the road Halbrand offered to carry three of them. She thanked him and they began down the road at a sombre pace in grim reticence. After about half a mile, Halbrand broke the silence. “You know, it would only be polite to tell me your name. Or else I shall have to make one up for you.”

Galadriel chuckled at this unexpected levity from him. “That will not be necessary,” she said. “It’s Galwen, although most people call me Gal.”

“Galwen” Halbrand repeated her name thoughtfully and looked at her with a mild wondering. “Well then, Gal, it seems only fair I should ask you a little about yourself, if you’ll indulge me.”

“That will depend on the questions.” She smiled.

“Your accent, where is that from? It’s not from here that’s for sure.”

“You are right, it is not.” She said ambiguously.

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Right again.”

“Ah, so now you hide something perhaps? Maybe you are running?” Halbrand was enjoying ribbing her.

“I run from nothing.” She said, firmly.

“How does it feel for the boot to be on the other foot?”

“About as good as I deserve it would seem.”

“So where are you from?” Halbrand was determined to get an answer.

Galadriel gave a sigh, “West.”

“West?”

“West.” She repeated.

“How very mysterious.” Halbrand grinned. “I doubt I’ll be allowed in on your secret any time soon.”

“Not until I know you a lot better. And maybe not even then. I am not sure you're trustworthy.” She said half smiling and with a sideways look.

“Ouch!” He said, laughing. “That may be a fair enough for now though.” He changed the subject. “You seem to be a skilled hunter; these hares were shot cleanly.”

“My brother taught me to shoot a bow from a young age. I owe him a lot.”

“He was a dutiful brother it seems. Where is he now?”

“Gone.”

Halbrand stayed his stride. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it happened a long time ago. We’ve all lost people.” A sudden realisation came over Galadiel. She turned and looked Halbrand in the eye. “Did you lose people? In the attack?”

Halbrand clenched his jaw and stared out emptily. “I lost everybody.” He said, and carried on along the road. As he walked passed her, she noticed for the first time a large patch of red staining on the back of his cloak.

It was two hours after nightfall when they finally reached the village. “I will have to take that now.” Galadriel said, referring to Halbrand’s sword. “They will not let you in with it on you.” Halbrand nodded, unclasping the sheath from his belt.

“It’s just for safe keeping, mind. I’ll want it back, it’s a good sword.” He said as he handed it to her.

“I’ll make sure to look after it, and you can have it back once we’ve decided what to do with you. But that won’t be until the morning now.”

“What to do with me? Sounds ominous.” Said Halbrand, wondering what this entailed.

Galadriel smiled at this. “It’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “You’ll need to tell your story to the village council, they will want to hear about the Orcs coming so far south. They will press you if you withhold anything important. Speak plainly, they will not appreciate enigmatic words.”

“Do the people of your village interrogate everyone this way, or just refugees?” He said half-playfully, and with only a hint of worry.

“It won’t be an interrogation,” she reassured him, “they will want to get to the bottom of how you have come to be here. They are kind people. They will no doubt try to find you some more permanent lodgings and put you to work if they can. That is, if you’re planning on staying, though I should think those warmer climes may be too enticing.”

A wry smile came over Halbrand’s face. “Plans change.” He said.

“Who goes there?” Came a demanding voice out of the darkness.

“It’s Galwen!” She called back.

“And who is that with you?” The voice was that of Lorgìr who had obviously drawn the short straw to guard the northern edge of the village. Galadriel thought for a moment before replying, “A friend… Stand down, Lorgìr.”

“As you wish.” He said, looking the stranger up and down. He let them pass and they made their way through the houses, the slithers of light coming from the slits in the closed shutters did little to light their way. They had not gone far when they came to a crossroad and turned left towards the tavern. Galadriel led the way and upon getting to the main door, gave it a push and entered into the main room.

“Gal!” Called Bailid from behind the bar, “You’re back finally! What have you brought us?” He asked, making his way over to her.

Halbrand had now followed her in.

It was not especially brightly lit, but on first arrival in from the dark street the light from the many candles in the room was dazzling and her eyes took a few seconds to adjust. When they had adapted she found Bailid had stopped in his tracks, and the few patrons that were in there were staring.

“Who’s the stray?” Asked Dregan Harthac, a cantankerous man with a hard weather-worn face, who spent most of his time in the tavern holding court with any who would listen, content to dismiss the many wider goings on in the world as claptrap best left alone.

Galadriel ignored him, instead turning to Bailid. “Perhaps we could have a word in private?” She said.

Bailid nodded, turned and proceeded through the door on the far side of the bar. Galadriel followed, as did Halbrand who was looking around uneasily at the folk now tracking them across the room. Taking Bailid’s lead, they entered a smaller private sitting room that was usually saved for discussion groups or small workshops. Bailid sat himself down at one of the chairs and rested his hands across his belly. “Well then,” he said, “better get me up to speed.”

Galadriel put the hares that were still across her shoulder down on the table. “This is Halbrand.” She began. “We crossed paths on the north road.”

“Halbrand, ey?” Said Bailid, “And what brings you here, Halbrand?”

“I have been travelling for several days and would request food and rest, if you can spare the room.” Said Halbrand, with a graciousness Galadriel was not expecting.

“Would you now?” Said Bailid, “That can be arranged, but I would say that you’ve not answered my question.”

“That is a matter best left for tomorrow.” Galadriel interjected. “It will need to be discussed with the village council.” She gave Bailid a grave look. “For now, will it appease you enough if I vouch for him? I will also pay for his meal and lodgings for the night.” Halbrand looked at her, surprised at this generosity.

“Well…” said Bailid, mulling it over, “I suppose young Brudàr’s bed is free upstairs since he left. And if Halbrand here doesn’t mind helping me clear up after closing, or giving me those other hares he’s got there, I might consider that payment enough.”

“Absolutely,” said Halbrand setting the game down, “it’s very kind of you, although… you’re sure your other customers won’t mind?”

“Oh, don’t worry about old Dregan, he’s like that with everyone. Just ignore him, that’s what the rest of us sensible folk do.” Said Bailid, waving his hand as if swatting some nuisance fly. “Come along, best get you settled in, I suppose.” The three of them ascended a set of stairs that led off from the meeting room that curved to the right and onto a landing. There were three doors leading off to Bailid’s room, a wash room, and what used to be Brudàr’s room. Brudàr was the old tavern boy, who had not long left the village to travel eastward in search of more interesting happenings than the village could compete with. The room itself was small and plain, with a single bed, chest of drawers, and a night stand. Bailid gave his apologies at it not being more comfortable, but Halbrand thanked him, assuring him that it would more than do. Satisfied he had done his helpful part, and after telling Halbrand to come down for supper once he was sorted, Bailid went back downstairs to attend to his regulars.

“Well,” said Galadriel, “if you’re all set, I will say goodnight.”

“I am.” He said.

Galadriel nodded and went to leave.

“Gal.” Halbrand stopped her. “Thank you.” He said, sincerely. “I’m not sure many others would have been so kind.”

Galadriel smiled softly, “You are welcome. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ah yes, for my grilling!”

Her smile became wider and she produced an unbidden half-laugh. “Good night.” She said, and shut the door behind her.

Galadriel descended the stairs and went out through the main bar where Dregan Harthac was still sitting and who now gave her an unsavoury look from behind his pint of ale. She met his gaze sternly and made sure to keep it. “Something to say, Dregan?” She asked, and he lowered his eyes while mumbling something inaudible under his breath and went back to concentrating on his drink. At this Galadriel continued out into the street. She made her way east past the mixture of thatched and slate-stone roofs of the other cottages back to her house at the end of the village. Entering into the kitchen through the front door, she closed it again and leant against it, weary.

She still had Halbrand’s sword, and bringing it up from her side she studied it now. The scabbard was well worn and the leather, which looked as though it used to be a resplendent red was now a dull brownish colour, and was cracking in several places. It had three brass circlets evenly spaced down the length of the sheath, which were badly tarnished. It was the same for the hilt, whose leather was peeling a little, showing the signs of ample use by many generations of hands. She drew out the blade, which was again discoloured and notched in places, but sharp at least. Despite its battered appearance, the weight and balance were excellent and given some better treatment, this would indeed be a good sword as Halbrand had claimed. It had the quality of old; an ancient heirloom whose heritage was long forgotten and had since been bandied around lesser hands until its lineage was muddled beyond reckoning and it had finally come to Halbrand. Galadriel sheathed it again, walked through to the back of the house and set it down next to her own, which was still resting next to her pack at the back door. Her eyes shifted to her bag now and with a resigned sigh, said to herself, “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Just before nine o’clock the next morning there was a knock at the door. Galadriel opened it to find Brynneth Mygunn standing with crossed arms and an incredulous look. “I thought you wanted a quiet life.” She said, standing there for a moment with a raised eyebrow. Her tone was one you might use when catching a child red-handed in the midst of some harmless mischief.

Before long a wide smile broke out across her face and Galadriel responded in kind. “There’s quiet, and then too quiet.” She replied, “This village could do with a little uproar.”

“Well you’ve certainly achieved that - everyone’s talking about your visitor! Come on, they’re waiting.”

“Yes, I suppose we best get it over with.” Sighed Galadriel as she grabbed her cloak and followed Brynneth out the door. Brynneth was a good, no-nonsense kind of woman. She had lived in the Ered Mithrin foothills all her life and was used to the hardships of living up here, which included raising a son, Cedric, by herself since her husband had passed away some eight years ago from lung fever. Ced was now twelve and growing up bold and strong thanks to Brynneth. But for all her toughness, she had a warm heart and had shown much kindness to Galadriel over the years. She was, in fact, Galadriel’s best friend among the villagers, sharing a love of growing things (having knowledge of herb lore) and a keen sense of humour. She was shorter than Galadriel, and slight, which seemed amusingly disproportionate to her spirited nature. Her hair was the colour of autumn leaves, which fell in a long braid down her back and swished side to side as she walked now up the lane back towards the tavern where the others were expecting them. “So, who is he then, this handsome stranger of yours?” Brynneth asked playfully.

“Who said he was handsome?”

Brynneth looked at her sideways, “I do - why else would you let in a stranger this time of year.”

Galadriel sighed. “When I first came here, I was also alone wandering across the Ered Mithrin and in need of a place to stay, if you remember. I was only passing on the kindness.” She deliberately refrained from commenting on his looks.

“A noble act, paying it forward…” Said Brynneth. “But the Rowyn girls caught sight of him this morning fetching water from the well, running an errand for Bailid no doubt. They’ve taken it quite upon themselves to inform the whole village…”

“Have they now? I’m sure they think they’re providing some misguided public service.” Said Galadriel, unwilling to confirm or deny anything that had come out of the mouths of the three blathering Rowyn daughters.

“I should say he must be quite fine indeed for you to have let him stay.” Brynneth continued, jibing now with some glee.

Galadriel looked over at Brynneth with feigned offense. “I may be distrusting, but I’m not heartless.” Said Galadriel, again avoiding saying anything to Halbrand’s appearance. “He has suffered a great tragedy and needed a place to rest. He is a refugee.”

“A refugee? Seeking refuge from what?”

“I’d rather not speak of it in the open, besides I should think we’re about to get all the details.”

“Have it your way.” Retorted Brynneth, “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

They had soon reached the tavern and swung open the door to the empty bar. Opening time was not until noon, which gave them ample time to talk without interruption. In the meeting room at the back they found Bailid busying himself, organising refreshments and some food to nibble on. Sitting at the table already was Eldith Ússtan, who was largely regarded as the wisest woman of the village, not least because she was the oldest (barring Galadriel, of course). Despite her aged appearance, her shrewd eyes sparkled keenly from beneath her bent brow and she could be relied upon to give sound counsel. Beside her sat Skrúgar Drystan, a favourable enough man in his fifties, whose self-appointed position was organising the commerce during the trading season in the warmer months. In truth, in such a small village as this, trade tended to look after itself and so Skrúgar’s chief responsibility tended towards seeing off traders seeking to rip off unsuspecting customers. Brynneth was the fourth member of the village council, proclaiming that her appointment was necessary to inject some younger blood into decision-making of the village. Galadriel was not part of the council, making a point not to get too invested in how the village was governed. She reckoned that the village had stood long before she had arrived and would continue to fare well long after she had gone without her interference. On this occasion she had been invited to participate due to her obvious involvement in the current circumstances.

Welcomes and pleasantries were passed around and after a minute or two, Halbrand descended the stairs. He was clad now in a dark blue tunic, and brown trousers tucked into his scuffed boots of the same colour. He looked a great deal refreshed and there was a warmth to his skin that was not there yesterday.

Galadriel had thought him handsome before, in a rough and windswept way - but now, cleansed of the dirt and grime of traveling, he was striking enough to steal her breath.

“Galwen,” he said smiling as he came down the remaining few steps and crossed the room towards her. “Hello again.” He said softly as he approached her.

“Hello, Halbrand.” Replied Galadriel, doing well to hide her thoughts and settle her breath. “It looks as though you’re faring better for a proper bed.”

“It’s certainly an improvement on sleeping on the ground.” Replied Halbrand, and to Galadriel’s surprise, he now leant in close to her. She could feel her cheeks flushing red.

“So… what do you think my chances are of impressing these folk.” He asked, in a low whisper.

She smiled with practiced composure, “As likely to win them over as to earn their scorn. They will either love your smart mouth, or hate it.” She replied.

“And you?” Enquired Halbrand, taking Galadriel aback somewhat, not knowing how to answer. “Best behaviour it is then.” Said Halbrand with a wry smile.

“Shall we get down to it?” Asked Eldith, “I’d rather not sit in this hard chair for longer than I need to.” A general murmur of agreement and apologies were uttered and all of them took their seats. Halbrand sat himself to the right of Galadriel, to her left was Brynneth, opposite sat Eldith and Skrúgar, and at the head of the table sat Bailid.

“Now lad,” Bailid began, “Galwen here suggested last night that something gravely important has brought you to Arnad-Dûn. Important enough for us to all convene here outside of our usual council day. Tell us what this is all about, and tell us all of it.” Halbrand glanced at Galadriel. She gave him a reassuring nod, and his began his tale.

“It is true that something grave has brought me here, though I did not seek out Arnad-Dûn especially. Blind luck and happenstance bid me southwards from Ost-Heryn and here I find myself seeking refuge. The information I carry may indeed be of great importance to you and the people of this village, and to the people of all the settlements south of the Ered Mithrin if they value their lives.” Glances were passed around the table for a brief moment until Eldith prompted him to go on. Halbrand continued, “Six days ago, Ost-Heryn was attacked by orcs moving down from the Forodwaith. And with them came others… creatures out of an older darkness - Fell-wolves of Angband. Not the great werewolves of the elder days, but their lesser descendants, the remnants of Morgoth’s breeding pits. For centuries, they have lurked in the far north, masterless and without purpose. But something has stirred them. Something has driven them south. I do not know if it is hunger… or if a darker will now guides them. But if they are south of the mountains, all of Eriador is at risk.”

Galadriel was greatly intrigued as to how Halbrand could know so much about the demons of Morgoth and she was eyeing him keenly now.

Skrúgar, who had been sucking constantly on the end of his pipe, now removed it from his mouth. “There’s been no shadow-wolves for centuries… they all died out long ago” He said, giving Halbrand a skeptical look.

“And yet the town is destroyed and I am fled here telling you it is so.” Responded Halbrand, taking offence at the validity of his story being instantly questioned.

With some frustration Galadriel stepped in, “Let us not waste time on whether we believe it possible or not that wolves of darkness still exist. The fact of the matter is that they are here, and we are lucky that Halbrand is able to report this to us.”

“You seem very quick to take his word for it.” Said Skrúgar, “Could just as well have been wild raiders with feral dogs, and a damn sight more likely too.”

Eldith’s steady voice brought a quiet over the room. “Have you ever seen a werewolf, Skrúgar?” She asked, already knowing the answer. “No? Me neither. But if the old tales are true, then I should say it would be easy enough to tell the difference between common raiders and the hounds of Sauron, even these lesser beasts as they might be. Halbrand here says he has seen them, and I am willing to believe him. Though I do not doubt that Galwen also has more to say that will settle any doubts.” She looked over to Galadriel now, her stalwart eyes bidding her to continue.

“Bailid told me that Shyâl and Lorgír had come across wolf remains up at Mairen’s Cliff, so I went to investigate. They were torn apart in a manner that no earthly being could have managed. I had my suspicions but was not content to accept them until I came across Halbrand and he told me what had happened to his town. I fear the beasts may already be in the vicinity, and if that is the case, we will need to prepare ourselves.”

“Trust you to be suspecting unnatural things most folk would put down to the normal ways of the world and think no more of it.” Said Bailid, shaking his head. “Come on then, we’d best be having all the details so that Gal here can make her battle plans.”

“I said nothing of battle plans.” Galadriel said, perturbed at being mocked by Bailid. “I only meant that we need to be on our guard.”

“Gal’s right,” said Brynneth, “we’re better safe than sorry. And you needn’t scoff at the idea of battles, Bailid, I’m sure you’d be less than useless if it came to that and you’d be wise to reply on Gal’s planning then.” She turned now to Halbrand. “But Bailid has a point, we do need to know everything, if you’re up to telling it.”

Halbrand took a steadying breath before he spoke. “It started with the howls. At first, they seemed distant - wolves baying in the night. But then they stopped, and the silence that followed was worse. A thick fog crept in, unnatural and cloying, swallowing the town in shadow. The air turned foul, heavy with the stench of rot, like something long dead had stirred from its grave.

"Then came the pounding. At first, just a slow, rhythmic thudding - like distant drums - but it wasn’t drums. It was the gates breaking. Then the first scream split the night, followed by another, and another. I ran to the palisade, but by the time I reached it, the gates were already in ruins, torn apart by massive claws and black iron axes.

"They came through the fog, orcs – a ragged band come down from the mountains. But they were armoured, more disciplined than usual, their weapons sharpened. And with them, the other things, ones that moved like shadows with fangs… the wolves, hulking, with limbs too long and unnatural, moving with a terrible, silent grace. Some ran on four legs, others walked upright, but all had the same burning eyes, red like smouldering embers, watching, hungry. One of them dragged a man from his doorstep, jaws closing around his middle, biting clean through flesh and bone as if he were nothing more than dry kindling. Another tore a woman’s throat out before she could scream.

"The streets turned into a slaughter. People ran, but there was nowhere to go. I saw a mother push her child into a cellar, slamming the door behind him just as a werewolf reached her - claws ripping into her back as she fell forward, shielding the door with her body. A man tried to climb onto a rooftop to escape, but an orc pulled him down, laughing as they hacked him to pieces.
"I fought where I could, but it wasn’t enough. More kept coming. Fire spread. The houses were burning, and the smoke made it impossible to breathe.

"I had no choice but to run. I don’t know how many others made it out - if any did. I only know that by dawn, Ost-Heryn was gone. Nothing left but ruin, blood, and the echoes of screams.”

The village council sat in anxious silence, their faces grim as the weight of Halbrand’s words settled over them. Only the distant creak of the wooden beams filled the lull that followed.

Galadriel watched him closely. He had spoken plainly, without flourish, and yet something in his tone unsettled her. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation in recounting the horrors he had seen.

Bailid cleared his throat. “You say you fought them?”

Halbrand leaned back, his expression unreadable. “I did. Killed one or two in fact.”

“What weapons worked against them?” Galadriel asked, her voice steady, but there was an edge to it. A test.

Halbrand exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as if recalling a memory he would rather forget. “Most weapons didn’t.”

The council exchanged uneasy glances.

“How did you kill one?” Galadriel pressed.

Halbrand met her gaze. He hesitated for the first time. “A blade to the throat.” He paused, then added, “But it took more than that.”

Galadriel frowned. “More?”

He exhaled. “Steel slowed them, but fire drove them back.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them absently. “One of the guards lit a torch and swung at them. It shrieked and recoiled. That’s when I struck.”

The flicker in his eyes was not fear, but calculation, as if measuring how much to reveal. “That’s what worked,” he murmured. “I got lucky.”

Bailid exhaled through his nose. “You fought and lived. That’s more than most can say.”

Halbrand only nodded, but Galadriel was not satisfied. She had fought creatures of shadow before. Nothing about this was luck.

But just as she opened her mouth to press further, he spoke again - quieter this time, his voice rough, and thin. “There was a boy,” he said. “Twelve, maybe thirteen. He had a knife. I told him to run… He didn’t.”

Galadriel watched him carefully. His jaw was tight, the muscle there shifting as he clenched his teeth. But his eyes - his eyes were far away, as if staring into the past itself.

“The creature was on him before I could stop it,” he continued, voice low, almost hoarse. “I saw him lift the knife - like it would make a difference.” A slow exhale. “It didn’t.”

His fingers flexed against the table, then curled into a fist. “I tried to reach him,” he said. “I cut the thing down - put my blade through its throat - but…” He hesitated, and for the first time, his gaze dropped as if laden with heavy guilt. “By the time it hit the ground, the boy was already gone.”

The words hung there, thick and unmoving.

“He was just a child,” he added softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

There was silence.

Galadriel felt something shift inside her – she had seen men lie before. Had seen them tell sob stories to win favour, to disguise truth in sorrow. This was not that. This was grief. A man haunted. And for the first time, she wavered. Perhaps she had been too quick to doubt him. She looked at him, the unease in her chest still lingering - but beneath it now, something quieter, but growing in strength. Pity. So instead of pressing him, she exhaled softly and said only, “I’m sorry.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His fingers uncurled, one by one. He nodded, once, but didn’t speak.

All around the table were silent and bore grim expressions. Eventually Bailid broke in. “Understand lad, we meant no offence before. It’s just… these tidings are bleak and we do not like the sound of any of it, or the idea that it may be on our doorstep. I am sorry for my part in any misgivings we offered too hastily.”

“It’s understandable.” Replied Halbrand, “I may have said the same in your position, so I will not take your doubt to heart. Be at ease about it.”

“And what about others?” Asked Skrúgar, “Can we expect more people fleeing down the north road?”

“I doubt it.” Said Halbrand, dejectedly. “I saw no one on my way south, if there are any other survivors they headed elsewhere, if they headed anywhere at all.”

There was a short pause before anyone spoke again. “The question now is, why are they coming south, and why now?” Said Brynneth.

“I don’t know.” Galadriel spoke now, with a troubled look as if she were puzzling out a riddle. “I fear there may be some ill-goings on, either driving them south... or drawing them.”

“If they are making their way south,” said Brynneth, “there is not much between us and Ost-Heryn. And if they attack it’ll happen quickly, from what Halbrand says.” She looked to Halbrand to affirm this.

“Yes, it will happen quickly.” He confirmed. “Perhaps against just orcs there is hope, but even with the best preparations in the world, the fell-wolves could still catch you unawares. They can be stealthy and quiet if they need to be. They’ll ambush you and reap havoc before you organised your defence. You won’t see them coming.”

“Well a great use this has been then. It seems we’re doomed!” Skrúgar sneered.

“No.” Said Galadriel, looking Skrúgar defiantly in the eyes and making it quite clear she had had enough of his belligerence. “We’ll fortify the village as best we can, set traps around the perimeter, and every villager will be armed. As for seeing them coming… we set night watches, and daily patrols within a 5-mile radius. Ost-Heryn was caught unawares. We won’t be.” Halbrand was studying her now with a curious intent and had many thoughts, but voiced none of them.

“Begging your pardon, Gal.” Said Bailid. “We ain’t soldiers, and most of us wouldn’t know what we’d be looking for roaming around the forest for signs of demons and the like. And if we came across them who’s to say anyone would survive to run back and warn the village?”

“No, we’re not soldiers. We’re people defending our homes and loved ones. No better cause will muster courage in the bravest of fighters. I promise you, Bailid, we will be enough.” Although her words were meant to be encouraging, she could see a great deal of doubt and fear in the old man’s eyes.

Brynneth frowned. "If the dark forces are truly coming, we don't stand a chance, fortified or not. This village is small, out of the way. Maybe we don’t need to do anything but stay quiet. If we draw attention, that might bring them here."

Galadriel turned to Eldith, who had yet to speak. The old woman finally leaned forward, resting her gnarled hands on the table. "It is an ugly thing to weigh," she said. "But fear is a sickness. And once you let it spread, it can destroy a village faster than any monster. If we tell the people demons are coming, we will invite panic, not safety."

Galadriel clenched her jaw, but she could see the others falling in line with Eldith’s reasoning.

Bailid exhaled through his nose. "We keep things as they are. No warnings, no weapons handed out, no talk of demons. We watch, we listen, but we don’t act unless we must."
Halbrand said nothing. Sitting quietly back he watched the debate unfold, as if it were almost amusing to him.

Galadriel exhaled sharply. "So that’s it? We sit and wait?"

Bailid nodded. "For now."

Galadriel wanted to argue. But she saw it in their faces - their minds were made up. This was their home. They didn’t want to believe it could burn.

“Now,” Eldith continued, “back to the matter of Halbrand.” She looked over at him followed by the eyes of all the others around the table. All of a sudden Halbrand felt quite exposed. “So Halbrand, what are your plans? Are you to stay in Arnad-Dûn, or head elsewhere?”

“Well… I was hoping I could stay.” He said hesitantly as he scanned his eyes around the table. “If you’ll have me.” He said, coming to rest his eyes on Galadriel. She met his gaze and he thought he could make out, if only fleetingly, a faint smile form in the corner of her mouth.

“Well if you’re staying you’ll have to contribute.” Said Skrúgar, “What is it you do, do you have a trade?”

“I’m a smith.” Replied Halbrand.

“We already have a blacksmith.” Said Skrúgar, antagonistically.

Halbrand clapped back. “I’ll wager there are none better than me. Perhaps I could teach your smith a thing or two and he would be glad for it.”

“Aye, lad,” Bailid intervened before Skrúgar could respond. “That’s all fine and good, and two smiths are better than one, I suppose. But where are we to house you? Brudàr’s room is fine for short stays, but it’s not a place for staying permanent-like, and there’s no houses standing empty in the village. It will take a long time to raise one from nought.”

Before she knew what she was saying, Galadriel offered up a solution. “The croft in the old coppice just east of the village. Part of the roof has come down but if you can repair it, it should do you right. I could take you to see it after we’re done here.”

Brynneth gave her a sideways glance that she took no care to be subtle with.

“Run-down and in need of some attention… sounds perfect!” Smiled Halbrand in jest, though he seemed genuinely grateful and quite looking forward to a project.

“That’s settled then,” said Eldith, “Halbrand can stay in the tavern while he fixes up the old cottage, and Galwen, seeing as you’ve already volunteered yourself to show him to the coppice, Halbrand will be your charge until he is settled in. I expect it will take a few weeks to get the dwelling to a liveable state and in the meantime, you can show him the area, get him up to speed on the way we do things, hmm?” Her eyes glinted across the table towards Galadriel as if she had guessed more than she said.

Galadriel exhaled slowly, hiding her frustration behind a composed smile. This was not part of the plan. She needed to leave, and soon. But now, delay was inevitable.

Galadriel sat still, but her mind was anything but. The village was not her concern - not truly. She had stayed long enough already, too long, bound by habit and a reluctance to move forward. But what if she left now? What if the orcs came and found them unprepared? She had seen villages razed before, their people slaughtered or scattered like leaves before the wind. She would not abandon them to this fate. And yet... she knew. A summons had whispered through her bones for weeks now, an urging unnamed but insistent. Dark things stirred beyond the North, and she was meant to seek them out, not tarry here, playing at village life. Every day she delayed was a risk - a risk she might not forgive herself for. And yet... there was Halbrand. He was an unknown, an ill-omened puzzle she had not yet solved. There was more to him than he claimed, she was sure of it. If she left, she would not know where he would go, or what shadow he might walk beneath. Perhaps staying a little longer would serve a purpose after all. Just a few weeks, no more. Then she would go. She had to.

Suddenly the group rose from their seats. It seemed while Galadriel was deep in thought the meeting had concluded without any more input from her and all were making ready to leave. “So,” said Halbrand, “where’s this cottage then?” He had already risen from his seat and was looking down on her now, smiling expectantly.

“Of course.” Said Galadriel, as if waking from a dream. “I’ll show you.” Galadriel left her seat and went through to the bar and stood waiting by the outer door while Halbrand fetched his cloak, which was no longer stained and weather-worn, and all-together he looked almost civilised compared to the day before. He felt obligated to say thank you again to the village council members, and while doing so, Brynneth peeled off and came to lean on the door frame next to Galadriel.

In a low voice she enquired, “The old croft, where is that again?” Her feigned ignorance did not amuse Galadriel who knew Brynneth was well aware of exactly where the cottage stood.

“It’s the only empty property in the village.” Replied Galadriel, curtly.

Brynneth raised her eyebrows and smiled wickedly at Galadriel. “Well isn’t that convenient…” She said, walking out the door.

Galadriel rolled her eyes and turned back towards Halbrand who was now walking over to meet her. She smiled warmly and lead the way out into the road.

It was a clear day and the milky winter sun brightly glistening against the pale sky. It was not long before noon and although the sun was rising high, it had little strength to warm the crisp air and frost still lingered in the grassy dells and muddy troughs of the various gardens and paths that divided up the village.

Galadriel and Halbrand set off towards the east end of the village talking pleasantries along the way. Galadriel filled him in on which houses belonged to whom and gave snippets of respective family histories, where appropriate or of particular interest. Some way down the lane they reached the end of the row of houses and Galadriel gestured toward the last cottage on their left, which was set a little apart from the others by about fifty yards of hedge row. “This one is mine.” She said, a little shyly.

“Is it now. Good to know.” Said Halbrand, pausing a short moment to take note of it.

Galadriel turned to her right, away from her house and towards a path that lead from the lane and into a small wooded area, which was merely an outcrop of the Taur-Firion that had managed to bed itself on the south side of the brook. She called back to him now, “The cottage is this way.” Obligingly, he followed. They had walked only a short distance through the trees when Galadriel was reminded of something Halbrand had said the day before on the north road. She was reluctant to ask about it, but felt compelled to. “Yesterday, you said you had lost people in the attack. May I ask who you lost? It was not something you shared in the meeting. What happened to your family? You friends?”

Halbrand’s expression shadowed for a moment, but when he spoke, his voice was measured, thoughtful. “Family? Friends?” He let the words hang, as if turning over something in his mind. “I had people once, in a different time. But life has a way of stripping things from you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the road ahead. But we cannot hold on to the past.”

Galadriel studied him, as if weighing his words. After a beat, she asked, “And you never married, or had any children?”

He gave a quiet chuckle, as if the thought amused him. “Marriage? No. As for love…” He tilted his head, watching her now with something unreadable in his gaze. “Love is a rare thing, is it not?”

“I suppose it is,” she admitted.

He considered her for a moment longer before adding, “But what about you? You would have no end of suitors, I should think.” His smile was easy, curiously teasing, inviting her to reveal more than she intended.

“Ah, no… not from the folk in the village, or at least I would not encourage them. I try to avoid it all if I can.” Galadriel said reticently. She did not want to invite any more questions on this topic, lest she back herself into a corner and have to explain more than she would like to. She was not untruthful though, she did avoid love, but she was not about to explain why to a man she barely knew. She quickly changed the subject. “Your sword; how did you come by it?”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean?”

“I never said you did, but it is timeworn and stately. One might be mistaken for thinking it was an heirloom of the old kingdoms. So, I wonder how it came to you, a refugee bearing with you only the clothes on your back.” There was a moment of silence while Halbrand considered his answer.

“I won it in a bet. The man I won it from liked to gamble carelessly and had no more money left to pay his debts. But he did have that sword, so I took that as payment instead. Why he came to have it and what its history is was not something I cared to ask, but now I have it and I’m glad for it. It slices through wolves very well. But I’m curious as to how a remote village-dweller like yourself knows how to spot ancient swords.”

“Perhaps weapons-lore is an interest of mine.”

“Is that so… not a typical pursuit for someone of these parts I’ll grant you. And if I were to ask why this peaks your interest I expect I’d get a similarly cryptic response?” He said, light-heartedly.

“You expect me to tell you all my secrets after one day’s acquaintance?” She responded, in kind.

“It’s amusing to know you have some, but no, they’re yours to keep. But it would be good of my new neighbour to offer a little more about herself beyond ambiguous ripostes, in the spirit of friendship.” There was a glimmer in Halbrand’s eyes, and he bore a roguish countenance that Galadriel found both annoying and endearing in equal measure. It was clear he relished prodding her.

Galadriel gave a resigned sigh, “What would you like to know?” She asked.

“Small things… favoured things, hated things. Anything you don’t mind parting with will do for now.”

“Well,” she cleared her throat a little, “I suppose I enjoy gardening…” She began, hesitantly. “I appreciate the colours and the smells… it teaches patience… and there’s a quiet joy in watching things grow. I like to take walks through the woods. On clear days I’ll hike above the treeline north-east of here and climb the mountain-ridges in search of new views… I used to hate mushrooms, but Brynneth makes a good mushroom and herb soup that I enjoy greatly. I favour raspberries over strawberries, every time, and the colours of the sky-tit over the plainness of the black bird, although the black bird’s song is better. I much prefer the long days of summer, and the feel of chiffon against my skin in the warm breeze, not that there is much cause to wear such things up here… I enjoy lazy mornings in bed when I can get them, which is seldom. And friends… sharing a meal, a rich wine, and good conversation with friends… these are the things that I like. Will this suffice?”

Halbrand looked at her. His air of mischief gave way and there was a warmth now in the deep green of his eyes. “Yes, that will do I think.”

“Good, because we’re here.” As they had been talking, the natural and stout growth of the oaks and spruces were replaced by clusters of slender multi-stemmed trees that had been coppiced for firewood when the croft was in use. Even in the barren winter days there was a magical, almost mythic wonder to the place as the frost glittered among the boughs and across grassy lawn from which the woody storks sprung. There were no more spruces, and among the oaks, hazels and birches had been planted, to provide a range of both hardy and fast-growing options to keep the wood productive. Among the trees were plenty of fruiting shrubs, and in the summer months the promise of berries and nuts attracted a greater variety of wildlife than in the forest proper. It was a peaceful place.

They could see now the shape of the croft coming into view and as they drew close enough to inspect the cottage they both stopped and said nothing, looking with mouths agape. Galadriel broke the silence. “In my defence, I haven’t visited this way in a while.” She looked at Halbrand sheepishly.

The building had fallen into a greater state of disrepair than Galadriel had thought. A greater portion of the roof was missing and the upper parts of two adjoining walls had tumbled down to litter the ground with moss-covered stones about their bases. The outbuilding next to it had fared better, it at least had no structural issues, but it lacked a door and shutters to keep the weather out. It was certainly going to take longer than initially thought to get the place liveable, and Galadriel’s anxieties about leaving began to rise again.

“Well,” said Halbrand, “if I work ten hours a day, every day, it might be ready in say, a few years?” He was joking, of course, but Galadriel felt no less guilty for misleading him, however mistakenly.

“It won’t take that long, and you know it. Especially if I help.” She was eager to see it completed as fast as possible to both alleviate her conscience and hasten her departure.

“You good at this sort of thing, are you?”

She looked at him sideways, “I can put my hand to most things if I’m shown, and this would not be the first house I’ve fixed in my time. Come on, let us see what it looks like from the inside.” Galadriel led the way in, and it became quickly apparent that the wooden floor would also need to come up and be replaced since it had become sodden and riddled with rot. The inner dividing wall was still standing, enough at least to imagine how the cottage could look if brought back to a fit state. It was not large with only two principal rooms, the kitchen-come-sitting-area and the bedroom, the latter of which had escaped the worst of the damage and was still weather-tight. The two of them agreed a good deal of luck was at play in that regard.

Once they’d finished their inspection of the main building they went on over to the outbuilding, which would once have been used to house pigs in the winter. It was a decent size, big enough to convert into a small forge for Halbrand to work in if he wished and unlike the cottage it had a flagstone floor and so had escaped any harm from the damp. It needed shutters and a door of course, but Halbrand surmised that would be an easy enough job.

“We should see Belegar, our blacksmith, about lending us some tools.” Said Galadriel.

“I’ll put together a list.” Said Halbrand, “At the very least we’ll need nails and hammers, axes, a saw… I’ll need to make a work bench before we can do much of anything. Luckily, we have plenty of woo –“ Halbrand stopped short and froze. He had heard a strange noise outside and was now listening intently.

Galadriel had also heard it and was standing very still. From a few feet away on the western side of the outbuilding there came the sound of heavy breathing. Galadriel and Halbrand exchanged fearful looks and it was clear they both had the same thought as to what it could be.

Heavy foot falls pounded against the hard, frostbitten ground and advanced closer to the outbuilding. Halbrand began to back up slowly towards the shadow of the western wall and as he became level with Galadriel, he stretched out his forearm and gently but firmly pushed her backwards. Both were now pressed against the wall hardly daring to breathe. A scraping sound, closer than before, now came from the other side of the wall, working its way along it from right to left. The door to the outbuilding stood opposite the pair facing back towards the main cottage, and both were calculating whether to run for it or stay hidden. With no weapons, neither choice had good odds. Suddenly the scraping ceased, and a clattering sound of wood on wood rose up in its place, accompanied by a loud creaking and moaning of boughs being bent by something large and strong.

To the left of Halbrand there was a window, which he quietly edged his way towards, keeping close against the wall. He ducked underneath it and crouched there looking to Galadriel to join him. She crept cautiously over to him and met him under the opening, and sharing a look, they both rose slowly upward, their eyes barely peering over the sill as they tried to get a glimpse of the creature.

Immediately, they relaxed, straightened up and breathed sighs of relief. Turning to each other they laughed at themselves for thinking anything more sinister could have been afoot.

Scraping its antlers against a tree was a great deer who had, under some unknown compulsion, wandered up into the hills far ahead of the spring. The velvet on its antlers was already shedding and earlier than usual, for deer tend not to shed their velvet until March-time at the earliest and it was only the end of January. It seemed not to care that Galadriel and Halbrand were there and was snuffling about the undergrowth now trying to find some fresh shoots to nibble on. Deciding the winter ground-fare was not to its liking, it grunted, turned and walked off back into the wood.

“We’ve been speaking too many horror stories for one day.” Said Halbrand as he exited the outbuilding.

“We are understandably on edge. Perhaps Eldith is right that rest of the village doesn’t need to be.” She gestured toward the half-crumbled house. “So, what do you think to this then?”

“It has… potential.” Replied Halbrand, with a slight air of scepticism.

“If you show something enough love it will love you back. Once it’s properly fixed up I’m sure it will be a good home. For now, I could do with a hot drink and something to eat. Are you coming?”

Halbrand was delighted with the idea of some food and they walked back up the path together towards Galadriel’s house once again locked in light-hearted conversation.

When they reached her front door, she opened it and welcomed Halbrand inside. She motioned for him to sit at the kitchen table while she arranged a grazing board of fresh bread, cheese, salted meats and relishes, accompanied by a cup of hot tea. It took them little time to finish the food and as Galadriel was taking a long sip of her tea Halbrand gave her a strange look.

“What?” She said, looking over the rim of the mug.

“You’re of Westernesse, aren’t you?” He asserted. Her eyes locked on him for a moment as she slowly placed the mug on the table. Then with a smile that creeped into the corner of her mouth, her eyes softened again.

“What makes you think that?” She asked.

“Just the things you’ve said, the way you go about things. Your accent, for one, far too haughty to have grown up here. You said yourself that you’re from the West, and Númenor is as west as west can go, for humans at any rate. You also seem to know more than the average northern villager… your sword knowledge, for instance. It would seem you have a head for battle strategy, and based on your penchant for fine fabrics, I’m guessing you were noblewoman. But how you ended up here… that I have yet to figure out. But I’m sure I will, in time.” He too now self-assuredly sipped his tea, wondering if intentionally missing the mark might encourage her to set his story straight.

“It’s a convincing theory.” She said, “But I’m no Númenórean.”

“Your sword says otherwise. The Sigel – it’s of the star-shaped isle, is it not?” He nodded in the direction of the backdoor where her sword still leant against the wall next to her pack along with his own sword. The silver star on the sheath was clear to see. He knew well enough though, that a star was not the emblem of the men of the west.

Galadriel looked at Halbrand with a cunning glint in her eyes.

“I won it in a bet.” She replied slyly, having guessed the story of how he came to win his own sword to be a lie.

Halbrand let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Well played."

“Quite.” She smiled.

There was a knock at the door, but Galadriel held Halbrand’s gaze for an instant before getting up and going over to it. Upon opening it she found it was Corwin, one of the young lads who lived next door to Brynneth and was friends with Cedric, who was stood behind him looking guilty. Corwin was holding up a bloody thumb, which he had apparently trapped in a door when him and Ced were messing around trying to wrestle one another and Ced had slammed the door on him. The nail was hanging off and Corwin was shaking at the sight of his own blood. “Don’t tell my mum,” Cedric pleaded, his brows knitting together in concern.

“I’d be more worried about Cori’s mum if I were you.” “Answered Galadriel. “Come on, sit down on the bed in the back and I’ll clean you up.” The boys hurried in passed Galadriel and on their way by Halbrand gave him a curious look before continuing on into the infirmary.

“Well, I’d best be off.” Said Halbrand, “It looks like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll get Bailid to show me where I can find Belegar’s forge.” He glanced over to his sword. “I don’t suppose I could get that back?”

“Not yet.” She replied.

“Still don’t trust me?”

“Tell me where you really got it and I’ll consider it.” She said, and with that she beckoned him out the door.

Halbrand obligingly made his way out, but paused momentarily in the doorway. He looked back at her, grinned, and then continued out into the lane. She shut the door and shook her head, a half-smile creeping across her face, before turning her attention to the boys.

Chapter Text

Galadriel brushed away the sweat from her forehead, hands braced against her knees as she caught her breath. The high ridge of the forest loomed like a great shadow in the distance, but the only thing moving was the barren sway of tree branches in the wind. No tracks. No shadows. Nothing.

She exhaled sharply. “Seven weeks, and still no sign.”

“You sound disappointed,” Halbrand remarked, striding up beside her.

“Not disappointed,” she said, scanning the horizon once more. “But it doesn’t sit right. They wouldn’t just vanish.”

Halbrand shrugged. “Maybe they went east, like you said.”

She didn’t answer. The reports from Shyâl and Lorgìr had been just as unfruitful - no carcasses, no tracks, no signs of movement near the Ered Mithrin. It should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like waiting for a storm that refused to break.

The snowdrops and crocuses had faded, replaced by resplendent yellow daffodils. Among the still-bare trees, the first hawthorn leaves unfurled in delicate clumps. The sun grew stronger, and with the longer days, work on Halbrand’s cottage moved into full swing. Progress had been good. Galadriel had even managed to rope in a few charitable Arnad residents to help. Both Ced and Corwin had been contributing too, albeit at the behest of Brynneth who thought it a fitting punishment for their boyish antics. Cori’s thumb had healed nicely, and he turned out to be quite practical with a hammer and nail. Ced’s skills, however, left more to be desired, and he made it quite clear he would have much rather been tramping through the woodland and climbing cliffs than sanding wooden planks.

Most days, Galadriel and Halbrand worked late, long after the others had gone. In those hours, they came to know each other well. Galadriel found Halbrand to be cheerful company and opted to spend much time with him beyond the necessities of cottage repairs. Halbrand, likewise, took pleasure in spending time with Galadriel as they shared a similar outlook on the world and found they were able to make each other laugh more often than not discussing philosophies on life and various comings and goings within Arnad Dûn. Galadriel was friendly with many of the village residents, but until now had only Brynneth who she really enjoyed spending time with for long periods and she thought of Halbrand as a welcome addition. It had been the most ‘at home’ she had felt in a long while. Despite this, her thoughts still lingered on leaving, though she admittedly found the idea of it harder than before.

The spring festival was just around the corner. With the higher mountain passes opening, traveling traders bustled through the village, setting up stalls in the square - which, in truth, was more of a small triangle where the three main roads met from the north, east, and southwest. In the middle of this muddy convergence was a stone pillar set upon a dais of flagstones that was raised above the ground by three tiers of steps set in concentric circles.

Around this the traders had staged their wares and there was much coming and going from the residents who were eager to replenish their depleted winter stores, as well as buying special items for the upcoming festivities. For several days new merchants arrived and replaced those who had moved on to other villages and towns, and there was a steady flow of fresh goods and services.

Galadriel had wandered up to the square to see about refreshing her medicinal herb stock, as well as perhaps finding some new spring dresses. With the new growth and warmer days around the corner, Galadriel always thought it fitting to enliven her wardrobe in tandem with the re-waking of the world. Of course, the items on offer in such a place were no match for elven finery, but she made do. She was milling around the carts and stalls, perusing the various wares and thumbing through the garments when she heard a raised voice from across the square. It was Skrúgar, who was arguing with a man about the price of something or other. As this was not uncommon for Skrúgar, Galadriel thought little of it and turned away towards home, disappointed that she had not found any clothes to her liking, though she had managed to purchase some useful herbs at least.

“Tribute? What are you on about? We don’t pay tributes!” Skrúgars voice had risen high above the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, he was obviously agitated and these last words of his caused Galadriel to stop short. Curious about what was going on she made her way over to him. She could see that he was speaking to two men, one was tall, bald, grim-faced and thick-set with a thuggish look about him. The other was smaller, with hay-like hair. He wore an arrogant grin and held disdain in his eyes for all the folk about him as though they were somehow lesser. It was with this one that Skrúgar was arguing. “We ain’t Skeldings,” he continued, “we don’t owe you!”

“New rules, old man, we’re here to claim what’s ours,” came the reply from the smaller man, still grinning superciliously.

“What’s going on here?” Asked Galadriel who had now come to stand at Skrúgar’s side.

“A Lord’s due. All who trade under Skelding protection owe their share." Said the man.

Galadriel’s expression became hard and serious. “On whose authority?” She asked.

“The Lord of Éoroskeld.” Said the larger man in a low voice, stepping forward.

Galadriel glanced over to Skrúgar, who had a fierce look in his eyes. He was a sceptical old complainant of a man, but he knew what was fair and stood up for it, and it was plain to see that he was now seething from such outrageous demands being made. Looking back at the brute now, Galadriel squared her shoulders. “Skrúgar is right. No settlements outside of the Coomb owe Éoroskeld any tribute. Not since the days of the Old Kingdoms, a fact your Lord well knows.”

“They do now.” Said the smaller man again, “a first decree from our new Lord, says all townships that benefit from the continued protection of the Skeld Wardens are to pay such dues as is fair and right. That means all settlements within and south of the Coomb.” He finished this proclamation by placing his hands on his hips and swaggering passed Skrúgar towards Galadriel.

“Is that so?” She said, incredulously. “And just what protection is it that we are supposed to be benefitting from? It seems to me that the Wardens have been lax in their duties of late. Tell me, have you tried collecting dues from Ost-Heryn? Have you seen what your protection has wrought there? Orcs are roaming south of the Michelcoomb rampant and unimpeded as far as I can see. Just what are we meant to owe you?”

“Watch your mouth.” Said the larger one, holding out a thick finger close to her face with a stony stare.

The folk that were scattered around the market place had slowly gathered around the argument, wanting to see what all the fuss was about. They had formed quite a crowd and were pressed close together now.

Galadriel looked down at the larger man’s finger, and saw he wore a gold ring with the emblem of a shield embossed across the flattened top. Galadriel was not afraid to meet the thug’s gaze and, clocking the ring, she did so now with a cold conviction, the tension humming in the air. “Gold is rare in these parts.” Said Galadriel, “Tell me, just what has your new Lord traded for such precious metals? Don’t tell me the High Skelding cares more for trinkets than the safety of his people.”

"Are you going to pay or not?" demanded the smaller man, stepping forward now, his eyes gleaming with arrogant threat.

A hush fell over the square. A merchant, moving slow and careful, slid a crate onto their cart - as if afraid to make a sound. A mother tugged her child behind her, eyes darting from Galadriel to the thugs, as if calculating how fast they could run if things turned violent.
Galadriel’s jaw tightened. Her hand clenched and flexed. The air itself felt thick, strained, charged, like what comes before lightning strikes.

***

Halbrand wiped the sweat from his brow as he hammered the last board into place. The rhythmic thud of the hammer was at odds with something else – sounds travelling long distances through the still air, the faint hum of raised voices drifting in from the square. He paused, frowning. Something was happening. Something that had gathered a crowd. A strange feeling gripped him.

He moved swiftly, coming up on the square within only a few minutes. As he approached, he noticed there was a large group gathered and pressed closely together. There was shouting and jostling suggesting some kind of unrest. Halbrand quickened his pace, curious to see what was going on. He reached the back of the crowd but could still see little more than the back of peoples’ heads. As he swayed this way and that he thought he caught a glance of Galadriel’s gleaming hair beyond the front line of the crowd. She was talking with three men, one looked to be Skrúgar, the others Halbrand did not recognise but they seemed to him hostile, and there was certainly a disagreement happening. He pressed forward, squeezing his way through the throng of people, snatching glimpses of the argument. The larger of the two strangers was looming over Galadriel, a finger thrust in her face…

Skrúgar’s roar of defiance rang out across the square. “If this Lord is so desperate for more gold, he can crawl down here and take it himself!” Spittle flew from his lips as he spat at the smaller man’s feet. For a split second, there was silence - sharp, breathless, electric. Then the bald thug lunged. Skrúgar barely had time to react before a thick hand clamped onto his throat, yanking him clean off the ground, his face going red as he struggled.

Galadriel moved before she could think. She seized the thug’s arm and twisted. He snarled, his grip breaking. Then, rage took over. The punch came too fast. Galadriel barely raised an arm - then, impact. A sickening crack. The world spun. White-hot pain split through her skull. The ground rushed up, and she hit the mud hard, her vision darkening at the edges.

The marketplace erupted. A child screamed. Stalls overturned as people shoved back, panicked, scrambling to flee. Someone cried out for help, but no one moved to intervene.

Halbrand was too far back, still forcing his way through the mass of bodies when he saw it - the brute’s massive fist, the punch landing, Galadriel sprawling to the ground. His breath caught, a sick twist knotting in his gut. For one frozen heartbeat, she didn’t move. The sight of her, crumpled and motionless, hit him like a punch to the chest.

'No.'

Something in him snapped. Blood roared in his ears as he tore through the last of the crowd, not seeing the panic around him, not hearing the cries. All he saw was Galadriel in the mud, her golden hair streaked with dirt.

Then, impossibly, she moved. Like a shadow uncoiling, Galadriel rose - slow, deliberate, too smooth for someone who had just taken such a hit. Her movements were sharp, controlled, unnervingly precise.

Halbrand froze, watching. There was something in the way she stood - the way she settled herself into readiness - that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He had seen men move like that before. Not villagers. Not healers or wanderers. Warriors. Killers.

The brute turned towards her, sneering. "Stay down, girl, before I-" Galadriel struck. In a blur of movement, she drove an elbow into his throat. The man gagged, his hands flying up too late. A second blow - sharp, brutal - cracked into his ribs. He staggered back, wheezing, and that was when she spun round and struck his temple with a final, precise kick, balletic and devastating.

The bald thug dropped. Not a groan. Not a twitch. He lay unconscious in the mud.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The smaller man barely had time to step away before Galadriel seized him by the throat and slammed him against a wooden stall. His legs kicked uselessly, his hands grasping at hers, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes burned through his. "Leave this place," she whispered, her voice razor-sharp. "Tell your Lord we owe him nothing. And if he has a problem with that..." She tightened her grip, watching his face turn red. "I'll be waiting right here for him." She released him. The man collapsed, gasping and choking in the dirt.

Halbrand stared at her as she finally let the man drop. Around him, the villagers murmured in awe and fear, but Halbrand’s gaze stayed locked on Galadriel. He stood just a few feet away, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. There was something flickering behind his eyes - a war between amazement, confusion, and something else.

'Who are you?' The thought burned behind his eyes as he watched her.

Silence held the square in its grip. Galadriel felt the weight of their stares pressing in, the whisper of her name spreading like wildfire. She swallowed hard. Her hands trembled. In her anger, in her recklessness, she had let something slip. Something no one was supposed to see. This was not careful. This was not laying low. She turned sharply, shoving past Halbrand, desperate to disappear before anyone could say a word. The crowd parted for her, but he didn’t.

"Wait," Halbrand said, reaching for her arm. "Galwen, what was that?"

"Nothing." The word was clipped, her voice tight.

"You're hurt." His touch was feather-light against her shoulder. She flinched anyway.

"I'm fine," she snapped. "Just let me go home."

Halbrand hesitated, studying her. Then, quietly, he murmured, "At least let me walk you there."

Galadriel’s breath caught. He was too close. A loose lock of hair tumbled over her face. Before she could stop him, Halbrand reached up to tuck it behind her ear. She recoiled as if she had been burned. "If you want to be useful," she said, her voice suddenly colder, her eyes wide and alert, "escort those two to the village border. Make sure they don’t come back." Then she turned, stepping past him as if he weren’t there. She didn’t look back.

Behind her, Halbrand stood unmoving, watching her go.

Galadriel hurried home, reprimanding herself as she went. How could she be so thoughtless? So rash? She was surprised by how much anger still lingered in her - and disturbed by it. She should have been more considered in how she handled this. Even if her appearance had not been questioned over the last couple of years, the way she was able to take down that thug certainly would be. 'I should have left weeks ago when I had the chance!' She thought to herself. 'If they find out who I am, they’ll cast me out anyway. Just like everyone else.'

She made it to her house and burst through the door, slamming it closed again she leant miserably against it. Her clothes were caked in mud. Her cheek was throbbing, hot and sore. Blinking back tears, she peeled off her cold, wet clothing and prepared a wash bowl. More upset than angry now, she scrubbed herself down, ashamed of how she had acted, and how she had spoken to Halbrand. Once dry, she donned a simple but elegant grey dress and taking a basin, she tended to her cheek. She went to the brook at the end of her garden to fetch some of its crisp mountain water, and bringing this back inside she crushed in some meadowsweet to help with the swelling and made a compress. She sat at the table, forlorn, holding the compress absentmindedly to her face, her thoughts elsewhere.

Galadriel lost track of time and after what could have easily been either a short or long while, there came a soft knocking at the door. “Come in.” She sighed, resigned to the idea that someone would inevitably call on her before long. To her surprise, and gladness, it was Halbrand. She was relieved the sharp way she had spoken to him earlier had not repelled him. She rose now as he entered.

“Well, the Skelds are well and truly gone from the village.” He said, closing the door. “It took a while though; the big guy was struggling to breath. I think you broke his ribs.”

“Oh.” Said Galadriel, dumbfounded at her own lack of words.

Halbrand lifted an eyebrow at her. “I don’t suppose you’re going to explain how you did that.”

Galadriel wavered, unsure what to say. Not the truth, at any rate. Halbrand was unmoved, waiting.

“Lucky hit, I suppose.” She smiled nervously.

Halbrand nodded and pursed his lips. “Lucky hits…” There was a pause while he studied her reaction. None came. So Halbrand continued exhaling and shaking his head. “Well… I was about to knock his teeth in, but you beat me to it.” He grinned, but there was something softer in his gaze now - something searching.

Galadriel forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For how I spoke to you.”

His grin faded into something quieter. Something real. “Don’t be,” he said, voice warm. “I’d be a little sharp-edged too if I just got punched in the face.” He slowly crossed the room towards her now, stopping achingly close. Looking up at him, she became all too aware of how tall he was, his soft eyes scanning her face. “How are you?” He asked tenderly.

“It’s keen, but I’m alright.” She answered, enthralled in his gaze.

With one hand, Halbrand cupped her chin, turning the bruised side of her face gently toward him. With the other, he held her cheek, his thumb tracing feather-light circles against the tender skin, as though even that small touch might hurt her. His care was agonizingly gentle. Galadriel’s heart began to race. Her breath quickened, catching as a warmth crept up her neck.

He stepped closer, his presence steady and sure. His eyes were deep as rich pools below a high precipice, tempting the plunge. They held her fast, searching her face with a softness that made her stomach twist.

Her hands tensed at her sides, fingers curling. The war inside her was silent, but relentless. It would be so easy - too easy - to sink into the warmth of his touch, to accept the comfort she had denied herself. And for a moment, she almost did.

But no. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. 'What would he think if he knew who I am?'

The thought hit like ice water. The air between them thickened, stretched taut on the edge unspoken longing. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

'Foolish. This is foolish, she thought, her throat tightening. You cannot afford this.'

She flinched, stepping back swiftly, wrapping her arms around herself. A wall rebuilt. A mask snapping into place.

Halbrand blinked, caught off guard by her sudden withdrawal. Confusion flickered across his face. “Galwen…” he began, his voice low, searching.

Galadriel kept her gaze turned away; jaw tight. The moment hung between them like a blade unsheathed.

Then, as if seizing on a lifeline, she said, sharper than intended, “The new Lord of Éoroskeld… had you heard news of him in Ost-Heryn?”

Halbrand hesitated, clearly thrown by the abrupt shift, but after a moment, he let the subject change, though his eyes lingered on her as if still seeking answers.

“No,” he said quietly. “The townsfolk weren’t even aware Bryda Warcwyn had passed.”
Galadriel nodded faintly, forcing herself to focus on his words, though her heart still beat too fast.

“Neither was I,” she murmured, and at last, she risked a glance back at him - only to find him still watching her, eyes shadowed with something she could not quite name.

“I take it this new Lord is Éargstan, her son?” He guessed.

“Makes sense.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Pondered Halbrand. “By all accounts Warcwyn was an honourable woman. Something doesn’t quite to fit here.”

“Ruthless would be a more fitting description,” Galadriel said darkly. “She wasn’t called the Wolf Queen for nothing. Though... to her credit, she honoured the old agreements - in her own way.”

Halbrand leaned back slightly, studying her. “Doesn’t sound like you think much of her family.”

Galadriel’s jaw tightened. “What can you expect? They come from a long line of those who chose to stand with darkness when it mattered most.”

There was a weight in her words, something older - something bitter and deep.

Halbrand’s brow furrowed, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you think of all of us?”

Galadriel blinked, caught off guard.

“Do you think we’re all just waiting to betray the world again?” he continued, meeting her eyes. Do you think I’m one of them? A traitor in waiting?”

She looked at him sharply, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“No,” she said finally, though her voice had lost some of its sharpness. “Not you. You’re not like them.”

Halbrand held her gaze. “Aren’t I? I wonder if you’d say that if you knew everything I had done.”

A beat of silence passed between them - heavy with unspoken things - before Galadriel turned away.

The moment stretched between them uneasily, before Galadriel forced herself to speak again, steering them back toward safer ground. “This new Lord… If he’s anything like his mother, he’ll be worse before he’s better.”

Halbrand was quiet for a beat, watching her closely. Then he exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “So,” he said, more carefully now, “what do we do about him?”

She hesitated, eyes narrowing as she thought, weighing the possibility that this was not just about tributes or threats. How much of this was tangled in old wounds and dangerous power rising again? “Nothing, for now,” she said at last. “If he wants to come for Arnad Dûn, let him. We’ll be ready.”

Halbrand frowned slightly. “Ready? Against a lord with wardens at his back?”

Galadriel’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “If need be.”

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes darkening. “Be careful making enemies of those more powerful than you.”

A shadow seemed to fall on the room. The sunlight had vanished behind a large cloud and among the silence all about seemed dull and bleak.

Galadriel smirked, disregarding his warning. “Are you worried about me, Halbrand?”

The shadow passed as quickly as it came, and he laughed suddenly, and somewhat awkwardly, “Not after what I saw today, it seems you don’t need much defending.”

“That reminds me,” she said, “I have something for you…” She crossed the small hallway and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later she re-emerged holding his sword. “It had seen better days and Belegar owed me a favour.” She held it up for him, and to his surprise, Halbrand could see that the sheath had been rebound in new leather, as close a match to the original red as could be made, and the brass metalwork had been buffed and polished back to a state of resplendence.

Halbrand looked at her astonished. Hesitantly he took it and drew out the blade. It too had been reconditioned to its former glory, with all rust and notches erased. As he moved it, it danced in the light with a gleaming splendour. He took time to admire it, inspecting it from hilt to tip. Galadriel indulged him.

“I take it you approve?” She eventually asked.

“This is…” He struggled to find any words. “I more than approve, this is exceptional.” He said, stunned at the quality, and equally so at the gesture. He focussed his eyes back on Galadriel. “Why did you do this for me?”

“Why?” She repeated, a little surprised at the question. “Why does anyone do anything? I thought it would be a kind thing, I suppose. You’ve been through a lot; you’re having to start a new life here…” She faltered a little before continuing. “And I’ve enjoyed having you around… I wanted to do a nice thing for you.”

Halbrand sheathed the sword and placed it carefully on the table. He took a step towards her.

Just at that moment the door clanged open. “What is going on?” Brynneth strode through the doorway and into the kitchen. “What’s happened? They said you were in a fight. Oh! Look at your face! Galwen, what were you thinking?”

“Calm down, Brynneth, I’m fine.” Said Galadriel, dismissing her mithering. “It was a minor disagreement.”

“Minor!” Said Brynneth. “They said you knocked his lights out! Honestly, can we not go two seconds without the two of you causing an uproar!”

“Two of us?” Halbrand smiled wickedly, holding his hands up, “Oh no, I wasn’t involved. It was all Skrúgar and Galwen, and really mostly just Galwen.” He flashed a grin at Galadriel, and picking up his sword he scarpered out the door before Galadriel could reprimand him. “Good luck!” He called back.

Galadriel could barely believe his cheek, and yet, a smile lingered on her face.

Brynneth stood looking expectantly at her. “Well, tell me all about it then…” She demanded, “and then tell me why you and Halbrand were standing so close when I walked in.”

Galadriel laughed heartily. “Honestly, Brynneth, you’re as bad as the Rowyn girls! No particular or interesting reason, is the only answer you’re going to get to that question.” She pulled out a chair for Brynneth, gestured for her to sit, and went about making some tea for them both.

Chapter Text

The spring festival arrived in a flurry of excitement, the village humming with anticipation. Down in the fields within the basin of the Lhûrinduin, where the Celethrin met the broader river on its winding course southeast, the festivities sprawled out beneath the open sky. Stalls overflowed with food and drink, their scents mingling in the warm air, while laughter carried over the valley. Archery, wrestling, and feats of strength dominated the meadow, children darting between them to test their skills in miniature contests. Local craftsmen displayed their wares - finely carved trinkets, embroidered shawls - each stall a burst of colour and chatter against the lush, rolling landscape.

The afternoon sun bathed the valley in gold, its warmth soft against the breeze. For the festival, Galadriel wore emerald velvet, the fabric rich as new spring leaves, its gold satin lining catching the sunlight with every step. A matching cloak draped over her shoulders, its deep green mirroring the fresh shoots unfurling across the valley.

Her reign as defending champion in the archery contest had gone unmatched in all the time she had been in Arnad-Dûn, and this year was no different, to the point where it had become a running joke among the residents that whoever entered were competing for the honour of coming second. But she bore this mastery gracefully and always congratulated the other contestants for offering tough opposition, which was stretching the truth a little, but Galadriel thought it harmless.

Halbrand threw himself into the contests, but it was the tug-of-war where he truly shone. Locking arms with Belegar, Shyâl, and a band of sturdy young men, he dug his heels into the dirt, muscles straining as the rope burned against his grip. Victory was inevitable - their raw strength and unrelenting momentum crushed any opposition.

As dusk deepened, the festivities continued back at the village. Laughter spilled into the night, carried on the scent of spiced cider and roasting meats. Inside the tavern, the air was thick with warmth and the hum of conversation. Tables and chairs were shoved aside to make room for dancing, boots thudding against the wooden floor in time with a lively fiddle tune.

Galadriel had propped herself up against a table and was speaking merrily to Brynneth while Halbrand got them both another tankard. He returned swiftly and the three of them engaged in the kind of free-flowing and laughter-filled conversation that results from drinking the majority of the day. This jollity was interrupted, however, with the advancement of Dregan Harthac staggering over to them.

“Galwen!” He said, labouring somewhat on the ‘l’, “You did good work seeing those townsmen off! Who’d have thought you had it in you, small slip of a thing as you are. You’ve mucked up your pretty face, mind.” He turned to Halbrand now, “Beauty of the village she is, has been for a decade! Doesn’t seem to age! But you,” He pressed a finger against Halbrand’s chest, “I wasn’t sure about you, but you’ve turned out alright. You make sure you dance with her tonight, treat her kind.”

Galadriel’s ears, though hidden, were flushed, hot with embarrassment and apprehension. Dregan’s ponderings, drunk though they were, were circling topics she did not want to have to explain. And the way he spoke to Halbrand about her made her want to crawl into a small dark hole and stay there.

Mercifully, Brynneth stepped in. “Alright, Dregan, you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Ah!” He proclaimed, “an ailment that can only be solved by more!”

“Quite right,” said Brynneth, “Let’s get you another.” She took him by the arm and with him leaning heavily on her, she guided him back to the bar. But not before shooting Galadriel an indecent wink.

Halbrand shook his head with a bemused grin, while Galadriel could do little else than direct an awkward smile his way.

In a corner of the inn, a group of children had gathered around Bailid, who was sat huddled away under the mezzanine, and delighted in indulging his own tradition of storytelling to the village “young’uns” on such occasions. Galadriel tapped Halbrand on the arm. “This should be good.” She said as she led him over to where Bailid and the children were sitting.

“You enjoy children’s stories?” asked Halbrand, teasingly.

“I enjoy good stories, and Bailid’s are always good, if not always that suitable for children.” She replied with a telling smile.

Halbrand couldn’t help but follow after her. She possessed a generosity and kindness he had not expected to find so enveloping, a playful curiosity that brought an easy smile to his lips, and an inescapable warmth that pulled others close, glowing as she shared her joys with them. It helped, of course, that he thought her very beautiful, and as he followed her he delighted in watching her hips sway gently from side to side as she walked across the room. The memory of them in her kitchen after the fight in the square, lingered in his mind. His hand tracing her soft skin and her deep blue eyes looking up at him, longingly.

Galadriel leaned herself now against one of the mezzanine posts and sipped her ale. Halbrand stood beside her, willing to humour the tavern keep’s tale, if only for the sake of being close to her.

“Did you know,” Bailid began, leaning in so the fire cast sharp shadows across his face, “that the wolves of the north were not always as they are now? That once, they walked on two legs, speaking like men, and fed on blood alone?”

“Bailid,” Galadriel interrupted, her tone light but her posture stiff. “Perhaps this particular tale is in bad taste.” Her eyes flickered briefly toward Halbrand.

“Pish!” Bailid snapped. “It’s an old tale, and the children will love it. Besides, they ought to know the evils that walked this land before their fathers’ fathers.”

The children, already giggling with excitement, nodded fervently. Bailid, satisfied, continued.

“In the Elder Days, before the sinking of Beleriand, the first Dark Lord, Morgoth, dwelt in his iron fortress of Thangorodrim. And at his command was a sorcerer, cruel and cunning, who bred beasts for war. Wolves he made first, their eyes bright with unnatural malice, their howls thick with the echoes of black magic. But it was not enough. He desired greater monsters, creatures that could think, that could speak, that could hunt not just by instinct, but by will. And so, the first of the werewolves was born.”

A hush rippled through the gathered crowd. Children huddled closer, eyes wide with something between fear and fascination. But among the adults, the silence held weight. Suspicion.

One of the men exhaled sharply. “Witchcraft and Elf-trickery,” he muttered, “It was always them who brought the darkness upon us.”

Bailid ignored the interruption and continued, “The most feared of them all was Draugluin, first of his kind, whose fangs dripped venom and whose pelt was blacker than the void between the stars. His master, the sorcerer Sauron, called him faithful, for he never failed in his slaughter. And from him, more were made, a host of wolves that feared neither blade nor fire. The night belonged to them, and where their howls rang, men learned to bar their doors and Elves to string their bows in vain.”

Halbrand’s fingers curled tightly around his cup, the wood pressing into his palm, grounding him. He willed himself to breathe, to keep his grip steady, but his knuckles whitened with the strain. The fire danced across his face, throwing shadows along the sharp planes of his cheekbones. It was warm in the tavern - too warm. The air pressed heavy against his skin. That name. Sauron. Halbrand’s breath left him in a slow, measured exhale. His jaw flexed - once, twice - before he stilled it. He forced his lips into an easy line, the kind that could pass for casual interest, but the muscle in his cheek twitched, betraying him.

Galadriel saw it. She, too, had gone still, though the firelight caught the glint of something sharper in her gaze, something that suggested she knew more of the tale than she let on.
A heartbeat passed.

“They terrorized the free lands, killing men and Elves alike. And the worst of them all was Carcharoth, the Red Maw.”

A small gasp escaped from one of the older children. Bailid nodded grimly. “Yes, the very same. No wall could hold him, no sword could cut him, no beast could best him. His master set him at the gates of Angband, and there he remained until the Elves, in their hubris, sought to steal back what was taken from them. They thought themselves wise, as Elves do.”

A murmur of discontent from the villagers. One of the fathers spat on the ground. “And what did it cost us?”

“Blood,” Bailid said simply. “For when Carcharoth swallowed the Silmaril, it burned him with an agony no words can capture. Maddened, he tore through the lands of men, slaughtering all in his path.”

At this, one of the smaller children whimpered and fled. Bailid did not pause, nor did he acknowledge the disapproving glances from some of the mothers.

“At last he was felled… But perhaps the worst of it is this: though the great werewolves are gone, their blood lingers. The Dark Lord who followed – Sauron - it is said he did not forget their making. And when the time came, he bred them again. Not beasts, not men, but something between, who walked in shadow and hunted for the taste of flesh. They were his trackers, his enforcers, the unseen watchers in the night.”

Halbrand took a slow breath. A shadow passed over his face, there for only a heartbeat before he blinked it away. His eyes, unreadable, flickered toward Galadriel.

She met his gaze. But the moment passed.

Bailid spread his hands, as if to brush away the weight of his own words. “So they say, on stormy nights, when the wind howls like a dying thing, that it is not the wind at all. It is the last of them, wandering the dark, seeking what was lost. And hungering.”

The silence that followed was not an easy one. A gust of wind rattled the tavern’s wooden beams, and for a moment, it felt as though the very air had stilled.

Halbrand did not move. He was staring into the fire, but his gaze was distant, caught somewhere between the flickering embers and something long, long ago. The moment stretched - too long, too telling. Then, as if sensing the weight of Galadriel’s stare, Halbrand blinked and forced a chuckle. The mask slipped back into place.

A villager scoffed, shaking his head. “A fine story, Bailid. But let’s not forget whose kind led those beasts to us in the first place.”

“Too right,” muttered another. “Elves curse our fathers for kneeling to the Dark Lord, but they never ask why they had no choice.”

Bailid cleared his throat. “A story is a story. Make of it what you will.”

Halbrand tilted his head slightly, watching Galadriel as if expecting a reaction. If she felt anything, she did not show it. But her fingers, barely perceptible, curled into a fist.

“Bailid Frecwine!” The harsh call of Borûna Haykin rang out as she waded through the crowd. “What have you been telling these kids? Little Bogtayn is crying buckets, he’ll not settle for hours!”

“Oh, it’s just fairy stories, children love a dark tale.” He replied, unbothered by the flustering of Borûna.

“Tales about werewolves are not suitable for ones so young!” She retorted.

“Come off it, Borûna, it’s harmless!”

“Never you mind what’s harmless and what ain’t!” Borûna was not in a mood to let this go so lightly.

Luckily for Bailid, Halbrand supplied him with an out. “I believe that cask of ale is running low, Bailid. If you like I can help you bring another one up from the cellar?” He said, raising an eyebrow.

“Ay lad, best get to it!” Exclaimed Bailid, very relieved. “We can’t be running out of ale at the spring festival! You’ll excuse us, Borûna, duty calls!” And with that they both headed downstairs.

Galadriel stepped outside to the back of the tavern where a narrow-raised decking overhung a small pond. Bailid’s choice of story spun many disquieting threads through her mind that brought up old wounds. Sombrely, she sought some time alone. The deck was empty, too small to host such a crowd and those that were brave enough to stand for long in the early spring night had sprawled out into the lane at the front. She leant her forearms against the balustrade and drank in the cool evening air. A mist was already beginning to rise over the pond and the smell of damp was about her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of high voices and hushed sniggers coming from the store room at the other end of the deck and down some steps. The door was ajar and a small light was seeping out of the opening. Galadriel crept along the boardwalk, down the steps and hid by the outer doorframe.

“I heard werewolves hide under your bed and wait for you to go to sleep before they eat you whole.” Said one of the voices.

“I heard they skin your face and wear it as a mask!” Said another, followed by cries of “Ew!” and “That’s horrid!”

“I heard they like the taste of children who steal from stores that aren’t theirs.” Said Galadriel who had now opened the door and was looming, arms folded, above the owners of the three giggling voices. Sat in the round, were three children of seven or eight, each with a small pile of honey cakes, fruit pastries, and shortbread in their laps, all with crumb-covered sticky fingers. All three gasped with a start at hearing Galadriel’s voice and were now looking at each other nervously before erupting into pleas of “Don’t tell on us! Please!” and “We’ll put the rest back!”

“If I let you go without a word, how are you to learn your lesson?” Asked Galadriel. At which the faces of the children dropped, sure they would be turned in.

“We won’t do it again, we promise.” Pleaded the smallest of the three, in one final attempt at eliciting pity.

“And what is the cost for our silence?” Halbrand appeared around the corner of the tavern and now leant against the door frame. The children shot each other sideways looks and re-emboldened, the oldest quickly held up the freshest pair of honey cakes.

“We were saving these till last, but you can have them. You can’t tell on us though!”

“A fair trade.” Said Halbrand, “Give us those, put the rest back and be off with you.”

The children, unable to believe their good fortune, did as they were asked before running off to find their parents, their laughter trailing behind them.

Halbrand turned back to Galadriel, mischief glinting in his eye as he held out the cake. She shook her head, disapproving of his methods, but swiftly relented and laughed as she reached for it. But he quickly withdrew it just out of range. “I’m not sure you’ve earned this,” he teased. “Best I keep it.”

“Give me my cake, or I’ll smash both in your fingers, and neither of us gets a cake!” she shot back, stepping closer, her expression half-feigned outrage, half-laughter.

He grinned, surrendering. “Alright, I give in. If there is anything I have learnt this week it’s to never be on the receiving end of your wrath.” He handed her the cake and they made their way back onto the decking to overlook the pond.

“I never said thank you.” Said Halbrand, “for restoring my sword. It was a generous gift.”

“You’re very welcome.” She smiled at him out of the corner of her mouth. “I’ll take the cake as payment.”

Halbrand exhaled a soft laugh and they ate in companionable silence while watching the mist shift and curl above the water, the music from the tavern floated out into the night and seemed to mingle with the vapour, enveloping them. Then, with a quiet certainty, Halbrand spoke.

“According to Dregan, I owe you a dance.”

She scoffed. “Thankfully, we need not hold ourselves accountable to Dregan’s idea of chivalry.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “And yet - I would still like to dance.”

“Would you now…” she replied, her voice quiet, laced with shyness.

His gaze never left her as she bashfully struggled to look up from the pond, only snatching a glance at him in an attempt to see if he was serious.

This was enough for him.

Halbrand’s fingers curled around hers - strong, steady, yet achingly gentle. He guided her toward him, his other hand finding the curve of her waist.

“Halbrand…” She whispered, there was a reluctance in her voice.

“If you’re about to tell me you can’t dance, I won’t believe you,” he murmured, voice low and warm against her ear.

His fingers laced through hers, slow and deliberate, the roughness of his palm a sharp contrast to the cool silk of her skin. At her waist, his thumb grazed the fabric of her gown, just barely brushing the curve beneath. The air between them was thread-thin. His breath stirring the loose strands of her hair.

Galadriel’s pulse stuttered. Every shift in his stance sent a ripple through her body. Her chest tightened. Her fingers drifted along his sleeve, feeling the firm muscle beneath, the warmth seeping through the fabric. She had spent weeks resisting this - resisting him. And yet, here he was, inches away, his touch steady and certain. How many times had she imagined this? Had she let her thoughts wander where they shouldn’t, wondered how it would feel to let herself sink into his arms? She swallowed hard. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because she was about to hurt him.
She took a breath, the words curling on her tongue, burning to be spoken. She did not want to say them - not now, not here, not when his hand was still on her waist and she could still feel the warmth of him against her. But she had no choice.

“Halbrand…” Her voice barely carried over the music, yet he heard it, his gaze sharpening. He felt it, the shift in her, the weight behind her hesitation. She exhaled shakily, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

For a moment, he did not react. Then, his fingers, so steady moments before, flexed. The hand at her waist grew light, uncertain. “What?” His voice was quieter now. Strained.

She swallowed and hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much she should reveal. “I have a secret. And sooner or later, the people here will know of it. When that happens, they will cast me out. If I leave first, I leave on my own terms - without seeing their friendship turn to hatred.” Her voice faltered. “By strange chance, I meant to leave the day we met. But you needed help and someone to vouch for you, and then you were put in my charge and I didn’t feel I could go… But now you are settled, I must go. Very soon there will be nothing for me here.”

He was startled and for a moment knew not what to say. Eventually his hand lifted from her waist, cupping her chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “Nothing?” His eyes scanning hers.

Her chest tightened. She could not look at him, she closed her eyes. Her brows knitted together, her lips parted, but no words came.

“Gal…” He let out a slow breath, as if trying to steady himself. “Is this not your home?” he asked, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Not where you belong?”

She said nothing.

He stepped closer, searching her face. “Galwen… whatever this is, surely there’s another way.” His hand found hers again, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles - whether to comfort her or himself, she wasn’t sure. “These people are your friends. People who love you. They won’t turn on you so easily.” He swallowed hard, as if bracing himself before adding, “And I…” He hesitated.

Galadriel stiffened. He was about to say something she could not afford to hear. Something that would undo every careful boundary she had placed between them. She could not let him finish.

“This is not my home,” she whispered. “And I cannot stay here for you.” She tore her gaze from his and stepped back, breaking his hold on her fingers. The loss of warmth was instant. She turned sharply, disappearing into the darkened lane, the laughter of the festival ringing hollow in her ears. A cold ache settled in her chest, spreading like frost through her ribs. Her fingers curled at her sides, as if to keep herself from reaching back.

Behind her, Halbrand remained motionless on the deck. For the first time in a long while, he had reached for something – someone - only to watch it slip through his fingers. He let her go. But he was not ready to lose her.

Chapter Text

Early the next morning Galadriel woke to a loud and persistent banging at the door. A dull, unrelenting ache pulsed behind her eyes, each throb keeping rhythm with her unsteady heartbeat. Her stomach churned - not just with the remnants of last night’s ale, but with something deeper, something rawer. Then, the memories flooded in.

Halbrand.

A sharp breath left her as her stomach twisted violently. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, as if she could smother the thoughts clawing at her mind. But it was useless. She remembered everything. The way he held her close as they danced, his hand tracing the curve of her waist, his warm breath against her ear. The way he had looked at her - open, unguarded - as if she were something precious. The way she had hurt him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shame crawling up her throat like bile. The ache in her chest tightened. She had convinced herself that keeping him at arm’s length was necessary. That she couldn’t afford… whatever this was. That it was better to push him away than to risk - risk what? She didn’t want to answer that question.

Another sharp knock at the door made her flinch. She forced herself upright, scrubbing a hand over her face, but the weight in her chest remained.

Irritation burned through her as she yanked the door open, words of protest ready on her tongue - only for them to die instantly. Shyâl and Lorgìr stood before her, their expressions grim, skin pallid. No remnants of festival joy remained in their eyes. Between them, Shyâl clutched a sack, his knuckles white against the heavy fabric.

We’re sorry, Gal," Shyâl murmured, shifting the sack in his hands. "We thought you’d want to see this."

Shyâl’s eyes drifted down to the sack at his side. Lorgìr shifted uneasily, his usual steady gaze flickering away from hers. Neither of them spoke at first, but the sickly pallor of their faces told her this was not just the effects of a long night. Something was deeply wrong. She stepped aside, her stomach tightening. “Come in,” she said, bracing herself. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well,” began Lorgìr, “we’d drunk a bit too much last night, and thinking it would be funny, a group of us went for a walk out into the woods. Bit of a midnight adventure, y’know? Scare some of the younger lads and that. We hadn’t gone very far, we must have only been walking for around twenty minutes, when we came across… this.”

Shyâl hesitated before upending the sack onto the kitchen table. Something heavy tumbled out, landing with a sickening thud. A dismembered arm, thick with muscle and slick with congealed blood, rolled forward, stopping just inches from Galadriel’s hand. Her breath hitched. She stumbled back, bile rising in her throat.

Her stomach, already unsettled, churned violently now and she had to swallow hard to hold back the surging vomit. She looked up at the two of them expectant of a more forthcoming explanation.

“This isn’t all of it.” Said Shyâl, grimly. “There looked to be enough body parts for two whole people scattered around up there, just about. I came upon them first, told Lorgìr to keep the others back. They didn’t see anything.”

“Where did you find it?” She asked.

“About a mile up the north road, a few hundred feet into the wood on the right.” He paused pensively. “Ain’t wolves. Wolves would’ve eaten them. These were just torn apart and left. As far as I can tell, nothing’s eating them, not even the worms.”

A cold, creeping unease came over Galadriel. She covered her nose with the back of her hand and went to inspect the limb more closely. The exposed end was ragged as though it had been bitten off or torn away. The flesh had turned a fetid purple, and there was a dark black ooze expelling itself from the putrid tissue giving off a rancid stench; a corruption that was dispersed all along the limb, visible under the skin as bulging black tendrils groping to spread their filth across every muscle and sinew.

“No animal would eat this. The flesh is poisoned.” Said Galadriel as she scanned down the arm now to the hand and fingers. Her eyes stopped suddenly at the forefinger, where she noticed a glimmer of gold pinching into the bloating flesh that swelled around it. Taking a knife from one of the drawers, she swung at the finger, much to Shyâl and Lorgìr’s dismay, who were also trying desperately not to be sick. Holding it up, she wriggled the ring free from the meat. The ring was flat and round on one edge and bore the emblem of shield. Galadriel came to a morbid realisation.

“This happened less than three days ago.” She said, bleakly, tossing the finger back onto the table. “This is one of the men that came from Éoroskeld to collect their lord’s tribute. And I’ll wager the rest of the body parts in the forest belong to him and his friend.”

Galadriel exhaled slowly, then squared her shoulders, shaking her head as if casting off a heavy weight. She inhaled again, deeper this time - steadying herself, hardening her resolve. “Wake all those handy with a bow and axe, we need to put together a hunting party. As many as possible. We’ll meet at the west entrance to the village in an hour.” She hesitated, just for a moment. Halbrand. He was the last to see them alive. “And fetch Halbrand. Tell him to bring his sword.”

“Sword?” Asked Lorgìr. “What are we hunting with swords and axes?”

She looked at him, stern and grave. “Werewolves.”

The word hung heavy between them. For a moment, Shyâl and Lorgìr remained still, exchanging an uneasy glance. Then, slowly, they nodded to Galadriel and turned to carry out her orders.

Galadriel hurriedly dressed herself for the hunt. She donned a burgundy dress and hood, black trousers, and her brown leather bodice. She tied up her hair in braided crown, incorporating a green ribbon that covered the tips of her ears, and strapping her sword to her waist, she picked up her bow and quiver, and strode purposefully out into the street to meet the hunting party.

Brynneth had obviously been waiting for Galadriel to pass by her house and briskly met her in the lane, perturbed. She had noticed Shyâl and Lorgìr calling on various people along the street; she knew something was up and was quite offended she had not been included in whatever it was.

Galadriel recounted the brief version of Shyâl and Lorgìr’s story from last night and the conclusions they had come to about the severed arm, as well as the decisions to go hunting for the werewolves, or signs of them at least.

“And why wasn’t my door knocked on?” Asked Brynneth, her sense of offence redoubled now she knew the defence of the village was at stake.

“You’re not a hunter, Brynneth, and there is Cedric to consider.” Replied Galadriel, dismissive.

“No, I’m not a hunter.” Protested Brynneth, “But when it comes down to defending my home you can guarantee I’ll put up a good fight. And the best thing I can do for Ced is to set the best example I can. We all need to fight together, and I’m not about to sit back and wait for an invitation to do my part. No offence, Gal, but if we’re fighting for our lives, our homes, our families… well I’ve lived here a damn sight longer that you and I won’t be left out.”

Galadriel smiled at her and then bent suddenly, removing a knife from her inner boot and offering to Brynneth. “I’d expect nothing less.” She said.

Brynneth smiled back with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Got my own.” She said, and uncovered a large butcher’s cleaver that she produced from the folds of her cloak. “I figured whatever was going on would require a weapon of some kind.”

Galadriel laughed, more so at her own naivety than anything else. Of course Brynneth had come prepared. “Then we best get moving.” She announced, and together, they strode for the western edge of the village.

When they reached the west gate, a small group of seven was already waiting. Shyâl and Lorgìr had gathered four others - men who sometimes joined the hunts or were simply strong enough to swing an axe, even if their usual target was wood. The seventh was Halbrand.

When her eyes landed on him, something in her chest tightened. A breath caught in her throat before she could stop it, and she forced herself to exhale, slow and measured.

As herself and Brynneth approached, she stole a glance at him, searching—something, anything. A flicker of hesitation, a tightening of his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists when he was holding something back. But there was nothing. Just the same calm expression, the same quiet attentiveness as the others. As if last night had never happened.

She straightened, forcing her voice into its usual, steady rhythm. She was not speaking to him, she was speaking to all of them - but still, she felt his presence, a weight at the edge of her vision. It took effort to keep her eyes from straying back to him.

"Two men lie dead.” Galadriel’s voice was steady, but it carried the weight of command. "All signs point to werewolves - fell beasts of Angband. They are no myth. They are no distant terror. They are here. These are not mere beasts. They are the shadow of Angband itself, creeping back into the lands we call home. Halbrand told us of Ost-Heryn’s fall - proof that they are no longer content to lurk in the dark. Until now, they have spared Arnad-Dûn. That mercy has ended. They are here, watching, waiting. Do not mistake their silence for absence. We cannot wait for them to strike first. We will not cower behind walls and pray they pass us by. We hunt them now - before they hunt us. If you wish to turn back, do so now. None will think less of you."

She looked across the faces of the eight hunters before her. All were grave, yet none moved.

"Then let us begin."

They had not walked far up the road when Galadriel signalled to Shyâl to take the lead, and she dropped to the back of the group where Halbrand was intentionally lingering. As she fell in next to him she realised that though she knew what she needed to ask, she was not entirely sure how to start of the conversation. She walked next to him for several paces in awkward silence, her eyes focussed on the ground in front of her. She felt as though the air between them was fizzling.

“You brought Brynneth along.” Mercifully, Halbrand broke the silence.

“Brynneth brought herself along, there was no refusing her.” Galadriel stole a glance at Halbrand, who was also concentrating on the road ahead. “If you’re worried whether she can look after herself, between her and a wolf… I wouldn’t want to be the wolf.”

A small laugh escaped Halbrand’s mouth, and Galadriel could not help but smile slightly in response.

“Halbrand, when you escorted the Skeldings out of the village, did anything seem… strange?” She asked hesitantly.

“Stranger than you managing to take down a man twice your size?” He tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow at her.

She made no response.

“But no…” He continued, “I didn’t notice anything that would explain what happened to them. I doubt Skrúgar saw anything either – he came with me, along with a couple of others from the square. Everything seemed normal.”

Galadriel nodded, satisfied with his answer, but still trying to puzzle out the situation.

“It’s no surprise really, that the wolves chose to prey on them.” Said Halbrand, guessing her thoughts. “They were isolated, and easy pickings in the state they were in.”

Galadriel stopped suddenly at this. “What are you saying? That that they’re dead because of me?” She was obviously offended.

“No.” he said, taken aback by her sudden prickliness and a little insulted himself. “You couldn’t have known what would happen to them.”

“But you think if I hadn’t done what I did they would have stood a better chance.” She stood there obstinately, bristling.

Halbrand studied her, his jaw tense. “I never said that. And truth is if you hadn’t struck him someone else would have. I would have.” Then, without quite meaning to, he stepped closer.
“When I saw him hurt you…” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Nothing - except you - would have stopped me from beating that man to within an inch of his life.” His hand moved before he could stop it, his forefinger hooking hers, the touch featherlight. But his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across her skin, as if memorizing the shape of her, unsure if he would be allowed this small connection. “Whether by your hand, or mine, their fate would be unchanged. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

She looked down at where his fingers were stroking hers. The idea of him defending her with such violence frightened and excited her in equal measure, which in itself, frightened her all the more. His touch, however small, was a tantalising pull against everything sensible and wise, a step toward something she could not - should not - want. But her resolve wavered, just for a moment, wanting to lean into it.

Instead, she looked up at him, eyes wide and hesitant and nodded faintly. She should have let go. She meant to. But instead, her fingers curled, just slightly, around his, and before she knew it, she was holding on. A breath. A beat too long. Then, with a sharp inhale, she pulled away, as if she feared what might happen if she lingered any longer.

As she walked away, Halbrand smiled quietly to himself and moved to catch up.

After ten more minutes on the road, Lorgìr beckoned them to turn off to the right, leading them north-east up the slope through the woods. The trees stood still and bare, their skeletal branches reaching toward the dull sky. Only the smallest ones had begun to bud, and the ground beneath them was scattered with violets and primroses. Yet the air held no scent of spring - only the stale weight of earth and something else, something faint but rancid.

They climbed steadily for fifteen more minutes, pausing now and then to examine broken branches or disturbed patches of earth. There was little birdsong, just the crunch of their boots and the occasional creak of the wind shifting through deadwood. Then, cresting a shallow rise, they came to the lip of a dell.

It lay scooped out of the earth like an old wound, around seventy yards across. No trees grew within. The ground was dark, damp, and curiously sunken in places, as though the very soil had tried to recoil from what lay at its centre - the remains of two men. Or what was left of them.

The bodies had been torn apart, limbs wrenched free at unnatural angles. Entrails coiled in glistening loops over the ground, the flesh blackened with a sickly corruption that seemed to pulse in the dim light. Hair, skin, and chunks of meat had been strewn across the dell, as if something had feasted messily and then abandoned its meal. Yet nothing had come to scavenge. No flies. No maggots. No carrion birds.

The air was thick with the iron tang of blood, but beneath it lurked something worse - a stench not just of rot, but of something unnatural and lingering.

Breathing through their mouths, the hunters descended, their boots squelching softly in the damp soil. They moved with careful steps, each one aware of the silence pressing in around them. Even the trees seemed mute, as though the forest itself refused to acknowledge this place.

Galadriel swallowed against the rising unease in her throat. “We should look for signs of where the demons went.” Her voice rang out against the quiet.

They fanned out, picking their way through the wreckage. In the centre of the dell, thick black ooze had pooled into a sticky mass, sluggish and glistening like old oil. It clung to the earth in a way that made Galadriel’s skin crawl, as if the land itself was rejecting it.

To the east side of the dell tracks were spotted. Deep gouges in the earth. Clawed footprints - large, irregular. The hunters followed them uphill, treading carefully. The prints led them through thickening trees, turning north, deeper into the woods. And then, they stopped.

Galadriel frowned. The gouges ended abruptly, as if the creatures had simply vanished.

Halbrand had already solved the puzzle. He tapped her shoulder and pointed upward.

Above them, several branches were broken, jagged against the pale sky. Splintered limbs littered the ground, stark against the dark earth.

“They climbed from here,” Galadriel whispered. A grim silence followed. “We fan out. Search for fresh signs. Keep each other in sight. Don’t stray more than fifty yards apart.”

The hunters fanned out into a staggered line, each crouching low, bows drawn. They moved with practiced silence - a slow, relentless advance like a creeping fire, smoking out their quarry.

To Galadriel’s right was Brynneth, and to her left was Shyâl. Halbrand took his place at the far end of the line.

The higher they climbed, the heavier the air became. A rank, damp scent rose around them like rotting leaves left too long in stagnant water. It clung to their throats, thickening. Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted.

It started as a whisper. A thin curl of mist wove between their boots, lazy, unthreatening. Then, without warning, the mist fell. It came like a slow exhalation from the earth itself, curling around their feet, rising until the world beyond a few yards blurred into shadow. It drew in unnaturally fast, consuming the trees, the sky, even the ground beneath them.

Galadriel stopped, heart pounding. The others were gone. The mist had swallowed them whole.

She stopped in her tracks, quickly turning both left and right, straining to see Brynneth and Shyâl. Nothing but shifting tendrils of mist. The silence pressed in, thick as the fog itself.

She crouched low, whispering into the damp air, “Bryn… Brynneth…” But the mist devoured her voice, smothering it against the earth. Even the usual sounds of the forest - the creaking of wood, distant bird calls - were gone. The world had shrunk to the space around her, and something about that emptiness made the hair on her arms rise.

A deep, rhythmic throbbing began to pulse through the air. At first, she thought it was her own heartbeat hammering in her ears, but no - this was external. The ground trembled with each step, a dull, percussive force that set her teeth on edge, as if something vast and heavy was pacing just beyond sight.

Her breath quickened. Her fingers tightened around her bow. A low, guttural vibration rose from the darkness, a breath too vast to belong to anything human. It rolled across the trees, deep and rasping, the sound of something vast inhaling… waiting. The sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Then, silence.

She stayed frozen, barely breathing, the mist curling cold around her skin.

“Lorgìr! Galwen!” Shyâl’s voice came echoing, distant but urgent, cutting through the deadened air. Galadriel turned, ready to call back, but too late.

The wind rushed about her; a sudden, violent displacement of air. Then came a scream - high, ragged, yanked upward into the sky.

She loosed an arrow blindly, the twang of the bowstring lost beneath the scream’s final, harrowing note. The arrow vanished into the mist, swallowed whole by the nothingness above.

‘Brynneth. I must get to Brynneth,’ she thought and bolted forward, but the ground no longer felt steady beneath her feet. The mist played tricks on her vision, twisting shadows into threats, branches into reaching fingers. Her breath came hard and fast, her chest tightening.

Another sound - faint, metallic. The ringing of steel, then the wet, sickening slice of flesh, followed by a snarl that twisted into a scream, like a wolf choking on its own fury. It reverberated through the mist, scattering in every direction, impossible to place.

Halbrand. Her stomach lurched.

Then a shadow lunged at her. Huge and swift, the mist shredded in its wake, revealing the monstrous silhouette hurtling toward her - muscles coiled, claws outstretched, jaws gaping wide, ready to tear into her throat.

Galadriel sprang sideways, rolling into a crouch as the creature’s claws raked the ground where she had stood. She loosed an arrow mid-roll, the shot hissing through the air towards its face. The creature twisted unnaturally, avoiding the strike, but the arrow still grazed its shoulder, dark black blood welling from the wound.

It shrieked. A bone-rattling sound, half-snarl, half-scream, like stone splitting under immense pressure. Galadriel didn’t wait. She turned and bolted for the trees, knowing her best chance was to take the high ground. The wolf recovered fast, its heavy limbs pounding against the earth as it charged, its breath hot and ragged behind her.

She leapt for the nearest tree, gripping a low-hanging branch and hauling herself up with a fluidic ease. She was nimble, moving like a creature of the forest, scaling the trunk light and swift, propelling herself higher.

The demon followed, slashing at the trunk with its claws, trying to shake her loose.

She reached a thick, sturdy branch and pivoted sharply, drawing another arrow. The wolf was right beneath her, climbing after her. She steadied her breathing and fired. The arrow struck true, embedding deep into the creature’s thigh. It howled, its grip faltering for an instant, but it dug its claws in deeper, refusing to fall.

Snarling, it lunged upward, jaws snapping for her foot - Galadriel swung onto a higher branch just in time, its teeth gnashing together where her boot had been moments before.

She knew the trees would not keep her safe forever. Slipping her bow onto her back, she drew her sword, the steel singing as it left the sheath. She planted her feet, locking the creature’s glowing red eyes with her own.

Galadriel waited, balanced on the branch, sword at the ready. She needed to draw it into a final attack.

With a snarl, the wolf lunged again, launching itself at her with brutal force, claws outstretched. Galadriel leapt to meet it, twisting mid-air, her blade arcing downward in a flash of steel.

Realising its peril, the wolf attempted to withdraw, but it was already committed, and Galadriel was too fast. As its claws reached for her, Galadriel’s sword plunged deep into its chest, slicing through sinew and bone.

The creature let out a broken, agonized growl.

For a breathless second, they fell together, tumbling from the tree in a tangle of limbs. Galadriel twisted mid-air, kicking off its body, using the force to separate herself just before impact.

The werewolf crashed into the earth below, its body twisting upon impact as it let out a final, shuddering breath.

Galadriel landed on her back a few feet away, her breath stolen from the blow. She waited, breath coming in sharp gasps, until she had recovered enough to haul herself to her feet.

The beast lay motionless next to her. Gripping her blade tight, she stepped forward and nudged it with her boot, just to be sure. Dead.

She exhaled, and her thoughts immediately returned to her friends lost to her somewhere in the murk. The fight with the wolf had turned her about and she was unsure which way to go.

An anguished cry ripped through the dank, heavy atmosphere. It came from her left. Sprinting now, she followed the call, desperate to find the source. She knew the werewolves would be converging on it also. She had to get there first.

A sudden obstacle emerging from the gloom, caused her to pull up sharply. It was Lorgìr. He was on his knees, his back to her, deathly still.

“Lorgìr?” She whispered.

A violent convulsion rippled through Lorgìr’s body, and a stream of sobs came pouring out as he bent towards the floor.

Galadriel rounded him slowly, another figure lying dark on the ground came into view. It was Shyâl. His body broken and twisted as if dropped from a great height. Galadriel’s heart fell, and the blood drained from her face.

Lorgìr clutched at his body and began to wail.

"Galadriel rushed to his side, grasping his shoulders, forcing him to straighten up and meet her gaze. She covered his mouth. 'Lorgìr, no! Shh!'

But the low, ominous pulsing was already closing in. Galadriel sprang to her feet and spun around. Which way? Where is it coming from? It was hard to distinguish the deep, thunderous pounding of the creature’s approach from the throbbing of her own heartbeat. She closed her eyes, taking a long, steady breath. The pounding grew louder, closer. Another breath - slow, drawn out. Calm. She slipped an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to the string of her bow, and drew it back, listening. With deft precision, she adjusted her stance, aligning her aim with the direction of the relentless drumbeat. A final breath, then her eyes snapped open. She released the arrow.

It disappeared into the grey, a streak of deadly precision, unwavering as it cut through the air. A thud ended its flight abruptly, followed by a screech and the bone-shaking sound of something heavy crashing to the earth.

Almost immediately, the fog began to lift and dissipate as quickly as it came, and the forest was clearly visible again.

Galadriel could see now, not thirty yards ahead, the crumpled mess of the beast she had slain. Its ruinous fall clearly marked by the many broken branches and churned earth it left in its wake.

“Galwen!” A voice called from her left.

Brynneth was running toward her, and relief surged through Galadriel at the sight of her - safe, unharmed. Brynneth’s own face reflected the same relief, but as her gaze fell on Shyâl, she stopped short with a sharp gasp, clutching her chest. She hurried to where Lorgìr was still crouched over the body and wrapped her arms around him.

Galadriel walked solemnly over to them and placed a compassionate hand on Lorgìr’s shoulder. As she looked around trying to get her bearings, she could see now four of the other hunters approaching from different directions, converging on the sound of death and sorrow. Halbrand was not among them.

Halbrand… Her chest clenched, breath catching. A sickening dread curled in her gut. “Where’s Halbrand?” Her voice rang sharp and urgent as she turned frantically to the nearest hunters. “Did anyone see him?”

Her question was met with silence, dreadful, and suffocating. Grimly, they shook their heads, their faces solemn. She whirled around, eyes darting wildly between the trees, searching for some glimpse of him.

“Stay here,” she ordered, forcing steel into her voice even as her chest constricted. “Take care of Lorgìr. Prepare Shyâl to be moved. Cut whatever branches you need to make a stretcher.” But her own mind was already racing ahead - she had no intention of staying.

“Where are you going?” Brynneth called after her.

“To find Halbrand.”

She didn’t wait for protests. One moment she was standing among them, the next, she was gone, feet pounding against the earth. The only thing that mattered was finding him.
She leaped over the uneven ground as if she was a skipping stone on a millpond, her feet eating up the distance with a desperate haste, only stopping briefly here and there to inspect possible signs of Halbrand’s whereabouts upon the ground. She called out to him but there was no answer. Onwards she went. The trees were blurring past her, streaks of green and shadow, but she barely saw them. Her pulse hammered in her ears, loud, drowning out the sound of her own breath. The mist had thinned, but every shifting shadow, every fallen branch looked like a slumped figure.

He should have answered by now. He should have called back. But there was nothing.

She quickened - branches tore at her arms, thorns scraping deep - but she barely felt it. Every step, she expected to see him. Every second that passed without him in sight tightened the vice on her lungs. Every heartbeat stretched unbearably long, the space between each one filled with the awful thought: What if she was too late? Then - there. A flash of white between the trees. Halbrand’s shirt. And next to it a tangled mess of werewolf limbs reaching into the sky like a knot of gnarled upturned branches.

She halted abruptly, heart hammering. Halbrand lay motionless in the dirt, his face slack. Blood slicked his fingers where they clutched his side, pooling dark beneath him.
She stumbled forward, breath shattering into pieces. Her knees hit the ground hard, but she barely felt it. Her hands hovered over him, she didn’t dare to touch, afraid to find only cold skin.

“No-” The word barely made it past her lips. “Halbrand.” He did not respond. Her heart was in her mouth.

“Halbrand!” She shouted, and shook him, trying to provoke a sign of life. There was a feint flicker of his eyelids and parting of his lips, his breath desperately shallow. Her breath stuttered out in a broken, shaking sigh. Her forehead dropped to his, eyes burning. He was alive.

Then quickly she moved his hand away from his stomach. Her face fell at the sight. A large gash, a handspan in length had been ripped across his side, deep and jagged. She forced herself to focus, hands working fast. The wound gaped, dark and deep, pulsing blood. Too much blood. She pressed down hard. Halbrand barely reacted.

“No,” she whispered, pressing harder, as if sheer will could keep him here. “Stay with me.”

Her hands were slick with blood as she tore at his cloak, ripping it into strips, wrapping, binding, pulling tight. She looked ardently at him, full of worry and despair.
Back the way she had come, there came voices calling after her.

“Over here!” She cried, “Come quickly! Halbrand’s hurt!”

Brynneth and two of the other hunters came swiftly to her side. Their faces grave at the amount of blood surrounding him.

“The others are taking Shyâl back down the slope. What do you need?” Said Brynneth, ever practical and to the point. Galadriel could not be more grateful for it in that moment.

“We need another stretcher, quickly!”

The four of them worked with frantic precision, axing and strapping together two long parallel branches, with four smaller laid across them. They lashed them together with trembling fingers, every wasted second an unbearable weight. Halbrand barely stirred as they lifted him, carefully fastening him Halbrand to the stretcher. Too slow. They were moving too slow. With as much speed as they could manage, they began the descent.

Chapter Text

Galadriel slammed through the front door, breath ragged. The others followed, staggering under Halbrand’s weight.

“On the bed - now!” she ordered, barely registering the strain in her own voice.

They heaved him onto the bunk. She lunged forward, cutting away his shirt, hands moving as fast as they could. The wound was worse than she feared. The gash stretched deep across his torso, raw and brutal. Blood seeped sluggishly from its edges. The others paled at the sight, silent, unmoving.

Too much blood. Too deep.

Galadriel swallowed hard. She couldn't save him - not like this. She was losing him. She needed the others gone. Now.

“Yarrow! I need yarrow leaf!” Galadriel exclaimed, fretfully. “Fetch some, quickly! You’ll find it on the edge of the wood – the meadow near the river. Go!” She looked at Brynneth imploringly.

"You two - come! Quickly!" Commanded Brynneth, already bundling the others out the door.

As soon as they were gone, Galadriel slammed the door shut and drove the bolt home with a sharp clang. She spun toward the hearth, snatched a flint, and sparked the fire to life, hands shaking. The kettle clattered as she filled it, sloshing water over the sides before setting it over the flames.

She sprinted to her bedroom. Yanked open a drawer. Snatched the leather pouch, nearly dropping it - then grabbed the spice pot. Back in the infirmary, she flung the cupboard open so hard it rebounded off the wall. Her fingers scrabbled across jars and bottles - where is it? - until they closed on the yarrow. Found it. She ripped off a fistful of leaves and hurled them into the kettle. Then a pinch of the spice - reddish-brown with flecks of gold. The instant it hit the boiling water, a sharp, sweet scent burst into the air, earthy and heady like sun-scorched roots.

She turned and rushed to Halbrand’s side. The wound had worsened, fast. Black veins were already snaking out from the gash, creeping tendrils of corruption left by the fell wolves. His skin was burning hot. Too hot. The poison was spreading, faster than she had feared.

They were running out of time.

Her pulse raced. Every second counted. No time for hesitation - she had to move.

Taking the warm yarrow and spice infusion, she bathed the wound. Clearing it of all surface filth, flushing out the open flesh. As she did so the dark veining that had formed around it faltered. No longer spreading. But not yet retreating.

From the leather pouch, she drew a thin bone needle, its surface etched with tiny symbols that pulsed faintly in the firelight. Her hands moved fast - threading the linen line through the needle’s eye in one smooth motion. But she did not start stitching. Not yet.

She held her hand over the wound, fingers splayed. Taking a long, slow breath, she began to chant softly.

The words came low, not mere sounds but vibrations that seemed to resonate within the very walls of the room like the striking of a distant drum. The air thickened with each syllable, as if the room itself were listening.

She was not aware of it, but for a moment Halbrand’s eyes fluttered open slightly upon hearing the words. To Halbrand, the words were music. Ancient, and strong - woven together like a song half-remembered in a dream.

Her words floated through the room - soft, spectral. Like the half-caught whispers of spirits in the woods. Silver fibres aglow with a ghostly light seemed to rise delicately from the wound like dew-laden lines of spider silk, cast upward to catch the breeze. Each strand caught the light, shimmering with a hue that was both beautiful and unsettling, as if they were woven from the very essence of moonlight. She began to sew, and as she did so, the silver fibres entwined themselves around the linen thread and wove themselves through the skin while she knitted the torn flesh back together.

With each stitch, Galadriel could feel the weight of her own fears pressing against her chest. She could sense the delicate balance between life and death slipping through her fingers, like sand in an hourglass.

Slowly, the remaining lines of corruption around the wound began to retreat, and upon finishing, they were gone.

Galadriel cut the thread, and as she did so, the silver strands faded into the skin surrounding the newly sewn injury. Just in time.

BANG. The door rattled, hard.

"Gal! Open up!" Cried Brynneth from the other side.

Galadriel rushed to open it and saw Brynneth had brought back a good stash of yarrow leaves, explaining that she had sent the other two hunters to inform Bailid, Eldith, and Skrúgar what had happened.

Galadriel nodded and took the yarrow gratefully.

“How is he?” Asked Brynneth, about to let herself in.

Galadriel stood in her path. “I’ve managed to close the wound.” She said, hastily, and perhaps a little too guardedly. Brynneth had sharp wits.

“Gal, what’s going on?” She said, trying to see round her friend.

“Nothing.” Said Galadriel, feigning a smile and moving to meet her roaming eyes. "The bleeding's stopped. The poison slowed. He needs rest, Brynneth. I promise, you'll be the first to know if anything changes." A half-lie. Guilt twisted in her gut, but she had no choice. She looked searchingly at Brynneth, hoping she would not be subject to more probing.

Satisfied for the moment, though sure something else was going on, Brynneth relented. “Alright, but if you need anything let me know.”

"I will," Galadriel promised, taking the yarrow. "Thank you."

She stepped back inside. Waited a beat - then shut the door. The bolt slid into place. Only then did she exhale.

She went back to tending Halbrand, now making a salve from the rest of the yarrow, comfrey, and bees wax. She applied this tenderly to his wound and bound it with fresh linen. She gently placed the palm of her hand on his forehead and sighed, a flood of relief washing over her as she realised he was no longer burning up. She collapsed into the chair. Her body ached, but the relief of stillness was sweet. Eyes closed, she allowed herself one moment of peace.

***

Galadriel awoke in the dim room, realizing she had accidentally fallen asleep. For how long, she could not guess, but the sunlight had faded, and the room was now dark. She lit the lamps and checked again on Halbrand. He was still unconscious, but did not seem distressed or in pain. In fact, if she had not known better, Galadriel might have mistaken him for sleeping soundly, his mind wandering within a peaceful dream. Her eyes lingered on him, her heart heavy with sorrow and guilt over his injury. Her feelings for him, unbidden and doomed, tugged at her. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what might have been.

Upon looking at him, however, she suddenly realised that his was filthy, covered in the blood and muck of the fight and a good deal of dried sweat from battling the poison. She warmed some water and decanted it into a bowl, and being as gentle as she could, she began to bathe him.

She traced the cloth across his fair, striking face, his features accentuated by the dim light. If it was possible, Galadriel thought he looked more handsome than he had ever been, grimy and injured though he was.
As she traced his forehead with the cloth, her hands lingered, almost as if she could not tear herself away. His peaceful expression, made her heart flutter with sorrow - a sorrow tinged with something deeper, something she dared not acknowledge.

Galadriel’s eyes followed the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and then reluctantly dropped to his chest. She could not help but notice the way the shadows clung to his form, accentuating his lean muscles and the way his body breathed with a quiet power, even as he lay unconscious. A faint blush coloured her cheeks as she slowly glided the cloth over the contours of his body, able to feel every ripple of muscle as she did so. She should not be looking at him like this. But as her gaze lingered, a strange warmth curled within her chest, something both tantalising and dangerous.

Her hand worked ever downwards, wiping the grime from his stomach, then his navel. Until suddenly she stopped. She stayed her hand, and her gaze lingered on where his hips met the band of his trousers, unsure of whether it would be right to continue.

“How much of me have you done?”

Startled, she drew her hands away and snapped her eyes up to the head of the bed where Halbrand was showcasing his signature wicked smile with great delight.

She sucked in her cheeks and narrowed her eyes, “No decorum even on your deathbed I see.” She retorted, not quite managing to wrestle the curling smile from her lips.

“Seems pointless,” he grinned, knowing he had caught her looking. “Am I dying?” His smile widening despite the weakness in his voice.

“You were.” Galadriel answered, keeping her focus on his chest, refusing to feed his teasing.

“And the werewolf?” He asked.

“Dead. I killed two more.” Galadriel’s tone was flat.

Halbrand raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He glanced at his bandages, then back to her. He placed his hand upon hers, hoping this would draw her attention. It did. Their eyes met, and she let the cloth slip from her grasp, allowing him to gently envelop her hand in his. He brought it to his lips and laid a light but lingering kiss on the back of her fingers.

“Thank you…” He said, caressing her hand. “For saving me.”

Galadriel’s chest rose and fell unevenly as she tried to control the swell of emotion rising within her. His lips so soft and tender against her skin, and with every stroke of his fingers against hers she could feel her pulse quickening, her blood racing.

“You’re welcome.” Her voice barely a whisper.

A smile crept into the corner of Halbrand’s mouth before fading again. “You’re an elf, aren’t you?”

Galadriel’s heart froze, her eyes widened, her breath faltering.

“The way you healed me… it was elven medicine, was it not?”

An overriding fear gripped her. She pulled her hand away on instinct, but Halbrand quickly reached out and caught it. His fingers tightened just slightly, tenderly, neither pulling nor letting go. She watched his fingers intently as he reached slowly with his free hand towards her cheek. A sudden coldness gripped Galadriel’s chest as she felt his fingers hover near her skin, panic rising within her. Her pulse quickened as she tried to quell the fear that threatened to break through her calm exterior. What if he recoiled from her? What if this moment shattered everything between them? But then, his touch - gentle, almost reverent - brushed her skin, and she could not help but close her eyes in surrender. The warmth of his hand against her cheek anchored her, and something inside her softened. His gentle touch, silently urging her to trust him. Then catching the hair beside her temple, he gently hooked it around her ear revealing a pointed tip.

Galadriel held her breath.

“Well, that explains a lot.” Said Halbrand, softly.

Galadriel pried open her eyes and stared at him, her face still shadowed with fear. His eyes searched hers, earnestly offering gentle reassurance. His palm came to rest against her cheek and she closed her eyes again. She leant into it, finding without thinking, she had come to cradle it with her own.

“You’ve been hiding this, all this time?” Halbrand asked, sorrowful and compassionate.

Opening her eyes, Galadriel finally found the strength to mutter a response. “All the time… for over a decade… men do not take kindly to elves.”

“Not all,” he replied, meeting her eyes.

A solitary tear slipped down her cheek. She had not expected this – had not prepared for it. No one had ever come close to discovering the truth before. She had spent years building walls of silence, of careful lies, always watching, always fearing. If anyone ever knew what she truly was, there would be no mercy. They would not question, would not hesitate. To them, she would be a deceiver, a viper hidden in their midst - something to be cast out, or cut down.

But Halbrand did not recoil. His gentle hand still rested affectionately against her cheek, warm and comforting. He sought now only to further reassure her. “You have nothing to fear from me. I would never hurt you.” His voice soft but firm, his hand still holding hers upon his chest. For the first time in years, Galadriel felt herself exhale, a shaky breath that carried more than relief - it was the weight of a burden she had carried alone for so long. Could it be real? Could he truly accept me?

The years of loneliness, and the quiet desperation that had lived in her heart. For the first time in so long, she was being seen for who she really was. The emotions bubbling to the surface made her chest ache in this fragile, unexpected moment.

But it was too much.

She exhaled shakily and pulled the hand away she had rested against his chest; Halbrand letting it go this time. She let fall his other hand from her cheek and turned away from him, stepping towards the back window. She had never allowed anyone close enough to see her weaknesses, to see the cracks in her armour. Yet Halbrand… He had seen her, all of her, and instead of turning away, he had drawn her in. She was vulnerable, exposed, and the overwhelming urge to flee gripped her. But before she could move, Halbrand caught her trailing hand again, almost as if he was reading her thoughts, that he was afraid she would disappear if he let her go. Above all else, he needed to tether her to this moment, to him, to remind her that he was still here, still listening, still refusing to turn away.

She stared out blankly into the black of night, consulting the darkness, and for a moment the lamplight dancing against the walls was the only thing in the room that moved.

“Who are you?” Halbrand asked.

Galadriel sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping as she manoeuvred the chair beside his bed and sat. She paused, straightening her back, and with it, a shift seemed to stir in the air around her. A dignity, a quiet reverence, emerged, as though the weight of her heritage fell into place once more.

“I am Galadriel, daughter of the golden house of Finarfin, granddaughter of Finwë, High King of the Noldor. I have walked the lands of Aman and crossed the Grinding Ice into Middle-earth. Once… the Commander of the northern armies of High King Gil-Galad... Now exiled” Then as quickly as it came, the force within her faded, and she was simply Gal again.

All was quiet as Halbrand grasped her words.

"Galadriel…” Halbrand said, almost to himself, as if trying to recall a distant memory.

She enjoyed the way her name sounded on his lips.

"I like Galadriel," he continued. “At least it’s better than Galwen."

A feint smile crept into the corner of her mouth.

Halbrand blew out his cheeks… “But, if I’d known I was in the company of royalty I might have found some decorum.”

Galadriel exhaled and for a brief moment, a smile brightening her face.

“It certainly explains how you were able to take out two werewolves by yourself, and so easily dispatch the tribute collector from Éoroskeld… But I am puzzled. Why would you live among those who would wish you harm? If they knew the truth they would shun you, or worse.”

Galadriel let out a quiet, humourless laugh. "Where else would I go? Could I go?"

"Are the elves not your people?"

She breathed in sharply, an edge of bitter amusement curling at the corners of her lips. "The elves have abandoned me. I defied the High King. For centuries my task has been to hunt Sauron, to make final his disappearance from the world. Gil-Galad bade me sail for the West, to lay down my sword, to let go of my hunt. He feared that in my bloodlust for Sauron, I would unearth and bring forth the very darkness I sought to destroy. But I could not let it lie. Not while the whispers still stirred, not while the shadows in the North lengthened."

Her gaze darkened. "So, I disobeyed. I followed the rumours, not the tides. Only men live this far north, but they would never trust an elf, so I became one of them. Alone, without allies, I had to earn their trust to track the enemy, to find him. But my task is not yet done. When it is, I will finally avenge my brother and perhaps restore my place among my kin… To belong nowhere is a heavy thing." Her words were sharp, but it was the hollow ache behind them that lingered longer.

“It means a lot to you? Finding Sauron… Killing him?” Said Halbrand, his tone pensive.

“It is everything to me.” Galadriel whispered, her eyes glazing. “It is all that I have become. For too long. I do not know how to be anything else.”

Halbrand frowned. "You’ve hid like this for ten years?"

“Eleven years," Galadriel corrected softly, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Listening, waiting... hidden."

"That’s why you’re leaving…" he said quietly. "Because, sooner or later, people will start to notice that you haven’t aged."

She met his eyes then, the weight of centuries pressing between them. "Yes… but now also the enemy moves. The dark forces are heading south and I must know why.”

A heavy silence settled between them. The past lingered there, unspoken but undeniable.

“Enemy aside. Perhaps… where you belong is less to do with where you are, but who you surround yourself with.” Halbrand’s words hung in the air, seeming to settle on Galadriel’s thoughts like spring dew glistening in the pale morning sunshine. She had never considered this before, perhaps because there was no one she had met among men that would show her the kindness and acceptance required for such a thing. Yet here was a man who did not shrink from her touch, or sneer at her heritage. Would it be too perilous to hope?

“What happened to your brother?” Halbrand asked.

Galadriel looked passed him, as if recalling a distant memory, blurred and fraying at the edges. “He died in the dungeons of Sauron.” Her voice was quiet, but beneath it ran a current of something deep and cold. “Captured while hunting the enemy, betrayed and brought before the Dark One himself. Sauron set his beasts upon him, and though he fought, he was torn apart.” A breath shuddered through her. “He died so that others might escape.”

Halbrand’s eyes dropped and widened, a shadow of something unrecognisable flashed across them. His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry…” He said, squeezing her hand tightly. His eyes shimmered, glassy with sympathetic tears. But something else hung heavy within them - a weight of sorrow, old and unspoken. It was as if the weight of her grief was his own. “For your brother, your exile… for all of it.”

She squeezed his hand in return and managed a grim smile. “It was a long time ago, and I have lived many lived since then.”

“Still, you ought not to feel so alone. Nor place such heavy burdens upon yourself.” He murmured, resuming the delicate stroking of her hand and wrist.

She looked at him with a painful longing. Never in her most precious imaginings had she thought anyone might care for her so. And though she wanted desperately to tell him she felt the same, she could not so easily let go of the protective iron walls she had erected around herself. She had lived with them for so long, she did not know how to take them down again so readily. At the very least, she was unable to do so in this moment. The evening had been heavy with emotion and confessions, and she was already wracked and overwhelmed. The thought that he could care for her... knowing all she had become, knowing her heritage, and that he would keep her secret... was almost too much. She was overwhelmed by it all.

“Halbrand…” she whispered, faltering.

His eyes and touch unwavering.

“You need to rest.” She vacated her seat, her hand slipping from his.

His eyes fell as he clenched his jaw. But he did not push.

She fetched him a blanket and bid him goodnight. Retreating to her room, Galadriel hesitated at the door, casting one final look at him before closing it softly behind her.

***

On Wednesday, the village held a burial for Shyâl, honouring him with the glory befitting one who had fallen protecting his people. His body had been cleaned and robed in the few fine fabrics that could be found in the village, and as his body lay upon the funeral pyre down by the shores of the Lhûrinduin, a long line of people came to pay their respects. Atop the pyre, they laid gifts of varying nature beside him, some bestowing valuable trinkets, others sentimental tokens whose value was in the memories they kept, but all lovingly gave. A rich assortment of keepsakes to take with him on his long journey after death.

Galadriel had attended for a short while, although Halbrand was still unable to leave his bed at the time, and she was uneasy about leaving him for too long. Upon the pyre, she left a small wooden pendant by his side, shaped like a leaf caught in motion. It was plain, but elegant - carved with care and patience, the grain polished smooth by careful craft. It bore no name, no symbol of power, only the quiet imprint of remembrance.

Galadriel could not shake the feeling of responsibility for Shyâl’s death, despite Lorgìr’s reassurances that he had joined the hunt willingly and knew the risks. She bent over his body, kissed his brow, and shed a quiet, mournful tear before sombrely heading home to tend to Halbrand.

For the next week, Galadriel focused on Halbrand’s recovery, tending to his wound and dressing it daily. Though his injury was severe, he began to regain strength, and by the sixth day, he could walk short distances without assistance. She had fetched him some spare clothes from his cottage, but despite the clean garments, both of them had made similar jibing or self-deprecating comments about his need for a proper bath.

On a warm, pleasant spring morning, with Halbrand recovering well enough to manage on his own for a short while, Galadriel stepped into her garden, sat on a bench with a book, and basked in the sunlight. It was such a fine day in fact, that she had dug out a light white dress. It was shoulder-less, with the upper and arms being made of fine sheer lace down to her waist, where it met a delicately soft chiffon skirt that flowed gracefully behind her as she walked. In the golden rays, she shone with a dazzling radiance, her golden hair a waterfall of rippling sunlight as it tumbled down her back.

She had not been reading long when, to her surprise, Halbrand had appeared in the doorway wearing only his tight-fitting moleskin trousers, his shirt casually hung over his shoulder, and holding a bar of soap and sponge. He stepped, somewhat tentatively holding his side, into the garden and made his way across the lawn and down to the brook, where he proceeded to undress himself.

Galadriel quickly turned her back to him, an awkward yet not entirely unhappy smile crept across her face. “What are you doing?” She called to him from over her shoulder.

“I think we can both agree that I’ve smelled better, so I’m taking a bath.” He replied, ever the air of innocence in his voice.

Galadriel protested, “There’s a perfectly good tub inside.”

“And miss out on this beautiful weather?” The subtle splash of him entering the water drifting over the breeze.

She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Must you have a bath this second?” Feigning annoyance at her peace and quiet being interrupted.

“No better time for it!” He exclaimed as he scrubbed himself, “The sun is warm, I’ll be able to dry off in no time.”

Galadriel took a long deep breath, and rose from her seat, making her way back inside to give him his privacy.

“Best you stay.” He called out from across the garden. “The current is decent, and I’m not at my peak. If I get swept away you’ll need you to jump in and save me… A dutiful healer wouldn’t take the chance of leaving me alone.”

She stopped, and rolled her eyes, knowing without having to turn around the kind of grin he was sporting. Conscious that he was, in fact, right that she should stay and keep an eye on him, she turned on her heels, her tongue pressed into her cheek as she sighed through her nose. As she returned to her seat, she could not help but steal a glance at him - mercifully his lower half was now submerged in the stream. She sat back down, doing her best to ignore him. Her lips twitched into a smile despite herself, her eyes never leaving her book. She pretended to be absorbed, but the tension between them hummed just beneath the surface. She was well aware Halbrand’s entire intention was to distract her.

“Ack!” Halbrand grimaced and gave out a pained cry.

Galadriel’s eyes flicked up from her book. “What’s wrong?” She asked.

“I can’t reach round to my back without pulling on my stitches. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to help? As part of your wider caring duties, of course.” His mocking smile seemed permanently fixed as he awaited her response.

She pursed her lips and looked up to the sky in disbelief, before getting up and facetiously striding over to the edge of the water. “I’m not getting my dress wet, come over to the tree.” She gestured over to it with a playful indignation, and he obliged.

With bare feet, she deftly sprang onto the wide, low-hanging branch that bent itself over the brook. The snowmelt in the high peaks had swelled the stream so that the bough was almost submerged – only the top few inches still sat proud above the surface. She gathered her skirt and sat herself upon it, with one leg cocked, the other trailing in the water. Halbrand waded over to her and she kept her eyes on the far bank as he did so. With a languidly amused curl of his lips he turned and walked backwards for the last few paces, as if somehow, he needed to protect his modesty.

Galadriel could do nothing but press her lips together and shake her head.

He handed her the sponge from over his shoulder and she went about wiping away the dirt and grime of the last week from his back. She scrubbed with deliberate firmness, a small act of mock retaliation. As the dirt cleared, her fingers brushed over the faint scar on his back, its smoothness betraying its old age. She hesitated, then gently traced the collection of three thin lines. ‘What are these?’"

“What are what?” He asked.

“These scars near your shoulder blades.” She replied, tenderly running her fingers over his glistening skin.

Halbrand straightened up a little at her touch.

“I’m not sure… What does it look like?” He asked

“Like someone stabbed you in the back three times.” She said, raising an eyebrow.

“Perhaps they did.” He smirked, nonchalantly.

“You really mean to say you don’t know?” Her tone was sceptical.

Halbrand turned around so he could look at her and Galadriel was not sure where to look. But he leant in and rested his hands either side of her on the bough. Though she was sat above him, he was tall enough for their eyes to be almost level. He drew her gaze, the water lapping at his hips, her trailing leg perilously close to him. “Why so eager to know?” He asked.

“You know all my secrets. I’m not allowed to know any of yours?”

A flicker of pain passed over his face, quickly hidden beneath a practiced smirk. “The past is the past,’” he murmured. “Let it lie."

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed as she traced the emotions flickering in his eyes, evocative and sorrowful. A strange feeling gripped her, a sense she was getting too close to something buried deep in a former life he would rather forget. She understood it all too well, and it was clear he was not ready to tell her.

She flashed him a wide grin, the playfulness in her voice covering the unease that still lingered in her chest. “Well, at least your smell has improved.” She laughed as she threw the sponge into the water between them, splashing Halbrand, making him step back with a startled laugh. “Though I can’t say the same for your bedsheets. I think I’ll have to burn them.” She added with a teasing grin.

He raised an eyebrow, a mock scowl twisting his features. "Do you treat all your patients so heartlessly?"

"Only the ones who annoy me incessantly." Her voice was light, but her body was taut, leaning closer as her arms braced against the branch.

His eyes never left her face as he took a step closer, studying the dare in her eyes, the space between them narrowing.

"Annoy you? Well, we can’t have that. I’ll have to strive to be a better patient." His hand gently grazed her cheek, the lightest of touches that sent a jolt through her. Beneath the water, their legs brushed - silent, intimate. Their eyes locked.

Her heart thundered in her chest, every beat louder than the last. "But you're already my worst," she whispered, teasing but the truth was undeniable.

Halbrand's hand moved to the nape of her neck, his fingers gentle, yet insistent. "How so?"

Her gaze flickered from his hand to his eyes, the intensity of the moment pulling her under. “I have a feeling you're going to make me forget all my principles.”

A slow smirk curled the corner of his mouth. "Well, there’s an easy solution to that." His thumb brushed her jawline, and his voice lowered, thick with promise. "Have no principles. Then you won’t regret breaking them."

The shift in him was immediate, the playful teasing gone as his hand firmed at the back of her neck. His touch was possessive now, deliberate.

Her breath caught, the air between them heavy, charged. She glanced at his lips, and then back to his eyes, losing herself in their rich, green depths. "You're infuriating."

He moved then, a step closer, his gaze raking over her with a hunger that matched her own. "You like it." The words were a low murmur, a whisper shared only between them.

Her chest tightened. The teasing spark in her blood flared. Against her better judgment, her lips parted, the longing she had kept buried for so long surging to the surface. Without thinking, she leaned in, and under the blossom of the ibrethil tree, their lips met. His mouth was warm, his kiss patient, a slow exploration that made her ache for more.

The world fell away - there was nothing but the warm breeze, the soft trickling of water, and the slow, steady pulse of their shared heat.

She lost herself in the sheer gentleness of it - the way his lips moved with hers, the teasing hesitance before he deepened the kiss. Slow, deliberate, as if savouring each second. His thumb trailed across her skin, a delicate caress that set her nerves alight. She pressed closer, a tentative hand sliding up his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

He exhaled sharply against her mouth, his grip on her tightening, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he lingered in the moment, tilting his head slightly as if savouring every second. It was the way he kissed her - unhurried, almost worshipful - that sent heat curling low in her stomach.

A shiver ran down her spine. Was it the cool drips of water trailing from his hands - or the way his thumb traced the edge of her jaw? She was not sure. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers slid down her neck, adoringly tracing her collarbone. She shuddered at the touch, her pulse quickening as his fingers trailed lower finding the curve of her breast, his palm grazing over her nipple, lingering there, massaging with a deliberate, slow pressure. She exhaled heavily, yearning for his touch, wanting more.

Spurred on by the increasing vigour of her lips on his, he moved his other hand down from her waist to her thigh, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into her flesh.

She couldn’t stop herself - the need was too great. She parted her thighs, pulling him closer, their bodies aligning, heat pressing through damp fabric. Her breath held as cool water soaked through her dress, tightening every nerve in response.

Their hands roamed with urgent curiosity, mapping each other’s form. Lips parted, tongues teasing, slipping together - an intoxicating taste of one another.

She had wanted this, craved it even, and it did not disappoint. Her body hummed as she pressed herself against his firm torso, her thighs locking around his waist.

He pushed himself with renewed rigour against her, and she let out a quiet moan, a throbbing desire rising within her like a crescendo of crashing waves.

Their bodies moved in a frantic rhythm, all urgency and need, like they were trying to consume each other - to burn through everything unspoken in a single, desperate touch. Her nails dug into his back. He groaned against her skin. The heat between them coiled tighter and tighter-

Then suddenly, both paused. The tension snapped. Breaths ragged, chests heaving. Water rippling softly around them.

Alike two souls that had been diving in the depths of a swelling ocean, they came up for air, and the world stilled.

Halbrand remained between her legs, their bodies locked, their foreheads resting together. His fingers twitched against her waist. Neither moved. Neither wanted to.

The silence stretched - until Halbrand finally whispered, “I like this dress.”

Galadriel chuckled softly, her chest still rising and falling with exertion. “I hadn’t wanted to get it wet…”

He grinned, his eyes gleaming with amusement. His fingers stroked her cheek, so tender it was almost cruel. "Pity," he murmured, and with that, their lips met again - this time, slow, unhurried, a tender reassurance, neither of them willing to part.

But as they were about to further entwine, a voice called out, harsh and distant, cutting through the moment like a knife, jolting the two of them out of their embrace. "Gal! Galwen!"

The distressed voice was coming from round the side of the house.

“Gal please! Please, come quick! Galwen!” The voice was strained, full of panic and desperation. It was Graysa, Corwin’s mother, rushing now at full speed towards the garden gate, throwing it open with such force that it ricocheted against the dry-stone wall with a loud clang.

Galadriel sprung to her feet, running along the bough and onto her lawn to meet her, water dripping from her legs. Halbrand stepped back into the brook behind the tree, hiding himself from view.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Galadriel asked, full of concern.

“It’s Ced – he’s fallen. Please, come quick, he’s badly hurt!” Graysa was frantic, her eyes red with tears.

“Where’s Brynneth?” Asked Galadriel.

“With him. Please you must come now!” Graysa was already turning back the way she had come, and Galadriel quickly followed. But at the gate she halted, and looked back towards Halbrand. She hesitated, torn by the urge to stay by his side, but Halbrand stepped back into view. His eyes met hers, a silent plea in his gaze, followed by a small, reassuring nod. Galadriel took a deep breath, knowing what she had to do.

The two ran with as much haste as they could, the stones and uneven ground biting hard at Galadriel’s bare feet. Bursting through Brynneth’s door, they found her there, stooping and sobbing over Ced who lay on his side, motionless on the kitchen table. A dark, sticky pool of blood had gathered beneath his head, dripping steadily onto the floor below.

“What happened?” Asked Galadriel, her voice thin, catching in her throat.

Cori was sat in the corner with his head in his hands, his palms pressed hard against his eyes. “We were climbing one of the big Daur trees.” He said quietly into his chest, not able to lift his head. “I told him he’d climbed to high… that the branches wouldn’t hold him… he wouldn’t listen. He fell. He fell so far… He-” His words trailed, choked by tearful cries.

“Please, you must do something.” Brynneth managed to force speech out from under her tears.

Galadriel went to Brynneth’s side and sat by Cedric’s head. He was still breathing, shallow, ragged breaths. A vile burbling coming up from within. She inspected his head closely, using careful hands to feel the back of his skull where the blood was still issuing out in slow dibbles. Her stomach turned as she felt his skull give way slightly under her fingers, an area the size of her palm softer than it should be. Blood spewing over her hands.

She gave Brynneth a grave look, then turned her attention to his back where Brynneth had lifted his shirt. It was already blotched and blackening, spreading far across his back.

A terrible realisation griped deep in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes tight, swallowing hard, her jaw clenched. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. “Brynn…” She whispered, but she was unable to go on.

“Please, Gal, he’s still breathing.” Pleading with her, gripping her hands tightly. “Save him, please, please.”

“I can’t, Brynn…” Her voice almost breaking. “He’s bleeding inside, and his head… There’s nothing I can do.”

“No! Please! He’s still alive, there must be something!” Brynneth was distraught, not wanting to face the truth.

Graysa, her face streaked with tears, crossed the room quickly. Corwin looked up at her, his eyes wide with disbelief, a distant, empty look behind them. His hands trembled slightly as they clutched at his knees.

The room held its breath.

Galadriel broke the silence, her words shattering all hope. “Anything I do will only prolong his suffering. He’s gone, Brynneth. He’s gone.”

Brynneth fell forward into her arms, her sobbing redoubled, her body convulsing with grief. “No… No!” She wailed, gripping tightly around Galadriel. The blood on Brynneth’s hands staining her white dress.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” Whispered Galadriel, a great emptiness consuming her as Brynneth’s cries filled the room, ricocheting off every surface. The bone-chilling sound of terrifying despair.

For a long while they held each other like this, until Brynneth’s sobs died down to a whimper, having no more to give. The only sound in the room was the slow uneven gurgle of Cedric’s breathing. Galadriel could not be sure how long they sat there, time seemed meaningless and hollow. All they could do was listen and wait. Finally, Cedric’s breaths caught, and fell silent. He was gone.

Brynneth threw herself over his body, clutching desperately at his clothing, finding new strength to fuel her tears. Inconsolable, she buried her head in his side.

All were devoured by the hopeless void of loss.

***

Many hours had passed since Galadriel had left with Graysa, and Halbrand was left wondering what had happened. There was nothing he could do but wait in the house.

It was dusk when Galadriel finally returned. She staggered listlessly round to the back garden, her feet heavy burdens. The gate was still wide open. She took a few mindless steps onto her lawn and stopped. Still as a standing stone, her arms lifeless at her sides, her eyes gazing into nothingness.

This is how Halbrand found her. Her back to him, her dress smeared with red, and dried blood covering her hands.

“Galadriel?” He said.

She did not answer.

“Galadriel, what’s happened?” He asked as he walked over. He stood in front of her, her eyes unseeing, staring at the ground. He took her face in his hands and tenderly guided it upwards, looking for a reaction in the shadow of her pupils, trying to reach her. He asked again, “What’s wrong? Galadriel.” His voice laden with concern.

Her gaze drifted passed him, unfocused, as though her mind was somewhere far away, lost in the shock of what had just unfolded. The weight of it felt too heavy to carry, too sharp to bear.

He tried again, his voice pleading. “Galadriel.” He brought his face closer to hers, attempting to coax a reaction.

“Cedric’s dead.” She said, her voice hollow and breathy, devoid of emotion.

Halbrand was stunned into silence for a moment. But he swiftly came to his senses. Sensing Galadriel was in no state to explain further, he gently led her inside and sat her down.

Her movements were slow and laboured, but mostly, she was still.

Halbrand prepared a wash basin and bending down beside her, began tenderly cleaning her hands. Galadriel barely moved, showing little sign that she recognised what was happening. He finished washing her hands and patted them dry. He tried again to get her attention.

“Galadriel, tell me what’s happened.” He said softly, cupping her cheek with his warm hand. “I’m here. Tell me what you need.”

Slowly, her eyes circled, lids opening and closing in one leaden blink. Finally, they came to rest on him. His eyes were looking up at her, imploring and anxious.

Suddenly Galadriel’s expression changed. Her expressionless eyes darkening with pain and sorrow. She quickly stood and backed away, causing her chair to topple over. Silent tears began to fall down her face as she looked at him, despairing and terrified.

Halbrand’s confusion deepened as he searched her eyes, wide with an unspeakable grief and something else he could not discern. “Galadriel… it’s alright,” he urged. But the more he spoke, the further she seemed to retreat into herself, into the shadows of her own soul-crushing realisation.

She looked at him as though her heart had been shattered. Desolate and despondent. Her gaze fell to the floor, eyes darting back and forth as if searching for answers between the cracks of the floorboards. When none came, she slowly crossed the floor towards her bedroom, and without a word, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. She did not come out for the rest of the night.

Halbrand, confounded, could do nothing.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Halbrand tapped lightly on Galadriel’s door. He had not seen or heard from her since the evening before and wanted to check on her. There was no answer, so he knocked again. “Galadriel…” He risked opening the door.

He had not opened it more than a few inches before the door was snatched away from him, revealing Galadriel on the other side, who quickly exited, squeezing between Halbrand and the doorframe. Eyes to the ground, she closed the door behind her. Without acknowledging him, she quietly made her way over to the infirmary bed, looking to busy herself with changing the sheets, but when she got there she noticed there was already fresh linen on the bed. At some point since yesterday, Halbrand must have changed them.

“Galadriel.” Halbrand now stood a few feet away, concerned and perplexed. “I understand Cedric’s death must be hard for you.” His voice was low, full of sympathy. “But I can’t help feeling that maybe I’ve also angered you in some way.”

There was a pause before Galadriel answered. “You haven’t.” She whispered, her fingers fidgeting with the sheets.

“Then what is it?” He asked.

Galadriel made no answer, but her eyebrows knitted together, and a torturous expression shadowed her face. She would not look at him.

“I know there has been a lot of loss.” Halbrand spoke softly as he slowly closed the distance between them. “First Shyâl, now Ced. Ced being so young… I can’t imagine what Brynneth must be going through. And you… you are so close to Brynneth, you’ve known Ced since he was small.” Brushing her hair aside, he placed a gentle hand on the nape of her neck. “But I am here, if you need me.” He added, softly caressing her skin with his thumb.

Galadriel shed a bittersweet tear at the feel of his touch. It was comforting and sweet, which only hurt all the more. Reluctantly, she turned to face him, summoning as much courage as she could to say what was weighing on her mind.

“Yes, there has been loss. Too much of it. Shyâl, Ced… you almost…” She spoke like someone waking from a vision, the lines between memory and moment still blurred. “Humans are so fragile… Their bodies so brittle, their lives too short.” She met his eyes, those beautiful, deep oceanic eyes. Resist. She told herself. “Your life - too short.”

Halbrand’s brow furrowed, “What do you mean?”

Her lip quivered, eyes brimming. Her voice trembled, as if unsure if she had the strength. “If I let myself… I could see a life where you might give me everything I’ve longed for - not just since I was cast out, but long before. Even among my own, I was always different. Too driven. Too certain. Too willing to chase the shadow no one else dared name. I told myself I didn’t need what they withheld - friendship, acceptance, love. I buried that hunger deep. It was easier to be alone when I believed nothing else mattered.”

She looked at him then, eyes full of a fierce, aching longing such as might break his heart.

“But now… now I see what I could have. A place to belong. A soul who sees me - all of me - and does not turn away.”

Her voice cracked.

“And all of it… could vanish in a handful of mortal years.”

The last words tore loose a cry from within, vulnerable and raw.

Halbrand cupped her face with both hands and held her gaze. “Galadriel, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“For now…” She said, despairingly, still unable to will her voice above a whisper. “But one day you’ll be gone - a blink in my long life. And I fear that when you go, some part of me will break with you. I don’t think I could bear it.”

He started to speak, then caught himself. His jaw tightened, his eyes far away - fighting with something inside him he could not let surface.

Galadriel stilled her cries and stared at him, wondering what was racing through his mind, and if it would change anything if she knew. Whatever it was came and went, and his face became less conflicted, though still grim and sorrowful. Deciding to say nothing, he instead leant in, and lightly placed his lips on hers.

She knew she should not have let him. That this would only make things harder, more painful in the end. But his gaze had drawn her in. His lips were soft. Warm. Each kiss deepened, coaxing her to part her lips, to let his tongue meet hers. She inhaled sharply - his touch was the very air she needed to live by. He was alluring, intoxicating, entrancing - but mortal. Doomed to endure injury, ill-health, and the slow decay of weary years that result in an invariably undignified end.

A warning screamed in the back of her mind. Stop. Stop this before— She pulled away suddenly, retreating across the room. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. “I can’t. I can’t be with you. It’s too hard. When the time comes, I will not be strong enough to endure losing you.”

Halbrand looked at her, devastation strewn across his face, then suddenly a blaze of fury flared within his eyes. “So that’s it?” His voice incensed. “You would give up on this because you are afraid of something years away? The years in between would mean so little to you, would they?”

“They would mean everything to me.” She uttered, offence keen in her features. Galadriel had never seen him angry, nor heard him raise his voice in this way. She was not scared of him or what he might do. But it hurt to have him angry with her, and for him to think such things. It frightened her how much she hated that. She willed her voice to grow stronger. “But I am not about to open myself up to that knowing it can only end in heartbreak and despair. I have suffered too much of it already. I do not wish for more.”

“But loss is a part of life!” Halbrand protested. “Even immortals like yourself can still be slain. You may die by the sword tomorrow, in a year, in ten years and I would have to find a way to suffer it. Or perhaps we simply find in time that we drift apart, incapable of making each other happy, barely knowing one another anymore, rowing and fighting until one of us leaves without saying goodbye. We cannot know – and that’s the point! I am willing to chance all of that if it means being with you, here, now.”

Silence throbbed within the room, the air heavy, an expectant hum lay between them.

“I’m not.” Galadriel answered, barely able to choke back her tears.

Halbrand’s gaze dropped, his eyes darting this way and that trying to find a new angle, something else he could use to persuade her. He could not lose her. He would not lose her.

“What about Brynneth?” He asked, a trace of desperation in his voice, his body tense with an imploring energy. “Does Brynneth regret loving her husband? Her son? Despite everything, do you think she wishes they were never part of her life?”

Galadriel’s stare became icy cold, her breath unsettlingly calm and her voice low. “If you had seen Brynneth when her son drew his last ragged breath, you would not speak of this.”

Halbrand faltered. The pressing need throughout his body dissipated. He knew he had crossed a line and felt instantly ashamed. The way Galadriel was looking at him now was more than he could stand. “I’m sorry.” He said, swallowing hard.

“I think you should leave.” She said, sternly.

Halbrand blinked, startled. “What?”

“I need you to leave. You don’t need constant care anymore, there’s no reason for you to stay.” Galadriel’s expression was without sympathy, her tone now callous.

“Galadriel…” He pleaded, taking a step towards her.

She stepped back in response.

Halbrand went still. Then something within him shifted like a blade lowering, understanding that the battle was already lost. His jaw tightened, his fingers curled slightly at his sides, but he did not resist, and did not plead. Instead, he straightened, drawing himself up even as the weight of her words settled deep in his chest. His gaze lingered on her, steady, unwavering. After a long breath, he inclined his head in reluctant acceptance. Then, with deliberate, measured steps, he turned away, and left.

The rattle of the door closing behind him rang sharply in Galadriel’s ears. She gasped, no longer able to hold back her sorrow as she stumbled back. She crumpled against the wall, arms wrapping around her knees. She let out a shuddering breath. Then another. And then, she broke - sobbing into the empty silence he had left behind.

***

Two days passed. Galadriel kept herself occupied, either hunting in the forest or helping Brynneth through the difficult nights. The hunt was a welcome escape, keeping her far from the village and, more importantly, away from Halbrand. She did not want to face him - not yet. So, she moved through the trees, her mind lost in the rhythm of the hunt, trying to outrun the thoughts that gnawed at her.

When she was not hunting, Galadriel stayed with Brynneth through the long hours of grief. Together, they prepared Cedric’s body for the funeral, the task weighing heavy as the ceremony drew near. Galadriel knew Brynneth would need her in the coming days, and she was resolved not to leave her side.

That afternoon, after delivering her latest kill to the tavern, Galadriel returned to find a curious package on the kitchen table. Wrapped in white linen, a single violet rested on top, freshly plucked from the woodland. Her heart skipped a beat. It was not hard to guess who had left it. She wondered what it could be as she tentatively picked up the violet and smelled its delicate, sweet scent. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

She turned her attention to the parcel, and gently opened the folds of the linen. To her surprise, she found inside her own white lace and chiffon dress, seemingly cleaned of all staining. Astonished, she held it up, twisting it left and right to inspect it more thoroughly. There was no blood to be found, not a single sign of discolouration. Impossible, she thought, it was ruined. It was too delicate to have been vigorously scrubbed without damaging the fabric, and even so, the red was highly unlikely to come out.

Is it even the same dress?

Galadriel tested this thought by undressing and quickly slipping it on. It certainly fit the same, and felt the same. If it were different there was no way of telling. She went to the mirror in her bedroom to better scrutinize the spotless work. As she stood there admiring it and grateful to have it back, the shutters suddenly whipped open, caught violently by a rapid gust of wind. She went over to the window. As she leaned out to catch the shutters she noticed the sky was darkening, and the boughs of the ibrethil tree were bending in the rising wind. Closing the shutters, and clasping them tight, she then stepped outside the back door to study the change in the weather. The clouds were gathering fast and foreboding. The temperature dropped swiftly out of the sun. She shivered, and was about to step back inside when a voice came from beyond the gate.

“You’re happy the stains came out then, I see.” It was Halbrand, of course, leaning on his forearms against the gate.

Galadriel blushed, jaw clenching, unsure if she was happy to see him. Too uneasy to look him in the eye, she replied in a clipped fashion. “Yes… though I can’t say how you managed it.”

“I have my ways,” said Halbrand, a wry smile on his face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, awkwardly.

“Well…” He said, straightening up. “I’d say my stitches are ready to come out.”

A wave of realisation spread across Galadriel’s face.

Halbrand sniggered. “I won’t blame you if you forgot. May I come in?”

She nodded and tilted her head toward the back door, suggesting he come inside. She smiled grimly at him as he passed her. Her eyes darted across the brook toward the forest as it bent and groaned in the turbulent air before following him in.

Halbrand sat himself on the bed of the infirmary and waited while Galadriel found the tool she needed. The wind outside had picked up, rattling the shutters in uneven bursts.

“Lie down,” she said, quietly.

He swung his legs up on the bed and carefully lowered himself down on his hands, his side still tender.

There was a pause while she waited for him to lift up his shirt, her jaw twitching and eyes roaming restlessly as she realised he was waiting for her to do it for him.

“Lift up your shirt,” she asked, settling her eyes on the wall behind the bed.

Halbrand, however, was watching her intently as he reached for the bottom of his shirt, shifting his waist so he could pull it up past his wound.

Galadriel wasted no time, immediately examining the state of it. He was right, the skin had knitted together nicely, and the stitches were ready to come out. She worked quickly, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring his gaze on her.

One of the stitches snagged on his skin and he inhaled sharply.

“Sorry,” she murmured, eyes flickering up to his face for only a moment before carrying on.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Finally, Halbrand broke it. “I take it you’ll be leaving soon.” His voice was quiet.

Her hands faltered for a second before carrying on. “After Ced’s burial.”

“Brynneth will be devastated.”

“Brynneth is already devastated,” she snapped, then exhaled, trying to temper her irritation. “I can’t change that.”

No more was said.

The last stitch was removed, and Galadriel applied a salve to help with the scarring. When she was done, Halbrand carefully sat himself up.

Her head was bowed as she wiped her hands, but she remained before him. Close. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, he reached for her face, fingers grazing her jaw. She knew she should have moved away. But she could not.

“I could come with you,” he whispered.

She exhaled, tilting her head, a quiet plea in her eyes. “You know I can’t let you.”

“Yes, you can. You just say, Halbrand, I’d like you to come with me.” He smiled, but there was something sad in it.

Galadriel gave a small, bittersweet smile of her own before she slowly withdrew his hand from her face, as though reluctant to break the contact.

The shutters rattled again, the wind pressing against them with restless energy.

His jaw tightened, but his eyes held their usual warmth, despite the melancholy that eclipsed them.

Galadriel swallowed hard, looking away as she wrapped her arms around herself. The shutters on the infirmary rattled again, a loose one slamming against the frame with each gust. She took a step back, the space between them feeling wider than it was. Then, slowly, she moved to the door, her fingers curling around the handle.

“No, I can’t.” She said, shaking her head, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled the door open, letting the cold air spill inside. The wind carried the distant howl of the coming storm as she stepped aside, silently asking him to leave.

Halbrand exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. “No,” he echoed, his tone carrying both defiance and despair. He jumped off the bed and stepped towards her, meeting her at the doorway. “I’m not just going to give up on this. And I won’t let you either.”

Galadriel’s fingers tightened around the doorframe, her jaw clenching as she looked at him. “Why? Why do you care so much? Why can’t you let this one possible seedling of a romance go?”

Halbrand’s expression softened, though his voice was still edged with urgency. “You agreed with me when we first met that love is rare. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like this very often, and I’m not about to throw it away.”

Her eyes flickered with a tumultuous mix of anger, sorrow, longing. “Love? We’ve known each other a few weeks – this isn’t love, it’s infatuation.” Her anger rose, mirroring the tempest around her, a slow burn that flared into something fierce and unrelenting. "How could you possibly know that what we have is worth fighting for? That it’s even real?" She turned abruptly away from him, stepping into the garden where the storm gathered strength. The wind howled through the trees, their branches bowing under its force, and debris swirled around her feet as she walked further into the tempest.

Halbrand was right behind her. “How could you be this selfish?” he called, his voice cutting through the storm.

Galadriel spun around, her hair whipping around her face, eyes flashing. “Selfish?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, selfish!” he insisted, his chest rising and falling with emotion. He was tense, hands clenched into fists at his sides, as though physically restraining himself from reaching for her again.

She scoffed. “Why? Because I would deny you the chance to be together? I do not owe you love.”

“No,” he said fiercely, stepping closer, “because you deny both of us. Your fear of being alone, of having nowhere to belong after I’m gone, hurts you as much as me. The walls you’ve built to keep yourself safe are the same ones that prevent you from letting anyone in, from allowing yourself to feel anything real.” His voice softened, his expression open and raw. “I know you're scared. I know losing someone hurts. But if you keep pushing everyone away, you will end up alone - not because you had to, but because you chose to. You’re so afraid of what might be that you won’t embrace what is.”

Galadriel breathed heavily, chest tight, heart pounding against her ribs. Her eyes shimmered, but she refused to let the tears fall. “But it is not a case of what might be… you are mortal, Halbrand! You will die.” Her voice wavered, breaking over the words. She inhaled sharply and squared her shoulders. “And you have no right to tell me what I should feel, or how I should live.”

The wind roared around them, thrashing her skirt like a banner - echoing her turmoil.

Halbrand studied her for a long moment. Defiance burned in her gaze - but behind it, a flicker of vulnerability. A raw hesitation that belied her words, as if part of her wanted to believe him… but could not let herself. When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. He reached out, his hands settling gently on her shoulders, grounding her despite the storm that raged around them.

His voice softened, almost pleading. “No, I don’t. And you can do what you will.” His thumbs brushed the soft skin on her bare shoulders. “But I am trying to fight for us. Will you not do the same?”

Galadriel squeezed her eyes shut, she flinched, as if fending off his words, the weight of them pressing too heavily on her chest. “Halbrand … you’re making this too hard. It’s too much…”

He exhaled, long and slow, before his fingers lifted, gently ghosting over her jaw once more. He tilted her chin up slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze. “That’s how I know it’s real,” he murmured.

And for a moment, despite the storm, the world seemed to still around them.

She shook her head, barely, as if the gesture cost her more than words ever could.

A sudden thud shook her free of his gaze and she wheeled round towards the ibrethil tree where the noise had originated. In the turmoil of the gale, a raven had lost control mid-air and fallen against the great trunk. It was now floating, deathly still, on the surface of the brook. The winds threatening to overwhelm it with the turbulent rise and fall of the swelling ripples.

Without a second thought, she sprinted to the bank and waded in without hesitation. The shock of the cold struck her like a blade as the water surged up to her waist, stealing her breath.

“Galadriel!” Halbrand called after her, distressed by her rashness.

She did not answer. Focussed solely on saving the raven, she battled against current and gale, the water whipping off the surface, spraying up like stinging needles. Blinding and bitter. The ibrethil groaned and creaked above her as she steadily pressed on. Small twigs were breaking in the gusts and scattering in the wind. One caught her face in the squall.

Finally, she reached the fallen bird, its fragile body caught in the frothing current. With a swift, careful motion, she shielded it from the biting wind and picked it out the water as gently as she could. She held it close to her chest for a moment, her breath shallow, watching for any sign of life. She quickly examined its wings, running her fingertips over the soft feathers, feeling for breaks or fractures. Its wings appeared intact, but it was unnervingly still, its small chest rising and falling too slowly. Panic flared in her chest, but she fought to keep herself steady.

She pressed the tips of her fingers against its breastbone, rubbing it gently but with enough pressure to send warmth through its fragile body. Her heart pounded frantically, hoping that this little creature, like so much of what she had lost, would not slip away.

"Don't die... please, don't die," she whispered desperately, her voice breaking against the wind, willing life into the bird.

Suddenly, as if stunned from a dream, the bird jerked and twisted. It escaped her hands, flinging itself into the air. It veered erratically through the garden and vanished beyond the lane. Galadriel almost choked on her relief, as she watched it disappear into the distance, forgetting for a moment the tempestuous cold swirling about her.

“Galadriel, come out!” Halbrand had arrived at the bank with hand outstretched, having to shout over the gusts of wind that laboured to carry his words downstream. Shuddering, she nodded and began to make her way back to the bank, struggling to keep her balance against the wilding weather.

She had only gone two steps when a loud crack split the air, a great yawning moan followed as a large branch broke away from the main trunk of the ibrethil tree. Galadriel flinched and looked up. The great bough was already falling. She had time only to raise her arms before it crashed down on her, driving her beneath the churning water.

“Galadriel!” Halbrand shouted, as he lunged into the torrent, barely feeling the water’s bite. He forced the water to part for him, heedless to the eddying winds as he drove through the current. Nothing else existed but her.

She lay face down, pinned beneath the fallen bough, limbs trapped in a mesh of splintered branches, surrounding her like an impenetrable cage. Terrifyingly still. From the surface, she was unreachable. He inhaled sharply and dove beneath the mass of snarled limbs, his hands groping through shadows. The water was murky - panic flared as he fumbled blindly, thinking he had lost her. The tangle of branches played on his bearings, pushing him close to the riverbed. ‘Where was she?’ His chest began to tighten as he searched for her in the dark. Battling the current. Skin scraping on bark.

Then, mercifully, his fingers brushed her forearm. He gripped her tight, dragging her free of the bough’s black, clawing limbs. Together, they broke the surface near the bank. He gathered her up and held her face. She was not breathing. Hurriedly he sprang from the water and carried her onto the lawn.

His heart pounding. Panic throbbing in his temples.

He lay her down, bracing her back against his knee. He shook her. “Come on, wake up.”

She remained motionless.

“No, come on!” His palm hovered above her, as though uncertain whether touch would help or harm. Fraught, and not caring for the exact method but desperate to coax life back into her, Halbrand closed his fist and struck her chest.

Still nothing happened.

He struck again, once, twice, three times.

Silence.

Halbrand hesitated, his breath suspended. His eyes darting rapidly as if battling some inner turmoil before making a seemingly resolute decision. Then, calmly, deliberately, he placed his hand flat on her chest and closed his eyes. His lips parted slightly, and from his mouth he muttered something, unintelligible, barely audible. A prayer, perhaps. Abruptly, his eyes opened and he struck her chest, hard, one final time. Her body convulsed violently as she spat out several gulps of water, eyes flaring as she gasped for air. She groped wildly for an anchor point.

But Halbrand had her – his grip strong, willing her to stay with him. One hand behind her neck, the other about her rib cage. Firm and grounding, he cradled her as her chest rose and fell fitfully. Then slowly her breathing began steady as her eyes met his, peaceful and strong like neighbouring bays along the shore of a tranquil ocean. Filled with deep relief that she was alright.

Her gaze searched his - uncertain, unsteady. Her fingertips grazed his lips. Lingering for a moment, tentative, trembling. Then, to Halbrand’s surprise, she kissed him, gripping his neck as if she barely had the strength to hold her herself up, but determined to kiss him nonetheless. Halbrand took her weight, and held her close, deepening the kiss just a little, but not too much, conscious not to overwhelm her.

As their lips parted, Galadriel released a shuddering breath.

Halbrand frowned and felt her cheek. “You’re freezing.” Her whole body was trembling in his arms.

The wind howled around them as the first drops of rain began to fall.

He lifted her up, his own wound a distant memory, and carrying her inside, he lay her gently down upon her bed. He folded the covers over her while he looked for some dry clothes.

“The blue knit shift…” Galadriel directed him, her voice shuddering.

He pulled it out and lay it next to her. He bent down and cupped her cheek, she was icy to the touch. “You got your dress wet again.” He said, smiling, hiding the worry.

She managed a quiet chuckle, “At least it’s not bloodstained this time.”

“We need to get you out of those wet clothes.” He urged.

She nodded, rising slowly off the bed.

“Need any help?” Halbrand’s trademark smirk surfaced for a moment before vanishing again behind sincere concern.

Despite the shattering cold and the violent shakes, she was able to roll her eyes at him. “I can manage. You’re wet too… there are still some of your clothes in the infirmary.”

“Alright. I’ll light a fire.” He kissed her forehead, reassuring, comforting, then let her get changed. He threw off his wet clothes and found dry ones to replace them. Then hurrying, he piled kindling into the hearth and feverishly sparked the flint. Flames burst into being and rose up. While the rest of the kindling was catching he flung as many cushions and blankets he could find onto the floor in front of the fire, before laying some more substantial logs onto the flames.

Galadriel emerged, doubled over. She continued to tremble violently, her limbs refusing to settle. Her hair still sodden though she had managed to change into dry clothes. He rushed to her side and gathered her up in a blanket. He then guided her to the soft mound of pillows, and sat her down between his legs so that he could wrap his warmth around her.

She huddled into a tight ball and leant into his chest, her face finding comfort against his warm neck. How he had managed to escape the cold himself, she was not sure, but she did not care. He was warm, his strong arms were about her, and for a moment his calming scent lulled her into a peace she never wanted to escape from.

Yet the doubt remained, tugging at her even in the warmth of his arms and a shadow darkened her face. Quietly, sombrely, she spoke. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Halbrand eyebrows flickered, but he said nothing. He simply held her tight and rested his cheek on her head as she fell asleep in his arms.

Chapter Text

Halbrand awoke to find himself alone amongst the tumble of cushions and blankets. The fire had burned low to a few smouldering embers and darkness had settled on the house. The storm had abated and all was still.

The last thing Halbrand remembered was watching Galadriel as she slept, placing her gently down onto the cushions and slipping under the blankets to lay beside her. He held her while the shivers slowly lessened, watching intently as her chest rose and fell unevenly until her breathing steadied itself into a peaceful lull. Only when he was sure she had warmed up, and no more harm could come to her, did he settle in close. He rested his forehead lightly against her temple, his nose against the soft skin of her cheek. Lost in her scent, he allowed himself to sleep.

His mind raced as he looked warily about the gloom of the sitting room. “Galadriel?” Where was she? A sinking dread clenched his gut. Had she left? She promised to stay until Ced’s burial… but what if she hadn’t? He sprang to his feet, throwing off the blankets and with a quiet desperation, he searched the house. The kitchen and infirmary were empty, with no signs that anything had been disturbed or taken, so he tried Galadriel’s bedroom. He turned the handle and the door swung back ominously by itself, creaking as it did so, the frame a gaping maw through which darkness lay.

Something was not right. Halbrand could feel it as he stepped cautiously into the room, his eyes adjusting to the blackness. All inside seemed untouched, everything in its place. But instead of feeling like a space that was lived in, the shadowy outlines of the furniture and trinkets stood like cold relics, their edges kissed by the moonlight, though its glow was strangely muted through the window. A shrine to an old life now forsaken, left undisturbed but for the slow decay of time.

Halbrand’s foot brushed against something on the floor. He bent down, fingers closing around soft wool. The knitted shift Galadriel had been wearing. He stared at it, unmoving. The fabric was still warm from her body, faintly scented with her. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening as the truth sank in.

She was gone.

For a long while he did not move. Heartbroken, he knelt there, drowning in the ache of her absence. Finally, he rose, letting the dress fall listlessly from his fingers as he staggered back across the room.

A faint catching noise made him stop and straighten up. The latch on the backdoor. Galadriel. He ran out of the bedroom and towards the door, but on arrival there was no sign of her. Or anyone for that matter. His shoulders sank as he stood alone, the dim emptiness of the house pressing in about him, filling his soul.

Another noise. A shuffle outside. The hairs on Halbrand’s neck bristled. He knew - it was not Galadriel. A keen, tingling dread crawled up his spine. Slowly, silently, he approached the door, reaching for the latch.

He was yanked back without warning. A hand grabbed him by his trailing arm and was now smothering his mouth, while a forearm lay across his chest, pinning him hard against the wall. A hooded figure peered at him through the gloom. The arm across his chest relented and a solitary finger strayed towards the obscured face of Halbrand’s assailant, hovering over where their mouth would be. The other hand still held firm against his own.

A soft hiss emerged from shapeless shadow beneath the hood: “Shhhh.”

In one smooth action, the hand that lingered before the face silently threw back the hood. The other hand finally releasing Halbrand’s lips.

“Galadriel…” He whispered, almost inaudibly. A flood of relief coursed through him as he lightly grazed the back of his fingers across her cheek.

She smiled at him briefly before her face hardened again, tilting her head towards the back window.

Understanding something was wrong, Halbrand carefully went over to the window and peered out into the night. A thick fog had settled, but through the mist, and under the fractured moonlight, gangling shadows moved, and muted torches flickered through the trees. Halbrand turned sharply back to Galadriel, who had already retrieved his sword and held it out for him. He now noticed that her own was slung across her back. He took the sword and slipped on his boots, and together through the front door they stole into the night.

Galadriel had not been idle. Stirred by strange noises and a gnawing sense of something was amiss, she had gone to investigate, leaving Halbrand to sleep for the time being. Realising quickly the danger the village was in, she had no time to return for him - she needed to act fast. She roused those nearby from their sleep and directed them to make their way to the tavern, quickly and in silence. As they moved, they called on others to follow, warning them to stay hidden, light no torches, and tread lightly. The enemy was close - too close - but they had not yet crossed the village boundaries. Only once she knew the residents were well on their way did she turn back to collect Halbrand.

Keeping low, the two of them skirted the empty houses, moving swiftly along the lane. They paused behind hedgerows before pressing on. They hurried toward the tavern. Inside, the entire village huddled together, packed onto tables and chairs, pressed into every available space. Not a single lamp was lit. No one dared to speak.

Galadriel scanned the faces in the room, frightened, grim, eyes wide - alert at the danger. All looking at her now, expecting her to tell them what to do. Expecting her to save them.

Without a word, Galadriel nodded to Belegar. He sat beside a large cloth-wrapped bundle. At her signal, he clicked his fingers at a few villagers seated nearby. They rose without question, clearing the table. Gently, Belegar laid the bundle down and began to unwrap it in silence. Steel glinted as he revealed a cache of freshly forged swords and axes.

Lorgìr stepped forward, adding a bundle of hunting bows and a quiver full of arrows. Under Galadriel’s quiet direction, they had prepared for this moment over the past weeks. Now, their labour lay grave on the table. The sobering reality that they would need to be used fell heavy on the onlookers.

Galadriel scanned the room. No one moved. The silence stretched thin. Then Brynneth stood. She stepped to the table, eyes lingering on the weapons, and selected a twin-headed axe. She tested its weight, then gripped it firmly. Her gaze met Galadriel’s, and she nodded once. Galadriel nodded back.

Others rose then - those strong, able, or with no children to protect. One by one, they armed themselves. Even Dregan Harthac joined them, to Galadriel’s quiet surprise.

A hush fell again. Final glances were passed between loved ones. Some tender, some resigned, all grave.

When all who could fight were ready, Galadriel signalled the archers. They slipped out quietly, scaling ladders Bailid had already set in place. The rest filed into the night, blades drawn, mist curling around them like a shroud.

Galadriel motioned for half to circle to the back of the tavern. Halbrand went to go them - someone had to lead.

Galadriel grabbed his arm, worry burning in her eyes. The memory of the last time they were separated in a fight flashing keenly in her mind.

He gently lifted her hand from his arm, his fingers curling around hers, protective and lingering. Her hand felt so small, so heartbreakingly delicate within his own. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing softly beneath her eye as he offered that quiet, familiar smile, the one that always seemed to find her when the world grew too dark.

His gaze held hers, steady and tender. He did not need words. The look in his eyes said it all… I’ll come back to you.

Her pale blue eyes shimmered, pleading without sound. Don’t go.

But he had to.

He lingered for a breath longer, then let her go. Her hand slipped from his, fingertips reluctantly dragging apart.

And then he turned, vanishing into the mist.

She stood rooted, her chest tight and aching, watching the place where he had disappeared, as if willing the fog to give him back.

Swallowing hard, she turned, facing outwards into the darkness, blinking back tears and drawing her sword.

The night held its breath. The mist curled around the village, thick as wool, smothering every sound. All had had fallen silent, and for a moment, the world stood still.

Then came the howls.

Galadriel barely had time to register the first scream before another followed, sharper and closer. A shadow burst from the mist, crashing into a man and bearing him to the ground. His cry was cut short by a wet, gurgling sound. Another figure was dragged backwards into the fog, heels skidding through the dirt, leaving deep furrows before disappearing entirely.

Snarls split the air. Chaos erupted.

“Move!” Galadriel’s voice cut through the panic, and the villagers leapt into action.

Figures surged from the mist, long-limbed and sinewy, their clawed fingers latching onto their prey with inhuman speed. Arrows loosed from the rooftop as archers found their marks, black blood spraying the ground in thick rivulets, but it was not enough. A second wave of orcs followed after the wolves. The onslaught came too fast. There were too many.

Galadriel stirred into action. Darting forward, intercepting one of the creatures before it could overpower a struggling villager. Her sword sang through the air, biting deep into the werewolves’ ribs. It let out a strangled, high-pitched wail before collapsing into the dirt. An orc lunged at her from behind. She twisted, bringing her blade up just in time, driving it home, a flash of steel igniting the air.

The villagers fought fiercely, untrained but determined, their strikes clumsy yet driven by desperation to defend their homes.

A fresh wave of foes broke through the line and were climbing the tavern walls. Galadriel’s gaze snapped upward. Dark shapes scrambled over the roof, claws slicing through the archers, before diving down - straight toward the back of the tavern. Toward Halbrand.

Her heart pounded.

She surged forward, cutting through the chaos, weaving between clashes of steel and flailing limbs. A villager stumbled into her path, a wolf lunging at their back. Galadriel did not hesitate - she swung hard, her blade cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders. “Go!” she urged the villager, pressing onward.

Screams rang through the dark. She heard the cries of the wounded, felt the hot spray of blood across her cheek. But she could not stop. With every step, she struck where she could, shielding those who faltered, guiding others toward safety. All the while, one thought burned through the noise and fear - she had to reach Halbrand.

She reached the other side of the tavern, chest heaving, just as the renewed force descended. The enemy swarmed the small group defending the back entrance.

And there, in the thick of it, was Halbrand.

She froze, hidden just for a moment by the swirling mist.

He moved differently from the others - his steps too precise, his strikes too clean. A normal man would struggle, falter, hesitate.

Halbrand did none of these things. His blade moved with terrifying efficiency, cutting through them like they were nothing.

Galadriel had never truly seen him fight before. During the hunt, she had lost sight of him completely. By the time she found him, he had already fallen injured.

She knew he had survived the attack on Ost-Heryn and assumed he had fought well enough to survive… but now, watching him move, there was no mistaking it.

This… this was something else.

A wolf lunged for him. Halbrand turned, sidestepping effortlessly, his blade slicing through its throat with an ease that sent a chill down her spine. His expression was clinical, his movements fluid, instinctual. Too practiced. Too controlled.

She barely had time to process it before an orc landed beside her, its blade raised. She reacted on instinct, ducking low and driving her sword up into its gut. It let out a piercing shriek before going limp.

Then Halbrand was there, beside her, as if he had known where she would be. As if he had always known. The moment their swords met the enemy in tandem, something ancient and unspoken surged between them. Their movements were effortless, their steps aligned, as though some unseen force had woven them together long before this night. They were not just fighting - they were creating something, a rhythm, a connection deeper than words. Their blades sang in harmony, each strike complementing the other, their instincts bound together by something beyond mere training. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing - only the pulse of battle, the thrum of something greater than themselves pulling them into perfect unity.

Time stretched. The battle became a dance, a storm of flashing steel and guttural cries. Galadriel felt it in her bones, in the fire that ignited each time their swords struck in harmony. She had never felt so attuned to another, never moved so freely in the chaos of combat. And in those moments, she knew - so did he. A silent acknowledgment, carried in their movements, in the way they instinctively covered one another’s blind spots, in the way their breathing seemed to synchronize. A bond that went deeper than the roots of the mountains, stronger than the crashing seas.

Finally, the last of the enemy fell, an orc, its body hitting the mud with a sickening thud. Silence settled, broken only by the ragged breaths of the surviving villagers.

A breath of peace after the storm.

For a moment, Galadriel and Halbrand stood together, side by side, bloodied and victorious.

He turned to her, his eyes were ignited, intensely searching hers. His chest rising and falling sharply, exhilarated.

Her blood hummed under her skin, pulsing in rhythm with his. She opened her mouth, a question on her lips. But before she could speak, a cry rose from the front of the tavern, but it was not one of victory. "We need healers - now! Quickly!"

Galadriel swallowed, shoving her thoughts aside. The fight may have ended, but the real battle had only just begun. The wounded needed tending. There would be time for questions later. Right now, there were lives to save.

The injured were rushed into the tavern, every table, bench, and available surface made into makeshift infirmary beds. The crowd of survivors parting and shifting as more were brought in. Their faces hung with shock and disgust, their skin paling at the bloody sight of it.

Galadriel and Halbrand were assisting Lorgìr and Brynneth with two villagers, one was Skrúgar who had acquired a nasty head wound, and the other a woman with deep claw marks down her back. They struggled to find room for them, and more were being brought in. Those that were less badly wounded would have to make do sitting or standing wherever there was space and wait their turn. They had no choice but to leave the dead where they lay for now.

As she helped lift one of the wounded onto the table, a strand of her hair came loose about her ear.

She froze.

Panicked, she reached up, swiftly tucking it back in place.

No one noticed. But her heart pounded faster.

Shaking off the thought, Galadriel went to work immediately, rushing to the side of a man who bore a large hole in his side. Blood spilled ceaselessly from the gauged flesh. She pressed down firmly on the wound, attempting to compress it, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Bailid!” She called, commanding authority. “I need linen, or cloth, anything, and plenty of it! We need to stop the worst of the bleeding. Hurry!”

“There won’t be enough.” Bailid replied. His voice thin as if far away, staring unblinkingly at the blood seeping between Galadriel’s fingers.

“Tear the clothes from your own back if you have to! Now move!” She shouted.

Bailid hurried away, returning swiftly with as much cloth as he could find, bedsheets, table cloths, aprons, anything at all. He distributed them to those that were fit to help who set about tearing it to make compresses and tourniquets. Lorgìr was attempting to assist the woman with the open back, while Brynneth tended to Belegar who had suffered a deep neck would. The bundle of cloth Brynneth had pressed against his neck was already soaked in blood. She shot Galadriel a sober look. He was not going to make it.

Galadriel’s eyebrows furrowed, and sorrow spread across her face, but she could do nothing. She looked down at the man she was helping. His body had gone limp and his eyes were empty hollows within a lifeless face. She moved on to the next.

The tavern was consumed with the groans of the wounded. Cries and wails echoed about the walls from loved ones despairing at the sight of such carnage. But still the clattering of the tavern door came loud and harsh as another body was brought in. It was Dregan Harthac, carried by two of the younger lads that worked in the bakery. His leg was bitten almost in two.

Halbrand caught Bailid’s arm as he passed with yet more cloth he had found. “Bailid, the survivors that can walk, get them out of here. Move the children, now.” His voice was low and quiet, full of urgency.

“Is it safe? Are the demons gone?” Asked Bailid, his voice quivering.

“They do not need to see this. Get them out.” Replied Halbrand, his tone ominous, his expression cold and foreboding.

Bailid nodded, his eyes wide as he scanned the horrors about him. He began to shepherd the survivors toward the door. “Alright everyone, time to go! Let’s go! Hurry now!” Swiftly, he managed to usher all those who were not injured or helping out into the night.

Galadriel now turned her attention to Dregan. “Halbrand, I’m going to need your help with this.” She called to him, gravely. “And Brynneth, get a tourniquet ready…” Brynneth obliged, a severe look in her eyes.

Dregan’s cries rang out, bouncing from beam to beam, as they placed him down. His leg was hanging almost completely off just below the knee, and the poisonous saliva of the beast that felled him was slowly seeping up his leg.

Galadriel broke off a narrow chair leg and placed it in his mouth, holding him down by the shoulders.

“Dregan… Bite down on this.”

Dregan looked up at her, his eyes aflame with confusion and fear. But he did what she said.

Galadriel gave Halbrand a grave look, her eyes drifting down to the sword at his side.

Finding his eyes again, she nodded. “Above the knee.”

Halbrand drew his sword and lowered it over Dregan’s leg, readying himself for the blow.

Realising his fate, Dregan suddenly lurched, thrashing wildly, spitting out the chair leg and grabbing at Galadriel. He caught his fingers in the braids of her hair, tearing and flailing. Desperately, he tried to stop them from taking his leg, shouting. “No! Please! PLEASE!”

Halbrand stepped in, pushing him back down onto the table with brutal force. His full weight pinning him down. Without a second thought, Galadriel took the sword and swung, slicing down through flesh and bone with ruthless intent. Dregan screamed, sending chills through the blood of all in earshot. Halbrand held him fast against the table top.

“Now, Brynneth!” Galadriel lifted the thigh so that Brynneth could get the tourniquet underneath. As she twisted it tighter, Dregan let out one final cry before falling unconscious. The stunned silence that fell about the room was a sudden and stark contrast to the wails of pain a moment before.

Galadriel exhaled heavily, closing her eyes. She was exhausted, and the emotional toll of this night was hard to bear. A sudden realisation came sharply to mind. It was quiet. No one had spoken in too long. Even the moans of the injured seemed stifled. She opened her eyes and turned about the room. All eyes were on her, mouths agape, confusion on their faces, and something else - horror.

“Gal…” Brynneth’s voice came shaky and quiet.

“What is it?” Asked Galadriel, her voice thick with confusion.

Lorgìr answered, but with a question of his own. “What’s wrong with your ears?”

A pang of fear shuddered through her as she desperately reached up, finding her hair had been dragged out of place and no longer covered the tips of her ears.

Tension gripped the room. Galadriel’s skin prickled with the weight of their stares.

“What’s wrong with them? Why are they like that?” Though no malice was in his voice, Lorgìr was insistent.

A sickened chill surged up her spine.

Her secret, carefully guarded for a decade, had been ripped into the open in an instant.

Faces she had once known as friends stared back at her now like strangers. Like judges. She had mended their wounds. Shared their bread. But now...

“Only elves have piked ears like that…” A grim voice emerged from across the room. It was Skrúgar, who rose now from his seat, blood still dripping down his forehead. His expression dark and suspicious and his axe in his hand. “Well girl, anything to say for yourself?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. The words were there, but what was the use? Her voice had turned traitor. “Skrúgar,” she tried again, barely above a whisper. “There are people here still hurt…”

“Aye, there are. But I’d still like you to answer my question.”

Galadriel looked about the room, incredulously. “Skrúgar, some of these injuries won’t wait. Let me help them!”

“No…” Said Skrúgar. “I think your part is done. I should have suspected something was up when you took down that thug in the square. Too easy it was. You’ll not be touching anyone with those traitorous hands.”

Halbrand’s voice rang true behind her. “If you want to save these people you’ll need Galadriel’s help.” He faltered on the last word, knowing he had slipped up.

Skrúgar’s response came low and bitter. “Galadriel is it? Pretty name for a liar… No matter… We’ll manage well enough without your help. I think you’d better be leaving now lass, don’t you?”

Galadriel’s eyes darted around the room, searching the eyes of her friends. They came to rest of Brynneth, imploring her to say something, anything. But Brynneth was still swept up in the throes of shock, and did not respond.

“If it wasn’t for Galadriel you’d all be dead now!” Halbrand protested.

“Perhaps…” Said Skrúgar. “But at least that would have been an honest fate. Better that, than betrayal.”

Betrayal. The word hit Galadriel like a stone.

“How can you talk like this? Think like this?” Halbrand was still defending her.

“It’s alright, Halbrand.” Galadriel’s voice was hollow, her face bore the weight of resigned devastation. “I’ll go.” She took a step toward the door.

“No, lass.” Said Skrúgar. “You can wait in the cellar, until we’ve sorted out the injured and figured out what to do with you.”

Galadriel looked again desperately at Brynneth, but her eyes were now cast downwards, unable to look Galadriel in the eye.

Halbrand could not contain himself. “This is insane! Galadriel’s done nothing wrong, she’s only ever done right by you, by all of you! You would lock her away like some criminal?”

He started towards Skrúgar, but Galadriel put out her hand, urging him to stop. “It’s alright. I understand. I’ll do as you ask.” She whispered and walked slowly behind the bar, her arms hanging limp at her side as she descended the cellar steps. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a verdict. Her footsteps echoed louder than they should have. How had it come to this? One moment a healer, a protector - the next, a pariah.

“You too, lad.” Added Skrúgar, addressing Halbrand now. “Knew about it, did you? If that’s the hill you’re prepared to die on, you best go down there with her.”

Halbrand was seething, his jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He strained hard to control his breathing. He stared hard at Skrúgar, his face darkening, before bestowing on him with one final venomous promise. “You’ll regret this.” With that, Halbrand stalked off, following Galadriel down into the cellar.

When Halbrand got down there he found Galadriel leaning over a barrel, her fingers clasped tightly around the rim and her shoulders hunched. She was trying desperately to hold back her tears. Halbrand approached her slowly, and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder coaxing her to turn around. She wheeled swiftly at his touch and fell into him, burying her face in his chest. The tears could no longer be held back, and they came flooding out of her now, as she tried to catch her breath in fits and starts.

He wrapped his arms around her, and resting his lips against her forehead, he softly stroked the back of her head.

It felt good to be held by him - strong, steady, endlessly gentle. The rhythmic glide of his fingers through her hair was like ripples across a millpond, soothing and slow. Wrapped in his scent, she could not help but surrender to the quiet peace of his arms. Here, she was safe.

Her cries lessened and she stilled her breathing, and for a long while they simply held each other, breathing restfully against one another. Eventually, Galadriel lifted her head to find Halbrand looking down at her, and though his expression was soft and reassuring, it was also tinged with pain.

Galadriel’s eyebrows knitted together as she whispered, “I should have left.”

Halbrand responded with a grim smile. “But if you did we would never have met, and I would never have known you. A wound like that would be hard to bear.”

She exhaled with a wry chuckle, though there was no real humour in it. “You would have no cause to be sad. You would not know any different.”

His hand drifted from her hair, slow and deliberate, coming to rest against her cheek. 'Yes, I would,' he said, his gaze steady on hers. He began to lean in.

Galadriel’s eyes faltered. Frowning, she pulled away from his embrace. “I meant it… when I said nothing had changed. You are still mortal, and I still an elf.”

He did not answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward into her space, closing the gap with slow, deliberate intent. His arm slid around her waist, hand settling low on the small of her back, fingers splaying slightly against the fabric as he drew her flush against him. Their bodies aligned - navel to navel - the heat of him impossible to ignore.

His other hand came up, gliding along her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone before cradling her chin. His touch was both tender and possessive, reverent and claiming.

“Everything has changed,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with the weight of it. “From the moment we met, everything was different. The very core of the earth shifted. You felt it, I know you did.”

His breath ghosted over her lips, and something deep inside her clenched, tight and aching. She did. Gods help her, she did. And now, with his breath mingling with hers, his heartbeat echoing in the space between them, the truth of it burned like fire beneath her skin.

She closed her eyes, her brows flickering in pensive deliberation. A moment passed, and another. Then slowly, she opened them. “They’re going to tell me to leave… I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“Then let me come with you.” Halbrand’s eyes bore down into her own, roaming the depths of her soul.

Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. Her hand rose, hesitant at first, then came to rest over his heart. “I-”

The sound of footsteps descended the cellar steps. Halbrand swiftly unfurled his arms about Galadriel and both stood still, waiting to see who emerged. After a few moments, the figure came into view.

“Brynneth.” Galadriel let out a sigh of relief at seeing her friend had not forsaken her, and she proceeded across the room to meet her. “Brynn please, let me explain. I know you must feel betrayed, but you must believe I meant no harm.” Galadriel took Brynneth’s hands in hers and searched her eyes. “I am and always will be your friend.”

Brynneth gave no response. She wrenched her fingers free and stepped back. Her eyes on the ground.

“Brynneth please…” Galadriel’s voice faltered. “You know me,” she said again, softer this time. “You know me…”

But Brynneth did not answer.

“I’m elven, yes, but I’ve done you no wrong. I’ve only ever tried to help. Brynneth – will you not look at me?”

Silence stretched between them as Galadriel’s hope teetered on a precipice.

Finally, Brynneth spoke. “Could you have saved him?”

Galadriel blinked, uncertainty flashing across her face. “What?”

“Ced… Could you have saved him? If you weren’t trying to hide yourself?”

Galadriel’s eyes widened, shattered by the accusation. “Brynn, I… How could you think that?”

“Answer the question. Could you have saved him?” Brynneth’s tone was cold, her eyes burning with anger and grief.

“No…” Galadriel’s voice was despairingly thin. “Brynn, no one could have saved Ced. Not even specialist elvish healers with all their knowledge and skill. His injuries were too severe. He was gone as soon as he hit the ground. You know this.”

“Do I? What do I know?” Brynneth was spitting her words, hate-filled and grievous. “I know I have lost my husband, my son. And the person I thought to be my closest friend turns out to be a liar and traitor. How am I to believe anything you say?”

Galadriel moved towards her. “Brynneth, please…”

“He’s dead,” Brynneth hissed. “And you let me believe you were just like us.” Her voice cracked. “But you’re not. You never were. You’re a traitor. And you let him die.”

“No! Bry-”

Brynneth lashed out. The crack of her palm against Galadriel’s cheek rang out like a war drum.

Galadriel’s head jerked sideways, but her body held firm, unyielding. Her skin burned, but her heart broke louder.

Neither spoke. The silence pulsed like a wound.

At once, Halbrand was behind Galadriel, his hands a quiet reassurance on her arms - a grounding weight against the sudden sting of the blow, a silent promise that she was not alone. But his eyes locked onto Brynneth with a quiet menace, a sharp warning coiled tight beneath his stillness with the kind of restrained fury that promised consequences.

“Leave. Now.” He tone was cold and uncompromising.

Brynneth recoiled, a sense of fear and shame in her eyes as she stumbled backwards towards the stairs. She took one last painful look at Galadriel, “You should never have come here.” Her words plunging deep into Galadriel’s heart, before fleeing up into the bar above.

Galadriel gasped, shoulders jolting beneath Halbrand’s steady hands. She hung her head as bitter tears cascaded down her cheeks like the tumbling of stones in a rockfall. Halbrand pressed closer, his torso tight against her back, folding his arms around her shoulders and waist. He bent his head to hers, the warmth of his cheek meeting her own - a shelter against her grief.

Not a moment later, more footsteps came from above. The two of them straightened up, Halbrand’s hand still placed supportively on her shoulder. It was Bailid this time, his expression grave and sorrowful. He reached the bottom of the stairs and faltered briefly, letting out a despondent sigh. “Well Gal… you’ve done it this time, my lass.”

“Bailid, I’m sorry.” Her voice struggling through the tears. “I meant no harm.”

“I know you didn’t.” He said, sombrely as he walked over to them. “If it were solely up to me I’d let you stay. You’ve been a good neighbour, helped feed us and patch us up. You’re as much a part of this place as any. And you’ve been a good friend.”

“But I am to leave.” She said, a cold resignation in her voice.

“I’m afraid so. For what it’s worth, I am sorry to see it.”

Galadriel clenched her jaw, and softly nodded to herself as if affirming what she already knew. “How long?” She asked.

“They want you gone by morning. Which is not far away I’m afraid. But you needn’t face them again if you don’t want to. There’s an access hatch in the corner there that will take you out onto the street. That’s the best I can do for you.” He said, compassion behind his eyes as he looked at her solemnly.

“Thank you, Bailid.” She replied. “You’re a good man.”

He acknowledged this with a simple nod, before adding, “Valar protect you.”

With that, Galadriel and Halbrand quietly exited the hatch and emerged into the street. It was empty and there was a stillness about the place. With heads hung low, they walked along the east lane in solemn silence until eventually they reached Galadriel’s house, and the turn-off into the copse to Halbrand’s cottage. Galadriel stopped, wavering, her head bowed as if weighing an important decision. Eventually, her choice made, she straightened up and turned toward Halbrand. “Meet me here in half an hour, with anything you might need for a long journey on foot. I’ll wait for you.”

Halbrand stepped in close, his presence warm and reassuring against the cold reality of this night. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. His hand rose, his fingers brushing lightly beneath her jaw before settling at the curve of her neck, intimate and steadying. Their eyes met, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. The world fell away.

Then he kissed her - slow and deliberate, his lips seeking hers with a hunger tempered only by devotion. She melted into him as their mouths opened, tongues meeting in a deep, searching kiss. Her hand found his chest, his heart a drum beneath her palm, and her fingers curled into the fabric as if she did not want to let go.

When the kiss broke, Halbrand lingered, his forehead resting against hers, breath warm against her cheek. His eyes closed. A long, quiet sigh slipped from him, his hand still cradling her neck as if afraid she might vanish.

Galadriel did not move. She let her forehead rest against his, their breath shared in the hush between heartbeats. Then, softly - so softly it was almost a secret - she whispered, “I’ll be here when you return. I swear it.”

He drew back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze unwavering, relief settling over him like a quiet tide. “Then I won’t be long.” He assured her, before breaking their embrace and disappearing from the lane.

Galadriel entered her house and began to pack. She had stayed so much longer than intended that she had had unpacked everything from before. So, she started again, busily collecting up clothes, food, and some stores from the infirmary for the road, and the few keepsakes she could not bear to part with. It took little time to collate everything and soon she found herself simply standing, looking about her home, sorry to say goodbye. Slowly, she went room to room, sliding her fingers over the surfaces and touching the various fabrics and trinkets as if to offer one final farewell.

Finally, when all was properly lamented, she slung her pack over her back and went to the door. Taking one final look at the home she had made for over a decade, she turned and left. The door clicked shut behind her - a quiet sound, but it fell heavy in the morning air.

The sky was pale with the coming dawn.

In the lane, Halbrand was waiting as she went to meet him. “Where to?” He asked.

Galadriel exhaled deep and slow. “South. I need to know why the enemy heads that way.”

“Well, if I might make a suggestion?” A faint smile crept into the corner of Halbrand’s mouth. “Southeast.”

“And what’s southeast?” She asked, curious at this idea.

“Call it a hunch.”

She smiled. His calm resolve after all that had befallen that night comforted her, and it was still the general direction she wanted to go. “Southeast it is.”

He took her hand in his, closing his fingers about hers with delicate assurance, and leaving Arnad-Dûn behind them, they walked into the dawn. Whatever came next, they would face it together.

Chapter Text

For several hours Galadriel and Halbrand walked in the morning light, following the road out of the village and down the valley towards the lower slopes. Their going was easy enough, unimpeded by the weather and the road being wide and well-kept made for swift walking as it wound its way eastward.

For the most part they walked in silence, the events of the night before weighing heavily on Galadriel’s mind. But Halbrand did not mind, he was merely happy to be with her, and as they walked he caught himself staring for long periods at her, admiring her beauty and her bravery in equal measure, in awe of her strength and resilience. How many times could she be cast out like this, rejected by elf and human alike and still walk with her head held high? Still keep a sense of self, true and virtuous?

She was a marvel to him.

Onward they went, and soon the line of trees that noted the edge of the Taur-Firion was no more than a thin dark line behind them. In front, as they skirted the grassy shoulder of a round hill, a great mere came into view, Aelin Luinmír, the lake of the blue jewel. The lake sat like a sapphire among the folds of a green velvet countryside. The brilliant blue of the sky bounced off the surface in a dazzling display of cobalt and gold as the sun caught the ripples, scattering the light in all directions.

The sun was beginning to climb high above them and the temperature was quickly rising. They descended the slope and after another hour came upon the water’s edge, hot and ready for a rest. Throwing off their packs, they cast themselves down onto the soft turf next to the lake and sunbathed a while.

In the brilliance of the day, the troubles of the night before seemed to lessen and they began to make light conversation, speaking of nothing and everything at the same time. They commented on the birds they could see, the way the clouds moved lazily across the sky, finding images in their shapes, and discussing simple pleasures.

After a short while, Galadriel got up and walked to the edge of the lake. She removed her boots and dangled her toes into the cooling water. Looking back at Halbrand she smiled and patted the ground next to her, instructing him to come and sit by her. Returning her smile, he came to sit next to her, also removing his boots and dipping his feet into the water. They sat quietly watching the ripples dance across the surface and lap gently against their calves, until finally Galadriel spoke again.

“You fought well last night. I’ve never seen a human fight like that. Who taught you?”

Halbrand sat silently for a moment as if in deep thought. “Necessity,” he eventually replied. “I may have come south out of Ost-Heryn, but that is not where I’m from. Where I’m from you had to learn to survive, and you learn quickly when the choice is fight or die.”

“Where is it? This place that breeds such capable warriors?” She asked.

Halbrand stared at the water as if trying to recall a distant dream. “It doesn’t matter. It’s gone now.”

Galadriel expressed a sympathetic frown, and though curious, asked no more about it. She supposed all those things he guarded so carefully would come in time, if he was willing to share them. And if not, it did not matter. She knew who he was now, in this moment, and that was enough for her.

“Pasts can be complicated.” She said, in a comforting tone. “They hurt… but they also make us who we are. And I for one am glad we had you there, fighting alongside us. Many survived because of you.”

“And you.” He added, his voice less thoughtful, and with a hint of play. “Though abandoning your position at the front of the tavern was a little reckless, don’t you think?”

She looked shot him a look of feigned offence. “I positioned myself where I was most needed.”

Halbrand chuckled, “You weren’t coming to check on me then?” A wry smile spread across his lips as he crept his fingertips along the grass, softly slipping his fingers between hers as she propped herself up with her hands.

Galadriel said nothing in response. She gazed out over the water, aiming for innocence, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

Halbrand laughed playfully at her. “I thought as much.”

Galadriel could not help but let out a sharp, amused exhale through her nose.

Silence settled between them, soft and expectant, as his fingers traced gentle patterns along her own. Then, with a weight to his words, he spoke again. “I’m glad you did… Fighting alongside you, I felt something I’ve never felt before.” His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “I felt something awaken in me, tethering me to a force greater than myself; a power that set my very soul alight, drawing me to you like the tide to the moon. And in that moment, I felt alive.”

She turned to him, her eyes flickering, chest surging with something between awe and wonder. Her breath caught in her throat. His words curled through her like smoke, warm and curling into corners she had long closed off. She felt warmth spread through her, her heart beating faster as she gazed at him, frozen, unable to look away. Then, in a voice barely more than a breath. “I felt it, too.”

Without hesitation, he reached for her, his hand locking around the back of her neck as he leaned in, his lips meeting hers in an impatient, consuming kiss.

She wanted it, craved it, and responded, pressing her lips firmly against his, grasping at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Their lips parted in perfect harmony as their tongues sought each other, tasting one another’s desire, simultaneously sating and stoking the longing between them. The intensity was overwhelming. Both wanting more, both knowing it was too much.

Finally, they broke away - reluctantly, breathless. Their lips hovered tantalisingly close, heat still crackling between them. His breath ghosted across her skin. Her fingers remained curled in his shirt, as if unsure whether to pull him back or push him further.

“We’ll not make it very far today at this rate.” Said Galadriel, her voice soft and breathy.

“Is that so bad?” Halbrand’s eyes glinted with something wicked as he searched her own.

A small smirk appeared in the corner of Galadriel’s mouth. “Don’t make me rethink bringing you along.” She tilted her head upwards, finding his lips again in a long, lingering kiss, breathing him in as she did so.

Without warning, she shoved him back, plunging her hands into the water and splashing him in the face. Knowing he would retaliate, she sprang to her feet and was already up and running while Halbrand was still reeling from shock. By the time he recovered, she had grabbed her boots and was back at the roadside, turning to look at him. 'Bring the packs!' she shouted, her voice thick with mischief.

Halbrand shook his head, a wide smile spreading across his face, dancing on the edge of laughter. For once, he was on the receiving end of the mischief, disarmed and bested. With a dramatic sigh, he hauled himself out of the lake, picking up his boots and their packs, and followed her back toward the road.

They traced the edge of the lake for several miles as the road wound along its shoreline eventually coming to the far end of the water. At this point, they stopped briefly for some food before deciding what to do next. In front of them, the road carried on eastward, but off to the right a stony path forked off up into a narrow valley, winding upward along a stream that tumbled down toward the larger body of water.

The pair looked at each other in silent agreement. Then smiling to one another, they stepped off the road and took the southward path. The way was clear and well-walked and the tinkling of the stream to their right provided a gentle accompaniment to their journey.

Steadily the path rose up a narrow cleft that the stream had carved into the hillside. The sides became steep and the path became strewn with tumbled boulders and loose shale. At points they had to use all four limbs, climbing up and over vast rock-shelves that jutted out into the trail. Eventually, they crested the top and the land opened out into a vast moorland blanketed with heathers and bilberries, still brown, scraggly, and bare, too early in the year for any sign of colour. Undeterred, they pressed onward across the barren heath, slowly eating up the miles until the sun had begun to sink low in the sky, their figures casting long shadows over the scrubland. The hard, stony path had given way to soft, sandy ground and there was a slight spring to the soil underfoot. Seeming like a comfortable place to rest for the night, they set up camp next to solitary rocky outcrop shaped like a wide pillar made up stone shelves stacked atop one another.

By the time they had lit a fire and eaten, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the stars were beginning to appear one by one, like pinpricks in a vast dark blue parchment. Though the day was warm, the temperature dropped like a stone in the spring evening, and the breeze, unimpeded on the barren plateau, had a bitter chill to it. Galadriel shivered, and shuffled herself closer to the fireside, pulling her cloak tightly about her.

Without a word, Halbrand got up from where he was sitting and came over to her. He lowered himself down, one leg on each side and gathered her into his arms. She leant into him, revelling in the closeness of his body and the warmth of his embrace.

The fire burned low, casting flickering gold across their faces as Halbrand held her. The night stretched endless above them, deep and dark, scattered with a thousand watchful eyes.
Halbrand’s arms were steadfast around her, his voice a slow murmur at her ear, gentle and contented.

"You see that pale river of light?” he said, lifting a hand toward the sky. “That is the Shieldway Halafar, the path of the exiled ones. The way of the lost.”

Her eyes drifted upwards, following his gaze to the pale river of light that cut across the heavens.

"Who were they?" she asked, voice hushed. She thought she knew all the tales of the stars but this name was strange to her. Though, she already knew that whatever the answer was, it would end in grief.

Halbrand exhaled softly, his breath stirring her hair. "Aedrith. And the sons of Osnod.”

Aedrith, she had at least heard before, a name that echoed repeatedly among the tales of men. But she did not know the tale in full. And never from his lips, never in his voice that wove intrigue like thread through the dark.

"She was born to a curse," he continued, "beautiful beyond all others, but fated to bring ruin to a king and sorrow to a land. Cunbert, who ruled Ulthaken, claimed her before she could even understand what it meant to belong to another.

But her heart was never his to keep."

Galadriel barely breathed.

"She loved another," Halbrand said, "Wistan, a warrior with eyes like the sea and a voice like music. She fled with him and his brothers, over land and water, through forests deep and mountains high, never resting, never safe. They came here, to these lands, to find peace. But Cunbert was not a man to lose what he had claimed."

His fingers brushed hers where they lay against his chest.

"They were betrayed," he murmured. "Brought back to Ulthaken with false promises of safety. Wistan and his brothers were struck down before her eyes. And Aedrith..." He paused, and the silence felt like a held breath before a storm. "She was given to the man who had killed them. They say she did not last long after that. That she chose to break herself upon the rocks than live without her fallen love."

The wind stirred, and for a moment, the world was nothing but crackling fire, shifting embers, and the far-off shimmer of the stars above.

Then, softly - so softly Galadriel felt it in her bones more than heard it - Halbrand began to sing.

The lament was old, older than the stones beneath them, older than the road the stars had carved across the sky. His voice was low, steady, and laced with something so achingly beautiful that it did not matter that she did not know all the words. She understood them.
Loss. Love. The unbearable weight of both.

The song threaded through her like a current, tugging her heart loose from its moorings. Cutting through the space between her ribs, where she had kept herself guarded, separate, safe. But nothing was safe in this moment.

She closed her eyes.

Without warning, the walls inside her crumbled, and she was lost.

Moments later, the song ended, and Galadriel found herself no longer gazing at the stars, but at Halbrand - only Halbrand. His beauty, his presence crowded every corner of her awareness, just as his words had filled the entirety of her soul.

As she touched his upturned face, he tore his eyes away from the sky and they settle on her like a still mist of fine rain.

“How am I meant to resist you?” She whispered, in a quiet, unguarded plea.

He bent his head, brushing his nose softly against hers. "Stop trying to," he murmured, finding her lips, pressing into them - firm but gentle - renewing each kiss with another, just as soft, teasing, testing, gauging her desire. He pulled away, his face lingering inches from hers. Their gazes locked, breath mingling, something fragile and charged humming between them.

She exhaled sharply, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him closer. Their mouths collided in a desperate, fevered kiss, tongues tangling, wet and warm, as if neither could get close enough.

Halbrand shifted, unfurling one leg, pressing harder against her. Understanding, she sank to the ground, pulling him with her, their lips never parting, their hands impatiently seeking, discovering.

Galadriel parted her legs, and he settled between them. She felt the hard press of his arousal, the slow, deliberate glide of him against her, the friction maddening as he teased the sensitive swell of her with every measured thrust of his hips.

Her desire was a match for his, a deep, insistent ache thrumming low within her. She needed him. The heat of longing pooled between her thighs, her body readying itself for him.

Then Halbrand shifted, rolling to his side, their lips still locked in a heated dance. His hand drifted downward, slipping beneath the folds of her skirt, his fingers grazing the thin barrier of her trousers. Slowly, he began unlacing them at the crotch, loosening their grip on her hips with every deft pull.

His fingers brushed against her, featherlight, teasing. Her breath hitched, anticipation coiling tight in her chest.

At last, she was unfastened. But suddenly, Halbrand stilled, breaking their kiss. He hovered above her, his hand resting on the soft skin of her lower belly.

For a heartbeat, Galadriel was confused. Why had he stopped? Why would he pause now? But then she saw it - the glint in his eyes, dark and ravenous, the slight twitch of his lips, already savouring what was to come.

He wanted to watch her.

His gaze never wavered as he slid his hand lower beneath the fabric, his fingers sinking into the warm, silken heat of her. He exhaled, pleased with what he found. Warm and wet.

She gasped, back arching at the first slow stroke, her breath catching in her throat.

Halbrand’s lips curled at the edges. Yes, that is what he wanted. To see her succumb, to know he could pull pleasure from her as easily as breath. To give her what she deserved - what he had longed to give for so long.

His fingers moved with knowing precision, tracing small, relentless circles. She writhed beneath him, moans slipping past parted lips, hands clutching at her dress, grasping for something - anything - to ground herself against the rising tide.

Her hips undulated, finding his rhythm, chasing it. The pleasure swelled, pressing against the edges of her control. Too much. Too intense. She squeezed her eyes shut against it.
But Halbrand wanted to see. He needed to.

Without stopping, he bent his head, lips ghosting over her cheek before whispering, "Galadriel, open your eyes."

She obeyed, wrenching them open. And there he was - only him. Her whole world condensed to the storm in his gaze, to the hands working her into oblivion. She reached for him, fingers sinking into his hair, his skin, desperate to anchor herself as the wave crested, as it built, rising, surging, like the swelling of a great wave ready to break upon her.

A pressure built in the air around them, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Then it hit.

Her spine arched, her cries turning to sharp, breathless gasps. Her hands fisted in his hair, his name a broken whisper on her lips as the pleasure tore through her, hot and shattering. Her body twisted, every nerve alight, wrung taut as aftershocks rolled through her, unrelenting, endless. Too much. Not enough. How was he doing this?

Her wild eyes met his, and Halbrand drank it in. The way she trembled. The way she crumbled beneath his touch. The way her brows knit together, her lips parting in helpless surrender as she came apart for him.

If he could have held her there forever, he would have. Enraptured in watching her unravel completely.

But, at last, the waves receded, and Galadriel returned to herself, weightless and breathless beneath him. She stared up at him, the world narrowed to the sound of their unsteady breathing, the electrifying hum pressing between them, neither of them willing to shatter the moment.

Then, Halbrand stirred.

He slid down the length of her body, his lips ghosting over her stomach as he pushed her dress up, his nose tracing the curve of her hips, lips lightly kissing the hollows of her contours. His hands glided up the outside of her thighs.

Galadriel froze, breath caught in the space between anticipation and need.

Halbrand grasped the hem of her trousers. Slowly, deliberately, he began to guide them down.

A hush crept over the moor, the air thick with static energy. Close and electric.

In that moment, a violent and deafening crack split the sky. For a second the heavens lit up in a blinding flash of cold white, as if daylight had struck its rage upon the night.

Both of them looked up, startled, ripped from the world they had lost themselves in.

Another burst of light tore across the sky, and the booming crash of thunder with it.

Only now did they notice; the stars were gone. While they had been rapt in each other, a thick, dark veil had smothered the sky. The storm did not come suddenly - it had been building with every touch, every kiss, every moment lost together. They had not even felt the wind rising, yet now it howled, lashing the heath in furious gusts.

The heavens opened, and a torrent of icy rain plummeted from the wrathful sky above.

Quickly they moved, gathering up what they could and seeking what little shelter could be found on the leeward side of the great stone pillar. Huddling against it, the wind howled in the hidden, hollow fissures between the layers of rock. It swirled about them, whipping up the rain in stinging blasts before casting it down upon them again, rendering the sheltered side of little use. The water quickly soaked through their clothes and a terrible chill shuddered through their bodies.

The storm’s rage was relentless. The pair were utterly helpless. Two small specs among a vast, featureless landscape, cowering, and at the mercy of the elements.

There was nothing to be done. They pressed themselves tighter against the rock face, hoping the storm would not last. Holding each other close, they waited for the dawn.
After several long torturous hours, the pale light of the morning grew in the east. But the storm had not relented. Still it raged with the same fierce ferocity of the night. All about them was grey, the rain obscuring their sight beyond more than a few yards.

It was useless to stay where they were. Piteously, and bracing themselves against the blustering gale, they marched forward, picking their way across the desolate moor. Hoping to find shelter.

Their going was slow and arduous. For hours they trudged, drenched, cold; their faces battered by the persistent, biting flurries of wind and rain. They did not stop to eat, or to rest. Their will was bent on escaping the storm as quickly as possible. Any delay seemed unthinkable.

The soft ground had become sodden, and bog-like. Many times, their feet became lost in the mud, sucked down into what was now a mire of black peat. Often, they had to take wide detours to avoid large quagmires that had flooded the way. After several miles of this, among the tangle of heather and bilberry bushes, and with the constant deviations, the path had finally become lost to them.

They were forced to stop. Frantically they looked about them, yearning to find something-anything that might offer any hope of shelter against the merciless skies. Galadriel’s elven eyes were keen, but even they were struggling to find any shapes among the endless grey.

“There!” Halbrand cried, pointing away to their left. A dark, blurred pinnacle in the distance, a solitary obelisk rising from the ocean of flat scrubland. How Galadriel had missed it, she was not sure. But it did not matter. The sky was growing dark again. The night would soon be upon them. They had to reach whatever it was before dark lest they wish to face another night exposed on the open moor.

They redoubled their pace, spurred on by the thought of sanctuary. Though they were still too far away to discern for certain what this strange needle on the horizon offered, the desperation to escape the storm drove them on.

The light was almost lost by the time the column came into clear view. It became quickly apparent that it was in fact a vast tower, dark, tall and foreboding against the deepening sky. There were several parts of it that gaped like open sores; the crumbling holes of an old and weathered ruin, too long battered by the unforgiving squalls in this unbroken landscape. Surrounding the tower, was an uninterrupted ring of stone, circling it in a wide loop. An impenetrable wall barring the way to unwelcome trespassers.

At first, Galadriel was unsure of how they were ever meant to get passed it. It was too tall to jump, and too treacherous to climb in this weather. But there, in the last of the fading light, a dark chink in the otherwise unbroken band could be spotted. An entrance.

The lightning had begun again, scolding the sky, and without hesitation, they headed straight for the entrance as fast as they could. By the time they had passed under the archway, night had fallen. Emerging on the other side they wasted no time, running toward the base of the tower. The lightning threw up flashes of gnarled figures on either side of them, large trees that loomed like misshapen demons in the dark. The sides of the tower itself, drenched from the rain, lit up like the scales of a great snake catching in the light.

They reached the tower. It was too dark to search for a proper entrance, so finding a crumbling hole in the outer wall, they stole inside.

They found themselves in a vast, round hall. Cold, and empty. The hole in the wall ran high up its side, causing the ceiling to fail on one side. There was, however, one side of the hall that was dry, sheltered from the worst of the weather. They had no wood to light a fire, and were too exhausted to have made the effort anyway. They threw themselves against the wall furthest from the opening and huddled together once more. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they fell into an uneasy sleep.

***

The storm had broken overnight. Through the gap in the tower roof, Galadriel could see a cold blue sky marking the dawn. Halbrand was still asleep beside her. She gazed upon his handsome face, her mind drifting to their moment under the stars. The story, the song... his touch. Smiling softly to herself, she decided to let him sleep a while longer. Rising, she decided to take a look around, but as she took in their surroundings in the morning light, unease crept over her.

The great hall, once grand, lay in decay-shattered columns, a broken dais, the remnants of a long-forgotten past. Near one edge, a long table stood littered with fallen stone, and on the opposite wall, a great fireplace loomed dark and empty. She stepped through the breach in the wall onto a circular lawn, hemmed by the outer stone wall. The gnarled, misshapen trees from the night before turned out to be merely mature oaks and sycamores, dotted among the lawn in the middle of which stood the tower. They seemed altogether unfrightening now in the daylight. But still something was off.

To her surprise, she noticed a long dark shoulder of rock ascending upward towards a mountain peak on her left and where it boarded the circular wall, the shoulder was cut away to form a sheer cliff face, high and looming. This seemed strange to her. It had not been something she had noticed the day before. Thinking back, she was sure the tower was the only thing visible in an otherwise barren landscape. Certainly, there was no mountain to be seen, she would have noticed it.

Puzzled, she took a few steps toward the rock face, casting her eyes over it with a scrutinising suspicion. But without knowing why, her gaze drifted downward, drawn to the ring of stone surrounding the tower. To her right the tall outer wall continued and beyond lay the desolate moorland. The day was bright and peaceful, yet something was wrong. The archway within the outer wall that they had entered through the night before was gone.

Galadriel’s breath hitched and she ran over to the wall. She traced her hands over the smooth, unbroken stone where the entrance had been, searching for a fissure, a crack, anything. Her fingers met nothing but cold finality.

Perhaps she was mistaken? Perhaps her sense of direction had been confused by the blackened night – too much wind, too much stinging rain overwhelming even her elven sight.

She looked left and right, and on either side of her the wall stretched away and back around towards the mountain in a great ring. Right, she turned now, and with a frantic conviction dragged her hand across the wall, testing it more firmly in places where she thought she saw inconsistencies in its otherwise flat surface.

Panic coiled in her chest.

She moved faster, tracing the perimeter, her movements growing more frantic.

For an hour she continued like this until she had come full circle back to where she started.

Finally, feeling utterly defeated, she threw herself against the wall and pressed her forehead upon the cold stone.

“I don’t want you to leave.” Halbrand’s voice was quiet, yet heavy. She turned to find him watching her, sorrow shadowing his face.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“I have to tell you something… but I am afraid that when I do you will cast me aside and want to flee this place. But I do not want you to go.”

“What do you mean?” she asked again, “What is happening? Where is the archway?” A chilling doubt crept over Galadriel now, and she awaited a response, but Halbrand dared not answer. “Halbrand!” Her voice was stern and insistent.

“I hid it.” He responded, his words laboured. “I hid the doorway.”

Her stomach twisted. She blinked. Surely, she had misheard.
“What? …How?”

He exhaled, dropping his gaze. “Because I am not who you think I am.”

She froze.

A terrible silence stretched between them.

Halbrand went on, pleadingly, “I have carried this truth like a blade in my chest. I wanted to leave it buried. But that night... under the stars... I felt you in ways I didn’t think I could… and I…”

Galadriel’s eyes widened as she waited for the rest. A stone plummeted to the pit of her stomach. “Who are you?” Her voice barely above a whisper.

His voice changed, low and grave. “I am the enemy you have dedicated millennia to hunting down,” he murmured. “The one you swore to destroy, to avenge your brother and all others that have fallen. And yet…” He lifted his gaze, and there was no cruelty there, only something raw, something pleading. “I am also the one who sees you, who values you - not as others do, but for who you are. And I would never harm you. I only wish to be with you, to have you at my side.”

A hollow opened in her chest. Her thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the wind. This couldn’t be real – he couldn’t be…

Her blood turned to ice. She stepped back, each breath shallow, disbelieving. “No.”

His eyes remained steady on hers. “I did not wish to lie to you anymore.” He took a step towards her, but she recoiled. “Galadriel.” His voice trembled, gaze fixed on her with desperate intensity.

She could feel herself being drawn towards him, his gaze pulling on the threads of her being.

But the weight of his words crushed her, suffocating. She tore her eyes away and shut them tightly. With a great effort she turned sharply and ran, racing through the rubble, back into the tower to find her belongings. Hurriedly, her hands closed around her knife, concealing it as she turned, only to find Halbrand standing in the doorway.

At once, the ruins transformed. The derelict gaps in the roof and walls melted away, the stonework restored. The broken table stood whole, tapestries regained their vibrancy, and flames roared to life in the hearth.

“Galadriel, please.” His voice was softer now.

She trembled. “I trusted you.”

“Have I given you reason not to?”

“You have lied to me!”

“No, I have revealed myself to you.” He took a step closer. “Do you not see? Others would humble you. I would exalt you. I would raise you above all others.”

“I do not seek power.” She said, her voice breaking, barely able to hide the lie.

Halbrand smiled knowingly at her. He reached out his hand towards her. “Stay with me.”

“In your cage?” She scoffed.

“It does not have to be a cage. Stay with me, willingly. I know you care for me, as I for you. Let me love you.”

A strangled laugh tore from her throat. “Love? You know nothing of love, your heart is black, filled only with death and despair.”

“That’s not true.” His voice was quiet, pained. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “I know you feel as I do.”

“Stop...” She whispered, closing her eyes.

“Even now you fight your own feelings.”

“No! Stop this!” Her eyes snapped open again, aflame with immense turmoil. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade.

She stepped away from him. Filled with overwhelming despair and anger, her heart torn asunder.

He was right, she did care for him – how could she have been so blind? What cruel punishment was this? That she would fall for the very source of all her hatred, a hatred that she had nurtured in her all-consuming obsession for vengeance until a great darkness had filled her soul and she became unrecognisable to herself and others. A hatred she knew not how to escape from and would be a part of her forever. Tears began to roll down her face, and she sobbed, utterly shattered in mind and soul.

Her heart was rent, and a galling sickness churned in the pit of her stomach.

Clutching at her chest, she breathed exasperatedly through bitter tears.

She huddled against the tall stone pillar behind her, and feeling utterly wretched, hung her head, staring emptily at the floor.

Halbrand stood very still looking sorrowfully at her, unable to draw his eyes away. They too were tearful, filled with a torment of his own making. He could not bear to hurt Galadriel, every instinct told him to keep hiding. To keep her close through silence. But he could not stand lying to her any longer.

He desired desperately to comfort her now and he began moving slowly towards her. Tenderly, he stretched out his arm, and reaching for her shoulder, he lightly touched her trembling skin with his fingertips. They lingered there for only a moment when suddenly Galadriel lunged towards him with all her strength, forcing him backwards across the room until he fell back onto a small settle that stood against the opposite wall.

Her knee was pressed hard against his chest, her knife at his throat. Her voice cracked. “Sauron.”

Halbrand flinched at the name but did not deny it.

“Say it isn’t true,” she whispered.

But his silence was worse than confession.

He did not fight her, or even move.

She looked despairingly at him; their eyes were locked together now as she willed herself to make the killing blow, if indeed it could kill him. Unbidden, she remembered his fingers against her skin, his voice in song, the myth he had woven into the stars. She remembered wanting him. Trusting him.

Fool.

She moved to slice his skin.

But his eyes were soft and solemn, and they pierced through her like a winter breeze. Helplessly she found she could do nothing. She held him there, paralysed with agonizing indecision.

His hand rose, fingers barely brushing hers and with unbearable gentleness, he guided her blade away. Powerless to unfix her eyes from his, her grip slackened and her breath shuddered. The knife slipped from her grasp and she let out an anguished sigh as he delicately enfolded his hand around her own. Slowly, with his other hand he reached for her, seeking to touch the soft skin of her cheek. “Galadriel…” he whispered, but as his fingers neared her mouth, her expression hardened.

“No,” she uttered and she pulled herself away from him. She lingered for a moment held within his stare, then stumbling backward, she turned blindly toward the doorway, knowing only that she had to leave. Though she knew not where.

Immediately Halbrand rose to go after her. “Wait.” His hand caught her wrist, firm but not forceful. She froze. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

“Let me go,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“I don’t know how.” He said haplessly. Still neither of them moved, until finally Halbrand walked himself around so that now he stood before her, and touching her face gently, he stroked his fingers across her tears and down her cheek before bringing them under her chin, tilting her head upwards to him so that her eyes met his. He searched her face, desperate and unguarded and smiled faintly. For a fleeting second, he thought perhaps that she might be swayed, that she would allow herself to love him.

Tears burned in her eyes as she pulled free, and putting distance between them she made sure to firmly hold his gaze. “Keeping me here will not make me love you,” she said at last. “And the Valar will never forgive what you have done.” Her voice was wilful and stony, her eyes cold and fierce. “I will never be at your side.”

He looked at her imploringly as she backed away. It was not until she saw his heart break in the falling of his eyes that she finally turned. And she was gone.

Chapter Text

Galadriel fled, out the hall and into an antechamber. She looked around, frantic. To her left, a stone staircase spiralled upward - not that way. She would only be more trapped. To her right was another large door – escape? She darted towards it and flung it open with a desperate fury, stumbling as it gave way out onto the lawn.

Aimless. Her breath was ragged and sharp. She was running - not toward anything, but from the terrible, horrifying tragedy of it all.

Behind her, Halbrand’s voice echoed in her memory - his confession pounding in her skull. She was running from the hollow place where her heart used to be.

Her chest felt tight, so tight she could barely breathe. She had to stop, bracing herself on the trunk of a great oak, clutching at her chest. Doubled over, gasping.

How could she not have known? How could she let herself fall for him? This murderer, her greatest enemy. She had let him in, kiss her… touch her…

Revulsion surged.

Her stomach lurched. She clutched her gut, doubled over, and choked on a sob before bile splattered at her feet. The taste was acid. The air smelled of betrayal.

But no relief came.

Her body still trembled. Every fibre of her being twisted, wracked, frayed.

She collapsed onto her knees and began to weep. Bitter tears tumbled endlessly, tears for all she thought she had found - love, trust, a place to belong - lost now. Dashed against the rocks by a raging tide. Swallowed by the sea of betrayal. Her voice rose like a gale, sorrowful and ragged, echoing off the stone circle.

She was not sure how long she remained there, bent and broken. Hours could have gone by and she would not have known, save for the gradual arc of the sun marking its path across the sky. Mockingly fair for such foul revelations to emerge in its stark light.

After some time, and with no more tears to give, shattered and forlorn, she looked about her. Slow and shaking. She traced the line of the outer ring - her endless prison wall. Too smooth to be climbed, too high to be jumped. Perhaps there might be a tree, whose branches overhung it… But no. She knew in her heart it was impenetrable. There was no way out.

It took several long exhales to ground her, coming back to herself with each deep curl of her stomach, and a strange calm came over her. There was nothing she could do. What came next was not strength - only the absence of anything left to feel.

And that emptiness… it steadied her.

With a quiet resignation, she rose, slowly straightening.

She must go back, must face him.

But she was exhausted, the great turmoil of emotions had taken their toll and she wanted desperately to rest. Utterly defeated, she staggered back to the tower. Upon entering the antechamber again, she reluctantly reached for the door to the great hall. Locked. A shuddering sense of relief left her body. Then, taking the stairs, she slowly began to climb. She passed several doors upon the stairwell, and came across small square landings that housed yet more doorways to unknown and furtive parts of the tower. All were locked. Save one.

As she pushed back the door a deep sense of unease settled upon her heart. It was a large bedchamber, furnished with fine fabrics and fittings of elven design. The walls were adorned in white marble, as were the four pillars spread in an even square about the room. On her right, half way down the wall, an archway opened up onto a spacious balcony looking southwards, with beams of sunlight streaming in and bouncing off the polished stone floor. Against the opposite wall, a large bed stood, draped in white silks that hung from the ceiling.

It had all been prepared for her. Somehow that filled her with more dread than anything else. He had planned this. Planned coming here, planned getting lost on the moors. Was it not him that suggested they strike southeast? Her eyes widened and her lips quivering at the thought of being so blindly manipulated. Being so taken in, suspecting nothing. But then, how could she have known? He had lied so skilfully, and made her feel so…

She shut her eyes and shook her head, willing the thoughts away, exhaling low and slow.

Looking up, she noticed, propped against the end of the bed, her belongings had been laid. Her pack, cloak, but not her sword or dagger. She winced at this. But for the moment, she was too tired to care. Even the ache in her chest dulled under the weight of her exhaustion.

She crossed the room, her footsteps slow and heavy, and sat on the bed, staring blankly. Then slowly, she lowered herself onto the pillows. She closed her eyes, and hoped that upon waking she might find all of it to be merely a bad dream.

***

Several hours later, when the light was almost gone, Galadriel was awoken by a faint knocking at the door. She made no response, but the door opened regardless. Halbrand quietly stepped into the room carrying a tray that he set down on the dresser.

“I thought you might be hungry.” His apologetic tone did little to sway her as she lay motionless on the bed.

“Galadriel, will you not look at me?”

Still, she did not move. The silence speaking for her.

An unbearably long pause followed before finally Halbrand spoke, dejected, “As you wish.” He then left her, alone in the cavernous room.

The door clicked shut. Only then did the ache rise again - sudden and treacherous. She hated it. Hated that part of her wanted him to come back, to say more, to say it was not true.

She rolled over, closed her eyes again, and did not move till morning.

***

Galadriel’s eyes laboured to open, the haze of sleep still clouding her sight. For a moment, she was unsure of her surroundings, cold and unfamiliar. Her eyes adjusted, coming into sharp focus, and as they did so the rush of memory blew through her like a winter storm, biting and terrible. Not a dream…

Sunlight danced across the silk drapes - delicate, warm, uncaring. The room was lovely, and she hated it for that. She dragged herself out of the bed and stumbled over to the archway and out onto the balcony. Another beautiful day threatened.

She went back inside and crossed the room toward the dresser, the untouched soup now cold and congealed in the bowl. She was hungry. But she dared not eat. The idea of eating anything he had prepared made her stomach twist in knots. She told herself she wanted nothing from him, nothing to do with him. She would rather starve than take anything he had to offer.

With a wilful burst of energy, she picked up the tray and strode over to the door, flinging it back on its hinges. But she halted unexpectedly. Another tray of food had been left for her outside the door. Fruits and cheeses this time, a bread roll, still warm, and a drink of pressed apples.

Her lips twitched, her nostrils flaring with anger. Disgusted by the idea that he had been skulking about just on the other side of the door without her knowing. That this time he had not tried to come in…

Suddenly her arms flew up, tossing the tray and everything on it down the stairs, the sound of crockery and metal ringing about the walls as they clattered down the stone steps. Lashing out again, she kicked the tray that was on the floor with the same stubborn malice, and retreated back into her room, slamming the door, a self-made cell reinforced by pride.

For four days this went on. Galadriel refusing to come out her room, and snubbing the food that was left for her. Halbrand had not tried to see her again, he simply kept bringing her meals and leaving them outside her door, silent and unobtrusive.

Eventually though, the pain of unbearable hunger and thirst forced her from her room. Upon opening the door however, she was perplexed to find no tray had been left. The stone step was empty.

Begrudgingly, she stepped out into the staircase, and began to descend. She assumed whatever kitchen or food store this place had was downward. She tried every door on her way down but to no avail, again all of them were locked. Until, that is, she came upon a small landing to her left. Two doors stood opposite each other, and she tried each in turn. The first did not budge, but the second gave way and she found herself in a bright room with four large windows along the left-hand wall, each stretching twenty feet towards the high ceiling and letting in dazzling shafts of unbroken sunlight that settled upon a long table adorned with a variety of foods. Nothing extravagant, simple fare; cold meats, cheeses, fruits and pickles, and an assortment of breads next to a selection of butters and preserves. And water. Her thirst was excruciating.

Cautiously, Galadriel approached the table, surveying the spread with a distrustful eye. What if some sorcery lay upon it? A power to make her bend to his will, or forget the terrible things he has done. Would that be so bad?

It would be awful. She would be none the wiser, and would succumb to him, a slave of the mind and soul.

She had sworn to take nothing from him. But that vow cracked beneath the weight of thirst, and the deeper fear that she might not care anymore if the food was tampered with or spellbound. Her thirst and hunger had become utterly desperate. And so, taking the pitcher of water, she warily filled a cup and carefully brought it to her lips. It stung against her chapped skin, but the relief of the moisture was instant as it trickled passed her tongue and down her throat, cold and refreshing, cooling the cracked dryness inside her.

She gulped it down. There was nothing careful about it now.

After draining the cup, she swiftly poured herself two more, each going down as fast as the first. She was in the middle of pouring herself a fourth when a voice from behind her made her freeze.

“I wondered how long it would take you to come down.”

She froze.

Halbrand stepped into view from the hearth’s shadow, book in hand. He had seen everything - her thirst, her desperation, her hesitation.

She whipped around. Like a cornered animal, she retreated from him, never dropping her eyes as she skirted around the table, putting it between them, for what little protection it offered.

Halbrand sighed as he stepped a little closer. “Galadriel, have I ever given you reason to fear me?” His gaze was steady and unthreatening, but she trembled all the same.

She wanted to scream at him. How dare he ask that? The very truth of who he was - Sauron, betrayer, deceiver - was reason enough for fear. The lies and betrayal and her imprisonment only added to the terror, the anger, the hurt.

“Please,” he continued, “take a seat. Eat something.

Her stomach twisted in response. The water had refreshed her enough to produce some saliva, and she found her mouth was filling involuntarily at the sight of it all laid out in front of her. But her eyes darted back to him, heavy with suspicion.

He cocked his head slowly, as though weighing the accusation with both offense and disbelief. “It’s just food.”

She remained standing, her eyes straying just for a moment down to the table as she plucked a firm, ripe grape from the bunch. Instantly her eyes were back on him as she warily placed it in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered almost imperceptibly as she bit down, sweet juices bursting in her mouth while she fought to hide any reaction to finally satisfying her hunger. Determined not to lose her composure, she chewed slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on Halbrand as he crossed the room and sat himself at the furthest end of the table.

He fixed himself a plate, casually selecting from the platters that were in front of him, seeming not to care that Galadriel bore holes in him with her gaze.

She slinked away from him, and finding herself at the other end of the table she finally, reluctantly, sat herself down. Unable to fight her hunger any more, she dove into the food that was about her, not bothering with a plate and feeding herself straight from the serving boards.

Though starving, she was surprised at how little she was able to eat, as though her stomach had shrunk in the past few days. When she had finally sated herself, she sat there, unmoving, staring Halbrand down as if she might persuade the air itself to catch fire around him by pure will alone. She loathed needing anything from him - like a prisoner forced to sip from the cup passed through the bars of her cell.

Halbrand, purposefully, took his time to acknowledge it, but eventually broke the silence. “Something on your mind?” His tone was infuriatingly calm.

“Where’s my sword?” Her voice was low. Controlled. Laced with venom.

Halbrand ignored her manner, keeping his own matter-of-fact. “Safe. You needn’t worry about it.”

“I do not want it because I worry about it.” Her voice like ice, her eyes daggers.

A sharp, amused exhale escaped Halbrand’s nose and a fleeting half-smile flickered in the corner of his mouth.

Galadriel clenched her jaw at his reaction, eyes narrowing. “Why are you keeping me here?”

His eyes dropped from her to the table and a shift came over him. “I told you… I care for you. More than I’ve ever…” He trailed off, breath shaking. His eyes met hers again, sorrowful and sincere while hers burnt with a fury that sought to blind him. His voice sunk to a low whisper. “I know I am a monster. And I knew - once you found out - you’d want to flee. But I can’t bring myself to let you go. I do not mean to imprison you. But I don’t know how to lose you.”

He swallowed.

“You are the one light I found in an eternity of darkness. No one’s ever made me feel this way… or cared for me like you.”

“Care for you?” She scoffed. She loathed the sound of his voice, the lies in it. And yet, beneath her fury, a weaker voice whispered... believe him… care for him. That made her angrier still. She grabbed onto that rage like a sword. “How could I care for you?” Then, with a bitter finality, “You’re a murderer.”

Halband winced, “That was long ago.”

“What about recently? You would really have me believe that the wolves and orcs that came to Arnad Dûn was not of your doing? That you don’t have the blood of Shyâl, the two from Éoroskeld, and countless others in Ost-Heryn on your hands?”

His jaw tightened, his stare becoming hard, cold. “Why would I make them attack the village? Why would I endanger you?”

“I don’t know. To find an excuse to be closer to me? To make yourself out to be more trustworthy when you helped to defeat them? I cannot with any rationality weigh the intentions of the insane.”

Her words struck, and his mouth opened - then closed again. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the table. The fire in his eyes dimmed, flickering into silence.

With the words hanging heavy between them, she continued to turn the blade. “My brother is dead because of what you did. I have spent my entire life since then hunting you in perpetual loneliness because of what you did. Exiled by my people because I would not stop, could not stop. I am not about to let all that go because you think you care for me.” She pushed her seat back from the table and rose, a restrained power and fury coursing through every sinew of her body. “I’ll take my meals in my room.” Her voice was cool, numb.

She turned and left, not looking back. She knew how to hurt him, and she was willing to do so.

***

Three weeks passed in restless pacing, broken only by sleep and the silent arrival of meals at her door.

She spent hours upon fruitless hours trying to puzzle a way out. It was useless. She had never tested herself against him, in mind or body. She knew neither his weaknesses nor the breadth of his strength. He was, after all, a maia - bestowed with great power and a governance of sorcery that she knew she was no match for. She could not figure a way out, or how to best him.

The idea gripped her suddenly. If she could not outmatch him now… she would learn how. That thought alone gave her purpose. For the first time in weeks, she left her room to find Halbrand.

She searched the tower without any luck, but eventually found him out on the lawn, plucking an apple from one of the fruit trees in the warm sunshine. She started at this, a look of confusion clouding her face. It was still spring.

“Seasons mean nothing here, do they?” She asked.

“They are what I make them.” he said, turning toward her. A slight glint in his eyes the only clue of his relief at seeing she had left her room.

Galadriel stood there, tense, unable to conjure the words. She knew what she wanted to ask, but she hated the idea that she needed him for anything.

Halbrand cocked an eye brow, scanning her up and down. “I expect you’re here for a reason.” he said, taking a bite of the apple.

Galadriel inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to ask. “I need a library. One with everything - every piece of lore ever recorded.”

Halbrand let out a short, incredulous breath, “Is that all?”

“I assume it’s within your power?” Her voice was steady.

Upon realising she was not joking, he tilted his head and studied her for a moment. “It is… but why do you want it?”

“There’s only so much wearing away of my floor I can do. I need something to pass the time.” It was a thin lie, but she hoped it would be enough to mask her true intentions.

Halbrand smirked, “Fiction is great for that.”

“I want lore.” Her eyes and voice unwavering.

A silence fell between them, and for the slightest of moments, Galadriel thought she saw his eyes narrow, just for a second, before softening again.

“Alright.” He nodded, “I will build you a library.”

Her hands twitched at her sides. Should she wait? Leave and return later?

He chuckled. “It will take time to conjure. Compiling the entire history of the land all in one place is no easy task.”

She swallowed, embarrassed to reveal how much she did not understand. “Of course.” She managed in a quiet voice. She was about to leave, then paused – a thought striking her; a longing from some other version of herself, from a life she could not return to. “And a garden.”

Halbrand raised his eyebrows “A garden as well?”

She shifted her weight, sheepish. She had not planned on requesting this. “Since I’m asking for things… How long would that take?”

“Not as long as the library. If you wanted a pretty illusion, I could whip one up in seconds. But you want something real - to dig, plant, grow? That takes time.”

“Yes, I would prefer that.” Her voice was softer now, unsure of how to feel. His kindness unsettled her.

A flicker of something softer crossed his face - a smile that betrayed more than he intended. Hope, perhaps. “Then it’s yours.”

That was it? She had not expected it to be so easy. Slightly startled, she nodded and turned back towards the tower.

“With one condition.”

Galadriel stopped in her tracks. Her shoulders lowering as if the catch was somehow inevitable and she had been foolish to think otherwise. Slowly, with her head leading, she turned back around, staring at him from under her eyebrows. “What condition?”

“Take breakfast with me,” he said lightly, though the words carried a quiet longing. “Join me for breakfast each morning. In return, the library, the garden… whatever else you need is yours.” His smile laced with the quiet confidence of someone who already knew the answer. He knew she wanted the library for more than she was saying.

Her jaw tightened and she looked about her, her eyes unable to settle on anything as she weighed her options. Her hands curled into fists at her side. “I don’t take kindly to being manipulated.” Her voice dropped - cool, sharp, but with warning.

“I’m just offering you a fair trade.” A wry smile appeared on Halbrand’s face. “I am giving you something, two things in fact. It’s only fair you give me something in return.”

Galadriel smirked and nodded her head, she knew the game he was playing and she detested it. But she needed the library… and it would be nice to spend time in the garden. Anything to get out of that room and perhaps, if she could find what she needed, get out of here.

She sighed, long and indignant. Not a chain, not a cage - but a chair at his table. Yet it bound her all the same. “Fine.” She turned, teeth grinding as she walked away.

Halbrand called after her, light but tinged with melancholy. “I’ll see you tomorrow then!”

She stilled, tension flickering in her jaw, then moved on without a word.

***

That night, she hardly slept. The garden, the books - they lured her like a tether. And despite herself, she found her feet moving the next morning. Reluctantly, she made her way down to the solar with the long table and high windows, assuming this was where breakfast would be held.

As expected, Halbrand was already there, the table set.

“Good morning,” he said jovially as she stepped inside. Nothing about this seemed awkward to him; he strolled across the floor and poured her a cup of tea.

She was already annoyed. Saying nothing, she sat down in defiant silence.

Halbrand took the opposite seat and gestured to the food. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I hope this is alright.”

She glanced down: oats, plain yoghurt, vibrant fruit, nuts, and honey. One of her favourites and he knew it. She gripped her spoon and took a bite. It was delightful, though she would never admit it.

Without once looking at him, she finished the bowl.

“Are we done?”

“You’ve only just arrived. I hoped we might talk a while.” His eyes were warm, his expression quietly encouraging.

“Talk about what, exactly?”

Halbrand ignored the tone. “Come now, you used to enjoy our conversations.”

“The deal was that I eat with you. It said nothing about speaking.” Her tone was cold, but anger boiled underneath.

Halbrand sighed, his gaze distant. “We used to talk for hours... working on the cottage, sharing meals, laughing.” His voice held a trace of regret. “It wasn’t always like this... I’m still the same person you opened your heart to. Nothing’s changed.”

Galadriel’s eyes snapped to his. “Everything has changed. The fact that you don’t see that…” She shook her head. “Even if I could forget the atrocities - how can I ever trust you again? Everything you ever said to me was a lie.”

His eyes dropped. He swallowed. “Not everything.”

Then, just as quickly, he shrugged it off. With a sharp inhale, he lifted his head and his tone turned light again. “Come. I have something to show you.”

He strode to the door and held it open.

Galadriel gave him a sceptical look and stayed seated.

Halbrand sighed mockingly. “Do you want to see your new garden, or not?”

Her eyes lit up just for a moment before reining them in again, concealing her interest with a stubborn composure. She nodded faintly, rising from her seat and exiting the room. Halbrand followed close behind.

They descended the rest of the spiral staircase and stepped out into the day.

“Follow me.” He beckoned, as he turned left out the door. Galadriel followed and they rounded the base of the tower until they came to the northeast side. Looking out into the circular lawn, she could see a new wall had appeared, lower than the outer wall, and straight. In the middle was an archway, through which flashes of colour could be spied.

Halbrand nodded towards it, encouraging her to go the rest of the way alone. She gave him and uneasy look, but curiosity got the better of her and she moved off. He stood back, watching as she crossed the lawn, each step slower than the last, eyes fixed on the opening ahead.

As Galadriel stepped through the doorway, the breath caught in her throat. Beyond the arch, a vast walled garden unfolded awash in golden light, overflowing with colour. It was almost too much to take in - every corner blooming, every leaf radiant, as if the place itself had been waiting for her.

She took a few steps along the path, taking in all about her.

It felt impossible - life flourishing where she had withered. As if the garden defied all that she knew - that beauty could still bloom in a cage.

There were snapdragons and sweet-peas, hydrangeas that bloomed from blue to pink, fuchsias whose petals hung like red and purple dancers, alstroemerias that mirrored the deepening sunset, and agapanthuses whose flowers exploded like white fireworks at the tip of many solitary stems.

Amongst it all there were winter primroses and spring tulips, bluebells and clovers all growing together as if the time of year meant nothing, the seasons blurring together like the echoed notes of a dreamlike song. Draped along the walls were vibrant pink-flowering bougainvillea from the far southern regions, and in the south-west corner there was a small in-built courtyard, with arches adorned in purple grapevines, housing an elegant multi-tiered fountain at its centre. The entire garden was a myriad of colours and scents that set the senses alight.

It was beautiful.

Galadriel could do nothing but gaze at it in wonder, soaking up the sights and smells that enveloped her in a resplendent celebration of life in bloom.

Overwhelmed, a tear slipped down her cheek. She did not notice him approach.

“I hoped you’d like it,” he said softly, almost reverently.

Hastily, she wiped away the tear before turning around. She said nothing. Not out of defiance this time, but because she was wholly lost for words.

She did like it, very much so.

It was splendid, and quite beyond anything she had imagined. In fact, it was possibly the most beautiful gift she had ever been given. But she could never admit it. Stuck for what to say, she simply gave the slightest of nods, her eyes fluttering to the ground.

A knowing smile spread across Halbrand’s face. “I’m glad. I put a bench over near the east wall where you can read your books, or you can use the sunbed in the patioed area if you prefer. I also left a plant-bed empty, in case you wanted to grow anything of your own.”

She hesitated. She was not sure what compelled her to say it, the words caught behind her pride, but they slipped out anyway, just a whisper. “Thank you.”

Halbrand smiled again, sincere this time. “You’re welcome… I’ll leave you to look around.” He gave her one final, lingering look before he turned, walking back to the tower.

Chapter Text

The next few days went by very much in the same fashion. Galadriel begrudgingly attended breakfasts as asked, making very little effort to hide how insufferable she found it and still refusing to engage in conversation, though not for lack of trying on Halbrand’s part. But for now, she spent most of her time in her new garden, becoming familiar with all its colours and scents, finding what flowers grew best where, and which parts of the garden received the most sunshine.

She did not know it, but Halbrand would often watch her from the tower, wondering how she liked her gift, and whether or not she would ever learn to forgive him. He was no fool. He knew keeping her here against her will would not soften her heart. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to let her go, too afraid that if he did, he would not see her again in all the long years of his life. Or if he did, it would be as enemies. A thought he could not stomach. For now, his strategy was no more complicated than waiting and seeing. If only there was a way to make her understand…

Today, Galadriel thought she might sow some medicinal herbs and plants in the bed Halbrand had left empty for her. She had brought some supplies along, including a few choice seeds on the off-chance they found somewhere they could stay for a while. Of course, at the time, Galadriel had imagined something quite different to her current situation. Finding an abandoned house perhaps that could be repaired, or building a home from scratch in the shelter of a small forest somewhere by a stream. With Halbrand as Halbrand, as she had known him. Not what he revealed himself to be, and certainly not his prisoner. Instead, she was here - on a surreal island of supernatural days. Strange but beautiful flora surrounded her. And in the vast nothingness of this desolate moor, she harboured a heavy heart.

Figuring that the days were perpetually pleasant here, she determined that the seeds should grow well enough planted straight into the ground. And so, creating shallow furrowed rows in the soil, Galadriel planted a decent stock of medicinal staples: yarrow for wound healing, camomile for sleep, meadowsweet as a pain reliever, and calendula for its antiseptic qualities. And one more. Galadriel had also brought with her some aconite seeds, ‘wolf’s bane’. As a plant for healing, it was another good pain reliever when used topically.

But dangerous if ingested.

Even in only small amounts, it would stop a heart in seconds.

She looked down at the tiny black seeds in her hands, wrinkled like dried beetle shells. As she thumbed them across her palm, a dark thought brewed in her mind. She hesitated, unsure whether she should plant them, staring at them with glassy eyes.

A low rumbling growl caught her attention. A muffled roar like flames being stoked was emanating from the base of the tower, or perhaps underneath. Then came the rhythmic clang of metal on metal somewhere down below.

Her gaze strayed back to the seeds. Carefully, and with a deep breath, she planted one solitary seed in amongst the others. She covered them over with a thin layer of topsoil, and using water from the fountain, she bid them to grow.

***

At breakfast the next morning, after eating in her usual silence, Galadriel looked up from the cup of tea she held between her hands. She studied Halbrand for a while as he read his book and sipped his brew. He had become accustomed to the lack of conversation and was content to indulge her reticence, for the time being at least. She watched intently the way his Adam’s apple glided beneath his skin as he swallowed, and for a moment she allowed herself to remember what it was like to nuzzle her face against the hollow of his neck, how safe she had felt held close against him that day the branch fell in the storm.

A dull ache fell heavy about her chest and she swallowed hard, trying to push it down. Her eyes fell, drifting back to the table where the leftover food remained. As she stared at it, a curiosity snagged at her mind, and for the first time since Halbrand trapped her here, she volunteered to break the silence. “I heard noises coming from the base of the tower yesterday.”

Halbrand looked up, surprised and faintly delighted. His lips twitched slightly in the corners, and his eyes settled on her with the warmth of the gentle spring sunshine in an attempt to encourage her. “I have a forge down there.”

To his astonishment, Galadriel continued her line of enquiry. “And what is it you’re making?”

One side of his mouth curled as he guided his eyes back to his book, sipping more of his tea. “Something special.”

“You’ve not forgotten about my library, I hope.”

Halbrand chuckled softly, “No, I haven’t forgotten. It’ll be finished soon.”

“And the food…” Galadriel persisted. “I’m curious… the majority of it is fresh, not much seems dried, or cured, yet there are no animals here, no kitchen garden, no way of keeping fresh dairy as far as I can see, and certainly no traders. Where does the food come from?”

Halbrand gazed across at her now, a strange look came over him as he pierced her with watchful eyes. “If I tell you, you may stop eating again. And I don’t want that.”

She scrutinised her plate with renewed suspicion, a bite of honey-dipped bread and a piece of melon still remained there. “I think I can guess…” Sorcery… Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Then, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like to be able to grow some vegetables and fruits of my own. There are the grape vines in the new courtyard, and the apple trees on the lawn of course, but it would be nice for some more variety.”

“Is what I provide not enough?” He had a puzzled look about him, trying to guess where this new found shift in her manner had come from. She had been so reluctant to engage with him until now, and this sudden curious mood, though welcome, felt odd.

“It’s not that. I just prefer something… real – a more natural alternative.” Her tone was light and there was an innocence in her features. But counter to her intentions, this put him on his guard.

“You want to grow food in the garden I created with sorcery… and somehow this is different to me conjuring the food directly?”

“It just feels… better somehow. More authentic. I would prefer it.” She stared at him, smiling as harmlessly as she could, luring him into yielding.

Halbrand sensed something stirring behind her eyes - a quiet intent he feared he might come to regret indulging. And yet, he could not help himself. There was a part of him that wanted to give her anything she asked, as if each small concession might come together to form the foundation of something more, each one a tentative step toward rebuilding… something. He was not sure what. For now, at least, he saw no harm in granting her this. He inclined his head, surrendering to her wishes.

Her smile broadened as she exhaled gratefully, before turning her attention back to the last few sips of her tea.

For Halbrand, that smile alone was worth it.

***

Another two weeks drifted by with Galadriel checking on her seedlings day-by-day. They were the only thing in the garden that had had to germinate and grow from scratch, and yet even they seemed to be maturing unnaturally quickly, now with broad leaves and flower spikes already climbing higher by the day.

The fruits and vegetables she had asked for appeared the very next day after requesting them, and they too now were ripening, almost ready to be harvested.

It was strange how calm she felt in the garden, tending to the plants and nurturing her own little bed. It almost felt like it had back in her own garden in Arnad Dûn, or would have done, if not for the constant ache of captivity.

The evening had been particularly pleasant, and she had spent it lounging on the sunbed, catching the last of the shallow rays before they dipped below the garden wall.

She had avoided it all day, but now, beneath the cover of dusk, she tiptoed over to her medicinal flower bed, and bent down to check on the aconite. A promising flower bud had appeared. Though still furled, the petals had begun to darken - deepening into a dusky violet. Waiting to open. It would not be long now, a day two at most.

Another plant suddenly caught her eye. In amongst the yarrow just to the right of the aconite, a large and ugly barbed thistle had embedded itself, already a foot tall. How had it got there? Annoyed, she wrapped her hand tightly about its thick, spiny stem and yanked at it, hard. She gasped, swiftly pulling her hand away and clutching it with her other. The thistle was in deep and had not relented an inch. That’s not right... It should have come out. It still sat there obstinately as blood began to trickle from the gash it had left along her palm.

She hissed as she sucked her teeth, the wound stinging keenly. It needed binding. Pressing yarrow leaves into her palm, she cast one last glance at the stubborn thistle before turning toward the tower. She had linens in her bed chamber she could use to dress it. The fading light followed her as she retreated inside.

Back in her room, she wrestled with strips of linen, trying to wrap her hand using only her left and her teeth. She sighed heavily every time she failed to get it tight enough, or when the cloth slipped from her grasp. After what must have been twenty attempts, her shoulders rose and fell in a final exasperated huff.

She needed two hands.

Her eyes closed tightly and her lips pressed firmly together. Frustration and resignation wrestled on her tongue and behind her eyelids.

There was nothing for it. She opened her eyes again and rising, she gathered the cloth, and strode out, her mouth a hard line and her steps stiff with reluctant purpose.

The usual game of furtive, locked doors played out as she attempted to find Halbrand. But tonight, the door opposite the solar stood ajar, spilling warm light. Inside, he sat in a cosy parlour where firelight and candles played across velvet furnishings.

He seemed to be deep in thought as she entered and her presence startled him. “Galadriel. What are you doing here?”

She took a deep breath, her good hand gripping her wrist as she answered. Her words were slow and reluctant. “I hurt my hand trying to pull a weed out of the garden. I can’t bind it by myself.” Her eyes wandered shamefully.

“Let me see.” His voice floated across the room, aching with softness. He stretched out his hand, imploring her to come closer.

Cautiously, she crossed the room towards him, and slowly sat herself down on the couch opposite. Her eyes alert now, trained on him, guarding against any perceived threat. She had not been this close to him in all the weeks here, and was now acutely aware of how vulnerable she felt.

However close she felt they were, it was still not enough for him to examine her hand effectively. With an amused huff, as if he had guessed her reservations, he slid himself from his couch and bent himself down in front of her, kneeling only a foot away.

She recoiled, shielding her hand and leaning herself against the backrest.

He sighed through his nose and tilted his head, eyes calm with quiet reassurance. “Galadriel, if you want it dressing, I need to see.”

Her eyelids flickered. Tension striving to narrow them, while fear battled to keep them open, wide, and watching.

Slowly, agonisingly so, she leant back in and unfurled her hand.

The moment his skin touched hers she flinched, fingers tensing. The last time he had touched her was when she had a knife to his throat. His hands just as gentle then as they were now. His thumb glanced across the heel of her palm, tracing the skin around the wound, coaxing her to relax within his hold. Seemingly against her own will, her hand softened in his, and she watched his brows furrow in concentration as he examined the cut.

“I could heal this… if you wanted.” His voice was low, eyes lifting to meet hers from beneath his brow, certain she would refuse. But still, he hoped.

“No sorcery.” She answered, the distrust hung heavy in her voice.

He nodded, and picking up the linen, began to dress the wound. His hands were warm, and careful. Wrapping the cloth around her as if he held something so precious it might break under the slightest of pressures.

How can these hands be so gentle? She thought. These hands that have known such violence? It was almost unbearable to be held by him – the way he glided the cloth over her skin, the way his fingers curled about her wrist to keep her steady, soft but firm. His scent drifted across the space between them, and despite herself - despite everything - she noticed the lines of his face in the candlelight. The way his waves tumbled in front of his face as he bent his head to concentrate, the softness around his mouth when he was not forcing a smile. She told herself she was simply watching him - for danger. And yet… she could not look away.

“Done.” He said, tying the two ends into a neat knot around the back of her wrist, before settling his hands about her, her own small hand lost within his tender hold. When he looked up, she was staring at him, eyes brimming with unshed tears. His lips parted softly, unconsciously, at the sight of her. A sharp mix of guilt and sorrow clutched at his chest. “Galadriel…” He whispered. One of his hands strayed up the inside of her forearm, his fingers ghosting across her skin. “I’m so-”

But Galadriel wrenched her hand from his grasp, recoiling once again, her spine flush against the back of the couch, every muscle alert. For a moment, she held his gaze, her eyes wide and fearful, though this time there was a part of her that was terrified of herself. She longed for him to say something cruel, something to make it easier. She could not let him finish.

Breaking away, she quickly rose from the seat and went to leave.

“Please wait…” Halbrand called after her, the plea lingering in the air.

To her surprise, she stopped. Her back still turned to him, her eyes fixed on the door.

A silence fell on the room.

Quietly, as if she were a wild deer he loathed to startle for fear of her fleeing, he spoke. “I was going to wait until tomorrow… but if you’re up to it, your library is ready. If you’ll let me, I’d like to show you it.”

Torn, she stood frozen. The library… The door remained in her sights, and she wanted nothing more than to escape his presence… but if she was to find any upper hand, any weakness she could exploit…

There was always the aconite, but who is to say that would even work on him.

She needed something more.

But even as she was debating with herself, her body betrayed her, something in his voice stirred the part of her she was trying hardest to forget. A hangover from a time she would do anything for him. Against her will, her fear began to crack - not dissolving completely, but shifting, giving way to something just as dangerous… curiosity. She stood facing him now, and against her better judgement, she whispered, “Show me.”

Relief swept across Halbrand’s face as he let out a quiet sigh, as if he had been holding his breath as he waited for her response. “It’s at the top of the tower, come with me.” He moved toward the door, but as he passed her, his pace faltered, just for a second, but long enough for the air between them to tighten, before continuing on.

Leading her up the staircase, Halbrand climbed higher and higher, and to Galadriel it felt as though the stairs seemed to go on forever, there were so many - far beyond what she thought could fit in the tower. Why did it need to be all the way at the top?

Finally, Halbrand stopped at the topmost door and standing aside, he gestured for her to open it. “After you.”

With a cautious look, she passed by him and turned the handle. Pushing the door open, her mouth dropped, understanding in an instant why he had built it here. The roof was made entirely of glass – a mosaic of intricate shapes and patterns, fitting together to create a high atrium through which the stars shimmered, quiet and endless across the wide sapphire sky.

She took a few tentative steps into the room, her eyes still lifted to the glittering ceiling. For a moment she simply stood there, lost in the quiet brilliance of the stars shimmering through the glass. Then, slowly, her gaze began to fall.

What she saw drew the breath from her lungs. From floor to ceiling, every inch of the walls was lined with towering bookcases and scroll-laden shelves, packed tight with tomes, manuscripts, and forgotten scriptures. There were stacks upon stacks of it, separated by a floating promenade that swept all the way around the room. The sheer scale of it overwhelmed her with wonder. It was hard to know where to look; the space felt boundless, too vast to take in all at once. Her head turned, then her shoulders, and without quite realising it, she began to spin - slowly, awestruck, as if trying to wrap herself around it, to let the library show her what it held, piece by piece.

Halbrand had slipped in through the doorway and was watching her intently as she took it all in. His breath caught, shallowed, then steadied again, though a tightness gripped his chest. Heat stirred low beneath his ribs, a quiet thrum rising beneath his skin. Something about the way she moved through the room, the awe in her gaze, the way her fingers skimmed the spines of the books like a lover’s touch, sending a quiet ache through him. As if, somehow, she was touching a part of him too.

“Will it do?” He struggled to still his breathing, unable to unfix his eyes from her as she floated about the room, her fingers still brushing the surfaces as she passed them. An eternity seemed to go by as he waited for her to answer.

Eventually she settled, still marvelling at the array of histories all about her. A long, slow breath escaped her mouth as the size of her task became apparent, daunting her a little. She did not turn to face him, perhaps she was worried he would guess the intention in her eyes if she did. Instead, looking up at the stars, she murmured the words he wanted to hear. “It’s perfect.”

Halbrand’s ribs caved as he released the breath trapped there. His chest rising and expanding again as he drank in the air between them. “I know you said you didn’t want it, but I included a fiction section for you.”

At this, she turned to look at him now. A softness was in her gaze and her lips twitched as if toying with the notion of a faint smile. She tried to fight it. She did not want to instil any hope in him, nor could she stomach the idea of betraying herself. Her jaw tightened as her gaze fell.

However much she was trying to hide it, Halbrand noticed the slight change in her expression. He knew he had no right to want anything from her. And yet, when she looked at him like that… “I can light more candles if you wish to look over anything tonight?”

“No, that’s alright,” she answered. “It’s late and I would prefer to start fresh in the morning.”

Halbrand nodded, “It’s even more impressive in the light of the day.” He said, smiling, and somewhat self-congratulating.

“I’m sure it is.” She said, before walking back across the room to the door. She paused as she passed by him, her eyes circling up to his face then back to the floor again, before descending in to the stairwell.

As they approached her bedroom door she stopped and turned towards him while he came down the last few steps behind her. “Thank you for helping me with my hand. And the library is…”

“You’re very welcome.” He interjected, his voice low and soft.

A deep unease seeped into Galadriel’s stomach as he looked at her. The way he had the night of the spring festival before he pulled her into his arms. Unbidden, the memory slid in - the warmth of his hands gliding over her waist, the sensation of his breath against her cheek. The way he whispered in her ear.

She shuddered and backed away, her hand groping for the door handle, her eyes warily fixed on him. Her fingers found it, and clasped it tightly. “Good night then.” She whispered slipping inside and closing the door behind her.

Halbrand’s voice penetrated softly through the door, “Good night.” There was a pause, before the sound of his feet descending the stairs faded into the night.

***

The morning after, once breakfast was done, Galadriel made her way straight to the library. Halbrand had been right, it was even more breath-taking by day. Light poured through the glass roof in a gentle flood, soft as spring rain, catching on the dust that drifted lazily in the air. Every corner gleamed beneath it, aglow with the sun’s golden touch.

She was not sure where to start, but she knew at least anything newer than the last thousand years would not be of much use. She had not wanted to narrow down her request to a particular era in case it raised suspicion. So, she began pulling out various books and manuscripts from the time of the War of Wrath, of Morgoth’s fall and Sauron’s defeat… Halbrand’s defeat…

The idea that they were one and the same still had not quite taken root. He had shown her none of the terrors he was apparently capable of, except of course, keeping her here. Then there was his prowess on the battlefield, his ability to cut down the wolves at the tavern so freely.

How did he come to be so mortally hurt by one in the woods?

She wondered at this… it made no sense that he should be so gravely struck down. The thought sparked her search anew. She worked her way backwards, hopeful that there would be something useful she could turn to her advantage, something she could use to weaken him or catch him off guard. But what intrigued her most were any records on the creation of the werewolves and Sauron’s hold over them, particularly if they hinted at a hidden flaw.

She read until her eyes ached and her fingers were ink-stained. Day and night blurred together as she scoured forgotten treatises and crumbling scrolls, chasing shadows through ancient tongues and cryptic marginalia.

Her meals grew cold beside her, often untouched, and sleep came only in fits - her head sometimes resting upon open volumes before she startled awake to resume again.

Each discovery led to another question, each lead a tantalising shadow that slipped from her grasp just as she thought it solid. She uncovered old tongues she had not spoken in centuries, read obscure accounts penned by trembling hands of scribes who may have known Sauron only by rumour, or perhaps by dread. She translated, cross-referenced, compared. She hunted through epics and elegies, military records and obscure monastic reports of the War of Wrath. Even the Noldorin compendiums, which she once regarded as dry and self-important, became sources of desperate hope.

And through it all, her mind raced. A thousand theories bloomed and withered in the span of an hour. She was chasing shadows, she knew - and yet some part of her was convinced the truth must lie here, buried like a cursed blade, waiting to be drawn.

For five straight days she searched. The large table in the centre of the room and the floor about it had become an unsightly mess of half opened books and scattered parchments strewn about in haphazard piles.

Late on the fifth day she finally stopped. Exhausted and in need of a break, she sighed heavily, leaning her hands on the table. As she stood, hunched over the various tomes and scriptures she had been pouring over night and day to no avail, she felt a rage rising within her. She slammed her fist on the table in frustration.

How could she be so stupid?

In five days of almost non-stop searching she had found nothing and had only barely scratched the surface of what was housed in the vast collection. It would take months, years even to search through it all. And what is worse: she could spend all that time sifting through every single page in this place and still find nothing of importance. After all, even if he had not guessed her intentions, why would Halbrand allow her to see anything that could be used against him? Why would he leave it in? He wouldn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

She straightened up, and took a deep breath, allowing her eyes to close for a moment, trying to steady herself and think through her predicament. As she opened them again, she noticed the last shaft of sunlight illuminating a shelf high up on the promenade. It seemed to linger on it, as if the sun itself had stalled in the sky. She frowned at it, intrigued. With a quiet curiosity, she made her way over, climbing the stairs and up onto the narrow mezzanine above. As she got there, the last sliver of sunlight loitered on a plain, unmarked book that sat slightly proud of the others on the shelf.

Carefully, she slid it out, turning it over in her hands. It was unadorned and completely unremarkable, with no title, author, or any other information of any kind to be found on its leather-bound covers. She opened it, and began to read. As she did so, her eyes widened in disbelief.

***

“What is this?” The book crashed down onto the low parlour table in front of where Halbrand was sitting. He looked up at her, her arms folded across her body and an incredulous look in her eyes.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he said, as if unaware of what she meant.

Her eyes were aflame, her voice thick with venom. “That book has things written that go against everything the world knows to be true.”

“Does it?” He deadpanned, lifting an eyebrow.

“You twist the story of the War of Wrath. You slander the Valar, the Host of the West. You paint Morgoth as a tyrant, yes, but somehow yourself as a victim. After all you helped him destroy. How dare you?”

“I dare,” he said, standing slowly, “because it is a truth that needs to be told. History is full of victories and defeats. When writing the stories of this world, no one ever asks the loser for their side.”

“So… what? What was your plan? That I would find this and read it and suddenly see things from your perspective? You were not his victim – you were his lieutenant!” Galadriel was spitting fire now.

Halbrand’s eyes lost focus, as though peering back into a time long buried.

“Do you think Morgoth trusted even his most faithful?” he asked, voice barely above a breath. “He trusted no one. Not truly. Least of all me.”

Galadriel said nothing. Something about the way his voice fell enraptured her. Her skin was bristling, but her silence urged him on.

“He saw greatness in me, yes. And that was precisely why he feared me. I was his creation, but not his puppet. I understood order. Purpose. Discipline. Things he loathed. He delighted in chaos. And when I began to question him - when I spoke of structure, of peace through power - he saw it as defiance.”

Halbrand’s mouth curled bitterly. “So he broke me.”

He took a step back, gaze falling to the floor as though the memory itself weighed too heavily. “I do not mean punishment, Galadriel. I mean unmaking. Every day, a new method. Fire that burned only thought. Chains that crushed pride but left the bones intact. He opened my mind like a book and tore out pages. Replaced them with horrors I dare not speak aloud.”

Galadriel’s breath caught. She had seen cruelty, but this… this was something else. She shuddered but did not interrupt.

“He fed me lies - about the Valar, about the world, about myself - until I no longer knew where his voice ended and mine began. He would make me kneel, and when I did, he laughed. When I resisted, he smiled wider still. To him, suffering was loyalty. Pain was proof of submission.”

He turned away now, ashamed. “And I submitted, in the end. I became his black hand. His architect of fear. But not because I believed in his cause, not anymore. Because I had nothing left. He carved away my will, my name, until I was only Sauron - the ‘Abhorred’. The only thing left of me was the thing he wanted.”

Galadriel took a step closer. The fire in her had cooled, replaced by something quieter. “I saw your works,” she said, almost gently. “The towers, the pits… the cruelty. That was not the hand of a broken man. That was mastery.”

His smile was faint and tragic. “No. That was imitation. I became the monster he said I was. Because I knew no other way to be.” He turned back to her, eyes no longer hard with pride, but glistening with something older. “You look at me and see shadow. But Morgoth? He made the shadow. And then he buried me in it.”

Galadriel’s voice dropped, bitter and cold. “And yet… you still wrought darkness upon Middle-earth. Together. Mercilessly. Pitilessly. And when he fell, you should have fallen with him.”

“I tried,” Halbrand murmured.

That gave her pause.

“I stood before Eönwë,” he continued. “I cast down my arms. I spoke words of repentance. Perhaps I meant them. Perhaps I didn’t. He told me to sail west and stand before the Valar. To let them decide. But I knew what waited for me in Aman: shame, judgment, and a sentence shaped by those who never set foot in our wars.”

“You fled.” Disgust hung in every one of her words.

“I fled,” he confirmed.
“I chose exile over chains. And for a time… I thought I might build something better. Something new.” He stepped closer, voice softer now. “Not another Angband. Not domination. A kingdom of order. Of peace. I thought I could guide them, the scattered, broken things Morgoth left behind. Even the orcs. Especially the orcs. They were made for torment. I thought perhaps they could be… more.”

Galadriel stared at him, arms slowly uncrossing.

“But someone else had survived. Adar.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the name.

“He called himself ‘Father’. He saw what I was doing - rallying the orcs, leading them - and he hated it. Said they were his children, that I was enslaving them again. He thought they should be free.”

“And he stabbed you…” Galadriel’s voice came softer now, realisation slowly creeping over her.

“With Morgoth’s crown,” Halbrand said quietly.

“The scars on your back…”

Halbrand nodded in response. “The iron still burned with the old master’s malice. I felt it twist inside me, not just in body, but in spirit. It shattered the will I had gathered. My form was broken. My soul… scattered.”

Galadriel’s fury was fading now, replaced by something uncertain. She listened.

“Years passed. Maybe centuries. Slowly, painfully, I reformed. The shape you see now - this face, this body - it is the echo of what I was. But when I returned, Adar was waiting. He knew. He knew I would return. I was still weak, still finding my strength again. It was easy for him to capture me. And he feared what I might do.”

He looked away. “So he chained me. To the cliffs above the Icebay of Forochel. A place the sun never reached, where the tide surged high and fast. Twice a day, I drowned. And in between… I waited. Hunger gnawed, madness whispered. I begged for death, but it never came. And the water always returned.”

Galadriel was motionless. Even her breath seemed held.

“A thousand years,” Halbrand whispered. “And when the chains broke, I didn’t even know if it was the sea or the Valar that had grown tired of me. I only knew I was free.”

He looked up, meeting her eyes. “And then… I walked. I don’t know how long I wandered… but the only way to go was south. I stopped here and there, Ost Heryn and other places… but something kept driving me, kept pushing me on. South. Always south. Until I found you.”

Galadriel said nothing for a long time. Then, her voice came, faint and trembling: “You deserved to suffer.”

His gaze dropped and a quiet bitterness crept into his voice. “I did suffer.”

“But…” A tear slipped down her cheek, unbidden. “No one should suffer like that.”

His eyes snapped up to her. Saying nothing. He simply stood, struck by her words. They were the last thing he expected to hear.

Silence hung about the room. And in that silence, something passed between them - not forgiveness, not yet. But pity. A fracture in her fury. A hairline crack in the wall.

In the stillness, there was only the weight of his gaze and the gravity of all he had endured. His eyes haunted by the horrors. Galadriel wanted to look away, but she could not. It was all she could do to not crumble under the intensity of his stare.

“You laughed…” He smiled, but there was only sadness in it.

A look of confusion clouded Galadriel’s face as she waited for him to go on.

“When I asked your name and I said I’d have to make one up. You laughed and I knew it was the sweetest sound I would ever hear to the end of my days. You were kind, and welcomed me in. And as I got to know you I found you to be a force to be reckoned with, stronger than the mountains, gentle as the summer breeze. Resilient through all you have endured and still able to find such generosity. Still with so much love to give. You have a way of looking at the world that makes everything seem new again. Like the morning breaking after a starless night, you are the first light I have known in an eternity of darkness. I know I don’t deserve you. I know that even now I am not free of the things he did… I did… I’m not free of his corruption. But I can’t help but thinking that I was guided to you. Why else would I be allowed to live, if somehow I could not be redeemed?”

A solitary tear fell upon Halbrand’s cheek, and for a moment, all was still again.

She moved toward him, slowly, as though crossing some unseen threshold.

Her eyes never left his, but something in them had changed - no longer burning with rage, nor wide with horror, but softer now. Uncertain.

Her hand lifted, trembling slightly. For a heartbeat, it hovered - tentative, unwilling.

Then, as if drawn by something she did not understand and was powerless to resist, she touched his face so gently it could have been mistaken for a breeze.

Halbrand flinched at first, as if her kindness hurt more than any blade, but he did not pull away. He closed his eyes, as though her touch, her nearness, was more than he could bear.

She stared at him, and as she did so she felt a shift within her. Her guard dropped, exposing a choking pity, naked and raw. For a moment they simply stood there, still as statues, locked in a silence so heavy it pressed against the walls.

Then she drew her hand back, her fingers brushing down the line of his jaw as they slipped away. Her gaze dropped to the floor. And without a word, she turned.

As he opened his eyes again, the last Halbrand saw of her that night was her walking from the room, leaving him standing in the ruins of all he had spoken.

Galadriel, however, did not retreat to her room. Instead, she staggered outside, only half knowing where she was going. Something deep in her soul compelling her to the garden. Wracked and hollow she stood there in the middle of the path, the beauty of her surroundings dulled by the falling darkness as she stared out into nothingness. It took a while for her to come back to herself, and when she did, she found she stood next to her medicinal plant bed. The aconite had erupted in the last few days and the flower spike now stood tall, adorned with a long purple cluster of downward hanging hoods.

She paused for a moment, as if weighing up some heavy debate in her mind.

How much would be enough?

How might it taste? Would he notice?

It would be easy, she thought.

But not right.

Then finally, she bent down and grabbed it at its base. With a swift twisting motion, she ripped it from the ground. Then, stripping the stem of its flowers she crushed them in her hand before casting them into the air, letting the wind carry away the remnants of her resolve like ash from a dying fire.

Chapter Text

When Halbrand came to breakfast the next morning, he found Galadriel already there – a new and welcome development. She had just finished laying down their bowls when he stepped into the room.

“What’s this?” he asked, making no effort to hold back his surprise.

“What does it look like?” She replied lightly, ignoring the hint of mockery in his question. “It’s breakfast. A real one. Not one made of thin air.”

Halbrand cocked an eyebrow, mild disbelief playing on his face. “And you made me a plate?”

Galadriel exhaled at this being commented on, though she knew to expect it. Her pride and sympathies were in a tangle after the events of the night before, knotting together ever more densely like a bramble left to grow wild. “Seemed only polite.” Her tone was becoming increasingly clipped. He had only said two things to her but he had somehow already managed to annoy her. She found herself now regretting this gesture, born out of pity and something else she did not care to admit.

She sat herself down in her usual spot at the opposite end of the table to Halbrand’s customary seat and distracted herself with eating. She decided she could not care less about waiting for him.

A slow smirk crept across Halbrand’s lips as his rounded the table to look on what she had made for them – a warm mix of stewed berries, crushed hazelnuts and honey with a side of oat cakes. “Where did you find the honey?” He asked casually.

“There was some leftover from yesterday. It needed sweetening and there are no beehives here.” She replied, not liking to admit that an element of this breakfast was not wholly ‘natural’.

He grinned – another infuriating jab at her misplaced charity. There was no hint in his demeanour that what unfolded yesterday evening had affected him in the slightest. She found his ability to pivot so effortlessly back to a state of arrogant teasing unsettling.

As for herself, she had spent most of the night thinking on it. His account of events so different from everything she had known - the way he suffered at the hands of Morgoth. The way he suffered again at the whim of Adar and the tides. She considered whether or not she could believe any of it. He said he did not want to lie to her any more, but he had already lied to her so many times it was hard to believe he could stop.

To Galadriel’s surprise, he did not sit. Instead he picked up his bowl with a carefree ease and came to sit in the chair closest to her around the corner of the table.

“Must you sit there?” She said, with a sharp, incredulous intake of breath. Her skin bristled with the idea of him being this close.

He shrugged. “Seems as good a place as any.” Taking his spoon, he scooped up a helping of berries and brought it to his mouth, suddenly stopping short. “Should I be worried?”

Galadriel scoffed and rolled her eyes, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I should think not. Not after you ripped up the aconite.”

Galadriel froze.

A beat passed as Halbrand ate the mouthful of food, raising his eyebrows and nodding approvingly.

A pang of fear gripped her chest and her eyes widened with dismay. Her entire body had locked up, save for her trembling. “You knew…” Her voice shaky and thin.

“Of course, I knew.” He said, with an amused hum, he took another spoonful. “I know everything that goes on within these walls. It would never have worked on me, by the way. The interesting bit was seeing whether or not you’d do it. I’m pleased to see you thought better of it in the end.”

Her breath held. Every fibre of her was tense. She was unable to look away from him, alert to any possible retaliation that might come.

But he simply sat there, eating, at ease and unbothered as if none of it was a surprise or fazed him in the slightest.

After a short while her gaze dropped, shame and embarrassment seeping from her bones and permeating through to her skin, blooming into a flushed pink across the surface.

They ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. All the while she thought of everything he had said to her last night. His tale of suffering, his desire for redemption, the way he spoke about her with such aching hope and longing in his eyes that she might provide it for him. The pity it evoked, and the stirring of something deeper. Something that caused her to stroke his face at the sight of his tears, and cast away any ideas she had about harming him. She hated how easily she crumbled. Hated how he had so effortlessly ensnared her with his sorrowful eyes and flattery. A moment of weakness she would not repeat.

“Don’t torture yourself.” Halbrand’s voice abruptly interrupted her thoughts. His tone was still infuriatingly untroubled and his smirk had returned with a renewed sense of relish. “If anything, I expected you to have more numerous and elaborate schemes than a simple poisoning. But I suppose it’s a difficult thing, trying to kill what you love.”

Her head snapped up, and with an icy stare she wanted to make what she said next as clear and uncompromising as she could. “I do not love you. I have never loved you and I never will.”

It did not have the desired effect. Instead, Halbrand’s smile widened as he sipped from his cup. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself.”

She shoved her chair back, the legs scraping harshly across the floor. Rising angrily, she stormed out of the room.

Halbrand watched her leave, a ghost of that smirk still clinging to his lips.

***

Galadriel was beside herself as she paced her room. Anger rising in her with every step, increasingly working herself up as she debated with his words. She was so agitated her hands would not stay still, clenching and twitching before lashing out as if to swat away his preposterous notions.

In the end, after realising she was not going to settle, she took off her dress and re-clothed herself in more practical attire; a supple pair of deerskin trousers and a simple grey sleeveless tunic, shorter than is usual, and laced at the sides under each arm. She knew she needed to do something with this restless energy - too excruciating, too distracting to do anything else. So, she left her room and found a shaded spot out on the lawn where she proceeded to practice her fighting forms.

She moved through a sequence of well-practiced strikes and counters, honing her motions, strengthening defensive stances, and sharpening her technique and footwork. It felt good to do something physical, to release weeks of pent-up energy and frustration.

Her pace quickened, linking ever more complex moves together in a deadly ballet of twists and lunges. Striking her invisible foe with lethal intent.

Her movements became more erratic, lashing out at nothing, everything, a fraught and frantic tirade of desperate strikes, each more forceful and undisciplined as the last.

Until finally she flung herself onto her knees, meeting the ground with an unceremonious thud.

Her breathing was heavy. Sweat slicked her skin from the effort.

A look of anguish sat gloomily across her brow. It had not helped her mood anywhere near as much as she had hoped.

“Making new enemies, are we?” Halbrand’s voice called to her from behind.

Rolling her eyes and rising to her feet, she gave him a scornful look. “My only enemy is you.”

“Ah, well, perhaps me and the breeze can become allies. We might stand a better chance against all that anger you have boiling away under the surface. Why are you so angry today anyway?” He had come up to meet her now and looked on her with the same irritatingly amused grin from earlier.

Galadriel’s response broke through gritted teeth. “Shall I make a list?”

“Was it what I said at breakfast?” He looked at her from under his brow, coyishly, feigning guilt. “I can’t help but say what I see.”

“What you see is nothing.” She snapped, “You wouldn’t recognise love if it slapped you in the face.”

“And if it touched me softly on the face instead?” His eyes gleamed as the corner of his mouth curled upwards.

She advanced on him now, her nose scrunched tight and her mouth upturned into a snarl. “Do not mistake pity for anything more than what it is – a condescending gesture only extended to the poor and wretched. The only feelings I have for you are repulsion and hatred. I would sooner die than lose sight of that. The next time I touch you it will be to strike you down!”

She stood just inches away, tilting her head up to meet his gaze, seething with a fury that made his hair stand on end, and he met the raging tide of her eyes with his own unsettling stare. But it was not one of anger, or wrath, but excitement. He enjoyed seeing her so impassioned, so animated. A firecracker, both dangerous and delightful.

Halbrand huffed, intrigued, “Shall we test that?” He backed away and picked up two sticks from the floor. He tossed one of them to Galadriel, who found upon catching it that it had transformed into a long straight staff. She looked back at Halbrand, whose own stick had equally reformed into a lengthy quarterstaff, which he now held out towards her, inviting her to come at him, goading.

Galadriel gripped the staff in her hands, testing its weight, the smooth feel of it a satisfying improvement on the complete lack of weapons she had suffered for weeks now. Her breath came measured, though her blood was already singing. Across from her, Halbrand twirled his own staff with an easy confidence, provoking her with an amused glimmer in his eyes.

“Come now,” he taunted, taking a slow step forward. “You must want this.”

She did. More than she should. Galadriel closed the distance in a heartbeat, striking fast and low, aiming for his legs. He dodged, fluid as water, knocking her attack aside with a flick of his wrist. He countered with a thrust towards her ribs, and she twisted away, the air whistling as the wood barely missed her.

A smile ghosted over his lips. “Is that all?”

She scowled and pressed forward, the clash of wood against wood ringing through the clearing.

She struck high; he blocked. She spun low; he evaded.

Back and forth, give and take, their bodies moving in rhythm like an unspoken dialogue.

Every time she pushed, he pulled away, always just out of reach, his control effortless and infuriating.

Halbrand fought like he did everything else - with a teasing ease, as if he were not taking this seriously. As if she were not a true threat.

Heat rose up her spine, and she let it fuel her.

She feigned left and swung hard to the right, and for the first time, his balance wavered. Her satisfaction flared, brief but bright, before he retaliated, his staff coming down in an arc too quick to dodge. She barely managed to brace before the force of his strike sent her stumbling backward.

But before he could press the advantage, she twisted mid-stumble and lashed out, striking hard and true. The crack of wood against flesh cracked the air, and Halbrand staggered back, his lip split, blood welling bright against his skin.

For a moment, he looked stunned. Then, his tongue darted out to taste the blood, and his eyes flashed. “That,” he said, voice low with relish “is more like it.”

His staff came down in a brutal arc, too fast to evade. She lifted her own in defence, but the force of the blow broke her staff and sent her reeling.

She hit the ground hard, and the impact stole the breath from her lungs.

But worse than that was the sharp, splintering pain that bloomed across her side as her ribs met something unforgiving beneath the dirt. A buried rock, almost fully submerged but for a protruding, moss-covered tip that she had fallen against, hard.

Halbrand was on her in an instant, pinning her down, his weight pressing her aching ribs into the ground.

“Yield?” he murmured, his staff pressed against her neck.

Galadriel bit back the pain, refusing to let it show. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Instead, she moved.

It took everything in her to shift beneath him, to twist her legs and use the momentum of his own weight against him. The agony that flared through her side was excruciating, but she gritted her teeth, using her arms to shove with all her strength.

Halbrand’s surprise was brief, but it was enough. He tipped, losing his hold, and the moment his back hit the dirt, she followed, straddling him and pinning his staff beneath her knee.

His chest rose and fell beneath her, and for the first time in their fight, he was still.

Her pulse thundered. She could feel the warmth of him between her legs.

Her eyes lingered on the slow curve of his blood-stained lips as he looked up at her - eyes gleaming with admiration, delighting in such a challenge.

But there was something else also smouldering in the depths of his gaze.

Shameless and unveiled desire.

This only angered Galadriel more. “Yield,” she echoed, voice steady and grave despite the sharp pang of pain with every breath.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, with an infuriatingly slow smirk, Halbrand tilted his head.

“I yield.”

“Good.” She leant back, breathing sharply and holding her side, making sure to keep his legs pinned, untrusting.

No longer able to conceal the pain, Galadriel let out a stifled whimper, and she began to tremble.

Halbrand’s expression immediately changed from amusement to alarm and he sat up to meet her. He glanced to his side where the rock lay like a partly erupted tooth in the ground, before swiftly returning his gaze back to Galadriel. Her breathing was laboured, and he was overcome with both guilt and a deep concern.

Her eyes were wide and wild, but he met them with his, and something changed. Without saying a word, his gaze alone seemed to quell the fierce pulse flowing through her body. Her shaking calmed, and with an unspoken thought she allowed him to pull her hand away and carefully unlace one side of her tunic so he could see the damage.

Her eyes never left his face as he slowly unravelled the lacing, pulling aside the fabric so he could examine the wound. With an achingly gentle touch he moved his fingertips across her side and around to her back. He could feel where two of her ribs were misaligned. Across this area, he pressed his palm against her skin, tender but firm.

The pain flared like newly stoked fire. She jerked away and cried out, but he locked eyes with her again, and held her cheek securely, and she was still.

The pain suddenly melted. A deep and soothing sensation spread across her ribs like a cooling draft of water that flows through the body after a long thirst, seeping into every fibre of flesh about it. She relaxed against his warm hand still lingering upon the skin of her back, and though she was still shaking, she could breathe easily again.

Tentatively, Galadriel looked down at her side where Halbrand’s hand still rested, then back up at him. His eyes were sorrowful and full of sympathy, their beauty drawing her in - bewitching her, as though she were gazing into the heart of two precious emeralds, searching for the flaw hidden deep within, never certain it was truly there.

She leant in to him.

Her eyes strayed to the shock of red still fresh and bright where his top lip had been split near the tip of his mouth.

She reached out a cautious hand towards his wound and hovered it there, so closely she could feel the warmth of his skin emanating against hers. Then, without thinking, she allowed the tips of her fingers to lightly caress his lips, and they parted slightly at her touch.

His breath was shallow and uneven. His hand moving gently over her waist. His other moving down from her cheek and tracing the contours of her neck.

Still astride him, a fever took her - the heat of the fight still burning in her chest, now turning into something else, something she did not ask for but could not push away.

She began pulsating with desire, unbidden and wrong. Wholly unwelcome but brutally undeniable. She could feel him harden beneath her and a trembling sigh escaped her lips as he gripped the curve of her waist tighter, causing her hips to surge. The swell of him beneath her sent heat pooling between her thighs.

There was a glint in Halbrand’s eyes as he watched her entertain the possibility of her own desires - possessive, hungry, full of triumph.

For a moment, the world stilled but for the sound of her own heartbeat throbbing within her chest, now rising and falling sharply as she struggled to fight her need for him. Her more logical sensibilities raging against her traitorous body.

She leant in further.

But something caught at the edge of her thoughts. A faint tug at the back of her mind. The slick sensation of his blood on her skin, forgotten until now, suddenly pulled her out of the haze.

She blinked and straightened, her breath catching. The warmth of desire was replaced by a cold, creeping clarity. She frowned, pensive, as she removed her hand from his lips and studied the smear of crimson between her fingers.

Red.

Not right for someone stained by Morgoth. She curled her bloody fingers into a fist. Sorrowfully, angrily, she whispered, “Even now, you still lie to me.”

She looked back at him, and in that instant, his face changed. The proud glint was gone. In its place was something raw and exposed. His eyes widened just slightly, their lust now muddied with a mix of offence and desperation, the kind that comes from being caught in the act.

The moment was broken.

She wrenched herself away, staggering backwards, holding her side though no injury remained there. She felt almost as if she had to hide it from view. Her face flushed not from arousal now, but from shame. She gave him one long, anguished look before she turned and fled.

Halbrand remained where she had left him, his knees drawn up, his forearms resting loosely across them. The blood on his lip darkened, shifting to black before fading altogether, as if it had never been there. But he did not move. He simply sat there, eyes cast low, as though the moment had emptied something from him.

***

She had spent the rest of the day avoiding him, locking herself away in her room as a sort of self-imposed punishment for weakening again. Something she had promised herself just that morning not to do.

The night was restless. She found herself tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable.

The area around where she had broken her ribs was throbbing, not with pain, but with heat.

What did he do to me?

She was sweating and her mouth was dry. In the end, she resorted to throwing off every inch of clothing and lying spread out on her back, her limbs stretched wide, trying to cool herself down.

Eventually, the heat relented a little, enough for her to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

Shadows danced in her dreams, images formed and shifted within a milky haze until slowly the veil began to lift.

Her feet were the first things she noticed.

The sensation of something warm and soft beneath them was enough for her to begin curling her toes. Pale sand emerged through the gaps in them and she could see now that she was standing on a vast shore.

She looked about her.

The calm ocean gently lapping on the sand stretched as far as the eye could see from left to right, the colour of sapphires and aquamarine as it reflected the warming sunlight. Behind her stood mounds of tussock covered dunes, lazily rolling away from the shore.

Then she saw it.

The tower.

It stood alone - no moors, no mountains.

A stark pinnacle in the midst of a lonely island, with nothing in sight for miles but clear blue ocean.

Then - a rumbling sound.

Far out into the sea, a dark line appeared on the horizon. Galadriel shielded her eyes against the sun as she peered out, trying to discern what it was.

The wind was getting up, blowing her hair and her dress to the side as she staggered forward towards the water.

The line was growing, swelling, encroaching ever closer now.

A paralysing horror clenched at her body, realising what it was.

A huge storm surge was approaching, one hundred feet high and raging towards her with terrifying speed and ferocity.

Panic overtook her, urging her to flee. The tower? Maybe?

But the thunderous wave was approaching too fast, a monstrous surge rising, racing towards her.

There would be no outrunning it.

Her body locked. A different realisation coming to her now.

She fell to her knees, not in surrender but in resignation, tears slipping down her cheeks as she whispered the name she hated most:

“Halbrand.”

And then -

A rush of heat. Sensation. Tongue against flesh. Pleasure crashing over her like the wave that never came.

Galadriel surfaced from sleep, or something like it, already unravelling. Her back arched, breath caught, her thighs trembling. Someone – he - was between them. His mouth relentless. His touch unbearable in its intimacy.

She moaned. She hated it. But she could not stop.

No, this isn’t real - it can’t be real…

But her body answered anyway, hips rolling, chasing the waves he coaxed from her. The air was thick, hot, tasting of him.

She writhed beneath him, fingers grasping at sheets, at air - anything to anchor herself against the overwhelming sensation. Her toes curled, her body tightened, and then - release. A shuddering climax tore through her, leaving her gasping, dazed, her vision blurring at the edges.

The walls around them flickered - white one moment, then the pale blue of ocean light, shifting like reflections in water.

She lay there, gasping, not understanding. Her flesh fizzing with overwhelming sensation. Her mind reeling - what was happening?

The scent of salt and storm still clung to her skin, even as the sheets tangled around her, disorientated.

Halbrand moved up her body, his mouth glistening, his hands greedy, cupping and massaging her breasts as if staking claim.

Galadriel’s eyes widened, her senses coming back to her in a flash of keen fury. Outrage flared within her - she had awoken to this, to him, violating her in the most intimate way.

Her vision sharpened as he loomed above her, already stiff, his presence thick with intent.

With a snarl, she seized his throat, fingers digging in.

His body tensed, a grimace flickering across his face.

But then - he tilted his head, his lips curling into something dark, insatiable. His eyes burned as he held her gaze, her grip still firm around his throat.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and began to guide himself inside her.

Her breath caught, her body went rigid. But not out of fear, or rage. But because of how good it felt.

Stop. You can’t want this…

She could feel every inch of him as he slid slowly inside of her. Her flesh stretching and moulding for him as he pushed himself further in.

His eyes never wavered, locked on hers the entire time. And even as his hips pressed against the soft insides of her thighs and she had taken all of him, he did not relent. With a slow roll of his hips he sank himself deeper, hitting the place that made her breath catch.

A long, shuddering breath escaped her as he swelled within her. He felt it - the way her body surrendered, the way it wrapped around him.

He knew he had her now.

Her fingers slackened at his throat, and he began to move, each thrust drawing forth breathless, unwilling moans. Her mind screamed at her to resist - but her body had no such clarity. Every movement, every thrust, lit her nerves on fire. His hands were possessive, his hips urgent. He knew her. He had studied her.

And now her hips were matching his rhythm, desperate for more. She wanted him. She had always wanted him.

Was this her body? Betraying her so readily? She felt it from behind her own eyes, as if some glass pane separated thought from flesh. Watching herself yield. Feeling it all. Powerless to stop.

She gasped as pleasure surged, unbidden and sharp.

A wicked smirk played on his lips. He loved this - loved watching her succumb, loved feeling her need overtake her restraint.

Her hand slipped from his neck as he lowered himself, their mouths colliding in a fevered kiss, tongues seeking, devouring. Her nails scraped along his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him to her.

He groaned, gripping her thigh, redoubling his efforts.

The ocean’s roar did not fade - it pulsed in time with their movements, crashing louder each time he thrust inside her.

Her moans came sharper, needier, as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, sucking and biting, branding her with his mouth.

But then - her eyes snapped open.

A shock of clarity cut through the haze. She shoved him back, twisting beneath him. Before he could react, she had flipped him onto his back, straddling him, pinning him down. Her eyes aflame.

For a moment he thought she might try to throttle him again. But instead she straightened up and reached for him, sinking, her body sliding over his length, taking him deeper.

His head fell back, pleasure flashing across his features, her movements hungry, relentless.

He groaned, his fingers digging into the curve of her hip, one hand moving up to palm her breast.

She was intoxicating - her heat, her wetness, the way she rode him, her hips rolling and surging, claiming him as much as he had claimed her.

His breaths turned ragged, not from exertion but from the sheer, torturous pleasure of it. His moans joined hers, unbidden. He wanted to last, wanted to draw this out, but she felt too good, too perfect, too much. His fingers tightened on her hip, urging her on, desperate for more.

Then, in a breathless whisper, he commanded, “Turn around.”

She hesitated for only a second, then released him with a sly smile, turning, shifting onto her knees, her body still upright.

He pressed his torso to her back, his lips tracing the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her ear.

She reached up, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands roamed, one sliding over her breasts, the other drifting lower, teasing, seeking.

When his fingers found her clit, she gasped, her thighs trembling as he circled it, slow at first, then faster, firmer, until her breath caught, her back arching into him.

He held her tight, his fingers working her skilfully, mercilessly.

Her moans grew louder, her body tensing, locking up. The pleasure building with each expert stroke of his fingers.

Firmer. Faster. Until she came undone.

Her breath came high and tight. Another wave of pleasure crashed through her. She clawed at his wrists, the sheets - anything to hold on to as she broke apart.

Behind her closed eyelids, she saw stars – no, not stars, not lights, but eyes. Countless green eyes blinking open in the dark.

He exhaled sharply, drinking in the sight of her unravelling against him, feeling the way her body clenched, pulsed. But he was not done.

Before she could catch her breath, he plunged his fingers inside her, seeking the sensitive spot within, stroking deep and fast. The aftershocks of her peak still shuddering through her.

Her cry was sharp, near a sob - too much, too soon, too intense.

But he wanted this. He wanted her overwhelmed, drowning in pleasure, unable to think of anything but him, what he was doing to her, what he could make her feel again and again until she needed him, until she could no longer deny him.

Just as she teetered on the edge of madness, he relented, sliding his fingers from her and dragging them up over her skin. He found her nipple, and slickened it with her own arousal. He circled it slowly, deliberately, before twisting her shoulder and capturing it with his mouth. He sucked hard, savouring the way she gasped, the way her chest heaved against his lips.

Her eyes burned with desire as she looked down at him.

With a rough push, he guided her forward onto her hands.

She gripped the sheets, but they felt like sand. Her fingers dug in, but the ground shifted, as if she were back on that shore, drowning all over again. But this time, she was not afraid.

She arched her back, tilting her hips up towards him, desperate for him to satisfy her again.

He dragged his hand down her spine, stopping at her hip, gripping hard before slamming into her from behind. She cried out, her fingers clutching the sheets. Astonished at how much of him was inside her, deeper than before - so deep she swore she could feel him in the pit of her stomach.

It might have hurt, should have hurt, but it didn’t. The feel of him pure bliss as he thrust powerfully again and again, filling every inch of her.

He was ruthless. Unrelenting.

Her moans mixed with breathless pleas. “More… please, more… Halbrand…”

Something dark flickered across his expression.

The way she said his name - it undid him.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

She was barely coherent.

“Galadriel … say my name.”

The room bent inward around them, like the world was leaning closer to listen. Her own voice echoed back to her seconds after she spoke it, as if the air had thickened.

Her voice was barely a whisper, a shuddering gasp. “Halbrand…”

“Tell me you want me.”

Her body tightened around him, her breath faltering. “I want you… Halbrand, I want you.”

With a sudden movement, he pulled out, flipping her onto her back, and entered her again, sinking in easily, deeply. She was soaked from their love-making, her inner thighs slick with it.

He grabbed the nape of her neck, his face hovering inches from hers.

His skin felt too warm. Not like flesh, but like sun-heated stone.

His thrusts slowed, his lips brushing hers. “Tell me you love me.”

She froze.

His body stilled, his breath ragged. His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “Galadriel, tell me you love me.”

For a moment, everything stopped. His heart pounded, waiting.

Her throat clenched. The words hovered behind her teeth, but they would not come.

“Say it... Galadriel. Please.”

Then, finally - “I love you.”

His expression broke - relief, triumph, and something raw, almost desperate, as if her words had filled a hollow space inside him. For an instant, his face was not his own. The edges blurred, his features stretched - too sharp, too bright - and then resolved again, like a mask settling into place.

Then he kissed her, lingering, reverent. As his forehead settled on hers, he began to move again, slow, deep, savouring her, their breath syncing, their bodies fused.

The pleasure built once more, her moans rising with his, their bodies chasing the final, shattering release.

And when it came, Halbrand groaned, his body tensing, his breath faltering as he spilled inside her. She felt it. A warmth flooding deep, and a shiver of satisfaction coursed through her.

Darkness overtook her vision like ink bleeding through blotting paper. No longer able to speak, her hands went numb. She was not sure what was happening. Then, a sudden jolt, and she was wrenched away.

The dream cracked.

Galadriel awoke violently, gasping, her body drenched in sweat.

Her hand gripped the sheet like a lifeline. For a moment, she did not know if she had awoken, or simply been pushed into another layer of the dream.

Heat pooled between her thighs, undeniable. Her under-sheet was soaked with her own arousal, evidence of her enjoyment, and her shame.

Her heart pounded.

What had she just dreamed? And why did she feel so utterly… claimed?

***

The next morning, he found her in her garden.

“I missed you at breakfast.” He said strolling toward her with a lazy confidence.

“I wasn’t hungry.” She replied, an edge of annoyance in her voice as she went about pruning the dead heads from the roses. “And I’m not in the mood for company.”

“I can see that.” He chuckled, seating himself on the bench just a few feet to her right. She had brought a book to read and had left it on the bench, and something in her felt uneasy about him being so closed to it. She did not want to admit she was reading some of the fiction he had gifted her.

He looked up at her expectantly, an air of amusement in his voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She replied, taking care not to look at him.

“Well there must be something.” He leant back, stretching his arms across the backrest. “Don’t tell me you’re annoyed about yesterday. I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.”

“For breaking my ribs?” Her eyes snapped across to where he was sitting. She found upon looking at him that she was able to remember, all the more vividly, the details of her dream. His hands upon her breasts, his tongue licking her delicate flesh, the way he looked at her before pushing himself between her thighs, how he worked himself inside of her, his lips pressed passionately against her own. The shudders that ran through her body. How she welcomed it. How much she liked it, the way she felt so claimed when he had finished.

He sat, smirking at her. “For healing them.”

She blushed and looked away, pruning the withered flower heads all the more aggressively.

“Well, it looks as though I’ll have to wait for my thank you.” He said, still smiling, too much for Galadriel’s liking. Was it just a dream? Could he have…?

“I’ll leave you in peace.” He said, beginning to rise from his seat.

But Galadriel found she was unable to stop herself blurting out, “Can you–” She halted abruptly.

She knew what she wanted to ask, but it was risky. The question danced on the edge of her thoughts, the one she was too terrified to speak. What were the extent of his powers? What if he could enter her mind? What if he could manipulate her dreams, force his way inside, make love to her, passionately, forcefully, without her permission? The idea was nauseating, and yet… part of her still longed to know. But if it was just a dream, a scenario of her own making… somehow that was worse. She almost wanted him to have done it, at least she could blame him, catch him out. But if she asked and he had nothing to do with it…

“Can I what?” Halbrand had sat himself back down in anticipation of the rest. Knowing it may take a while, he leant back again, resting an elbow on the top of the bench this time. There was a glint in his eye as he watched Galadriel struggle with some internal battle.

She shut her eyes and clenched her jaw, her lips tense, pressing and un-pressing before slowly releasing the words. “Your powers… can you… are you able to enter a person’s mind? Visit their dreams?” She was sweating, a rush of heat radiating from her. Her mouth filled with saliva as though she was sickened by her own words. It sounded stupid out loud. Her ears throbbed as she waited for an answer.

Halbrand cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise gave nothing away. He gave a slow nod. “Yes. I can enter a person’s mind - if the door is open.”

She looked at him, stunned, she was not expecting him to be so honest. She was almost too scared of the answer to continue, but the words came, stunted and filled with trepidation. “And… have you ever… what about me?”

Halbrand exhaled slowly and leant forward, his forearms coming to rest upon his knees. “No.” He said, softly. “I’ve never entered your thoughts unbidden. Believe it or not, I meant it when I said I care for you, and that I would never harm you.”

He looked at her earnestly, no lie traceable in his eyes. But how could she be sure? Hadn’t he lied to her before? For weeks without her knowing? Yet, something within her believed him. An inexplicable feeling that he was, for once, telling her the truth.

“Just not enough to let me go.” She said, the words falling heavy between them.

His jaw twitched as he looked away. An uncomfortable silence followed as Galadriel gazed out beyond the garden and across the wide lawn dotted with trees to the wall beyond. The boundary of her prison.

Halbrand shifted awkwardly, looking about, his eyes roaming anywhere but on her. Beside him he noticed a cluster of deep red carnations and the slightest of smiles crept into the corner of his mouth. He plucked one three inches below the flower head. “I’ll take it as a good sign.” He said, the light-humoured tone returning to his voice.

Galadriel sighed, her attention still fixed on the world beyond the garden. She thought she had no more words for him. But curiosity got the better of her. “Take what as a good sign?” Her voice still grim.

“That you’re dreaming of me.” He was already up on his feet and walking towards her when she turned to look at him, embarrassed, ashamed.

He stopped alarmingly close.

The smell of him winding around Galadriel like a snare. Again, involuntary glimpses of her dream flickered behind her eyes. Her jaw tightened. The pruning shears twitching at her side.

He held out the carnation, its deep red petals shining richly in the sunlight. Its scent rising up, mingling with his own. He whispered, a knowing smile upon his lips, his eyes moving slowly between hers. “I hope it was a good dream.”

Galadriel’s breath faltered as she fought to keep her composure. She could feel him watching her, aware of the war raging within her.

When she did not take the flower, Halbrand’s smile widened. Her stubbornness amused him. He slipped the carnation into her hair, brushing against her skin as he did.

Galadriel tensed at the touch, the familiar rush of warmth flooding her, and she fought to keep her breath steady.

He lingered for a moment, smiling one last time, before walking away, his footsteps light against the earth.

She stood frozen, watching him until he was far enough away.

Finally, she allowed herself to exhale, a shaky breath she had not realized she had been holding. She reached up and touched the flower in her hair, holding it for a moment before pulling it free.

The petals were soft in her hand as she studied them, then her fingers began curling around it with an almost violent tug. But something stopped her - something inside her refused to crush it.

She watched her fingers unfurl revealing the carnation, unharmed, its scarlet light reflecting against the pale skin of her palm. She went over to the bench where her book lay, and opened the front cover. She placed the flower gently between the pages, and closed it, shutting her eyes with a soft sigh. She stood there for a moment, her hand resting on the closed cover, before her eyes snapped open again, and she shook her head sharply. Her pulse still raced, her thoughts muddled.

She went back to her pruning, absentminded, her thoughts still elsewhere.

Chapter Text

“What are you reading?” asked Halbrand, as he approached Galadriel on the patio in her garden.

She was taking in the morning sunshine on the sunbed with one of the many books she had now worked her way through, given there was not much else to do during her internment.

“I’m reading about my cousin, Aredhel, and the tale of her imprisonment by Eöl.” She responded flatly, matter-of-fact, without lifting her eyes from the book.

“I would have thought you already knew the tale.” Said Halbrand, sitting himself down at the end of the sunbed next to Galadriel’s feet. It was wide enough for him to lay back, propping himself up on his elbows.

Galadriel’s eyes twitched ever so slightly as she raised them from her book, before guiding them back to the pages. His proximity and demeanour were all too familiar. “I heard of her imprisonment and demise at the hands of Eöl after Gondolin fell. But I never read the story written down before. It is told quite elegantly in this version, Pengolodh captures the tragedy of it quite beautifully.” Her tone had become sombre and reflective, a tinge of grief falling upon her words. “Besides, I thought it quite fitting.” Upon giving this last remark, she flicked a sideways glance at Halbrand, cementing the dig.

“You find your situation comparable?” he said, unfazed by the obvious taunt and raising an eyebrow.

“You cannot possibly think it dissimilar.” She looked directly at him now, her expression scornful.

“I can think of some key differences.” He said, turning onto his side and resting his head on his hand. “She didn’t know him when he captured her. You knew me… and unless I’m mistaken, you developed strong feelings for me before we ever got here. That matters, whether you deny it or not. And he forced her to be the mother of his child - I’m not forcing you to do anything. I’m also not planning on killing you with a poisoned javelin, so there’s that.”

Galadriel’s lips were pressed tightly together, her nostrils flaring in anger and her eyes aflame. “Whatever feelings I had for you were destroyed the moment you told me your true identity.”

“So, you admit you had them?”

Halbrand’s teasing only irritated her further, she threw her book down on the sunbed, her anger rising. “What is your plan? To hold me here until… what? Until I succumb to whatever misguided ideas you might have about winning me over? All you are building is resentment. One day, when I can’t take it anymore, I will repay that by killing you in your sleep.”
Halbrand laughed heartily, “You’re very welcome to try! Why wait, in fact? Shall I keep my door open tonight and see if you have the inclination?”

She drew her feet away from him and locked him with an icy stare. “You cannot hope to keep me here forever. My hatred will only grow stronger if you do. Sooner or later you are going to have to let me leave.”

At this, Halbrand’s mood seemed to shift. All the cheek had disappeared from his face and it seemed to Galadriel that a sadness had taken its place. He lowered his eyes and sat himself up slowly. “If I do, you won’t come back.”

Galadriel waited a beat before answering. “No. I won’t. But you would no longer be my Eöl.”

His eyes met hers and as they did something flickered within them. Galadriel was unsure exactly what it was, a realisation perhaps?

Silence fell between them.

She broke the silence with a sigh. “Look, there is only so much reading and gardening I can do. If I don’t see something beyond these walls soon I am going to start unravelling, you must know this.”

“You know I will give you anything you ask for.”

“That’s not enough. You could give me everything I could possibly imagine, and it will never be enough. You need to let me leave. I need my freedom.” She leant forward now, pressing her intention.

Halbrand’s eyes searched the ground, but he said nothing. The only clue to his thoughts was his clenched jaw as he rose from the sunbed before striding away.

Galadriel let out an exasperated huff as she threw herself back onto bed. Her mind racing, trying to discern what Halbrand’s silence meant, and if it was a good sign.

***

The next morning after breakfast, Halbrand revealed he had a surprise for Galadriel – that what she said yesterday did not fall on deaf ears, and that he wanted to treat her to a day beyond the walls of the tower.

“It’s only fair. I do not want this place to be a cage for you.” He said with outstretched hand as he approached her from around the table. His hand lingered there as he waited for her to take it.

She looked him up and down disdainfully. “Just because a display bird is allowed to fly in front of its audience, doesn’t mean it is not still governed by the thrall of its master. One day beyond the walls with you as an escort is a pitiful offering.”
“Suit yourself.” Halbrand shrugged and withdrew his hand. “It promised to be nice day for a ride.” He turned and moved to leave.

“Wait.” Galadriel rose from her seat. “Did you say ride?” Her expression changed in an instant and she looked at him now with a strange intensity, as if trying to conceal her excitement.

A smile appeared in the corner of Halbrand’s mouth. “I thought that might appeal.” He stood to the side of the doorway and beckoned for her to lead the way down the staircase.

Still trying to contain her growing anticipation, she did so perhaps a little too eagerly.

Upon stepping outside, Galadriel noticed a small stable had appeared close to the wall near where the archway had been the night of their arrival, and housed within was a majestic cordovan stallion. Its coat shone light polished mahogany, its muscular frame was taught and strong, and it stood proudly with its head held high like a noble king rallying his subjects.

As with all of Halbrand’s surprises, she approached the stallion with a quiet awe, entranced by its beauty. She stroked its neck and whispered in its ear so softly that Halbrand did not catch what she said, but the horse nuzzled her neck and mussed her hair with its lips.

The laugh that escaped her lips was something he had not heard in all the weeks she had been here. It was the most beautiful sound.

“I caught it roaming wild on the moor.” He said, coming over and stroking the horse’s long snout. “Spirited thing – it took me several hours to tame it.” He produced an apple from his pocket and fed it to the beast, who took it gratefully.

Galadriel look over the horse with a new sense of wonder. “It’s real?” She asked, looking up at him.

Halbrand smiled, his eyes full of warmth as he nodded. “It’s real.”

Her lips twitched into the slightest of smiles as she gazed at him for a moment, before her eyebrows crinkled with a dawning realisation. “There’s only one.”

He stepped in closer, his eyes never leaving hers as he held out his hand once more. His voice dropped to a silken murmur. “There’s only one. Take it or leave it, the choice is yours.”

She wavered for a moment as she looked at the horse and then back at him. Then, slowly, cautiously, she raised her hand and placed it in his.

Guiding her round to the saddle, she let him help her up on to the steed’s back, swiftly mounting it himself and nestling in behind her. “He’ll only let me command him.” His voice came soft and low in her ear, the heat of his breath grazing her cheek as he slid his feet into the stirrups and reached around with one hand to take the reins from her. With the other, he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her closer into him.

“What are you doing?” She asked, immediately uncomfortable with how warm he was against her back, his torso pressed firmly against her. Sat flush within the line of his legs, her breathing shallowed. The unease she felt was not kindled by how close he was, but by the sharp flutter of something she refused to name.

“I don’t want you to fall.” He whispered, his nose ghosting through the waves of her hair.

She swallowed, her voice thin, “Do you really think that a possibility?”

“You can never be too careful.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not necessary.”

He sighed, loosening his grasp a little so she was not sat so flush against him.

“As you wish.” His voice was laced with his smirk as it floated softly passed her ear, and digging his heel into the stallion’s flank, he spurred it onwards.

The archway was already waiting for them as they approached the wall, the clop of the horse’s hooves echoing against the stone as they passed underneath. Coming out the other side, Halbrand steered left, taking them round the southeast side of the wall and towards the foot of the mountain. They picked up a path that lay at its base and steadily they rode on, skirting the stony feet of the lower slopes for three or four miles, bending ever eastward.

Their going was slow and carefree, moving along at a walking pace, Halbrand was clearly in no rush. Though, with them never even breaking into a canter, Galadriel questioned his desire to hold her so tightly against him at first, though she never voiced this out loud. After a while she had no choice but to relax into him lest she wanted her back to ache all day.

As they began to turn northward the path rose, winding its way up the sides of mountain. The heather gave way to bracken and grassy clearings, broken up by rocky outcrops of grey-green limestone. The same stone coated the surface of the path in a covering of shale, which crunched satisfyingly under the horse’s hooves with every step. The way steepened, climbing to three thousand feet or more, and they were headed now for a col that sat like a green saddle between a knoll on the right and the mountain-proper on the left.

As they crested the gap, Galadriel gasped.

On the other side of the col, the mountain dropped sharply away as if a great pickaxe had carved a huge scar in its side. Sheer cliffs plummeted beneath them and round to the left, curving in a great bowl and along a sharp shoulder several hundred feet across from them. On the left, issuing forth from a fissure high in the rock face, was an impressive torrent of water that cascaded down more than two hundred feet before plunging into a deep, round tarn below. Where it hit the otherwise still surface, the water became a frothing and churning emerald-green, gradually darkening further out to the edges of the tarn to a deep onyx, and where the water shallowed the edges were a golden copper.

It was stunning to behold. And reluctantly reminded her of the vivid colour of Halbrand’s eyes.

“Will this do, as a change of scenery?” He asked, though it was more of a comment on her already obvious amazement that an actual question.

Her answer came slow and breathy. Full of awe. “It’s beautiful.”

He gave a small, self-satisfied hum as he turned the horse to the right and began descending the path down the arm of the cliff, eventually finding themselves at the wide entrance to the great bowl with the tarn before them. The noise of the crashing waterfall reverberated around the enclosing cliffs like a great drum stuck from within in a constant roar of thunder.

Pulling up at the edge of the water, Halbrand dismounted, helping Galadriel down after him.

She stood there for a moment allowing herself to be bathed in the mist and the sound issuing forth from the great force. Inside the walls of the tower, the peace and quiet she found in her garden was tranquillity itself. But of late, the constant calm had started to become stifling, and so standing here, now, in the shockwave of the sound, the spray and the breeze billowing around this crucible of rock – it had awoken her. It was delightful to be so bombarded by it all – the cobwebs of her confinement well and truly being blown out. She breathed it all in deeply.

“Would you like to walk up behind it?” He asked, “There is a path cut into the cliff-face that tucks in behind it about a hundred feet up. At that point you’re able to reach out your hand and touch the fall.”

She looked at him and smiled, giving him a nod of approval at this idea.

He led her round to the right of the pool and picked up a narrow set of steps carved into the stone, cutting diagonally upwards across the rock face. The steps were slick with the constant mist that settled on them, and they had to tread carefully as they climbed higher, sometimes pressing themselves against the walls on their right when the path narrowed, looking down cautiously at the increasing drop to their left.

Eventually, they made it to where the path met the fall, and here it flattened out into a shelf three feet wide as the water tumbled down with alarming force just an arms-reach away.

Halbrand ascended the shelf first and reached back, holding out his hand to help Galadriel up the last couple of steps. She did not need the help, but she found she took his hand anyway and allowed herself to be guided to the edge of the flat slab of limestone, made smooth by centuries of splashback.

The fall fell like a rippling sheet of glass, the pale light of the sky beyond imbued the water with an eerie and beautiful glow.

Halbrand stretched out his free hand, still gently holding Galadriel’s with his other. As he broke the surface tension with his fingers, the water spilt and enveloped his hand. He looked over at Galadriel and shot her wide, open smile.

The corner of her mouth curled, and she turned her attention to the fall, reaching out her own hand and piercing the glassy barrier with her fingertips. The water was crisp and refreshing, and surprisingly soft against her skin despite the force with which it fell. Her hand lingered there for a while as she became entranced by the way the water spilled and rippled around her, catching the light in ever more varying ways as it danced through her fingers.

They both stayed there a while, watching the light change and morph the shadows beyond the fall as the sun traced its way across the sky. Eventually, as if they both decided it at once, they turned to leave. But as they approached the steps down, Galadriel heard a sudden scraping of boots on rock behind her, and a gasp that followed.

She turned, as quick as light itself and shot out a hand, grabbing Halbrand’s arm just as one of his feet slipped over the edge.

She almost went over herself – he was a lot heavier than her. She dug her heels in, and for a moment they were still, perfectly counterbalanced; Galadriel leaning back with all her strength, Halbrand teetering with one set of toes against the rock and the rest of him hanging precariously out over the precipice.

A panicked look was shared between them before Galadriel yanked him back, the two of them crashing unceremoniously against the rock wall, with Halbrand pinning her against it.

Their breathing was heavy, the heat of him licking at her skin as his body press against hers, his arms caging her in.

She shoved him away, flustered. “You did that on purpose.”

Halbrand smiled wickedly, not allowing himself to be pushed further than he wished. He kept himself close. “I wanted to see what you’d do… and the strangest thing... Apparently, you would prefer to save your mortal enemy than let them fall.”

“Do not read more into it than acting on instinct.” Her eyes burned intensely at him, her hands still on his chest. “Unlike you, it’s not in my nature to let people die.”

“Even me, it would seem.” He stepped in, his voice lowered to a murmur, and his eyes hooded. “You continue to think so little of me… death is not something I prefer. I would have thought my actions since returning would speak to that. I helped save many in Arnad Dûn.”

Galadriel scoffed, “So as not to break your cover.”

“Because I wanted to.” He replied, moving in closer still, he pressed himself against her, his body holding her to the rock. Lowering his head, he whispered in her ear. “Because you inspired me to. Is it that hard to believe I can change? I was not always Sauron.”

She swallowed, hoping for more strength in her voice, but finding she could only whisper in return. “Step back.”

Galadriel trembled in his shadow - not from fear - from something she did not want to admit.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” His hand drifted to her waist and glided down over the curve of her hip while his lips ghosted over the tip of her ear.

But when she flinched, he pulled back.

“You could’ve let me fall,” he said, tone softer now.

“Don’t tempt me,” she snapped. “I do not like you this close.”

“What is it you feel when I stand this close?”

Her answer was low, cutting. “That you’re still dangerous.”

A half smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, “To you? You know I would never harm you.”

She gritted her teeth. “There are many types of harm.”

He paused, before whispering, soft against the shell of her ear. “That’s not how you really feel.”

She hissed in response. “Revulsion then.”

Halbrand chuckled softly at this. “Hmm… And I’m meant to be the great deceiver.”

Enough was enough. Her eyes flared, nose scrunching as she grunted, shoving him with all her force. She pushed him so hard that he was flung from the edge – his eyes wide with disbelief as he disappeared through the glassy sheet of the fall.

Galadriel froze, horrified with what she had done.

Then suddenly she moved, scrambling down the first few steps of the carved stairway so she could see the pool below.

She had not heard his splash; the fall was too loud for that.

She could not see where he had entered either, the plummeting water was churning up too much of the surface in a dense cloud of fizzing foam.

She scanned the pool frantically, looking for him to break the surface.

Nothing.

Panic began to grip at her throat. Her heart thumped in her chest.

A ghost of breath escaped her lips, “No…”

She stood paralysed, eyes wide and chest caving in on itself.

She called out, unable to help herself, “Hal-”

But before she could finish shouting his name, he surfaced. Laughing.

Galadriel inhaled sharply. Shock and relief catching in her throat - a little too much relief.

He whipped his head back, clearing his face of his hair and looked up at her, still laughing, incredulously amused. “Well,” he shouted, “I suppose the joke’s on you if I’m wet through – you have to ride with me!” His smiled broadened as he tipped himself back, spreading his limbs to lay on the surface like a starfish.

Galadriel rolled her eyes in anger and slunk back against the rock, letting out an exasperated sigh. She stayed there a moment before realising there was nothing else for it than to descend the stair and meet him at the bottom, every step laden with petulance.

He had exited the pool by the time she was down and stood waiting for her at the bottom, hands on hips and shaking his head with astonishment. “You pushed me off a cliff!” He said, unable to contain his amusement.

“It was no more than you deserve.” She didn’t look at him as she stomped passed, heading straight for the horse. “I think I’d like to go back now.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, thick with a mocking theatricality. “And here I thought we were having fun…”

She shot him a scolding look as she mounted the beast, obstinately waiting for him to take the reins.

Another sigh, “As you wish, I suppose.” He strode across to her and sprang lightly up into the saddle behind her.

He was soaked, and it took little time for the water to seep through Galadriel’s clothing so that her back was as drenched as he was. She ground her teeth as he once again wrapped his arm around her, pressing her firmly against his wet torso and relishing how annoyed she was with far too much glee as he commanded the horse to walk on.

Rather than taking the path back up the cliff, Halbrand took them out via the mouth of the bowl and picked up a path that wound its way in zigzags down a steep, grassy bank.

Galadriel was still fuming, and the scorn emanating from her seemed to curl the air.

Halbrand could not help but chuckle. “Come now, you can’t think me all that bad. I think you may even like me at times.”

“The delusional mind thinks as it will.” Her tone was clipped.

“As will the mind in denial.”

His remark was met with stony silence.

He sighed dramatically again, “Perhaps pretending to fall was in bad taste. I apologise. Let me make it up to you.”

Before she could protest, he spurred the horse into a gallop. Her breath caught sharply as the unexpected surge pressed her body even tighter against him and flung her head back against his neck.

They were riding reckless and untamed down the slope, forgetting the path and running with fierce abandon, the horse responding swiftly to Halbrand’s every whim. At times he would turn sharply causing Galadriel to gasp and stiffen against him.

Her heart quickened. The wind was rushing over her face and through her hair and there was something exhilarating about not being in control. A thrill at moving with such chaotic freedom and having to submit to the wildness of the ride - to accept she was at its mercy – it was an intoxicating, liberating, rapturously freeing.

Despite herself, she began to smile, widely. Her eyes lit up in an exhilarated frenzy and now when the horse twisted abruptly, the laughter that burst from her lips was enthralling to hear, encouraging Halbrand to ride faster, more recklessly.

He rode with a blissful fury, plummeting down the mountainside like a gale.

Suddenly Galadriel’s eyes widened. The ground not fifty feet in front of them dropped away unexpectedly. The edge rapidly approaching.

Halbrand showed no signs of stopping.

Had he not seen it?

Beyond the edge, only the vast plateau could be seen over a thousand feet below.

Still, Halbrand did not slow.

Thirty feet. Twenty.

“Halbrand!” Galadriel cried.

He pulled hard at the reins and the horse pulled up abruptly, stopping only five feet from the edge.

Her heart was in her mouth and her chest was heaving. Against her damp back she could feel Halbrand was the same, his chest surging and retreating in rapid, heavy movements, his breath mingling in her hair. For a brief moment, something stirred in her, unbidden and somewhat alarming, she remembered what it was like to have his wet body writhing against her that day under the ibrethil tree. The same way the cold water had seeped through her dress causing her skin to pimple and her breasts to perk. Then came the warmth of him as his body aligned with hers, as their lips collided together in their first heated, needful kiss…

She shook it from her mind, and leant over, peering down beyond the edge. It was a sickening drop down a vast cleft in the mountainside, hewn out in a jagged and rocky scar traversing all the way down to the moor below.

He leant with her, and a nervous laughter erupted from them both, acknowledging how close they had come to tumbling off the edge.

“Perhaps we should go slower the rest of the way.” Galadriel suggested, still breathless.

Halbrand nodded in return, “Perhaps you’re right.” He turned the horse away from the precipice and, finding the path again, they descended at a calm pace. To Halbrand’s surprise, Galadriel had let herself relax into him and went the rest of the way with her head leant softly against the crook of his neck.

A question lingered in his thoughts, one that he had wanted to ask for a while now but was strangely afraid of what the answer might be. He was also a little reluctant to break the peaceful silence between them, especially if it meant she would stiffen again and pull away from where she rested against him. Stray strands of her hair tickled his neck and jawline with every slight jostle that accompanied the horse’s steps, but he would have had her lean into him like this forever if it meant he could smell her hair and rest his cheek on her head in the same calm embrace they were sharing right now.

Still the question burned in his mind.

“Why do you still call me Halbrand?” His voice came softly from just above her ear.

Her eyes blinked and widened a little, and there was a short paused as she considered the unexpected question.

He peered down as her as he waited for her response.

“It is the name I met you by.” She replied, matter-of-fact.

“But not the name you know me by.” He murmured.

She swallowed, and he felt her tense slightly in his arms, but she did not lean away.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I cannot call you that.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to. It is not a name I enjoy. But you did call me it, when I first told you the truth. So, I’m curious as to why you still call me Halbrand.”

“Would you prefer Mairon?”

The use of his real name took him aback and he was not sure how to respond. But he felt his chest surge at the sound of it on her lips and his eyelids fluttered a little. “I’m not sure… it’s been a long time since anyone has called me that.”

“Perhaps for good reason.” Her tone held no malice - only quiet honesty.

Nevertheless, he gave a solemn response. “…Perhaps.”

A moment’s silence followed.

“But you’ve still not answered my question.”

She took a deep breath and he could feel her shoulder blades rise and fall against his chest.

“Perhaps I prefer Halbrand.”

He looked down at her from under his lids and then he tilted his head so that his lips were hovering above her hairline. His breath passed gently over her temple for a moment. Then it was gone again.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, back along the path at the base of the mountain and through the arch in the wall.

Halbrand stopped short of the stables and leaped form the horse, again somewhat unnecessarily, helping Galadriel down. As her feet touched the floor his hands about her waist lingered. For a moment, all was still, save for the small circles he had begun tracing with his thumbs over the fabric of her stomach, and she could feel the heat curl at her base again.

She took a long, slow, steadying breath as she stared up at him.

His eyes were soft, and his mouth had curved into a small, pleasant smile. His eyebrows slightly raised causing attractive little crinkles to form on his forehead, seemingly expectant.

For a second, she might have been taken in. But her gaze lowered before glancing back to the wall – now solid again - no entrance to be seen.

It was only slight, but he could feel the disappointment collapse her body as he held her.

She stepped away, his hands slipping from her, and her eyes downcast as she walked on, back to the tower.

***

The next day was hot, and Galadriel swiftly regretted picking out the long wrap-around dress made of blushed pink satin that now stuck to her skin in various places.

As she made her way across the lawn towards her garden, a strange sound made her stop.

The trickling of water off to her left, towards the western side of the lawn.

She looked about curiously before heading in the direction of the running water. As she approached, she noticed a small pool had appeared near the western wall, into which a small stream ran down through the northern part of the lawn, seemingly originating from the mountain. The stream cascaded over a stone lip around four feet above pool and swirled below the surface in an emerald plume of bubbles that fizzed outward to the obsidian water beyond. It was not unlike the pool up the mountain, but this one was in miniature.

Already the morning sun was climbing high and was now beating down on her back much stronger than usual. She glanced over her shoulder at it suspiciously, then back to the pool.

Galadriel sighed to herself, knowing full well it was a trap, and that as soon as she got in Halbrand would no doubt appear from somewhere. But a part of her had stopped caring. The day was sweltering, and she had grown so accustomed to his games that she found herself accepting them with an indifferent resignation. The pool was new, and something different to enjoy, so she decided not to deny herself.

She undid the bow at the side of her waist and unwrapped her dress. Kicking off her matching satin plimsoles, she stepped into the pool. It was delightfully refreshing as she waded in further, the water enveloping her up to her waist.

She found the rocky sides of the pool had been carved so that, here and there, shelves jutted out below the surface of the water, creating convenient seating. She sat herself down and shivered as her spine plunged through the surface, the water level now sitting just below her shoulders. The churning of the water, agitated by the small fall, made for pleasant swirling and bubbling sensations against her skin.

As she sat there, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. Listening to the soft splash of the fall, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, and taking in the birdsong that floated on the wind between the trees. It was certainly not the first time that she had admitted to herself how peaceful it was here. There were many occasions in her walled garden or looking out from her balcony that she felt the undeniable tranquillity of the place. If she were here under different circumstances, she might find herself very pleasantly situated, perhaps not even wanting to leave.

The outside world was harsh and unforgiving and altogether seemed to rush ever onwards presenting yet more issues, yet more hardships. More judgements. Here, the world stood still. As much as she hated to admit it, a part of her was grateful for the opportunity to breathe, to remove herself from it all. At least, for a while.

She rested her head back against the bank and sighed deeply.

“You approve of the pool then.”

Galadriel opened her eyes and tilted her head up, partly startled, partly unsurprised to find Halbrand already sat within the pool on the opposite side, not ten feet away. She had not even heard him get in. He sat taller in the water than her, and his chest poked out above the surface; the soft tangle of hairs that lay upon it were glistening against his skin.

Unfussed, she placed her head back and closed her eyes again.

“The pool is a welcome addition, yes.” She replied, lazily.

“I came to an interesting realisation.”

She had come to recognise the smirk in his voice so well, she did not need to look at him to know he was smiling in an infuriatingly ‘pleased with himself’ sort of way. “What realisation would that be?”

“In all the time you’ve been here,” he continued, “you’ve not once tried to escape. I find this strange. Knowing you, I would have thought several misguided attempts would have been tried by now.”

A sigh, soft and a little weary, escaped her. “I haven’t tried to escape because it would be a waste of energy on a futile task. I know there is no escaping here by force.”

Halbrand could not help but needle her, “Could it be possible that you like it here?”

She opened her eyes and sat up, perturbed that the calm quiet she was enjoying did not look to be returning any time soon. “A trapped bird can be given a gilded perch and the finest mealworm; it does not negate the existence of the cage.”

“But you enjoy the peace here.” The corner of his mouth curling as he spoke.

“One cannot find peace in captivity.” She stared flatly at him, already tired of the inevitability of the conversation. “Will you not even consider letting me leave?”

He shrugged, feigning ignorance of her true meaning, “You left yesterday.”

“Under your guard, and no less a prisoner today.” Her anger was rising again. Why did he have to be so difficult?

“Where would you even go? If I let you leave? The elves have exiled you, men will not accept you. Seems you may as well stay here, enjoy the pool, the company of the maia that sits with you in it – naked I might add, if that’s of any interest. I can think of a few things better than leaving.” His eyes glinted across the water at her.

Her own eyes narrowed at him, admonishing his brazen cheek. But as she pondered the question, her eyes softened, a glint of her own now twinkling in the corners.

If he wants to play this game…

She looked down for a moment, then back to him, her eyebrow raised. “Where would I go?” She contemplated, dreamily. She kept her eyes locked on his as she began to swim over to him, her pupils shimmering back at him as she closed the distance.

He was not expecting this, and he shifted in his seat as she approached, sitting up straighter.

She kept coming, a wicked gleam in her eye that made Halbrand strangely nervous. Upon reaching him she braced herself against the bank behind him, both hands either side of his neck. If she wanted to, she could let her legs fall and she would be sitting astride him.

Halbrand sucked in a deep, ragged breath. She was so close, her wet, bare skin in touching distance. He kept his hands firmly planted on the rocky shelf either side of him, willing himself not to do anything stupid, though he had to fight the temptation fiercely.

She held his gaze as she bent her elbows, and leant in, the upper half of her body rising out of the water a little as she did so.

He dared the quickest of glances down at her glistening breasts, perfect, and pert from the coolness of the water. He could feel his arousal rising under the surface as he flicked his eyes back to her face, her lips tantalisingly close as she drew further towards him.

Her nose grazed along his cheek, her lips coming to rest softly next to his ear. In a whisper, she answered him. “Literally anywhere but here.”

His brow creased as he listened, pain and confusion clouding his face as she pulled away again. Her own face held an icy countenance.

She stood abruptly, still half submerged. She gleamed resplendently in the dazzling sun. Looking down upon him, her defiance and triumph was palpable in the way she held her head high and her shoulders back, allowing him to take her in, to see what was not his. After a few seconds, she looked away dismissively, and stepped lightly onto the shelf and out onto the bank. Skirting the edge of the pool, she bent to pick up her shoes and dress, and flung it over her shoulder as she walked away.

Halbrand leant his head back and let out a long, steadying breath. Still aroused, but also wounded, he was not sure what to make of the encounter. She had bested him, and it intrigued him no end.

***

That evening, she came to him in the parlour.

“I’ve spent the day thinking.” Her voice soft, as she perched herself on the couch next to him.

He had been sketching something. She tried to steal a glance as she sat herself down but he had already closed the sketch book. He placed it on the table and sat back into the couch. “Have you now?” He cocked an eyebrow.

There was a short pause before she spoke, locking eyes with him.

“What if I promised to come back?”

His eyebrow fell, and his eyes flickered. His voice was weary, “What do you mean?”

“Allow me to leave this place, to conduct my comings and goings freely, at my own whim, as an equal, and I will stay here with you, promising to return every time that I leave.”

There was silence. Her eyes searched his for a reaction.

He stiffened, “Why would you promise such a thing?”

She shifted closer to him. “You said it yourself, I have nowhere else to go. And besides, what would I do? For so long my life has been consumed by my dogged pursuit of you. Now that I have found you I…” She placed a tentative hand on his knee. “You’re not out there, you’re right here. So why would I not come back? If anything, I would be remiss if I did not keep a close eye on you. To make sure you have no ill intentions, if you are truly changed as you say. To do that I need to be here. But I will not live as a prisoner. Allow me this and I will stay with you.”

He looked down at where she had rested her hand, her overly kind touch sitting warmly upon his knee. Glancing back at her, he searched for the cracks in her sweet smile, cautiously scanning for the deception. He knew it was one, of course, but something tugged at him. He could not help but hope.

He lowered his eyes and let out a long, resigned exhale through his nose. “If I allow this…” his voice was soft, and quiet, “would things be as they were between us.”

She withdrew her hand. “I can promise to stay, nothing more. You have done unforgiveable things, and I’m not sure I can ever trust you. But that in itself is why you can trust me to come back. To keep you in check.” Her eyes burned imploringly at him, willing him to take the bait.

His jaw clenched, and his brow furrowed, and after a long internal deliberation, he finally nodded. “Alright… if that’s what you want.”

She sighed a smile of relief. “Thank you, it is.” She reached for his forearm this time, giving it a light squeeze of gratitude. “I can go out tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow?” His eyes came over glassy, his face sombre. His words came slowly as he realised what that would mean. “Yes, tomorrow is fine.”

She nodded, smiling warmly at him and got up to leave.

“May I have one thing in return?” He asked, faintly.

She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening for a second, before turning, still smiling pleasantly at him. “I suppose that would only be fair.”

He stood and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”

She looked at him blankly, a flicker of confusion ghosting her face.

He stepped towards her, slowly, deliberately. “We never got to finish our dance at the spring festival, and I would like to.”

She protested as politely as she could, “There is no music playing.”

“That can be fixed.” As soon as he said it, a faint melody began to echo through the stone walls and permeate the room, finding a sharp clarity as it entered her ears. It was a harp ballad, slow and sweet, though slightly mournful.

He stood close to her now, and stroked a light finger along her jaw and placing it under her chin. “Dance with me, and I will give you everything you ask.”

Her eyes shimmered at him, fluttering with uncertainty.

“Give me this tonight, Galadriel. Please.” His voice had sunk to a murmur, and she noted something pleading in it.

Cautiously, she nodded, and allowed him to glide his hand over her waist and pull her close. He laced the fingers of his other hand between her own - hers, delicate and small, becoming enveloped in his. His eyes became hooded, as he paused there for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. A faint curl appeared in the corner of his mouth as he then began to step and sway, leading her in a gentle and intimate dance that set her pulse racing and her skin to flush. He twirled her and gathered her back in, turning about the room in an effortless and elegant fashion.

Despite herself, Galadriel quickly succumbed to it, gliding willingly, gracefully with him. Melting into him, losing herself in his scent, his touch, his gaze. His ability to have this effect on her was something she would not need to worry about after tomorrow. For now, she saw no harm in being held by him, allowing it - relishing it - one last time.

He twirled her again, this time collecting her in his arms and coming to a stop. He held her so close that her lips were hovering a hair’s breadth from his neck. He placed his hand on the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair as he did so, the other arm wrapped tightly around her waist so that their bodies were pressed firmly together. He bent his head, bringing his nose to her hair and he seemed to breathe her in. A long, yearning inhale of her all-consuming scent.

She was overwhelmed with how tender it was, and it seemed in that moment she had stopped breathing altogether, suspended in his delicate and somewhat desperate embrace. She yearned to trail her nose along his neck, to plant soft kisses in its wake. To give in to the temptation of him. Her stomach twisted at the battle inside her.

It was all she could do to resist.

“Thank you.” He whispered. He pulled away, a dejected smile resting on his face. “Until tomorrow, Galadriel.”

She looked at him quizzically. There was something broken in his voice.

He slipped his arms from her, giving her a slight, sorrowful nod, then left her alone to ponder all that had just happened.

***
The next morning, Galadriel was waiting by the wall where she knew the entrance would appear. She was dressed for travelling but dared not take a pack, or anything that might suggest she would be gone for longer than a day in case he figured it out and stopped her going altogether.

As she waited, the soft plod of hooves approached from behind. She turned to find Halbrand leading the stallion over to her.

She gave him a curious look.

“Take him.” He said, “You’ll be able to cover more distance at speed, see what you want to see, explore what you will, go where you need.” His eyes were downcast, and spoke to her as if through a haze.

“I thought you were the only one that could ride him.”

Halbrand smiled grimly, a confession escaping through his nose in a light huff.

Galadriel sighed in response, “I should’ve guessed.”

“It was innocent enough.” He murmured as he stepped closer to her. He said nothing, simply standing there, studying her face as if trying to commit every last feature to memory, as if trying to burn her beauty into his mind.

Something was different, he was looking at her in a way he had not done before, and she gazed at him, enraptured by whatever this was.

After a moment or so, he lifted his hand to her face, and gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch before meeting his gaze again.

“Have a good day, Galadriel.” He said this so softly that Galadriel’s brows flickered slightly. She knew there was more behind his words. They were mournful, lamenting almost.

Had he guessed? And was still letting her go?

She swallowed, then steadied herself with a deep breath. “I will… I will be back by sundown.”

He gave her a grim smile before passing her the reins, and she sprang up, mounting the horse effortlessly. The archway had appeared and she stared at it intensely. Her pulse was throbbing in her ears. She was almost free. But despite herself, there was a strange pang in her chest.

She looked down at him, whether to check if he would really let her go, or to say goodbye, she could not tell. He gazed back, his eyes full of sorrow for a moment, before being replaced by a warm smile. He gave her a nod, silently telling her to go.

She did not wait. Digging her heels into the horse’s flank, she spurred it to go and it sped off like a shot, through the arch and out onto the moor. She did not look back.

Halbrand stood and watched her until she had disappeared from his sight. Solemnly, his heart heavy, he returned to the tower.

***

The day seemed insufferably long. Halbrand had spent it trying to busy himself with various tasks. At times like these he would calm his mind by smithing, but he avoided his forge. His latest project was only a painful reminder of what he had let go.

It was strange. He knew she was gone but he could not help tracing the sun’s movements across the sky and deliberating about when would be a reasonable time to start scanning the horizon for her.

For the latter part of the day he stood on his balcony like a sentry, overlooking the world below, alert to any movement that caught his eye. His heart racing every time he thought he saw something stir among the scrubland. The hours passed and as the sun sank low, any threadbare hope he had slowly unravelled.

Eventually, as the last pale embers of daylight dwindled and dusk settled on the land, he lowered his gaze. Forlorn, he went inside and slumped himself down in a chair by his bed. For a long time, he did not move as the room darkened about him. Tired and despondent, his eyes became heavy, and was on the verge of drifting off into a bleak sleep when a sound pulled him sharply back to the waking world.

The sound of a horse neighing… and the clop of hooves echoing on stone.

He jumped up and rushed to the balcony. The darkness made it difficult to see, but far below, he saw the unmistakable gleam of moonlight on her hair. His heart skipped at the sight of her, his breathing shallow. An overwhelming wave of relief and gladness flooded through him, only tempered a little by a pang of perplexity.

She had come back. Why?

He wasted no time descending the tower, hurrying to the stables to meet her.

She had already hitched the horse and removed the saddle by the time he got there.

He stood a few paces away, out of breath, and dumbfounded. Not quite knowing what to do or say, annoyed and embarrassed that the only thing to escape his mouth felt obvious and stupid. “You came back.”

“Of course I did.” She replied, her tone was cool and even as she exited the stall and closed the gate behind her – too relaxed. “I made a promise.”

He simply stood there, blinking at her, confoundedly as she walked on by him.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” She said with a light smile, walking blithely across the lawn towards the tower.

Halbrand turned and watched her disappear inside, still unable to do much other than look on in disbelief at how casually she had returned.

She was not lying, she was indeed very hungry and had made straight for the solar where there was always something laid out on the table to nibble at even outside of mealtimes. A fresh bowl of plump raspberries was sitting pride of place on the table, and taking a handful, she stuffed them into her mouth, savouring the sweet sharpness that burst on her tongue.

“Why did you come back?” Halbrand’s voice drifted low and quiet across the room from where he stood at the door.

Galadriel did not turn, still focussed on fitting more raspberries in her mouth. “I told you, I made a promise.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was a lie.”

“You may hide lies in your promises, but I don’t.” She clapped back, trying to hide behind a forced sense of offence that she would not be true to her word. “It was a promise.” She sucked the last of the juice from her fingers.

“I never expected you to keep it.” His footsteps were soft and deliberate as he approached.

She stiffened, and her head tilted slightly, not quite glancing back at him, but noticing how he was closing the distance between them. “And yet, you still let me go…”

“You are not mine to keep.”

Galadriel’s jaw tightened. “Up to now you’ve not been concerned about that.” She had not meant to instil such a bitter tinge to her voice, but found she could not help it.

Halbrand did not challenge this, his lack of response conceding this point. But after a beat, he asked again. “Why did you really come back?” His voice closer behind her.

Galadriel swallowed and chewed the inside of her cheek, still with her back to him. Not because of her desire to seem indifferent, though that was certainly an aim, but looking at him would feel too much like succumbing. So, she fixed her eyes on the stone floor instead, as if it could anchor her to what was right. “I already gave you all my reasons last night.”

“I don’t believe you.” He murmured. He was right behind her.

“What else do you want me to say? I have nowhere else to go and I need to keep a watch on you.” Frustration and the slightest hint of desperation crept into her voice.

“No… that’s not the real reason.” His hand drifted to her upper arm, his knuckles stroking the fabric of her sleeve, lingering a moment before encircling his hand and carefully coaxing her to turn around. Quietly, almost under his breath, he asked once more, “Why did you come back?”

He was close now, just inches from her, his scent permeating the air between them, compelling her to look at him with such an ache in his heart that she thought it might burst.

Her voice, laden with anguish, came barely above a whisper. “You know why.”

He stepped in closer and lent in.

She stiffened, her entire body tense. Her hands gripping the edge of the table behind her as her breath held tight in her chest.

Halbrand’s lips hovered over hers, unsure, tentative. She could feel his breath lightly caressing her mouth, like its own soft kiss before the warmth of his lips followed. His touch was agonisingly light, his lips only puckering slightly against hers, testing, hoping.

She dared not move. Her entire body was trembling as she gripped the table harder. Her lips, though slightly parted, did not stir against his.

When he realised, he paused, the softness of his lips lingering on hers for a moment longer. The sinking of his heart unmistakeable in the quiet exhale that escaped him.

But as he pulled away, her eyes closed and for a split second her lips went with him, a shuddering breath escaping her mouth as the kiss broke.

Halbrand stopped. His face remained so unbearably close that she could still feel his breath, still feel the warmth emanating from his skin. Neither moved.

Galadriel’s eyes were still closed as she felt his hand cupping her chin, his fingers delicately curling around her jaw. Her brows furrowed at his touch.

He searched her face with pensive eyes, and his voice came softer than babbling water from a spring. “Galadriel… look at me.”

Her brow knitted tighter, armouring herself. Her voice trembled as she reached for steadiness against the thrumming of her heartbeat in her chest, echoing in her ears. “Don’t…”

Beneath her skin a tempestuous sea raged, swelling and crashing, turning her stomach, weakening her legs, sending dizzying waves up her body that swirled around her head and made her feel like she was swaying, as though she no longer knew which way was up or down.

In the room, however, all was still.

“Galadriel.” His voice came again, tugging at her, willing her to look at him.

She knew if she did, her world might unravel.

She scrunched her eyes tighter. But then, featherlight as a summer breeze, came the soft caress of his thumb gently gliding back and forth over her cheek, her chin still cradled within his hand. A quiet entreaty, too delicately offered to resist.

Slowly, with an effort, her eyes opened, and as they did so a single tear was released from their grasp.

As her eyes met his, a sharp pang seized his heart. They were so full of sadness… and beneath that - an aching plea for it to stop, to make the pain go away. But there was something else; a deep, burning longing tempered by a galling shame. And for a moment it was too much to bear. All the pain he had caused, all the heartache, the unceasing torture of her conflicting feelings laid bare before him, raw and exposed like an open wound.

More than anything he wanted to make it right. Wanted to comfort her… not knowing if she would let him.

Slowly, he leant back in. Not a kiss this time - his lips parted, simply grazing over hers, asking the question.

Time stretched. An agonising eternity seemed to pass as he waited for her response.

Then it came.

She exhaled sharply against his mouth before pressing her lips firmly against his. Her hand rising to the back of his neck to pull him into her. Answering all his questions at once.

The kiss was messy, feverish, their tongues searching desperately for each other. Their mouths clashing with each new kiss more passionately than the last and sending low, curling surges through their bodies.

Halbrand grabbed her face, his thumb under her chin, his fingers pressing into her cheek. He wanted to devour her, keep her there, not let it stop. He pushed her back against the table and she braced herself with one hand on its surface. With the other she began to search under his shirt, her fingers rippling over the contours of his well-sculpted body, hardened by toiling in his forge.

When his knee slid between hers, she tensed - but did not stop him – and he pressed himself against her centre, causing a moan to escape her lips that was immediately stifled by his mouth still impatiently colliding with her own.

He grabbed her waist and hoisted her up to perch on the table, and she gasped at the sudden jolt, the force of him opening her legs as he pressed between them. It was not his thigh now that surged against her, but the hard flesh of him, sending teasing waves of pleasure through her core with every roll of his pelvis.

His fingers strayed to her outer calf, slipping under the hem of her dress and trailing up the soft bare skin of her leg, past her knee and to her thigh… His hand skimmed higher.

Too far.

It was like a lightning bolt. Her eyes snapped open and she pushed him away, hard enough to make him stumble back several paces.

She swiftly jumped down from the table, allowing her skirt to fall over her legs again. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, wide with disgust and despair. Slowly, she brought a trembling hand to her mouth as if trying to hide her shame.

She stared at the floor, trembling. Her breath stuttered.

What had she done? What had she almost allowed to happen? How much of herself had she betrayed in this one moment of weakness? …Why did she come back?

Halbrand stared at her desperately, paralysed, fearing anything he might say or do would cause her to flee. Feeling it would be inevitable anyway.

She staggered to the door.

Holding his breath, he watched her intently as she weighed whether to go down or up the staircase.

Eventually, tentatively, she chose up. Ascending the stairs in a trance of her own self-imposed disgrace.

She entered her room and went over to the bed. A thousand conflicting thoughts raced through her mind and she felt sick to her stomach.

Am I a disgrace? A traitor? Why was this so complicated? He made her feel so… That’s why she came back… wasn’t it? That and…

Why couldn’t she give him up? Why didn’t she want to?

It was all too much, and she covered her face with her hands as tears began to tumble down her cheeks. She did not know what this was - rage? Guilt? She clawed at her own skin.

Exasperated, her chest heaved.

It took a while of simply standing there, but eventually her torment gave way to a dull ache, and she felt utterly hollow inside.

She glanced down. Something had been left on her bed for her – a book. She frowned at it, and picked it up. The spine read, ‘The Death of Eöl.’

Chapter Text

It only took a few moments for Halbrand to follow Galadriel up the stairs.

Assuming she had retreated to her bedroom, he hesitated outside her door, fingers grazing the wood. A thousand thoughts crowded in - regret, fear, and that aching hope that maybe, just maybe, she had not turned away completely.

A soft knock on the door announced his arrival. Though she did not respond, he entered anyway. Hovering in the doorway, he found her sitting on the edge of her bed staring blankly at the floor, either not noticing him or choosing not to acknowledge his presence.

She had not lit a single candle. The darkness suited her mood - or maybe she thought it would shield her from his gaze.

Only the steel glow of the moonlight filtering in from the balcony gave any shape to the room, and yet, her hair still glittered, catching even the faintest of light and reflecting it back so luminously it was as if she was lit from within.

He was not sure whether he should come in, but decided he had no choice, that he could not leave what had happened in the solar as it was. Gently, he closed the door behind him and made his way over to her, treading as lightly as he could. When he reached her, he knelt on the floor in front of her so he could meet her eyes, if she would look at him that is.

He wanted to place his hand on her knee, but thought better of it, instead resting his hand on the edge of the bed next to her, pressing slightly into the bedsheets.

“I’m sorry…” His voice soft and sincere. “I didn’t mean to push. I know this must feel strange.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze, her expression empty, broken. The war inside her raged without mercy. Her love for her brother, her fury at the betrayal - and underneath it all, the undeniable truth that she had come back... for him.

“I don’t know what I feel…” Every sensible thought in her head was screaming at her. “I should hate you.” Her voice was a whisper. She clenched her jaw - tight enough to ache.

She pressed her lids closed and shook her head.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Her hands stayed where they were. Too close to his.

“But you don’t, and that’s a problem.” His voice sincere with empathy.

Of course, he would choose now to show it.

She almost wished he was incapable of it, as she had always believed. Just a warmongering tyrant who had not the capacity to care for others or have any understanding of their feelings.

Slowly, with a sigh, she opened her eyes again, searching his. Those eyes that could both hold her and break her at the same time. “Everything in me says I should. Who do I become if I can no longer hate you? How do I reconcile betraying my brother’s memory?”

He looked down, having no answer for her.

His fingers twitched where they rested on the bed. Just inches from her knee.

He could almost feel her warmth through the bedsheets.

He should stay still. He knew that.

And yet - how easily he could reach out. Just one gesture of comfort. One spark.

One move to cradle her cheek in his warm palm…

He imagined how she would lean in to it, covering his large hand with her own, slight, dainty one.

How she would turn her head slightly to graze her lips over his palm and plant soft, delicate kisses there.

How she would pause to look at him with those sadly sparkling blue eyes and he would not be able to hold back from edging himself closer.

He would look at her as she deserved - worshipfully.

Nose grazing hers. Lips hovering just above.

And she would lean in, like in the solar.

Soft. Warm. Wanting.

Because she desired it.

Because she desired him.

And he would wrap his arms around her.

Kiss her gently, reverently.

Knowing what he held was too precious to risk anything bullish.

So, he would keep his lips soft and his tongue slow. Intimate.

And she would melt for him, breathe him in as their mouths danced together, as their hands glided slow and firm over each other’s necks, backs, waists…

How in that moment he would feel more connected, more loved, more seen than he had ever felt in his entire existence.

And that she would feel the same.

And when the kiss finally ended, because end it must, they would not break apart.

But remain for a moment.

Foreheads touching, noses brushing passed one another, their breaths sighing, a little heavy.

And when they opened their eyes to look on one another it would be like the colliding of stars - a burst of light and flaring of sparks so calamitous everything that came before would be inevitably destroyed.

But in its wake, the creation of something new.

Something beautiful.

Something more powerful than before.

A reshaping of the night sky so that the constellations would tell only the story of their love.

That would be all there was, and it would be enough.

But instead, he curled his fingers into a fist, gripping the bedspread so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palm.

He knew she was not ready for that.

She must have gleaned his intentions, an echo of his thoughts touching hers unbidden, because of the way she was looking at him now. Her eyes wide with uncertainty, whether unsure of what he would do, or unsure of what she wanted, he could not tell, but her breathing had shallowed. She trembled, and her eyes would not leave him. They stayed locked like this, both of them all too acutely aware of his hand next to hers on the bed, burning a hole in the periphery of their vision.

The potential of his touch scalding the bedsheets.

But, after a few moments, when it was clear he meant not to act on his thoughts, Galadriel’s gaze lowered. A wave of relief rippled through her, but under the surface, a tinge of disappointment.

His breath brushed against her skin. Her heart raced. Every part of her screamed to lean in - to act on it herself, but her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

She could not bear the aftermath of that kiss.

It was too confusing, too complicated, too confoundingly glorious and painful in equal measure for her to bear the thought of being torn apart again, not tonight.

But perhaps he could hold her? Gather her into his arms and guide her down on to the bed. Keep her held there, safe, quelling the turmoil inside her - just for tonight - as she lay her head on his chest and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat; a gentle lullaby as she rocked to the rise and fall of his chest, as she breathed in his scent, as she melted in his warmth.

But she could not bring herself to ask.

“I think… I would like to get some sleep now.” She said, wearily. Defeated.

Halbrand searched her face, waiting, hoping there might be more than this, that she might bring herself to say whatever was just below the surface.

But she didn’t.

Solemnly, he drew his hand from the bed and nodded quietly, before slowly rising to his feet.

Galadriel did not look up as he left, but as the door clicked shut behind him, she finally released the tears she had been swallowing back from the moment she realised he was not going to stay.

The next morning, when Galadriel went down for breakfast, she found the solar empty. She looked wistfully at the clean cutlery and crockery that lay unused at Halbrand’s customary seat and wondered where he might be.

He was never late, so her heart sank at the thought that today, he had simply not meant to join her.

She supposed that, seeing as she was no longer a prisoner, he would not hold her to any of the agreements they had made, meaning he was not beholden to them either. In theory, this was a good thing – there would be no more bartering for small concessions and no expectations on her to do anything she was not comfortable with.

She looked at the empty seat across from her, running her thumb along the rim of her glass.

Just for a moment.

Then pulled her hand back, as if caught.

She had not meant to miss him…

Instead, she told herself that she had simply grown accustomed to their breakfasts.

But that did not negate the fact that, although she was no longer bound to them, she had shown up anyway, expecting him to do the same.

This morning there were a selection of pastries, fruits, and elderflower cordial – a mix of fare from her garden and what Halbrand had conjured. She no longer took issue with her food being made this way, and she found she welcomed the variety his sorcery provided.

She poured herself a glass of cordial, the pale golden liquid capturing the sunlight and reflecting it back onto the table top in a ring around the glass. Something about the way it gleamed, allowing the light to pass through it and rebound against the walls of the clear vessel caught her attention. Entranced, she stared as a wisp of a thought drifted through her mind.

A glass vessel… and within - light.

She was unsure what it was, something not quite tangible, like the dwindling memory of a dream lingering on the cusp of conscious thought, fading to mist as she moved to grasp it.

She blinked slowly, coming back to herself.

Dismissing whatever it was that danced on the edge of her thoughts, she reached for the glass and took a sip. The drink was cool, subtly sweet with a kind of floral honey taste. A pleasant drink well suited to the warm summer weather that graced the days here. Though it was enjoyable, it did not take away the sting of Halbrand’s absence.

Her mind was still in conflict about everything that had happened on her return, not to mention the fact that she did indeed return, even though she never meant to.

Yesterday morning, she had ridden out, hard, without a care to look back. She had pushed the horse for several hours, riding south across the moor which seemed to stretch for an interminable number of miles, until eventually the landscape began to slope downwards, meeting a pleasantly green country of quaint dales and crisp, clear rivers.

She slowed the horse to a plodding amble and took her time through this new and pleasant terrain, taking in the sights and smells of the wild flowers growing on the river banks and allowing for wayward exploration of the various limestone caves cut into the otherwise smooth slopes – some small, dark and furtive, while others were as large as grand halls fit for imagined nymph kings and all their subjects having congregated from far and wide from among the wild places.

She had no solid purpose except to carry on south - as had been the original plan – to try to pick up the trail of orcs and wolves that were now headed that way and find out why. But as the day wore on, and the sun arced overhead, her pace began to slow, and she began to linger in rest spots for longer than she should.

Late in the afternoon, she sat on the banks of a river that trickled gently down a winding valley with steep green hills on either side and a small wood running along its basin. She took the opportunity to bathe her feet and rest in the dappled shade – a welcome relief from the beating sun that had not relented all day. As she sat there, she was reminded of when her and Halbrand sat by the sapphire lake, dangling their feet in the water, and indulging in the sweetest of kisses. Unafraid and unbound by expectations or propriety, and still blissfully ignorant to the shattering reality of who he was, it was the freest she had felt in such a long time she struggled to remember another day like it. Just the two of them, striking out into the unknown together, them against the world.

And the way the day ended… the campfire, the stars, the story, the song and… the rest.

She smiled at the memory, though it brought a quiet ache. Perhaps it was because the Halbrand she had known that day was lost to her now.

Wasn’t he?

But no - that was not it.

She let her gaze drift across the glimmering river, where light and shadow reluctantly danced on the surface together. The image made all the more beautiful because of the contrasting colours they created.

This place felt old - older than the trees, older than the stones. There was a hum in the current, not of water, but of something deeper. A presence. A remembering.

She closed her eyes. Drinking it in.

A sound stirred – faint, melodic. Barely there. Like a whisper spoken not into the air but into the soul.

She turned, instinctively seeking its source, but the world around her remained still. Trees stood silent. The wind held its breath.

She stilled herself, listening.

The sound teased the edges of her awareness - light, elusive - like the shadow of a song half-remembered. She tilted her head, slowly, listening, following.

It came from no one place, seemingly from everywhere. Around her. Within her.

A soft melody stirred. At first barely audible.

But then it deepened - not in volume, but in clarity.

It was not a song of the air. It was the Song beneath the world. The one only those old and open enough might still hear. The one she had closed herself to for years… until now.

Then it changed.

The melody grew clearer, weaving itself into a tapestry of chiming notes, as if a thousand silver bells had been loosed in the sky and were now raining gently to earth. They trickled toward her, with a grace so delicate it felt like the drifting of petals on the wind.

And then she understood. It was the river. The soft, ceaseless lapping of water over the stones. But not just water - memory.

Within its flowing voice, she heard the echo of a song. A song not sung by any mortal tongue. A song forgotten by stone and sky, by beast and leaf – remembered only by the water - never ceasing its journey since the breaking of the first silence.

It murmured now of things too vast for words. A lament. A lullaby. A love song to the world when it was new. The final, fading refrain of the Ainur’s great Music.

As she listened, something shifted.

Her vision blurred - not with tears, but with light. Shapes began to form behind her eyes, shimmering patterns that pulsed in rhythm with the music. At first, only radiance. Then motion. Then form.

And then she saw them.

Great beings, tall and radiant, their contours barely held within the limits of shape. They were made of light and sound and longing - beings of such unbearable beauty that her heart faltered to behold them.

Their song was not heard with the ears but felt - woven through the blood, sung into the bone, inscribed on the soul.

She gasped as warmth bloomed within her chest, not of fire but of belonging. As if she were a part of it. As if the song remembered her.

The vision trembled and changed.

Golden rain fell, soft as breath, veiling the light in delicate threads. It fell in slow motion, each droplet a shining tear of starlight. Then the veil parted, like gossamer drawn back by unseen hands.

And there he stood.

Bathed in golden light, every contour lit as if dawn itself had formed him.

No shadows clung to him. No darkness on this edge of this thoughts.

His face - open. Unarmoured. Beautiful not in might, but in stillness.

He shone with a purity that startled her - an echo of what he was before the fall, before the fire. Before the name of Sauron was ever spoken.

She felt it in her chest. Gentle relief blooming where grief once lived.

It was him. Yet not him. No brooding weight upon his brow. No guarded edge in his eyes. No shame. No sorrow. Only serenity. Only light.

This was not the Halbrand she had knew.

Not even the Maia that fell.

This was before all that - before pride and ruin, before the long shadow. This was Mairon as he should be – only whispered of in ancient tales. Who he once was before time itself.

And he was beautiful.

Her breath caught, her heart stumbling, hands trembling - not in fear, but in awe.

Not because of grandeur. Not because of power.

But because, in that golden light, she saw into the core of him.

Not the tyrant. Not the shadow. Just… him.

Everything that he was. What he could be again…

Then-

Just as quickly as it came, the vision faded. And there she sat, under the shade of the wood by the little river. The world as it was just a few moments before.

But not her. Now she realised. Now she knew what the ache was.

Their paths had not come together by chance. It was no mere coincidence that they met that day on the north road.

She could see it so clearly now – her entire life. Her dogged pursuit. The moment of their meeting and everything that followed.

It was all playing out in a lay she had not known the melody to - until now.

But what did it mean? What was she meant to do?

Was it memory, or revelation? A gift from the Powers? Or her own heart speaking in the only language she would trust?

She did not know. Not yet. But she could not shake the feeling that what she saw was real. Not just beautiful. Real.

There was nothing stopping her from continuing south. Putting more and more distance between them and forgetting any of it ever happened. She could find somewhere to start anew. Help those in need. Pursue the dark forces. All she had to do was get back on the horse and keep riding...

But she did not.

She could not shake the feeling that a task had been placed upon her. An unspoken charge, the true nature of which was still obscure and hidden from her, and the only way of finding out what it was, was not to go on, but to go back…

The moment the thought surfaced - of turning back - something in her chest loosened.

The ache dulled. Like a knot uncoiling.

She breathed in - deeper than she had all day - and the air tasted sweeter. Clearer.

Her hands stopped trembling.

Her body had decided before her mind caught up.

And so, she went back.

Back over the moors, back to the tower, back to him.

What that would mean going forward, she was not quite sure. But she knew something had shifted, some greater purpose had been laid before her and it was her duty to figure out what it was.

But there was something more.

Something beyond the task she had been set that brought her back. Though she would try to diminish its significance, she knew what it was. Whether she wanted to or not, she could not shake her connection to him. A powerful tethering that she feared could not now be broken, no matter how many leagues she put between them, no matter how daunting, how unsettling. A bond she could no longer deny, and one that would define them both forever…

Alone in the solar, she nibbled absentmindedly at a pastry, her appetite dwindling quickly as her agitation rose. She thrummed her fingertips on the table, her patent disappointment at his absence sat heavy in her chest and she was unnerved at how much she was craving his presence. She sat for a little longer, picking at the pith of a satsuma she had peeled but had no intention of eating, chewing the inside of her mouth, her brow furrowing more intensely with every passing second.

She could take it no longer.

With a sharp intake of breath, she thrust her seat back, and rising purposefully, she strode out the room to find Halbrand.

She was not sure where he would be, but there were only so many places, unless he had decided to leave the tower grounds, which she thought unlikely. As she descended the spiral steps that wound around the spine of the tower a faint, rhythmic clanging sound rattled off the stone walls and into her ears.

The forge.

She had never visited his forge, and was not entirely sure where it was apart from knowing it was somewhere at the base of the tower, perhaps even below ground a little. Following the repeated sound of metal pounding metal, she resolved to find it, plunging ever deeper and through doors and passageways that had been locked or obscured before, now curiously open.

She was getting closer. The sound coming clearer with every footstep, until eventually she came to a wide wooden door with ornate iron detailing patterning its surface. The sound of metalwork unmistakeably just on the other side of the door. Quietly, she turned the handle, the door swinging back silently and with an ease she was not expecting for such a heavy thing, and taking a deep breath, she slipped inside.

Halbrand was filthy. Covered in what looked to be several hours’ worth of sweat and soot from working near the raging furnace.

The intensity of its flames took Galadriel’s breath away as she entered, and forced her to skirt the wall, not wanting to come any further into the room for fear she might suffocate from the heat. But she adapted quickly, and found she was able to calm herself enough to steady her breathing, her skin no longer prickling from the sudden onslaught of hot air.

She watched curiously as Halbrand worked, who was as yet unaware that she was even there.

His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and his tunic clinging in the places where his sweat had collected, the loose waves of chestnut hair tucked endearingly behind his ears.

There were several sketchbooks laid out neatly on the table on the opposite side of the room, too far for her to see in any detail what lay within the pages, but perhaps she had caught a glimpse of something circular – a torque maybe or similar. Her eyes drifted to the piece he was hammering, expecting it to be something akin to a sword or an impressive piece of armour. She could not quite see it – his body was obscuring her view, but whatever it was, it was much smaller that she was expecting, more delicate, and he worked it with the soft exactness of a sculptor, tip-tapping away with a precision hammer rather than pounding with a heavier, more brutal tool.

A pang of guilt seized her, feeling as though she was somehow spying deviously from her position by the wall, so she let him know she was there.

“What are you working on?”

A clang of metal rang out as his project slipped from the tongs and clattered to the floor. He reeled round, startled.

A sheepish wince creased her face. “Sorry…”

He sighed, frustrated, and rubbed his hand over his beard as he strode over to his workbench and flipped the covers of his sketchbooks closed. Turning then towards her he leant against the bench, his hands braced somewhat awkwardly against its edge so that his elbows bent behind him and his shoulders were raised. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes darted momentarily to the metalwork on the floor. She still could not figure out what it was meant to be – it was obviously not finished. Her eyes quickly found their way back to him. “Actually, I came to find you. You weren’t at breakfast.”

“It’s morning already?” He said, genuinely perplexed at where the time had gone.

“Yes…” Her brow gathering with concern. “Have you been here all night?”

“Most of it.” He replied, flatly, his eyes flitting to the darkened coals, anywhere but her face. The memory of her lips so close - then gone - still burned behind his ribs.

Another flicker of guilt caused Galadriel to grimace a little. How many hours had he been here trying to put things out of his mind? Put her out of his mind?

An awkward silence followed, and she was frustrated with herself that having so fervently wanting to find him, she seemingly now had nothing to say.

Halbrand’s jaw twitched, feeling the weight of the silence and also desperately hoping for some words to emerge.

The furnace spitted and flared.

Something left in its heart was overheating and small pops and sparks began to fly from it, causing pieces of coal and metal flakes to sputter out and tumble aflame onto the floor.

“Damn.” Halbrand had forgotten about it.

He moved quickly. Grabbing the tongs and hastily clasping the metal rod that was embedded in the furnace, glowing brightly. With a steady grip he took it over to the water bucket and plunged it in.

The metal shrieked as it hit water.

A high-pitched twang accompanied the sizzle. Then – a crack. A splinter of metal flew from the rod, splitting from the extreme temperature change.

It caught Halbrand’s forearm, slicing a jagged line from his wrist to elbow.

Blood surged instantly, dark and slick, trailing over the curve of his arm in a red ribbon.

He hissed through clenched teeth. His hand flexed instinctively, then stilled.

Before he could do anything about it, Galadriel was already there, cradling his arm in her soft hands, inspecting it with deep unease. “This is bad.” She said, a little breathless.

“Stupid…” he shook his head, and sucked in his breath with frustration as she wrapped her fingers around his elbow. With her other hand, she traced his skin with her fingertips parallel to the wound.

“Impurities in the ore…” Voice trailing off as his rage was quelled by the gentleness of her touch, dropping now to a quiet murmur as he noticed the way her eyes traced the severity of the injury. “It’s not a problem.”

“You can heal it?” She looked up at him, curious.

“I can…” he nodded, before glancing down to where she was absentmindedly supporting his wrist, gliding her thumb back and forth over his skin. “Unless… you don’t want me to?”

Her cheeks flushed, heat prickling beneath her skin.

She laughed - quiet, unsteady.

Her gaze dropped, but not fast enough to hide the flicker of longing in her eyes. “There’s no need for me to treat it, not if you can heal it yourself. I know which I would prefer if it were me.”

Her thumb was still brushing over his wrist. Back and forth. Slow.

“But… I could, if you want me to.” She swallowed. “I mean, if you’d rather.”

He slowly looked her up and down, tilting his head to try and catch her gaze. “Sometimes… it’s nice to be tended to.”

Her eyes flickered up to him, fluttering away again in an instant. Her teeth caught her bottom lip and her thumb bent so that her nail was pensively scratching the surface of his inner arm. She had to swallow before she could get her next words out, still unable to look him in the eye. “All my medicines are in my room.”

Gently, he reached up with his free hand, softly flicking her hair behind her shoulder to expose her neck and collarbone. Then placing his hand against her neck, he grazed his thumb over her jaw line.

His eyes went to her lips as they parted at his touch, watching intently as she shuddered slightly, breathing in slowly, deeply. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”

“Are you sure you would not rather heal it yourself?” Her voice barely above a whisper now.

He stepped in, eyes hooded as he looked down at her softly, searching her face as it remained tilted downward. “I’m sure.” As he said the words, his fingertips slipped gently down her neck, tracing the edge of her collarbone, making her skin raise into pimples despite the heat in the room, warmth pooling in the depths of her stomach.

As his fingers glided across her décolletage she could feel herself wanting to tilt her head away, wanting to extend her throat for him so that he might explore her further, so that her neckline might seem more enticing, irresistible, kissable…

But she screwed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw, stepping back from him, letting her hands fall from his arm. Her intake of breath ragged and heavy as his touch slipped away from her.

Not yet… not ready.

Stillness followed.

A moment passed, then another. Until finally she opened her eyes again.

She shot him a reassuring smile to counter the frown that now shadowed his face, letting out an apologetic huff as she did so, quickly trying to lighten the mood. “I’m not letting you sit anywhere in my room while you’re this filthy.”

Confusion flashed in Halbrand’s eyes for a moment, until he looked down at himself and saw the layers of muck and metal filings that clung to him. He chuckled softly then, aiming a crooked smile her way. “Right…”

“I’ll meet you in the parlour with what I need.”

He looked on her warmly, his gaze holding her for a moment as he savoured her beauty in the firelight, before quietly nodding. “I’ll see you there.”

It did not take Galadriel long to gather what she needed. In fact, she found herself hurrying, not wanting to keep Halbrand waiting with bleeding arm, but also struggling to deny the exhilaration she felt in his presence and the anticipation of returning to him as soon as possible. She was practically giddy.

An unsettling feeling.

She arrived in the parlour with a wash basin, cloth, fresh linen wraps, and some familiar herbs and salves to stop the bleeding and aid rapid healing - all taken from her plant bed in the garden and dried for longer storage.

Sitting herself close to Halbrand on the couch she found him on, she set the basin down and crushed the herbs into the water. “It would be better if the water was hot, but we’ll make do.”

Halbrand hummed knowingly and stretched his hand out to touch the side of the bowl. Within seconds steam was rising from the water within and the smell of the herbs filled the room.

“Cute trick.” She teased, a smile curling the corner of her mouth.

He sat back with a small smirk, pleased at her approval; brows rising and falling rapidly at his own magnificence.

Rolling her eyes, she dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out before shuffling a little closer to him, their knees touching as she reached for his arm. Holding it in her own, she brought the cloth close, about to clean it.

Then suddenly, she stopped.

She sat there motionless, scrutinizing the wound. Her expression hardened as she stared at it, eyes narrowing for a moment, before turning glassy.

Transfixed.

Her features changed, softening now, her lips parting slightly with one eyebrow raised as if a stray thought was slowly dawning on her.

Halbrand looked at her intensely, unsure of what was happening. Her eyes seemed to cloud over as though she was no longer in the room with him, and as they widened he could tell she was seeing more than what was in front of her, seeing beyond the real world.

“Galadriel?”

She made no response. Seemingly unaware he had even spoken. She began to tremble. Her breath catching in her throat.

“Galadriel!” He shook her arm, gripping it tightly, trying anxiously to pull her out of it.

She blinked hard, breathing in sharply as if coming up for air. Her eyes lost all focus and reeled around the room for a moment before coming to settle on him again, coming back to herself.

“Halbrand…” Her voice was remote as if still half-straying elsewhere.

“What was that?”

She shook her head faintly. “I don’t know.”

Looking down at the red blood that had spilled from his arm, she frowned a little. “Show me what it really looks like.”

He winced slightly, reluctant to show her any part of him that lay his past to bare so irrefutably. He wanted to shield her from it, refuse it, deny the pride, the susception, the shame of the fall, the twisting of his nature that left him so tainted within.

She was light and beauty and he wanted nothing more than to keep her safe from anything that might threaten that. But to so that, he would have to push her away, keep her safe from him, not just the corruption that still clung to his veins, but everything that he was. That he is.

-Something he could not bring himself do.

But she was also strong, a warrior – did not need shielding - she had seen enough darkness to fill a thousand lifetimes, and this alone had already left its mark on her. He had to admit to her resilience. She had resisted the worst of it, still maintaining her light with a resolute grace that made him lose himself in his awe of her.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered her request. But in the end, he decided he truly did not want to forge any more lies. So, with a flicker of shame in his eyes, he revealed it.

The bright red blood that had now started to dry and congeal around his wound darkened, slowly changing from crimson to maroon and then eventually… to black.

There it was. The truth of him. The evidence of his descent.

Galadriel looked on it uncertainly, taking a deep, resigned breath – knowing what to expect but taken aback somewhat by the stark reality of the Morgoth’s darkness staining his skin.

As she hovered the cloth above his arm nervously, he worried if it repulsed her.

If it did, she did not show it, guided the cloth down gently, tenderly stroking it across his skin and wiping away the blood as carefully as she could.

She worked the cloth in slow, deliberate strokes.

It burned at first - sharp, stinging. Then cooled. Soothing. Like snow melting on a fevered brow.

With each pass, the tension in his chest unwound. Bit by bit, like armour he had not realised he was still wearing.

He could not be sure, but he thought that perhaps her misgivings had also relented, given the way her features softened as she tended to him.

They settled into an easy silence as she patted the wound dry and prepared the salve on her fingers. She was about to apply it, but instead paused for a moment.

A stone dropped in Halbrand’s stomach, perhaps it did disgust her after all – the thought of touching his tainted blood directly. But to his surprise, she smiled, and a short, amused hum came from her lips.

The corner of his mouth twitched in response. “What is it?”

She was still smiling warmly as she delicately glided her fingertips along the length of the cut, reloading her fingers with salve and repeating.

His chest rose and fell at her touch, his pulse racing at how she did not shy away. Red or black, she took care of him all the same.

“I was just thinking about doing this very same thing in my infirmary after stitching you up.”

“That wound was worse.”

“That wound was deadly.” She cocked her head as she wiped her hands clean and reached for the strips of linen.

“You saw to it that it wasn’t.” He turned his arm over so that he was able to cradle her elbow in his hand, gently caressing her skin with his fingers.

“No, you saw to it that it wasn’t.” She raised an eyebrow at the way he was stroking her. “I need you to turn your arm back over so I can see what I’m doing.”

“Sorry.” He said, smirking faintly before doing as he was told.

“You didn’t need me to heal you.” She began wrapping the linen firmly in place around his arm. “You could have walked away from the fight with the werewolf and be none the worse for wear…”

“I could have… but then… you were so set on leaving. I needed to give you a reason to stay… to be closer to you. Even if I had to bleed for it.” His eyes never strayed from her face as she stalled for a moment. It was almost imperceptible. His words catching her off guard for the slightest of seconds before she continued her task of winding the linen about him.

“A dishonest tactic,” she said, flatly, though the tug at the corner of her mouth betrayed the truth that she did not really mind.

“A necessary one.”

“As necessary as allowing yourself to be hurt in the first place? I take it the wolf was no real match for you.”

He shrugged his lower lip and tilted his head with a sense of shameless mischief. “Maybe.”

She pulled the linen down swiftly in a knot, rebelling against his cheek by securing it a little too firmly.

“Ow.” His voice was deadpan, but his eyes narrowed playfully.

“Necessary - to keep it secure.” She flashed him an innocent look.

He nodded and hummed knowingly in response. “I’m sure.”

“You’re all sorted.” She patted softly him over the bandages. “Though I still think you could have done a better job yourself.”

“This was better, trust me.” He caught the flicker of a smile light up her face before she smothered it again.

“I’d better clean all this up.” She said, collecting all the used items and rising from her seat. “And Halbrand?”

“Yes?” He said, looking up at her.

“Take a bath.” She shot him a wide smile and he met it with his own, exuberant laughter.

“Noted.” He nodded and rose as she turned to leave. He watched her as she crossed the room, the sway of her hips and the swish of her hair rocking pleasantly as she slipped through the door. He felt a surge in his chest as he realised that for once, she had left him on good terms. A warmth seeped through his skin and settled in his bones.

The same thought had not escaped Galadriel as she ascended the stairs back to her room, but unlike Halbrand, she was less sure what to make of it. Or at least, she was not about to untangle it now.

She put the items she had been carrying down on her dresser. But as she went to wash the bloodstained cloth out, she stopped – looking at it with the same curiously transfixed gaze she had given Halbrand’s arm.

That’s it.

The moment the thought settled, everything else shifted.

A thread pulled from the weave of everything that had happened since she met him. She did not know where it would lead. But she had to follow it – this faint glimmer of hope.

She draped the cloth over the back of the dressing chair to dry without rinsing it. Then, with new purpose, she left for the library.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the days settled into something familiar, almost as they had done before, with neither one of them wanting to speak further on why Galadriel had returned and what had happened between them the night she had.

Halbrand had taken to visiting her more often in the garden. A few weeks ago – perhaps only a few days ago – this would have annoyed her; the brazen invasion of her private space. Not that the garden was out of bounds for him, after all, this was his tower, his grounds, his home, and she was simply a guest in it. But the garden had been his gift to her, and she felt that she was able to lay claim to it somehow – that it was her place and he would need permission to enter it. But she found, unlike before, that now she did not really mind his presence there, and in those moments that they sat together, an amiable silence settled between them. Sometimes they would both read, or she would read while he drew furtively in his sketchbook, stopping and closing the pages when she asked about it. Or sometimes he sat while she lay in the sunbed, with neither one of them doing much at all other than soaking up the sun and relishing in the sweet scents of the flowers, the faint buzzing of the bees.

Much to Halbrand’s surprise, and although she was able to now come and go as she pleased, Galadriel did not leave again. Instead, when not in the garden she took to spending long hours in her library, much longer than she had done in more recent weeks and Halbrand could not help but be curious as to why. He would ask, of course, in his mocking sort of manner, trying to provoke her into revealing what she was up to. But she would simply respond ever calmly, saying only that she was “researching something new.”

She would probe him the same, enquiring after what he was doing all day in his forge; what he could possibly be making. When he withheld, she chided him, teasingly, reminding him that one of the reasons she was still here was to make sure he was not planning or doing anything untoward. That she was here to keep him in check.

“It’s hard to guard against evil when it’s forging secrets behind my back.” She looked at him provocatively over the top of her book as he sat across from her on the patio.

“Then I’ll trade you – a little truth for a little trust.” He leant back against the bench, and with a wry grin he tossed a grape into his mouth that he had collected as he passed the courtyard on his way to sit with her. “What are you researching in your library?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet.”

“And what are you looking for?”

Galadriel did not answer.

“Well, I did build the thing.” Halbrand raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in a patronising sort of manner. “If you tell me what you’re looking for I might be able to help you find it quicker.”

Galadriel paused, pursing her lips a little as she considered her next response. Her words came carefully. “You have given me many gifts here. It would only be polite for me to gift you something in return. I’d like it to remain a surprise.” She held his gaze a moment, and a hint of a smile appeared in the corner of her mouth before looking away again. “Though you make it very difficult.”

“I’m difficult?” He scoffed, playfully.

She smiled warmly at him, letting a soft chuckle escape.

There was a moment’s pause as they looked at each other from across the paving slabs, their glances piercing through the hazy shafts of sunlight as they caught the summer seeds lazily adrift upon the air, almost fizzling and twisting in the heat of the mid-morning.

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed as she put down her book. “Seriously, what are you forging?”

Halbrand’s mirth turned to exasperation in an instant and he let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “If you’re asking me, then you don’t trust me. And you won’t tell me what you’re researching, so I don’t feel very inclined to be forthcoming.”

“I’m not the one with shadows on my past.” She said flatly, unmoving, waiting.

He huffed, bitterly, hating how easily she was able to throw that in his face. “A harmless project.” He shrugged, “A hobby. Nothing more.”

“I don’t believe anything you do to be as inconsequential as a hobby.” As she held his gaze, her lip curled, knowingly. She was getting the better of him.

“Fine.” He bristled, with a sarcastic grimace and a melodramatic tone, he continued: “I am making a weapon. The greatest weapon ever conceived with the power to enslave Middle Earth and everyone in it, bending them to my will so that I might remake this place as I see fit, and all the beauty you ever knew in this world will be burned to ashes.”

For a moment, silence.

“Funny.” She deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. But then she sighed and softened, admitting to herself that putting him on the defensive was not the best way to get an answer from him. “Look,” her voice was soothing now, “if you want me to trust you then you have to give me something. Show me you are not who you used to be.”

Halbrand’s jaw tightened, but his words were quiet. “How am I to do that?”

Galadriel thought for a moment, but when the answer did not come to her, she shook her head slightly as she whispered. “I don’t know.”

He looked away; a mix of shame, disappointment, and obstinance playing on his features, his thumb restlessly fidgeting over his fingers, trying to pin them down as they wrestled to flick away his agitation.

She sighed quietly to herself before getting up out of her seat and crossing the space to come sit with to him, deliberately choosing the side where his left forearm rested on the back of the bench, still wrapped in the cloth from when she had bound his injury.

He shifted a little uncomfortably as she settled in beside him, unsure what her intentions were and not wanting to guess. He meant it when he said he did not want to push, and decided to leave the ball firmly in her court when it came to their interactions for the time being. He kept himself leant against the backrest trying not to look too eager at the thought of her choosing to sit by him and he watched her slightly guardedly as she closed her book and placed it down on the other side of her.

Turning back to him and without saying a word she gently placed her hand over his bandages, her thumb tracing a small arc over the inside of his forearm - once, twice, three times.

Halbrand felt his heart begin to race at the softness of her touch and he worked to keep his breathing steady. He swore he could feel the warmth of her skin on his as if the linen between them was not even there, his mouth turning dry as she looked on him with a gentle smile. All prior agitations he had were quickly dissolving away.

Tenderly, she wrapped her fingers underneath his arm and lifted it away from the bench, bringing it closer to her so she could hold it with her other hand whilst she worked to undo the knot, concentrating on slowly unwinding the material from around his cut with a careful grace.

He sat there, still and quiet, watching her intently from beneath his brow as she unwound the last of the cloth and discarded it onto the ground.

She tilted her head, examining the wound by tracing her middle fingertip lightly along its blackened length - now a neat line almost closed.

His lungs filled quickly, deeply, and slightly jagged, finding he was not able to let the air out again.

“This has closed nicely.” Her voice was as tender as her touch.

“I had a good healer.” He murmured, trying to fight the surge in his chest and match the softness of her voice.

She hummed as the corner of her mouth curled upwards. “Are you sure you didn’t heal it even a little bit yourself?” Looking at him from under a wryly raised eyebrow.

He responded with a muted sense of feigned offence. “That would be dishonest. And I’m trying my best not to lie to you.”

She hummed again, approvingly this time. “Quite right.” She whispered.

The breeze seemed to still, and the sound of the garden falling silent as he reverently looked her up and down while she continued to glide her fingers over his skin thoughtfully. He wondered what would happen if he were to lean in. If he lightly cupped her chin and encouraged her to look at him, whether she would let him plant a soft kiss upon her lips. How long it might last before she pulled away. If she pulled away…

But all such thoughts quickly dissolved as a pensive crinkle appeared between her brow.

“I’ve been thinking…” she began, tentatively. “Your blood was blackened by Morgoth’s corruption of your spirit.” She looked up at him expectantly. Although it came out as a statement, it was also a question.

His eyes narrowed slightly and he answered cautiously. “Correct.”

“But it was not always so?”

Tension had creeped into his lips as he gave the slightest shake of his head.

“Then… who’s to say it cannot be undone? If darkness altered your heart… would not light change it back?”

His lips parted slightly as he searched her gaze, swallowing thickly as the hope in her eyes threatened to overwhelm him. Hesitantly, already pained at the thought of crushing her idea, his voice became low, “It’s a nice thought. But I doubt a light exists in Middle Earth that would be pure enough. If it would even work at all.”

Her gaze dropped slightly, and disappointment fell stingingly upon her face. “But if there was a light pure enough – it would be worth trying, would it not?”

“The shadow that still sits upon my soul is not so easily removed. I have suffered enough torment to force me into feeling remorse for the things I’ve done, yes. And I had a lot of time chained to that cliff to replay the atrocities over and over. I even began to feel pity for those I had wronged.”

He pressed his fingertips lightly under her chin and lifted her gaze.

“But make no mistake, Galadriel, the darkness is still there, rumbling under the surface, trying all the time to escape. Every day is battle – one where I must choose to reject it. Some days it takes all my strength to do so.”

His eyes became glassy and his voice dropped to a whisper now.

“I fear a day may come when I am no longer strong enough. When his voice becomes louder than my own. A day when the shadow will consume me again. But mostly…” His gaze refocussed on her. “I fear...” He clenched his jaw, biting back the rest of the words, seemingly opting for others their stead. “When you’re close, the battle doesn’t seem so hard, and his voice becomes a whisper. Sometimes I’m able to forget about it completely. As if I’m almost whole again.”

There was a pause, and he bowed his head, ashamed. “But it never lasts.”

She breathed in – sharp and shallow – his words striking something deep at her core.

Shedding a tear, she quickly went to wipe it away, but she found he had got there first; his thumb stroking away the streak from under her eye, then curling his fingers so that the back of them glided down her cheek, collecting the rest of the tear from her jaw, his thumb straying ever so slightly to the corner of her mouth.

Her lips parted at his touch, his thumb brushing her chin, lingering for one breath - then another. His fingernail catching slightly on the bottom edge of her lip.

Heat crept beneath her skin, unsettling in its intensity. Closing her eyes, she tried to will it away even as it coiled low in her stomach - but it stayed. Shame, guilt, and betrayal still surged from the depths of her heart in these moments, and while Morgoth’s shadow still lay upon his, that was not about to change.

She gently took his hand in hers and guided it away from her face and into her lap, squeezing it a little for reassurance. “That’s what I’m searching for.” She whispered, opening her eyes again and looking at him only with sincerity now. No jibes, no cryptic half-truths, just honesty.

He frowned a little, not sure of what she meant.

“In the library… I’m looking for a way to fix his corruption. To bring you back. Make you whole.”

He shook his head, sceptically. “Why?”

She swallowed and clenched her jaw. “Because… If I can find a way… you won’t have to battle any more and… I might no longer feel guilty about how I feel.”

He wanted desperately to touch her face again, but he kept his hand within hers. “What is it you feel?” His words barely above a breath, as if he was scared of the answer.

The words hovered, aching to be spoken. But instead, she said nothing.

She simply shook her head and slumped herself back against the bench, her gaze drifting away over the garden, hoping to find refuge there.

Her hand, however, remained in his.

Galadriel’s research had become more frantic now after their conversation. She was not aware before of how difficult each day was for him, to fight against the darkness, of his fear that any day it might overcome him.

She had been making steady progress, but now a new urgency spurred her on, piecing together various clues and whisperings of places where it was said Morgoth’s shadow had never reached. Places where the light of the One still fell cleanly upon frost and stone. Light untouched. She was not sure what she was looking for, only that she would know it when she found it.

More often now, she let herself drift into deeper lore and stranger writings – accounts of the fëar of the Maiar, of what could be lost and what might still be restored. She read quickly, scribing rushed and haphazard notes, marking connections between one cryptic line and the next, desperate for a solution.

She was building one – thread by thread.

The closer she came, her confidence grew.

A few distinct phrases had begun to form a pattern in her mind – scattered fragments from different sources, which, when placed together, began to suggest something more. She traced the words with her finger:

‘The light of the Trees may yet pierce the veil in which the fallen have cloaked themselves…’

At first glance, this was singularly unhelpful – the trees no longer existed and even if they did they were in Valinor, a place she knew Halbrand would never be allowed to step foot in unless it was in chains. But still there was something about this line that she could not shake. She kept her finger there as she pushed another book away that sat on the pile next to her, pulling towards her the one underneath.

‘And he beheld the Flame Imperishable in the stars, and in that moment, the dissonance was quieted.’

Her eyes lost focus, staring absently at across the room as her mind whirred behind them. The stars…

She bent over the table, her small frame having to strain to reach the scroll she wanted. She had seen something in it before that burned into her mind now. Feverishly, she unfurled it.

‘There upon even the darkest of nights, the Silmaril sailed the heavens, lighting the way for those seeking hope against despair…’

Her sight danced excitedly from page to page as she began to understand. She did not need the Trees themselves - the Silmarils captured their light… and although even they were all lost now, she knew of one whose glow still shone down upon the earth - Eärendil’s star. One of the last remnants of the light of the Trees. Not just a beacon, but an artifact of unspoiled divinity.

If any light could burn away the darkness that clung to him, it would be that - untainted since the Elder Days, older than Morgoth’s fall. Surely it would do more than just resist, surely it would heal - remind a fallen spirit of all it had once been.

She could not be sure - but it was something.

But where to find it? Where might the light shine untouched? Pure - free from Morgoth’s stain?

She began trawling through great volumes of accounts from the first age for anything she could find on Morgoth’s movements, places he had been and not been, places he never touched. She began to plot it out, drawing hasty scribbles on a huge map of Middle Earth that she rolled out across the floor. It was so big she had to lie across it to mark out the various points – unwilling to step on it if she could help it.

A small collection of scattered crosses began to dot the map.

Then, she cross-referenced these places with the movement of the evening star throughout the year, tracing its trajectory and overlaying these in sweeping arcs, creating looping patterns that swirled and criss-crossed until she found herself back where she started.

Finally, she began circling anywhere where the two things intercepted – where crosses met lines.

Across the whole of Middle Earth, there were only three.

One was off the coast of the Grey Havens, which made sense; Ulmo’s realms were largely free of Morgoth’s taint. But it was far away and would mean convincing her kin to look passed her exile, forgive her disgraces and grant her a ship. They were unlikely to do that, and even more so if she had to explain exactly what the journey was for… who it was for.

Another, unsurprisingly in many ways, was far to the east and south, on the shores of the Sea of Helcar, another of Ulmo’s dominions. Nestled at the feet of the Orocarni, the red mountains, was the place of the elves’ awakening, a place of peace and innocence before it was discovered by Morgoth. But even his evil could not stain the grace of Cuiviénen. Not for long. Galadriel thought that perhaps the starlight might be reflected upon the waters of Helcar, and collected. But this was even further away than the Grey Havens – it would take months.

Time Halbrand might not have.

But there was one more place.

She had drawn a circle enticingly around a cross and a line that overlapped at the northern tip of the Misty Mountains. This was only a few days ride away, seven maybe, five if she hurried. And even more fortuitous – the time of year where the evening star would be overhead in that location was fast approaching.

Things were falling into place. Her heart fluttered as the realisation dawned. If she could get there in time, then perhaps she could undo the rot in him. Not suppress it. Not contain it. Undo it.

Maybe… just maybe… she could save him. Maybe, there was hope… for both of them.

But how to harness it?

She was missing something. And until she found what that was, there was no point blindly riding off to look about aimlessly for a way to obtain the light she needed if she had no idea how to capture it.

One last search through the tomes and annals ensued, but this time the investigation was focused. This time she was able to significantly narrow down what she was looking for, and as the light of the afternoon faded and the gloom of the evening twilight settled about the library, she found what she was looking for.

Within the withering pages of a cracked and fragile chronicle, was the answer to the puzzle.

‘At heights beyond the Enemy’s reach, above the clouds where starlight settles on ancient frost, where snow lies undisturbed beneath he Mariner’s gaze, light, pure and unbroken may yet be found…’

She stared at this line for some time, then looked up, her face lit with a powerful elation.

It’s in the snow. Eärendil’s light is in the snow.

She would have to be quick. Eärendil would be passing over the northern most peak of the mountains in eight days’ time. If she was going to capture it, she needed to leave now or she would have to wait another year. She knew that was not an option.

She rushed out of the library and scurried down the spiralling staircase, excitement and anxiety both playing in the lightness of her steps. Expecting that Halbrand might be there, she meant to go down as far as the parlour but stopped short as she approached a door on her right. Although it was closed, thin lines of dim light were peeking around the edges, and she heard footsteps within. She had never been in this room before, though she must have passed it every time she came and went from the library, taking little to no notice of it. It was only now she realised it must be directly above her own bedroom, which was only one more full turn about the stairs below.

Pausing on the stairs, she wondered if perhaps this could be his own bedroom. It would certainly make sense if it was. But the thought of that made her hesitate, and the excitement she felt just a moment ago became clouded with apprehension. Tentatively, Galadriel approached the door and placed a soft knock upon its surface.

There was a short pause, followed by a slightly puzzled sounding “Come in” from somewhere within the room.

She turned the handle slowly and gently pushed the door open, peering round it while it was still only slightly ajar so she could assess what she was walking in on. She swallowed thickly and her cheeks flushed a subtle pink as she realised her assumptions were correct when her eyes immediately noticed his bed against the back wall.

The room was laid out very much the same as her own, but instead of whites and greens, Halbrand’s room was adorned with purples and reds. The furniture was made of darker woods too, carved from chestnuts and mahoganies rather than pines and birches. It was not unpleasant; in fact, it was equally beautiful just in a more richly coloured way – the choice of fabrics consistent with this as he seemingly favoured velvets and satins over the chiffon-silks and cottons which decorated her own bedroom.

As she was taking in her surroundings, Halbrand crossed the room from his balcony and came to lean against one of the posts of his bed, folding his arms across him and waiting with raised eyebrow for her to decide whether she was coming or going, still lingering in the doorway unsure whether she should step inside.

“Is there something you need?” A faint smirk curling in the corner of his mouth, her hesitation clearly amusing him. He was dressed in a light tunic; the laces open across his chest so the contours of his collar bone and the slight valley between his pectoral muscles could be seen below a soft layer of chest hair. On his legs, he wore a set of loose, comfortable trousers atop of bare feet. For once, he was clean, lacking the familiar layer of soot that usually clung to his skin and collected in the small hollows of his neck. Often Galadriel had to fight the way her gaze strayed to these areas, all too aware of how the soot accentuated the lean lines of his throat and the way his Adam’s apple slid beneath under his skin.

She could smell the lingering scent of soap now, as she slowly stepped inside and crossed the room towards him. Bashfully, her eyes lowered to the floor as she realised he was dressed for bed.

Galadriel cleared her throat a little, stopping a few feet away, her fingers fidgeting at her sides awkwardly. “Yes, I err… well, I have news.”

Both eyebrows were raised now as he waited expectantly, “Go on.”

She bit her lip as her eyes darted across the floor. It puzzled her why she was so uncertain now about telling him, when before she was only too eager to do so. “I think I’ve found something… and to test my theory, I’m going to need to leave for a few days. Tonight, ideally.”

He straightened, pulling his back away from the bedpost and dropping his arms to his side. A crinkle appeared between his brows, and he blinked a little erratically. “Oh.”

A strange sinking feeling settled in her stomach and coiled uncomfortably. She could tell he was saddened, and perhaps even a little apprehensive at the idea of her leaving and she suddenly understood her hesitancy around telling him. For the first time since knowing his true identity, she was struck by how much she did not want to hurt him.

He tried to hide his disappointment by casually rubbing the back of his neck before turning to fold the clothes he had worn in the day that were thrown across his bedspread. He disguised his voice less successfully though, which had turned quiet now. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks. Maybe.”

Even with his back to her she could see how his chest tightened in the way his shoulder blades drew together, the tension in his jaw flexing his neck muscles.

“That long?” He tilted his head slightly over his shoulder. “You sure it’ll be worth it? I’ve already told you I don’t think anything will work.”

She took a few steps towards him, closing the distance until he could feel the warmth of her behind him. “It’ll be worth it.” She said, softly, as she placed a hand on his arm, silently convincing him to drop the clothing in his hand and turn towards her, taking his hand in hers.

He glanced down at it, hoping she was unaware of how his pulse had quickened where her fingertips touched his wrist.

“This is a good thing, I promise.” She placed her other hand on top if his. “I have to try.”

“I could come with you.” His gaze now meeting the brilliant blue of her eyes.

Her lips twisted sideways and a softness beamed from her features. “Why does this conversation suddenly sound familiar?”

Halbrand smiled widely with a boyish charm that made her blush as he cocked his head knowingly.

As she looked up at him, tension seeped into her lips and a shadow drifted across her face. “You can’t be there… There’s a delicate balance, a rarity about what I’ve found… I’m sorry, but there’s too much of him left within you and your presence would undo it all.” Her voice was honest, but without cruelty. If anything, she tried to let him down soothingly.

He sucked in his cheeks as his eyes drifted away from her, his attention caught by the short, scalloped sleeve of her dress that rested unevenly upon her shoulder. He did not like to admit to the darkness within him, and somehow, he felt even more ashamed when she was the one telling him it was so.

He reached up, gently smoothing out the sleeve so that it sat neatly on her shoulder, pensively fiddling with the fabric between his thumb and fingers as he nodded, acceptingly. “Then… you’ll be needing this.”

He turned, bending down, he pulled out something from beneath his bed, only revealing it to her once he had turned back round to her again.

She smiled in disbelief. “My sword.”

He hummed as he held it out to her, eyes softly apologetic for keeping it this long.

Galadriel looked at him, her own eyes conveying her disapproval, but there was no real strength in it, eventually conceding a more forgiving look as she slowly took the sword from him.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

“You’re welcome.” He nodded.

She breathed in deeply before revealing her next surprise. “I’ll need to take Rána, too.”

“Rána?”

Her feet shifted a little as she rolled her eyes at herself, slightly embarrassed. “It’s what I’ve named the horse.”

He snarled his lips, rolling his eyes in return, “Of course you did.”

“You don’t like the name?”

He tilted his head as he considered it. “Wanderer? I suppose it’s fitting enough.”

A smirk crept across her face. “I named him after you.”

He scoffed playfully, “Am I that much of a lost soul?”

She smiled warmly at him in response. “Perhaps not for much longer.”

His smile dropped and his gaze softened to something reverent, a tinge of longing hidden in the depths of his green eyes. He tugged endearingly at her sleeve again, then let the back of his fingers stray down the outside of her arm. “Look after yourself, Galadriel.”

She squeezed his hand in response. “A fortnight, then I will return. I promise.”

Halbrand smiled faintly and nodded. He could not help but think about the last time she had promised this, and how he was convinced she would break it. This time, however, he did not doubt it, and the warmth in his gaze told her silently that he believed her.

Neither moved for a moment, then before she understood what she was doing, Galadriel pushed herself onto her tiptoes and leant in, planting a delicate kiss in the hollow of his cheek, much closer to his mouth than she was expecting. Not that she was expecting much of anything. She had not even meant to lean in. But her body moved before her thoughts could stop it – her hand sliding from the top of his and reaching for his neck, her fingers now curling into the hair at his nape while her lips lingered a little too long.

His eyes widened before fluttering closed. A small sigh escaping his mouth before he instinctively began turning his lips towards hers.

But as the realisation of what she was doing flashed across her mind, she quickly drew away, turning sharply without sparing him another look.

For a split second his arm went with her, only dropping when their contact broke as she stepped away, hurrying out the door.

Leaning back against the bedpost, he bashed his head against it a couple of times before closing his eyes, inhaling in a long, drawn out breath and swallowing hard.

Leaving his room, she descended the stairs swiftly until she was out of sight.

She pressed her back to the wall, dragging in a breath to try and calm the pounding behind her ribs. As she closed her eyes, all she could see was - that kiss - it had lingered too long. She hadn’t even meant for it. It seemed to just… happen.

Her lungs seized as they clung to the air for a moment, then closing her eyes and rounding her lips, she let out a slow, calming breath.

Shaking her eyes open again, she continued on to her room.

Hastily now, she changed into clothes more suitable for travelling and packed some spare ones into her pack, making sure to include cold weather items, then tied her hair into a practical braid that wound around her head like a golden crown.

She would need to pack some food, so she made a note to pass by the solar on her way out. But before that, she went to the shelf where her medicines were organised and began moving various bottles and jars aside, trying to find the one she wanted. Tucked behind a jar of salve and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, she found what she was looking for; delicate clear phial filled with an ointment she used on burns.

Quickly heading to the balcony, she poured the viscous liquid over the side – the contents was not what she was after. She returned inside to the wash basin that sat on her dresser and cleaned out the phial thoroughly, then wrapping it up in a spare tunic to keep it from smashing, she tucked it into her pack.

With renewed urgency, Galadriel threw a cloak over her and shouldered her pack. Then descending the tower, she stepped out into the night to find Rána in the stables. It did not take her long to get him saddled and once done she leapt gracefully onto his back.

As she exited the stables she paused.

Something was drawing her gaze back towards the tower and up to what she now knew to be Halbrand’s balcony.

He was there. Watching her go.

The corner of her mouth twitched at the sight of him, and a warmth flooded through her chest. His figure remained framed in the balcony above, a quiet guardian. Once, the idea of his eyes on her would have made her bristle. Now, it felt like protection.

She looked at him for just a moment longer, then turned away, kicking her heels into Rána’s side and speeding away through the arch in the wall.

It took Galadriel six days to ride south across the undulating hills of the lower uplands, hampered by the weather, and having to find a longer way around a crumbled bridge that crossed a steep ravine on the second day.

At the base of the northern-most peak of the Misty Mountains, she looked up apprehensively. It would be a two-day climb to the top, but only if the going was steady and if enough luck was on her side not to hamper her further. She would need a night’s rest though before setting out, if she were to make the climb with any speed.

Rána would have to stay behind. The mountain would be far too steep for him once she had cleared its lower buttresses. So, she let him roam freely in a fashion after his name, to graze where he wished and to find his own water. He would return to her swiftly enough when she called.

As the sun rose on the seventh day, she began her ascent.

The lower slopes were bare but as she climbed higher the snow began to thicken beneath her feet. Onwards she climbed, having to pick her way carefully for fear of twisting her ankles between treacherously snow-covered rocks. She was more fearful though, of the places where the snow was smooth – these were the kinds of places where deadly crevasses hid, ready to swallow her whole with one badly placed step.

There was no path, so she had to double-back on herself more than she would have liked as she came upon a sudden drop, or a gulley she had taken that was headed by an impassable mass of sheer stone. Her anxiety rose with each wrong turn, and despite the dangers, she had to increase her pace, taking the climb less carefully, if she were to reach the top in time.

Late on the second day, she reached the cloud-base. Turning her gaze towards the westering sun, she winced at how low it had already sunk. She needed to make it through the cloud layer before dark – it would be difficult enough as it was to navigate effectively with such limited visibility, but when the sun fell, it would be utterly impossible. If she did not make it through the clouds in the next two hours, she would have missed her chance.

There was nothing for it. Press on, or go back.

I’m so close.

With a grim determination, she strode up into the mist.

Visibility was poor. Even her keen elven eyes were only able make out around thirty feet in all directions, beyond that, a murky soup of grey smothered the features of the mountain. In the relentless fading of the light, she could only guess at what direction would bring her safely and swiftly to the top. But at this point, reckless fortitude and a fear of arriving too late spurred her onwards, running. She did not care which way, so long as it was upwards.

Finally, as the last of the sun’s light dwindled to nothing more than crimson embers on the western horizon, she breached the clouds, a relieved sigh filling her lungs deeply as she scanned the world about her.

Turning away from the mountain, a vast layer of cloud stretched away from her as far as the eye could see, like an ocean of dappled grey silk laid out upon an unending table top.

At her back, the mountain rose steeply as all its sides were converging now, rising to meet one another in a sharp summit not a hundred feet above her. Peering up at it, she smiled faintly as the unmistakeable twinkle of the evening star hung delicately above its point.

Eärendil.

She started towards it, eager now to reach her destination. Glancing upwards as she climbed, and as the sky darkened ever further behind the mountain pinnacle, she noticed a pale glow emanating from its summit now – not falling from the stars in the sky, but originating from the mountain itself.

Her pace quickened as she scrambled up the last few feet, and as she crested the summit, her eyes blew wide and her jaw dropped. For a moment, she would go no further.

Atop the peak sat a jagged ring of large boulders. Only these were not made of the dull and dark stone that had been thrust up from the depths to form the crinkled spine of the mountain range. These were white, and gleaming. A crown of pure quartz glittering in the starlight.

And in the centre was a shallow dell of perfectly formed crystal-white snow. The bowl was so even, and the surface so unmarred by any impurities, that it seemed to soak up the pale blue light from Eärendil above and reflect it back on itself where the edges of basin curved up the sides, suspending the light – collecting it like gentle hands cupping the most delicate of songbirds.

Galadriel could not be sure how long she stood there, transfixed by its beauty, feeling the warmth of its pale rays caress her skin and permeate her flesh, soaking into her bones like a lost memory suddenly remembered. She knew this light. Knew the peace and comfort it bestowed. A part of her feeling as though she were home after a long, long absence.

Blinking, slowly, she came back to herself, remembering the task at hand.

She reached into her pack and carefully pulled out the glass phial, discarding its protective wrappings. Approaching the edge of the dell, she tentatively crouched over the snow, and in one smooth motion, she glided the phial through the surface, scooping up as many of the crystals as she could. She repeated this twice more, until the phial was full.

But as she collected the last of it, her face fell, aghast, as all went dark about her.

The glow within the basin faded. Like darkening clouds before a storm, the snow dulled to a flat and lifeless grey, and Galadriel stood in horror at what she had done. Her stomach hollowing like a cavernous pit, and bile creeping up the back of her throat.

She had tainted its perfection. The furrows in the snow where she had driven the phial through it lay like scars on an otherwise flawless skin, preventing the light from rebounding in on itself.

She had broken it.

She trembled - panic and regret convulsing through her as she tried to catch her breath. She fell to her knees, guilt tightening around her chest like a vice.

What had she just done?

The light she had snuffed out…

She clutched at her chest as fell to her knees, tears welling up and threatening to issue forth in unrelenting anguished floods.

But.

Hunched as she was, she now noticed the phial that she grasped in her other hand.

It was glowing.

The glass seemed to work in the same way as the bowl, bouncing and reflecting the light back on itself.

Holding it aloft, and beholding it with sheer awe, her eyes mirrored the way it glimmered, refracting and twinkling through the ridges of the glass – her pupils seemed lit from within. And her hair – it resonated with it, alight with its own glow emanating from somewhere deep inside of her, rising forth to greet the light like an old friend - akin to it - as if she, herself, were made of pure starlight.

She had done it.

Elation and relief enlightening her features as the realisation set in. Tears falling now, not in horror, but in adulation. She had captured the purest light of the One still found on Middle Earth.

She gripped it tighter. The warmth of her hand now seeping through the glass and melting the snow inside so its contents transformed into a radiant silver liquid.

She fastened the lid, and for the first time in days, her thoughts settled on Halbrand not in fear… but in hope.

Chapter Text

Galadriel placed the phial delicately back in its wrappings and returned it to her pack – a firm and hopeful resolve now burning in her eyes and steeling along the tension of her lips.

Before leaving though, she smoothed over the divots she had made in the snow as best she could, an act of contrition more than anything else. She had sullied one of the last places where pure light still lingered, and she had done it for him. All she could hope for now, was that it would be worth it, and perhaps with the healing fall of fresh snow, the wound she had gauged onto this place might heal. Given time.

Making her way down the mountain now, she felt light as air, no longer sinking into the snow – she skipped across its surface as if she were no burden to it at all. Her sight as she passed through the cloud layer again was also brighter; the night and the mist posing no issue as she descended with an elated confidence.

On clearing the snow down upon the mountain’s lower slopes, she found herself bounding over boulders, sliding effortlessly down scree-slopes, and running across banks of grass like a carefree child.

Her smile seemed to broaden with every step.

Her chest stretched with every delightfully deep breath and threatened to float away if she found herself any happier, any more excited.

The only frustration that crept in was the knowledge that it would take her the better part of a week to return to the tower. Never in her life had she wanted more the ability to sprout wings and soar, swift and straight, as she did now.

She reached the base of the mountain as the dawn sky reddened behind the jagged shapes of the summit peaks – now clear of cloud. It was always going to take less time to come down than climb up, but she took it as a good omen that her descent had been so swift, spurred on by her sense of euphoria and eagerness to get back to Halbrand.

She whistled, long, and clear in the morning air, and up over the crest of a small hillock, sprang Rána in response, galloping towards her. She greeted the beast as it trotted up to her side and he answered with a nod of his head.

“Come Rána, let’s get back as quick as we may.” Galadriel stroked his neck and rounded his flank. But as she reached for the saddle, she was distracted by a harsh, echoing cry. She looked above, frowning as her eyes searched the sky piercingly, coming to focus on a small black spec circling several hundred feet overhead.

A crow.

Usually the sight of such a bird would feel ominous. Crows were spies of the enemy after all. But Morgoth was long gone, and her other enemy… well, she was not so sure that he was her enemy anymore.

She was not entirely sure what he was to her.

Her feelings about him were muddled at best, and aching at their worst. For now, he was someone she was trying to help. Or so she told herself.

Her gaze had lowered, glassy, as she pondered on this.

But glancing back up at the crow now, still hovering in the sky above her, it seemed wholly uninterested in going anywhere in particular, happy to linger above her. Watching.

She narrowed her eyes in response. Wondering.

She pulled herself into the saddle slowly, one eye still sceptically trailing on the bird overhead. Then, fixing her eyes on the road, she commanded Rána onwards, back northwards.

The first four day’s ride were uneventful, if long, reluctantly making camp only when she absolutely needed to rest.

As the sun went down on the fifth day, she knew she would need to stop before making the final push back to the tower, and so, she settled in for the night, only a couple of hours trot south of the broken bridge. She would have to go back the way she came, taking a fairly large detour east, to the head of the ravine before turning back northwards again. But that would be tomorrow’s issue.

For now, she made camp in the outskirts of a tall pine forest, nestled under the gentle lowland slopes that signified the petering out of the mountains. Uneasy at the proximity of the ravine’s jagged maw, whose edges yawned somewhere just beyond the tree line.

All day she had felt the presence of eyes from above, and though this did not make her uneasy as it usually would, she was somewhat relieved to slip under the shelter of the trees and find a decent place to rest for the night.

She was weary, the euphoria she felt upon achieving her task had worn off throughout the days, and now the toll of riding through so many nights was weighing heavy on her eyelids. Conceding that there were still one or two days of journeying ahead of her, and she needed her rest, she let herself drift off to sleep.

Seemingly, only a moment later, her eyes snapped open at the sound of coarse and twisted voices.

She must have slept, for it was morning. But her limbs still felt heavy, her head groggy.

She was about to sit up and investigate, until another sound froze her in place.

A growl. Low and gurgling.

Werewolf.

She froze, breath locked tight, tilting her head minutely to catch the voices.

Orcs. Eight. No, nine. And the wolf.

Fifty yards. Closing.

Her eyes darted - run? Fight? Hide? No good options.

Too close. And getting closer.

It was a miracle they had not spotted her and Rána already. They would though, and soon.

The voices were getting louder. Footsteps closer. Snarls keener.

Her eyes whipped to her sword.

One against nine, and a wolf?

Not much use against arrows either, if they had them.

Run?

Doubtful she could mount Rána quick enough before she was spotted. And on foot? Not with the beast.

She was quickly running out of options.

Then-

The phial.

Before she even understood why, she was stretching out a tentative hand towards her pack, not two feet away on the floor. With careful hands she untied the drawstring and reached inside, rummaging blindly without the aid of being able to see inside.

Closer. They were coming.

Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty-five.

“Ey! What’s this? A horse!” a voice croaked - closer now, snapping twigs under boot.

“And what’s that on the ground? Is it asleep? It’s got pretty hair.” Another hissed, stepping into sight, his eyes gleaming like slick coal as he craned his neck toward her.

“I’d like to grab it by its pretty hair and make it squeal. That’ll wake it up.”

Laughter, ugly and wicked.

Where was it?

Her fingers searching desperately now for what she sought.

Twenty feet. Ten.

Got it!

Hand clasping tightly around the glass phial, she tore it from the pack.

In one quick motion, she rose up, twisting to look upon them.

Standing firm, and terrible, she held the phial aloft, luminating her like a vengeful goddess from across the sea.

The orcs froze and the wolf faltered at the sight of her. But only for a moment.

A second later, they sprang forth.

She staggered back at their approach, utterly unsure of what she was doing. But then – clarity. A voice that came like clear bells – an unmistakeable, insistent, call to action.

Góron an galad Eärendil na dûr gocheno!

She repeated it with a voice that seemed not entirely her own, one that bellowed and rebounded amongst the trees, reverberating in the very air between them.

Then a flash.

A blinding pulse exploded from within her hand and a shockwave of light ripped through the forest.

The orcs were blown back.

The wolf toppled, clawing at the ground on all fours, scrabbling for purchase. Then it too, tumbled across the ground, succumbing to the force of the blast.

Rána reared, startled.

But Galadriel quickly grabbed his reins, the light shrinking as she did so.

She stumbled. Disorientated.

No time to catch her breath.

They would be on her again in moments.

She grabbed her sword, slinging it across her back as she jumped onto the steed and kicked him into a gallop.

But still, she had not afforded herself enough time.

A high-pitched whine came fizzing through the air.

Fire lanced through her thigh, pinning her leg. She screamed, the sound raw, unbidden.

She dared a glance down - barbed iron splitting her skin, poison oozing from its jagged shaft like black sap.

She went to pull it out, but quickly stopped herself.

Leave it in… blood loss…

Instead she dug her fingertips into the skin surrounding the wound, as if this would somehow give her some relief. It did not.

More arrows whistled overhead, skimming her hair, narrowly missing Rána’s flank.

She urged Rána to run faster. Weaving frantically between the trees. The forest thickening as she darted wildly, not caring which direction she was going. Her only need was to get away.

The trees blurred past as she rode - the distant roar of water somewhere deep below.

The world began to reel – her eyesight blurring and twisting as the poison began to take effect.

She shook it off. No time for that. The rapid thud of padded feet was advancing behind her.

“Quickly, Rána!” She called, desperate.

But the horse jerked. Rearing up and pivoting on its hind legs so violently that she was thrown from the saddle.

Her back hit the ground hard, her breath was stolen from her lungs.

She could barely see. Her ears rang.

The only sound she could make out was the muffled and panicked braying of the horse as it stamped its feet in agitation.

In the distance… the echoing caw of a crow.

Her head spun as she tried to raise herself up on her forearms. Turning her head to her left, she understood why Rána had stopped so suddenly.

The ravine.

Had she always been this close to it?

Her head whipped to her right at the sound of the approaching snarls. Her vision swimming, unable to catch up.

She knew she had to move, had to get back on her feet. But her leg…

Rána was at her side.

She grabbed his reins and screamed through the pain as she hauled herself to her feet, planting them as firmly as she could. But she was swaying as she stared down the fell beast on its approach.

Slow, stalking now. Its glowering red eyes burning hungrily at her.

She had nowhere to go.

She drew her sword, clutching tightly at the phial in her other hand and raising both defiantly against her oncoming doom.

“Stay back!” Her voice had lost all of its command as she staggered, weakening by the second, the poison taking its toll.

The werewolf seemed to almost sneer at her as it pressed closer still, a low guttural rumbling emanating from its throat.

She looked hesitantly at the vessel glittering in her hand, her heart racing, willing it to work. “Góron an galad… I call on the light.” But her voice was nothing but a whisper.

She was spent.

The trees folded in on themselves, their trunks bending like warped glass. She blinked hard, but the world kept twisting, as if she were submerged underwater.

The cackles and cries of the orcs were catching up - almost upon her as the wolf took its final few deliberate steps, readying for the pounce.

Her pulse became a deafening throb in her ears as her head began to nod languidly. She could see her sword arm dropping in slow motion to her side.

The wolf’s eyes blazing through the haze.

A whistle. Then a thud.

Another arrow. In the shoulder this time.

She twisted upon impact, and fell like a stone at the edge of the ravine.

Hitting the ground hard, she lost her grasp on the phial.

It rolled away, striking stone - clink… clink… clink - each note sharper than the last.

Drawing closer to the brink - tumbling, skittering, glinting with each bounce.

Teetering.

Panic cut sharply through the fog and she shot out a hand to catch it.

Too late. Gone.

A breathless and despairing “No” passed her lips as she reached for nothing but air.

Galadriel scrabbled to the edge - watched in horror at its fall.

The phial plunged into the river a hundred feet below, and vanished.

She would have wept if it were not for the sound of gnashing at her back.

The wolf had briefly turned on the orcs for taking the sport out of killing its prey. But had now focussed its attention firmly back on her.

Kicking her feet out frantically, she tried shuffled backwards, but there was nowhere left to go.

She could smell the rancid stench on the heat of its breath.

She closed her eyes. Waiting for the end to come.

But then-

A snarl tore from above - closer, angrier.

She flinched, but it was not her death.

Her eyes snapped open as a dark mass dropped from the sky, slamming down in front of her.

Another wolf. No - protector.

Quickly, it was on top of her, crouching low over her body, shielding it with its own, and snarling at the other fowl creature with a malevolence that caused it to hesitate and back-off several paces.

Static sizzled in the air as the two beasts stared each other down, the orcs hanging back, too frightened to intervene.

With a curl of its lip, the first wolf had decided it was tired of its prey being withheld, and was certainly not going to let the other wolf have it.

Little did it know; the second wolf had no intention of killing her. Quite the opposite.

It lunged forward.

And the second came to meet it.

The world smeared. Ringing in her ears. She blinked - once, twice. No good.

Heavy. Useless. Pinned to the earth while shadows tore into each other - erratic, shapeless forms tussling back and forth at the edge of her vision.

The sound of growls and barks floated across to her like driftwood on waves, the shrill whip of yet more arrows came like a half-remembered dream.

There were screeches, and gurgling sounds all adding to this delirious symphony as would strings and drums.

Then finally, a yelp, and the pounding of scattering feet fading into nothingness.

One of the dark forms seemed to fall away – a muffled thud accompanying its collapse to the ground. The second seemed to twist in the air – shrinking, becoming slighter, leaner, paler somehow. And straightening, standing taller despite the loss of its bulk.

A beat passed as Galadriel stared up at the sky, the clouds lazily drifting by and for a moment, she could have sworn she was one of them, being carried away on the breeze.

But then – a remote notion that she was moving. Not as a cloud, but by the warm hands of another. Being drawn upwards and into someone’s lap, strong arms wrapping tightly but carefully around her.

A dark shadow blotted out the blue above – her eyes slow to refocus.

The blur dissolved, and now she saw it - tanned skin streaked with drying black blood, a gash bisecting his brow, lips set in a grim line that trembled despite himself. Halbrand.

The blood was not his – or perhaps it was, but whatever scratches and torn flesh he had suffered from his fight were already closed, and he looked down on her with such fear in his eyes as to stop his own heart.

Her eyes were barely open, flickering in and out she smiled ever so faintly. With the last of her strength, she scarcely did more than mouth the words: “You came for me.”

A statement. A question. A prayer.

Halbrand exhaled sharply, the sound laced with quiet disbelief – as if to say she was foolish to ever doubt it. He cupped her jaw, tracing his thumb softly across her cheekbone. “I would have torn the world apart to get to you.” He whispered, brow crinkling at the notion that he could do anything else as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Galadriel.” His voice was urgent, and he shook her a little as her eyes began to roll to the back of her head, causing them to swiftly snap back at him. “I need to heal your wounds, but first I’m going to need to take the arrows out. Are you ready?”

She nodded weakly, hardly registering what he was saying or the situation. That is, until he clasped his hands around the arrow in her shoulder, and with a quick jerking motion, snapped off its fletching.

Pain flashed through her chest, arm, and shoulder like lightning, stealing her breath and bringing the world back into cold focus.

Halbrand placed the palm of his hand on the end of the broken shaft, then paused. “It’s gone through your back. I’m going to need to push it through.”

Her eyes widened at the thought, but she set her jaw and nodded again, grasping at his neck to steady herself. She was breathing hard now, and rapid, sucking the air past her teeth and blowing out her cheeks, more so in anticipation of what was to come than anything else.

Her eyes were fixed on where his palm pressed against the jagged end of the bolt.

He did not wait. With a decisive thrust, he forced the arrow through her shoulder, before quickly reaching round to pull it the rest of the way out.

She screamed. Her body contorting in on itself and then falling back again, languid and boneless as her flesh became free of the arrow.

A mix of blood and blackened ooze spilled from the wound, but it was not something Halbrand was worried about – not when he would be healing it with just a thought in a moment or two.

Her hands were trembling against his neck as her scream was replaced by shaken whimpers.

With only the power of his own gaze, he forced her to look at him, his eyes as unwavering as the ground she lay on. “One more, and then we’re done. I promise.”

She whimpered again, in agreement this time. But as he began to shift himself around to her thigh he found she had his neck clasped so tightly within her hands that he was not able to move away.

He brought his hands up to hers, curling his fingers around her own, but they were surprisingly strong given her state, and very unwilling to be pried from him. He found her gaze again, imploring her with a certainty that rooted her to the moment, and to the task at hand. “Galadriel, you have to let me go, or the arrow doesn’t come out… come on.” He nodded reassuringly. “Let go.”

Reluctantly, she loosened her grip, all the while terror danced in her eyes as they never left his. She knew this one would hurt more. This one had not gone through. So, the only way to removed it was to pull it back out.

She sat herself up on her good elbow as he moved to her opposite side, bracing her leg with one hand while the other curled around the shaft.

He gave her one last questioning look and she nodded grimly, gritting her teeth and scrunching her eyes closed.

“Do it.”

Then he pulled.

She shrieked and cried, so loud the sound rebounded off the walls of the cavern below, as the arrow-head tore its way back through the flesh of her thigh. She threw her head back, clenching her fingers so tightly they squirmed at her sides.

It was out.

She was panting – beads of sweat rolling down her face and a wave of dizziness and heat coursed through her.

But it was out.

Halbrand manoeuvred himself back round to cradle her again.

She swallowed thickly, spent, limp in his arms.

Swiftly now, he lay his hand over the wound on her thigh first – this one was seeping the most blood - and closed his eyes in concentration.

He muttered something under his breath and willed the wound close, drawing from his own power and gifting it to her body.

His palm glowed faintly - flickered - then dimmed. He pressed harder, willing his strength into her flesh.

Nothing.

His breath hitched. Hands shaking, he tried again, teeth gritted, jaw locked.

Still nothing.

“No. No, no, no,” he whispered, voice cracked. His fingers dug into her skin, as if sheer force might replace what was failing.

Confusion and dread overwhelming all rational thought. His power was there - he could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, coiling, ready - but it refused to answer.

When he took his hand away, the wound was still there – not even slightly healed and with blood and poison still issuing forth from the opening.

The shoulder then.

Still no change.

Horror and fear gripped his chest like a vice and he could hardly breath as he anxiously held his hands against her injuries to try and stop the bleeding, utterly confounded at being unable to cure them.

Like it no longer knew the foe anymore, he could not call his power forth to meet it.

Why isn’t it working?

“What’s wrong?” Galadriel’s whisper barely reached him.

His eyes darted across her body as if it would give him the answer. “I don’t know… I can’t… I don’t…” Panic laden in his voice.

She let out a sigh as her head fell backwards, her eyes rolling as her lids fluttered closed.

“No!” He cried, as he frantically resorted to more conventional methods – the toxins still bubbling in the wounds. “You don’t get to leave me!”

Ripping away the clothing around her shoulder, he latched his mouth onto her skin and began sucking away at the poison - spitting it out when his mouth was full, again and again.

He quickly repeated this on her thigh, knowing the act was mostly in vain as the poison had already been working its way through her.

He didn’t care. He had to try.

He ripped off his shirt and tore it into strips, using them to compress and bind her injuries.

It was all he could do for her out here. He needed to get her home.

He whistled for Rána, who had stayed faithfully by Galadriel’s side, and he lowered himself down next to her now.

Halbrand gently but hurriedly picked her up and placed her in the saddle, slipping in behind her and holding her tight as Rána jolted back to his feet. Her head resting limply against his neck.

With a grim mouth and nostrils flaring, Halbrand kicked Rána into motion.

He rode hard, and without rest, imbuing the horse some of his strength to prevent him from collapsing. He pressed his hand to Rána’s flank, whispering life into the beast.

Why could he do this for the horse, but not her? It made no sense!

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Just get her home.

Stay with me… please!

Their pace did not relent until, a day later, they made it to the tower.

Halbrand rushed into her room carrying Galadriel in his arms. He lightly placed her on the bed before running over to the shelves where she kept her medicines and other healing paraphernalia.

He had no idea what he was doing. He had never had to heal anyone this way. But he knew enough to find some rubbing alcohol and a needle and thread.

Returning to Galadriel, he pressed his palm to her forehead, then hovered his knuckles over her mouth.

Still breathing.

He didn’t bother to douse the alcohol onto a cloth, he simply poured it straight into her wounds, and despite being unconscious, it made Galadriel writhe.

Next came the sutures – hurried and ugly – despite his skills at making artful and beauteous things with his hands, sewing wounds shut was something he was far from practiced at.

Not to mention how much his hands were trembling with worry; a feeling entirely new to him, or so long-removed that he had completely forgotten what it felt like, hitting him again now like a bucket of ice-cold water.

He snipped the last of the thread and looked her over.

She had lost entirely too much blood. Her skin was palled, with dark wrings around her eyes and a cold sweat clung to every inch of her. The poison wheedling its way through what blood still remained.

She was not going to make it. Not without help. Not without something more.

He tried his powers again, holding his palm to the slick skin of her chest and willing it to work. But still nothing happened.

Why? Why wasn’t it working?

There was no time to ponder it. He had to find another way.

He froze as the realisation dawned on him.

She needed blood, and she needed it fast.

He couldn’t… could he? What would it do to her?

He wavered, eyes wide and fingers twitching as they hovered over her body, paralysed with indecision.

His blood was tainted. Perverted by Morgoth’s devilry and corruption.

Would it taint her too? Snuff out her light and leave only darkness?

He couldn’t risk that.

Her light was the reason he had been able to resist the temptation for so long – to push against the whispers that still plagued his thoughts. The reason he had hope that perhaps he could someday break away from them altogether.

The reason he was so drawn to her.

The reason he loved her.

But she was dying, and there was no time.

His blood was spoiled, yes, but it was strong.

Maia blood.

It would easily fight off the poison and restore her body at the very least.

But what of her soul?

Suddenly, Galadriel’s body tensed, spasming and contorting as the poison began to seep through her nerves and into her mind.

A few terrible seconds went by with Halbrand looking on as she writhed. Utterly helpless.

Eventually, the strangle hold was released and her limbs fell against the bedspread, lifeless.

There was nothing for it.

His mind made up, he dashed to a small writing desk in the corner of the room and yanked a quill from its pot. Crude – but it would have to be enough.

He rushed back to her side.

But before he did what he must, he could not help cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead, before resting his own on her brow and whispering despairingly to her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… I swore I’d never… never let this part of me touch you.” His voice cracked. “But I can’t let you die… You’re the reason I still have a soul, Galadriel,” he sighed against her lips. “I won’t let you be the reason I lose it… Forgive me.”

He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and closed his eyes.

Then, steeling himself, he squared his jaw and continued.

He stripped the feather with his teeth and drenched it with the rest of the rubbing alcohol. Then, taking a knife from his belt, he made a small incision in both their arms at the crook of their elbows.

He paused. Indulging one last moment of doubt.

What if he loses her? What if she never comes back from this darkness?

No. She’s strong. She’ll conquer it… she must.

Finally, with a grave resolve, he inserted the quill into his arm, searching for a vein. The blackened blood that poured through its hollow inner and issued out the other end, told him when he had.

He took one last, lingering look at her face, as if this might be the last time he would see her, then plunged the quill into her arm.

Chapter Text

Galadriel stood on her balcony. The wind chilled her cheek, salted from the sea.

Fingers tightened on cold marble. The bite in her thigh and shoulder still burned. She did not remember walking out here - only that she was tired of lying still.

The sky was wrong. A lid of cloud smothered the horizon.

The breeze cut sharper, needling her neck.

She looked down - the lawn, the wall, the dunes-

And froze.

Was that how it should be? The thought slipped away before she could hold it.

“Galadriel.”

The voice came from behind and her face brightened instantly, a smile broadening across her lips.

She turned toward the archway - the air rippling like water. The breeze stilled in an instant, leaving her hair to fall heavy against her neck. Somewhere far below, the waves forgot to break.

Looking upon her bedroom, her face fell. The hairs on her neck stood on end.

The room beyond the archway was cast in shadows as if the daylight could not penetrate the threshold. And in the centre, stood the outline of a dark figure, stooped and deathly still.

A shadow become flesh.

Her eyes narrowed. She could not make out its face, but its gaze prickled her skin and stilled her breath – imbued with a malevolence that caused the world about her to do the same.

A hum lay in the air.

The figure remained motionless, still boring a hole in her chest with unseen eyes.

She could feel her lungs tightening with every second that went by as though a rope had been looped around her, pulling her forwards, and for every second she fought against it the noose tightened.

She clawed at her collarbone, at her ribs, fighting the crush of something that was not there at all.

It pulled.

She stumbled under the archway, slamming against a marble pillar.

Air rushed back in rasping gulps - then the crawling began across her skin.

She forced herself to look. The shadow stood rooted in the gloom - as if it was the gloom – the darkness seeping from it, swallowing the room with a low, groaning malice.

And now it smiled. White teeth strung like bones in the night.

His smile. But also, someone else’s.

She dared to speak. Her voice thin, a whisper all she could manage. “Halbrand?”

The voice that replied no longer sounded like his – deep, demonic, rumbling, hissing as it spoke. “No.”

Galadriel lowered her head, steeling her gaze as she looked at it from under her brow. Voice laced with some of her own menace now. “Sauron.”

Nothing.

The air still sizzling, groaning, darkening.

Then-

“No.”

Her chest heaved as her eyes flew open. The scent of spoilt flesh was sharp in her nose, the linen clinging damp to her skin.

Terror twisting her features as she grasped wildly about her.

She writhed, agony burning through every nerve.

She cried out, willing it to stop.

Her vision ablur - either from the pain or from waking, she was not sure.

Her chest caved, pulling her head upward then throwing it back, thrashing against her pillow.

Then – hands.

Warm and strong on either cheek, fingers cradling the base of her head. Holding her down. Grounding. Preventing her from hurting herself.

“Galadriel.” Halbrand’s face came into view above her, his voice thick with worry, and something else she could not make out.

She tried desperately to force her vision to focus, but the pain was excruciating, as if it were searing every nerve in her body at once and penetrating the blood vessels in her eyes.

“Halbrand.” Her cries were stilted, strained, laden with agony... and fear. “What’s happening?”

His eyes were filled with unshed tears as he watched her struggle in his hands, clenching his jaw as he swallowed, unable to even begin to explain. Guilt stifling any words he tried to form.

“Halbrand!” She screamed, her body seized, fingers wringing into fists as her spine arched now from the new wave of agony that shot threw her body like a lightning bolt.

Tears streamed as she sobbed, shattering his heart. His hands still holding her firm.

“…It hurts.”

“I know.” He replied, desperate, as his eyelids finally releasing the tears that had pooled there, now cascading down his cheeks. “You have to be strong, do you hear me? You have to fight it.”

“What is it? What’s going on? What’s happening to me?”

Her body was still twisting as he gently pushed away the hair that had plastered itself to her forehead, drenched in sweat. “Something I did.”

She grimaced, gritting her teeth against the pain, and whimpering. “I don’t understand… Halbrand… I’m scared.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, anguish creasing his face. He bent to press his forehead against hers. “I know… but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered, as he stroked his thumbs across her face in a despairing attempt to soothe the hurt that he knew was entirely his doing.

But he had to snatch his head away as her chest surged violently again and another scream ripped through her throat. Terrible, blood curdling.

Then she fell limp against the mattress. Rendered unconscious from the pain.

Halbrand’s eyes searched her face, frantically pressing his palm to her forehead then back to her cheek. He let out a sharp gasp as his head fell to her chest. “What have I done?”

“Who then? What are you?” Galadriel pushed herself up, leaving the support of the pillar, spitting her words as though trying to cough out poison.

The voice rumbled in response, rebounding off the walls in a terrible echo. “I am the one who arises in might, the black foe of the world… and I see you, little one. I see your ambitions clearer than the stars beyond the void.”

Galadriel lifted her chin, puffing out her chest in a show of defiance, hissing his name. “Morgoth.”

“The very same. Now… Galadriel, what is it you have been doing with my hound?”

Her eyes narrowed, lips twitched, refusing to answer. A flicker of doubt lay in the creases of her forehead.

“Come now, you know of whom I speak. How is Sauron? Or is he playing mortal now? Halbrand is it? Laughable that he would bring himself so low… What have you done to him?”

Her brow crinkled as she whispered. “Nothing.”

“LIAR!”

The room groaned, darkness consuming it as the walls seemed to shrink with his wrath.

“I can no longer feel him as I once did! His dominion over the dark forces is weakening - your doing.”

She fought to keep her voice steady. “I told you, I have done nothing.”

“But you sought to - still seek to – to bring him back from the darkness.” He laughed, frightful and ugly, the sound reverberating so painfully in her ears that she had to cover them with her hands.

“Is it love, Galadriel?” Morgoth’s voice slithered through the dark. “Is that why you cling to him, why you reach into the rot to pull him free?”

“I do it because it is right!”

“Right?” He barked, the sound booming against the stone until her ears rang. “Another lie! Do you really think you can save him? Think you can unmake what I forged? He is mine - every thought, every shadow. You are nothing but a flicker in his long night - a recent footnote in a story older than your stars. He is bound to me. You will not take him. He can never be saved!”

A great boom ripped through the room followed by a blinding gale, throwing her hard at the pillar, her back ricocheting against it as she fell to its side.

She fought fiercely against the wind, shielding her face as she scrabbled back to her feet, bellowing against the gusts. “If he is as lost as you say, then why is your grip loosening? Why does the dark bend less to his will? Maybe it is you who fades!”

Another rumble. Another terrible groan.

“He is mine. He will be again. He will be my greatest weapon against the light, my iron fist that I will use to crush all those who oppose me, and he will stand by my side as he watches you and all you hold dear burn.”

“How?” She yelled. “How will you do this? You are nothing!” She pressed forward, scoffing now as she ripped her arm away from her face to square off to him. “Corruptor? King of the World? You are shackled. A forgotten child locked away, lost to the timeless emptiness of the void. Powerless! Nameless! Nothing!”

The room shivered. A horrifying growl rippled up the walls and began to split the stonework. Cracks appearing upon every surface.

Galadriel did not let up, pushing forward now against the storm, against the darkness, against his might. “I will not let you take him! His power will never be yours!”

She winced against the roar, the wind scraping her skin like a sandstorm.

She pushed on.

One foot in front of the other.

She wished for a weapon. And as if answering the call, her dagger appeared in her hand. A look of grim determination set firm in her features as she clasped it tightly.

She was almost there. Almost on him. Just one final surge. One final effort.

She screamed her last words of defiance, “You cannot have him!” as she thrust the dagger into the shadow’s throat. A sickening jolt rippled up her arm as the blade hit bone.

All fell silent. The wind stilled.

Horror spread across her face as his hazel eyes met hers, wide with despair and disbelief.

He was Halbrand again. Her dagger embedded in his neck.

The gurgle he produced as his blood bubbled with his every breath hit her like a stone, turning her stomach and filling the back of her mouth with bile.

His eyes silently asking why?

“No!” She whispered, desperately reaching for him.

But he snatched her first. Clamping his hands around hers before she could react to pull them back.

He wrenched her towards him.

Blackened blood still oozing from his throat.

Terror seized her - it was Halbrand’s shape, but Morgoth’s glee sat behind those eyes, his grin impossibly wide.

He squeezed tighter, and she cried out in pain, dropping to her knees at the twist of her wrists.

“Then…” he bared his teeth, looking down his nose at her, stealing Halbrand’s voice as he did so. “I will have to settle for you.”

When Galadriel’s eyes opened, she was calm. Taking a deep, indulgent inhale, she scanned the room.

“Good morning.” Halbrand’s voice was warm at her bedside, a tinge of relief laying upon it as he leant over to stroke her hairline.

“Morning?” She breathed sweetly.

“Mmm hmm.” He nodded. “You’ve been under for a day and a night.”

“What happened?”

Halbrand's eyes lowered, wincing a little. His words came slow, reluctant. “You’d lost too much blood… and I couldn’t heal you. For some reason, my powers… I don’t know… so I gave you some of mine.”

Galadriel’s mouth fell, her body stiffening a little. “Your blood?”

He nodded grimly, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to look at her – though he noted something strange in her voice. Curiosity?

Slowly, she pushed herself up.

“You should rest.” He protested, placing his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to coax her back down.

But she resisted, shaking her head and patting the space on the bed between them. “Come here.” She whispered, soft and inviting.

His eyes darted from her face to the bed and back again, uncertainty on his brow. Then taking a deep breath, he substituted one seat for the other, shifting to the spot where her hand lay. He was staring at his feet, or the floor, he did not care, so long as he was not looking at her - convinced he would not be able bear it if she were kind to him, after putting her through what he had.

She tilted her head, looking him over sympathetically. Then, placing her palm to his cheek, she gently guided his face towards her. His eyes were swelling with regret at the pain he had caused.

“Do not feel guilty.” She murmured, eyes softly reassuring. “You saved me – that’s all that matters.”

He swallowed, brow crinkling at the thought. “I couldn’t lose you.”

His thumb brushed the damp hair from her temple, and for a heartbeat the room felt warmer. Then the light at the window faltered, as if a cloud had slid across the sun, though the sky outside was clear. Her eyes lingered on him too long, and when she spoke again, her voice curled like smoke. “I know.”

Her fingertips glided delicately down his face and along his jawline, beard rough against her quiet touch as she scarcely nuzzled her nose against his. Scents mingling.

She stilled as her gaze snapped up. Both knowing what the look meant without exchanging a word.

She dropped her gaze again as she placed her lips on his – his hand gliding across her waist in response, deepening the kiss in an instant as their mouths opened to taste each other, quickly needing more than a tentative touch.

Galadriel’s hands rapidly became feverish, placing them behind his head, fisting his hair like an anchor as she pulled her legs out from under the duvet, quickly climbing into his lap.

Their kisses had become hungry, messy, bruising, both passionately latched onto the other and neither wanting to let up – their lips only breaking apart momentarily when Galadriel began to undulated her hips against his crotch, both sighing into each other’s mouths as she rolled herself over his rapidly hardening bulge, teasing pleasure in them both.

He clutched her hips. Strong hands helping her to grind along his length. Increasing the friction.

Her lips roamed to his neck, biting, branding, sighing as she punctuated them. “How long have you wished to taste me? What foul things have you desired to do to this body of mine?”

His hand came to her breast, palming it eagerly as he nipped his teeth along her jaw. “You know what I’ve wanted.”

She licked a stripe up his neck, his beard rough against her tongue as she approached his jawline. “I need you to tell me… all your sordid thoughts… your darkest desires. I know you have them… Sauron.”

Grabbing a fist of her hair, he tore her an arm’s length away, eyes narrowing as he held her there. His gaze piercing.

“Something the matter?” She asked, a slight curl on her lips.

“Why would you call me that?”

She shrugged coyly. “Perhaps I have a little fetish.” Her eyelashes fluttering down and back up. “Perhaps that’s why I pursued you all these years.”

His brow flickered, eyes narrowing further as he locked in on the devilish shimmer in her eyes, suspicion growing with every twitch of her lips. “What is this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice and expression all innocence as she gazed enticingly at him, leaning forward to try and kiss him again.

He yanked her head back in place and she yelped a little as he did so. His distrust only rising further as she seemed to relish in it.

“So rough.” She tisked. “How you must have longed to lay your hands on me like this again. All that time I’ve denied you.” She smirked wickedly as she looked down at herself. “You changed me into my nightgown as I slept, I see.”

“Your dress was muddied.” He replied flatly.

She bit her lip. “Tell me, did you use sorcery? Or your hands?”

His stare was like ice, his voice unforgiving now, not liking the insinuation. “I never touched you.”

“Shame…” She pouted, bringing her hands up to her shoulders and hooking her fingers under the straps of her gown. Her hair still a mess in his hand. Her eyes never left his gaze as she guided the straps down her arms, her dress peeling down her chest and exposing her breasts to him.

His mouth dropped as he drank in the sight of her. Unthinking. His grip lessening on her hair.

She took advantage, rocking her hips over him again, and his breath snagged mid-inhale.

She leaned forward, nibbling on the tip of his ear. “Do you remember what it felt like to touch me that night on the moor. How much I wanted you… was wet for you. I was so ready for you to take me.” She gasped as she caught herself perfectly on his erection, adjusting her movements to zero in on just the right place.

His pupils blew wide and he sighed as she sparked a new pleasure to build in him, his hand dropping to the back of her neck while the other crept over her waist and towards her bare breasts.

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since.” She continued to murmur in his ear. “How your fingers felt between my thighs, the noises you coaxed from me, the rush… how much I’ve wanted you to finish what you started… and not just in a dream.”

He froze, eyes flashing her a sideways glance.

She pulled away enough to look him in the eye, smiling smugly. “So, you did see it. I knew you had – the way I yearned for you, opened for you, called out your name as you ground yourself inside me.” She rolled herself harder against him, another gasp escaping her as she straightened, clutching her own breast with one hand and mussing her hair with the other. “Claimed me.”

His hand instinctively reached for her, pressing against her stomach and digging the tips of his splayed fingers into her flesh, encouraging her to keep moving.

Needing her to stop.

She dipped her chin to look on him, a fiendish glint in her eye - she settled her hand over his as she continued to roll her pelvis, using his hand as something to push against. “I know you’ve wanted it. Desperately. What was it like to watch me come apart for you?”

He clenched his jaw, and locked his eyes intently on her, saying nothing. Knowing there was something deeply wrong here, but finding her too hard to resist.

The way her hips moved, her perfect breasts on display, the insatiable glimmer in her eyes.

All for him.

All wrong.

She cupped his face in her hands as she bent down to graze her nose over his lips. Her whispers were their own type of kiss upon his mouth. “Or maybe you did more than just watch?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Was it you? In my dream? Did you violate me?”

He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her away and glowering from under his brow – a warning. His voice thick with venom. “Stop this.”

“Hmm.” She teased, “You would never do that, would you? My Dark Lord.”

At that, he shoved her side-ways, twisting her off him so she fell back hard against the headboard.

She giggled. “So serious!”

“This isn’t you.” He almost growled the words.

“It is. I’m in here…” She tapped two fingers to her temple as she held his gaze menacingly. “But so are you.”

He ground his teeth at the stark truth of it. She was corrupted, undeniable, and it was all his doing.

She pursed her lips. “How does it feel to finally be inside me?”

His eyes twitched, nostrils flaring as his eyes traced her hand sinking down the line of her stomach – her knees falling open as she hitched up her night gown.

Delight danced in her eyes as she moved her underwear aside, showcasing herself for him. Slipping her own fingers between her folds, she bit her lip, throwing her head back and moaning at the sensation of her own touch.

Halbrand was paralysed at the sight of it – the only movement was the twitch of his fingers at his sides as he fought the urge to takeover, to give her all the pleasure she was asking for, to finish what he had started that night under the stars.

This is not her.

Not what he really wanted. No matter how tantalisingly she spread herself - touched herself for him.

“No.” He hissed through gritted teeth. “This is not you. Or me. It’s him.”

She stayed her fingers, eyes flicking up to him. “You… him… is there a difference?”

His lips curled into a snarl.

“Did I offend you?” A wry smile stretching across her lips as she hummed. “Perhaps, I can think of one difference…” She closed her knees as she bucked her hips, removing her underwear and peeling them down her legs, holding them up with one finger before dropping them to the floor. “Me.”

She rocked forward onto all fours and crawled over to him, now stood against the side of the bed.

She straightening on her knees, bringing herself face-to-face with him as she ran her fingers through his hair. Her lips ghosting once more over his.

He dared not moved. Didn’t want to hurt her. Not sure how to save her either. Still wrestling with his desire to have her in all the ways she wanted. He wanted.

Her words were silken against his mouth. “You could be more than he ever was, with me at your side, we could conquer these lands. Heal them. Make them everything they were meant to be. You my King, and I your Queen…”

He looked down at her, breathless, wavering. Words of acceptance teetering on his tongue as he glided his gaze over her body, her satin nightgown pooling at her hips.

This was everything he had ever desired, wasn’t it?

To rule Middle Earth as it should be ruled.

To heal it.

Bring it back from the ruin of Morgoth’s destruction.

And now, to have her by his side…

Temptation revealed itself in his pressed lips, trembling cheek, curled fingers.

And yet… “No.” Came his answer. Strained. Forced from his throat while he clenched his fists tighter.

“No?” She growled, grabbing a fist of his hair and tilting his head. “What do you mean, no? You would really deny yourself this? Deny yourself me?” She scoffed, sneering. “You’re weak Mairon, you’ve always been weak. Pathetic! You do not deserve me. You are but a shadow of what you were! Nothing more than a stray dog picking at bones!”

He lunged, snarling.

Grabbing her neck, he thrust her back, pinning her this time against the head of the bed.

His fingers squeezing. Chest heaving as he struggled to hold back his rage.

Her focus locked in, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “There he is.”

She stared him down. Finding his other hand, she guided it downward as she parted her thighs, bringing it under the hem of her dress.

He was seething, baring his teeth, but found he could do nothing to stop her.

She pressed his fingers to her soft, sensitive flesh.

A reluctant sigh catching in the back of his throat the moment he felt her.

So warm. So wet. So delectable.

Her hips surged as she began moving his fingers for him, pushing herself against his touch, desperate for him to satisfy her.

It only took a few strokes for him to begin working her on his own. Unable to resist how good she felt, his desire to touch more of her. All of her.

The noise she made – almost a squeal – the hand around her neck squeezing tighter as he sunk two fingers inside, stroking the deepest part of her, back and forth.

He used his thumb to draw circles over her collection of nerves, and fresh gasps escaped her lips – higher, thinner.

Hunger bloomed in his eyes as he thrust a third finger inside, feeling her walls stretch for him.

He crooked his fingers, finding the place that made her gasp, bliss building from within and without as he so skilfully played all the right notes of her body.

“Yes… that’s it. Keep going.” Her voice breathless as her chest rose and fell unevenly. Hips undulating for him, needing more.

His eyes were fixed on her. Such a beautiful tragedy to see her ruin herself like this. To see her crave his touch so ravenously… It was everything he had desired from her.

And yet, it was not her. Not really her.

What was he doing?

“I know you want to take me.” She panted the words between moans.

He lowered his eyes, anguish causing them to quake.

Still his fingers delved.

“Please… I want you to take me. All of me. Give me everything I need.” Her climax was nearing with every deft stroke.

His brow creased deeply as he pressed it to her forehead, his hand on her neck releasing its grip and slipping around the back of her head. His jaw set so firm his teeth began to ache.

“Tell me… Tell me you want me – please.”

Hesitantly, he spoke, breathing out. “I do want you.”

Elation spread across her face at the sound of his admission. Her moans quickly growing higher in pitch, coaxing him on.

And yet-

He stilled.

His fingers ceasing to provide her with any more bliss.

“But… not like this.” Swiftly, he snatched his fingers away.

She balked at the denial of his touch. “What are you-”

Before she could finish her sentence, he placed his palm to her forehead.

A flash.

Her head was thrown backwards. Eyes rolling in her skull as her head crashed against the pillow.

Unconscious in an instant.

For a moment, all was still. He was unable to move. Just watching her. Torment twisting in his face as he held his breath.

He shouldn’t have touched her. He should have resisted.

He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lips as he hovered above her. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “Galadriel… I’m so sorry. I couldn’t…” He shook his head, unable to admit his weakness out loud. “I swear to you, I won’t let him take you. You’re not alone... I promise. I can’t lose you. I won’t.” He placed the lightest of kisses upon her lips as tears fells from his eyes, overwhelmed by guilt – the shame of everything he had done.

Darkness swallowed her. Then - hands like iron, twisting, forcing her to look. Morgoth’s face loomed close, the edges of it flickering like burnt paper.

She glared at him – he who wore Halbrand’s face as if it belonged to him, as if he owned it. Used his voice as if he had a right to it.

“How delightful.” He curled his lip, towering over her, her wrists still trapped in his vice-like grip. “Your true aspirations ever so much more tantalising that you care to admit. Would that he granted you this desire – to rule this earth together. Mould it and him to your will. I commend the ambition.”

“I do not desire power.” She growled back the words.

He did not care for that. “More lies.”

Pulling hard on her wrists, he yanked them apart – a cry escaping her as her arms were stretched painfully wide.

“A pitiful endeavour all the same - futile. For when I return, there will be nothing left of this world to govern.”

Galadriel spat at him, unable to do anything else, leaving a wet globule on his shirt.

“So much fire.” He laughed. “I can see why he is drawn to you. I wager he’s had you on your knees like this many a time. It’s a pleasing sight, I must admit.

She roared in frustration, trying to wriggle free of his hold.

The crash of the waves outside caught his attention. Stormy and barrelling, but lacking the great tidal wave from her previous dream.

“I see he left you wanting.” Another infuriating smirk. “I had hoped you would be able to bring him back to me.” He flicked his attention back down to her, his expression hardening into something cold, threatening. “I suppose I will have to kill him. If he refuses to return to me, I really have no more use for him.”

“No!” She grunted, twisting, contorting, anything to rip herself free.

“Or perhaps…” He stilled, eyes widening, becoming distant, as if he were peering beyond the immediacy of the room and into his mind’s eye. “I won’t have to… because of you.” His sight sharpened, daggers in his gaze. “You will be his ruin. I can see it. Everything undone by a single arrow...”

A crooked smile curled upon his lips, his eyes dancing under his lids, watching some vision play out before him. “He will devour this earth and everything in it. Enslaving its people, waging war on those who would oppose him. And he will do it for you.”

Tears of torment fell from Galadriel’s eyes, striving not to listen – to not heed his words as if they were in any way possible.

“And flames.” His eyes burning with delight. “Flames will compound his fall. His soul will cry out. And it will be you who lights the spark.”

“You LIE!” She screamed. Desperate to free herself, to take her fingernails to his face and rip off the skin that clung to him in such mockery.

“I think we have already established which of us is the liar here.” His grip tightened again. “You will bring him back to the darkness.”

“No!”

“I have seen it. There is no escaping it. It is inevitable.”

“NEVER!”

Flames burst into being, sparked by his terrible laughter. Raging up his legs. Consuming his body. Licking down his arms towards her hands. The heat already unbearable.

She squirmed, crying out. Terror threatening to consume her just as much as the fire while she watched it engulf his face.

Skin sizzling, blistering, blood bubbling out of his eye sockets as the flesh blackened.

She screamed at the sight of it.

Screamed at the pain of her wrists beginning to sear where he still held them fast.

Just as she feared the flames were about to ignite her clothing and consume her in a tumultuous fireball-

A twang, and a thud.

Morgoth was thrust backward, releasing his grip on her, an arrow embedded in his shoulder.

The fire was extinguished in an instant, as though the arrow had sucked the oxygen out of the room as it had his lungs.

He lay there, charred and stinking.

His clothes ragged and threadbare, glowing embers still shrinking away the edges.

Galadriel whipped herself round to see where the arrow had come from. And there, on the balcony, stood Halbrand.

The real Halbrand.

Bow in hand and a murderous edge to his gaze.

The surge of relief threatened to burst a hole through her chest – her breathing heavy, and eyes wide at the sight of him. “How are you h-”

In only a second, he had strung another arrow and loosed it. The bolt whizzing passed her ear and disturbing her hair.

Another deep thrumming sound close behind her. This time the arrow went to Morgoth’s chest – his hand outstretched and almost in reach of her before he was hurled backward by the force of the arrow.

“No time for questions. Run!” Halbrand urged, as he reached for another arrow.

She hesitated. “What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you. Go!”

She nodded, twisting herself up off the flagstones and making a break for the door.

Halbrand drew back on his string, stepping into the room and about to release another shaft. But he was stopped. An invisible force launching him back through the doors.

Galadriel reeled round, her hand on the door handle as she watched the balcony doors slam shut with a clang.

Her lip quivered, sucking in a sharp breath, wavering at the possibility Halbrand had been hurt.

But her senses were wrenched back into focus as she whipped her head back round to Morgoth – raging now towards her from across the room, a maniacal wildness roaring in his throat and flaring in his one remaining eye.

She twisted the handle and flung herself through the threshold, slamming the door shut behind her and sprinting up the staircase.

Light. I need to find the light.

She flew up the stairs - three at a time.

A crash below. Wood splintering.

Keep going!

Not her thought. His. Halbrand’s. Urging her faster.

She was bounding. The door to the library just up ahead.

So close.

One final leap.

A jolt.

Something wrenched at her ankle.

She careened forward.

Her hands darted out quicker than she could think. She caught herself on the stone steps, stopping her teeth from smashing into the edge.

“We’re not done!” His voice growling behind her as she twisted round to face him, trying desperately, ragefully, to kick him away - this perverted echo of Halbrand that Morgoth wore like a mask.

He grabbed her other leg, clambering over her knees - scurrying up her body like a spider. His tattered clothing hung like broken webs over charred flesh.

She thrashed wildly, pounding at him with her fists.

But he pinned her to the floor with his body, the sharp cut of the stairs biting at her back.

He loomed now, his burnt face – Halbrand’s face – was blotched with sores and sticky ooze cracking amongst the hard, blackened and blistered skin. Parts of it hung off – chunks of seared flesh dangling by taught tendrils of hide.

One eyeball had burst, yellow fluid dribbling from the socket.

His good eye piercing, hungry; his lips, peeled away by flame, left a blackened grin fixed forever in place.

She tried to force him off, beating desperately, turning her face away in disgust – unable to look at him.

He was too strong.

“Look at me!” He growled, grabbing her chin, blackening her skin with his bloodied fingers.

She screwed her eyes shut – the terrible vision of his rotting face too horrifying to look at.

He grabbed her neck, squeezing with merciless strength, forcing her eyes to open. “This is what you will reap! A devastation that will be yours and yours alone. Because the two of you are one. Because you love him. Because he will never let you go.”

“No!” She screamed the word. Not in disagreement. In defiance.

“I will not have you deny me.” He yanked her hair, keeping her where he wanted her.

Her eyes rounded in horror as she realised his face was descending on hers - that his lipless mouth was inching closer - that she was powerless to stop it. Equally powerless to prevent him from clawing at her skirt as he slowly pulled it above her knees…

She shut her eyes again. Determined not to open them no matter what happened. No matter what she feels is being done to her. No matter the pain… or how much of it there will be.

Panic began to rise in her chest, heaving at the gruesome thought of it.

A distressed whimper escaped her mouth, unbidden, when she felt his exhale ghosting across her lips, his hands – sticky with his own blood – forcing her thighs apart.

His voice brushed her cheek as would a lover’s. “There will be no light in this world pure enough to bring you back after this.” Teeth forcing themselves upon her lips, twisting and turning against them in mockery of a kiss.

Tears squeezed from under her lids, spilling across her temples.

His palm a brand against her throat while he reached for himself.

She gritted her teeth. Readying herself for what is to come.

“Galadriel!”

Her eyes snapped open.

Halbrand – her Halbrand – with an arm wrapped around the other’s throat, yanking him off her. Both tumbled back down the stairs.

She coughed at the rapid release of pressure around her neck. The relief, both in her breathing and her plight was almost too overwhelming to bear.

But, despite the crushing ache, she wasted no time, pushing it down with a gulp and twisting back to her feet. She sprinted as fast as she could the rest of the way up the stairs.

Her leaden legs struggled to obey.

But there it was – the library door. The door to the light.

She seized at the handle.

Stuck.

Back down the stairs, the sounds of scrabbling and grunts could be heard. The sound of fighting and turmoil.

Come on, Halbrand. Beat him.

Eyes back on the door. She shoved and shoved and shoved-

Finally, it opened, and she launched through it. Ready to be greeted by the light.

But something was not right.

Dark. All was dark.

The glass roof was covered; a large canopy of drapes, black as the night, blotted out the sun like a shroud.

Huffing, thudding, growling – coming from the doorway.

Morgoth was there, a look of wild fury in is eye as his fingers gripped on the doorframe, trying to haul himself into the room.

But Halbrand was also there, behind, holding him firm. One arm across his chest while the other hand pulled at his jaw, trying to break his neck.

Galadriel looked about frantically for something, anything to pierce the canopy or to tear it down.

Then she remembered-

Her dagger – it came to her when she needed it. This is a dream.

She set her jaw and closed her eyes, willing it into existence.

In an instant, her fingers coiled themselves around the familiar feel of the cold, smooth hilt.

She gripped it tight, eyes flying open and fixed with fierce determination now at the balconied promenade that curled around the room.

“Quickly!” Halbrand shouted as he wrestled with their foe, his hold on him loosening with every passing second.

She ran headlong toward the wooden staircase, barely touching the steps as she ascended them in two balletic vaults, up onto the promenade. She raced to where the canopy hung lowest, hopping lightly onto the bannister.

She took a second to assess the jump.

Just as Morgoth struggled free of Halbrand’s grasp down below - she leapt.

As she did so, the very air seemed to tighten, holding its breath as she flew, suspended in the air for longer than seemed possible.

The world groaning to drag itself forward.

One inch at a time.

Reality snapped back into place as one hand clamped around a fold in the fabric, while the other slashed with righteous willpower, piercing a slit in the darkness.

Her weight did the rest.

The canopy ripped away – a great tear opened up as she swung through the air, gliding back down to the ground in a graceful and triumphant arc, tearing away more of the material with every emphatic yard she descended.

A great shaft of light filtered in, halting the burnt and twisted mess of Morgoth in his tracks.

He hissed, retreating a half-step.

The beam of sunlight spilled across the floor, warm as midsummer, and Galadriel stepped into it.

The dark recoiled, but not far - Morgoth’s shadow clung stubbornly to the edges, curling like mist.

She closed her eyes and drew the light deeper, feeling it fill her lungs, her veins, her bones, until her skin burned with it.

Halbrand took the opportunity while Morgoth was distracted to bound up behind him. He grabbed the few remaining tattered shreds of his hair and forced him down onto the main table top.

Morgoth winced - his seared flesh pinned with merciless strength against the unrelenting surface. One hand quickly twisted behind his back as Halbrand leant his weight on him, keeping him there.

He looked up at Galadriel, his breath heavy from exertion, and waited.

She stood with her back to them, bathed in sunlight, she was a radiant bastion - aglow as her hair caught and reflected the rays as would the sparkling gleam of a thousand twinkling ripples on the ocean.

She turned slowly. Serenely.

Halbrand looked on, spellbound – a golden goddess whose light could burn away the entirety of his soul, and he would be glad for it.

She smiled at him, warm and knowing. “Step away from him.” Not a command, an assurance, that everything was going to be alright.

Unsure of what was about to happen, Halbrand released his hideous double from beneath him, and stepped back.

Morgoth straightened, quick as lightning, conjuring his own blade to his hand and readying his arm to launch it at Galadriel.

But in that moment, Galadriel folded in on herself, her arms crossing over her body, her head bowing low.

Then, like the butterfly emerges from its pupa, she unfurled, spreading her arms wide as she rose, and as she did so, she transformed.

Her arms spread into vast, resplendent wings; her legs hardened to scaled talons; her body rounding to form a proud feathered breast. Her head rose last, crowned with the beak and piercing gaze of an eagle.

Morgoth had arrested his throw, dumbfounded by the image of light and magnificence before him. Like a sinner finally come to understand the error of their ways - undeniable in the presence of the divine - he simply stood there, taking her in.

She glowered at him, towering above him even from across the room.

But, in an instant, his features darkened. A wretched hatred coiling in his throat born of a poisonous jealously that he would never be able to shake, gnawing at him from beyond the timeless halls.

He jerked his arm, winding up the throw.

But Galadriel reared up. Her wings stretching so wide she almost touched the walls, beating them now – the air exploding forth like a pulse of pure light.

Halbrand stepped further to the side as Morgoth was blasted back, his feet scraping against the stone floor; his weapon torn from his hand – ripping through the air and clattering against the wall behind.

Her wings beat again, and again. The gusts of wind and light too brilliant to look upon.

Morgoth brought his hands up to shield his face, but as he did so, he found his fingers were no longer there. Like the charred remains of a long-forgotten fire, more and more of him blew away on the wind.

Disintegrating into flakes of pale ash.

As his upper limbs dissolving into nothingness, his face and chest began to cave – crumpled bits of him breaking apart with each unrelenting pulse.

Terror flaring in his eye.

What was left of his mouth opened in a silent, anguished scream.

Galadriel beat faster, her wings thundering with the full fury of light’s war against the darkness.

Finally, the last remnants of Morgoth crumbled to the ground.

No more was left of him but a pile of ash and dust.

Halbrand stood agog, his former master’s pitiful remains vanishing before the sovereign splendour of the great eagle, wings outspread in undimmed gallantry.

For a moment, stillness.

Nothing, as he simply took her in. His eyes watered at her brilliance, the light glancing off her feathers as if they were gold.

He swallowed, and took a step forward.

But Galadriel launched into the air.

Upwards she flew, smashing through the ceiling - glass raining down onto library below – she twirled, higher and higher into the sky, floating into the distance. Her form becoming smaller, and further away, obscuring against the sun until it seemed as though it and her had become one.

And she was gone.

Halband ran, reaching the spot where she stood and gazed up at the hole in the roof. His face beaming.

She had done it. She had beaten the darkness.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath as he drank in the warmth of the sunlight.

Her light.

It was purging, nourishing - like the first cold draught after a long desert journey.

She was beyond his reach now - how it should be.

But his features turned to sorrow as he stood still anchored to the floor. Bowing his head, he knew he was unable to follow.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Galadriel opened her eyes, slowly. Her lids were heavy and they struggled against the brightness in the room. The sunrise poured in through the balcony, an easy wind gently stirred the silk drapes as the dawn chorus drifted in on the breeze.

Then… a warm hand on her brow, dropping to her cheek. Another coming to rest on the opposite side of her neck. Fingers stroking, soothing, coaxing a little.

…and a voice. Low and soft. “Galadriel.”

Her eyebrows flickered with recognition, dry lips trying to speak his name, but she could barely move them. No sound emerged. Her eyes closed again from the effort.

Her skin was pale - like porcelain - and clammy from fever.

“It’s alright. Don’t try to talk.” Halbrand’s restful voice hovered just inches from her face.

Galadriel could feel the warmth of him, even if she could not see him.

“Rest,” he urged, “just rest,” as he placed a delicate kiss on her forehead, lulling her back to sleep.

Halbrand looked at her wistfully, concern creasing the features of his face as he continued to stroke his thumb across her cheek.

For days she hovered between waking and sleep, never strong enough to hold a conversation. Halbrand remained at her side - cooling her brow, coaxing water past her lips, and watching her every breath, willing the colour back to her cheeks.

Although she had fought off the root of the darkness, she was left severely weakened by the ordeal. The fever she developed fighting off the poison and the battle for her soul now proved to be the most immediate of her troubles. Struggling to fight against it, she tossed and turned on the pillow, sucking in air, her body shuddering before breaking out in yet more cold sweats.

The nights were much the same. Staving off voluntary sleep, Halbrand maintained his vigil at Galadriel’s bedside, running his fingers through her hair to alleviate the tangles and squeezing her hand on the odd occasions he thought she might wake for a bit.

One such time, she managed to speak some fractured words in sickened mumblings. “I’m sorry…” She whispered, never opening her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry.” Halbrand whispered back, his hand enveloped around hers. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

But she shook her head, brow crinkling in frustration. “No. Truly. You must understand, I need you to understand… I’m sorry.”

Leaning in closer, he brought her hand to his chest. “For what?”

“For loving for him…”

Halbrand blinked and drew back mechanically, the way his mouth dropped and his brow knitted exposed his confusion at her words.

Another shiver ran through her body, her breath catching. The next words releasing along a shuddering breath. “Forgive me, brother.”

At that, she fell back into her fever dreams.

Halbrand could only stare. His chest rose and fell sharply, and he dared not move - afraid her words might scatter like dust, as though they had never been uttered. His gaze dropped as he contemplated them, surmising beyond any doubt that there could only be one possibility of whom ‘he’ was.

His vision flicked back up to her face and he leant his elbows on the bedspread, both hands tightly clasped around her own as he bent his head and pressed his lips upon her knuckles, planting the softest of kisses there while he closed his eyes and locked her words away inside his chest for safe keeping. Hoping that perhaps, when this was all over, she might remember them.

After the fourth day, Galadriel managed to summon the strength to wake for a while. At least, enough to finally speak on everything that had happened. Even managing to sit up in bed for a while.

“I could hear him… I could hear his voice.”

“What did he tell you?”

A shadow darkened her face as she thought back on Morgoth’s self-proclaimed prophecy – that she would be the reason for Halbrand’s fall, that he would bring Middle Earth to its knees because of his love for her…

She could not fathom it. Would not fathom it.

Not when he was looking at her with such care and longing as might put all her broken parts back together with a single smile. With a single, gentle touch.

But then there was the fire… and the arrow. What did it all mean?

She shook her head, deciding to find little validity in it, knowing all the malevolent machinations The Black Foe would employ to ensnare her, frighten her, belittle her - the twisted tactics of a poisonous mind. She would not give it more weight than it deserved.

“Foul things… Irrelevant things.” Was her only reply as she wrapped her arms about herself, guarding. Her gaze had drifted towards where the light was streaming in from the balcony.

Halbrand tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, scrutinising, wanting to press her but quickly deciding against it. While he may not know exactly what was said, he understood all too well what it was to be spoken to by him. How not just his hands could leave scars.

His eyes softened, empathetic, lowering them as he nodded his acceptance.

“Do you think it was really him?” Her focus was now on the way the clouds floated in and out of view. It was difficult to look at him. All the things Morgoth had said, done, almost done while wearing Halbrand’s face, burnt and withered… that last thought sending a shiver down her neck that caused it to seized a little. She craned it to the side, trying to stretch out the cramp.

Then came the other reason she struggled to meet his gaze.

A dream? A dream she could push away, quash its importance, deny any hold it had on her – it was immaterial, trifling, not real.

But the waking world was harder to refute. She remembered what she had done, what she had let him do - no - what she had made him do. The memory stirred through her body before she could stop it, her thighs tightening, caught between recoil and craving. Terrified and appalled at the way the darkness had so readily taken control, simultaneously thrilled at the sense of abandon it granted her. No more having to suppress her desire for power, freedom, lust.

Him.

How she desired him more than any of it.

But there was shame now. Shame that she had been so easily overcome, that she had not even tried to stop herself. That the man sitting at her bedside, with everything he used to be and all the darkness still within him, had been able to muster more restraint and willpower than she could ever have hoped to grasp for in that moment.

What did that make her?

Could she, in truth, outmatch him with her own monstrosities?

“No, I don’t think so.” He replied, thoughtfully, to her earlier question.

She blinked rapidly – her thoughts coming back to the present.

“An echo, perhaps.” Halbrand continued to ruminate. “Something of him left behind that your mind manifested. But I don’t think it was really him.”

“How do you know?” She whispered.

A silence fell as she waited for his answer. His brow creased, his hands wringing together.

“Because I wasn’t scared enough.”

She turned to him then, shock and pity quaking in her gaze.

But he had no patience for self-reflection, not when he was still fixed on looking after her. He huffed, only half amused, but waved away her concern all the same. “Actually, that’s not true.” He cocked an eyebrow as he rose from his seat, taking a step towards the bed.

Galadriel tensed a little. Her chest ceasing to rise and fall as he gently lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, angling his knee so he could twist round to look at her properly.

She fixed her gaze on the loose thread in the sheets, worrying it between her fingers.

When she would not look up at him, he gently curled his fingers around her chin, softly guiding her face towards his.

She resisted slightly, and then relented.

When her eyes finally locked on his, he made his confession. “I was terrified. Not with the fearful dread that turned my stomach whenever he was near… this was more… panic… as though my heart might never stop racing.”

His eyes had become a tangled forest of emotion, and she thought perhaps for a moment he had become lost in it. But after a few moments he emerged, an earnestness set within his gaze that shook her to her core.

“I was terrified I would lose you. That he would take you. His darkness.” He dropped his eyes then, unable to face her judgement at his next confession – or perhaps it was his own reflection caught in the obsidian of her pupils that he was incapable of stomaching. “My darkness.”

He let his hand fall. And as it did, so did her chin. Both ashamed of what they had unleashed in their own separate ways.

“I should have stopped it sooner.” He dared to look at her again, eyes glassy with unfallen tears. “I’m sorry.”

All movement in the room seemed to stop, even the sound of their breaths fell flat in the wake of his words.

She was still for a long while. The flickering of her eyelids was the only clue to whatever inner turmoil was churning within her.

No words came for such a long time in fact, that Halbrand had convinced himself that he had prodded too hastily at the wound, that it was too soon for her to forgive him. It did not matter. He knew he had to apologise. The sooner the better. She would forgive him or not in her own time.

He moved to leave.

But she placed a tentative hand on his forearm, a silent plea to stay. Her words came tentatively, whispered, as if she knew they were right but still had trouble accepting them. “You weren’t to blame.”

Halbrand let out a long, resigned sigh through his nose.

“Yes, I was.” He turned his hand over as he sat back down, taking hers in his and brushing his thumb over the back of her hand, her skin still far too pale. “I tried to save you, and in doing so, I tainted you. Infected you with an evil I promised myself I would never let you see. You should never have known its touch.

“I couldn’t let you die. But I’m not sure if what I did was worse. It will always be there now, within you. And I have to live with knowing I put it there…”

He looked away, shame burning in him. To think that the brilliance of her light had been dimmed at all - and by his hand - was almost too much to bear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did this.”

Galadriel took a deep, steadying breath, summoning as much patience as she could, quelling her anger. She was unhappy he had put her through this ordeal, of course, but her frustration stemmed more from the over indulgence of his self-pity. His guilt was no use to either of them.

“Never be sorry for saving a life. If this is the cost, I shall bear it. And I don’t need protecting. I have followed the darkness for centuries until the day it led me to you, and in that time, I have adopted many dark habits. Not least of all how to be both ruthless and stubborn in the face of my enemy. So, do not worry yourself with the pretence that I was purity incarnate before this. If I can beat it once, I will continue to beat it… I have to.”

He winced slightly, then set his jaw and nodded, having nothing to say in response.

As he thought about leaving again, Galadriel's eyelids dropped and she began to sway.

He caught her by the shoulders and eased her back down to her pillow, one hand supporting the back of her head. Her eyes fluttered open again as he drew it away.

“Take it easy, you’re still weak.” He murmured.

She nodded, but her brow knitted together, a question on her lips. “Halbrand?”

“Mmm?”

“The pain… when I was fighting his corruption. When I awoke the first time. Do you-”

“Every moment.”

Distress cast itself across her features.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” he said, his thumb gliding softly along her cheekbone. “It’s been lessening though… lately. Being with you.”

It was meant to sooth her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect – a cloud of sorrow settling upon her face, her voice turning breathy as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “I failed…”

He frowned, unsure what she meant. “Failed in what?”

“My task… I found it - the light you needed. But the orcs, the wolf…” She was fighting hard against the pull of exhaustion – her voice but a whisper as she tried to stay awake. “I couldn’t bring it to you. I’m sorry.”

He cradled her face in both hands, his thumbs skimming her temples as he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter… Go to sleep.”

And in an instant, she was.

Halbrand stayed there for a moment, watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest, before leaning forward and placing a kiss on her cheek. As his lips drew away, he whispered in her ear, “You’re all the light I need.”

“Halbrand.” She smiled.

“Good morning.” He closed the door behind him as he entered with her breakfast tray, setting it down on the table next to her bed and seating himself on the mattress. He tested the temperature of her forehead with the back of his fingers. “How are you feeling today?”

A few more days had gone by and Galadriel was making steady if not slow progress. Her fever had broken but she was still too weak to be anything other than bed-bound. Halbrand had taken to leaving her at night now, harbouring no more fears that she needed constant supervision, and leaving her for spells in the day too, when she had asked for it, but he liked to keep himself close in case she needed anything.

“Disgusting.” She groaned, wriggling a little in frustration. “I need a bath.”

He cocked an eyebrow, straining hard not to allow the grin that threatened to stretch from ear to ear get the better of him. She had not yet been able to get herself out of bed, so he wondered how a foray into bathing might be achieved and he allowed his imagination to wander somewhat. “Do you think you’re up to that?”

She slapped the bed with both palms in frustration. “I don’t know, but I cannot lie in my own filth any longer, I feel revolting.”

A quiet smirk appeared on his lips and the mischievous glint came back to his eyes. “Now you understand how I felt.”

A flicker of confusion came over her face for a moment before her eyes widened at the memory.

That warm early spring day.

Halbrand insisting on bathing in the brook at the end of her garden.

The blush of her cheeks when he had asked her to help wash his back.

The way he had turned around and stepped closer.

The swell of her breasts against his cold, wet torso after their lips had met.

Halbrand’s grin widened as he looked down at her, knowing exactly what she was thinking about.

She squirmed awkwardly, drawing the top edge of her duvet tightly up to her neck as though this would somehow shield her virtue.

Humming amusedly through his nose, he reached for the cup of tea he had brought her and pulled it to his lips, asking his question before taking a sip. “And just how do you propose we go about getting you bathed? Seeing as you can barely sit up for more than a few minutes. Let alone stand and get yourself in and out of a bath. Or into a change of clothes for that matter.” His eyes roamed around the room in feigned innocence as if his question concealed nothing at all behind it.

“That’s mine.” She said, flatly, holding her hand out toward the cup while struggling to push herself up with the other.

He was reluctant to remove the cup from in front of his face, knowing full well his lips were twisting behind it with far too much mirth, knowing she would definitely need his help in her endeavour to get clean.

She flexed her fingers, tapping her palm twice in quick succession - an imperious demand for her tea. Her pout nearly broke his composure; he had to swallow laughter hard. He knew she would give up on the idea entirely if she felt humiliated and he very much wanted to see how this would unfold.

He gave it over, and with a sigh she took it from him. “I don’t know.”

“Well I have an idea but I’m not sure you’ll like it.” He tilted his head as he considered the picture in his mind, the incorrigible smirk on his face all too self-satisfying. “Or maybe you will…”

In the blink of an eye, she plucked a sugar cube from the dish on the tray and dashed it at him. She might be weak, but she would summon enough strength to quash his audacity, even if it took it out of her.

Halbrand merely turned his head and let the sugar cube hit him on the cheek, before turning back to her and cocking his eyebrow condescendingly.

She slumped back, limp against the headboard, almost spilling the tea in her other hand. “Your help is the last thing I want.”

“Do you have a choice? If you want to get clean, you’re going to need it.” His smile had redoubled. “I’m not sure what the fuss is – it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

Hot crimson bloomed across Galadriel’s skin as she tried to discern which time he meant. She supposed she hadn’t been completely naked in this bed, and it was not technically her either. So perhaps he meant that time in the pool…

She remembered how defiantly she showed herself to him. How tauntingly close she had brought her body to his before denying him. How satisfied she was at the way his eyes drank in the sight of her. How she knew they never left her body as she walked away.

Her gaze lowered to the contents of her cup, her voice turned sheepish now. “That was different.”

“Was it?” Halbrand waited for the inevitable pause and responded with a theatrical sigh, raising his hands and shrugging at the self-prescribed impasse Galadriel had now found herself. “Suit yourself.”

He rose to leave and had made it almost out of the door before a somewhat resigned and incensed plea pulled him back in.

“Wait – what do you have in mind?”

He turned quickly on his heels as if he knew it was coming. “You’ll see.” He teased, his eyes creasing wickedly as he drew his shirt up and over his head, casting it over the back of her dressing chair.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” The protest from her was utterly predictable and he only sniffed at it.

“I’d prefer it if not all my clothes got soaked. Don’t worry, the trousers are staying on.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, or real suspicion - she could not be sure which - but the one thing she could be sure of was the way her gaze now searched across his bare torso and the way it followed the line of his chest hair as it trailed down his stomach and below his naval, disappearing tantalisingly below the indecently low waistband of his trousers bottoms.

“Spare night gown?”

“Hmm? Oh…” She crossed her arms over herself, still insisting on being belligerent, or was she? Only slightly begrudgingly, she admitted to its location. “In the wardrobe.”

He found it quickly. “Towel?”

“On the rail by the door.”

He flung both over his shoulder while he kicked off his boots, then crossed the room to collect her from the bed.

She still had a great deal of distrust in her eyes, screwing her lips to one side of her face while she pushed the duvet off herself. Not a moment later, he slid his arms under her knees and back and lifted her up off the bed, and with a sharp intake of breath that she tried to smother, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried not to think too hard on how she was pressed against his bare skin.

“I take it we’re not going to my bathtub?”

“No.”

“Then where are we going?”

He chuckled a little. “The other place I saw you naked.”

She poked a finger into his chest and gave him as stern a look as she could muster. “Behave, or put me back on the bed this instant!”

He grinned, but conceded with the soft closing and opening of his eyelids. “From here on out – you have my word.” And with that, he swept around and headed to the door, still smirking a little.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He simply hummed in response, and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps… But maybe you will too,” he suggested, as he descended the stairs.

As he left the main entrance of the tower and stepped out into the sun, Galadriel quickly turned her face away and hid it in his neck, not expecting the light to hurt her eyes as it did. Perhaps it was not unexpected given her weakened state, and the fact that she had not left her room in several days. Nevertheless, for once, the sun was surprisingly unwanted as it beat down upon them, and although Galadriel’s breath on Halbrand’s neck was a welcome sensation, he waved his fingers upwards towards the sky before curling them around her back once more. In an instant, a plume of clouds gathered overhead and shielded her from its unrelenting rays. Continuing on, he carried her across the lawn and towards the pool.

She shivered in his arms at the thought of it. “Will it not be cold?”

He smiled knowingly. “Not today.”

As he reached the edge, his pace slowed, dropping her spare clothes and towel on the bank. Then, with her still in his arms and fully clothed he waded in, taking the carved steps easily as he sank them both down.

She objected a little. “My night dress…” But it was only ever half-hearted, given the choice was either soak her gown or allow Halbrand to carry her in naked.

“Don’t worry about it.” He soothed, unhooking her legs and turning her round so that her back was flush against his chest as he sat himself down on the stone shelf, gathering her between his legs.

Halbrand was right, the water was pleasantly warm and she could already feel the relief of it rippling across her skin and seeping into her bones. She allowed herself to sink against him, tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder as she let out a long, contented sigh.

“Decent idea?” He murmured against her hairline.

She took another deep inhale, conceding on the outbreath. “Very acceptable.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he looked at her, holding back the urge to place a kiss on her forehead. Instead, he reached behind to grab a large half clam shell and bar of lavender soap. Galadriel was not sure where these had appeared from, but she decided she could not care less, happily closing her eyes as Halbrand used the shell to gently pour warm water over her hair. He used his other hand to cup the water from spilling down her face. His movements were slow and doting – worshipful – as he lathered the soap between his hands and began to massage it into her hair.

She let out a soft sigh at the way his fingers circled her scalp, and let her head lean languidly into his soothing touch. Ever since being poisoned she had had a headache, splitting at first, but over the last few days it had settled into a constant dull throb. For the very first time, it had begun to melt away under the gentle knead of Halbrand’s firm but careful hands. Her mind felt weightless, and without even realising it, she released a soft moan from her throat.

She stiffened. Eyes snapping open.

But Halbrand merely chuckled to himself while he continued to wash through the rest of her hair. “I told you, you would enjoy it.”

She did. And she was too tired to pretend to fight him on it – already she could feel the pull of exhaustion tugging at her once again and her eyelids were becoming heavy. That is until-

“What about the rest of you?”

They shot open once more. What about the rest of me?

She honestly had not thought about it. Or rather had intentionally put it out of her mind, hoping perhaps he could magically snap his fingers and she would be clean. Surely that was an option – wasn’t it? Even if it was, she did not really believe he would do it – helping to bathe her the ‘hands-on’ way was much more fun, no doubt.

For a long while, she hesitated, wavering. A strange contentious mix of tension and heaviness had spread throughout her limbs – the effort needed to wash herself was still beyond her for the moment, but the thought of Halbrand doing it… and then there was the obvious need to actually take off her dress as she could not very well get clean with it on.

In the time it took for all these thoughts to reel around her head, she found she had pulled away from him, sitting upright now – the water doing a lot of the work to keep her there as it rippled around her ribs.

As if he could feel her misgivings, Halbrand gently placed his hands on her shoulders, bringing her thoughts back to the moment.

Then came his voice, soft as velvet, soothing, coaxing.

I may act like a scoundrel… and I know I’m a monster. But you’re unwell. And there are lines even I will not cross. I promise, it’s just a bath. Let me look after you.

Her eyes widened as she realised the words were not said out loud, that they had floated into her mind like the echoes of a distance memory coming keen again with the smell of some familiar scent.

This was new. Like in her dream… how could she hear him? Was it… his blood? That part of him that lingered in her, tethering them, connecting them.

Halbrand leant in to her, his body so much larger as he enveloped her in his arms.

She felt him touch her mind again, reassuring, comforting.

Will you let me look after you?

Closing her eyes, she felt herself melt into his embrace, all questions drifting away like clouds on a breeze as her forehead swayed to rest upon his cheek a moment, before nodding softly against it.

Then… the dress will need to come off…

There was a pause, just for a second, before she nodded again. Then, sitting up straight, she slowly began to slide the thin straps of her night gown off her shoulders. Once her arms were released, there was nothing else for it but to reveal the rest of her.

As she reached for the upper hem she found her chest had begun to rise and fall more heavily, and all of a sudden, the bath felt a little too warm.

She tilted her head a little, trying her best not to give away how she wanted to gauge his reaction to her unveiling.

His breath was sending goosepimples along her neck as she gradually peeled her gown downwards. Upon releasing her breasts, she could have sworn a longer, warmer sigh graced the base of her hairline, before returning to a more even rhythm as she continued to undress.

When she got down to her hips, there was a pause. She knew she needed to lift herself up to remove the dress from where it was pinned underneath her, but she was not sure she had the strength in her legs, and her right thigh was still injured.

“Need help?” An audible whisper from him this time, in her ear.

“Yes… please.”

She felt his hands then, gliding across her waist far too easily under the water – like soft trails of silk being drawn across her stomach. Her body arched in response, a tremor racing up her spine, her breath catching in her throat.

His fingers settled underneath her ribs, gripping a little for leverage. Helping to lift her, she slid her dress from underneath and let it fall naturally down her legs, kicking it off as it reached her ankles.

There was no need to remove her underwear – there was none to remove, not since… she would not think about it, not now, not while he was guiding her back down to sit between his legs again.

All of a sudden, she was all too aware of the feel of his trousers as she slotted back into his crotch, how now they were the only thing between them, how the slight tickle of his chest hairs felt against her bare back.

His hands were still at her waist and now his thumbs had begun drawing slow circles over her ribs. “I promised to behave. Relax.” This last word he whispered into her hair like a prayer, and whether it was the sound of his voice or the way his fingers glided over her stomach, she found herself doing exactly that.

With infinite care, he lifted her hand out of the water, cradling it in his own, and with his other, he glided a soapy, velvety sponge over her skin and up her arm. Where the sponge had come from was yet another mystery she was equally as disinterested in solving as with the shell and the soap. The only thing her mind was focussed on was how good it felt to be pampered – to feel the gentle caress of the sponge across her body and knowing that it was his hand that guided it.

He repeated this motion with her other arm, just as gently, this time working from shoulder down to her fingertips and finishing by lacing his fingers between her own, which lingered there for a while, moving back and forth amongst hers before they retreated to tickle her palm.

Galadriel giggled at that – more from how silly and disarmingly affectionate it was than from it actually tickling. Halbrand let out a breathy smile in response.

“I’m going to need to stand you up.” He murmured against her neck, “to get the rest of you.”

“I don’t know if I have the strength.” There was a hesitancy in her voice.

“The water will help, and I’ll have you.” He grazed the tip of his nose along her neck. Just barely. For the slightest of moments. But it was enough to make her stomach curl and set her pulse alight between her thighs. “Turn around.” He whispered, his breath in her ear only compounding the scintillating sensations that were rushing through her body.

With his hands on her waist again, he helped her to twist herself around and taking her hands, he hooked her arms about his neck. “Hold on to me.”

She winced a little. Her shoulder still stiff, although in a better state than her thigh – the wound almost closed.

Their faces were impossibly close, lips just an inch away as her body floated just above him, arms clinging to his neck a little too tightly, eyes wide with curious uncertainty that softened when meeting his calm, knowing ones – ones that reassured her beyond all doubt that in this moment she was safe – that he had her.

“Plant your feet.” He urged, voice barely audible.

Her eyes searched his and she took in a long, jagged breath, knowing what was to come next - anticipation, desire, fear - all dancing on her chest at once.

She drifted her feet down, legs shaky as they touched the bottom and tried to gain some purchase under her own waning strength.

As she did so, Halbrand wrapped an arm around her waist, another hand at her upper thigh, and stood up, taking her weight and pulling her into him.

He held her firm against him, his large hands splayed over her skin and she was all too aware of how her nipples tingled as they pressed up against his torso – how the gentle massaging sensation of her now heaving chest upon his was enough to send tantalising pangs of desire through her body, pooling low at her core.

If he felt the same, there was no outward sign. She was pressed flush against him, not a sliver of daylight between them to allow for any misjudgement of how his body would react to hers.

His breathing was measured in calm contrast to hers.

She pressed an ear to his chest. His pulse steady, slow.

And further down, nothing stirred.

Her brow crinkled a little.

“Don’t… mistake me.” He breathed. “I said I’d behave. I will.”

Her mouth opened and closed again, not knowing how to respond, and before she could think of anything witty, cutting, or even remotely satisfactory, he was drawing large, pacifying, circles with the sponge over her back.

Her legs were trembling, the effort of standing already taking its toll and the ache from the wound at her thigh still keening somewhat, so she leant a little harder against him. One of his arms, still wrapped around her, responded by holding her all the more tightly.

She closed her eyes as he used the sponge to map the contours of her body, gliding over all the inclines and valleys of her back and upper legs. She had long forgotten being shy about any of it, giving in only to how relaxing it felt as she rested her head on his chest.

When it came to doing her front, he steadied her with firm hands on her hips as she tottered around, anchoring her against him once more with one strong arm wrapped across her waist.

His lips descended on her shoulder, not in a kiss, just simply resting there a moment, before his head tilted and his cheek came to rest in the crook of her neck as he began to swipe the sponge over her hips.

She covered his hand with hers, stopping him. “I can do my front.” A quiet smile on her lips.

He huffed a little laugh, his lips grazing where her neck met her shoulder. “If you must.”

Letting her take the sponge, he dropped his hand, coming to rest against the smooth curve of her hips.

Her amazement at his self-control notwithstanding, she could not help but be pleasantly amused when it almost broke as she glided the sponge up and over the swell of her breasts. The slight twitch against her backside betraying his best intentions.

Those intentions were tested thoroughly when she delved the sponge between her thighs, sliding it back and forth perhaps slightly more than was necessary to simply wash herself. The smug grin that stretched across her cheeks attested to the way she felt him harden against her, to the way he buried his face in her neck to try and shield himself from the sight of it, sighing a little against her skin.

She felt the tremor in his arms. His hands, which could so easily have roamed, stayed clamped at her waist. Every instinct screamed at him to give in, to claim what she was offering so recklessly. Instead, he shut his eyes, clung to the promise he had made her, and forced the hunger down.

For all his calm words, she knew he was fighting himself. That knowledge, more than his touch, made her heart stutter - that he would deny himself for her sake.

She was not even really sure why she was teasing him, only that it was fun to do so. Perhaps she was testing just how good of a dog he could be.

Deciding he had had enough of this game, he reclaimed the sponge from her, and scooping her up into his arms again (eliciting a slight yelp from her lips), he deposited her carefully down to sit on the bank – her feet still dangling in the water as he stood between her legs, his arms wrapped around her back in support.

He met her slightly impish smile with deadpan eyes, taking in a sharp, exasperated breath. “And here I thought I would be the one struggling to behave.”

The mischievous glint in her eyes showed no remorse as she twisted her lips. “Sorry.”

His eyes narrowed as he gave an accepting though slightly sardonic nod in response.

Her boldness startled even her. Only days ago she had recoiled from his touch, ashamed of what it awakened in her. Now she was teasing him, daring him. Why? The answer was simple, undeniable. And it made all the difference.

It was not until he drew away again, with the same impossible care as before, lifting her ankle and began stroking the sponge along her calf, that she recognised what it was.

She trusted him.

The realisation came unbidden, silencing every protest her mind might have raised. For the first time since she had learned who he truly was, she did not feel ashamed for wanting him. His touch, his restraint, the way he held her – pushing all other thought away.

But there was something else too. Something that allowed her for the first time, to see into him. And the only thing she saw was devotion.

Her heart stirred with something she dared not name.

But there it was. As undeniable as the warmth of his hands, as steady as the rise and fall of his chest.

She trusted him.

Her eyes never left his face then as he concentrated on his task with the utmost reverence. Caught in the tangle of his beauty and the weight of her realisation, she simply stared at him until he had finished washing her – one leg after the other.

When he was done, he gave her a quizzical look. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, a strained smile on her lips. “Nothing.”

Holding out a hand to him, he grabbed it as she slid herself away from the bank and back into the water. He quickly curled himself around her in support, gathering her back in to sit between his legs again.

“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

She leant back, bringing her forehead to rest against his neck. “I’m sure… just… hold me.”

He did as she asked, wrapping his arms around her tighter as she closed her eyes, his nose glancing over hairline.

Without quite realising, and unsure as to how she did it, she opened her mind to him. A thought slipping out as her walls crumbled.

You’re not a monster.

Halbrand’s eyes snapped open. His body went still.

Pulling away just enough to look down at her, he saw she was unmoved as she leant against his chest, looking blissfully unaware that she had let anything slip from her mind.

He brought his hand up to the side of her head, threading his fingers through her hair, he massaged her scalp a little.

She leant into it, tilting her head away from the hollow of his neck. Enough so he could place a delicate kiss against her temple, slow, lingering.

Eyes still closed, she smiled faintly, sweetly at his touch, before leaning her head back in to nestle beneath his chin.

For a long time, they simply stayed there, content in each other’s embrace.

After managing the logistics of drying and redressing Galadriel - which was not without a sense of comic whimsy with Halbrand threatening to hoist her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes at one point and was predictably greeted with petulant scorn from the sack in question - Halbrand had her safely in his arms again as he made his way back to the tower.

She was exhausted. Soothing as the bath was, and despite feeling exceptionally more comfortable at being clean, the energy it had sapped from her was now telling in the way she slumped heavily against him, her head firmly bedded in his neck and already half asleep as they ascended the stairs.

As he approached her bedroom door, his pace did not slow, and instead of stopping, he walked straight passed it and carried on upward.

Groggily, she queried this. “I need my bed.”

“I can put you back in dirty sheets if you like, but that would defeat the point of the bath. I haven’t been sleeping so my bed linen is clean.”

“Yours?”

His lips curled at the corner. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you back in your own bed before nightfall.”

As she drifted off on his shoulder, Galadriel was not sure if she was a little disappointed at that thought.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Halbrand found Galadriel on her balcony. She had managed to make it out of bed, and even dress herself in her white lace and chiffon dress – the one Halbrand gifted back to her after removing the blood stains. But this seemed to be the extent of her capabilities for the moment, as now she lay crumpled on the floor, slumped against the white marble balustrade and peering out between the gaps in the pillars.

“Not a bad effort.” He quipped, striding over to her side.

“Not the best.” She admitted, as he came to sit by her, his back against the railing. “I couldn’t bear staring at the ceiling any longer.”

Halbrand understood, nodding, a smile curling on his lips. “Well you’re certainly dressed for a day of walking all of ten feet and collapsing, then inevitably having to go back to bed.”

“I’m not going back to bed.” She protested obstinately. “And I didn’t want to feel like a sick person anymore. I wanted to wear something that made me feel pretty.”

Halbrand huffed a little as he reached for a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. “You could have blood streaming from your nose and pus dripping from your eyes, and you would still be beautiful.”

She raised him an eyebrow, her tone deadpan. “Disgusting.”

“Just my type of disgusting.”

She could not help it when her flat expression turned warm as she replied, “I bet.”

The two of them shared a bashful glance for a moment, neither one of them able to hold it for long, but the smile each of them had remained firmly on their lips.

“Come on.” Halbrand reached out his hand as he got to his feet. “If you’re not going back to bed, let’s at least find you somewhere more comfortable than the stone floor. Can you stand, or do I need to carry you?”

“I can stand, with a little help.” Galadriel grasped his hand and with his other, he curled his arm around her waist for support and brought her to her feet.

She swayed a little, her head spinning from suddenly being brought upright, and he clasped her tightly to his body to steady her – firm and unyielding.

“I have you.” His breath ghosted over her forehead, drawing her face upward to meet his – warm eyes looking down at her, protecting her, like the soft shade of a forest canopy shields the most delicate flowers from the heat of the sun. But she was no such a thing. She was a warrior, unafraid of the sun and its intensity, for she was light itself. She had no need of protection nor did she care for coddling.

By the Valar, did she hate feeling weak. Hated even more looking so in front of others.

But when he looked at her like that… silently pleading with her to let him take care of her, promising that if she did, he would keep her safe. A look that made her heart surge and her breath catch and could not be mistaken for anything less than utter devotion - how could she refuse?

And he had proven it - how devoted he was.

In letting her leave. In saving her from the orcs and the wolf. In doing all he could to keep her alive and helping her face the darkness. In tending to her afterwards in every way she needed. His care. His restraint.

In this moment as she stood gazing in to his eyes, she wondered how the man in front of her had ever housed so much evil in his soul, that the demon she had hunted for an age had such capacity for softness. That he could be so changed. And yet, perhaps he had, his eyes holding hers now with as much reverence as her heart could bear.

And so, perhaps, she would put down her sword, and allow the shade of his protection to cool and soothe her for a while, because when she was in his arms or getting hopelessly lost in his gaze, she did feel safe – a notion she never expected herself to admit.

She took a slow, languished breath and let herself melt into him, leaning her head against his chest. “Help me down the stairs?”

He brought his cheek to rest against her forehead as he stroked his fingers through her hair. “You think you can manage it?”

“Mmm hmm. I want to visit my garden. If I stay within these walls any longer I’m going to lose my mind.”

Taking her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips and placed a chaste kiss upon her knuckles. “Alright.”

Despite it being her idea to visit the garden, she was reluctant to pull away from him, but did so all the same. She really did want to leave her room, and he, after all, would be with her every step of the way. His grip steadied her about her waist, the other hand holding hers, as he guided her a step ahead of him, out the room and down the stairs. Slowly, carefully. Not least because he kept almost accidentally stepping on the back of her dress as it clung to the steps behind her.

“This wasn’t the most practical choice for today’s escapades.” Halbrand sighed, as he almost trod on her skirts for what must have been the tenth time on their descent of spiral staircase.

A smile crept into the side of Galadriel’s mouth, rather amused at the Maia’s clumsiness in this very simple task – the raiment of his large frame and feet made for such a fierce foe on the battlefield, was now an encumbrance. “I’d hardly call this an escapade. And you did choose the form of a man, you’d perhaps do better in the skin of an elf, but we reap what we sow I suppose. Besides…” She pursed her lips, “you like this dress.”

“You’re right.” At this he stopped, allowing Galadriel to go no further, holding his hand across her stomach as he pressed himself against her back. The other hand was at her waist now, slowly drifting down the line of her hip as he bent his head down to whisper in her ear. “And I wouldn’t want it tearing on my account.”

Without warning, the hand on her stomach pressed her harder against him whilst the other scooped her up from underneath her thighs.

“Halbrand!” She kicked out with her legs and wriggled her spine against his chest in protest, but she had not the strength to fight him with any real fervour. Her lips quickly set into an incredulous pout as she felt the laughter in his chest ripple through her back and then erupt from his throat as he ran down the rest of the stairs.

At the bottom he set her down lightly, aftershocks of laughter still convulsing through his body and issuing forth in hiccups and sighs.

Forgetting herself, Galadriel reeled around, nose scrunched, eyes all fury and scorn. But the second she made it round to face him her head began to spin. Her eyes rolled. She swayed, then stumbled backwards.

Halbrand caught her and gathered her into him, her head seeking support in the small of his neck as he breathed heavily into her hair. “You have to admit, that was a much quicker way of getting down the stairs.”

“That was undignified.” Her words, petulant in tone, were smothered by his chest.

“Perhaps.” He admitted, his voice still thick with mischief. “But now, I’m not going to be stepping on your dress, which I wouldn’t want, because I do like it, for a lot of reasons.” The playfulness in his voice was replaced by something slightly darker, more mellifluous. “And yes, an elf fána might be more graceful, more… dignified.” He paused for a second as he bent his head, brushing his lips over the tip of her ear, whispering. “But I know you like this one.”

Galadriel pulled back, still held within his arms but enough to see his face, which housed that infuriatingly serene smugness that made her stomach curl with both anger and desire.

Her mind tried to grapple for a quick retort, but there was none.

Ultimately, he was right, and by now it was no secret. She had not been guarding her feelings very well recently, and if she was being honest, had not even been trying, and yet she was still annoyed by how he had so unceremoniously picked her up and galloped down the stairs with her. So, she sucked in her cheeks, and flicked her hair off her shoulder, then looking him in the eye and with a facetious smile, remarked, “You’re not as handsome as you think you are.”

His eyes narrowed, amused. He spun her back around, replacing his hands about her waist and gliding them slowly up and across her ribs. His fingertips stopped tantalisingly short of her breasts - not breaking any of his own rules, but toeing a maddeningly thin line. Warmth skimmed her neckline as he leant in again. “We’ll see.”

A pleasing shiver ran the length of her body in response to his words – a devilish promise that at some point she would inevitably succumb to all his charms. That once she was better, and there were no more lines in the sand, he meant to show her just how quickly she would fall.

But while Halbrand smirked triumphantly to himself as he led them out of the tower and across the lawn, he failed to notice how keen Galadriel’s eyes had become, and the cogs that were turning behind them – her own schemes of sensual torment forming nicely in retribution as they approached the garden wall. She knew he would not touch her while she was still unwell, and how he would come to rue that promise…

Two can play this game.

As they slowly made their way through the garden and towards the sunbed, Galadriel pondered an innocent enough sounding question. “Would you conjure some fabric for me?”

“Fabric?” He snorted. “What for?” A little bemused as he helped her lower herself down onto the bed.

“Well… if I’m mostly going to be sitting while I recover, I better find a way to pass the time.” She lay herself back, languidly, meaning to cover her less than on-the-level request with a light tone and a casual air, but as she reclined a wave of exhaustion overcame her – the journey from her room proving too taxing a feat. Determined, she tried to fight against it, though her voice had become heavy to match her eyelids. “I thought I might make myself a new dress.”

An amused exhale shot from Halbrand’s nose as he crouched down beside her, fully aware that she was on the verge of drifting off to sleep again, so he brought his voice low and gentle. “You have plenty of dresses.”

“There’s no harm in having one more. Please, Halbrand, I need something to do. You can’t expect me to stare blankly at the walls while I slowly regain my strength.” Her eyes were only half open, the side of her face firmly pressed into the cushion now.

“Alright” he sighed. “Chiffon, I take it?”

She nodded. “What else?”

He hummed in agreement. “I’ll let you rest.” But as he got up to leave she shot out a hand and grabbed his.

“Stay with me?” She looked up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “For a while?”

The features on Halbrand’s face were already warm, but if it were possible, they softened even more as he squeezed her hand and climbed over her to nestle in behind on the sunbed. His arm collecting her into him, aligning his body to hers.

“What colours do you want?” He breathed the words into her hair as his nose traced where her hairline curved behind her ear.

This alone made her skin sing and her breathing shallow. And yet, paradoxically, wrapped in his arms, she also stilled – her heart utterly at rest, and every part of her relaxed into him, untroubled by any worldly perils that could threaten them in this moment. Because while she was in his arms, nothing could touch her.

She was safe here.

How on earth a set of circumstances had unfolded for that to be the case, she could not rightly fathom. If she could go back and speak to herself only a year ago and tell that version of her that she had not only stopped trying to hunt down and kill Sauron, but that she had actively tried to save his soul and had now found herself desiring the safety and warmth of his embrace. Her younger self would think she had gone insane.

But whatever series of events brought her to this moment, they had made sense at the time, and still do make sense. So she trusted to her feelings.

After a slow contented breath, she replied, breathily, “Why don’t you choose?”

“Me? Are you sure about that?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Halbrand thought hard for a minute, of all the colours Galadriel usually wore, favouring greens, whites, pinks. But not wanting to simply mimic what she already had, his eyes searched the garden for inspiration. They scanned a good length of it before coming to rest on a particular grouping of flowers, the colours of which he thought would look especially beautiful paired with her flowing golden locks. “What about lilacs and bluebells?”

She tilted her face toward the sky in contemplation. “Do you think that would be pretty?”

“I think that would be beautiful.” He murmured against her neck as his nose returned to drawing light patterns across the skin.

She smiled knowingly, “Not disgusting?”

“My kind of disgusting.” He replied softly.

She surrendered the moment, shutting out all else as he planted a sweet kiss behind her ear – the most he would allow himself to indulge. For now. Though it proved difficult to hold back from trailing a series of similar kisses down her neck after she responded to this single one with a sumptuous hum that had him clenching his jaw and concaving his stomach below his ribs. Cursing his own standards about taking advantage of her while she was not able to agree with any agency. He was relieved when she suggested-

“Read to me.” The sound of his voice and the low rumbling of his chest against her back was a soothing balm she decided she wanted more of.

“Read to you? From what?”

“I keep a book under the cushions somewhere. You might have to rummage a bit to find it.”

Shifting onto his stomach so he could search under the cushions, it did not take him long to find the book in question, and while he was righting himself onto his back, Galadriel had already turned herself over and had now firmly positioned herself against his side, her head resting peacefully on his chest.

Looking down at her from under his chin, he cocked a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you going to be able to stay awake for any of this?”

“Mmm hmm. I’m listening. I promise.” But her voice was already far away as though half in the waking world and half in slumber, while her eyes were now completely closed. It would only be a few more seconds before she was completely lost to sleep.

Halbrand simply smiled at her, grazing his lips lightly back and forth along her forehead, before opening the book. As he did so, a flash of red fell from the pages and onto his chest. Picking it up, he inspected it closely, quickly realising what it was – the dried, pressed, flowerhead of a blood-red carnation.

She kept it.

Three more weeks passed, and Galadriel’s strength had grown steadily day-by-day. Halbrand had assisted her in taking short walks and helping her with repeated exercises up the stairs and lifting ever increasing sizes of coal buckets. In fact, she felt quite capable by the twenty-fifth day of walking about a decent amount – enough to perhaps even manage a day’s excursion out on Rána.

Though this was not something she was about to tell Halbrand.

She had not finished the dress until a few evenings later, and given its intended effect, she had decided to keep her rejuvenated physique and spirit under wraps for the time being. Opting to stretch her legs in private, she ran up and down the stairs - jumping from balustrade to balustrade in the library when Halbrand was taking time to work on his own projects.

It was not that she wanted to lie to Halbrand, but she found that as her strength returned she began to get more and more nervous around him. Not because she knew that, once recovered, he would no longer feel bound to any kind of self-imposed chivalry to suppress his desire for her - it not being the case that he would impose himself unwanted anyhow… What unsettled her was how potent her own desires were becoming, and what it would mean if they both finally acted on them. There was no denying that she could not wait to be better, nor wait for him to see that her choice would be made in full volition – that she would give herself willingly, and not just because she had not the strength to refuse him, but because she wanted it, wanted him.

Yet, this desire was also met with a fair amount of trepidation. He was, after all, who he was. Or who he once had been. She knew that if she were to allow this, there would be no going back – and what would that mean for her? Undeniably, there was already a bond between them, one that had begun to form the day they met on the north road out of Arnad-Dûn. But if they were to cement this bond by laying together, she would be tying herself irrevocably to the dark servant of the Great Foe. Her shame would be laid bare in the irrefutable union of their passion for all to see, should his identity ever come to light.

It was a risk. But were not most worthwhile decisions in life?

All Galadriel knew was that over the last few months, a feeling had taken hold that she knew not how to shake. A connection that was beyond mere affection, or comforting familiarity. It was something stronger than that, passionate, deeply rooted, more calming and terrifying than she ever thought possible, so calamitous and brilliant it might tear her apart if she let it. And it had only grown stronger since he shared some of his blood with her. But more than all of that, and despite how tumultuous and confusing, it was not something she was not willing to give up. If anything, she wanted to see what would happen if she encouraged it, if she let it bloom.

And so, she sat in her room, with the last of the evening sun dwindling on the horizon as she fingered the fabric of her newly made dress, imagining Halbrand’s face when he saw her in it for the first time – her eyes twinkling in delight and her mouth curling with anticipated glee.

Her desire for revenge since the undignified incident on the stairs had simmered down somewhat, and really the idea of tormenting him with this less-than-modest garment was more of a practicality than anything else now. It was a way of telling him she felt the same, that she shared his desires, without having to actually say it in so many words. But now that it was finished, and there being nothing left to do but wear it, she found herself hesitating.

Perhaps she could put it off for a few more days? Pretend to still be weak for a little longer?

Why was she so nervous?

She needed to clear her head.

Draping the dress over the back of her chair she crossed her room and furtively poked her head out of the door. There was neither sight nor sound of Halbrand, so surmising it was safe for a short stroll, she stole away down the stairs – keeping her eyes peeled and her ears keen.

She had not made it far – only to the parlour – when she realised the door was ajar. The candles were lit, but without needing to look inside, she knew the room was empty. Recently, she had been able to sense him whenever he was near – a warm presence, like the flames of a quiet hearth gently flickering away. Another lingering consequence of the nature in which he had saved her perhaps. He was a part of her now after all. One more thing to try and unpick the deeper complexities of, and the revelations that were likely to come with it… in time.

Pushing back the door, she stepped into the parlour. Halbrand had certainly been there, recently, and by the looks of things would likely return soon. His sketchbooks were scattered on the tea table, all closed, save one. This one was on the settle next to where he must have been sitting, a stick of graphite rested on its open page.

She went over to it, curious as to what he had been drawing – he was always so furtive about his sketches, and who knows when she would get another opportunity. He might be back any minute though.

Best be quick.

As she approached the sketch, and the image on the page came into clear view, her smile, so impishly curious before, dropped. Replaced by a quiet rapture.

It was her.

But not as she had ever seen herself.

The likeness was unmistakable - every contour rendered with impossible precision. The fall of her hair, the line of her collarbone, the parted shape of her lips just before speech. He had not drawn her from memory, but as though he had studied her for years. As if her image had taken root behind his eyes and bloomed into something he could see even when closed.

Yet it was more than accuracy. More than beauty, even. There was a heart-wrenching intimacy in it.

In the turn of her gaze, he had captured something unguarded - a flicker of thought she did not know she wore on her face, a softness she had never intended anyone to see. And woven into every line was the force of his devotion, as if each mark were a vow he dared not speak aloud. Reverent, yes - but also aching, restrained only by the discipline of his craft, the dedication to do her justice.

And for all its poise, the image vibrated with tension. As though the act of drawing her had cost him something. As though he had laboured to reach some divine threshold where art became revelation - and only then allowed himself to stop.

She stared down at it, silent, as a strange and fragile feeling rose within her. A stillness, sudden and entire. Not from pride, nor even from the shock of being so thoroughly seen. But from the ache of being held like this - so carefully, so fiercely - in someone else's mind.

In his mind.

She had always known he desired her. But this was something else...

The page was trembling in her hand as she drew it aside, barely daring to breathe.

Looking past it, resting within the covers of the sketchbook and beneath a layer of blank parchment, she could discern the faint outlines of another drawing.

Swallowing, and with shaky fingers, she pushed aside the blank page to reveal the work beneath.

Her. Again.

In the garden this time, curled up on the sunbed, reading. The sunlight somehow captured so perfectly in black and white, as it reflected the brilliance of her hair.

Beneath that, another. In the pool. Intimately close, and from above. The memory of what it was like to look down at her as he held her close.

As she fanned out the rest of the pages, it was clear he had been capturing small moments like these for months. Moments she had long forgotten or never even known were witnessed. Even from before, when all she showed was hate towards him, he had managed to find beauty in her. Grace in her fury. Stillness in her storm. Poetry in her sorrow.

And the way he had drawn her eyes - again and again - always searching, always lit with something more than what she showed to the world.

There was no mockery here. No conquering.

Only commitment, so steady and absolute it might have undone her, had she not already begun to unravel the moment she first saw herself on that first open page.

She replaced the pages slowly, returning them to the settle as though waking from a dream.

Her fingers lingered on the paper, breath shallow, heart thudding from the quiet truth of understanding what this meant.

What it had always meant.

This was worship. This was love. And if she wanted it, a love that she could claim.

She straightened, withdrawing a few paces, aware of the soft tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks. Hastily, deliberately, she wiped them away, making sure to catch every drop – entirely unable to face the horror of Halbrand knowing she was here should he find one of her tears on the floor or the table - or worse - on one of his pages. Though they were heartbreakingly beautiful, and saw to the inner core of her, revealing so intimately his regard for her - they were his. Only his. And she had violated that.

Smoothing down her gown, she gathered her thoughts and slipped out of the room and back up the stairs.

As she regained the safety of her own bed chambers, she closed the door and leant against it, her head tilted upward to the ceiling in an admission of guilt. But despite this, despite feeling as though she had stumbled across something utterly sacred and entirely not for her eyes, there was something else.

A warmth.

One so comforting and rich she felt her chest rise to meet it. Elation spreading across her face as though the summer sun was gracing her skin again after months of rain.

Her heart was singing. And even if she knew how to contain it, she would not even try.

She pressed her palms against the polished wooden surface of the door, as if this might serve as a way to channel some of the energy surging through her now. Giddiness and relief tangling in a heady mix that compelled her to soak in the air in deep indulgent breaths.

Her spirit was aglow.

Tears formed anew. Not drawn forth by the luminous ache of what she had beheld, but instead, for the sheer joy of knowing what it was to be cherished, truly cherished, and for the first time, understanding what that felt like.

After that, it was an easy decision the next morning to don her new dress.

Not more reservations.

No more nerves.

Just a smidgen of impish expectancy.

The dress was an elegant blend of dusky blue chiffon peeking from beneath a sheer lilac overlay. It tapered into delicate straps at the shoulders, then fanned gracefully over her chest, the neckline cut low and wide to reveal her sternum. The inner slopes of her breasts lay exposed - a soft, tantalizing valley that drew the eye inward, following the subtle curves as they disappeared beneath the sheer fabric.

Continuing to show off her form, the dress was cinched at the waist, cascading down from here in a waterfall of dusk and bloom, its silken layers rippling like evening light over water. The skirt was slit high, revealing her legs almost to the upper thigh when she moved.

Her hair, she had pinned aside so her neck and shoulder were on display, letting the rest of her hair flow naturally down her back and about her other shoulder as it pleased.

She kept the look simple, adding no jewellery – nothing that would break up the line of her neck or steal focus from the sparkle of her eyes.

Finally, she was ready.

For the last few days she had still been pretending to need breakfast bringing to her. So, as the pale shafts of the morning sunlight filtered ethereally into her room, she stepped out onto the balcony and waited for Halbrand.

Presently, he came.

Upon entering, he was quietly curious at its empty state, a slight curl setting in the corner of his mouth.

As he set down the breakfast tray on her dresser he gently mused on her absence. If she was not sitting in her chair or still in bed, then she must be feeling a little stronger today, which was a good sign – for all sorts of reasons – the premier of which being her improved wellbeing, of course. Or so he told himself.

“Halbrand?” A quiet voice drifted in from the balcony, something curious in its tone.

Intrigued, and a little suspicious - the latter signifying the nature of their relationship and Galadriel’s penchant for playful reprimands - he wondered if he might have done something wrong, trying to wrack his brain for any missteps he might have taken recently as he skirted the wall that adjoined the arch leading out onto the terrace.

Turning through the threshold, his feet faltered. Stunned into stopping.

Galadriel stood in place on the balcony as though it were a dais, the morning light crowning her hair. She held the railing not for balance but for command, daring him to see her not as an invalid but as what she chose to be today - resplendent, untouchable, and very much in control of his undoing. Proudly displaying her form. There was nothing shameful or lewd about the way she had staged herself, instead it simply spoke of a quiet confidence – the resplendent power of beauty incarnate and the need borne of all living beings to acknowledge and bask in it. As she wanted Halbrand to bask in her.

She tilted her head in mock modesty, smiling inwardly at how quickly his composure cracked.

Nothing about Halbrand’s expression was within his control. His mouth fell open as his eyebrows drew upwards - wonder and hunger warred in his eyes as they widened to take her in. Simultaneously, they pulled towards the way her dress clung to the various curves of her body in certain places, and fell elegantly over others, not neglecting those parts of her where the fabric was enticingly absent. The supple pale silk of her skin complimenting the lavender hues and soft textures of the chiffon so effortlessly.

His chest rose sharply with an audible breath. One that seemed to involuntarily seize hold of him for a moment before letting him go, expelling itself in a long, throaty sigh.

He must have looked positively dumbfounded, as Galadriel let out a coy giggle at the sight of him, punctuating it by catching her bottom lip with her teeth when it was clear he was unable to do much other than gawk at her – his eyes still raking across the line of her neck, over her décolletage and down the valley between her breasts.

It was no surprise really - she had dressed to be worshipped - but not only that. This was her victory, her choice, her way of telling him she was no longer fragile, no longer cloistered.

“If you’re quite finished staring…” She teased, “I have proposition for today.”

He dragged his tongue over his lips to replenish them of some much-needed moisture, blinking deliberately a few times for the same reason. He had to swallow before he could speak. “I take it this means you’re feeling better?”

“Much, actually.” She shot him a wide grin before turning to look out across the land, showing off how the dress dipped equally low down her back so that he could see the way her shoulder blades rippled across it, the way the line of her spine drew his eyes downward, even below where her skin delved beneath the fabric to where the small of her back gave way to the graceful swell of that final, feminine curve.

As she pretended to survey the world about her, Galadriel heard his footsteps approach.

She made a point not to turn around. Opting instead to wait and see how he might play this, and was curiously amused by his continued restraint as he came to stand next to her, placing his hands on the marbled handrail next to hers.

“And… you’ve been feeling better for a while, I take it?” His voice was low, quiet, but warm in its sense of knowing.

She squirmed a little with her admission. “Perhaps.”

Hooking her little finger with his forefinger, he glided his thumb back and forth, coaxing in its gentleness. “Any reason for pretending otherwise?”

“Many.” She murmured as her spirit quietened, smiling faintly at the way he caressed her skin, reflecting on all her reservations and wondering if this moment might be immortalised later in one of his sketches. “But none that are of any consequence now.”

She inhaled sharply, a sudden change in her demeanour as she turned to him, her features lightening and a forthright ring returning to her voice. “I have been cooped up for far too long.” There was a glint in her eye that Halbrand could not quite place. “Let’s take a ride out - to the waterfall. I think the mountain air will do me some good.”

Decisively, she stepped away, swiftly returning under the eaves of the entrance.

Halbrand looked her over once more before calling after her. “Wearing that?”

Galadriel glanced back over her shoulder, mischief in her eye. “Would you prefer I change?”

His nose expelled an amused breath as he looked down, a wry smile curling his mouth as he shook his head, knowing his answer was merely a token at this point. She had no intention of changing. So, he answered under his breath instead, “Not if you’re trying to kill me slowly.”

Galadriel leapt gracefully up onto Rána’s back, the slits in the skirt displaying the elegant lines and angles of her legs, all the way down to the golden plimsolls she had decided to match with the dress, balancing the colour of her hair. She smiled down sweetly at Halbrand, who seemed to be suitably distracted.

'Coming?'

An internal thought, a frivolous test of their new and budding connection more than anything else – but she thought it had perhaps made it through to him, given the way he bristled in response.

He looked up at her from beneath his brow, his jaw tensing, resisting the urge to glide his hand up her calf and along her thigh, ignoring how easy it would be to plant a trail of light kisses from knee to hip-crease - if he could just pull back her dress a little more… but he knew this was a game of some kind, one with a single inevitable outcome if he played it right. And so, for once, he was happy to assume his part, which he surmised, was to see how long he could resist.

If he gave in too early, they both might lose.

He swung himself up into the saddle behind her, and he immediately understood why she wanted to go for a ride. She settled against him, her hair swept aside to bare her throat and the long descent of her chest. Each breath drew the fabric taut, rising and falling in a rhythm that strained its hold, until it seemed the dress might surrender her to his gaze entirely - what lay beneath, so tantalisingly close to being freed.

There was an annoyance in the way Halbrand sucked his bottom lip and set his eyes firmly on the road in response, and Galadriel could not help but smirk fiendishly to herself at the way he straightened up behind her once he had clocked on to her scheme.

She made them take the path up the mountain at a leisurely pace, drawing out their time in this position, their bodies sliding gently back and forth against each other with every shift in Rána’s spine. Affecting ignorance at the whole situation, Galadriel kept the conversation light and flowing, admitting secretly to herself that Halbrand was doing well - only the occasional awkward jolt from Rána causing his composure to slip and his eyes to drift downwards again.

His hands he kept tight around the reins.

Upon arriving at the waterfall, they dismounted, soaking up the view and taking a stroll around the cliffs. If Galadriel strayed from him, Halbrand’s eyes would follow, and she strayed as much as she could, testing how she might reel him back in.

To the left of the fall was a smaller cascade that had spilt away from the main column. It was no more than a trickle really, clinging to the rocks as it tumbled its way down in a diagonal fashion and meeting its end in a shallower part of the plunge pool.

It was here Galadriel saw her opportunity.

Without even bothering to pick up her skirts, she began to wade into the water – the early autumn breeze would be something she would worry about later.

Halbrand looked at her quizzically as she traced the edge of the pool, ensuring she did not need to go in any deeper than her knees to reach the delicately falling ribbon of water. After all, while she was enjoying playing this game, she had only just made her new dress, best not to ruin it on the first day.

Once she reached the little fall, she cupped her hands and stretched out her arms, collecting a bowl of crystal-clear water. Pressing her lips to the heel of her palms she took a long, refreshing draught and relished in the way the cold seeped down her throat - cleansing, stimulating.

She made sure not to drink it all, and looking up from beneath her lashes, she then held out her hands to Halbrand as an offering.

Cocking his head, he gave her a sideways glance before slowly wading in after her, his eyes never leaving hers as he closed the distance.

Upon reaching her, he stopped. His knowing gaze pierced her heart with an intensity that caused her to square her shoulders. Steeling her resolve, she paid him back with a sizzling stare of her own.

His hand cradled one of her wrists, thumb glancing up her arm before he grasped a little firmer, bringing her hands up to meet him as he bent his head.

He drank. And his gaze darkened, drawn to her. Something hungry flickered in him.

Her fingers relaxed under his chin, his lips brushing her palms once he had drained the liquid, and now he was planting delicate kisses along the creases.

Her pulse stumbled as he took her wrist and trailed his lips along the inside - soft at first, then lingering with a ragged sigh. Returning to her palm, his mouth pressed harder, claiming.

His lips hovered as he glanced at her, placing another delicate peck against her skin. The look in his eyes was loaded with challenge.

‘I can stop here. Or I can continue…’

His words drifted softly into her mind.

The game was to resist, but did she really want him too? It was as much fun for him to see how far her composure would bend, now that the boot was on the other foot.

Swept up in his touch, her eyes fluttered as she struggled for control - and for a heartbeat, she was motionless, lost to him.

Coming back to herself an instant later, she donned a sharp smile. Leaning in close, she let her hair brush his cheek, whispering as if confiding a secret: ‘Is that all?’

But her body betrayed her with a shiver as he smiled against her palm. Then, squeezing her hand a little, he released it, stepping away slightly; the smug air of a small victory clinging to his features.

‘I can be a good boy.’

He swaggered as he turned, a smirk plastered across his face as he walked back towards the bank.

Galadriel raked in a shuddering breath, then let it go with equal, cathartic force.

Gathering herself, her smile quickly returned as she stared the back of Halbrand’s head down with a new determination.

This was going to be a fun day.

The rest of their visit to the waterfall went by seemingly uneventfully to anyone on the outside watching. They amiably basked in the spray and took another trip up the steps to the ledge behind the fall. But the keener eye that could spot the subtle glances and the ever more inventive ways they found to brush up against each other, without either of them giving ground in their little game, told a different story.

They spent another couple of hours there before deciding to mount up and head back. Once out of the shelter of the cliff-bowl, it became distinctly chilly given Galadriel’s lack of coverings and the damp fabric of her skirt sending shivers up her legs. Halbrand offered her his cloak, which she refused at first, not wanting to concede any part of their game in covering herself up. But he was insistent, not least because he was not sure how much longer he could hold out if he had to endure the sight of the goosepimples all along her chest. Not to mention the way her nipples had perked up from the cold and were imploring even more ardently than before to be liberated. It took all his willpower not to skim his hand up from her waist, guide it between her breasts and slide his fingers beneath the fabric to do their bidding.

Desire gnawed at his resolve, but still he held firm.

The days had begun to shorten more perceptibly, and by the time they had returned to the tower, the light was skimming the horizon in sideways shafts of apricot and gold.

On the way up to the parlour, Galadriel noted the way Halbrand walked a step behind her, rather than side-by-side, and although she knew it was impossible, she was sure she could feel the heat of his gaze - even through the cloak.

After making it up the stairs, upon entering through the door Halbrand immediately relieved her shoulders of it, earning him a wicked look. He gave her a sideways smile, huffing away her supposed disapproval as he waved his hand toward the fireplace. Flames immediately burst into life, licking and crackling their way about the logs already placed there.

Galadriel watched him as he pushed aside the couches to create more room in front of the fireplace, then taking a couple of woollen throws from one of the baskets near the wall, he lay them out before scattering a layer of cushions down for extra comfort. When he was satisfied, he turned to her and gestured in a mock-gentile fashion at the admittedly all too inviting space. “Warm yourself by the fire, m’lady?”

She pursed her lips, movements sultry as she approached. “Well I supposed I have little choice seeing as you took my cloak from me.”

“It’s my cloak.” He reproached, as he took her hand and guided her to sit.

She hummed in response, singularly unimpressed.

“May I tell you a story?” His voice had dropped to a murmur while his thumb beginning to trace slow circles on the back of her hand.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She drew her hand away and straightened her skirts with practiced nonchalance, schooling her features into something faintly disinterested. “How long it is.”

Though her eyes sparkled with intent, her face was blank, keeping her affection dancing just beyond reach, testing if he would grasp for it. Wondering if he had caught the accidental note of urgency in her voice – that while she had chosen those words to veil her desire, they were also the truth, her impatience getting the better of her.

Halband’s eyes narrowed all too knowingly as a slight curl tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he soothed, reaching for her hand again, “it’s not a lengthy tale.”

A puzzled look crinkled Galadriel’s features as he held her hand up between them, and began to mould and shape her fingers into a strange and crooked shape. Taking her other hand, and bringing them together, he did the same. His eyes were steady, silently instructing her to keep them there before turning his head to the wall opposite the fireplace.

Intrigued, Galadriel turned as well, her gaze landing on the shadow their hands were creating. Slowly, he drew his hands away, leaving only hers behind to reveal the shape of a three-peaked mountain.

With a flick of his fingers, the mountain was slowly joined by the rest of the range, gathering like a dark mist that drifts in across the fields at night and spreading out across the entire width of the wall.

To Galadriel’s surprise, the image was not static. In amongst the mountain-tops she could discern the shadowy fluttering of birds, the slow, deliberate plod of a mountain bear, the scurried prancing of a litter of foxes. And above – the gentle passing of clouds overhead.

He glanced at her sidelong, as she took in a small, wonderous gasp. The image remaining even as her hands began to fall.

When he knew she was suitably enraptured, he began.

“The Men who dwell at the base of the Ered Nimrais tell many stories of those mountains. One such story, I think you might like.”

He shifted, nestling in next to her so he would be able point to various parts of the shadows when needed, bring his temple close to hers to compare their line of sight.

“There is a mountain in the eastern part of the range, Skaduhelm, they call it. Visible for miles, it towers above all the other peaks of the white mountains. And on that mountain lived a man. Once.” A pause. A small breath. “Or something like one.”

At the base of the mountain, a figure appeared. Man-like, and hunched, as though the weight of the world were upon him.

“He had been hunted - not by beasts, but by regret. He had done… terrible things. Some out of cruelty. Some out of desperation. Some-” Halbrand’s voice caught faintly before continuing. “When the weight of it grew too heavy, he climbed the mountain to vanish from the world.”

His voice became hushed and rhythmic now, matching the fire’s glow, shaping the shadow with every weave of the tale.

“In the mountain’s roots, an older shadow stirred. It whispered to him, ‘Give me your name, and you will be free to forget.’”

“And he accepted?” Galadriel asked softly, her tone unreadable.

Halbrand nodded once.

“He yielded his name. Not truly knowing what he was agreeing to… He surrendered all, and with it, the thread of who he had been. He thought he was relinquishing only memory, but the shadow took more than just his mind, it took his shape – it became a tenant, wearing his skin until there was nothing left of him but shadow. And when there was nothing more to feed on, that’s how it left him. Hollow, silent… a creature of mist and frost. The world forgot him, as he’d wished. But at what cost? He became a ghost. A wretched thing.”

The fire cracked. Somewhere beyond the window, the wind stirred through the trees below.

“But then came the girl.” His voice gentled, his features changing, something distant behind his eyes.

“She was a shepherd’s daughter. Light-footed. Curious. She wandered too far from home one day and found herself in the upper mists of the mountain. Everyone who went there was said to vanish - but she did not.”

A pause. The shadows quivered in the firelight. Their dance stalled with the cessation of his words.

Galadriel held her breath as she waited for him to continue.

“She returned. And when the folk in the villages pressed her about how she escaped the thrall of the beast, she simply replied, ‘He is not a beast. He is a man who has been alone too long.’”

Galadriel’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

“They scoffed. Told her she was mad.

“Those close to her were less damning - warned her, instead. Told her to forget. But she didn’t. She went up the mountain again. And again. She brought him stories. Songs. Flowers. Pieces of the world he had given up. And though he never spoke, he listened. And though he did not reach for her, he stayed.

“And slowly… he changed.”

Halbrand smiled faintly, not quite looking at her.

“He began to remember. Small things. The shape of his hands. A name, half-lost in the wind. The way it felt to be seen. Not feared, not hunted - just… known.”

He hesitated then, his eyes lowering.

“It took many seasons. But one morning, when the girl arrived with a ribbon in her hair and a story on her tongue, he stepped out of the mist. He took her hand in his. Solid and real. And though he could not say the words, she saw the man beneath the shadow. And she knew that he loved her.”

A silence followed. Not heavy, but fragile. Like the beauty of frozen dew on the air, still forming in the space between them.

“And then?” she asked quietly.

“Then?” Halbrand echoed, lifting his eyes to hers at last.

“Then the curse had no hold left.” A flicker in his throat. “Because love is the only thing stronger than forgetting. The only thing that can retrieve what is lost, and make you whole.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came. Something had caught behind her ribs, some breath she could not quite release.

He reached for her hands again, moulding her fingers carefully, shaping them against the firelight to where the shadows still danced – and in amongst the mountain dells, now stood two slender figures, entwined in each other’s embrace, slowly swaying together as they flickered upon the pale stone wall.

Galadriel pulled her gaze away from the shadows and back up to his face. “Teach me,” she said.

He hesitated, tilting his head and blinking once, slowly. “No.”

“Why not? We may not have the abilities of Maiar, but we elves have a power of our own – this doesn’t look too difficult.” She lifted her chin, eyes scanning the wall with a strange eagerness.

Halbrand merely sighed in response. “Galadriel, you are of the Calaquendi, a being of light - how do you expect to govern the shadows?”

She turned her face to him, screwing her mouth to one side and recaptured the mischievous glint in her eye from their earlier games. “The shadows only exist because of the light.” As she said this, she moved, quickly twisting herself round to sit in his lap before he could protest.

He threw his arms wide, not knowing where to place them all of a sudden, and a strained sigh escaped him.

She shot him a playful look over her shoulder as she settled in between his legs. “And I have a little of you in me now do I not? It stands to reason that I can learn.”

He winced at this, hated to be reminded of how he had tainted her. The guilt seeping through the tension that had set in his jaw.

Taking no notice, Galadriel collected his hands in hers in a forthright kind of fashion and held them up in front of her, waiting for him to start.

He stilled. For a moment, he forgot to breathe as his eyes were drawn to the way her breasts pinched together between her upper-arms. Yet another ploy in the larger game…

He pushed this aside for the moment. Although he wanted it, wanted her… had enjoyed playing this game and had keenly anticipated the days end as much as she had until now - he wondered if she had thought it through, had really considered all of the ramifications.

If she would feel ashamed when her thoughts had cleared. When lust was replaced by cold revelation. Would she regret it?

Regret him.

With a quiet kind of sorrow, he pulled one of his hands from hers and gently took hold of her jaw, guiding her gaze to meet his over her shoulder. “Galadriel, you don’t want dealings with darkness, believe me. Let the shadows be.”

But her eyes were steady, enormous in the firelight, full of something like defiance, and hope maybe. “And if I were to say I’m not afraid? That I want to?”

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Be careful what you wish for, elf.”

“If I wish for it,” she whispered, “what need is there to be careful?”

In that moment, caught between restraint and surrender, between the shadows that plagued him and the light she held him in, whatever ruin that might follow - they both knew - the game was over.

Chapter Text

There were no more hesitations. No more restraints.

Only the decision to finally let go.

Halbrand clasped his fingers around Galadriel’s jaw. His grip was firm, his breath already trembling between them.

Her lips parted - a silent surrender - and his came down to claim them.

The sound she made - that startled, wanting moan - was all the invitation he needed. His tongue found hers, and the world tilted.

He tasted her like a man starved.

She welcomed it. Craved it.

She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

He shifted, uncurling his leg so they could twist to face one another fully. The movement drew her down onto the cushions - soft beneath her, yielding, and he followed, lips still locked with hers.

His hunger was relentless; every kiss a desperate claim, every breath between them a plea for more.

His hands chased the same insatiable desire.

One was in her hair, while the other mapped her throat, the slope of her collarbone, the rise of her breast, before greedily pushing its way beneath the fabric of her dress and grabbing the soft rise beneath. Palming. Kneading.

Her chest surged at the way he flicked his thumb over her nipple before massaging it more.

He dragged his mouth from hers, letting her gasp, only to claim her neck a heartbeat later, lips and teeth tracing a path that made her tremble; pushing a knee between her thighs to make room for himself.

She opened gladly, welcoming him in - the pressure, the heat, the perfect alignment - rolling his hips until the friction sparked like fire between them.

There was nothing slow, or withheld about any of it. They had been keeping their desires in check not just for today, but many days, weeks even, months.

But now the dam had broken, and everything they had been holding back came flooding in, all at once. Unrestrained. Out of control. But they did not care.

Galadriel’s hips rose to meet him, undulating, feeling the heat rising between her thighs. Her moans increasing with every stroke of their bodies, desperate for release as she chased her own pleasure.

Halbrand was grinning against her neck. “So impatient,” he sighed as he trailed wet, biting kisses across her collarbone.

He had to shuffle himself downward to bring his lips between her breasts.

She whimpered when she could no longer feel him stiff and rocking against her.

She looked down at where he was peeling away the fabric of her dress over her breasts, revealing her proud nipples, begging to be touched. “Are you not also-”

He wrapped his lips around one of her breasts and bit down – a jolt of pain mixed with pleasure shooting through her nerves. Her spine arching, her breast even plumper in his mouth as he began flicking his tongue back and forth over the nipple while his fingers gave her other breast the attention it deserved.

“Ah… Impatient.” She finished her sentence between heavy, strained breaths.

At this Halbrand rose.

Sitting up on his heels, he looked down at her – a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You have no idea...” Without taking his eyes off her, he lifted his shirt up and over his head, and he relished in the way Galadriel’s eyes raked over his torso. A slow curl tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But you’re going to come the way I want you to.”

Galadriel’s breath caught. Eyes widening as she gazed up at him. His words equally thrilling and debased – she had never been spoken to like this. If this was but a taste of darkness, she was willing to bite if it meant he would give her the relief she needed from the coiling in her stomach, the throbbing at her core.

His eyes darkened as he descended again. Mouth latching onto the other breast this time while his hand searched lower, grabbing at her backside, her thigh, all the fleshy parts of her, until he found where her dress had so conveniently left an opening high in her skirts.

His fingers traced the inside of her thighs, finding the soft, warm place in between, sighing against her breast at her premeditated lack of underwear. “Galadriel…” His voice was raspy, disbelieving. Hungry. “Have you been like this the whole time?”

“I may have misplaced my underwear when dressing this morning…”

Another grateful sigh escaped him as he pressed one slow finger between her lusciously wet folds, applying pressure to her nerve cluster in a single teasing circle that already had her whimpering for more.

Her reaction had him practically growling against her sternum, and he began stroking his fingers more rhythmically over where he knew she needed it most.

His other hand came to the neck line of her dress – tugging - drawing it tight against her shoulders, a leash of silk between his hands. “Galadriel…” Her name rumbled off his tongue. “I’m going to rip this off you.”

“Don’t - ah - don’t you dare.” Her voice trembled somewhere between threat and plea.

He looked at her from under his brow, smirking, a gruff need dripping off every word. “You’ve been teasing me with it all day, seems only fair.”

“If you rip a single thread…” She gasped as his finger pressed firmer. “You’ll have no satisfaction tonight.”

He chuckled, placing more feverish kisses across her chest, then another pointed suckle at her breast. “That would be more convincing if you weren’t moaning between each word.”

His hands gripped the fabric tighter.

“Halbrand, it’s brand new!”

“I need to see you.”

“Don’t! I-“

“I’ll fix it tomorrow…”

He slid a finger deep into her heat, patient but inexorable - it stole her breath. Then, with brutal grace, he tore at the front of her dress, the fabric giving way in one sharp sound that echoed like a gasp between them. In the space of that breath, she was bare before him - every inch, every secret revealed.

His eyes widened at the sight of her - her hips bucking from the feel of him within.

His fingers worked a slow rhythm, coaxing her open with each deliberate stroke.
The tip reaching the deepest part of every time it sank to its fullest. Her breathing caught and released in time, matching his rhythm.

She glanced to either side at her torn dress, then back up to him. Defiance in her eyes.

His voice brushed the edge of her mind – ‘Do you want me to stop?’

She only met his gaze, breathless. No words. Only the answer written in the tremor of her hips.

His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smirk, watching her writhe beneath him.

When she scowled at him, he glanced his thumb over her bud, teasing a moan from her.

He cocked an eyebrow, and with a piercing gaze, he slid a second finger inside, working both while he pressed the pad of this thumb more firmly against her collection of nerves. He coaxed her pleasure higher, writing devotion in small, unhurried circles that caused her chest to heave and a succession of high-pitched noises to erupt from her throat.

“Galadriel – do you want me to stop?”

Suddenly, she surged forward, sitting upright, clasping the back of his neck and digging her nails in. Her breathing came heavy as her eyes – wild and ravenous - searched his. “Are you going to make me come or not?”

Halbrand’s laugh came almost as a snarl - his mouth devouring hers as he lay her back down. His fingers still working within her, he had a certain method in mind as he dragged his lips down her body, past her breasts, the dip of her stomach, her navel – he would worship all these places later – his mouth finally reaching where he wanted to be, hovering over the place his thumb had just been.

For moment he did nothing, just savoured the sight of her as she took his fingers. Relished the sweet smell of her arousal that he would be tasting it in mere seconds.

She was perfect.

Galadriel could feel the sensation of his breath lightly brushing over the moisture between her legs, the way his nose grazed temptingly just along the edge of where she needed him –her desire dancing along the edge of madness.

What was he waiting for?

“Don’t tease me.” She warned, grabbing a fist of his hair and forcing him to look at her.

A crooked smile peeled across his mouth before his tongue shot out, licking a single, well-placed strike to her pearl.

A gasp. Her hips jolting.

“Better?” He smirked.

Watching from under his brow, he placed firm, deliberate hand across her lower belly, anchoring her there – holding her trembling body still while the other hand relentlessly pursued unravelling her from within.

Then his tongue went to work, savouring her, tracing slow circles that made her arch. It was not long before his efforts became more feverous – coaxing and caressing her jewel with expert precision, stroking it to perfection, building the pressure and the pleasure all at once, and with it, Galadriel’s moans built in tandem.

It was too good. The pleasure was building too rapidly – coming too sharp – she tried to writhe beneath his hand, but he pinned her there. Unyielding.

He pressed a third finger inside, stretching her walls, pumping, stroking, as he swirled his tongue with zealous purpose.

Her body was a bow drawn to breaking, every muscle straining toward the inevitable.

“Halbrand…” she gasped. “Yes. Don’t- stop- yes-”

For a fleeting moment she wondered what the Valar would say, but the thought melted beneath the warmth of his breath on her skin.

And then it came - a rush that struck her like light through a crystal. Every fracture alive with colour, more rapturous than she had ever felt before. Numbing all thoughts, sharpening all senses. A magnificent fizz of ecstasy that filled her entire being in waves of sensual bliss emanating out from where his tongue played her ever so perfectly.

And it kept going, and going, and going.

“How… how are you-” Her voice a tight whisper amongst her breathless sighs.

‘I can make it go as long as you want.’ His voice now murmuring inside her head.

And he did. Unlike her usual erotic unravellings, this one’s peak never faded.

It was rolling pleasure - its intensity cresting over and over…

Her vision whited.

Body trembling.

Hips undulating.

Core squirming against his mouth.

Breath tightening – no more sound could squeeze past her throat.

Tears were tumbling down her cheekbones as she was so divinely undone again and again.

‘It’s too much... I can’t… I can’t take it.’ She pleaded through their connection.

Soft laughter echoed back in response. ‘Alright.’

He kept her in that calamitous state of bliss for a few seconds more, before slowly letting her come down.

Her voice came back to her in a high-pitched sigh, dripping with relief. He helped her through the aftershocks with the last few languid strokes of his tongue, sliding his fingers from her.

Her body slackened into the cushions, every breath a trembling echo of what had just consumed her. She could have floated forever, anchored only by the faint weight of his breath against her skin.

She lay there, boneless, panting, the ceiling a blur above her. The world had gone soft around the edges, her heartbeat the only rhythm left - slow now, unhurried, each pulse a reminder that she still existed, that she had not dreamed it all. She draped the crook of her elbow over her eyes like it was all too much.

Halbrand simply smiled before placing a light kiss on the petals of her flesh, sending a twitch through the length of Galadriel’s body. He hummed in amusement before climbing his way back up her and hovering above her face – still half covered by her arm and showing no signs of moving.

“Galadriel…” He murmured.

“Mmm?” Her only, somewhat exhausted response.

He traced feather-soft kisses along her forearm, each one a question disguised as tenderness. The heat between them had gentled into something quieter now, something that shimmered in the silence between words. The room was still except for the slow, uneven sound of their breathing, the faint crackle of the fire.

He watched her, eyes softened by wonder.

When he finally spoke, his voice was almost tender.

“We’re not finished.” Another kiss. “Unless I’ve tired you out?”

She slowly dragged her arm off her face, flopping it back down beside her with a thud. “No… you just… need to give an elf some warning next time you spin a little devilry her way.” A weary but sweet smile appeared in the corner of her mouth, as she brushed her fingers over his cheek, tracing the smirk he’d forgotten he wore. She let him know in the softness of her touch and the warmth of her gaze that it was not unwelcome devilry in the slightest.

He playfully raised and dropped his eyebrows. “You wanted to play with the shadows.”

“Hmm – I did.” Gliding her fingertips down to his lips, she let him gift little kisses to each one before continuing her trail, down his neck and across his shoulder, following the rise and dip of his muscles down his arm.

“And do you want to carry on?” He asked, as he stroked his fingers through her hair.

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips a little, a sly sparkle returning to her eyes.

He huffed in response. “Just making sure.” Kissing the tip of her nose, he then straightened onto his knees.

Galadriel watched intently as he undid the lacing on his trousers, loosening them away from his hips, and sliding them down his legs. His hardened length revealed for the first time.

She blinked at the sight of it – so eager and ready. Her lungs began to fill with anticipation, deep and ragged, and she could feel the light tap of her pulse return between her thighs – a new pool of heat already pre-empting his arrival.

He kicked off his trousers the rest of the way before coming to line up his body, settling between her thighs – their skin flush as he ghosted his lips over hers, his voice but a whisper. “You know there’s no going back after this.”

There was a pause as they searched each other’s gaze.

“I know.” She whispered back.

He dropped his lips to hers in a long, reverent kiss. Deepening as their tongues stoked their desire anew.

Halbrand surged his hips, grinding himself along her centre, still so sensitive from all his prior attention that a little whine escaped her, quickly stifled by his mouth.

He kept grinding - coating himself - wanting to be covered in her. She was delectably wet for him after he had so thoroughly unravelled her, and he was not even going to pretend he wasn’t delighted as he smiled against her mouth.

He reached down between them, using his hand to drag his tip through her seam, collecting as much of her as he could – he knew she would not be used to his size. Elves were not known for their promiscuity after all.

She could feel him then - the head of him - testing her entrance. Then, slowly, patient but persistent, he pressed his way inside.

Her breath caught, his thickness taking her by surprise, stretching her, shaping her as he pushed himself further in.

She let out a soft sigh, as if releasing some of the pressure.

She could feel every inch. Relishing every second of the sumptuously slow surge of his member as she gladly took him in.

She was not a maiden, but it had been a very long time, centuries even, since her last romantic encounter. It was as if her body had forgotten what it was to be filled like this, and even so, she could not remember being quite so thoroughly filled.

It thrilled her. To feel him take up so much room inside of her. To have him re-form her like this.

She grabbed his biceps, anchoring herself. Ready to take the rest of him.

He pulled out a little, before sinking himself again, deeper this time – continuing to plunge himself further until he had filled her entirely, and even then, when he was in up to the hilt, he persisted in rolling his hips, dragging a moan from her throat as he hit that satisfying depth within.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment the world fell still. The frenzy of bodies, breath, and sound dissolved, leaving only the intensity of this moment - borne on the searing thread between their gaze as they brokered a new connection. Something stronger than before. Compounding whatever ties they held through blood into something weaved within the soul.

Something terrifyingly beautiful unfolded before their eyes. Whatever they had been was gone - dissolving in the heat between their bodies, in the light behind their eyes. And in its place, something new was born, bright and uncontainable, like the colliding of stars to create a new universe of their own.

Their universe. unbreakable.

Then Halbrand’s hips drew back. Slowly. Unsheathing himself almost completely before pressing deep again. Pulling another gasp from Galadriel as she tilted her head back.

He did this a few times while she got used to the feel of him, before setting a more rhythmic pace.

And as he did, she could feel her pleasure building anew.

With every swell, every time he hit that sensitive place inside, she could feel it surging.

And she needed it, wanted it - everything her body demanded from his.

Their mouths met again in a messy, passionate tangle while her hands scraped trails down his back.

Finding their way to the taut muscle of his backside.

She clawed her fingers into his flesh. Somehow pulling him further in while she rolled her hips to meet him. As if, even now, they were still not close enough. That somehow, she needed more of him.

All of him.

He understood.

Folding her legs so her knees were wide of her shoulders, he then pinched her hips with his large hands, keeping her in place, as he drove into her with a rhythm that shook them both, until the room itself seemed to pulse with it. Ripping louder cries of pleasure from her throat. Every sound between them became part of something larger - not pain, not pleasure, but the creation of their new world.

Her hands fell away from him. Gripping and twisting the throw underneath her, trying to ground herself through the bliss.

“Yes… yes… Halbrand… more.”

He loved seeing her like this.

Coming undone for him - struggling to remain on this plain of existence while he worked himself inside her – tethering her to the earth while insisting she fly away. A sumptuous torment that had her writhing beneath him, begging for more, and one that had him transfixed on her now - worshipping eyes, wide with adoration, soaking up every moment as she pleaded with him to send her higher.

If there was nothing else but this until the end of time, he would still do all within his power to stave it off, if it meant he had one more moment to bask in her magnificence, one more chance to be entwined like this, to know what it was to be inside her, and have her need him just the same.

From now on, this is all there would be – him, Galadriel, doing this. He needed nothing else.

Wanted nothing else.

Just her.

Them.

Forever.

He lay over her again. Her legs unfolding. Wrapping around his waist. Pulling him tighter.

He grabbed her wrists, clasping them above her head whilst his mouth went to suck on one of her nipples again.

“Galadriel…” His voice rasped against the wetness he had just left there. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

His rhythm was unrelenting, filling her desperately, even more forceful than before.

“I have… some idea.”

He licked a line from her breast to her jaw, tightening his grip on her wrists as he did so. He groaned against her neck. “You’re magnificent.” Then branded her skin with his mouth. “Turn over…”

She shot him a look – a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. She had been taken this way in her dream, but never in the waking world. She was not sure what to expect.

“You wanted more, did you not?”

She nodded – the best she could do to respond as her breathing tightened, still greedily taking each of his vigorous thrusts, eager to try it.

He captured her mouth in a consuming, bruising kiss before pulling out. Releasing her wrists and letting her twist herself around and resettle on her knees and hands.

She whipped her head over her shoulder, watched as he pressed down on her spine so she tilted her hips upward, saw the way his eyes seemed to darken with an even more salacious sense of desire as he drank in the sight of her.

Her flesh clenched in response – at the thought of being so intensely craved – she was throbbing, aching for him to take her in the way that she needed. To feel that overwhelming rush again while he hollowed her out.

His eyes flicked back up to hers, as if he had gleaned her thoughts, wicked in their intent as he slid himself back in, pulling her hips against him and bottoming out someplace deeper than before. Her head fell loose between her shoulders and then snapped back up, gasping at how far inside her he was as he began setting a new, persistent pace.

But she had asked for more, and he had glimpsed what she wanted. While this new angle allowed him to go deeper, there were several benefits to this position.

Sliding his hand from her hip he glided it underneath her stomach and delved his fingers between her tender seam, swirling his fingers across her knot of pleasure, teasing new waves of bliss to build.

“Halbrand… please.”

“How long this time?” His fingertips quickened their pace, increasing their pressure.

“You… Gods - Halbrand… You choose. Please… do it…”

A breathy smirk twisted across his lips as he moved within her with growing urgency – deeply, ravenously - while his fingers so expertly chased that bliss-filled release for her.

Pleasure rising – higher and higher – her moans signalling the wave as it crested and then-

She came apart.

That rapturous feeling of being utterly undone, undulating through her – tearing her asunder. Her breathing, tight and high-pitched as her whole body trembled, as she felt the rush of sensation tingle at her fingertips, fizz on her tongue. The noxious, humming epicentre at the place where their bodies mingled.

The shockwaves were still pulsating through her when she felt Halbrand wrap his other arm around her waist, dragging her upright so her back was flush against his torso.

She squirmed against him, throwing her head back over his shoulder as her cries of pleasure continued to issue forth from her mouth.

He buried his face in her neck, clamping her to him even harder. His movements became more rapid, more sporadic – his own climax peaking as he groaned against her ear. The warm throb of his seed spilling inside her.

As he came down from his high, so did she.

Both left utterly sated and breathing hard against one another. The sweat from their bodies mingling where their skin touched.

He mussed her hair as he deposited a series of gratified kisses to her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. When he reached her lips, she turned to kiss him back - open-mouthed and thankful - cathartically cleansing in the way it heralded everything they had just done, and the relief that came after.

They both sighed against each other’s mouths – satisfied.

Galadriel’s thighs were still trembling, so she let him slip from inside her and she flopped down onto the cushions. She as was laughing as she rolled onto her back, grabbing his arm and dragging him down towards her. His own laughter burst forth to meet hers, bracing himself with his hands and lurching forward, trying not to crush her.

His mirth reduced to a light chuckle as he bent down to graze his nose against her own – his lips finding hers once more in a slow, worshipful collision.

Before he drew away, he left another soft peck on her lips – a delicate signature, sealing what she meant to him in this moment. What she meant to him in every moment.

He brought his hand to her jawline, fingers gently curling through the hair around her neck as his thumb glanced across her cheek. And he looked at her now, the way someone might look upon something timelessly precious, as though there were no bounds to her beauty, no limit on how his soul sang for her from within the beating depths of his chest, how it hummed for her in every fibre of his being – resonant with her own.

She looked up at him in wonderment, feeling the warmth of his spirit bathe hers with a radiant golden glow. Not borrowed, or stolen, not fabricated nor a deception - but his own authentic light emanating from somewhere deep within that he had managed to find again.

“Galadriel, I…”

But the reverence in his features darkened, and Galadriel could see so plainly, the fear in his eyes at the words he was about to speak.

But when they did not come, Galadriel simply sighed empathetically through her nose, bringing a hand up to his face and cupping his cheek. Silently telling him that it was alright, that he did not need to confess anything tonight.

He closed his eyes and leant into her palm, planting a couple of tender kisses along the crease at her wrist. She slipped her hand through his hair then, and round the back of his head, gently guiding him to rest on her chest.

He fell asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.

For a while she lay still, fingers tracing idle patterns in his hair. But even in peace, she could feel the restlessness stirring beneath her ribs – her thoughts would not settle. She slipped away as quietly as the tide.

When Halbrand awoke, the feel of her absence was immediate.

A sharp pang of panic hit like a shard through his chest, but was instantly quelled by the soothing echo of her voice in his head.

‘Do not worry – I’m here. I just needed some air. Come join me, you know how to find me.’

He did. Ever since he had infused her with his blood, he could feel her always. But now, he could feel her even more brightly than before, joined in more than just body, but in essence.

He understood her need for air when he realised just how warm the room had become. The fire he lit on arrival had been burning steadily the entire time without showing signs of petering out. He had completely forgotten about it (not something he would chastise himself over given the pleasant reason for his oversight), and now the room had become quite oppressively stuffy.

His tunic was missing.

Hmm, figures.

As he reached for his trousers, he glanced over at Galadriel’s torn dress, feeling not a jot of remorse while a slow smirk crept into one side of his mouth.

I’ll fix it in the morning.

He pulled on his trousers, and with a wave of his hand, he snuffed out the fire. When he opened the door to the parlour he was met with a refreshing wall of cooler air, which he gladly stepped out into. Then, taking the stairs upward, he went in search of Galadriel, somewhere in the tower above him.

Passing by her room, he slowed, expecting her to be there. But her fëa called to him from yet further above. Rounding the stairs once more, he stopped at his own bedroom door – her presence permeating through the threshold as if it were not even there.

He took a deep breath before opening the door.

She was nowhere to be seen at first, only the whisper of a breeze through the open balcony doors - cool air carrying the scent of the jasmine and the faint silver murmur of moonlight. Then he saw her, a silhouette against the horizon, leaning on the bannister with her forearms, his tunic hanging loose about her. Her hair tumbled down her back in generous waves, painted silver by the moonlight while the rest of the world took on a steely blue hue.

He enfolded his arms about her waist, the chill of the night dissolving against the heat of her skin. He kissed her shoulder where his shirt had slipped off the slightness of her frame. She melted back into his chest, the rhythm of his breathing anchoring her in the quiet. And turning her forehead to rest against his neck, she enveloping his arms with hers.

“That’s the third time I’ve woken up with you not there.”

He whispered it, following the curve of her neck with his lips, slow as dandelions on a summer breeze.

She smiled faintly. “I’m sorry – it was stifling in there. You looked peaceful though and I didn’t want to disturb you. I was going to collect you after a while. I just needed some time to think.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “What are you thinking about?”

She gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “How I will explain any of this, when the time comes.”

Halbrand’s brow knitted together as his fingers restlessly curled and uncurled across her lower ribs. “Do you regret it?”

She took a long breath before she answered.

“No.” She turned then, spinning within the circle of his arms and bringing her hands to his face, a reassuring thumb gliding across his cheekbones. “Absolutely not.” Her eyes were ardent, sincere, but they fell away from him. “I just… I doubt anyone will understand it, or accept it. How am I to convince those who know how I’ve hunted you… that somehow I have ended up, not just sparing you, but caring for you instead. That now I would do anything to defend you against those who would seek to do you harm. That I have shared a bed with you…”

His eyes glanced upward and he canted his head from side to side. “Technically you have yet to actually do that last one – the floor is a poor substitute.”

She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes at him, her hands slipping from his face and coming to rest on his chest where her fingers fiddled with the soft covering of hair there. “You know what I mean.”

The slightest tug of a saddened smile twitched at the corners of Halbrand’s mouth, his eyes softening as he cupped her chin, directing her gaze to meet him again. “You think your standing amongst your people would be ruined?”

She turned from him, gaze slipping toward the horizon. “How could it not be?” The wind tugged at her hair as she spoke. “I know my exile has done little for my repute as it is, but this is different. No matter how I might try to explain it, I will never be seen as anything but the elf who bedded our enemy.”

He was not offended as she thought he might be, though it was not her intention to hurt him. She was simply trying to be honest

He studied her face - the shadow crossing her eyes, the way her voice thinned at the edges. Something in him ached to take that burden away.

He shrugged his lips and tilted his head. “Then… perhaps this will help.”

Releasing her waist, he stepped back from her. Then, with a thought, a blade shimmered into being. He lifted it to his palm as one might lift an offering.

“Wait! What are you-”

Before Galadriel could finish, he swiped the edge across his palm, producing a line of red blood that poured from the cut and began dripping onto the floor.

She stared - uncomprehending - until the truth reached her.

“Maybe this will help to explain that I am no longer anyone’s enemy.”

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers hovered, then skirted the heel of his hand, as if afraid the act itself might unmake the moment. Her voice but a whisper, “You mean?”

He nodded. “I’ve wanted to show you for a while.” His voice was unsteady now - reverent. “I was only waiting for the right moment.”

The wind drifted between them, soft and deliberate, as if the night itself were listening.

“How?” Her voice thick with astonishment. “I lost the light I sought. I never brought it back.”

He gently curled the fingers of his other hand around hers, bringing it to his lips and delicately skimming a kiss across her knuckles. His eyes dancing between hers as she looked at him with a hopeful yearning.

“You are my light, Galadriel. You always have been.”

For a moment she could only stare, breath trembling. All the years of war, exile, and hunger for meaning coiled within her and released in a single exhale. Her heart surged, eyelids fluttering as she took it all in with wide-eyed wonderment. His hazel eyes caressing her soul.

When he kissed her again, it was not hunger but gratitude that guided him - a softer echo of the same devotion.

Despite herself, despite this feeling she knew to be true, her mind was restless.

“But the shadows-”

“In the firelight? A neat trick.” He replied, a sly grin curling his lips. “Any Maia worth their salt can do that, without needing to know the secrets of the darkness.”

Her gaze lowered, embarrassed at how little she really knew. Her brow flickered once more… ashamed of her next thought, but utterly unable to resist asking. “But how…” Her tongue grew limp. She swallowed, thickly. “How do I know this is not another of your illusions?”

Her throat tightened as she said it, the question catching halfway between logic and hope.

Halbrand released a long, accepting sigh through his nose, not necessarily liking the it, but understanding why she needed to ask it. “What does your heart tell you?”

Galadriel traced the shape of his heart with her fingertips, featherlight against the skin of his chest as she contemplated her answer. “That you’re mine.”

He enveloped her hand with his, shifting his voice to the most velvet of murmurs and dipping his forehead a little to catch her gaze. “Then it would be right.”

The cut on his hand vanished again, leaving only the blood on the floor as any leftover trace of what he had just revealed. Bringing his hand to her neck, he delicately stroked the line of her jaw before leaning in to kiss her.

She kissed him back with a quiet desperation – full of hope and relief that maybe, just maybe, the longing she had to be absolved of any guilt or shame in this might be granted. And that, although she had accepted who he was, and given herself to him freely thinking he still harboured darkness - and did not regret doing it - this was better. For both of them.

The movement of their lips gradually became fevered, desire thrumming low again for them both as Halbrand began to hitch his shirt up above her thighs, trailing kisses along her jaw.

“Come to bed, calinya.” He whispered, nibbling the outer edge of her ear.

She smiled at the term, then nodded, both turning so Halbrand could walk her back towards the bed, the tunic quickly discarded between avid kisses.

As soon as Galadriel’s spine hit the bed post, his hands went to work. One busied itself with her breast while the other delved between her thighs – his fingers diligent in their pursuit of her release.

It took little time, and before she knew it, she was unravelling again.

His fingers seemed to know every intimate need her body craved - the bedpost digging into her back as she writhed through her peak. He let her ride it out naturally this time, feeling her clench around the two fingers he had slid inside her while his thumb continued working slowly her at her pearl, bringing her back down.

When her body stilled, he released her, bringing his fingers to her mouth, wondering if this was something she might welcome – whether his ‘dignified’ elf would debase herself so. With a glint in his eye, he ghosted his fingertips over her lips, coating them in her own arousal.

With a hungry stare, her tongue darted out to lick her lips, catching the tip of his fingers as she did so. That was all the encouragement he needed to plunge his fingers into her mouth, revelling in the way she swirled her tongue over them, tasting herself, sucking him clean.

As he pulled his fingers from between her lips, the space between their eyes seemed to crackle with unspoken agreement.

She reached for the lacing on his trousers, unravelling them a slow torment.

Halbrand had to restrain himself from helping her unleash his manhood any quicker – impatient for the feel of her mouth around him as he was, she wanted her to take the lead.

As she slid herself down the bedpost, she peeled his trousers away past his thighs, his erection springing forth to meet her while she settled onto her knees.

Taking the base of it in her hand, she gave Halbrand one final look from under her eyelashes. The look in his own eyes full of insatiable want. He swallowed thickly in anticipation.

She licked the tip of him, causing his eyes to flutter closed, a sigh releasing from his mouth.

Then she took him whole. Wrapping her lips around him and hollowing out her cheeks, she began to suck up and down his length, taking as much of him as she could.

Strained sighs began to issue forth from Halbrand’s throat. He brought his hand to the back of her head and encouraged her to take more of him. She felt incredible, and he had to fight the urge to snap his hips.

She began flicking her tongue along the underside of his shaft, and he had to brace himself with his hand against the bedframe. His jaw clenching as his sighs turned to muffled groans.

Gods, she felt good.

Too good. He needed to stop her before she took him over the edge.

He cupped her chin with this hand, gently guiding her away.

She looked up at him with a sweet curiosity, belying the knowledge that she knew it had been pleasing.

“Come here.” He rasped, taking her hand and helping her up off the floor. Stepping the rest of the way out of his trousers, he led her round the bed and laid her down on top of it.

Working his way up her body, he gifted slow kisses to her hip, the dip of her stomach, her navel, the line that led up from there to her sternum. Worshipping all the places he was too ravenous to attend to properly before. He latched his mouth around each of her nipples in turn, before continuing to lay kisses along her collarbone and up the length of her neck.

When he finally reached her lips once more, he entered her, smothering her gasp with his mouth.

She needed less time to get used to the way he moulded her this time, and before long he was rolling his hips back and forth, coaxing new sighs of pleasure from her.

His pace was slower than before, more intimate, wanting to savour every moment, every sensation – his greed and lust getting the better of him earlier in the parlour. Now he wanted to bask in her, in this, in their connection.

So, he took his time while he ran his fingers through her hair, his lips attending to her neck, brandishing it in reverent, needful kisses.

Her hands roamed the way his muscles rippled across his back with each thrust, wrapping her legs around him tight as if she never wanted to let him go.

“Halbrand…” She whispered against his ear. “I want to be the one that brings you there.”

He pulled away from where his face had been buried in her neck, a slight tug in the corner of his mouth signalling his approval before kissing her again.

He slid out and rolled away, sitting himself up against the headboard. Not wanting to lie down – he wanted to look her in the eyes while she claimed him for herself.

She followed. Straddling his waist, she reached down between their bodies, taking hold and slowly guiding him back inside, enveloping him to the hilt.

Then with slow, deliberate strokes, and holding onto his shoulders as an anchor, she began claiming him in earnest. Taking him inside herself again and again.

His hands went to the pliant flesh of her backside, digging his fingers in as he helped her move, grinding himself up into her while drawing her back down.

They flowed together in a rhythm older than speech, older than the stars themselves. Push and pull, breath and heartbeat - two notes resolving into one unbroken chord. Time thinned around them, and all that remained was the sound of their bodies finding the same truth.

Galadriel threw her head back as the place deep within her was set ablaze. She grabbed her own ankles as she sought to clamp down on him further, desperate to take him as deep as she could.

The way her spine arched as she clasped at her heels, gave her just what she needed, sending him deeper. Her moans rose to cries as she continued undulate her hips at the rhythm of her desire.

Her breasts were in obvious need of attention in the way they heaved at her chest, and Halbrand was anything but neglectful – sucking and pinching each nipple, sending a delicious mix of pain and pleasure through her body while she persisted in claiming him.

He could feel how close he was getting, with every fevered pump, she was bringing him to the brink.

He clutched an arm around her waist, bringing her flush against this stomach – teasing more promises of bliss as the unrelenting press of his body fed the ache in her core.

She pressed herself into him, craving that molten friction that vowed to send her reeling over the edge.

All at once, they both reached their highs – moans mingling in divine expressions of ecstasy, riding it out together.

Galadriel, felt again, that satisfying sensation of his spend pulsing inside her, leaving no place untouched.

They rested together, foreheads touching, allowing their breathing to settle in its own time. Entangled in each other’s arms, neither one of them wanting to move.

Her pulse had begun to steady, but something within her hadn’t - a quiet realization unfolding like dawn.

When she opened her eyes, her nose grazing against his as she dared to whisper her next most precious words.

“I love you, Mairon.”

Chapter Text

“I love you, Mairon.”

His eyes snapped open - a cold rush breaking over him as though the air itself had shifted. Her chin rested delicately between his thumb and forefinger as he drew his head back, the movement slow, almost mechanical.

Stunned into silence.

No one had loved him - not truly.

Not in the way he needed.

Not in the way she did now.

And if they ever did, they had done nothing to stop his fall, nothing to call him back from the brink.

His gaze darted between hers, searching for the lie, unwilling - unable - to believe. And yet… the sound of that name, his name, brushed against something long buried. For an instant, he almost remembered what it felt like to be himself before the shadows claimed him.

What he could be again, now that her light had touched the depths of his soul.

He had hoped - of course he had hoped - that she might feel all that he felt for her. That she mirrored his affection and devotion with the same consuming ardour. That she had learnt to love him in spite of the monster she had known him to be.

But hearing it, now, in this moment - after the way they had spent this night-

It was too perfect - too right.

As though every hope and desire he did not deserve had been handed to him at once, overwhelming enough to make him tremble.

It could not be so.

Could it?

“Mairon?” Galadriel could see the turmoil in his eyes – elation and devastation at equal odds, neither one looking likely to emerge the victor. And while that was the case, while she was still using that name, all he could do was stare at her.

She smiled, quiet and reassuring, as she brought her fingertips to his face, gently tracing the line of his cheekbone, the hollow of his cheek, the softness of his lips. Understanding the fragility of this moment, she smoothed her voice to a whisper, “Mairon, did you hear me?”

Gliding her fingers under his chin, she pressed ever so slightly to draw him back to her. “I love you.”

She placed her lips delicately upon his, soothing the chaos, quieting all his thoughts.

His eyes closed at her touch. It was too much. Too much for his heart, too much for the walls he had built, and he found now that he was struggling to breathe for the way his ribcage collapsed in on itself.

Even the distant rustle of the curtains seemed to quiet, as if the world held its breath with him.

When she pulled away, only anguish remained, his brow heavy with it.

Because there was no lie. She meant it. Every fragile, petrifying word.

He could feel her soul brushing the edges of his own, flooding him with her warmth, her light, her love. So real it made his breath catch.

What he had done to deserve it, he was not sure – his absolution coming in the form of this most perfect of beings as if Eru himself had placed her on this path, so that he might know what love was… and through that love, be guided back to his place in the world.

It terrified him.

Sharp and suffocating – because if her love could steer him back to the light, it could just as easily destroy him when it was gone.

When his eyes finally opened again, glassy and sorrowful, there was only the beauty of her heart looking back at him through those deep ocean-blue eyes, silently telling him that it did not matter what he deserved. He had it – her heart, her body, her spirit.

All of her.

She was his, just as he was hers.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Then-

As if she were the very air he needed, he pulled her to him - lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was desperate and consuming, fierce with longing, agony, and the blissful relief of finding what he thought forever lost. As if her light could heal everything still broken in him - erase the memories, the nightmares, the torture, the self-loathing - all the shattered parts of him that still remained, no matter the colour of his blood.

And when the kiss finally broke, he sighed - not just in relief, but in surrender.

A breeze stirred the curtains.

He held her head to his, forehead rocking slightly across her brow in disbelief. Eyes closed, unable to bear the intensity of opening them.

Breathing out, he could only whisper his words. “Galadriel… I tried. Earlier, I tried to tell you. But I couldn’t… I was so afraid you wouldn’t say it back.”

She smiled, warm and accepting as she sighed through her nose, whispering in return, “I know.”

“And I do.” He drew away a little, enough to lock her gaze with his. “You know that I do…”

He hated that he could not actually speak the words. Something inside of him was still too terrified, and as his words trailed off they came out more like a question than a statement.

But Galadriel simply tilted her head in response, the kindness in her eyes quelling all his fears as she stroked her fingers along his brow, her palm coming to rest against his cheek. Warm and safe. “I know you love me, Mairon. I’ve known since the night we danced at the spring festival. Even if, perhaps, you didn’t even know yourself at that point… I knew… I know.”

He let out another grateful sigh and leant into her hand, covering it now with his own so he could press it to his face.

“Come here…” She whispered, only now lifting herself off of him, their bodies still locked together up until now.

She gently coaxed him down onto the pillows, coming to rest her head next to his. Stomachs touching. Arms and legs entwined.

“I didn’t even know your real name then.” He murmured, fondly recalling the honey cakes and the children, the way she snatched a glance at him. The electricity as their bodies came together, swaying slowly to the music echoing from inside the tavern.

“That would make two of us.” She responded, one eyebrow arched and smiling knowingly.

“So, we’re both liars.”

“It would appear so.”

They both chuckled at that - the idea that they had indeed fallen in love long before knowing who each of them really were. And despite everything that might have happened since, that love had endured.

But all of a sudden, the warmth seemed to drain from his features, replaced by a quiet contemplation. “You called me Mairon.”

Galadriel nodded slowly, still holding him reassuringly in her gaze. “I did.”

He swallowed, brow creasing. There was a pause while he summoned the courage to ask his question. Hoping she would not laugh, or ridicule him. “And… will you keep calling me it?”

She smiled, deep and earnest. “It’s who you are, is it not?”

His lips parted in silent wonder - thankful of all the ways she could see into him. That she saw past all his ruined pieces and found the core of who he once was. Who he wished to be again.

He gathered her closer and rolled onto his back, guiding her with him.

She settled against his side, her head over his heart.

He exhaled, overwhelmed.

Leaning his lips against her forehead, he ran his fingers across her scalp, grasping at her hair and pressing his mouth firmer, nuzzling into her. Breathing deep.

Never wanting to let her go.

When he opened his eyes, she was there.

The early morning sunlight filtered in from the balcony, casting a streak of gold across her as she lay on her front, head turned towards him. Still sleeping soundly. A faint smile graced her lips, and Mairon wondered whether she dreamed of something pleasant - or whether it was the warmth of his love, felt even in sleep, that kept her safe and contented.

The sheet slipped down her shoulder as he brushed his fingers along her arm, still not quite believing she was real. That she was here, beside him like this. Naked in his bed.

Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then let his mouth trail slowly across her shoulder blades, shifting his weight to give her entire back the same devotion.

He noticed one of her hairs had fallen out, clinging to the pillow next to her.

Galadriel stirred, breathing in deeply as she squirmed herself awake, her eyelids still heavy. “Morning.”

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, then traced small, lazy patterns there with the tip of his nose. “Good morning. May I keep this?” He asked, as he pinched the hair and began twiddling it between thumb and forefinger.

“What for?” Her words still sluggish from sleep.

“My project.”

“You still haven’t told me what your project is… and I refused the only other man to ask me that.”

“Ah, but did you love them as you love me?” He began nibbling her earlobe.

She scoffed, “Definitely not.”

“So, I can keep it?” An eager cheek in his tone.

Pretending to object with a shake of her head, her smile betrayed her, and a relenting sigh seeped out - too sleepy to argue. “I suppose.”

“Thank you.” He kissed her shoulder, breathing in the faint trace of jasmine from her hair. Reaching over, he placed the strand in the top drawer of his nightstand for safe-keeping, then returned his attention to Galadriel, peppering delicate kisses on her cheek. “Galadriel, are you still awake?”

“Trying not to be,” she mumbled.

He breathed her in - chuckling against her skin, low and warm. “Cruel of you, when you look so beautiful in the morning.”

“It wasn’t exactly a restful night.”

“I suppose not.” His smile lingered against her cheek, his kisses wandering down her neck, mouth brushing the delicate pulse there, where her skin felt like silk warmed by a sleep’s embrace. His lips trailed across her shoulders, before returning to her back - hands drawing back the sheets, revealing more of her soft, supple skin. His mouth followed, sinking lower.

A satisfied hum escaped her as he mapped her back, learning every contour and hollow. Utterly at peace, she found herself drifting again under his steady attention.

“Galadriel?” he murmured against her skin between kisses, pulling her back from the edge of sleep.

“Mmm…” she breathed, her voice languid.

His lip curled with intent - he had no wish to let her slip away again. His hand traced down her thigh, hooking gently behind the crease of her knee and guiding it upward, easing her legs apart.

“If my light is tired, who am I to stop her from sleeping…” There was a teasing warmth in his tone as his fingers travelled back up the length of her thigh, over the rounded swell of her hips, across the yielding curves of her rear.

“I don’t think you’re trying very ha-” Her words dissolved into a breathy sigh as his fingers slid between her folds from behind, finding her easily and delving deep, massaging where she was most sensitive. He relished the way her arousal began to coat his touch.

It did not take long for her hips to begin moving with their own urgency, chasing the rhythm of his fingers. The soft sighs spilling from her lips became sharper, laced with small, needful sounds.

Mairon bent to kiss the base of her spine, feeling her shiver beneath him. He smiled against her skin. “Still sleepy?”

Her eyes remained closed, her body heavy and limp against the mattress save for the rolling motion of her hips. She was still caught between the haze of sleep and the pull of pleasure. Whether out of defiance or simply the desire to prolong their game, she offered him no easy surrender. “And if I am?”

His chuckle was low, his nose brushing along her back. “That’s alright, Calinya. You needn’t do anything but lie there… and let me tend to you.”

Withdrawing from deep within her, he swept his middle finger up the line of her to the firm bud at its peak, coaxing new sounds from her as he began to circle it. His movements were patient but methodical, increasing pressure in measured increments. As with everything he turned his hands to, he was artful, and she felt her climax gathering quickly - her face buried in the pillow, breathing shallow.

Her sighs gave way to moans, each higher than the last, the pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it was nearly unbearable.

And when it broke - when she gasped through the crest of it - Mairon slid forward, parting the smooth twin curves of her backside to bury himself within her. She cried out, her hands twisting in the sheets as he filled her, the aftershocks of her climax folding seamlessly into the deeper waves he drew from her now with each deliberate roll of his hips.

He exulted in the way she lost her breath, taking her from one height to another without pause. Delighting in her every shiver, every tightening squeeze around him. This was what he meant when he said he would tend to her - his vow to make her feel all the pleasure she deserved for daring to love him. He would show her just how much he cherished the way she came undone beneath him.

He anchored his hands at the crease of her hips, tilting them just slightly to reach her deepest curve - coaxing louder, more desperate moans from her as he increased the rhythm of his thrusts, each movement precise, unrelenting.

“Mairon… Gods, yes… yes!”

Her body writhed, coiling ever tighter among the sheets. He hollowed her out with each insistent thrust, feeling her respond in a cascade of tremors. His own moans mingled with hers as he rode the swelling tide of pleasure, rising toward his own pinnacle.

“Galadriel-” He dug his fingers into her hips. His final thrusts were harder, deeper, leaving no room for resistance. She screamed, her cries echoing through the sheets, and he followed her, surrendering to the wave of rapture that claimed him in its wake. His release claiming her, pooling deep in the place that yearned for him.

He collapsed forward onto one hand, the other gliding down the length of her back as he placed languid, tender kisses between her shoulders.

Galadriel could do nothing but lie in the same limp position she woke up in, utterly spent and throbbing somewhat after their third round of love making - the best possible ache.

Slowly, as if he knew, he pulled out with deliberate care – his spend lingering within her before trickling out and soaking into the bedsheets. He stayed for a moment, chest brushing against her back, savouring the quiet aftermath of their entwined bodies, the warmth and rhythm of their closeness still echoing between them.

Eventually, he rolled away, collapsing onto his back, still breathing hard and staring up at the bed canopy, wondering if anything could be more perfect than the last few hours. He wanted to hold on to that feeling.

Needed to.

He had chased perfection all his life, and now, after eons of searching, he had finally found it.

With her.

Galadriel’s hand slid over his chest, fingers teasing the hairs there, a sated hum escaping her lips.

He turned his head to her, catching her hand with his own. “Good way to wake up?”

Her cheek pressed into the pillow, neck arching in a feline stretch. “The best.” Her eyes were half-lidded, her voice nearer to a sigh than speech. “Let’s not move today. Let’s just stay here.”

Mairon grinned. “And do what all day in bed?”

She laughed into the pillow, muffling her answer.

He rolled toward her, pressing her down beneath him, nose buried in her neck. “Three times not enough? Still begging for more?” His hand squeezed at her waist, threatening a tickle.

Her laughter spilled out as she twisted around to face him. “I promise you, I’ve been… thoroughly seen to. For now.”

“And later?” His eyebrow arched.

“Later…” Her grin turned wicked, eyes gleaming. “I may need tending to again.”

He kissed her, soft and lingering, before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I never knew elves were so insatiable.”

“Maybe we just need the right touch.”

“Well,” he murmured against her lips, “I’m happy to oblige.”

They kissed again, slower this time, their hands moving in lazy, reverent patterns across each other’s skin.

“This-” Galadriel breathed between kisses. “This is all I want today. Just lying here, with you. Laughing, talking, kissing…”

“Fucking,” he added with a boyish grin.

“Mairon!” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder, shaking her head.

His grin widened, “After last night, I think we can do away with the more dignified names for it.”

“Hmm.” She squinted at him, feigning disapproval, a taught smile creeping across her lips before softening again – her eyes roaming the contours of his face, as if she could drink in every detail and hold it against the day it might be gone. Wanting this moment above all others to remain forever keen and bright when all else fades. Her touch lingered at his chest, voice lowering to something almost fragile. “We could just stay like this… forever.”

Mairon smirked, but the edge of it faltered. “Y’know, I thought the same thing last night. But as much as I’d like to, it sounds highly impractical.”

“No…” she laughed quietly, the sound already threaded with longing. “I mean… we could vanish here. Let the world forget us, and we’d forget it. None of it would matter. Not wars, not crowns, not time itself. Just you, and me.” She placed her hand over his heart, then pressed his against her own. “We’d have this. And that would be enough.”

He studied her for a long moment, her words folding around him like a prayer. For the first time, his grin gave way to something quieter, heavier. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet certainty. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Days turned to weeks, then to months. And in that time, they did just as they said – forgetting about the troubles outside and settling into a rhythm of life that was all theirs; a world unto their own.

“I did it.”

“Did what?” Galadriel turned away from the window of their bedroom.

“Finished my project.” Mairon walked over to her, with a small, intricately wrought silver box in hand. The patterns of leaves and vines gleamed blue in the moonlight, save for the central emblem – a crystal flower of many petals, which shone a brilliant white in the steel gleam of the stars.

Galadriel marvelled at the box, tracing the edges of the flower petals with her fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”

“What’s inside is even better.” Mairon beamed, “Open it.”

She glanced at him for a second, an eager glint in her eyes. Then, slowly, she opened the lid, and her excitement transformed to a wide-eyed wonder.

Poised within the box was a ring of exquisite craftsmanship, made of a silver so brilliant it looked almost a pearlescent white. The band was fashioned by twining the most delicate strands of the metal around themselves in an unbroken spiral, like the vines of wisteria that grew in her garden. And seated in pride of place at its centre - the purest piece of crystal-clear adamant she had ever seen, splitting the moonlight into a myriad glittering colours that flecked the blue of her eyes with hues of pinks, greens, and purples.

Mairon held his left hand aloft next to the box, revealing his own ring already settled on his index finger – a unassuming band of pure gold – perfectly crafted, and astonishingly beautiful in its simplicity. “I started making them as a way of baring you my soul. You were still grappling with the reality of who I was, still so tied to the idea that my spirit was wholly evil and irredeemable. I wanted to try and show you that it was not so.

“Then, as time went on, you began to see me as something other than evil – something broken that might be saved, that might be loved. And the purpose of making them changed. I wanted to gift you something that carried within it, all I felt for you – all the love that I bear.”

He continued, no longer afraid to say the words, for her love had wrapped itself around his heart like a blanket, melting away all his previous doubts and leaving nothing but a wholehearted surety that he latched onto with both hands.

“Because I do, calinya.”

His voice trembled as she stood rapt in his gaze.

“I love you.

“Know that wherever you go, a part of me goes with you. Our souls bound to one another. And so long as you wear this, I will be able to feel you, no matter the distance, and you me.”

Galadriel stared a moment longer at the beauty of his gift, before bringing her eyes to meet his – a tinge of confusion in her eyes. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, with you.”

He met her gaze with a saddened smile. “I’ve been thinking on this… In the end, who knows what the future holds for us. With the best will in the world, we can stay hidden here for as long as we can. And yes, we might even keep secret who I really am, for a time. But you’re not one to lie still for too long – it’s one of the reasons I love you. And sooner or later, the world will come calling. When that day comes, I want to make sure that if we need to, we can always find each other.”

Her lips set into a thin line, a knowing acceptance confirmed in the way her brow creased. As much as she did not want to admit it, she knew he was right – about her, about the world. She nodded her head, just once, to show she understood.

Carefully, she reached into the box and plucked the ring from its base. As she did so, she gasped. “It feels like it belongs to me.”

“It should. I used your hair to make it.” Lightly, he stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “A piece of you in yours. A piece of me in mine.”

On an outbreath, as if she needed to steady herself for what was to come, she slipped the ring onto her middle finger.

The moment she did so, her breath faltered. Her eyes seemed to drink up the starlight – like an ocean set alight with the glitter of a thousand distant suns, radiant with the sudden intensity of their connection - a rush of feeling as the strength of his love hit her.

“I can feel it.” She exclaimed, elation bathing every feature, coating every word that she whispered. “Feel you.”

Tentatively, she placed a hand over his heart, fingers lightly caressing his skin within the low unlaced v of his tunic. His chest rose and fell sharply beneath her touch, his soul just as euphoric as hers.

Slowly, he managed to bring his hand to her own, holding it tightly against his heart to try and anchor himself - eyes rapt with admiration, overwhelmed with joy. “And I you.”

Months became years, and as the time passed, they tended their little world with infinite care and devotion.

Mairon set enchantments about the stone and air, concealing their presence from unwanted eyes, and together they shaped their home into a haven unlike any other. The garden spread outward in gentle spirals, fountains spilling clear water over stones cut by Mairon’s hand, while Galadriel coaxed trees and blossoms into radiant arcs of colour and light. The vines twisted like lovers’ limbs, coiling upon themselves as though to mimic the way they often lay - entwined, inseparable. In the evenings they would walk those paths, the leaves whispering above them in a breeze that stirred the lantern light into gentle waves. Arms wrapped about one another, stealing kisses between the glow of fireflies and the pale shimmer of moonlight upon the water. Sometimes they walked in silence, the chill of the night air brushing their skin as though to remind them the world beyond still existed.

But in those times, they filled their halls with warmth – singing new songs together, penning them down and adding new annals to the ever-expanding library. In his workshop, Mairon’s skill turned raw metal into shapes so delicate they seemed grown, not made.

Galadriel loved watching him work.

The way the fire gilded his hair.

She would often slip in behind him, her hands over his, guiding them away from the tools. His creations were masterful, yet he always murmured that nothing he could shape with steel or crystal was half so perfect as the way she softened against his chest, or the press of her lips urging him toward the bedchamber. And when the mornings came, she lingered with him there, her touch and voice infusing his being with something finer than his own hand could fashion - with love itself.

What they built became an extension of their passion. The stones breathed with the memory of their kisses; the waters mirrored the fire in their eyes; the trees seemed to bow whenever they lay together beneath their boughs. It was a sanctuary not just of beauty but of desire, a place where the world could not touch them.

And so, one night, beneath the silver wash of the moonlight, Galadriel pressed her lips to his, his arms enclosing her, and whispered the name that would mark their home forever: ‘Amar Nith’ – Little World.

And though at times they spoke of what lay beyond - orcs wandering master-less, whispers of shadows unvanquished, Galadriel only laid her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. ‘If we follow them, we must leave this life to do so.’

She felt the weight of his silence, and when at last his lips brushed her temple, he answered simply, ‘Then their fate will be decided by others.’

She knew he was right. For her heart no longer hungered for battle nor glory. It was steady, content, and at peace. She wanted only this - their Little World, and the man who held her within it.

As their sixth year within the walls of Amar Nith beckoned, Galadriel found herself in the familiar comfort of her courtyard garden. The grapevines and wisteria had grown full and heavy now, draping in lush cascades about the stone, their fragrance mingling with the clear music of the fountain. She set her book aside, and stood watching the water tumble over its tiers when she felt him - as always she knew he was there, long before his arms encircled her. Such was their bond, their rings binding them as surely as their love.

She sank against him with a quiet hum, his lips brushing her cheek, then trailing soft kisses down her neck before his jaw came to rest against her temple.

“Are you happy here?” He murmured, his voice barely louder than the trickling fountain beside them.

“Happier than I ever thought possible.” She folded her arms over his, weaving her fingers between his own.

He looked down at her, an eager brightness flickering behind his calm. “Then… how would you feel about starting a family here with me?”

She turned in his embrace, her face alight with wonder. A child? Was he truly offering her the last piece of this perfect picture - love, a home she felt she truly belonged, and now the promise of family? Something both of them had long been without.

“A child?” she whispered.

He nodded, eyes kind as the warm spring sun.

Her heart swelled, her breath catching with joy, and he took it as his answer. His lips met hers in a long, tender kiss before pressing their foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing each other in. For a moment they stood unmoving, wrapped in a bliss neither had ever thought they might possess. Excited for the future.

But as the weeks and months passed, try as they might, no child came.

One evening Galadriel sat weeping against him on the sunbed, her knees drawn tight to her chest. He wiped the tears from her cheeks in vain as more spilled forth, and at last he only held her close, one arm circling her waist, the other mussing her hair. When the tears would not stop, he whispered into her crown, “I love you, Galadriel,” as though naming her was the only truth strong enough to steady them both.

“I love you,” she returned raggedly, her voice trembling with grief.

“Perhaps we just have to keep trying,” he murmured, searching for words that might soothe her.

She swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. “Perhaps Eru has forbidden it.” She whispered. “Perhaps we do not deserve such a gift.”

Mairon’s face darkened.

Gently, he drew her chin upward until her tear-filled eyes met his. In their depths he let her see the truth of him - the storm of pain and devotion. His voice, when it came, was steady as thunder rolling over seas.

“You deserve every happiness in this world. You are the single light in an otherwise blackened sky where I wandered lost for countless years. A beacon of hope and joy, through which I learned to walk again, unburdened and free. You have the grace of the stars and the fierceness of a dragon, and you are more beautiful and more untamed than both. You have the strongest heart I have ever known. You are the warmth I wake to every morning, and the one soul who looked at me and saw beyond the monster. You gave me a second chance to be a man - one who loves you purely and deeply. And our child, when they come, and they will come, will be as fair as the first spring flowers, as pure as the waters from the highest mountains, as fearless as the great eagles on the wind. They will be our greatest blessing, and the world will be the better for their presence. Eru’s judgment be damned.”

Galadriel could only stare at him, stunned and awestruck, the storm in his eyes slowly yielding to calm. She reached to touch his face, her fingers tracing his sharp cheekbones, sliding at last to linger against his lips.

“You have the most beautiful soul of anyone I have ever known,” she whispered.

He froze.

Like the moment she first said she loved him. It was still hard to accept any words that spoke well of him.

But then-

He softened, kissing her fingertips. “No giving up hope,” he said gently.

“We’ll keep trying,” she promised, nodding.

His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Well, that’s no hardship.”

She gave a watery laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“You love it,” he teased, before claiming her lips – supple at first, then hungrier, passion rising between them. She answered without hesitation, opening to him, and when he pressed her down against the sunbed, his touch sought her out beneath her skirts as it always did, sure and reverent, until her sighs began to fill the garden once more. He never grew tired of hearing them.

Chapter Text

Autumn had arrived. While the trees within Amar Nith never faded and the garden bloomed year-round, the outside world was turning colder.

The withering before the winter had started.

Galadriel awoke to the golden haze of the sun only just peeking over the horizon, still low in the sky despite the hour. Long shadows stretched their way across the room towards her as she rolled herself over, expecting to find Mairon next to her among the sheets. But his side of the bed was cold when she reached for him, finding nothing but the empty folds of the crumpled duvet.

She sat up blearily, looking about the just-as-empty room, confusion sitting heavy on her brow. Eventually her eyes came to rest upon the pillow next to her, upon which lay a note, neatly folded. At seeing it, her features softened, and a lazy smile graced her lips. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she reached for it, her eyes crinkling with fondness at who it was made out to: Calinya. Unfolding the paper, she sank herself back into her pillow as she read.

She pressed the note to her chest, breathing deep, certain she would never tire of this life. In any other circumstances, she might find herself restless, willing the outside world to come crashing through their tranquil reality. But instead, she felt satisfied with the notion that she had everything she needed – a peaceful life away from judgement, away from pain. Sheltered from the petty strife in the world, her and Mairon could while away the years knowing that having each other would be enough. That their love would endure, remaining forever young while all about them faded, out here on their little island.

The only thing that still eluded her in this perfect existence, was a child. But if that never came to be, then such was their lot. There were many more people less lucky than the two of them in love and life, and she had learnt to be grateful for the wonderful things she did have.

After stretching out her limbs, Galadriel pulled the duvet off and stepped blithely out of the bed, sweeping her dressing gown off the floor where Mairon had deposited it the night before - he had peppered her neck with kisses while peeling it off her for a night of love-making. Wrapping it around herself, she stepped out onto the balcony to take in the morning air. Mairon and his surprise were not going anywhere, so she allowed herself to drink in the crisp autumn chill as she leant her forearms on the balcony, surveying their secluded little world.

The heather upon the moor was beginning to go over. Having graced the land with a flush carpet of purple for the past few weeks, there were brown patches now, and what colours remained had lost their vibrancy, now bleached and brittle with the coming of the darker days.

Galadriel frowned.

In amongst the dwindling hues were taller stalks of brown and black, roving slowly into view from the north. At first, they were few, and if it were possible, she wondered if her elven eyes were playing tricks on her. But the longer she stared, the stalks seemed to multiply and began clumping together in larger and larger bunches, drifting from right to left of her vision.

People. It’s people.

Many of them – there must have been nearly a hundred, all heading south across the heath.

What are they doing here?

Quickly now, Galadriel rushed back inside, flinging off her robe and delving into the wardrobe for something practical to wear. She threw on a short tunic and pulled out some riding trousers, hopping her way out the bedroom as she tugged them on, lacing them while she descended the stairs. Her hair still a dishevelled mess from last night’s sleep.

Running across the lawn, she headed to Rána’s stable, and after quickly saddling him, she mounted and galloped out onto the moor.

It did not take long to catch up with the travellers, most of whom had stalled now at the sound of hooves and were watching Galadriel’s approach with wary eyes. As she approached she caught a familiar glimpse of wild, scarlet hair, whipping around the shoulders of the one leading group.

“Brynneth?!” Galadriel called. “What are you doing here? Where are all these people going?” There were few she recognised, and those she did seem far more worn in face and body than six years should have allowed. She dismounted, and began cautiously walking towards her once old friend, if she could still be called that.

“Galwen?” Brynneth looked as though she had seen a ghost, frozen to the spot for a moment before her features broke - pain and anguish strewn across them as tears began to tumble down her cheeks. “Galwen!”

She ran then, bounding towards Galadriel and collapsing into her arms – hanging on to her for dear life as she squeezed her tightly, making sure that she was real. She clung to her as though the ground itself had finally steadied beneath her feet. All animosity or hatred from before seemed a distant memory at the relief of seeing a familiar face.

Galadriel stumbled back from the impact of the other woman slumping her entire weight upon her, suspended by shock as Brynneth sobbed on her shoulder. Slowly, instinct took over, and she folded her arms about her once-friend, saying nothing. Simply allowing Brynneth to gather herself in her own time. As her sobs began to slow and diminish, Galadriel looked about her at the faces - familiar and not so that had joined Brynneth on this mass migration.

Though, Galadriel was starting to suspect it was more of an exodus.

There were some from Arnad Dûn, but many more she could not place. The other clusters were beginning to catch up with the leading group, and making their way towards her now was a group led by Lorgìr, and next to him, a dark-haired lad of 18 or 19. Grief seemed to rest heavy on his shoulders, but scorn burnt fiercely in his eyes. At first, Galadriel did not recognise him, but after another moment she realised – Corwin. It was Corwin.

He’d grown so tall.

Galadriel placed her hands, firm but gentle on Brynneth’s shoulders, and pushed her an arm’s length away, looking at her imploringly as she asked again for an explanation.

“The orcs… they came.” Brynneth began, trembling. “In greater numbers than before. They tore through the village. All of the settlements south of the Michelcoomb. And the wolves… they did… terrible things…” Her face darkened, haunted by the memories of all she had seen as her words faltered, staring into nothingness.

“And the Coomb itself?” Galadriel pressed, “What of Éoroskeld?”

“It fell.” A solemn but resigned voice broke above murmurs that had arisen within the leading group. Many discussing amongst themselves who Galadriel was and how Brynneth knew her – her ears were poking out between strands of her bedraggled hair, and it was clear this was the first time many had laid eyes on an elf.

A broad, fair-haired man with a strong nose and grim-set jaw covered in a darker beard, stepped out of the pack of refugees.

“And who are you?” Galadriel asked, looking him up and down before glancing back to Brynneth, whose gaze seemed to be roaming across the ground now, anywhere but back at Galadriel.

The man straightened up before he answered, puffing out his chest as if he were presenting himself at court. “I am Éargstan Warcwyn, Lord of the Skeldings.”

“Former Lord.” Corwin spat, literally, after correcting him, marching up from behind the group. “You gave up the right to that title the day you got in bed with the orcs!”

“Cori, don’t.” Brynneth pleaded, meekly from over her shoulder, while Éargstan simply clenched his jaw and lowered his eyes.

Galadriel had never known anything her friend did to be meek. She looked her over, concern creasing her features as she realised Brynneth’s spirit had broken. After everything she had endured, this was finally too much.

“Bryn,” she asked, squeezing her shoulder and bending her head to try and catch the other’s eye. “Bailid?”

Brynneth merely shook her head, lip quivering as she did so.

The slowest and weakest of the rabble were still catching up, and as Galadriel scanned the crowd, she saw the despairing look of heartbreak and hunger in each and every face. Faces that were muddied, bloodied, and long bereft of hope.

Darting her gaze back and forth between Éargstan and Corwin - the former looking resolute while the latter held back a violent intent - Galadriel could tell there was more to untangle here than could be achieved right now. So, she paused a moment, weighing up the options.

Finally, after a long sigh and pressing her eyes closed, knowing what she was about to suggest would crack open the fragile shell of her perfect world, she spoke. “Come. All of you.”

Brynneth looked up at her, tears welling up again in her big, blue eyes when she realised Galadriel was offering help.

“Come where? Are we just meant to follow you blindly?” Éargstan piped up, “I don’t even know who you are!”

“You seek shelter? Food?” Galadriel snapped back, squaring off to the Skelding, “Then right now I am your saviour, which for most in your position would be good enough. So, you can either come with me or continue to roam the moor, and you can debate amongst yourselves whether it is luckier to die of starvation or on the blade of an orc.”

“We’ll come with you, Gal.” Lorgìr stepped forward, clasping a hand on Corwin’s shoulder in an attempt to soothe the fire that was clearly raging inside him every time Éargstan spoke. He nodded at Galadriel to lead the way.

Grim-lipped, Galadriel nodded in-kind. “Follow me. It’s not far.”

Taking it slowly, she led them back to Amar Nith with a stone in her stomach, knowing that she had already slept her last peaceful sleep for a while - the world had come calling, and there was no choice but to answer.

While Galadriel could see her home clearly, the weary troupe were not privy to its whereabouts, guarded as it was by Mairon’s concealments. As they came within fifty feet of the outer wall, the blank sky and moorland began to shimmer before their eyes – like ripples on a pond, the visage in front of them began to blur, and as they took a few steps more, the solid form of Amar Nith took shape; as real as the clothes on their backs.

Many of the refugees gasped, standing agog at the newly materialised tower and its grounds, wondering what magic (and perhaps even peril) they had given themselves up to. Those of milder dispositions trembled and huddled against loved ones, whimpering at the thought of yet more suffering, after all they had endured, at the hands of this strange and powerful elf-witch.

“Do not be afraid.” She called back to them on horseback, her imposing (and somewhat unkept) form doing little to assuage their fears. “The power that resides here will not harm you. You are weary - follow me, so that you may rest a while. No orc nor wolf will be permitted to enter these walls. I promise you, you will be safe here.”

Brynneth, Lorgìr and Corwin – no less stunned than the rest of them at the sight they beheld – were the first to move, putting faith once again in the person that they once called ‘friend’. And once they did, the rest followed. As they passed under the archway, many could not resist the urge to cautiously place their palms upon the stonework, testing it was real. Once satisfied, they headed on into the grounds.

Upon entering, their faces marvelled at the still-green leaves of the trees, the flushness of the grass underfoot, the timeless flowers and fruits that grew together amongst the newly terraced beds that surrounded the walled garden up ahead. And water – several people, including Lorgìr, were running now toward the crystal-clear flow of the stream that gently meandered its way across the lawn to their left, dropping to their knees at its banks and plunging their hands in to cup themselves a refreshing draught.

Galadriel turned to Brynneth, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “Rest a while. Regain your strength. Then, I want to know everything.” As she spoke the last of her words her gaze darted to where Éargstan stood a few feet away, eyeing him up as he turned about in wonder, and trying to judge whether she had allowed a snake into her paradise. Even now, he kept himself half-turned toward the open ground beyond the walls - as though measuring how fast he might need to run.

“What is all this?”

At the sound of Mairon’s voice, Galadriel spun round to the sight of him striding across the lawn from the base of the tower, disbelief and irritation warring on his brow as he gestured at the crowd of people now gathered around the stream. “Who are all these people?”

Galadriel let the air leave her slowly, drawing herself up, readying to explain why she had shattered their peace. It seemed so strange - she had hoped for a child, a new life to grace their hidden world. Another spirit to add to their idyllic scene. Instead, Eru had sent them its wounded, its weary, its broken. New arrivals, yes - only not the ones she had prayed for.

“I found them on the moor.” She called, walking to meet him.

“Are we to take in every stray and waif we find roaming the Wild? There must be a hundred people here! Galadriel, what is this?” He looked as though he would walk right through her to see-off the rabble that had intruded into their home, incredulous.

“Mairon, wait.” But Galadriel stood firm, imploring him to stop by pressing her hands to his chest, side-stepping when he did to keep him from bounding towards the crowd.

“Mairon?” Brynneth’s voice came down like a hammer, striking at Galadriel’s spine and sending a jolt of paralysing fear throughout her body.

Careless.

She shot a wide-eyed look at Mairon, who had equally stiffened upon recognising Brynneth, the slightest wince darkening his features as he looked back down at Galadriel.

Straightening, Galadriel looked back over her shoulder, her cheek twitching awkwardly as she attempted to force a smile. “An elven term… it means ‘loved one’.” She stole a glance back to Mairon to ensure he was going along with it. “Halbrand and I are-”

“Together?” Brynneth huffed knowingly, the playful twang she so often used to exhibit returning for a moment. “That much was clear before you left the village.”

“Left?” Mairon scoffed, raising his voice and pressing forward again. In his hot-headedness, he heard only sneering from Brynneth. “It was you who kicked us out!”

“Halbrand!” Galadriel did her best to hold him back.

Corwin, overhearing, stepped up behind to Brynneth. Though he was wiry and slender in his youth, he was tall, and used all of his presence to frame Brynneth now as he stared Mairon down from under his brow.

“Halbrand, please.” Galadriel softened her voice, pleading with those shimmering blue eyes that the man she had given her heart to would heed her.

This was the first real test of his change of heart. She had seen him be civil, cordial even to the occupants of Arnad Dûn, but that was before - when he still wore mask. And although she loved him, she could not be certain how much of the way he acted back then could be trusted - how much of it was a lie to keep his cover. Now the time had come to find out whether he had really changed and it pained her to admit she was not sure which way it would go. Perhaps another reason for staying hidden in Amar Nith was to protect herself from ever finding out.

She placed her hand lightly upon his cheek, drawing his gaze reluctantly back to her.

‘Hear them out, my love. For me.’

Her words floated softly in his mind, filling every corner with a warm light that drove all shadows away – she had grown so good at speaking to him this way over the past six years. Soothing his soul, whenever a bout of self-loathing and guilt for all he had once been and done sprang upon him.

The fire in him cooled as he lowered his gaze to meet hers, so imploringly looking up at him with an air of uncertainty. Still perturbed, he gave a resigned sigh, acquiescing to the one he loved, though his jaw was still clenched. “Fine. What’s happened?”

Galadriel visibly softened at his words – all the tension and apprehension about how he would react, melting away.

“Warcwyn happened.” Corwin spoke up, sending a sideways glare towards the man on his right, whose cautious wonder had turned to defiance at hearing his name dragged through the mud. “He all but gave the orcs free reign, allowing them to pillage and burn their way southwards! All so their city could stay safe.” He spat again towards Warcwyn’s feet. “What bloody good it did you.”

“I did what I thought necessary to save my people!” Éargstan turned to Corwin, facing him off with clenched fists looking to strike. “What would you have done? Boy!”

‘These two are going to kill each other, I can see it in their eyes.’ The warning from Mairon came wordless, so only Galadriel could hear.

“Fought back!” Corwin stepped out from behind Brynneth now, meeting the older man where he stood, nose-to-nose, determined to give no quarter. “Not served up innocents from other villages to save my own skin! My mother is dead because of you!”

‘They will do no such thing. Not here.’ Was Galadriel’s reply, though she was not sure even she believed it.

Warcwyn sneered, “Then you should have defended her better!”

Quick as lightning, Corwin struck. His fist catching the jaw of the other man hard.

‘That’s done it.’

‘Are you enjoying this?’ Galadriel was beside herself at the scene unfolding in front of her, and equally astounded at Mairon’s response. Though perhaps she should not have been.

Éargstan stumbled backward, eyes spinning in his skull. But he regrouped quickly. With clenched teeth, he growled at Corwin on his approach, eager to knock him down.

“Please,” Brynneth cried, desperation cracking her voice. “Not here. Don’t do this here.”

‘He’s broader than Corwin, and if a punch lands right, Corwin may regret picking this fight.’ Again, Mairon alerted Galadriel to their folly, but did nothing to stop it as the two began grappling. Each kicking the shins of the other and trying to hook their legs around to knock the other down.

“Stop this!” Galadriel shouted, but her words went unnoticed.

‘It’ll take more than that.’

The two broke apart.

Warcwyn swung for his head. Corwin ducked beneath it, breath leaving him in a sharp grunt as he drove his shoulder into Warcwyn’s waist. The older man staggered backwards, slamming into a tree with a dull thud.

‘You’re welcome to help anytime!’

‘I didn’t invite this into our home.’

Corwin’s blows landed fast but shallow, glancing off shoulder and ribs. Warcwyn’s came slower - and when one connected, it landed like a hammer.

Warcwyn sent an uppercut into Corwin’s ribs, then grabbed him by the shirt at his shoulders, forcing them down as his knee came up to meet the boy’s face with a sickening crack.

Corwin’s head was thrown skyward and he tumbled back, his body crumpling to the floor.

Instantly, his hand went to cup his mouth – more jerk reaction than anything else – as he tried to find his feet again.

But his legs buckled. Blood ran warm between Corwin’s fingers. When he tried to lift his head again, but the world tilted - not enough to render him unconcious, but enough to know he would not win this. He dragged in air that burned all the way down, each breath slower than the last.

A murmur rolled through the refugees - fear, anger, old loyalties surfacing like scum on water. Someone shouted Corwin’s name. Someone else laughed.

Mairon watched without moving, expression unreadable - and somehow that stillness unnerved Galadriel more than the violence itself.

“Cori!” Brynneth ran to him, and immediately began fussing over his injuries to see if he were alright. Like a mother would with her son.

But Corwin shook her off. Shame and humiliation laying heavy on his brow, and nothing but contempt in the curl of his lip as he staggered to his feet, spitting blood in Warcwryn’s direction before sulking off towards the stream.

Mairon scoffed then, eliciting a contemptuous look from Galadriel as she whipped her head to look at him.

“You want to wade into this mess? Be my guest.” Mairon lifted his arms wide and shrugged, seemingly washing his hands of it before turning and heading back obstinately toward the tower.

Galadriel watched him go, brow furrowed and her mouth tightened. It had been a long time since they had not seen eye-to-eye.

“Éargstan stop! Please!”

Brynneth’s pleas brought her back to herself. Reeling round quickly she could see Warcwyn charging after Corwin and Brynneth desperately trying to hold him back. “We’ve all lost people close to us, and we can all say and do things we come to regret when we’re hurting. But now isn’t the time to be fighting amongst ourselves. Leave him be!”

But Brynneth’s words fell upon deaf ears as Warcwyn forcibly pushed her aside.

Galadriel’s eyes lit up with fury, her nostrils flaring as she bore down upon Éargstan with astounding speed.

She grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back.

Thrusting from behind, she rammed him face-first into another tree.

With her free hand, she pressed the blade of her dagger against the side of his neck, tipping the point upwards just enough for him to see how sharp it was.

“You even think about touching that boy again, I’ll put you down myself.” Galadriel hissed into his ear.

Cheek pinned against the trunk, his outward eye roamed to the dagger, to Galadriel, and over to Brynneth, before rolling upwards, eyelids flickering with disdain. “Alright,” he barked, reluctantly. “I won’t touch him.”

The dagger kissed his throat - steady, precise - though her hand burned with the knowledge that this was how it always began...

The birds had fallen silent. Only the stream still moved, and even that seemed to flow more cautiously now, as if the land itself were holding its breath.

“Good.” She seethed, “I’ll be holding you to that,” shoving him flush against the trunk before stepping backwards, releasing him. But her dagger remained poised out in front of her – a promise to Warcwyn that she would not hesitate to use it if he did not behave. “I offer you sanctuary, and you insult my hospitality by fighting in my home.” Galadriel’s eyes bore their own type of daggers as she circled the man, menacingly. “You attack one of my friends.”

“He attacked first!” Warcwyn protested.

“A boy 20 years your junior by my estimation! And no match for you! Your coming here has sown discord amongst me and mine.” Galadriel looked for Mairon without meaning to - and felt the space where he should have been like a missing step on a staircase. “So, you’re going to tell me everything you know. Then, I will decide whether or not I throw you to the wolves beyond the walls.”

Bristling, he straightened, scowling at her - staring her down for several seconds, his hands twitching at his sides, weighing his chances if he were to strike.

Galadriel stood firm, almost wishing he would try it.

The silence thrummed. The breeze stilled.

Finally, he broke his gaze and let the air out form his chest. His lips pressed and un-pressed in stubborn silence, as though he warred with himself between insult and answer.

Eventually, though reluctant, the words came, recognising a stronger hand at the table. “The orcs have been coming down from the Forodwaith in waves for the past 7 years. My mother, Bryda Warcwyn, Lady of Éoroskeld, died in the first attack.”

Her weapon still held aloft, Galadriel scanned her eyes over to Brynneth, then to Corwyn by the stream, before scrutinising Éargstan once more.

“When the second attack came, I struck a bargain with their leader.”

“Their leader?” Galadriel tilted her head, questioning.

“He looked… different than the rest. Less… twisted. He said they had found a new home… one made for them. That on their way southwards they would plunder what they needed to build their new lives.” Warcwyn’s voice grew thick, ashamed of what was next to utter past his lips. “I granted them free passage through the foothills. None from Éoroskeld would oppose them south of the Coomb.”

He lowered his eyes, unable to hold Galadriel’s gaze. “I told them to take what they needed from the nearby villages, so long as they left the Coomb be.”

He paused as he searched the ground for forgiveness. “But it was not enough. They demanded gold and other treasures – an insurance against burning the Skeld to the ground, so long as we could keep paying it.”

“That’s why you sent the men to collect your tribute.” Brynneth broke in.

Éargstan nodded gravely. “We wondered what had happened to our men, when they did not return.”

“They were ripped apart by the wolves that accompanied your orcs. The consequences of bargaining with the darkness.” Galadriel’s words cut coldly. “Go on.”

“I thought I was doing right by my people… We were meant to be safe… but the latest wave didn’t pass us by as they were meant to. They came with torches and arrows, and set our homes alight while we slept. This is all that is left.” He gestured to a group that had collected together on the lawn, many slumped over with exhaustion. “An entire town reduced to a few meagre souls”

“We met them on the road.” Added Brynneth, “Them, and others from the surrounding villages who had been driven out of their homes, just as we had. We figured we had strength in numbers, despite everything he allowed to happen to us.”

Galadriel finally lowered her blade, though she eyed Éargstan with no less suspicion. “If you were fleeing from the orcs, why come south? Why go the same way they did?”

“South?” Éargstan seemed affronted at this as he looked over at Brynneth. “We thought we were heading west.”

Brynneth stole a look in his direction that suggested a prior argument about which direction they were headed had now been settled. “We got turned about on the moor – it all begins to look the same after a while.”

Sheepishly, Warcwyn nodded, conceding yes, but also thankful she had not blamed him directly.

“Alright.” Galadriel sighed. “That will do, for now.”

Éargstan nodded again and began walking off.

“And Warcwyn?”

He stalled, looking back at Galadriel.

“Stay away from that boy.” She stared him down in a manner that brooked no argument.

Looking her up and down cautiously, his jaw tightened, before walking on.

“I’m sorry.” Brynneth approached now, holding her arms about her, and struggling to meet Galadriel’s eyeline. “For him. For this…” She forced herself to look at Galadriel. “For back then. I-” She bit down on the rest, unable or unwilling to say more, her eyes sliding away.

Galadriel stood like a stone. waiting to see if there was more.

Brynneth swallowed, “I’d just lost Cedric. And so many others died that night… my home was destroyed. Then I found out my best friend wasn’t who she said she was. She was one of those who kept us under their boot.”

“I never-”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Slowly, as if laden with the very shame she was now confessing, Brynneth’s gaze struggled upward. “It wasn’t fair, what we did to you. To both of you.”

Brynneth looked at her as though bracing for a door to close.

Galadriel’s features were grimly set as she considered Brynneth’s words. The quiet between them stretched, heavy with the memory of betrayal.

Solemnly, she gave the slightest nod of acceptance.

“Though…” Brynneth continued, the air about her lightening with the half smile she managed to conjure. “I’d say we did you a favour – this place is more wonderful than anything Arnad Dûn had to offer.”

Despite herself, Galadriel returned the smile as she looked about her home. “It is special, what we built here.”

Brynneth exhaled, tension loosening at last - and with it came the familiar refuge of wit. “And I see you spent no time locking down the most handsome man to be found south of the ice.” Brynneth sidled up beside Galadriel now, an echo of that customary sly smile gracing her lips as she nudged her friends arm with her elbow.

Galadriel’s eyes rolled. “Actually, it took longer than you think.”

“Now that I don’t believe.”

With a shake of her head, Galadriel turned. “Come, there are provisions in the tower – food, blankets. For those we cannot house inside, we can use what we have to make shelters.”

“Alright,” replied Brynneth, raising her eyebrows. “But I want all the tantalising details as we work.”

Galadriel could not hold back her laughter. “Absolutely not.”

Brynneth stopped at that, folding her arms in a show of mock petulance.

“Fine… some details.” Conceded Galadriel, wryly. And the two women, gathering help from those faring better than most, headed toward the tower.

“Thank you.” Fatigued, Galadriel shut the door softly behind her as she entered the bedroom, the moonlight filtering in from the balcony and catching the edge of something Mairon held in his hands, his back half turned away from her.

“For what?” He replied, somewhat sombrely.

Galadriel proceeded to lightly glide across the floor to him. “For the tarpaulins. I am quite sure we didn’t have any of those this morning.”

“Maybe you hadn’t looked hard enough until today.” Mairon kept his back to her, his head bowed, looking at what he held in his hand.

“Hmm.” Hummed Galadriel knowingly, as she wrapped her arms about him, her hands sliding over his tunic, round his ribs and up towards his chest. Settling there as she pressed herself against his broad back, drinking in his scent. His shoulder obscuring her view of what he cradled.

“What have you there, meleth nin?” She murmured against his shoulder blade.

He sighed, slowly. “My surprise.”

Keeping her hands firmly on his body, she circled round, and he raised his arm for her to duck under and settle in against his chest. When she did, she gasped at what she saw.

“I made these for us.” He mused, gently. “So we could be rulers of our own quiet Kingdom, hidden away from the world…”

In his hand, Mairon held a delicate crown wrought of the brightest silver – same as her ring. Its arc was made of the most intricate weave of interlacing vines, curling round to the peak at its front, whereby a single, large diamond sat at the centre of an eight-pointed star, held aloft by the vines as a though it were the head of a flower.

On the dresser next to him, sat a larger circlet – of gold this time. Rather than a set of intricate vines, this one was one solid ring of gold, raising to a point, atop of which sat an obsidian disc, eclipsing a blazing sun underneath – a corona of fire licking outward as though trying to set the very darkness aflame.

“They’re beautiful…” Galadriel breathed, daring to send out a tentative hand to touch what she assumed was her own. She traced her fingertips along the metalwork. Power hummed there - quiet, contained. The kind that waited. She knew, with a chill of recognition, how easily a world could be shaped around such stillness. She then settled her hand upon his, gently stroking the space between his knuckles. “But who would we be wearing them for?” she asked softly. “A kingdom needs subjects.”

Mairon shrugged, contemplating. “It was just a bit of fun really. Something we could wear on special occasions maybe. I could pretend to be a King, a good one, if you can believe it…” He raised an eyebrow at her, and her eyes creased knowingly in response, her smile warm enough to take the chill off the autumn breeze.

“And you would be my Queen.” His voice had dropped to a silken murmur. “Only, that part wouldn’t be pretend, because that’s exactly what you are. There would be nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you, or make for you. You would want for nothing.”

The word settled in her chest with startling ease. Queen. His Queen. For one treacherous heartbeat, she imagined it - the two of them crowned not for conquest, but for constancy. A realm that asked nothing of them except to endure. Together.

She pulled her gaze away from the crown and up towards Mairon, a quiet serenity settling in her eyes. “I already want for nothing.”

Mairon frowned, setting the crown down on the dresser next to his. “Then why bring their problems into our home.” He whispered his words, as if unwilling to say them, unwilling to have the argument he knew would ensue. But saying them all the same.

Untucking herself from his arm, Galadriel faced him, her lips pressed together in a tangle of guilt and annoyance. “I didn’t mean to breach our peace. The last thing I want is for anything to disturb our paradise.” She whispered back to him, a soft hand coming to rest upon his cheek while her thumb stroked back and forth under his eye. “But where would they have gone if I hadn’t allowed them in? Waywardly stumbling further south? Into the very jaws of those they were fleeing? We had the means to provide aid and I gave it to them. It is not something I thought you would begrudge. So, what is this really about?”

Mairon sighed, and lowered his gaze, the crinkle along his brow still worrying it as he curled his fingers about her hand and slowly removed it from his cheek. Enveloping it with both hands, he found the found the strength to look at her again, though it seemed to cost him. “This is the end of our time here, isn’t it?”

Pity took hold of Galadriel then. Knowing that he had been hiding here just as much as she. That within these walls everything that he had been was trapped within another life, one that he would never have to face so long as they remained where they were. And it pained her now to have to give the answer he already knew was coming.

“The orcs… are as much our problem as theirs. More so even. We knew that they were on the move and still we retreated from the world, caring not for the carnage that they were unleashing. I was so caught up in pursuing you, that when I realised I had found you, I grew blind to the other evils in the world. Thinking them inconsequential in comparison.”

Mairon’s face twisted uncomfortably, darkening with both insult and regret at Galadriel so easily lumping him in with the other evil creatures of this world. No, not quite. He was worse – so much so that she gave up her pursuit of it once he was found.

She stepped into his space, placing her hand on the outside of his that still cradled her other. She squeezed his fingers, placatingly. “You know what I mean… but we did this. We left. When there was work still to do. I may have no need or desire to avenge the deeds of your past… but I have a duty to try and rid the world of the evil that still lingers, even though your heart is no longer black.”

Mairon closed his eye in solemn misery, knowing there would be no changing her mind on this. “I don’t want you to leave.”

She let out the faintest breath of a laugh, softened by pity and affection, coaxing a disbelieving smile from her. After all this time, he was still afraid of being abandoned.

She pressed her forehead to his, her next words drifting past her lips as softly as a prayer. “How little you know of my love for you, if you think I am going to leave you behind. This is a chance for you to right some wrongs. To do some good for this world, and perhaps even find your place in it - one that bears no burden of ruling it, but saving it, just as you have always wanted.”

He stared down at the space between them. Lips trembling between hatred for himself and his love for her. Disgust at his own weakness seeping into his brow. “I can’t go out there. Out there, I am still the monster they whisper about in their fireside tales. Alone, I could bear it. But with you beside me… to have you see it, Galadriel-” His voice cracked under the weight of his despair. “I don’t want to see the horrified look in your eyes every time we encounter more of my wrongdoings. Imagine it - every ruined keep, every widow’s wail, and me standing there like a tour guide of atrocities… For me to help fix things, we’re going to have to face them head on. You will see all of me… and I worry… that you will no longer love me once you do.”

“Oh, my love.” She cradled his face in her hands, gliding gentle circles along his cheekbones. “There is nothing on this earth that could make me stop loving you, especially that which I already know, and forgave the moment I realised you did what you did because you had never known love. Not real love. Now that you know it, and your heart is whole. How could I possibly take that away?”

He wrapped his arms tightly about her waist, drawing her flush against his body, his fingers clutching at her flesh as though she were too perfect to be real and he feared she might disappear at any moment - like a ghost on the breeze - if he did not hold on tight to keep her there.

He stooped, burying his face into the hollow of her neck, his words muffled against her skin. “When it’s done, we’ll come back? Pick up this life?”

She caressed the back of his head now, calmingly rippling her fingers through his waves. “Our home will be here when we return,” she soothed. “And we will live just as we have done these past years, in peace, together.”

“Where do we even start? Do we erase them from existence? You’ve killed more of them than any elf alive… But I’m guessing that fact doesn’t lighten your soul. Nor do I think it will lighten mine.”

“No… we cannot heal what’s been hurt by killing. I have no love for them, but slaughtering them is perhaps not the best way forward in the long-term, for them… or you. For now, let us try and help these people recover, and try to pick up the orcs trail south. At the very least I must warn Eregion – it stands right in their path. Anything beyond that… we will cross that bridge when we come to it. I don’t want to wade into a war. And I don’t want to leave our life here… but who knows how many more they will butcher along their way. I cannot stand by knowing I can help. I need to finish what I started, with you at my side.”

He sighed into her neck, “These people cast you out, the elves cast you out… you do not owe them anything.”

“Doing the right thing is not about weighing up what we’re owed.”

She felt him smile against her skin. “My beautiful elf, still teaching me how to step into the light.”

“I thought I was your light.” A thread of teasing warmth crept back into her voice.

Mairon chuckled softly into her hair. “You are, calinya.”

But then he stiffened slightly, and pulled away from her, wincing as he did so. Sighing, he confessed: “I know where they’re going.”

Chapter Text

“You’ll look after my garden, won’t you?”

“I’ll try my best – it’s a lot to look after, but I’m sure I can rope in some help.”

“You’ll be safe here, while we’re away. And when we return, we will help find a new place for you to settle out of danger.”

“If you return at all, it’ll be because you’ve rid us of the danger, right?”

“That is the hope.” In truth, Galadriel wasn’t sure what the outcome would be. Although her and Mairon had spoken of finding a different solution, in her heart Galadriel knew that violence would be required. And if that was the case, their band of 20 volunteers had little hope of making an impact on the great numbers of orcs now streaming southwards.

Everything pinned on Celebrimbor lending aid.

She squeezed Brynneth’s hands and forced a smile.

“You will return?” Brynneth found it hard to contain the desperate longing not to lose anymore of her friends, her family. It broke Galadriel’s heart to see her friend so diminished she would not join them on their journey. This the same Brynneth who refused to be left behind the day they hunted the wolves.

Galadriel assured her with a nod. “We will.” Now was not the time for doubt.

“Keep an eye on Cori? I know I’m not his mother, and he’s not Ced but…”

“We will keep on the straight and narrow. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

They embraced a final time, before Galadriel turned and crossed the lawn to where the rest of the expedition party had gathered by the archway, readying to leave. The overcast conditions did little to subvert their rag-tag appearance – a cobbled together band of men and women, all already hollowed and grim-faced by the horrors they’d seen, but at least their spirits had not eroded that they were unwilling to help track down the orcs and stop them before they could enact their plan. Many had expressed how they could not sit idly by while more lives and homes were destroyed - if they were able to stop them at all, and only if they were not too late already. They were so far north, and the orcs had been streaming southward for the past few years already. It left little hope to be desired.

Mairon had, of course, told Galadriel of the plan to transform the Southlands – to make a realm where orcs could roam free without fear of sunlight. A new stronghold from which he could enact his plans. It had pained her to learn of it, as it did whenever she dwelled too long on Mairon’s past, but his resolve to try and set things right bolstered her, and now the time had come to leave.

As Galadriel strode towards where the outbound party had gathered, she noticed Lorgìr watching on, his shoulders slumped as though the weight of the world were on him.

“Are you sure I cannot convince you to come, Lorgìr?” Galadriel said, kindly, as she approached.

He exhaled, answering slowly. “I’ve seen enough of orcs… and wolves for that matter.”

“But still, you are torn.”

He nodded solemnly. “I want to go… for Shyâl, but…”

Galadriel gave him an empathetic smile, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes the best way to honour our dead, is by living the life we were always meant to live. No doubt Shyâl would want you to be happy, living a peaceful life away from war, away from sorrow.”

Lorgìr’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as though some thought had fallen into place. “Life, in defiance of death.”

“Now you sound like an elf.” She smiled again and nodded, encouragingly. “Take heart, and live well, Lorgìr. I expect to hear many a mundane tale on our return.”

He smiled bashfully, “I think I can manage that.”

She squeezed his shoulder once more and turned to join the company. Corwin had hold of Rána’s reins – he had taken a shine to the horse in the last couple of weeks, taking him freshly selected carrots and chatting to him when he wasn’t busy helping Brynneth organising the stores and divvying out supplies. Rána seemed to have a fondness for him also, and so Galadriel let Corwin become her unofficial stable-hand; meaning keeping Rána healthy and looked-after was one less thing to worry about for the moment. Although the way Corwin and Éargstan kept glaring at each other certainly added to her list of concerns… she would have to keep an eye on both of them on the long journey south.

Mairon was packing the final few essentials into Rána’s saddlebags when he looked around and spotted Galadriel approaching. Although he was dressed in simple travelling garb – a plain tunic, riding-trousers and leather boots, Galadriel thought the dark-blue cloak he wore made him look far more regal than the average traveller. Which of course he was not, and really, she had no cause to be so surprised at the lofty air that seemed to settle about him. He was, after all, one of the Ainur; a god amongst men.

She smiled broadly at him as she closed the distance. He must have sensed what she was thinking, and he made a point to look at her as though she were the most precious and beautiful of all Eru’s creations. For all Galadriel’s distinct lack of power, she held more sway over him than any god, and filled his heart with more warmth than any lantern or tree. She was his goddess, and in a single look of reverence and devotion, he made it clear that there was nothing in this world he would not do to make sure they would never be parted.

She was still smiling as she took his hand and let him guide her up into the saddle – ever a welcome if not somewhat futile gesture. As he climbed up and settled himself behind her, she could feel him leaning in to smell her hair. “Mmm, apple… and sweet peas.”

“Will you still love me when my hair smells of dirt and sweat?” She murmured over her shoulder, relaxing into him.

“You mean you’re not bringing your garden with us?”

“Seems highly impractical. I’m bringing one bar of soap, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.”

“Perhaps that’s no bad thing – it’s been a while since I’ve smelt your more …earthier tones. I can’t be held accountable for the way I might act when I do.” Mairon’s voice was thick with suggestion.

“And just when do you suppose we’ll have the opportunity for any privacy?”

“You know me – I’ll create one.”

Galadriel exhaled through her smile and shook her head, fondly. She had no doubt Mairon would find some way for them to find time alone – it would be a long journey after all. While they rode Rána, the others in their company were on foot, and they would have to defer to their pace. It would take the better part of a month to reach Eregion, and another three weeks to reach the Southlands after that. It was hard to believe either of them could go that long without lying together at least once either side of the elven city. At least there would be opportunity within the city, so long as, that is, the city still stood.

Although it did not trouble her at the time, it worried Galadriel now that she had cut herself off from the outside world these past few years, and had no clue as to how the elves were fairing, especially those in the direct path of the orcs.

What would they find when they got there?

What would they come back to, if they made it back at all?

She swept her gaze over the cherished parts of her home: the tower, the pool, the sprawling terraces of her garden - picking at a hangnail and chewing on her bottom lip.

“It will still be here, when we return, calinya.” Mairon reassured her, speaking softly to the tip of her ear.

“How can you be so sure?” She whispered back.

“Because the enchantment that protects it is powered by love.”

She smiled quietly at his words, and eased herself further into his chest while he wrapped his arms about her. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He ghosted his lips along her hairline as he held her tighter.

“The company is ready to set out at your command, my Lord, my Lady.” Dïgelmunde, called to them as she stepped out from among the throng – a steadfast young woman of twenty-six from one of the other villages further east of the Coombe. Her dark hair was braided to one side and suited the gloomy attire she had chosen for travelling.

Many of the menfolk had taken to calling Mairon by ‘my Lord’ or ‘Lord Halbrand’, purely out of acknowledgement that he and Galadriel were obviously together, and her status, at least, could not be refuted. Even those that were still wary of elves quickly conceded to the majority after she had shown them such kindness.

Éargstan stood apart from the others, arms folded tight across his chest, his gaze fixed not on the road ahead, but on her. When their eyes met, he did not look away. Instead, his mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile.

“Are you ready?” Mairon asked, at a volume only she could hear.

Flitting her gaze back to the tower one last time, Galadriel took a long, resigned breath – steeling herself to leave the place she had felt most at home in all her long years. Measured against those years, she had been there for but a blink of an eye. Nevertheless, it had been theirs – hers and Mairon’s. And now duty called them away.

She nodded her head solemnly, smiling grimly when she felt Mairon’s grip around her tighten.

‘We will return, my love. I don’t know how I know it, but I can feel it in my bones – when all the toil is done, we will live out the rest of our lives here.’

Speaking aloud now, Mairon gave the order: “Then let’s move out.”

Glancing upward at the darkening sky, Galadriel’s thoughts turned southward.

The going was steady. All those that had volunteered for the expedition were generally strong and fit. Éargstan had discouraged any of those who had thought about coming who were not so capable. While Galadriel had not necessarily approved of the way he went about letting people down (all too dismissive and brusque for her liking), she had to admit they were now making steady progress south.

On the way, if she was going to at least try and keep the peace in their group, she would have to find some civility towards the man. So, she took to addressing him as Éargstan, as everyone else did.

Mairon did not, however. To him, the man was Warcwyn - a name that signalled his complete lack of intention to get to know the man better.

The rain had come down hard on the first day, soaking an already saturated land. So, Mairon had taken Rána to scout ahead and find the best (and driest) route.

Galadriel pondered on how he could have crossed the land in moments if he allowed himself to change into an eagle or use one to spy ahead. Instead, necessity meant he was restricted to using Rána’s legs. No doubt he would come back wet, and mud-splattered. Not that he would mind – too much.

While he was gone, Éargstan took it upon himself to apologise to Galadriel for his behaviour towards her and Corwin, halting in front of her so she would have to stop and listen.

“I spoke out of turn before,” Éargstan said, lowering his head. But his eyes lifted again too quickly, sharp and searching, as though gauging how far his contrition might carry him. He even dared to offer her a kiss on the hand – his lips barely brushed her skin, yet he lingered a heartbeat too long, as though waiting to see whether she would pull away.

Though bold, it was something he quickly and sheepishly thought better of when Mairon returned earlier than he was expecting. Though, the half-fulfilled gesture did not go unnoticed by Mairon – catching how Éargstan hastily dropped her hand when he caught sight of him.

Something old and violent stirred at the back of his mind - a reflex honed over ages. It would have been effortless to break the man where he stood.

He let the thought pass.

But from then on, Mairon kept a sharp eye on him.

Along their journey, an hour every morning and evening were set aside for combat training - giving these humble villagers at least a basic understanding of how to gut an orc, was a must. By the rate at which many of them were picking it up, their little band of villagers would be a rather effective strike force soon enough.

It became apparent that Corwin had a particular aptitude for swordplay, and Galadriel was pleasantly surprised to see Mairon take a shine to him – offering more of his time to tutor the young man in the art than anyone else.

It was good for him – the socialisation – she thought. The last few years it had just been the two of them, and before that he had spent the better part of a thousand years chained to the sea cliffs. And certainly, any relationships before that time were no doubt based on power imbalances and manipulations. There was, of course the few months he had spent in Arnad Dûn, but who’s to say that any of his interactions with the inhabitants were genuine in that time? Except, perhaps, his time with her. Even under the pretence of a false identity, Galadriel had long ago decided that Mairon meant every word he spoke to her at that time, so long as it didn’t give him away.

This was better though - the continuation of his false identity among the village-folk notwithstanding - it felt as though he were making connections on a sincere footing now. It was everything Galadriel could hope for.

One evening, two weeks into their journey, they had made camp around on the edge of a small woodland where the company engaged in their routine drills and sparring practise. They were working in pairs, testing out a new set of stances and forms, and Mairon had again stepped in to assist Corwin with his footwork.

“Your power comes from your legs, so when you thrust the blade, make sure to push from your back foot. If you do it right, your hip should follow through. Feel the difference?”

Corwin gave it a try, a little clumsily bit with conviction at least. “Sort of…”

There was a time when teaching had meant bending others to his will - rewriting, reshaping, breaking. Now, he corrected footwork and timing, forcing himself to accept imperfection. Still, Mairon clapped the boy on the shoulder. “It’s just timing, you’ll get the hang of it. You’ll need it if you want to pierce an orc’s armour, anything less and you’ll find you’ve left your arm out just to get chopped off.”

Corwin’s eyes widened and his brow creased with alarm.

“Keep practising.” Mairon laughed and let him carry on with a different partner, continuing down the line and lending his expertise where needed.

“My Lady.”

Mairon’s ears pricked up.

He looked up to the far end of the line, quickly spotting where Warcwyn had collared Galadriel as she was inspecting the progress of those up that end.

"I would value your instruction, if you would be so kind." Warcwyn flashed her a saccharine smile in a way that made Mairon's gut twist. He clenched his jaw and watched on menacingly from under his brow.

"Did the Lord of Éoroskeld not receive the best instruction the Michel Coombe had to offer in his youth?" Galadriel replied, politely but somewhat reluctant.

Good, thought Mairon. Don't let him draw you in.

"I did." Warcwyn admitted, a sheepish hand rubbing the back of his neck. "But even so, I would appreciate some further guidance from the warrior who bested me in only two moves." His gaze flicked, briefly but unmistakably, to where Mairon stood further down the line - measuring.

There was a pause while Galadriel considered his request.

Tell him to practice on someone else - share his 'skills'. Mairon was still glaring their way, completely ignoring how one of the pairs to his right had managed to split open his partner's finger.

Galadriel looked Éargstan up and down, pursing her lips as she did so, before curtly inclining her head in acceptance.

Fuck.

She drew her sword slowly - the need to travel light had meant there was no option to bring practice weapons along, so they were all using the real ones they would no doubt need later.

Assuming a ready stance, she nodded to him to make the first move.

Warcwyn lunged with sword thrust forward, and Galadriel parried it away easily as she whirlled around and took up position where Warcwyn originally stood. "Your eyes belie your intentions - you give away where you intend to strike."

"Do I not need to look at my opponent in order to fight them effectively?" He retorted, slightly too playfully for Mairon's liking.

"You do." Galadriel's tone was matter-of-fact. "But focus on their moves, not your own - what you do should be instinctual. If the Lord practiced as much as he should, this would already be the case."

"I am loath to admit I perhaps did not practice as I should." The words were light, but there was something brittle beneath them, as though he resented the very fact that her skill eclipsed his own.

Even so, a smirk crept across Warcwyn's face in a way that made Mairon grind his teeth and flare his nostrils.

"But alas, I was without such a capable sparring partner. If I had, perhaps I would have practised more." He bowed in deference to Galadriel, who simply arched an unimpressed eyebrow. Trying her best to remain courteous.

That's enough.

Mairon's patience for Warwyn's thinly veiled flirting had worn thin, and he would be lying if he said thoughts of killing him hadn't flashed across his mind just then. Some days it felt a shame that dealing with things that way was behind him, but even so, he opted instead for striding over to the pair with purpose and making his presence known. "May I borrow you, my love?"

He made no attempt at suggesting why - he need not explain himself to the other man.

Taking Galadriel's arm, he led her away, noting the disgruntled look Warcwyn sported as he passed him by.

"Is everything alright?" She asked once they had walked far enough to grant themselves some privacy with hushed voices.

"Do I need a reason to want a moment with you?" His tone was light-hearted, tinged with feigned mocking. "Hmm? The woman I love? Does she not want a moment with me?"

But Galadriel knew him far too well for his poorly constructed deflection to hold any weight. "It's Éargstan, isn't it?" Her eyes were scrutinising him, but her smile was making fun.

He shifted his weight and scuffed the earth with his shoe, looking down and quickly back up to her. "And if it was?"

"Then I should remind the man I love, that I find Éargstan's company only tolerable at best, and that any advancements he makes will be met with civil indifference." She stepped into his space slowly, bringing her hands up to rest on his chest as she leaned in further. "And I would also point out, that my man won my heart a long time ago, and he happens to be the best man I know."

"Now..." Mairon sheepishly twisted his mouth to the side.

"He has convinced me he is not what he once was, and is making amends for his past with every step south we take. So, he needn't worry about my heart straying. It is his, for always."

Pulling on his cloak, Galadriel raised herself up on her tip-toes and planted a tender, lingering kiss upon his lips.

He was slow to open his eyes again after she pulled away. “Is he looking?” He murmured.

She stole a quick glance at Éargstan over his shoulder before responding. “Mmm hmm.”

“Does he look happy?”

“No.”

“Good.” At that, Mairon bent to kiss her again, more passionately this time, his tongue ardently seeking hers as he stroked his fingers round the side of her neck, sending pleasant shivers across her skin. Neither seemed to care about the spectacle they were putting on, and for Mairon, that was exactly the point.

Out of the corner of her eye, Galadriel noticed Éargstan’s grip tightening on his sword hilt, knuckles whitening. She thought about stopping - but she was not about to let this oaf of a man dictate anything she did, so she allowed herself to be carried away in the moment.

The sound of swords clashing seemed to increase the longer they indulged in their embrace – many no doubt intentionally focussing all the harder on their training to avoid staring at the somewhat inappropriate display from their lord and Lady, who were in no rush to break away from each other.

That was, until-

“Bastard!” I’ll fucking kill you!”

Both Mairon and Galadriel whipped their heads round to see Corwin and Éargstan on the floor – the boy astride the older man’s chest with hands at his throat.

Blood was streaming from a deep gash that split Corwin’s cheek.

“Stop!” Galadriel yelled, but her words went unheeded.

Mairon did not hesitate. But did not think either. Raising his hand, and still several feet away, he was about to remove Corwin from Warcwyn with one swift flick of his wrist.

Power surged instinctively to the surface - eager, obedient, terrifying in its readiness.

But Galadriel grabbed his arm, and he paused. She looked at him in disbelief that he would opt for sorcery in front of all these people who think him merely a man.

The magic recoiled, burning back into him like a denied breath.

Gritting his teeth, frustrated at both his carelessness and his imposed limitations, Mairon rushed over, grabbing Corwin by the shoulders and yanking him off Warcwyn - as much as he rather enjoyed the sight of the former Lord of the Coombe being strangled.

“What madness is this?” Galadriel demanded.

“He started it!” Protested Corwin, “he cut my face up on purpose, the malicious git!”

“The boy was simply too slow.” Warcwyn croaked hoarsely as he staggered to his feet, holding his throat. “It’s not my fault if he can’t block in time.”

“Fuck that!” Corwin bit back, struggling in Mairon’s grasp. “You came over and started slashing at me without warning!”

Galadriel’s eyes went to Éargstan’s blade. The cut was too clean, too deliberate to have been an accident.

“And you think the enemy will give you warning, will they?” Éargstan squared off.

“You’ve scarred my face!”

Mairon did not fail to notice the hatred in Warcwyn’s eyes – for Corwin. For him. No doubt the man thought attacking Corwin would provide easy relief to his frustrations.

“Enough!” Commanded Galadriel, her voice cut cleanly through the noise as she looked at each man in turn. “I don’t care who started it, or why is was necessary to draw blood. Corwin – go get yourself stitched up then you can help prepare supper. You’ll wash up afterwards as well. And Éargstan, you can spend the next two hours scouting the terrain ahead for tomorrow’s march. If I see either of you fighting again, I’ll discharge you from this company, and you can have the honour of explaining to those back home why you have returned earlier than the rest of us!”

The two men exchanged a sour look. Neither spoke, before Éargstan finally skulked off.

Corwin shook off Mairon’s hands and did the same.

“I’ve known Cori half his life,” mused Galadriel. “But still… this is trouble.”

“Mmm.” Mairon agreed, his eyes narrowing as he watched Corwin retreat under the shelter of the trees. He stood still long after the others dispersed, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides - something old stirred at the back of Mairon’s mind. He turned away before it could take shape.

The night was a bright one. Even under the canopy of the wood, the light of the full moon lent such a steely hue to the land that even a low-man could see fairly well without straining. For Galadriel, with the stars alight and the moon shining, she could see almost as well as in the daylight. With the company asleep, she found this was the best time to hone her own fighting skills – keenly aware that she had not had cause to use them in a long while.

Mairon found her in a small clearing not far from where the others were resting, and for a moment he simply leant himself against a tree and admired the sight of her as she practised hacking her enemy to pieces – her blade flashing silver whenever it caught the moonlight. She wasn’t holding back, and in the still night air, Mairon watched as her breath formed lingering mists that, with no breeze to carry them away, only faded after all warmth had seeped from them.

“Making enemies with the wind again, calinya?” He stepped out from the shadow of the tree.

“Without a suitable training partner, sparring with the wind was my only option.” She lowered her blade and walked languidly over to him, her chin held high in expectation.

“It seems I have been remiss in my duties.” He stepped into her space and with one finger, he gently traced her jawline, letting it linger under the tip of her chin. “If my Lady required a partner, she need only have asked.”

Galadriel narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him, amusement curling one corner of her mouth. “And you think yourself suitable, do you?”

He stepped closer still, tilting her head upwards so her lips were in line with his. “Out of everyone here, I’m the only one that can provide a challenge. If you’re up to it, that is.”

Narrowing her eyes further, she hummed in response before stepping back. As she did so, she placed the point of her blade at his chest and used it to push off even further, putting the length of the sword between them. “Alright. It is rare I turn down a good challenge after all. If, that is, you can deliver on your claim.”

He flicked his attention down to where the blade still rested at his chest, before looking up at her again from under his brow, a wicked glint in his eye. Keeping his gaze fixed, he guided the sword away with a single finger. “You know full well that I can.”

Galadriel adopted a ready stance. “Then put up your sword.”

Mairon’s jaw twitched with mischievous delight as he slowly drew his sword from its sheath and held it aloft. “Ready?”

“If you are.”

They closed the distance in a breath. Steel rang as her first strike skimmed past his guard, but he turned with it fluidly, catching her return swing on the flat of his blade.

She pressed forward, testing him with quick, precise cuts; he answered with broader, deceptive arcs meant to force her footing open.

Blow met blow in a crackling rhythm - clang, slide, pivot, thrust - until one of her strikes met his in perfect opposition. Their blades crossed and locked, edges grinding, faces inches apart as they both pushed in a contest of strength and will.

Raising an eyebrow, Mairon did nothing to hide his exhilaration. But beneath his roguish gaze, something hungrier stirred. “It’s been a long time since we sparred like this.”

Galadriel gritted her teeth with the effort. “Probably because the last time we did, you broke my ribs.”

With a sharp twist of her wrist, she rolled the lock aside and knocked his blade off-line. She pivoted around him, forcing him to turn quickly to keep her in sight, their swords meeting again and again in flickering arcs as their conversation threaded through the clash of metal.

“I fixed them as well, if you remember.” Mairon jested.

“Hmm… a ploy no doubt.” Her tone seemingly unamused.

He caught her next thrust and redirected it away with ruthless efficiency, opening up her defences. He stepped into her guard before she could recover. Catching her sword-arm by the wrist, he shoved at her chest with his other – his blade dangerously close to her neck.

She retreated one step. Then another.

His relentless strength drove her backwards, until her shoulders blades bit against bark. Pinning her to the tree, he angled the cold flat of his sword against the delicate line of her throat, fixing her in place with playful threat.

Her pulse spiked - not with fear, but recognition. A warmth from a fire neither one of them had ignited for far too long.

“It must have worked,” he gloated, “judging by the way you looked at me after.”

Galadriel tried to twist to the side, attempting to force his blade away with her free hand, muscles tightening with the effort. But Mairon held firm, far too strong, his sword barely budging. Frustration flooded her features before she stilled, jaw set in defiance.

She spat out her words in frustration. “I ran away, if you remember.”

Her body fell limp, feigning defeat. But an instant later she gripped her sword hard and tried to wring her wrist free from his vice.

Mairon smashed the back of her hand against the tree trunk, and the sword fell from her grasp. He fixed her gaze with a knowing stare, the gold flecks in his irises glowing intensely against the green.

He held himself back only where it mattered - never enough to frighten her, never enough to forget himself entirely.

“But not before you almost kissed me.” His voice dropped to a scandalous murmur as he pressed his body against hers.

She raised her chin in a show of rebelliousness. “A woeful lapse in judgement. One I doubt I’ll repeat.”

He smirked at her then. “You trying to convince me you didn’t want to?”

“I believe I hated you at the time.” She replied with a slow, fluttering eye-roll.

“Then why did you have such… vivid dreams of me that night?” Mairon made a point to roll his hips against her on the word ‘vivid’.

Galadriel drew in a slow shuddering breath as he did so, feeling the heat it drew from between her thighs.

She recognised the look in his eyes - and felt the answering pull in herself. If this was where he was going, she would not be the one to turn away.

“Why did you sneak a glimpse of them?” She looked at him now from under her lashes, a salacious sparkle in her gaze. “It wasn’t very gallant of you. And I’m still not fully convinced you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Leaning in, Mairon lowered the blade a little so he could place a soft trail of kisses along her neck. “Would you be angry at me if I said I did?”

“Yes.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against her skin. “Then I didn’t.”

“And here’s me thinking you had done away with your old ways.”

He drew upwards, releasing her wrist and placing his hand over his heart as if wounded. “I have,” he said, drawing the blade away from her throat now and tossing it to the ground. “See?”

She cocked her eyebrow and gave him a quasi-sceptical look.

He huffed and bent his head, brushing his forehead against hers in something more sincere now. “I know you can feel the light in my heart.”

She closed her eyes and smiled, reaching for him through their connection. “I can…”

“But…” He straightened, and looked at her with hooded eyes. “That doesn’t mean I can’t still be wicked.” Slowly, his hands began to pull at the laces of her trousers. “Goodness doesn’t equate to being nice.”

It was then she realised at some point during this exchange, he’d managed to unlace his own trousers, and she arched an eyebrow at the sight of him – erect and on display.

Deliberately, he began to slip her trousers down her curves, and she gave him a crooked smile as she looked up at him tantalisingly through her lashes.

“A good man can’t be nice?” She mused.

Bending down, he laughed against her stomach as he continued to remove her clothes. Finding himself at her thighs, he began sliding off her boots and slipping her trousers over her feet.

“No.” He slowly made his way back up her legs, leaving a trail of lazy kisses along her inner thighs and hovering his mouth over her core. “Nice men are cowards.”

“And good men?”

“Good men…” Suddenly he was up, hooking a hand around her knee and curling it around his hips. “…have to make hard decisions.” He punctuated his point by thrusting himself inside her.

She gasped at the shock of it.

He pulled almost all the way out before plunging back in, sinking himself as deep as he could go, feeling her walls reshape to accommodate him, even though they were not quite ready.

Then he stilled, and looked her dead in the eye. “Hard decisions divide people. Not everyone will think them nice.”

“And if I don’t think them nice?”

He rolled his hips, pressing harder against that sweet place deep inside. She knew exactly how far he would go - and where he would stop. That knowledge steadied her even as her pulse quickened.

She dragged in a broken breath and his voice came drawling after. “I have ways of convincing you.”

Éargstan awoke to something falling on him - a small, hard object hitting him on the temple and rolling away. With a groan, he groped about on the fabric of his bedroll until his fingers fumbled over something wooden and irregular. He held it up in the moonlight - a pinecone.

Tossing it aside, he rolled over and was resolved to going back to sleep - until that is, he heard the sound of steel clashing with steel. He frowned, and tried to ignore it. But the relentless ringing of metal was cutting harshly through the still night air. It was so loud in fact, that he wondered why it hadn't awoken him before now, and why no one else seemed to be stirred by it.

With a huff, he threw off his blanket and went to investigate. He stumbled lethargically through the wood toward the sound, annoyed that his sleep had been disrupted and was not in the mood to be kind or patient with whoever was responsible. He had gone about fifty yards, picking his way through the undergrowth when he caught a flash of steel.

Éargstan stopped walking.

He wasn't sure why, but at the sight of it, a cold dread seemed to seep into his bones, sending shivers across his flesh. All conviction he had about confronting the culprits fizzled away and he found himself scrambling for somewhere to hide.

Ducking behind the nearest tree, he pressed himself against the trunk, then went still.

He was breathing too loud - tried his best to slow it. But, the pounding in his ears made it was difficult to judge how loud he was being.

The clanging of swords had stopped, replaced by quiet murmurs on the air.

Éargstan dared to peer round the tree.

Some unseen force was pulling him towards the clearing, despite his fear and his desire to run away.

But he still could not see much. He needed to get closer.

Carefully, he tip-toed his way over to another tree a little closer to the clearing. He had only made it halfway before he froze.

Another sound - different this time - the sound of a woman moaning.

Inching closer, he kept his focus on his destination. All too keenly away that he’d be heard at this distance if he put a foot wrong.

When he reached the tree he clung to it, breathing a silent sigh of relief.

The moans had become louder, breathier. And intermingled now were the sounds of a male voice, groaning in turn.

Éargstan could barely move. His limbs had stiffened. His neck was so tense it was sending shooting pains up into his skull.

What was this hollowing fear he felt?

He closed his eyes, and tried to shake it off.

No use.

Still the urge to look spurred him on, like a moth to a flame.

Trembling, he peeked his head out.

His chest seized and he forgot to breath, as though his ribs were caving in on themselves. A sickness stirred in the pit of his stomach, and disgust screwed up his features.

There, pressed against a tree trunk on the edge of the clearing, was Galadriel – both legs wrapped around Halbrand who was vigorously fucking her.

All this, Éargstan had expected to see, the sounds they were both making left little to the imagination.

The disgust, was for what he did not expect.

Halbrand – staring him down over Galadriel’s shoulder as if he expected him to be there, as if he knew he was snooping. His eyes never left Éargstan’s as he redoubled his efforts and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his face as he tore ever more fevered gasps from her.

The terror Éargstan had felt boiled over – his skin almost pulsated with it and a deafening thrum rebounded in his mind.

Disorientated.

A noxious cacophony pounded again and again.

The pressure was building, compressing against this skull.

But through it all one word pierced through the din and rang clear and terrible, silencing all else until there was nothing in its wake…

Mine.

Chapter Text

“What do we tell them, when we get to Eregion?” Galadriel spoke softly, her head rested on Mairon’s chest, and she was drawing slow circles over his tunic with her fingertips.

It was early – the rest of their company were not likely to wake for a while yet. Their shared bedroll was a little way apart from the rest of the group, but still, they spoke in hushed voices.

“You think they’ll be able to sense our bond?” Mairon brushed his lips over her hairline.

“Not all perhaps… Celebrimbor maybe, and a few others.”

“You think he’ll disapprove?”

There was a pause while Galadriel chewed her cheek, not wholly wanting to say it out loud. “As a man...” She began slowly, “my choice to love you will be questioned. You’re not even meant to be a man of Númenor.”

“A few questions never hurt anyone.”

“It’s not that it’s…” Her fingers worried at the tie of his cloak now. “The last time I saw any of my people, I was cast out. Marked as a pariah who was bent on finding Sauron, even if it meant burning the whole of Arda down to do it.”

Mairon made no response at the mention of his former, detested name, but began gently massaging his fingers through her hair.

“They already believe me to be wayward in my path. If I turn up at the gates of Eregion with a human lover in tow… it will not soften them to our needs.” She peered up at him now, ensuring he understood the weight of their hardship. “We need Celebrimbor to lend elves to our cause if we are to put up any kind of challenge against the orcs. If we’re going to stop them from unleashing Oroduin.”

Her thoughts turned to the dam at Ostirith, and the plume of ash that would consume the lands around the fire mountain. She imagined the sky a’smoke - a permanent veil for the sun under which orcs would roam freely, multiplying, thriving. They were meant to help usher in a new world – one that would know him as its saviour, its ruler, its tyrant…

“Then, perhaps you don’t turn up at the gate with a human lover.”

Galadriel shifted at that, propping herself up on her elbow and twisting to look at him – a question in her gaze.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore.” He stroked his fingertips across her cheek, gliding them down to her jaw and tracing the line of it.

Her eyes pressed closed at his touch before opening them again, sceptically. “But you’re already pretending. To the men of the north, you are simply a man. You’ve done nothing to contradict that narrative.”

“It was a narrative that was already in place from before. It’s difficult to change the story once it’s already established…” A small crinkle appeared on his brow. “I don’t wish to weave new tales though, if there’s no need.”

Her eyebrows rose incredulously. “Are you seriously suggesting we tell the truth?”

“No. But… it needn’t be so different.” He laced his fingers through hers as they rested on his chest. “What if I am an emissary from Valinor? We wouldn’t have to make lies about me being a man, nor conceal my powers. It would be less frowned upon for us to be together. If anything, it should raise you above all others in their esteem, and make them more likely to loan us soldiers.” He brought her fingers to his lips and placed a chaste kiss upon them.

Galadriel considered for a moment. “But what about those who have journeyed with us? We cannot maintain both lies.”

“We tell them the same. Confess it. Tell them I disguised myself as a man in order to learn their plight. That I’m here to lend aid. Help rid Middle Earth of the stain Morgoth left behind.” He swallowed thickly then, his voice withering to a whisper. “Of the stain I left behind.”

Galadriel caressed his face, her gaze full of pity. “Perhaps we forego telling them that last bit.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, accompanied by the smallest of huffs. “Perhaps.”

Silence settled for a moment, and Galadriel let her mind sift through all the things that could go wrong with this plan. She struggled to hide her grimace.

“What is it?”

She was careful with her words. “Are we not simply exchanging one lie for another? One that invites more… complications? More questions?”

One eyebrow ticked upwards. “You were the one worried about turning up with a low-man by your side.”

“I know... but…”

“Think no more on it for the moment.” Mairon swept a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. “We’re still a week out from Eregion – plenty of time to make a decision.” He tilted his gaze toward the paling sky. Stirring among the party pulled his attention back to the present. “For now, we have warriors to forge.” He kissed her forehead, then slipped from underneath her before standing and offering a helping hand. Taking it slowly, she smiled up at him as he helped her to her feet, though there was something slightly guarded in it.

Uncertain.

Before she could walk off to rouse the others, he stopped her – curling an arm around her waist, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek. His gaze held her tighter than his arms ever could. In a low voice he murmured. “You know I would never make you do anything you’re not comfortable with?” His thumb began to draw soothing arcs along her cheekbone.

With a subtle nod, the blue pools of her eyes began to soften with each pacifying stroke.

His gaze dropped, eyes dancing under his lids while he searched for the words. “If I am going to atone for my misdeeds, I need my power to do it. Maintaining that I am just a man will shackle me to a version of myself that cannot protect you. Or them.” He nodded to the sleeping bodies on the ground. “Or anyone.” His voice dipped, hesitant now, almost fragile. “And… this disguise cannot last forever. One day the truth will come out. Perhaps, if by then I have righted enough wrongs…” He shook his head bitterly and pressed his eyes closed, unable to rally any real strength behind his futile hope. “I cannot do that as a merely man.”

She tilted her head then, a gentle look of love and pity paining her face as she brought her fingertips to where his shame hung heavy on his brow. Speaking softly, and with all sincerity, she glided her fingers round the creases of his eye and down his cheek with such tenderness as would cause his heart to falter. “They will forgive you, as I have. In time.”

“You can’t know that.” Never opening his eyes, Mairon frowned harder.

“I do, because I’ve done it. And I know how truly sorry you are, and the pain you have gone through to get here. I know how much you want to put it right.” She leaned in, her breath kissing his lips like silk. “How are those who’ve done wrong meant to do better if we have no faith in them?”

Her lips chased her words, meeting his in the most delicate of kisses – one that instilled in him all her surety, all her love, all her devotion to the knowledge that he was already a better man than he knew how to accept. That he would continue to do better with every soul he would help save, with every choice he would make to atone. But that ultimately there was no expectation to, no burden placed on him to do any of that because he was already everything she wanted, and she would be his. Always.

When their lips parted, they remained close, noses grazing one another.

“I don’t deserve you.” He whispered.

“No, you don’t. But you have me anyway.” Smiling, she placed another, light kiss upon his lips to seal her point.

When she pulled away, she found him staring - a storm of emotion in his gaze. Gratitude shone there, and something that hurt to look at - the immutable ache that he would never be worthy of her, even until the end of Arda’s days.

The remaining journey was uneventful. A patch of bad weather hindered their progress three days out from Eregion, forcing them to take shelter in a shallow cave, which could barely be described as anything more than a rocky overhang nestled in the craggy foothills west of the Misty Mountains. It had delayed them half a day, but from there they made good time.

Éargstan had kept his distance, opting to remain at the back of the group, citing some sketchy reasoning that the most experienced fighters should be at the front and back of the group. Seeing as Galadriel and Mairon were, by rights, always at the head of the column, this meant Éargstan repeatedly relegated himself to bringing up the rear. He had dared not look Mairon in the eye, nor make any more attempts to speak to Galadriel.

Mairon’s message had obviously made an impact. Though he was not above smirking to himself whenever he noticed Warcwyn sitting alone at meal times, nor when one of the younger up-and-comers managed to best him when sparring. Mairon spotted the rising resentment in his eyes, and couldn’t help but feel rather self-satisfied when Warcwyn refrained from asking for any more instruction from Galadriel. The fact that he had overtly used his powers on him to instil such fear worried him little – he rightly guessed that the man was either too stupid to understand, or too proud to admit what had happened to anyone.

Corwin had stayed out of the man’s way, but this did not fully prevent Warcwyn from glaring at him whenever he had the chance.

In the evenings Mairon and Galadriel would talk of all the things they hoped to achieve on this mission – gaining allies, saving the men of the Southlands from disaster, if they could arrive in time… stopping the orcs, one way or another. But many nights their conversations turned back to home. What they would do when they returned, how they might expand the garden again, write their latest tale into the annals of their history library. Perhaps they would not hide themselves away quite so fervently. They would welcome visitors from the new settlements that would no doubt spring up as the folk that had been uprooted resettled. They even allowed themselves to imagine a child, and the quiet life they might have shared - how the two of them would teach them herblore and smithing, and read them homely tales of how the elves encountered the first of the Ents and taught them how to speak.

They would often grow silent after that. Simply holding each other until the balm of sleep took them.

It was not as if trying again for a child would be on the table for the moment anyway, not until they were safely back home. But still, a shadow fell across their hearts whenever their thoughts would linger too long on this.

They needed to look ahead. For tomorrow would be the twenty-ninth day since leaving their home behind. Tomorrow, they would arrive in Ost-in-Edhil.

They arrived late in the day, after traversing the rocky shelves and narrow gullies that riddled the approach to the northern entrance to the city, passing a smattering of holly groves here and there along the way. The shadows were already groping, tendril-like towards the east as the last of the late autumn sun dipped low on the horizon.

The gate was preceded by a narrow bridge that straddled a steep but narrow ravine, whose waters flowed down the shoulder of the lower hill before bending southward to merge with the larger flow of the Glanduin. The parapet was made of intricately carved sandstone depicting a row of holly trees, whose roots entangled around a row of anvils beneath that ran along the base, as if the trees were anchoring themselves to the timeless foundations the elves had wrought here.

As she skimmed the city’s skyline with her eyes, Galadriel noted straight away that nothing seemed out of place here – no signs that the elves were on their guard, nor signs of recent battle.

Perhaps the orcs gave this place a wide berth.

With not an insignificant amount of trepidation, Galadriel led her ragged band of northern village folk across the bridge, grateful to feel the steadying hand of her love curl around her fingers. When they were only a few steps away from the gate, as if from nowhere, two guards stepped out in perfect unison from either side of the entrance to meet them.

“Who goes there.” The one on the right asked, though it was not demanding – more of a polite inquiry - one which Galadriel felt was all too casual given the movement of orcs beyond the borders.

“Has it really been so long since I stepped foot in this city that the elves here have forgotten what I look like?” Galadriel raised her chin, and puffed out her chest, waiting for a response.

A flicker of embarrassment passed across the elf’s face as recognition dawned. “Lady Galadriel…” He stammered his words. “We were not expecting you. It has been some time since your last visit... and the High King decreed-”

“I know full well what the High King decreed. Nevertheless, I am here on an urgent matter, which concerns the safety of Eregion. I would speak with Lord Celebrimbor immediately.”

The elf guard tilted his head to look past her at the group that followed, a doubtful squint on his face, before looking Mairon up and down with a little more interest.

“They are men from the north, and for the time being are under my command. They are to be treated as such.”

Unsure, the guard looked to the other, who nodded hesitantly. The first guard began again: “I will escort you to our Lor-”

“That won’t be necessary. I know my way, thank you.” Galadriel took a step forward, but Mairon tugged her back, bending to whisper in her ear.

“Let him escort us.”

Immediately her nose scrunched at the thought.

He sighed before continuing. “Perhaps Celebrimbor will look on our arrival more favourably if we don’t insist on barging into his city.”

Galadriel ground her teeth. This used to be her city as much as his, at least so much as being able to come and go as she pleased without supervision. Her lips thinned, but she gave the slightest of nods all the same.

Mairon turned to the guard, all smiles and apologies. “An escort would be welcome, thank you.”

With that, they were guided inside Ost-in-Edhil. The second guard took Rána and led him away to the right towards the stables, while the first continued to lead them straight.

Silently, they made their way through the upper tangle of streets that descended downhill from the gate and into the heart of the city. The north gate was not the main entrance, and for a while their passage went largely unnoticed by the few sparse elves that were scattered among the upper tiers. But as they reached the city proper, the streets grew wider and more populated, and many inhabitants stopped what they were doing to gawk at the strange band of men as they made their way to Celebrimbor’s workshop.

The atmosphere, that was generally relaxed before, had now turned uneasy.

They were led across a small square laid with great flagstones that ventured out from the centre in concentric circles, then up a small flight of steps to the base of a tower. Inside, they ascended a spiral staircase and up into the workshop of Celebrimbor.

“The Lady Galadriel, my Lord, and her… guests.” Proclaimed the guard to the room – though it was not immediately clear where Celebrimbor was.

“Galadriel?” A soft voice emerged from behind a partition wall that separated the workshop from a smaller study beyond. “…it can’t be.”

A few seconds later, the Lord of Eregion strode into view, faltering for a moment at the sight of them, before continuing on in greeting. “Cousin! What a pleasant surprise!” His arms were outstretched as he approached, and he collected Galadriel up into a tight embrace.

It was a warmer welcome than she was expecting. “Mae Govannen, Celebrimbor.” She managed to squeeze the words out above his shoulder, straining a little to see over.

When they stepped back they both bowed their heads in a more dignified gesture.

“I take it this is not a social visit, considering the unexpected nature of your arrival.” He beamed, impishly before turning expectantly to Mairon, waiting to be introduced.

Galadriel and Mairon shared a look. They still had not fully decided on what tale they were going to tell, hoping the right path would open up for them when the time came.

“If you would be so kind, cousin, we have travelled for many weeks to reach you, and have many more weeks before us yet.” Galadriel brought his attention back to her as she tried to force a smile. “Our company is weary. Perhaps more thorough introductions can wait until tomorrow? The men and women here would appreciate a place to rest that is comfier than the ground we have been sleeping on of late, and a square meal also. Once they have been seen to, I promise I will explain everything.”

For the briefest of moments, Celebrimbor flashed a rather put-out smile, but the warmth in it returned immediately. “Of course. Tiriondir, please will you see our guests to suitable accommodation and give instructions for their every need to be provided for.”

Tiriondir, who the group surmised to be the guard, bowed his head, “If you would be so kind as to follow me.”

The company turned and eagerly followed him back out of the workshop, looking forward to the prospect of a proper bed and better food. All except Éargstan, who stood firm for a moment, obviously perturbed that he was not automatically going to be included in the upcoming discussion with the Lord of the realm. But he relinquished quickly when Mairon glared at him, and begrudgingly went to follow the others.

“Now, Galadriel, tell me.” Celebrimbor gestured for the two of them to accompany him to his desk back inside the study. “Why are you here?”

They followed him in and took seats opposite his own across a fine, but functional table.

Seeing no use for dancing around the issue, Galadriel dove straight in. “Orcs have been moving southward from the Forodwaith. They have already torn through many of the northern settlements and no doubt are doing the same all along their route to the Southlands.”

“Orcs? We have neither seen or heard tale of them.”

It was Mairon, then, that countered. “It is likely they swept round Eregion in a wide arc so as not to invite unwanted attention. Elves from the greatest realm in Middle Earth are, no doubt, much more troublesome than humble village folk.”

Celebrimbor gave him a bemused look, the compliment not quite landing as expected. “Quite. And you are?”

Another sideways look passed between Mairon and Galadriel – one that Celebrimbor could not have failed to catch, but was unsure how to decipher.

‘Whatever makes you more comfortable, Calinya.’ Came the unspoken reassurance from Mairon.

So, taking a deep breath, Galadriel decided for the both of them who Mairon was to be.

“This is-”

She stopped, her fingers tightening around the arm rest.

She weighed the cost. To herself. To him. To the cause.

“My husband.”

“Husband?” Celebrimbor looked stunned, the words catching in his throat as his eyebrows arched in question - gaze darting between the two of them.

“Yes. Though we have not yet solemnized our union, we are as man and wife, in all the ways that matter.” Her response was unclipped, despite the scepticism that curled in the air about her cousin. Her gaze was warm as she reached out a hand towards Mairon. In his own stupor and clearly not expecting to be introduced in such a way, was beaming back at her like a child on their birthday. As he caught her hand in his own, he brought her fingers to his lips, he placed a soft kiss there – nothing too ostentatious for the company they were in, but enough to show her what it meant to be referred to in such a way.

‘And you, my wife. Forever, melmenya.’

She could not help the grin from stretching ear to ear as his mind brushed her own.

They would have stayed staring at each other a long while if it wasn’t for Celebrimbor clearing his throat. “But, Galadriel, with respect to you both, he is but a man. You know, as I do, the tragedies that come of a human-elf partnership.”

Mairon still held her hand close to his mouth, stroking the back of it with him thumb and watching her intently from under his brow, wondering how she meant to go on.

An understated but reassuring smile graced her lips before she turned back to Celebrimbor. “He is no man.” She announced.

Mairon sucked in a deep breath before releasing it again in a relieved sigh.

“He has been sent here from Aman – an emissary of the Valar sent to aid us in our fight against the evil forces that now amass in the south. We must stop them before they enact their plan to purge the Southlands of light, and create their own twisted realm where their numbers will go unchecked under the relentless dark. They will kill and displace many innocents in their way to do so.”

“Come now, Galadriel, if this is a jest it is a thin one…” Celebrimbor was about to dismiss her claim entirely with a shrewd smile and a shake of his head, until he saw neither their expressions had changed.

Doubt and awe intermingled in his features.

“Aman? Emissary…” Celebrimbor was dumbfounded, looking Mairon over with renewed vigour and interest, hearing little else or choosing to ignore the rest of Galadriel’s words about the orcs. “Then you are a maia, are you not?”

Mairon shifted in his seat, less comfortable than he imagined when taking on that mantle again. “I am,” being all he could get out.

“What am I to call you?”

Mairon sat up a little straighter. “Halbrand will do just fine. It is the name I am known as among the men-folk, and has served me well thus far.”
“Who sent you? Which of the Valar do you serve?”

Galadriel whipped her head round to Mairon, trying not to give away her concern at the questions she knew this path would invite. There was a pause while Mairon considered his answer.

“None.” Mairon said, flatly.

Galadriel’s eyes widened, wondering how fine a line he would walk between truth and deception. He said he did not want to want to weave any more lies, but when it came down to the truth or protecting themselves, surely, he would not give too much away?

“That is, no Vala sent me, as Galadriel suggested.”

She frowned at him then. She did not like being contradicted, or made out to have bent the ‘truth’.

“I came of my own accord, to try what I might to heal these lands of the lingering darkness left behind by Morgoth. It would seem the Valar are no longer concerned with Endor…” His voice turned quiet, contemplative. “They would see it burn rather than seek to save it.”

“Well,” Celebrimbor clapped his hands together, “It seems the men of the south are lucky to have you. But how did you find yourself so far north?” He directed his questions to both of them now. “And how did your paths cross in such a way that caused you to, well, become so close?”

Galadriel moved to answer but Mairon placed a halting hand on her forearm and broke in. “The orcs were streaming out of the Forodwaith, it made sense to start my journey there. As I followed them south and into the lower foothills, I met Galadriel in one of the villages. Not wanting to give away my true purpose, I pretended to be a low-man. When I was injured helping Galadriel and some of the village folk fend off a wolf-attack, Galadriel nursed me back to health. Our affection grew from there.” He took hold of her hand again and squeezed it, smiling over at her.

She smiled politely back.

“And one day, when I deemed the time was right, when I no longer wished for her to worry that she had doomed herself to loving a mortal, I revealed myself to her. From then on our bond only blossomed.”

Although it was not exactly accurate, it was close enough to the truth for Galadriel’s mind to ease a little. Any further questions they might have to field about how they met would be easy enough to navigate and keep their stories straight.

“A happy accident then, it would seem – that your paths were laid across one another’s. But why were you there in the first place, Galadriel? I had heard our High King had banished you, but surely there were better options than living amongst men?” He scoffed before chuckling to himself, as though the notion was all rather preposterous.

“The High King gave me little option but to continue my hunt for Sauron alone.” She countered, an edge to her voice that cut through Celebrimbor’s light-hearted if somewhat patronising manner.

Mairon had opted to stare blankly at the table at the mention of his former name.

“I had heard rumours of orc activity in the north,” she continued, “so the north is where I ventured.”

“Oh come, Galadriel.” Celebrimbor’s tone shifted to outright condescension. “You’ve been chasing shadows for too long if you still believe Sauron is a threat. Gil-galad obviously believes it to not be so, why should you?”

Mairon squeezed her hand harder – a gesture meant to ground her, to keep her anger from boiling over.

Her words became clipped, her rage only thinly veiled behind her schooled smile. “Regardless of Sauron’s whereabouts, the orc threat is real. Halbrand would not be here if it were not so. We have come here to warn you of it, and to ask for aid.”

“Aid?” A crinkle appeared on Celebrimbor’s brow as he sat back cautiously in his chair. “What kind of aid?”

“Soldiers. Enough to help turn the tide in our favour and save the men of the Southlands.”

He scoffed again, more in disbelief this time than anything scathing. “I’m sorry, Galadriel, but I cannot send elves to their deaths for the sake of men.”

“It would not be to their deaths.” She spoke through gritted teeth.

“You know that for certain? You know the numbers they are likely to face? The exact location of the enemy? And you have already secured allies among the men of the south, I take it?”

Galadriel held her expression still, though something hard had settled behind her eyes. Barely able to contain her scowl now, her lips had begun pressing and un-pressing with vitriol and shame as she was forced to admit the truth. “No.”

“Then there you have it.” He raised his hands in a shrug before placing them back on his desk and sighing. “I wish to help you, Galadriel, I do. You are my dearest friend, and though I do believe Sauron is gone, I was never in support of your banishment. But in this, I cannot help you. We cannot afford to see enemies everywhere.”

“Does my being here count for nothing then?” Mairon piped up, his own annoyance seeping through his more carefully laid sense of courtesy.

“You are but one maia.”

The statement lingered in the air between them for a moment.

Galadriel stole a glance over to Mairon who stayed still as a stone.

One maia who knows how to stop them.

“And from the sounds of it,” Celebrimbor sighed, “the entire orc population is converging on the Southlands… if we weren’t facing our own threat, maybe I could-”

“Our own threat?” Galadriel cut in – her words met with confusion from her cousin.

“Do you not know?” He asked, and the two that sat opposite him exchanged a quizzical look.

“Know what?” Mairon questioned, warily.

“About the fading.” Celebrimbor waited for some sense of recognition from either of them, but when he received none, he felt it necessary to go on. “The light of Valinor is leaving us, Galadriel. The elves must find a way to stop it, or we must leave Middle Earth. Did you really not know?”

Galadriel’s mouth dropped, sheer disbelief whitening her complexion. “Our light?” Her voice was quiet, as though far away. “How do you know this?”

“The great tree in Lindon is blighted with a rot we have not seen before. The High King believes it is only the beginning of our demise, that soon the very light within us will fail. We may only have a few more years left to us here. He has tasked me with finding a way to stop it, and reverse it if I can.”

“Reverse it?” Mairon’s gaze sharpened – fierce with curiosity. “You mean revive the parts that are already dead?”

“If I can, and in doing so restore vitality to the elves as well.”

“How?” Mairon pressed, already busying his mind with calculations. “What is it you seek to craft?”

Celebrimbor took a deep breath, expelling it out again in frustration at the how elusive the answer to that question was. “That is something I have been asking myself for many weeks to no avail.” He rose then, rounding the table and walking out into his workshop, expecting the other two would follow, which of course, they did. He pulled out a draw at one of his work stations and picked out several items, unceremoniously dropping them onto the work surface before placing his hands on his hips and huffing. “These are the castaways – so far none have worked.”

The collection included a gold amulet, an ornate belt buckle, a set of ceremonial pauldrons, and a mantle made of silver chainmail.

“I thought perhaps that I might imbue light into the metal and adorn every elf with an item that could be worn easily.” He did not look up from the items, to which he was still giving a disapproving glare.

“How have you tried to capture the light?” Mairon absentmindedly picked up the amulet, turning it over in his hands while Galadriel watched on guardedly.

“I forged under a clear night sky, using mirrors to capture and direct the star and moonlight onto the pieces as they set.” Celebrimbor went to take the amulet from Mairon, but the latter pulled it away, holding it aloft in the candlelight to inspect it better.

“That would never be enough.” He said, flatly.

Celebrimbor held out his hand, waiting for the amulet to be returned and brisling somewhat. “Yes, well, that much is obvious. Or else I would not still be seeking the right answer.”

“You’re letting it escape.”

He paused, holding the elf with an evocative stare.

“Give it nowhere to go.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes illuminated with possibility. “A circle…

Mairon nodded, “So the light could arc back on itself.”

This gave Celebrimbor pause. “Intriguing thought… Perhaps a crown?”

“Or a ring, if you wanted it to remain more practical.”

“A ring… yes. Yes, you may be right.” Celebrimbor’s sight turned glassy as he mulled the idea over in his mind.

“Have you tried a different metal? One that holds its own light, perhaps?” Mairon finally placed the amulet back in Celebrimbor’s hand slowly, letting his question linger in the air.

Galadriel’s vision darted between them.

Coming back to himself, Celebrimbor smiled awkwardly. “You seem to know a great deal of metalcraft. But, forgive me, if such a metal existed I would have no doubt used it by now.”

“I know this craft very well” The words were out before he could call them back. “I was Aulë’s most gifted student… for a time.”

The name struck Galadriel like ice. Not anger - fear - sharp enough to still her breath.

‘Mairon!’ Her voice cut sharply through his thoughts - so absorbed in his conversation with Celebrimbor, he felt as though he had been shaken awake.

‘I’m trying to help.’ He gave her a sideways glance.

‘You are forgetting yourself!’

He smiled disarmingly at Celebrimbor, who was looking at him with a mixture of awe and confusion. “One of his most gifted.” Mairon corrected, “He was a skilled teacher, many of Aulë’s household blossomed under his tutelage.”

The confusion dissolved in Celebrimbor’s features, leaving only delight beaming from ear to ear. “Then we must collaborate! The wealth of knowledge you would bring – your input would be invaluable, I’m sure of it! The circular form idea is quite genius, and this metal you speak of, where might it be f-”

“Cousin.” Galadriel’s tone was polite but brusque. “The hour is already late at the end of a long journey. Perhaps this can wait until tomorrow?”

‘This is important, Galadriel.’ Although he was speaking to Galadriel through their bond, Mairon’s attention never left Celebrimbor.

‘I am not blind to that,' she conceded, ‘but so is the reason we are here in the first place.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’

Celebrimbor hesitated for a moment, then broke into an apologetic smile. “Yes, of course, where are my manners? You’ll forgive me, it has been some time since I have had any new spark of inspiration on this front, but it will wait. In fact!” His eyes lit up at his own idea. “We shall have a banquet tomorrow in your honour – a maia of Aulë bestowing his knowledge to help us in this most vital of endeavours – it is the least we can do to show our gratitude.”

Galadriel straightened, trying to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Perhaps the banquet should be in honour of the brave men and women from the north who have selflessly committed themselves to hunting down the orcs that tear their way southward. They are still in need of our help. We gave them our word we would do so.”

“What if it was in honour of both?” Mairon posited, a self-satisfied glint in his eye. “Galadriel’s right, we’re already committed to stopping the orcs. But if you were to lend us the soldiers we needed, it would quicken the task no end. And, indebted, I would be all too happy to return and share my knowledge, if you think it would be useful?”

He shot Galadriel a sly smile. ‘Told you I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘Hmm.’ She was unamused.

“Yes, of course, you’re right…” Celebrimbor’s gaze was searching the floor back and forth while he weighed it all up. “The men you have brought with you are as much our guests as you are… and your input would be instrumental, I think. We still have a few years yet, perhaps we could spare the time…” His thoughts descended into mutterings as the cogs turned about his mind. “I have a new direction to go in now, at least… Something to go on. Yes, yes…” He broke himself out of his thoughts and nodded at Mairon. “Let me consider it.”

“Thank you, Lord Celebrimbor.” Mairon bowed his head graciously, winking in Galadriel’s direction after Celebrimbor had turned to look at her.

She tried her best to suppress a smile. While not all too happy about how careless he was being, she had to admit, he had gotten them what they wanted, or at least closer to it than they were. “Yes, thank you, cousin.” She managed to twist her knowing smile into something more courteous.

“Until tomorrow then.” Celebrimbor affirmed. “I will have one of the servants show you to a guest suite.”

“Your thoughts are loud.” Mairon curled his arms about Galadriel’s waist, pressing himself warmly against her back as she stared out the window of their guest quarters. The stars were veiled by a thick layer cloud, allowing Galadriel no clarity as she searched the heavens for some sense celestial wisdom – her thoughts just as smothered as the night sky.

Mairon swept her hair away from her neck, ghosting his nose up the line of it in a way that caused her skin to pimple – alive at his touch. He placed a delicate kiss where her neck met her hairline, trailing his lips along the outside of her ear before planting another kiss at the tip and murmuring softly against it. “What’s wrong?”

“I worry about many things.” She kept her gaze on the shadows of the city, her hands instinctively curling about his own. “Celebrimbor is not wrong. I worry we have pledged ourselves to an insurmountable task. Even if he does grant us a battalion of elves, we will need the help of the men already dwelling in the Southlands if we are to have any chance of preventing the orcs from destroying their land. That will take time. Time we may not have.” Huffing, she shook her head. “And then there is the plight of my people. Am I to simply carry on south to aid strangers at the cost of my own kin? Not to mention the fact that tomorrow at this banquet we will have to reveal to the Northmen that you are not who they think you are.” Her eyes darted back and forth along the window ledge. “Replacing one story for another… I worry whether we have weaved more lies than we know how to keep straight. If we are not careful, I see them tangling like the boughs of old forests whose shepherds have abandoned them.” Finally, she bowed her head – her voice becoming quiet. “Nothing is simple anymore.”

Mairon sighed gently through his nose, resting his cheek on the crown of her head and squeezing his arms a little tighter. “Do you think we should have stayed at Amar Nith?”

“I think we had a duty to attend to what we ignored. But that does not stop me yearning for the peace we had there. The simplicity. Not having to explain ourselves to anyone. Just the two of us.”

“Look at me.” He was already turning her about in his arms, and once she stood facing him, he cupped her cheek in his palm, grazing his thumb over her lips and offering her a quiet, reassuring smile. His eyes were like tourmaline marbles that somehow still caught the fire light even though his back was turned to it and his face was cast in shadows. “I know that the path in front of us seems… complicated. But I also know in my heart that we will set things right. We will find the allies we need to save the Southlands. After all, it won’t be hard to convince those whose homes are in peril to fight for them. And before we leave here, I can give Celebrimbor enough to go on to allow him to make significant progress in my absence. We won’t be abandoning your people.”

Galadriel closed her eyes and chased Mairon’s thumb with her slightly parted lips, relaxing at the thought that she did not have choose between her word and her kin. “Do you think Celebrimbor can do as he says?”

“It will take some trial and error,” he nodded, “but yes, I think he’s on the right lines. The revival part is particularly interesting. To not just halt the decay, but reverse it.” Mairon’s eyes glazed over, his voice reduced to a whisper as he contemplated the idea, like an elusive glimpse of something flickering on the horizon – of something he could not be sure he even saw in the first place. “To bring something back from the jaws of death…”

His voice lowered.

“It’s… inspired.”

He stopped himself, breath catching - as though he had looked too far ahead.

Galadriel’s brow creased ever so slightly, unsure of the change that had come over him, of the foreign look in his eyes.

But not sooner was she about to ask if he was alright, did his gaze fixed on her again, the warmth returning to his features. “I can see now why he is known as the greatest of elven smiths.”

She smiled affectionately in return. “It was almost inevitable the two of you would get along.”

“Am I really that predictable?” Taking her hand in his, he drew it up to his lips and placed a kiss upon her knuckles - a roguish look in his eye that spelled his intentions to rectify this domestication of his character.

“Only when it comes to your interests.” She flashed him a knowing smile, before deflating again. “How do we tell the Northmen that you aren’t one of them? They don’t take kindly to being lied to.”

He gathered up her other hand as well now and held both against his chest. “Well, I didn’t pretend I was something I’m not while living among them for more than a decade…”

She raised an eyebrow sardonically at him.

“Don’t worry on it.” He soothed, pressing a collection of kisses to her fingers. “We’ll find the right way to break it to them. I am, after all, meant to be here to help. And the odds, for the moment, are stillstacked against us. They might welcome the idea of having a little power on their side.”

Releasing a deep sigh, Galadriel eventually nodded at him, more in hope than agreement necessarily.

Slinking an arm around her waist, he drew her closer, his voice had turned to velvet. “I don’t know about you, but it’s been far too long since I’ve had you all to myself in a soft and welcoming bed.”

A wry smile crept into the corner of her mouth. “Why do I have the feeling not much sleeping is going to be had in said bed tonight?”

“That, wife, is entirely up to you.”

Chapter Text

“That… is a dress you can wear more often.” Mairon’s gaze sizzled as he took her in, leaning on the wash room door frame with only a towel around his waist and a roguish arch in one eyebrow.

Galadriel was by the dresser. She had finished fixing her hair – the front strands tied back with a simple but elegant clasp, and was now threading earrings through her lobes. “Enjoy it while you can. It was lent to me, so I’ll have to give it back. And why are you not dressed? We’re pressed for time as it is.”

Mairon ignored her question, pressing himself away from the wall and walking over. As he slipped in behind her, his hands smoothed over the fabric at her hips. It was a fine material of emerald green adorned with golden chains, cinched at the waist that fanned out in lines across her front like rays of sunlight over the Greenwood in spring. “It’s going to be hard to keep my hands to myself tonight with you looking like that.”

“Well you’ll have to try – some decorum tonight will be required. Celebrimbor still hasn’t said yes yet to pledging his soldiers.” She applied a little extra powder to her nose and chin, feigning not to notice how Mairon’s hands roamed her curves and squeezed at her breasts while he glanced his nose along the exposed skin of her shoulder, drinking in her scent.

“He’ll come around…” He began pecking at the line of her neck, temptingly restrained.

She couldn’t help but lean away, lengthening her neck for him and humming in satisfaction as he latched his mouth along it with more determined kisses – his hands fisting the fabric at her hips.

“Careful,” she crooned, “You’re not allowed to rip this dress.”

“It’s not like I didn’t fix the other one.” He murmured against her ear.

“Eventually. It took you more than a few days to get around to it.” She realised now that he was not attempting to tear the fabric, but to gather it – the hem of the skirt rising slowly, tantalisingly. “You’ll make us late…”

“They won’t even notice.”

“You’re right, Celebrimbor only put on this banquet especially for you, why would he care if you’re there or not?” She glanced at him sardonically from the side of her eye.

“He put it on for the men of the north, you made sure of that.” The skirt was well above her knees and rising.

“Hmm…” Sceptical, she tried in vain to resist the way Mairon’s hands glided over the soft round of her upper thigh – straining not to hum when his fingers found her beneath the silk. Already slick with want, she sucked in a breath as he drew slow, knowing circles that made her knees weaken.

His customary smirk was already peeling across his lips as she threw her head back onto his shoulder, little moans escaping her pretty pink mouth.

“Still worried about being late?”

“Yes… no…” Her breathing became laboured and she instinctively began rolling her rear against his crotch, his bulge already hard under the towel. “We’ll need to be quick.”

“Respectfully, my love, I disagree…” The towel hit the floor. A nudge of his foot widened her stance, her skirts gathered in his hands as he bent her over the dresser, working her open with practiced ease.

Not about to wait for her to reach her peak, he guided his length down the line of her and coated himself in the wet arousal that was already dripping out in sinful gushes.

When he pressed his tip to her entrance, she gasped, more out of anticipation than anything else, though her pleasure was building fast with every skilful swirl of his fingertips.

Then he plunged himself in, delighting in how her warm flesh sheathed him so completely - taking him easily, greedily. Even now, after countless times, he still shuddered when entering her, as though he were feeling her anew every time. It helped how tight she was, how neat, as elves tended to be. But his elf was not just neat, she was perfect - made for him.

He loved the feel of her tightening around him further – the way her walls would twitch and grip him as the wave of her bliss approached.

He began to pump himself inside her, his fingers applying the extra pressure he knew she was craving.

Her moans turned to breathy cries, and a moment later they dissolved into a wail as she came undone – one hand screwing up the lace dresser scarf - sending grooming items everywhere while the other grabbed at where Mairon held her tight at one hip.

“My Lady, is everything alright?” The muffled voice of one of the attending servants came from outside their room, preceded by a soft knock on the door.

Galadriel sealed her lips tight, suppressing the noises that still fought to break through while Mairon drew out her orgasm - prolonging it on purpose.

“You’ll need to reply soon, calinya, or they might come in.” He grinned against her neck, all too amused at how she scrunched her nose in anger, all the while her breathing came heavy and erratic as he continued to pleasure her. He had even begun driving himself deeper and harder now as well, just to test her composure.

“My Lady?” The voice called again and even had the audacity to begin turning the door handle.

“Everything is fine! Please, there’s no need to come in!” Galadriel tried her best to sound composed but she ended up practically punching the words out in time with Mairon’s thrusts.

His fingers were still between her legs, and he refused to let her come down from her high while the attendant remained on the other side of the door.

“I was sent to inform you that Celebrimbor and the rest of your party are awaiting your arrival in the banqueting hall.” Came the disembodied voice once again.

Mairon drawled in her ear. “Do you think they’ve ever done this? Would it make them blush if they knew? Or maybe they’d be curious…” He delighting in the idea that most elves were not so romantically active as Galadriel and he – that many only performed the act for procreation.

But not his elf. His elf liked to indulge her lust.

And his.

Regularly - never letting more than a few days slip by without reaffirming their bond.

But there was seldom opportunity to satiate their desires on the road from Amar Nith - the odd night time post-sparring treat notwithstanding. Given the privacy of having their own room again, Mairon thought it actually quite restrained of him not to simply keep her to himself for the entirety of their stay in Eregion.

He quickened the pace of his fingertips and sent a fresh wave of bliss through her body and she had to stifle a squeal.

“Thank you,” She managed to eke out. “Assure Celebrimbor we will be there presently.”

Please leave. Please leave. Please leave.

She flushed red with the effort of containing herself.

“Of course, my Lady.” The attendant’s footsteps, though light as with all elves, could mercifully be heard gently padding their way down the hall.

When Galadriel finally deemed they were far enough away, she released a pent-up scream, grasping the edge of the dresser so hard it began to creak.

Only then did Mairon allow her high to dissipate, and with it, he also slowed his motions to a stop, chuckling against her spine.

When she had steadied her breathing enough, she attempted to muster some scorn, glaring over her shoulder. “Mairon, that was… I cannot believe you.”

“You can’t believe me?” he murmured, grinding himself inside her to punctuate the point. His smirk was still infuriatingly plastered to his face, and only deepened when she betrayed herself with a soft sigh. “Is that all you can muster? After that?”

He dipped his head closer to her ear. “Don’t tell me I’ve tired you out already - we’re not nearly done yet.”

He swept her hair to one side and ghosted a kiss to the back of her neck - mockingly gentle, when she knew he was about to be anything but.

“Mairon, I will not be made out to be some kind of harlot that cannot control herself.” She thinned her lips before taking a more calming breath through her nose. “We have lived a very different life these past few years to that of the elves. They will not be used to hearing these… activities...”

“You mean you’d rather them not hear me fucking you?” On the offending word, he surged forward, the sharp jolt stealing her breath.

“Yes… exactly-”

The rest dissolved into decadent sighs as Mairon drove inside her, skin slapping skin in powerful, staccato strikes that had her gulping the air, making it painfully clear he intended to do the exact opposite of what she had asked.

He bent over so he could drawl salaciously in her ear. “Then don’t moan so prettily…”

Both hands gripped tightly around her hips, insisting them back as he pounded forward again and again. It was only when she began to do it for herself – greedily chasing the feel of his unbridled manhood hitting her depths, that he released one hand and replaced it on the small of her back, pushing it down and encouraging her spine to arch.

Renewed whimpers tumbled from Galadriel’s lips as her hips tilted, allowing Mairon to drill himself as deep as he could go.

She tried to suppress them.

“Don’t. I want to hear you.” His voice was gruff from the effort. “I want this whole city to hear you.”

She shook her head, frantically. Refusing to lose this game or her dignity.

It only made him redouble his efforts - her eyes widening as she felt a surge of something different. Something unnatural.

The warmth of his hand on her back began to emanate outward, spreading over her skin and seeping into her bones.

He felt it gathering beneath his palm - the old temptation, the quiet pull of power. For a heartbeat, he considered drawing it back.

Then she whimpered his name, and he let it spill.

It came with a strange sensation – an effervescence – building through her entire body.

Intensifying with every stroke of his length inside her.

Exciting her flesh.

Fizzling on her tongue, in her fingertips, down her spine and into her toes.

Sparkling at the apex between her thighs, at the bud of her sex.

“Scream for me, elf.” Mairon commanded from behind – an iniquitous lilt to his voice. “Let your kin know how your emissary favours you.”

Her fingers curled, nails scratching the dresser. Her lips managing to eke out her unconvincing plea. “Stop… please…”

“How chosen you are, how special – above them all. Even your high king and all his banishments hold no weight against one so loved by the divine. So worshipped.” His eyes bore down on her with wicked intent.

“Sorcery… it’s not fair…” She was struggling now to push anything sensical past the moans she was failing miserably to contain.

“Show them how much I pleasure you. Show them, Galadriel. Show them!”

Her body was on fire. But it did not burn.

It roared.

Thunderous – a furnace set alight and her flesh the coals. A bliss she had not known before tore through her like a trail of oil exciting the flames.

She could hold it back no more.

A cry burst forth from deep with her throat, ripping through the air and echoing off the walls like a flock of birds rushing forth then twisting away, rebounding off every surface in a rippling murmuration before dashing out through the windows and into the night.

With it, went Mairon’s groan as he finally spent himself. Their two voices mingling in the air in frenetic spirals, descending and swooping through the streets of the city – their love-making known to every elf with ears to listen.

When the echoes ceased, there was nothing.

Exhausted and boneless, neither moved but for the rise and fall of their chests as they sought to catch their breath.

For the moment, Galadriel had lost the ability to speak - not only from pleasure, but from the strange echo of something older moving through her bones. Truth be told, she was unsure what she felt; jubilant? Satiated? Worshipped? Even if she wanted to berate him for what he had just done, she was too sapped to form the words.

Enveloping her in his arms, he pulled her tight to him, nuzzling into her neck and placing gratified kisses there. Grounding, calming. Patiently embracing her until she began to feel more like herself again. Protecting.

There were no words for a long while.

Not until Mairon dared to whisper a confession against her skin. “Nothing in this world will ever be more precious to me than you.”

Galadriel melted against him then, releasing a soft contented sigh. “Is this your excuse for making us late?”

He did not answer back with the witty retort she was expecting. Instead, he gently brought his fingers to her chin and tilted her head to look up at him over her shoulder. And then, her lips parted in wonder at the devotion in his eyes, such as might pierce her heart with a spear made of all his longing.

“It is a vow.” He murmured. “That no purpose, or destiny, and certainly no other elf – your cousin included – will ever command my attention should it contest against you.”

She knew he meant it. He spoke with the certainty of something that could not bend. She loved him for it. She feared it too - and for a fleeting moment, wondered what such devotion might one day demand.

A shadow passed over his face, his eyes becoming withdrawn as if haunted by some distant imaginings of events yet to come. So much so that he could only whisper his next words. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Without realising, he squeezed her tighter, frowning at the spectres his mind had conjured as he finally slipped from between her thighs.

For a moment, Galadriel searched his face, wondering what storm was brewing behind those mossy irises, born of needless worry. Slowly, she raised her fingertips to his cheeks, ghosting them across his skin, over the hairs of his beard and eventually down to his lips. She turned about in his arms, her skirts falling silently as she resettled herself against his chest, peering up at him with a concerned crinkled in her brow.

“Mairon…” She found she could only whisper his name lest, somehow, she might cause him harm if she shattered his illusion too suddenly.

But he heard her – calling him back from the beyond the pastures of time and into her arms again.

With a slow blink, his eyes refocussed.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her own eyes burnt fiercely now, not with anger or frustration, but with a quiet and resolute conviction, accompanied by a reassuring nod, encouraging him to agree.

His mouth broke into a soft smile, though Galadriel was sure sadness still lingered in the depths of his gaze, however much he tried to hide it. He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing stray strands away from her forehead where they’d fallen out of her clasp and tucking them behind her ear. “I know.” Placing a chaste kiss along her hairline, he came to rest his cheek thereafter. “But… Sometimes I worry, that I wouldn’t be able to trust myself if you didn’t tether me to the light. That I’d fall back into old ways.”

Nuzzling herself in closer, she brought her left hand to his chest – the one with her ring - and hovered it over his heart. “But you’re forgetting, my love, you have your own light now, within you.”

Mairon released a pensive sigh. “It’s been dimmed before.”

“Well, you did not have me before.”

A quiet smile tugged at his lips, a huff escaping his nose. “That’s what I mean.”

She pulled away, just enough so she could look him in the eye, a soothing tone to her voice. “Don’t worry any more on this tonight. What cannot be known hollows the mind, fill it not with guesswork. I am right here, and nothing is going to change that.” She used her fingertips to lift his chin as though this small act would also lift his spirits. “And…” she added, raising a knowing eyebrow. “I should hope that eventually there may be one other elf in this world that might command your attention – perhaps even better than I.”

Mairon frowned, quizzically. “Oh?”

“Our daughter, when she arrives.”

“Daughter?” He retracted his head a little in question.

“Naturally.” A playful nonchalance warmed her features.

With a sigh, Mairon rolled his eyes. “If she arrives.”

“When she arrives – you said to stay positive.”

“I did…” Picking up her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly, thanking her for the reminder. “Just the one?” He questioned from under his brow, which Galadriel answered with a smirk.

“I’m sure she’ll run you ragged, she’ll take after her mother in that regard – sure you’d want another?”

He canted his head and allowed his own smirk to creep along his lips. “When the method is so enticing I expect one day we’ll have a whole litter.”

Laughter burst forth from Galadriel, her eyes crinkling fondly. “A litter? Like cats?”

“Or wolves…” He replied, cocking an eyebrow.

“With you as their father I’m sure they’ll be feral enough to be regarded as such.”

“I’d be an excellent father.” Pressing her hand to his chest, he feigned umbrage at her remark.

She leant away, curling her fingers beneath his hand, leaving her forefinger pressed against his chest to emphasise her point. “You’d let them get away with murder.”

“I can say no…” Mairon almost whined as he began to gather her back in, his lips aiming for the crook of her neck.

“You can barely tell yourself no!” Playfully, she managed to wrestle herself free, quickly picking his towel up from the floor and swatting him with it. “Now get dressed!”

“What, no spanking?” His grin was insatiable.

“Mairon!” She threw the towel this time and he flinched as it hit him, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“I’m going, I’m going!”

“Do you think they heard?” Galadriel stood waiting to enter the banqueting hall, her eyes tracing the ornately carved silver-poplar doors, upon which was wrought a Noldorin feast beneath the stars in honour of Varda, recalling the nights when song and lantern-light shimmered beneath the Mindon Eldaliéva in Tirion.

“Hard to say.” A roguish smile crept along one corner of Mairon’s mouth as he looked the door attendants up and down, who seemed singularly focussed on not looking either of them in the eye. He gave Galadriel sideways peep, regretting nothing.

Galadriel swallowed, her jaw set.

There was music playing – a muffled trio of harps could be heard accompanied by flautists and a minstrel, layered over the sound of animated conversation.

Perhaps they could slip in without anyone noticing?

Mairon leant over a little, failing completely to supress the look of amusement on his face. “You were the one worried about being late. The longer we stare at the door, the later we’ll be.”

Galadriel shot him an irritated look, to which he simply averted his gaze, mouth twisting as he tried to wrestle the laughter from his lips and gesturing to the door.

“After you.” He glanced back at her, waiting to see if she would actually go through first. Of course, he knew she would, it was just a matter of how – walk in, head held high? Or slink in, hoping to gradually introduce themselves to the room without making a scene out of it?

Without further ado, she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin proudly before nodding to the attendant to open the door.

That’s my girl. He fell in half a step behind her as she crossed the threshold.

Though the doors, for the most part, swung back silently, they initially opened with a clang as the attendants lifted the latches. While the musicians had the good grace to continue playing, all conversation ceased among the rest of the room and each face among the guests was now craned toward the door and inspecting them with a heavy amount of scrutiny.

‘Uh oh, it seems they definitely heard.’ Mairon gave her a small nudge with his shoulder.

But Galadriel whipped her head round at him. She need not have said anything back through their bond, as her look said it all, but she felt it necessary to press her point. ‘You don’t need to look so pleased with yourself, nor pretend it wasn’t exactly what you wanted. Voices don’t carry like that naturally.’

‘If my Lady enjoys the way her Maia pleases her, should that Maia not be proud? Enough, perhaps, to let others know?’

“My Lord Halbrand, Lady Galadriel, it is wonderful to have you join us.” The slightly stilted voice of Celebrimbor broke through the would-be silence but for the musicians still performing dutifully. “Would you care to take a seat at the table?” He flashed an enthusiastic if not slightly staged smile in an attempt to pretend nothing was out of the ordinary about their entrance or the reason for their tardiness. Making a show of the charade, he gestured to the two empty chairs to the left of him, beckoning them over.

‘What happens in the bedroom is private. Even those among the north-men seem abashed – their cheeks are crimson at the sight of us. I thought men were meant to be more liberal when it comes to love making.’

‘Could just be the alcohol…’ Mairon shrugged. ‘Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t get off on the idea of people hearing.’

Galadriel pursed her lips at him but made no reply, which earned her another much-too-satisfied smile from her lover. One, however, that she could not help but look away from lest she let on that - current embarrassment aside - it was rather thrilling… Though she was content to let him think she was angry at him for the moment.

The hall was aglow with the soft amber ambience of the many candles that had been lit, and discussion about the room picked up again a moment later, though it was obvious what the topic of conversation was - Galadriel eyeing the guests as they made their way over to Celebrimbor. The head table stood proudly on a dais three steps higher than the rest of the room – not so elevated as to remove them from the rest of the invitees, but given enough importance to signify who the guests of honour were. Stretched out along the far side of the long table was a mixture of elves of high esteem and north-men. Though the seats to his left were kept empty for the pair, to Celebrimbor’s right sat Éargstan, who had managed to weasel himself a seat of import (much to Mairon’s displeasure) and next to Éargstan, sat Dïgelmunde, the young dark-haired woman from east of the Coombe.

Good. Thought Galadriel. Perhaps some conversation from that part of the table will be bearable.

The rest of the north-folk (being too many for one table alone, and especially one where an entire side of it were not being used so the head guests could look out on the rest of the room) all sat on the very first table down from the dais – a place of honour in its situ.

‘Sit yourself next to my cousin. We need him open to the idea of lending us soldiers. No doubt more talk of how you might help against the fading of the elves would illuminate him.’

‘I never took you for much of a schemer.’

‘I became quite good at it, actually, those first few months at Amar Nith.’ Galadriel raised an admonishing eyebrow at him as she took her seat.

Mairon paused a moment to consider his elf’s mood, before cautiously sitting himself down as well. His ponderings were quickly interrupted though by the tinkling of spoon on glass.

“My friends,” Celebrimbor began, “An auspicious occasion this is. For tonight, for perhaps the first night in centuries - not since the last of our ships traded with Númenor, have elves and men shared a meal together as friends. Tonight, we put aside our pasts and now find ourselves chasing a common goal. And so - a toast - to the men of the North, who have persevered against and now pursue those the elves have always deemed our enemy.”

The wording of this was not lost on Galadriel, who straightened a little, hoping none of the north-folk read too much between the lines. Celebrimbor was never too tactful about his opinion of men.

“Not only this,” continued Celebrimbor, leaving many a cup poised haltingly on lips – a fair few around the room having thought the toast was finished. They all politely (if not somewhat disappointedly) raised their cups into the air once more, awaiting the final honours. “But a toast also, to a rekindled friendship between the divine and the elves of the Noldor.”

The faces that had previously been lit with polite smiles, were now darkened by knitted brow and questioning looks.

Galadriel had known this moment would come. She had simply hoped it would not come like this.

She reached over Mairon to place a hand on Celebrimbor’s forearm. “Cousin, perhaps we might-”

“For in Lord Halbrand, we now have what we need to complete our task, and see that the elves do not diminish on these shores, but thrive!”

The northmen all turned toward Mairon, uncertainty passing between them.

Galadriel’s fingers tightened on Celebrimbor’s forearm.

“Celebrimbor,” she tried again, her hushed tone now came with an insistence. “We have not yet discussed Halbrand’s true identity with our friends from the North.”

“Then a happy hour this is indeed, for all shall know the blessed truth.”

Out of all of them, Corwin knew him the longest, and he was perhaps the most perplexed of all at this remark. Éargstan, meanwhile, simply sent him a distrusting sideways glance.

“Lord Halbrand brings to us gifts from beyond the western shores. Knowledge and capabilities… from Valinor.” Among the elves, confusion was slowly being replaced by wonder. “We are lucky enough to have in our midst, a Maia of Aulë.” Sweeping a theatrical hand around, he stopped when it gestured towards Mairon.

Wonder moved through the elves like a breath of wind through leaves.

The men did not rise. They only stared, the word Maia settling among them like something half-understood and other. Their eyes settled on Mairon with a new sense of curiosity and wariness.

“A few words, if you will, Lord Halbrand.” Celebrimbor bowed his head in deference to Mairon, who took a moment to look around the room, drawing a deep breath before rising to his feet.

Galadriel looked up at him anxiously. Suddenly, she was no longer simply a woman beside her lover – she felt like an accomplice, hoping beyond hope he would stay their questions.

“It is true,” Mairon began, soft gasps rippling through the elves. “I am no mere man. And though I have walked among you as Halbrand, I meant no deception - only understanding. I needed to see the enemy through mortal eyes.”

Éargstan was practically seething in his seat, the pieces finally aligning - the glade, the fear, the sense of being haunted by something unseen.

Mairon’s gaze passed over the northmen, steady and sincere.

“Our purpose has not changed. Galadriel and I will still pursue the orcs that fled the North. While I remain in Eregion, I will aid Lord Celebrimbor as I am able - and when I leave, I will leave him with what knowledge I can.”

A soft wave of disappointment moved through the elves at this - many had clearly hoped for longer in the presence of one of the Ainur. Others looked uncertain, as though weighing what this meant for their dwindling light.

Corwin simply stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, something fragile passing behind his eyes - awe, perhaps - or caution, or the quiet grief of realizing he had never truly known the man he’d followed.

A hush lingered.

He lifted his glass.

“To our gracious host - Lord Celebrimbor.”

The guests once again raised their glasses in conjunction with the speaker and sipped their drinks courteously. Though Lord Halbrand’s speech was far from rousing and if anything raised more questions than it answered for all in the room, elf or man alike.

Exactly what Galadriel was afraid of.

When Mairon took his seat again, she squeezed his hand, but did not look in his direction. Instead she was meticulously surveying the reaction in the room. No one but Mairon court how she nervously chewed the inside of her lips.

To his right, Celebrimbor cleared his throat. “I see you stopped short of reassuring our guests of your return after you rid the southlands of the orcs.” He smiled pleasantly at Mairon, though some worry sat behind his eyes.

“It was my understanding that you were still undecided about sending a detachment of elven soldiers south with us. My return is very much dependant on our success. I didn’t want to raise hopes unduly if our errand doesn’t go to plan.” Mairon squeezed Galadriel’s hand in return, letting her know he was still thinking of their needs.

“Quite.” Celebrimbor smiled again somewhat awkwardly.

Conversation returned in cautious fragments, cups being refilled as the shock slowly settled.

“Tell me, Celebrimbor, have you heard of an ore known as mithril?” This time Mairon did not look at the elf, instead he opted for concentrating on the wine glass in front of him, using his fingertips to draw circles on the table with the base and swirling the liquid until it climbed the inner curve of the glass.

“Mithril?” Celebrimbor’s eyes turned glassy, drifting somewhere beyond the room as though he were recalling something long forgotten. “Yes… the Golden Lord and the Demon. The tree atop Hithaeglir from whose roots sprang forth the purest light, and the firmest hatred…” His eyes refocussed with a regretfully sceptical look. “Sadly, only a myth.”

“Is it?” Mairon made a point of looking up at him now, unflinchingly.

Stunned, Celebrimbor made no response, but Mairon noted the way his mouth opened slightly - in awe of the possibility.

“Lady Galadriel, Lord Halbrand.” A woman’s voice cut in - Dïgelmunde’s - her lilt was deeper than her age would assume. She was leaning some way over her own plate now in order to see past Éargstan and Celebrimbor. “Are we to expect wedding festivities in the near future?”

This was not the question Galadriel was expecting to be asked first by one of the northmen.

The two addressees quickly glanced at one another, though Mairon did so somewhat sheepishly. Since the night before, when Galadriel had referred to him as her husband in all but rite and vow, he had been mulling on the idea that he probably should have wed his elf by now. Properly. But when it was just the two of them, there simply did not seem a need… Now in the company of her kin, and folk of the wider world, all of a sudden it felt like a tremendous oversight. It brought into question a few other things that, for the first time, felt inappropriate given present company.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have sent their voices into the night earlier.

“We have yet to properly discuss such things.” Galadriel replied with a self-conscious grin, her sight quickly darting to her cousin. “I know it must seem strange to most.”

“Is it rare? An elf and – what was it – a Maia pairing?” Dïgelmunde seemed genuinely curious, and aside from the fact that it was not the ‘done thing’ for elves to make love without being wed, for the moment Galadriel was actually glad of this particular topic of interest, given all the other questions the woman could have asked about Halbrand’s elevation from simple travel companion to demi-god.

“Indeed.” Answered Galadriel. “In fact, it has only happened once before. A long time ago…” Her words trailed off and her gaze fell to the table, recalling how she had once watched love undo a kingdom - a queen who had given her power for love, and a king who had paid for it with everything.

Dïgelmunde ceased her line of questioning when she saw the pain in Galadriel’s eyes, opting to take a remorseful sip of her drink instead.

But Éargstan seized on the opportunity. “And this pairing…” He canted his head, and though the question was directed at Galadriel, his eyes fixed themselves on Mairon. “It fared well, I take it?”

Galadriel did not look away from where her sight had settled on the table, unfocussed and wistful. Her words were distant. “It ended in sorrow.” She then slowly slumped back in her chair, jaw clenching and distant.

“Hmph.” Éargstan took a self-satisfied sip of his ale as he side-eyed Mairon, who was shooting him a poisonous glare.

Celebrimbor waved for the food to be brought out swiftly, hoping the change in activity would shake up the mood that had so quickly soured.

Tearing his attention away from the infuriating Coombesman, Mairon turned to Galadriel, slipping his hand under her hair and placing it reassuringly on the nape of her neck. But instead of melting into his palm as she usually would, she stiffened a little, his touch recalling the power she had felt in his hands earlier - the same power that had undone many lovers and kingdoms from a time long before.

It was enough to make him tentatively withdraw his hand, though he watched her for a few moments more.

She would not look at him.

The sudden sense of ages collapsing together meant that for the first time in a long while, she remembered what he was and all he was a part of. And though she loved him, there were times – brief and unbidden – when what was and what is were still difficult to reconcile.

After a moment longer, he lowered his gaze. He knew there was much he had still to answered for.

The table was laid with light breads and pale cheeses, bowls of fruit and nuts, and platters of fish and fowl prepared simply with herbs and honey, everything arranged with quiet care rather than excess. Wine the colour of gold and summer berries was topped up, and those who preferred ale were also catered to. The meal was fragrant, nourishing, and beautiful without ever feeling heavy. And, such was the restorative qualities of the fare of the elves, that gradually as the meal went on, the hearts of all those on the head table grew lighter and merrier, and much of the conversation before was forgotten, replaced by more jovial topics.

The meal however, seemed to not to have much effect against the amount of ale Éargstan was drinking – it easily outmatched the curative virtues of the food. As the one course replaced another, he had taken to leaning progressively nearer to Dïgelmunde, his lips edging ever closer to her ear with every flagon he sank. His hot breath and pungent beer stench becoming less than pleasant and increasingly difficult to be polite about. It was only when his arm moved to touch her under the table that she finally pushed her chair back and stood rather abruptly. Her face as stern as stone. Without looking back, she hurried her way around the end of the table and down from the dais, squeezing herself in on one of the benches on the first table with her back to him.

It did not go unnoticed by Galadriel.

Once the meal was finished and cleared, all the trestles bar the head table were pushed to the edges of the room to make space for dancing. The dissolution of formal seating arrangements now meant that many elves had flocked to where Mairon was standing at the end of the table with the simple intention of refilling his glass with the carafe that was still full there. The throng of elves that had surrounded him, given his new celebrity status, was preventing him from returning to his seat, and he now found himself inundated with questions of Valinor, of how he hoped to help them, offers of gratitude, some hoping for a dance while others merely wished to look on him more closely – eyes wide with veneration.

He glanced over to where Galadriel was still sitting, eager to catch her eye and appeal to her good nature to save him somehow. But her attention was on Corwin, who had respectfully bowed to her from the opposite side of the table and had seemingly asked her to dance, given that a moment later she was up, smiling warmly and walking the opposite way around the table, then taking Corwin’s hand when she met him on the dais steps.

Mairon watched them over the heads that had closed him about him, they were dancing to a light jig and laughing when Corwin got the steps wrong. It was all Mairon could do to smile politely at the faces around him, answering their questions where he could while graciously turning down offers to dance, all the while anxiously keeping one eye on his elf as she danced so effortlessly around the room. It was not that he was jealous or threatened by Corwin, quite the opposite – he liked the young lad – he simply wished to be near her in a place and situation where will admit he felt rather out of his depth.

As the music came to an end, he took his opportunity to contritely wade through the small crowd in front of him, making a b-line for the only elf in the room whose attention he craved.

But no sooner had he cleared the mass of bodies, did he notice Éargstan approach her and extend his hand.

His pace quickened. Feet eating up the distance between them in seconds.

He managed to snatch her hand away just in time. “Apologies, Warcwyn, the Lady is spoken for, for the next dance.”

Éargstan’s nostrils flared and his jaw set. Eyes burning with poorly veiled hatred. But he stepped back and nodded, lips thinning into a strained smile for courtesy’s sake.

At that, Mairon curled his other arm about her waist and turned his back to him, shielding Galadriel from view and stepping in time when the music began.

“Must you torment him so?” Galadriel knew these dances well and needed not to look where she was going, so instead she opted for looking at Mairon dead in the eye.

He swept his gaze over the top of her head to where Warcwyn still stood, seething, then lowered his eyes to meet Galadriel’s. “Would you prefer to be dancing with him now instead of me?”

“No. But we are going to have to suffer his company for a long time still yet. We needn’t sour him to us.”

Mairon huffed resignedly, “I think it’s already too late for that. At least for me anyway. Besides, that’s not actually why I wanted to dance with you, not that having a dig at him isn’t amusing.”

“Then why did you want to dance with me?”

“Aside from simply wanting to be near the woman I love?” He lifted their hands and swirled her away from him before reeling her back in. Once back in his arms, she raised sceptical brow at him. He laughed a little nervously in response, “Perhaps it’s a good thing you can see straight through me.”

“Definitely, I should say.” Her tone was unamused.

A sigh slipped passed Mairon’s lips. “Truthfully? I get the feeling my light is angry at me, and that is something I need to rectify.”

“Oh really?” She lifted her chin goadingly. “What am I angry with you about?”

There came a moment in the dance where the woman places her hands on her man’s shoulders and the man lifts her at her waist and turns. For a second or two she towered over him in a graceful arc before setting her feet back down.

“For making us late, for starters.” His voice dropped a little lower. “For allowing everyone to know the reason why we were late.” He drew her in a little closer. “For not wedding you by now… I know it’s not the elven custom to love as we do without it.” He slowed his steps, not caring that the dance was still going. Bringing her left hand between them with his right, he bent his head and delicately kissed her fingers one-by-one. His gaze fell away as he murmured now against her skin, “For the hurts of the past.”

She sighed sympathetically through her nose, removing her hand from his shoulder and placing it softly against his cheek, dipping her head a little to try and catch his eyeline. “I’m not angry at you for the past. I forgave you a long time ago, it’s just… even with forgiveness, some wounds still ache. But you are not responsible for what happened to Melian and Thingol.”

‘But I was part of the darkness that pressed upon them… upon you all.’ His voice drifted hesitantly into her mind, conscious not to speak these words aloud, his eyes still struggling to meet her gaze.

Another sigh pressed through Galadriel’s nose, more sorrowful this time. ‘Yes.’ The bluntness of her response hung between them for a moment before she softened in his arms. ‘But you are no longer that man. Your actions back then do not reflect on who you now are.’

He tilted his head doubtingly. ‘My actions tonight have not exactly been wise.’

She pressed her lips together and let one eyebrow arch in indignant agreement.

‘I’m sorry.’

Galadriel made no response, other than to nestle her forehead into the crook of his neck, holding his hand against his chest. Then, she began to sway.

‘My love for you does not waver in the face of foolhardiness. But love does not erase history. It only teaches us how to live beside it.’

Looking down at her for a moment, he placed a feather kiss on the crown of her head, grateful she was still within his arms. Then, closing his eyes, he let his cheek rest on her hairline and simply swayed with her.

‘I will marry you - one day.’ Mairon’s words were resolute now, his heartbeat quieting when he felt her smile against his chest.

‘I know.’

Neither of them took notice of the mismatched music, nor did they catch the adoring looks from about the room that seemed to offset the previous scandalous whisperings from earlier in the night. For the room was as good as empty to them. Each other’s embrace being the only thing in that moment in they cared for. For a while, nothing else in the world existed.

Chapter Text

“Congratulations.” Celebrimbor extended a warm smile and another full glass of wine towards Galadriel, who was leaning against one of the tables and watching the goings on around the banquet hall. The dancing would go on for hours yet and she felt the need for a respite if she was going to steel herself for the livelier tunes and party games that inevitably ensued later into the night after much more drink had been consumed.

Gladly, she took the wine goblet from Celebrimbor, who then raised his own, waiting for her to clink glasses. “To what are we toasting?” She asked.

“Yours and Lord Halbrand’s bond. It is a fortuitous match.” Another deep-creased smile emerged, accompanied this time by a slight raise of his eyebrows and a nod to their glasses.

A shy curl pulled at Galadriel’s lips before she cheerfully kissed her glass to his. “Hannon le. I am very lucky.”

“He watches you as though the world would burn before he let harm touch you.”

Galadriel smiled again, more wistfully this time. “It would.”

“Yes, indeed the two of you seem very happy, if I may be so bold.” The arch in his brow exaggerated further.

“You may not.” Galadriel tried to hide an embarrassed smile by sucking her cheeks in and glaring playfully at her cousin. “Our apologies if we caused a stir, it was not my intention, at any rate, to do so.”

He waved her apology away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Love is something to be celebrated, although it did redden a few cheeks among some of the more reserved among the guests. Besides, it seems the crowd is quite taken with your Maia.” Gesturing to where Mairon was sitting and conversing with Corwin on the far side of the room, Celebrimbor gave a nod to the onlookers (of purely elven persuasion) who were eyeing him up – mustering the courage, no doubt, to ask him questions of how Valinor fairs and whether he might be convinced to dance with someone other than Galadriel.

She pursed her lips in amusement at how Mairon made a point not to look at any of them in the eye lest he encourage one to come over. “He’s possibly regretting making his fána quite so handsome at this current moment in time.”

“Perhaps.” Celebrimbor chuckled in agreement. “But he managed to catch your eye, so perhaps not. You have yet to explain how you met.”

“Oh. Have I?” Galadriel did her best to keep her eyes steady, still looking across the room at Mairon and pretending to be too love struck to pay the comment any mind. She hoped her cousin had not noticed how her grip had tightened on where her hand rested on the table-edge. But when the silence stretched and Celebrimbor continued to watch her expectantly, she knew she would not be able to wheedle out of answering. “We met in the southern foothills of the Ered Engrin. He was travelling southward following a band of orcs that had come down out of the Forodwaith. I - similarly - stationed myself there, having heard rumours of orc activity in the North.”

Galadriel paused as she weighed up how much of their meeting she could get away with telling. Better to keep to as much truth as possible, with a few tactful tweaks.

Celebrimbor patiently waited for more.

She attempted a bashful smile to try and lighten the significance of her story. “Oh, it’s nothing remarkable – he sought shelter after being on the road for a long time, and I was able to provide some. He revealed who he was to me when he realised I was an elf.” She adopted a wicked smile then. “The rest is not something I am prepared to share in decent company.”

“Ah, quite right! Well, needless to say you have both been lucky in your path to finding love. He seems a good man, if he can be called that – and has been very helpful so far. This mithril prospect… it is certainly intriguing. He assures me it may possess the qualities I have been looking for in which to craft something that will help us. His knowledge… is rare.” Celebrimbor’s voice softened. “It would be a tragedy not to make full use of it.”

Galadriel did her best to force a smile. “He is certainly a master of his craft – like yourself cousin, you will get on well.”

“Oh, I have no doubt. And he is a man of his word, I take it? He will return once you have concluded your business in the South?” It was not quite a question. And as he finished it, a strange shadow crossed his face; his features drew sharp, and something hungry woke in his eyes. His gaze lingered a fraction too long. Not on her - but on Mairon.

Though the hall was warm with music and candlelight, a chill slipped beneath her skin, whispering caution. “…Yes, we both will.”

“Good! In that case, I would be happy to lend you the soldiers you need to hasten your success.”

Galadriel released the breath she was not aware she was holding – relief overpowering whatever the strange feeling was from before. “Thank you, cousin, that is most generous. We will make sure to repay your kindness.”

“No need – just come back in one piece.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Mairon.

“Both of you.”

The pang of caution returned at the way he stressed both. She had meant only that she would be at Mairon’s side when they returned - but Celebrimbor’s emphasis suggested something else entirely: that their return mattered to him only if Mairon were there. That he wanted it assured.

“We’ll do our best.” Galadriel forced a smile, nodding a little. “If you’ll excuse me, cousin.” Without waiting for a response, she placed her glass down and headed off towards an open corridor to the right of her that led to the washrooms, hoping that perhaps a splash of cold water would cease her skin from prickling.

“Are you not going to take any of these fine elven maidens up on a dance?” Mairon pushed a mug of ale towards Corwin as he sat down on the bench, positioning himself outward and resting his elbows on the table-top.

Any misgivings Corwyn had about Mairon’s reveal as a Maia seemed to dissipate quickly with the food and the flow of ale, and for the moment, all appeared well.

The boy somewhat awkwardly dragged the tankard further towards him and took a sheepish sip, watching the women over the rim of his mug who had gathered in the corner and were coyly glancing their way. “I don’t think it’s me they’re looking at.”

“‘Course it is.” Mairon scoffed, “they know I’m off the market, so who else better to lust after than a handsome young warrior from the north.” He clapped Corwin on the back and shot him a heartening smile.

A disbelieving laugh escaped the boy’s mouth. “Warrior?”

But all Mairon did was nod in return.

Looking again, this time Corwin spotted a couple of younger elf-maidens giggle and turn away when he caught their eye – emboldening him to shuffle in his seat and sit up straighter as he smiled their way. He had not noticed the sly wink Mairon had given them.

“What do I say to them?” Corwin asked, nervously worrying his fingers around the handle on his ale.

“Not much – just ask them for a dance.” He leant himself further back on his elbows and watched Galadriel on the far side of the room leave Celebrimbor and take herself down the corridor to the wash rooms. “If they’re anything like my elf, they’ll do most of the talking.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Tell them about how you got that scar on your cheek – women love a tale of daring and bravery.”

Corwin grimaced. “It’s not exactly a battle wound…”

“No, but you won that fight - before I dragged you off the bastard, that is. My advice? Keep it vague, there’s nothing that’ll keep a woman coming back for more than a good mystery.”

“Is that how you got Galadriel?” Corwin flashed Mairon a mischievous grin, to which Mairon thumped him playfully on the upper arm in reply, pretending to put him in his place.

“Yes, actually. Though she was cleverer than most. She saw through a lot of it…”

And some of it she didn’t.

The smile had dropped from Mairon’s face and a pensive crease crept into his brow. He looked longingly towards the corridor she had disappeared down.

“Halbrand? You alright?” Corwin looked about, unsure what to do or say at this sudden turn.

Taking a deep breath, Mairon turned fully to face the boy, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder. But in doing so he failed to notice Éargstan follow Galadriel out of the room.

“Y’know what, forget everything I just said. Don’t be mysterious or boast any bravery, and if anyone asks about your scar, just tell them the truth. Be yourself. If they like you, they’ll find out who you are eventually anyway and you’ll only look like an idiot for pretending. I was lucky that my elf stuck around – there would have been plenty who wouldn’t.” He squeezed Corwin’s shoulder then to emphasise his point. “You’re enough, Cori, I promise you that.”

A crooked smile stretched along Corwin’s mouth, accompanied by an appreciative nod. “Can I lie maybe a little bit and say the man was twice my size?”

“Ha!” Mairon barked, returning to his languid position from before. “I suppose that’s harmless enough.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Corwin’s voice had dropped suddenly and a tinge of guilt laced his words.

Mairon simply stared at him sideways and raised a questioning eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

“Strangle him, I mean. Warcwyn. He just… he makes me so angry.”

Mairon noted how Corwin’s fingers had curled around the handle of his mug and were wringing out the metal, his knuckles turning white.

Interesting.

“After everything he’s done, all the death on his hands – Bailid, Shyâl… my mother… and the rest. He still walks around as if he deserves…” Corwin struggled to get the rest of his words out, instead settling for frustrated growl instead.

“We all know what he deserves.” Sighed Mairon sympathetically. “But justice rarely arrives on its own.”

“Then why is he with us?!”

“Because we’re already outnumbered. As much as I hate to admit it, we need every sword we can get, and myself and Galadriel can’t be seen to be making decisions that will weaken us. But Cori,” Mairon squeezed his shoulder a little harder and made sure Corwin looked him in the eye – his gaze stalwart. “Don’t tolerate his insults. If he tries to come at you again, stand your ground. Predators grow bored when their prey stops flinching. You never know, he might get weary of being challenged all the time and leave the mission of his own accord. Believe me, if he does, few would mourn it.”

Then-

Something strange.

Mairon felt the air stir - faintly. Restless.

For a moment, the hall seemed to dim - as though a cloud had crossed the lanternlight.

‘MAIRON!’

A scream tore through their bond.

His head whipped round toward the wash-room corridor.

“Galadriel…”

In an instant, Mairon did something he had not done in an age.

He vanished.

Leaving only startled gasps and a rush of air in his wake.

Galadriel watched the water in the basin slowly settle – droplets silently falling from her face where she had splashed herself, creating rings on the surface and colliding as they expanded.

“We have the soldiers… that’s all that matters.” She whispered this to herself while watching her reflection for a moment more, staring herself down. With another outbreath she straightened up and patted herself dry with one of the hand towels hanging from the rail beneath the sink, then headed out of the washroom.

Not a moment after stepping back into the corridor was she forced back inside.

With a vice like grip on her wrists and surprise getting the best of her, she stumbled backward – her lower back slamming into the hard edge of the basin she had just used.

Then-

Lips.

Foreign. Ale and bile. Rough. Smashing against her own.

She squealed - scrunching her eyes shut and pinching her lips inward, doing her best to lean away.

No. Look at him, Galadriel. Assess the threat.

Her eyes flung open again, recognition hitting like a blast of ice.

Warcwyn.

His mouth was clumsy and insistent, slobber coating her chin while the weight of him pinned her against the sink. Her feet were losing traction on the polished marble floor with every inch she was bent back.

When suddenly – clarity.

He’s no match for you.

She drove her palm into his sternum – with no anchor to the floor she shoved hard with all the force she could muster.

His bulking mass fell clumsily against the door frame, ricocheting off it and twisting to the ground.

She would have to jump over him to make her escape, and despite the stench of ale on him, he was recovering fast.

She leaped.

But no sooner had her feet touched the ground did a biting pain tore at her scalp.

Her head snapped back. Lecherous fingers tangled in her hair - yanking.

She did not scream aloud.

The cry ripped through their bond like a blade through silk.

‘MAIRON!’

Her feet slipped. The marble cracked against the back of her skull. Light burst white behind her eyes.

She cried out.

Her feet were scrabbling for purchase while the rest of her was dragged back through the washroom door.

But then-

Mairon.

He stepped out of nothing just outside the washroom. Eyes blazing and without a second thought, he quickly bounded past Galadriel.

His fist caught Warcwyn beneath the jaw in a brutal upward arc.

Blood burst from his mouth. His head snapped back - red striking the white ceiling in a violent slash.

Warcwyn’s legs crumpled underneath him, his head barely missed the edge of the basin.

But Mairon was not done.

With a growl, he picked the man up off the floor with no more difficulty than if he were a sack of grain, and flung him back out the door and down the length of the corridor. The door itself, nearly torn from its hinges.

The man landed with a heavy thud, rolling several body lengths more.

Like a fell beast, Mairon prowled down the corridor after him – a terrible spectre of reckoning come to exact violent retribution. Roaring his intent: “Don’t you ever fucking touch her!”

A wave of shocked gasps, the scraping sound of chairs being pushed back, and hurried footsteps followed Mairon’s words. A gaggle of onlookers had begun to form at the other end of the corridor, peering in.

Galadriel had gotten to her feet and had managed to stagger down the passageway a little. She braced herself against the wall to her left, watching on as her lover caught up with the man who tried to make her his own.

When Mairon reached him, Warcwyn was already crawling, attempting to flee the implacable wrath he had stirred.

Clasping hold of his scalp, Mairon pulled him up by his hair, wrenching a hoarse wheeze from him as his body stretched upward, straining a cracked rib or two.

Mairon yanked him onto his tip-toes so he could look him dead in the eye, spitting out his words with a poisonous hiss. “You will never lay your hands on her again.”

But Warcwyn simply spat out another mouthful of blood to one side – a defiant gloat in his eyes. “That’s for her to judge.” An insidious smirk crept across his mouth. “Perhaps she liked it.”

Anger flared.

Mairon roared again, this time kicking Warcwyn square in the chest and with such strength as to send him flying into the banqueting hall.

The crowd parted quickly.

With nothing and no one to stop him, Warcwyn careened into the middle of one of the tables so heavily that some of the wooden planks split. He lay in a crumpled mess of limbs and splintered wood, his body still instinctively coughing up blood even in his unconscious state.

“I will kill you!” Mairon pursued with dogged fury.

The crowd was too stunned to do much other than retreat out his way.

But Celebrimbor’s voice broke through the din of whines and wails “Peace! Spill no more blood in this house, my Lord Halbrand!”

His words went unheeded as Mairon broke through the small throng of guests that were brave enough to step between the two men. On his way he seized a flaming cresset mounted on a wooden stand. Snapping off its base with his knee, he strode forth, holding it aloft like a blazing javelin - a raging madness in his eyes and ready to skewer this man who would defile the only pure thing in his otherwise hideous existence.

He raised it high, eyeing up Warcwyn’s chest like a whaler aiming a harpoon.

Another step.

His weapon poised to strike. His hatred quickening his blood.

He drew it back, ready for the throw.

Then-

“Halbrand! Stop!”

Her.

He froze.

Caught perfectly between obeying his love and exacting revenge - his missile was still high above his head. Lips pressed together in frustration, nostrils flaring with held back rage. Muscles straining, shaking with opposing resolve.

“Put it down, my love.” Her words were calm, coaxing as they echoed through the hall.

All other voices had fallen silent.

Mairon stood over Warcwyn, looking down at his crooked form that made no effort now to defy him. His chest heaved, hating the idea of letting the wretch live.

“Halbrand…” A gentle hand came to rest on his forearm above him, guiding his arm down with only a little resistance. “Let it go.”

His words seethed through his teeth, still unable to tear his eyes away from the man. “How can you ask me that?”

All stood watching now - the tension in the room sitting upon a knife-edge.

Another soft, warming palm reached for his outer cheek, turning his face towards her and meeting his eyes with the tranquil light of a silent ocean at dawn. “Because I love you,” she said softly. “And I will not watch you damn yourself for him. I do not ask that he go unpunished. But please, my love, do not destroy yourself just so you can destroy him.”

Mairon’s spirit was still far from quelled, and he searched her face now, eyes locking on to the pink rash around her mouth where Warcwyn’s coarse beard had rubbed the skin raw. It was only then he also noticed the small trickle of blood that had been smeared across the back and side of her neck by her hair.

A seething twitch rippled through his cheek, his jaw set square and an urge to hurt Warcwyn surged once again. “He marked you.” His fingertips brushed at her lips before straying to the blood at her neck.

“I know.” Galadriel closed her eyes slowly in agreement, cupping his face with both hands now and pressing her forehead to his, whispering. “Peace… What’s done is done. Let others see to his punishment while you tend to your beloved, hmm? Will you do that? For me? I have a headache that needs seeing to, and only my Maia can heal me. I need him with me, not locked up in a cell in place of the man he killed.” Her voice lowered then, whispering so only he could here. “Choose me.”

A long, anguished sigh pressed through his nose while he rocked his forehead a little against hers in acceptance.

The cresset dropped from his hands.

Gently, he curled his fingers about hers and peeled them away from his face, making sure to plant a thankful kiss to one of her palms as he did so. But he did not let go, instead he held them tight against his chest, as though they were his anchor tethering him to reason.

He looked about to find Celebrimbor, shame upon his brow. “Forgive me, Lord Celebrimbor, for displaying such violence under your roof. I request this man be held under lock and key until he sobers up, and while we consider a more fitting punishment for his assault on Lady Galadriel.”

Celebrimbor studied Mairon for some time, his lips pressed into a thin line while he drew in a long, grounding breath. His eyes flicked to Galadriel – to the sore patch around her mouth and where her hair was matted with blood. Finally, his gaze drifted over Éargstan, who was slowly coming to. He winced at him sceptically, before meeting Mairon’s eyes once more and nodding grimly. “It shall be done.”

“Thank you, my friend. I hope my actions here tonight have not sullied my ability to call you that.” Mairon curled an arm around Galadriel’s waist. “If you’ll excuse us, I would like to tend to my elf’s needs.”

“Of course.” There was a wariness to his tone that did not go unnoticed by Mairon.

Damn.

“I can wash my hair perfectly fine on my own.” From under her brow, Galadriel shot Mairon a sardonic look while holding out her hand for the soap.

Mairon responded with a dramatic sigh. “Alright,” he yielded, passing her the bar. “I just thought you’d like to be looked after.” He was knelt at the side of the bath with his tunic sleeves rolled up, his forearms resting on the edge of the tub.

“I’m fine.” Her tone was more even than frustrated, but she snatched at the bar anyway to prove a point, then began lathering up her hands and running the suds through her hair where he had healed her. She massaged the back of her head particularly vigorously before dunking her head under the surface.

The clear bathwater turned to subtle rose as the blood was washed out.

He watched the water cloud, and his jaw tightened.

When Galadriel resurfaced, she noticed how Mairon was looking at it, chewing on his cheek and swirling the tips of his fingers through the water. She pinched his index finger from below the surface, causing him to stop. “I am alright, I promise.”

He exhaled heavily through his nose. His mouth twisted and he did not look at her. “But he touched you… I should have been there.”

The memory flickered - the taste, the weight, the hands.

She forced it down.

He needs anchoring.

“You were there.” She took hold of his full hand now, squeezing just enough to try and reassure him. “And you made sure he didn’t take it any further. That’s all that matters.” Her other hand rose out of the water, and using her fingertips, she tilted his chin up so he’d look at her. “You can’t be everywhere at once, or protect me every second of the day. Nor would I want you to. It’s not your job to look after me.”

For few seconds Mairon said nothing, but stared at her hard - his eyes flicking earnestly between hers. “Yes, it is.”

Galadriel tilted her head with a kindly pity, studying him for a moment with curious eyes before leaning in, grazing her nose against his and placing a soft, thankful kiss upon his lips. “Thank you for coming when I called.” She drew back only slightly, their noses still glancing each other.

“Always.” He whispered, his fingers rising to gently cup her chin – a promise that he would keep her there, lest she thought about pulling away.

“Be thankful it was not another orc wound.” Her voice softly teasing.

But in response, he only frowned. “This act was no less evil.”

The words hung in the small space between them, suspended there like a hung corpse, swinging.

The silence stretched on.

Eventually, her words cut the rope. “No. It wasn’t.”

Mairon’s face twisted in a new bout of anger. “The idea of him touching you…”

“I know.” Taking his face in both hands, she pressed her forehead against his – her eyes scrunching shut as she remembered the taste of him; the way it still turned her stomach. “I know.”

Neither of them could be sure how long they stayed there. The shiver that ran through Galadriel as the water cooled was what eventually made them stir.

“Mairon?” Her voice barely above a whisper.

“Mmm?”

I want to forget.

“Take me to bed.”

With the smallest of nods, he smiled faintly, reluctantly pulling away to fetch her a towel from the rail behind him. Then taking her hand, he helped her out the bath and wrapped her up, pulling her in for another embrace and running his hands over the towel up and down her back. “I’ll get your night gown.” But before doing so, he planted an earnest kiss upon her brow, an unspoken vow that he would not be long.

Galadriel smiled, even though she lamented his warmth and the reassurance of his hold – both seeping away as he went through to the bedroom. She concentrated on drying off, and in but moments he returned with a white, satin chemise that he helped slip over her head as she threaded her arms through. Then, without a word, he scooped her up and carried her with sturdy arms through to the other room, gently placing her upon the bed as one might lay a shawl made of gossamer - careful not to break its threads.

One by one, he blew out the candles.

Then, pulling his tunic over his head, he kicked off his boots and rounded the bed while she slipped herself between the sheets. The last thing he rid himself of was his trousers before joining her under the duvet. Collecting her in his arms, he felt her cling to him. For all her assurances that she was fine, she clutched at him so tightly it was as though she were trying to climb inside his very being, to burrow beyond the reach of the roughness, the stench, the hands - the cursed blade of elven memory.

So, he held her fast within the strong anchor of his arms, against the steady predictability of his heartbeat. Before long, he sensed her breathing had evened, the tension in her body slowly melting away - though her fingers remained curled tight against his skin, as though sleep itself would not pry her loose.

“Mairon?” Galadriel’s voice was teetering on the brink of dreams.

“Yes.”

“Hold me like this forever. Don’t let me go.”

“I would unmake the world first.”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Galadriel’s eye snapped open with a start.

Instinctively she clutched at where Mairon should have been, but she only scrunched up empty sheets.

Panic flared, heat rushing to her cheeks.

The banging came again. Persistent.

Then-

“I’ll get it, calinya.” Mairon emerged from the wash room, he had donned some loose trousers and a sleeping shirt at some point, and was drying his hands on a towel - looking altogether a picture of calm despite the urgent knocking at their door.

Watching him cross the room, grateful that he was there and she was safe, she settled her breathing.

Mairon opened the door, but not enough for her to see who was there. Whoever they were, they did not wait for Mairon to ask what was the matter.

“Lord Halbrand.” His voice seemed distressed. “You and Lady Galadriel are required, quickly. There has been an… incident.”

“What kind of incident?” Pressed Mairon.

“I am not permitted to say.” The voice replied a little nervously. “Only that Lord Celebrimbor has asked for you to join him at the holding cells.”

Mairon’s eye narrowed though his gaze had dropped, as though he had already guessed what had happened. “Thank you, we’ll be there shortly.” With that he closed the door and turned to Galadriel. Both of them swallowed down an uncomfortable breath, exchanging a grim, knowing look.

They swiftly dressed and hurried out of their room and down the stairs. It was still dark – the morn still a few hours away, late as it was into the autumn. Exiting the outer door to the guest wing, they crossed a courtyard and down another set of wide stone steps. The guest quarters and banqueting hall was sat atop a flat, raised hill. Half way down, another terrace opened out with a tall fountain in the middle. Its waters caught the moonlight, gleaming a steely blue against the inky backdrop of the night sky.

This might have been a beautiful night. Lamented Galadriel as she led Mairon across the terrace.

The descent split into two arcing staircases - they took the left. At the bottom they took the street directly in front of them. The streets narrowed as they descended down the hill - stone closing in, sound swallowed by shadow. Eventually, at the end of an alleyway, they came out onto a cobbled street that ran parallel to a long, wide bridge above them that connected the workshops of Gwaith-i-Mirdain with the market place. Directly in front of them, lay the entrance to a dark tunnel that bore its way under the heart of the bridge. On either side, stood two sentries, awaiting their arrival.

Crossing the street, they fell in behind the sentries who had each taken a torch from the walls.

The tunnel breathed damp air at them. Their footsteps echoed too loudly.

Their route turned right down another passage way, where they felt the ground slope steeply downward and into the bowels of the underground catacombs.

After descending another set of stairs, the sentries parted and took position on either side of the passageway atop a set of smaller steps, where voices could be heard down the tunnel beyond.

Taking the lead, Galadriel went on, down the steps and into a passage whose walls were punctured with a row of barred archways on either side. A column with a sconce individuated each of the cells.

Half-way down, Celebrimbor stood ashen-faced, conversing quietly with two more guards. When he saw them approach he dismissed them, but instead of leaving this lower tunnel, they walked further down it, positioning themselves on the right, two cells down.

“Cousin,” Galadriel began, with Mairon in tow only a couple of steps behind. “What has happened?”

He sighed gravely in response, motioning into the open cell to the left of him. “See for yourself.”

Galadriel picked up her pace, gathering up her skirts and half-jogging the last few steps. When she turned into the cell she was unsure of what to make of it.

Éargstan lay on his side.

For a moment, she thought he was merely unconscious.

Then she saw the floor.

His tunic was no longer whole.

Red had soaked through, leaving the body a bloodied mess upon the flagstones.

Gasping in horror, she stepped back, slamming into Mairon’s chest as he came up behind. He grabbed her upper arms to steady her, looking over her head at the wretched sight beyond.

Galadriel winced.

She had no love for the man, especially after the events earlier in the night, but his killing had been brutal.

The wounds were not random.

The killer opened him methodically - widening, deepening, returning to the same place again and again.

Whoever did this knew how to ruin a man.

Galadriel swallowed thickly, leaning into the steady rise and fall of Mairon’s chest. “Who did this?”

Celebrimbor did not answer. He simply stared at the two of them for a second before canting his head and signalling with his eyes at the cell just down from them and across the way – the one with the guards outside it.

They both tentatively walked down the passage, until the full cell came into view. Within, was a figure hunched on a stool, and would not look up. His hands were stained red.

“Cori…” Galadriel stepped quietly up to the bars, her hand seeking to touch one - and then recoiling, as the truth settled in her chest.

He did not look up at his name. Instead a sob burst through, as though he had been trying to hold it in.

Mairon settled himself against the bars, leaning with one shoulder and looking down at his hands as he began picking at his fingers.

Galadriel motioned to one of the guards to bring over another stool from further down the passage so she could sit eye-to-eye with the boy.

“Corwin.” The shock had left her voice now, replaced by something more commanding. “Corwin, look at me.”

But all he could do was shake his head, still buried in his hands.

“Corwin, if you don’t tell me what’s happened, we can’t help you.”

A few more sporadic sniffles were hiccupped out before finally, he raised his head. His face was soaked from his tears, red and puffy, and the sorrow in his eyes could have struck even the hardest of hearts.

Galadriel bent her head, softening her features into something gentler, coaxing. “Please, Cori – what happened?”

“I… I wanted to see him. I didn’t mean to bring a knife. I didn’t.” Corwin’s words were interspersed with moments where his mouth made shapes but no sound came out, as though it pained him to speak.

“Start from the beginning. Please.” Galadriel was determined to be as patient as she needed. She would get the story from him, even if it took all night.

“I… I came to see him. I wanted to know why he did it – why he attacked you.” Although he was still wracked with guilt, he looked her in her eyes then, still capable of showing sympathy for what happened to her despite himself. “I wanted to confront him, to tell him exactly what he is – a twisted piece of shit that only ever hurts people. I wanted to spit in his face and have him not be able to do anything about it…”

“Alright, that’s why you came, but the knife… you said something about the knife?”

“I thought about it.” His brow knitted as though he were struggling to remember. “About bringing one. I saw it in my belt, hanging over the back of the chair in my room, and I thought I’d better take it. But then… I thought, what would be the need? He’s behind bars, he can’t hurt me… so I left it. I swear I left it.” He implored at Galadriel now to believe him, scooting his stool a couple of feet towards her. “I don’t even remember taking it out my pocket, but somehow it was there, in my hand and then…”

Mairon’s gaze flicked up sharply - then away.

“It was like… like I was watching myself… like I wasn’t myself.” Corwyn began to sob again, shaking his head in disbelief at what he was recalling.

Galadriel’s eyes turned glassy, dropping a little, and a slow crease threaded its way across her brow. Not an instant later, and with a deliberate blink of her lids, her sight sharpened again – casting away the wayward thoughts.

Mairon was still leaning against the bars, holding his left hand with his right and massaging his palm with his thumb - back and forth, back and forth - as though smoothing something invisible. His jaw was set, and he had a troubled brow.

Corwin was still gulping in air in fits and starts.

“Take a breath, Cori. Go back. How did you even get in here? Where were the guards?”

“Guards?” The question seemed to offer some clarity, as he suddenly stopped crying while he tried to piece together what had happened. “There were no guards.”

The silence that followed fell heavier than an axe.

Mairon’s thumb stilled against his palm.

Galadriel and Celebrimbor all shared a glance.

“The sentries have been on duty all night, my lord.” Assured one of the guards.

“I don’t remember seeing them.” Corwin frowned, “I don’t remember seeing anybody. It didn’t seem strange at the time. I wasn’t too sure where I was going, but I made my way down here. I came across no one on the way.”

“Is there a change of guard at all?” Mairon finally piped up, having been silent since they entered the cells. “Perhaps he slipped in between shifts?”

Galadriel looked over to him, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as a small shiver ran down her back. But as Celebrimbor broke in, the feeling dissipated as quickly as it came.

“There is one,” Celebrimbor replied, “At midnight. But the guards should not have relieved themselves until their replacements showed up. It is highly unusual for there to have been such a gap in the changeover.”

“We can review the guard’s movements later.” Galadriel was eager for Corwin to finish his story, shooting them both a look before fixing her focus back on the boy. “You found the cells, and Éargstan, then what happened?”

“I told him what he was. Told him if they ever let him out I’d hunt him down. He wasn’t going to get away with it, all of it…”

“And what did he say?”

“He welcomed it. Said he’d relish the chance at beating me bloody again. He said… he’d happily send me back to my mother, piece-by-piece into the afterlife… I screamed at him, called him a bastard. Tried to grab at him but he was too quick. He caught my wrist and yanked my arm so that I headbutted the bars. He had my throat then. I tried to get him off but he was too strong… and then… before I knew it I was…” The horror-filled gasps had returned, and Corwin was gulping down air at an alarming rate. “I was stabbing him… again and again and again. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I…”

He was hyperventilating.

“Stop Cori – breathe, I need you to breathe.” Galadriel did her best to calm him. “Daro. Hosto dîn. Thîr.” She managed to reach far enough through the cell to take hold of his hand, squeezing it tightly as she tried her best to ground him. “Thîr… that’s it… Thîr.”

It took a few moments but Corwin was able to settle himself again – the elven words washing over him like a summer breeze through a meadow.

Mairon shifted his weight and resettled against the bars.

Galadriel wondered why he was not saying much, or even looking at the boy. He did not once ask Corwin if he was hurt. Or why he did it – if Éargstan had left him any choice. Or anything at all.

Only hours ago he had been a tempest.

Now he was stone.

Perhaps he is too disappointed.

“Halbrand.”

The call of his name got him to look up at Corwin.

“You told me… you told me to stand my ground. Not to take his shit. You said I’d be doing everyone a favour if I did.” Desperation quaked in Corwin’s eyes as he accused Mairon, who responded with a stern side-long stare.

“I meant in a fair fight. And I never told you to kill him, Cori – do not twist my words. And you didn’t just kill him. You gutted him. Over and over.”

Galadriel flashed an accusatory frown Mairon’s way. ‘He knows what he did – he’s tearing himself apart because of it. There’s no need to remind him.’

Mairon made no reply. Instead he made a small gesture of shrugging and rolling his eyes slightly, and went back to worrying his hands together.

The boy’s eyes slid downwards to the floor, all fight gone from his voice. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I don’t know…” Galadriel answered in a desponded whisper. “Elven laws do not extend to violence among men. But…” She glanced sideways to Mairon, and then Celebrimbor, looking for… what? For support? For them to corroborate that their elven laws would not cover this? She returned her gaze to Corwin now, who looked just as he did the day Cedric fell. Reduced to no more than a boy again in the aftermath of another tragedy he blames himself for, facing down the haunting truth she was about to unleash.

She wanted to reach for him.

She did not.

“You’ve done a terrible thing, Corwin.”

For a moment, there was nothing from him – a cold silence as the words sunk in, before his expression broke in anguish.

“I know.”

He crumpled then, head curling towards his chest as if he might crawl inside himself – his body convulsing sporadically with each cry he let loose. One of his hands had grabbed hold of the bars, wringing the metal so tightly his knuckles went white as the rest of his body sank to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Cori.” It was the only thing she could say, though she knew it would do little to ease his guilt. “We’ll come back on the morrow once we have decided the best path.” She gave him a squeeze on the shoulder before rising from her seat.

The three of them then made to leave – a solemn mood soured the air as they climbed the first set of stairs.

But when they reached the small landing where the sentries still stood, Galadriel seemed to have already decided. “We should send him back north, let Brynneth and the rest of the north-men decide what to do with him. If you would spare but two more soldiers to escort-”

“Soldiers?” Celebrimbor stopped in his tracks - an incredulous look on his face. “Galadriel, I will be lending no such soldiers. For this or for your purposes in the south.”

“But… you said… at the feast-”

“I will not put elven lives at risk for those who would murder in my realm. Under my roof! I am sorry but men…” He was beside himself. “We invite them in, and blood follows. Men are violent, covetous, untrustworthy. I knew this before tonight but still, I thought… perhaps they might have changed. But I see now they cannot. They are utterly undeserving of our help.”

Galadriel grabbed hold of his arm, imploring him to reconsider. “But cousin-”

“No!” He ripped his arm away from her. “They will have to face the orc threat themselves. I will not align myself with such vengeful hatred. The elves will endure. Must endure. That must be my focus.”

Mairon attempted to assuage him. “Lord Celebrimbor, if I could just-”

“No!” Snapped Celebrimbor, “Servant of the Valar or not, you will not display such violence in my house and expect me to do your bidding.”

“My help preventing the fading of the elves is contingent on lending us those soldiers!”

“Then I shall triumph without your help!”

With that, he stormed off up the taller flight of stairs and up into the night.

Stunned, Galadriel turned to Mairon, who was staring at the floor. His mouth hung open and his lower jaw was off-set in anger. When he flicked his gaze back up to her, the despair in her eyes softened him instantly – pity and sorrow welling up for his elf who was close to tears.

‘Mairon…’ She rushed to him, collapsing in his arms in a fit of crying. It had all been too much.

‘I know… I know, calinya.’ He smoothed her hair with one hand and held her close with the other.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

“… and although I am loath to reduce our numbers further, I see no other alternative but to send Corwin back north with a three-man escort.” Galadriel sat stiffly behind a plain desk, trying not to notice the dust their presence had stirred up as it swirled like a thin mist about the room. Through the modest window to her right, the pale grey light of the morning fell cold upon her hands where they rested on the table-top, cupping one another.

Her manner was formal. Clipped. Dutiful.

The situation afforded some amount of discomfort, she supposed. But the small study room meant for lesser guild apprentices - tucked away in a furtive corner of the Lore Masters’ wing - was hardly where she had hoped to conduct the day’s business. Celebrimbor had obviously deemed it necessary to keep the whole bloody business quiet for the time being. Or at least until the meddling party that had disturbed Ost-in-Edhil’s peace was far away from the city.

We’ve been here less than two days…

“The elves will not pass lawful judgement on him, and we cannot now take him with us. So, he must be returned to Amar Nith – there Brynneth and the rest of your kind can decide what manner of justice should be sought. Though I could choose the men who might be best suited to taking him back, I do not wish to impose this order on any who does not wish it. This will be a one-way trip for those that go with him - we will not be able to wait on their return. Can you see to it that those who wish to take up this charge make themselves known to me? I will allow half a day for the company to decide.”

Across from her, Dïgelmunde was silent. Her eyes had long slipped away from Galadriel’s once it was clear what was being asked. Now, she simply stared at the well-worn wood on her side of the desk.

“Dïgelmunde?” Galadriel bent her head a little in an attempt to pry back her attention.

“Forgive me, my Lady, I don’t wish to be rude. It’s just…” She raised her eyes now, paying the elf the respect she deserved, though there was something resolute in her gaze that Galadriel could not place. “The company has already decided.”

“Decided what?” Though Galadriel did not know why, something in Dïgelmunde’s manner caused a sinking feeling in the pit her stomach.

“Last night, after you informed us of Éargstan’s death, we got to talking.” Her tone was steady, matter-of-fact. “Many of us came southward with you on the promise that we would gain the support of the elves as we passed through Eregion. Now, you tell us that Celebrimbor won’t lend us any soldiers. From what we can tell, and based on the numbers we saw tear through our villages, our piffling band of twenty – no – make that fifteen now, if we were to press on, stands little chance against the hordes of orcs that wait for us further south.”

“I know what you would say.” Galadriel jumped in, eager to not let the woman carry on with the inevitable. She leant forward – an unbidden air of desperation in her voice. “But we must press on. We will find other allies - those who live in the Southlands will no doubt stand with us to defend their homes.” She instinctively tried to reach for Dïgelmunde’s hand to reassure her, but with both the woman’s hands firmly placed in her lap below the table, Galadriel was left awkwardly strewn across the wooden surface, arm still outstretched. “They have no idea what is coming, or what the enemy’s plan is. Without us to inform them they will surely perish in fire and ash.”

She searched the woman’s eyes whilst pleading with her own. Yet Dïgelmunde remained unmoved.

Turning her palm flat to the table, Galadriel slowly withdrew her hand. She lowered her voice now to something colder, in bitter rebellion of the truth she already knew. “If we do not help them, even if only to flee, they will all die.”

Dïgelmunde swallowed thickly, a crease of genuine pity along her brow.

Or, was it guilt?

“I’m sorry, Galadriel. As much as you have taught us to wield a blade… we’re not soldiers. At least, not one equipped to do this on our own. The odds were already against us when we thought we would be getting reinforcements from the elves, but now…”

There was a pause while Dïgelmunde considered her next words. By the way her lips kept pursing and un-pursing, Galadriel could tell there was something else behind the group’s decision. She gave no outward sign of her anger or disappointment. Instead, she simply waited to see if the group’s appointed representative had the courage to say whatever it was.

“One of us is dead. And it was done by one of our own. We’re meant to have each other’s backs… but even you can’t stop us from killing each other.”

Her gaze hardened.

“And forgive me for saying it, my Lady, but we weren’t told everything when we set out with you either.”

Galadriel’s stomach tightened.

“If you can’t keep us safe amongst ourselves -and we’re not even certain we know the whole truth of the company we keep - how are we meant to trust you to keep us safe from those who truly mean us harm?”

Dïgelmunde’s stare was pained, but ruthless.

Her words cut deep.

Though Galadriel wanted to counter her with some jewel of persuasion, she found the moments kept passing without her able to conjure a word.

She’s right. Of course, she’s right. We are not yet in reach of perilous lands, and still death finds us.

The hope inside her curled in on itself like a child huddled in a shadowy corner - one lowly glimmer of pale flesh in a vast and oppressing dark.

With a weary heart, the only thing left to her was to defend her intentions. “I never promised to keep you safe. Only that we would not abandon those in need. You knew the risks, and when you stepped onto the road southward, you agreed to do the same. I am sorry about what has happened. But I cannot undo what is done. Nor will it sway me from our duty.”

There was nothing stern or defensive about Dïgelmunde’s response. If anything, she sounded sad. “Then here is where our paths diverge.” She rose, pausing only to bow her head slightly. “I’m sorry, Lady Galadriel, truly I am. You have been good to us. I wish you luck in your task.”

With that, she turned and crossed the small distance to the door. Upon leaving, she made sure to close the door softly behind her, leaving Galadriel to sit motionless and silent in the dust.

Shit.

Mairon was going to be late.

Galadriel would be waiting for him at the south entrance to the city.

After informing him that they would be journeying on just the two of them, he had asked for some time alone. It had been a hard blow – the reality that they had only just started out on this effort to right his wrongs and already people were losing faith in them.

In him.

It brought up all too many feelings from before. The distrust. The wariness.

I’m going to do better. Be better. Everything they need me to be.

He had found himself wandering by the secluded shore of the Glanduin, and happened upon a pleasant spot amongst the trees where a patioed sitting area had been laid upon a particularly charming bend in the river. Though it was winter now, Mairon imagined the flowers that would grow along the banks under the shade of the canopy – a vibrant mix of yellow daffodils and tulips, purple irises amongst white and pink valerians. It would be a peaceful spot where he and Galadriel could enjoy a lazy afternoon. She would spend the time picking flowers to thread through her hair or send down river like little boats, while he sat on the bench and sketched her, trying his best to capture every perfect line, every warm smile.

The winter roses that were dotted about the path this time of year were no less lovely, but he supposed the chill would most likely put-off his elf from accepting an invitation to skinny dip. Still, he smiled at the thought.

Gazing emptily at the ripples on the water, he let his mind drift where it wanted. But more often than not his introspection turned to thoughts of Galadriel. Without her, he had no solid ground to walk on, and if he were not careful, his guilt and shame for all his past misdeeds (old and new) might threaten to sweep him downstream – his soul at the mercy of the current until it would eventually swallow him whole; lost to the maelstrom among the rocks.

No, reflecting on his deeds took a strength and stamina that was impossible to maintain for long. He would try, in vain, but was only ever treading water in a torrent.

Until her, that is.

Like a shaft of light breaking through the storm clouds, her spirit always reached down to him, and he latched on like a drowning man would a rope.

Will there ever come a day when I can stay afloat for myself? Or better yet, stop the flood entirely?

Time meant nothing while he ruminated, and before he knew it, the sun had slipped passed its high point and his shadow had begun to creep away from him. Stretching. Growing. It was not until a clunk and a splash shook him out of his thoughts.

He looked up.

There was movement in the branches on the far side of the river. A flash of white and black.

A magpie.

Another plop – clunk – splash as it threw out a polished stone from its nest, dropping into the river below and hitting the rocks at the bottom. It had seemingly had enough of its current treasures and was making space for new ones.

Mairon raised his eyebrow at it, but paid it no more mind. He was about to look away again, until he noticed the sun just grazing the very top of the branches.

Shit. Shit, shit!

He sprang to his feet.

Immediately he started jogging with purpose, annoyed at himself - not towards the south entrance of the city where Galadriel would be waiting with Rána, but towards the heart of it. Leaving the river-meadows behind him, he slipped through a narrow alleyway - a private cut-through used by the residents of this quarter of the city - and made his way through the streets to the tall building that housed Celebrimbor’s workshop.

At its base, he stood and looked up at it for a moment, wondering if he would be permitted entrance. After all, he wasn’t exactly all that welcome anymore.

A grimace bit at his features. He really did regret the way things had gone. And while he could not put his finger on exactly why, he knew he did not want to leave this bridge burnt. Besides, if Celebrimbor did not succeed, Galadriel would fade along with the rest of the elves, unless she journeyed back to the blessed realm. But, of course if she did that, where would that leave him?

He did not want to risk another heated encounter, so instead of trying the main doors he skirted the building and slipped in via the craftsman’s access and carried on up a set of stairs that wound in a wide spiral, within which was installed a tall pulley system that stretched the entire height of the building that was used to haul carts of materials up to the main workshop.

When he reached the outer door, he pressed his ear against the woodwork and waited a beat, and when he was sure the workshop was empty he entered silently. Where everybody was, he could not be sure, but he guessed that those who were not nursing sore heads were helping to either clean up or in some way put to rights the calamity of the night before.

Mairon made straight for Celebrimbor’s desk and pulled out a square of parchment. Then, taking the quill from its ink pot, he wrote two deliberate words:

Replacing the pen, he left the note atop of Celebrimbor’s sketchbook.

A parting gift.

Then, as silent as before, he left the same way he came in – finally on his way to meet Galadriel.

The first few hours were miserable. The clouds had sunk low and a perpetual damp hung in the air. Though it was not actually raining, after an hour the pair of them were thoroughly soaked, and they were still not far enough south for the winter to feel any less biting against their skin.

The two of them sat astride Rána, downcast, as the beast plodded along at a snail’s pace, but neither of them wanted to spur him on any faster. They needed not to keep pace with those on foot any longer, so should they have wanted to, they could have put many miles behind them at a steady canter. But all this served to do was to remind them of how alone they had now become. Their little band reduced to just two.

Galadriel seemed to be taking it harder than Mairon – she made no attempt to start a conversation and any efforts on his part were met by clipped responses and closed-ended statements. It was only when they stopped to make camp and she no longer had her back to him on the horse that he realised she would not make eye contact.

While he had been strolling along the Glanduin and mulling things over, it seemed she had also had time to do the same, and now it was clear something was eating at her. For some time, he sat, chewing on the inside of his lip while breaking twigs apart and chucking them on the fire, debating whether it was best to ask what was wrong or leave her to her thoughts.

Eventually he ran out of sticks and now there was only the crackling of the damp wood to interrupt the silence.

He dared to break it. “You’re quiet.”

“Am I?” She didn’t look up.

“You’ve barely said more than a few words to me all afternoon.”

“A few words more than you did in the cells.” Her tone was dismissive, and she busied herself by pulling out a whetstone and sharpening her dagger.

Ah.

That was it.

“You think I should have said more to Cori, or tried harder to persuade Celebrimbor.”

She stared at him in a way that stung, as though her very gaze were a thousand pins needling him at once. “I think you said more than enough to Cori, don’t you?”

“I told him to stand up for himself! What’s so wrong with that?” He flung his arms to his sides, palms up to the sky in question. “It’s not like I told him to kill him-”

He faltered.

“Unless…” His blood ran cold. An ache that felt something like betrayal clamped down on his chest and his face went grey. “Galadriel… is that what you think I did?”

“I don’t know.” Her expression cut sharper than edged steel – blank but for the searing doubt that hung there. “But I saw it. I saw in your eyes how much you wanted him dead.”

“Of course, I wanted him dead!” He sprang to his feet - pacing across to her, back bent as he tried to drill his point into the floor where she sat. “He’d just assaulted you! And in case you were in any doubt about the situation – he was going to rape you. You’ll forgive me for not clapping him on the back and congratulating him for being so honourable!”

“You were going to kill him, Mairon!” She jutted her chin out and looked up at him like a stake driven into the earth, its point aimed at his heart.

“Yes! I was!” He froze – arm outstretched. Eyes wide and trembling with disbelief, with hurt.

The words caught between them like a boot stuck in the mud.

Neither moved.

Only the sound of his breathing fell dead against the air - his heaving chest, the only thing that moved.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then straightened a little, and stepped back. “But I didn’t… You pulled me back.”

It was her turn to let the hush linger - a trace of disgust pulling at her lip. All too calmly, she broke the silence. “And if I hadn’t?”

Immediately Mairon scoffed. “I won’t apologise for wanting the man dead.” His hands trembled at his sides. “Not after what he did to you.”

“So, the dagger just happened to find itself in Corwin’s pocket, did it?”

He dismissed her with an outraged wave of his hand, turning his back and walking away.

But she didn’t let up; quickly launching to her feet, she following him.

“The guards just happened to be between shifts when he arrived at the cells? Don’t think I didn’t catch you trying to explain that part away with Celebrimbor. Nor how you weren’t in bed with me when the messenger came to wake us up!”

He reeled around so quickly she almost bumped into him, and she had to backtrack a few steps as he pressed his anger, his head craned downward to pin her beneath his stare. “I wasn’t in bed with you because, if I am to love you then I need a hröa, and in taking on a hröa, I also take on all its functions – including needing to take a piss in the middle of the night!”

“Then what of the rest of it? The dagger, the guards!”

“Denial and laziness!”

His tone became despairing now, wincing as he spat out his words. “How could you think this of me? After everything, everything we’ve been through. How could you ask this?”

He waited while the twilight lingered, unmoving. Hoping to be convinced she wasn’t tearing his heart open for any reason other than fear and grieving. That she didn’t mean it. That she would take it all back.

But Galadriel stood like a stone monolith in the mist, cold and ominous - her eyes boring through to his soul.

She had no words for him, spoken or otherwise, but her gaze said it all:

How could I not?

He huffed bitterly, a sneer stretching across his face. “You’re all the same… As soon as the smallest shred of doubt creeps in you all turn your back on me.”

She jerked her head back, accusation checked by sudden affront. “I’m not turning my back on you, I just want to know the truth!”

“You are! You never believed in me - none of you did! Just one pointed finger after another! Eru forbid I can ever make a mistake!” Mairon was pacing wildly now – livid - arms flailing in furious gestures, his anger aimed at no one in particular; just at the world that kept letting him down. Again.

Galadriel stood strong – her stillness a stark contrast to his thrashing. Her retort came out low and even. “I am not Them. I have not abandoned you to suffer at the hand of your tormentor, who at this moment is very much just you. I did nothing but believe in you – can you blame me if your actions have me guessing, given everything you’ve done? What you used to be? Do not lay your misdeeds on me, as though somehow it is my fault for not bolstering you more. You’re not a child, Mairon - you’re responsible for your own poor decisions!”

“And your decisions are perfect, are they?” He had ceased throwing his fury out at the world and was directing it yet again at Galadriel, storming towards her with such fierce intent she felt forced to back away.

Her feet stumbled backwards, struggling to keep pace with the length of his strides – his boots almost pinning hers with every wrathful step forward, his words like fire: “You’ve never once made a bad decision in anger or spite?”

She had never seen him like this.

An inescapable rage was aflame on his brow. She felt her own anger slipping away, sharply replaced by a galling fear.

“Is that why your people tried to exile you? Why your King bade you leave Middle-Earth and never return? Because you’re so perfect!”

With a thud, her back slammed into the unyielding bark of a tree.

She flinched when he grabbed her by the shoulders – eyes swiftly pressing closed. Her breath hitched before releasing strangled whimper.

“Tell me straight, Galadriel! If you think me still capable of murder, just say it!”

His face was inches from hers, fingers cutting deep into her arms.

“You’re scaring me.” Her voice came out quiet and trembling. Not nearly as defiant as she had hoped.

“Good! You think yourself so high and mighty, perhaps you need taking down a peg!”

Outrage overtook her.

She burst free from his grasp.

Before she could think, she struck him.

His head whipped sideways and he stumbled back a pace, jaw twitching with ire.

The space between them went dead and still.

Galadriel stood taut as a bowstring, trying and failing to steady her breath – sharp and ragged – her chest heaved with the effort. Incensed, she willed her eyes into daggers, though her bottom lip betrayed her, quivering as it was.

The fire within Mairon had gone out, but it was supplanted by something more insidious – a cold, petulant contempt that chilled her to the bone. Canting his head back round, he looked down his nose at her with a bitter scorn, noting her trembling lip. “What… you’re going to cry now?”

Powerless to hold it in, she coughed out a wounded and incredulous sob, and despite her pride, the sting of unbidden tears began to tumble down her face.

Unmoved, Mairon simply stood there, regarding her with an expressionless spite.

She could not look at him any longer. Inhaling sharply, she turned, striding off much in the same way he had done earlier, only this time, he did not follow.

“What’s this?” He called after her, his tone cutting through the last of her defences. “You’re the one accusing me of murdering the bastard, but somehow you’re the one who’s offended?”

That did it – anguished cries burst through and he watched as her shoulders deflated, her spine jolting with each gasping sob.

But she kept on walking, and didn’t look back.

Cresting a small bracken-strewn rise, she quickly vanished down the other side.

Mairon stood, seething. His mouth twisting in anger - at her, at himself. Rage was building again with each passing second.

He shut his eyes as though this might quell the heat.

Jaw clenched. Nose flaring. He balled his hands into fists at his sides.

The air shuddered.

Then broke.

A shockwave burst from him before he knew what he was doing.

The blast was so powerful it felled the tree, and several more behind. All of them splintered and cracked three feet from the base and toppled over in a series of distressed groans.

When at last they had crashed to the ground, and the final remnants of the rustling leaves had ceased, Mairon was alone.

Hours passed.

Twilight turned to deepest night.

Still Galadriel had not come back.

It took time for the fire in Mairon to ebb, and it was not until the moon had risen that it finally burned itself out.

He should not have let it go so far.

But what she accused him of cut deep, aiming true at all his greatest insecurities about himself, and about falling back on old ways...

You’re scaring me.

The words haunted him – incessantly circling his mind and striking keener with every revolution. Until at last, he folded in on himself and wept, crouched low in the dirt, his breath catching as though it might tear him apart.

What have I done?

When the tears were spent, he was simply still for a while - unblinking - focussing on nothing at all. Hollow, and distant.

Shame settled heavy in his chest, pressing him down until even the thought of rising seemed beyond him.

It was only when the ache in his limbs grew sharp that he appreciated how long he had been sitting there. And with that realization came another - she was still gone.

I don’t deserve her.

But despite his self-pitying admonishments, he could not suppress the ache in his chest that called for her.

He knew he’d done wrong. But perhaps, so had she, and he was still angry at her for that.

Nevertheless, he turned his gaze toward the rise where she had vanished, searching the starlit line of it for any sign of movement.

But there was nothing.

He watched it still, long past the point of reason, until longing gave way to unease - and unease, at last, to fear.

Their bond had grown quiet.

Where once her thoughts brushed his like wind through leaves, there was now only stillness.

Perhaps the distance she had put between them was too great. Or maybe she had closed herself off from him.

Has she taken off her ring?

Either way, even his shame now was pushed aside as he worried where she had gone.

Rising to his feet, he frantically looked all about him, not just in the direction she left.

His first instinct was to go look for her. But he’d only taken two steps towards where Rána was hitched by a bush, before stalling.

What if she doesn’t want to be found? What if I only upset her more by going after her?

He found himself stuck between opposing thoughts and his body refused to move for several minutes.

It seemed as though giving her space had finally won out when he turned and retraced his steps a few paces.

But in the blink of an eye he swivelled again and strode now towards their horse.

Unhitching him, he mounted and kicked him on in the same swift movement, galloping on towards the stars.

The water was so still it reflected the lights above like a silver mirror, as though the universe itself had engulfed her and she had become one of the stars - twinkling sadly - held aloft in the vast expanse of night.

Galadriel had wandered for a long while over the grey landscape, eventually crying herself out. She waded through waist-high bracken for some time before the ground slowly began to rise. As the incline rose steeper, she emerged from the belt of ferns, which gave way to grassy tussocks underfoot. She aimed for the col between two hills and as she crested it, the ground fell away gradually again into a shallow bowl, at the centre of which, a large tarn sat pale and shimmering in the moonlight.

To her right, conifers lined the shore before the ground rose toward the larger hill. While to her left, the tarn was edged with tall reeds and grassy hummocks that graduated into drumlins tumbling down from the smaller hill in a lazy, haphazard fashion.

The water was large for a tarn, yet small enough that she could circle it in less than an hour.

Which is exactly what she did.

Walking helped make sense of her thoughts, but even though she was still upset, she thought better of walking aimlessly out in a single direction for long. She would only have to walk it back again at a later hour and in a much wearier state than she was now. So, stumbling across the tarn was a welcome happenstance.

When she had made it back to where she first stood, she sat herself down at the water’s edge and lost herself in the stars.

Though the setting was beautiful, and the night still, it did nothing to lighten the weight of her heart.

Absentmindedly, she rolled her ring back and forth between her fingers, unaware that she had even taken it off as she stared out into the night.

No matter how ardently she tried to count the lights reflected in the water, flashes of Mairon kept breaking through – the rage in his eyes as he stormed towards her, the equally chilling, calm contempt when he asked if she was going to cry.

How could he be so cruel?

She buried her face in her forearms where they rested over her knees and tried her best not to cry again.

When the feeling passed, she emerged once more, using her arms as a chin-rest. Sighing through her nose, she felt a sinking resignation settle in her bones.

Because I was so cruel…

She pressed her eyes closed and squeezed her elbows tighter into her thighs, as if she might crush the guilt out of her. Or maybe just crush herself – a punishment to quiet her conscience.

Her eyes fell upon a small clump of rue by her foot, their feathery blue-green leaves looked almost frost-kissed in the moonlight. She stared at them for a moment, frowning hard at them before realising that they did not merely look frost-tipped, they were. The night had grown so old that the lingering warmth of the day had now utterly seeped away, and the inescapable bite of winter was now taking hold.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head, pressing her lips into a thin line. When at last her eyes opened again she drew in a deep breath and sent a contrite look up to the heavens.

“Alright…” She whispered to herself, resolved on what she needed to do.

Slipping her ring back on her finger, and with a laden sense of purpose, she got herself up and prepared to head back the way she came.

She had taken only a few steps back up the shallow slope towards the edge of the bowl when suddenly, she stopped.

There, standing on the lip with Rána just behind, was Mairon.

He came looking for me.

He was still perhaps fifty yards away, but she could see clearly that his face was set grim, and he made no move to come closer.

For a moment she was not sure what to do – her own features no doubt gave little reassurance as the penitent crease in her brow could have easily been misconstrued as wariness.

Daring to make the first move, she walked on. And to her great relief, he let the reins fall and began walking down the slope to meet her.

They met halfway, both coming to a stop about two feet apart. The slant of the ground made her feel even smaller than usual against Mairon’s tall frame, who stood now like a great statue, voiceless, and waiting.

For a while, she simply met his gaze, unsure of quite what to do or say. And he gave nothing away as to what he was thinking – still looking at her with sad but otherwise unreadable eyes. Eventually, she let her own fall away, refocussing a moment later on his left hand. Tentatively, she reached with her right and gently wound her fingertips around the underside of his palm, holding her breath in expectation that he might pull away at any moment.

When she realised he was not going to, she slid her hand more assuredly behind his and closed her fingers around it.

Without a word, she glanced back up at him again before turning, feeling herself breathe again when he let her guide them back down the slope towards the shore.

When they got there, they stood in silence, side-by-side looking out across the water - their hands still holding on to one another.

For the longest time, neither moved.

Galadriel knew what she needed to say - but the longer she waited, the harder it became. In the end, it came out as but a whisper so quiet it might never have existed at all.

“I’m sorry.”

A torturously long pause followed, and in that time, she did not dare to look his way. Instead she fixed her sight on the middle of the little lake and waited. Hoping.

“I’m sorry too.”

If not for her elven hearing, she might have missed it entirely - the sibilant sigh of sorry, the soft percussive fall of too, breathed into the dark.

Thoughts followed - not words, but impressions. Unshaped and interwoven.
Like shadows emerging from the mist, though somehow, they were no more solid than the mist itself: feelings of longing and loss, a quiet hope and a desperate melancholy. And though neither spoke, nor was it clear whose visions belonged to whom, both now thought of home. The clear outline of the tower against a cerulean sky, peering through a break in the clouds. Whether it was one then the other, or both at the same time, they each shared the same remorseful sentiment.

I wish we'd never left our home.

…Me too.

They squeezed each other’s hands tighter.

Then, the image faded, lost behind a wall of thick fog rolling in from a sea that should not be there.

For several moments, they let the steady rise and fall of their chests be the only things that moved.

“I get it.”

Mairon’s voice came soft on the still night air.

“Why you thought what you did. It doesn’t hurt any less but…”

Silence.

“I get it.”

Galadriel’s brow crinkled and despite her desire to respond, her lips seemed to press themselves closer together. Her stubborn Noldor pride… or was it simply her own? …would not permit her to speak, even though she knew the right thing to say.

Though he did not turn his head, Mairon’s gaze drifted her way - able only to make out her obscured shape from the corner of his eye. When he realised she made no motion to stir, he let his attention slip outward again, coming to rest on the way the vapour was gathering in clumps over the water.

She knew she should say something. Worse – she knew her silence only continued to hurt him, but still she could not conjure the words.

Eventually, Mairon summoned a little more courage, and swallowing thickly, he turned slowly to look at her and grazed his thumb back and forth over the back of her hand. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I shouldn’t have done that… and I never want to do it again – I never want you to be afraid of me… it’s just… when you accused me of-” His words stuck in his throat for a moment before continuing on, and by gently placing his hands on her shoulders, he coaxed her to turn and look at him. “It hurt. It really hurt.” He frowned as his gaze lost its focus for a moment, before swiftly recapturing her attention with an achingly earnest plea. “Galadriel, if we’re going to do this – put right my wrongs… I need you to trust me. I need you to believe in me. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on if you don’t.”

Pain broke across her features - not only for the way she had hurt him (though that was part of it), but for how desperately she wanted to assure him that she did believe. Yet after everything she had said tonight, she feared it would ring hollow - a reassurance taken only at face value, a lie performed for the sake of appeasing him, even though it was anything but.

Her shame only deepened the lines on her face as her lip began to tremble again, a fresh tear falling from one of her eyes. She grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, wringing it between her fingers as she pulled herself into him, her forehead coming to rest upon his collarbone.

At first, Mairon was unsure if he was ready to be so close – everything she had suspected him of still stung keenly in his chest. But as the warmth of her seeped through his clothing, with clenched jaw, he found he was already wrapping his arms about her and tilting his head to take in the scent of her hair.

Even so, he needed her to say something. So far, he had done the bulk of the talking, sparse as it was, and he refused to say more until she had at least tried.

So, he held her, and waited.

Until finally, it came – a feint sound uttered into his neck. He felt it more than he heard it.

“I do trust you.”

He made no move to reply. Instead he simply held her a little tighter, his brow becoming pensive as his next question settled his mind, but never passed his lips. Nor was it shared via their bond. He knew it would only cause more hurt. So, he locked it up tight in the hope that she might explain herself without him having to utter it.

After some time, she did. Her head still buried in his neck.

“I just… I got so scared. We’ve barely even begun what we set out to do and it’s all falling apart. I wanted someone to blame and I… I’m so ashamed.”

The moisture from her tears began to soak through his tunic, and he couldn’t help smoothing her hair in soothing strokes over the back of her head. He sighed heavily at his own wretched desire to not leave her hurting - even if that meant he had to take back the blame. So, he shut his eyes tightly and laboriously pushed his next words passed his lips. “I have something to tell you, and… you’re not going to like it.”

Slowly, she pulled away and looked up at him with an anxious dread, unsure of whether he was going to go back on all he had just assured her of.

“It’s not that,” he reassured her. “But it’s not exactly good either…”

He caught one of her stray hairs where it had stuck to the tears on her cheek and brushed it away from her face, mustering the courage to go on.

“I hated him. Everything about him. All his weakness, his vices. All the reasonings he tried to conjure up to explain away his deeds…”

Frowning, he found he could no longer meet her eyes, his gaze falling instead to the clasp of her cloak - a delicately wrought silver brooch of heather, keeping the fabric from slipping to the ground.

‘Too much like how I used to be…’

Galadriel brought her hand to his face, resting her palm against his cheek and stroking her thumb back and forth as he leant into it. Her eyes shimmering up at him in the moonlight.

“And then he tried to gain your favour and I… I couldn’t lose you, not to him. Not that I really thought I would, but… I couldn’t help myself. I had to make sure he knew you weren’t his.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, a furrow appearing on her brow.

“That night in the glade, when we sparred and then made love under the tree… I-” He swallowed, preparing himself for the fallout of what he was about to admit. “I made sure he awoke, and followed the sounds of your sighs… then I forced him to watch. And I set the fear of Eru in him as I stared him down.” Mairon’s mouth twisted bitterly at the memory. At himself. “I needed him to know you were mine.”

Galadriel pulled back further, her hand slipping from his face and coming to hang limp at her side. She turned away and slowly, mechanically, sank herself down to the earth and stared back out at the tarn. Her knees drawn up close.

For a moment, Mairon stood there looking down at her, unsure what to do. He was certain she would shout at him – tell him how awful he was and that it sickened her to look at him and then she would undoubtedly flee from his sight. In truth, he was utterly unprepared for this muted reaction, and in many ways, it felt worse. But she had not told him any of those things and, so far at least, she was not running away. So, he hesitantly took a step forward and bent to sit down next to her, lightly placing a hand upon her knee.

“I know it was the wrong call… and I can’t even imagine how mortified you must be. And even though I told myself that act alone would be enough, I did it again – in Ost-in-Edhil – when I made sure everyone in the city could hear us… I know there’s nothing I can say that will make it right. It’s just… You are the only kind thing in this world, the only person in countless centuries that has seen past all that I once was and embraced what I could become. You’ve pushed me to heights I never thought myself capable of, and greater still, you showed me a love that I thought would be eternally kept from me – a love I was convinced I would never be worthy of. Can you really blame me for wanting to keep you to myself? To holding on to you a little too tightly?”

Anxiously, he looked on with bated breath and eyes as imploring as the moon pleads with the tide. Waiting.

Slowly, as if weighed down, her head lowered, and a long, slow breath seeped from her lips.

“Mairon, I love you. There is not an another being in this world that could tempt me from your side.” She turned her head then, just ever so slightly towards him. Her tone was measured and quiet. “But this is life. And in the span of our long, long lives, it is not the first time another man has looked at me, and it will not be the last.” Finally, she was able to meet his gaze, and she even managed to place her hand upon his where it still rested on her knee. “But Mairon, know that I love you. I will never stray. Ever. Until the end of days comes, it will be you that I choose. Always.”

The pause that came next was heavy with expectation, as though she had more to say but was waiting for him to ask.

He volunteered a tentative: “But?”

“I need you to trust me. Have I ever made you doubt my love for you?

“…No.” He replied, somewhat sheepishly.

“And just because another man desires to have me, does that mean he gets to? As if I have no say in the matter?”

Another “no” mumbled its way out of Mairon’s mouth.

She reached up to cradle his face in her hands, holding him firm. “Then we trust in each other.”

Mairon blinked, then blinked again, barely believing how he ever deserved her, or how he would ever pay back the twist of fate that placed her in his path, so that his scales were balanced against that which the world had given. Leaning into her right hand, he gathered it in his own, turning his head so that he could plant soft, doting kisses along her palm. When he felt as though he had gifted her skin enough attention, he met her gaze once more, and touching her forehead to hers, he whispered back his promise. “We trust in each other.”

Galadriel closed her eyes and breathed deeply, relishing the warmth of his skin on hers, and for a moment, the world stilled. Until, that is, Mairon’s voice murmured low, the words stirring the air between their lips. “You’re not mad? About me forcing him to watch?”

“I’m incredibly mad – livid, in fact.” She uttered back, only half scathing and with a slightly bitter smile in one corner of her mouth. “But I think we’ve had enough fighting for one night, don’t you?”

“You’re not going to tell me not to do it again?”

Sighing somewhat theatrically and with an air of frustration, she opened her eyes and stared wryly from under her brow where their foreheads were still touching. “You need to be able to decide that for yourself – to stop yourself because you know it’s the right thing, not because I’ve told you to. I cannot be the only thing on this earth tethering you to the light. You need to learn to do that for yourself. To make the hard choices.”

Shaking his head, Mairon pressed his eyes shut in weariness, “I’m trying. But this is hard for me. It’s been so long since I’ve been a part of this world… I am going to make mistakes. I need you not to hold them against me.”

“That will depend entirely on the severity of the mistakes.” Her tone was not harsh, or blaming, it was simply honest.

Wincing, he let his head fall away from hers.

“But…” She touched her fingertips to the underside of his chin and coaxed his face back up to look at her. “I’m not your mother - if you ever had such a thing - or your judge. I’m your lover, and your staunchest advocate. I’m not about to scold you and tell you what you can and can’t do, or that you’re not allowed to make mistakes. But, just as you need me to believe in you, I need you to believe in yourself.”

For a moment there was nothing. No movement, nor sound – only the slight quaking of his eyes gave away that he had heard her. But then, his features hardened into something more steadfast, and he brought his face closer to hers so that he might convince her of his sincerity. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Then so will I.” Came her response, whispered back to him across their shared breath.

The two were wrapped in each other’s embrace so tightly that they hardly noticed a flock of magpies about forty feet away, stirring in one of the trees that overhung the tarn. Something had disturbed them. They flitted briefly into the air before settling again in the branches.

Mairon was more resolved than ever:

No more mistakes.

He believed it.

Chapter Text

With the dawn came a crisp, clear sky. The sun was already fairly high above the horizon and bathing the land in the pale gold of winter light. The breeze was gentle, setting the tarn aglitter where it tickled at the water’s surface and split the sun’s rays into shimmering veil.

Though it was now early November, the sun still had some warmth in it, settling upon Galadriel’s outer cheek as she lay tucked into Mairon, her head on his chest. He was already awake (if he had slept at all), and was absentmindedly massaging Galadriel’s scalp while he stared up at the sky, his other hand behind his head.

“Mmmm.” Galadriel hummed at the feel of his fingers drawing satisfying circles across her skin, and she nuzzled her cheek further into his chest.

“I wondered when you might wake.” Came his low, languid voice from above her head, vibrating through his chest and into her skin.

Pressing her lips together, she frowned slightly when she remembered why she had slept so long, and almost did not respond at all for fear of bringing it up again. But in the end, she decided they had done enough miscommunication for the time being. “It was a late night.” She tilted her head upwards and tried to see his face from under her raised eyebrows, but tucked in this close, all she could really see was his jawline. “And… exhausting. Thank you for letting me sleep in.”

Planting a lingering kiss on the crown of her head, he squeezed her a little tighter, whispering as he pulled his lips away again. “You’re welcome.”

The silence felt strange.

Their usual easy and carefree conversation had been usurped by something guarded and awkward – both of them still feeling the weight of the night before. The one solace either of them could draw from this, was that, whatever this was, it was calm at least.

Galadriel released a very drawn out sigh as she closed her eyes again. They were both content to let the sun shine down on them for a while.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when finally, Mairon spoke again. “You know, I had a thought yesterday when I was by the Glanduin.” His gaze had become fixed on the surface of the tarn.

Dreamily, Galadriel urged him to continue. “Oh yes? What about?”

“Skinny dipping.”

Her eyelids opened and there was already a sardonic air to the way she rolled her eyes. “It’s winter.”

“I could always warm the water up.”

She made no attempt to move from his chest – not needing to look at him to pick out the smirk in his voice. “And kill all the fish?”

“Ah… yes.” He paused for a moment, rolling a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I could always warm us up, keep it from feeling so cold.”

“Why do I feel like this is not something you’re going to let go of?”

He smiled out a huff and kissed her brow again, murmuring the words into her hair. “Because you know me too well. Besides, the sun’s out, there’s no one around…”

She pushed herself up on her elbow then, hovering above him as she looked him straight in the eye. “And if someone does happen upon us? We’re not that far out of Ost-in-Edhil.”

Taking her hand in his, he threaded his fingers through hers and began tickling her palm with his thumb. “Then, they’ll get a very good show.”

She raised a disapproving eyebrow, “Yes, it’s certainly clear you enjoy having the occasional audience…”

The smirk dropped from his face, but it was not replaced with solemnity, instead there was something both repentant and equally calculating dancing in his gaze as it dropped to her lips. With his free hand he traced her jaw, brushing his thumb over the plump, twin-arcs of her cherry-blossom skin.

“I’m sorry…” His voice curled through the air like silk – pitched exactly as he knew would undo her. The corner of his mouth twitched upward when he saw how her eyes fluttered closed, how the skin on her neck was flush with goose bumps at where his fingertips ghosted there. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

Catching herself, she dragged her eyes open and pulled away a little. She knew his game and decided she was not going to make it that easy for him; he had, after all, been really quite a bad boy. But then, she supposed they both had. Bringing her head to rest in her palm - her elbow propping her up – she let her eyebrows ask just how he planned on making things right.

He wasted no time in answering.

Grabbing the back of her neck, he pulled himself into her – his open mouth hungrily crashing into her own.

Their tongues entwined as Mairon went searching for the taste of her, taking what he needed to soothe his guilt while giving her what she craved to quiet hers. The passion with which he kissed her acted as both balm and necessity against all the pain they had wrought on each other.

With their lips still locked, he rolled onto her – his mouth and his hips grinding her into the dewy grass beneath.

Her legs parted for him, welcoming his undulations against her core and moaning sweetly into his mouth every time his hardened self surged over her mound; like a ship cresting a wave.

Hurriedly, like a man searching for something precious that he had lost, he lifted her skirts. Moving down her body, he tugged her under-trousers free without bothering with the laces, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from her as she was dragged a foot down the slope, before the garment finally slid past her curves and were wrenched over her ankles, the boots coming with them.

All of a sudden, her lower half was completely exposed to the chill winter breeze and she squirmed, trying to retract her legs back under her skirt for some warmth.

But he caught her ankles, vice-like, and straightened them back out again.

She squealed. “Mairon, what are you doing? It’s freezing!”

“Making it up to you.” His voice came ragged and a predatory look overcame his features, his eyes darkening while he licked his lips. Then, his face descended beneath the horizon of where her dress was bunched at her hips.

“I thought you said you were going to warm us u-” She threw her head back – her own gasp cutting her off as she felt him latch his mouth onto the sensitive bud between her folds.

He sucked and swirled. Ravenous.

The heat of his tongue clashed with the cold, sending shivers through her body.

She writhed beneath him, so he released her ankles, sliding his arms under her thighs and clamping her hips to the ground with his large hands; fingers pressing into her flesh.

He let her draw her knees up a little against the cold – after all, allowing her legs to fall open only gave him even easier access to where he so greedily chased her pleasure Her nectar was so sweetly reserved within and he was determined to lure it out. Those first few tentative drops were already slickening his beard, and every time Galadriel moaned he worked her flesh faster, firmer. Circling just the way she liked.

By now the cold was a shadowy afterthought as the ripples of bliss began to hum through her body, low and prophetic, like the rumble of distance thunder signalling the storm.

Mairon had abandoned his circular motion and was rapidly flicking his tongue up and down now, knowing she would be getting close.

Her breathing became more ragged as the feeling surged, and although he couldn’t see it, Mairon knew the veins on her neck were no doubt popping delightfully to the surface with the strain of it all – her pretty mouth would be falling open and soon she would beg him not to stop, declaring rapturously that she was almost there.

And she did. Between whiney sighs she pleaded with him to go on. “Please, Mairon… yes, Gods, yes...”

Against the strength of his hands, she was desperate to give him more of herself to devour, so she tried to push her hips up to increase the pressure.

But he held her down.

He even teased her by lightening the press of his tongue and slowed his ministrations.

“No! Please, don’t slow down! Don’t slow down…” She mewed, “More, I need more… please.”

He puffed out a smug chuckle while his tongue still swept over her bud, his hot breath keeping that most sacred place warm against the winter. The vibrations of his laugh only served to excite her flesh all the more.

She tried to lift her hips again, but it was no use, and by this time Mairon had stopped his work altogether. Instead, he just held his tongue still over her slick, velvet skin and waited.

A whimper floated over her skirts as her thighs thrashed a little, trying desperately to move herself against his motionless mouth without success. Eventually she thumped the ground in exasperation and pushed herself up on her hands to see what was going on.

It was quite a sight – him, there between her thighs with a smile curling the corners of his open mouth and looking up at her from beneath his raised eyebrows, altogether enjoying her frustration far too much. She exhaled a sharp huff through her nose at him but that only caused him to chuckle again.

Retracting his tongue, he adopted an infuriating air of innocence. “Is there something I can do for you, my Lady.”

She scowled at him and pouted. If she weren’t holding herself up, she would have crossed her arms as well. “You know very well what I want, I’ve been calling for it quite clearly for the last few minutes.”

“Ohhh,” he soothed, “you’ll have to forgive me, it’s difficult to hear sometimes between your legs. They muffle the sound.” A crooked smile crawled across his lips as he turned his head to give her inner thigh the lightest of pecks. All the while his eyes never left her.

“Well, are you going to finish or not?” Her tone was petulant now and it only amused him further.

“I am my Lady’s faithful servant. But she has to command me if I am to carry out any of her wishes.” He licked a slow, tantalising stripe up the line of her, making sure to flick the topmost point as a parting gift.

She juddered. A whine spilling from her mouth.

“What is my Lady’s command?”

He revelled in the silence that came after, wondering if she’d be brave enough to let the crude words taint her perfect lips, smirking at the incredulous look she gave him.

When nothing came, he sighed. “A shame, I was so looking forward to my breakfast…”

He moved to pull away, but she stopped him – her hand darting forward to grab a fistful of his hair.

For a heartbeat, she stilled – remembering. The frustration felt too familiar to just a few hours ago…

Then her fingers gripped a little harder. “I want you… to…”

A pause.

“Yes?” He asked, mockingly cocking an eyebrow at her.

“I want you to caress me with your tongue… to taste me… devour me.” Her chest began to heave as she spoke the words to him, exciting herself.

“And?”

“I want you to make me scream for you…”

His attention was back on her seam, his lips ghosting over her petals and breathing heat to where her skin had grown cold. His voice a drawling murmur. “How? How do you want me to make you scream? Say it…”

She pressed her eyes closed at the sensation of his tongue slipping between and around her folds again, slowly tracing the contours of her, everywhere except where she needed him most. A cruel agony she knew how to stop, but found herself hesitating.

When his tongue dipped lower and began pushing itself inside her walls, she gripped his hair harder and bit her lip.

‘Mmm it’s in here, what I want… I know you’re dying to give it to me. But I need you to say it, calinya… dirty that pretty little elven mouth of yours. Just a bit… for me.’

Little whimpers began tumbling out of her and she began to taste iron where her teeth pierced her lip.

‘Go on, I know you can say it, I know you want to…’

He pushed his tongue in further.

“I… I want you to make me come… I need you to make me come-” she faltered, breath catching, “so hard that we forget last night. I want your tongue to fuck me...”

Mairon’s grip tightened around her thighs.

Forget?

He did not just want to forget. He wanted to erase it. Drown it out if he had to.

And he would have begun already, if it were not for Galadriel continuing on with her pleas.

“…to fuck me so completely that I see stars even in the light of day. To make me cry out your name and not let up even when I tell you to stop. But when you finally do, I want you to take me then… to fuck me until the world falls away and there’s nothing left but the two of us, entwined… as one. Still so desperate to be closer to one another that you delve as deep as you can go, and it’s everything I can do just to take you. Willingly. Thirstily. Over and over until our bond becomes so strong that nothing will ever threaten us again. And even after your seed has utterly claimed me, we’ll start over anew. Every which way… because we have to… because we need to… because if we don’t, my soul will tear itself apart in its yearning for you.”

Mairon faltered.

Stunned at what he had just unleashed from her.

His breath heavy and uneven against the moisture of her skin.

‘Is this my elf? Golden princess of the Noldor speaking such filth?’

“Please, Mairon… don’t make me wait any longer.”

Scintillated, the dark glint in his eyes returned, his mouth twitching with delight at the prospect of everything she had just described. With a salacious grin, he let her know he was all too happy to serve. “Your wish is my command, my Lady.”

At that he dove back in. This time working her exactly where she wanted – massaging her most delicate spot that had her dripping moans again and tossing her head back.

He gave her everything, holding nothing back. Conquering with his tongue while pillaging with his lips – an intoxicating blend of swirling and sucking that had her hands slipping from underneath her. With arched spine she lowered back down, her shoulders barely grazing the ground before she felt that irresistible tension, like a spring pulled taught.

The coil stretched, then snapped.

Skin flushed pink.

Fingers gripped tighter.

Mouth open, and writhing beneath him, she called out his name. “Yes… Mairon! That’s it! Yes!”

Her body undulated with the rhythm he set, as though he were the earthquake itself, sending shockwave after shockwave pulsating through her.

But when the world calmed, and the high point had passed, he did not let up.

Her breathing steadied, then caught again.

Her sensitive flesh granted no respite.

Pleasure was still being eked out, and although it was lesser than her peak, it was somehow no less intense.

Too unexpected.

Too much.

Not enough.

Too perplexing a mix of agony and bliss that he kept imposing on her.

“Stop… I can’t.” She panted, “it’s too much, stop.” But even as she said it, she arched into him

‘No.’

Came is response. Ruthless in its simplicity.

“Please!”

‘You commanded me to keep going, even when you tell me to stop… And I promised I’d make it up to you.”

“But… I can’t… I can’t take it.” Panic intertwined with her mewls. Squirming uncontrollably, her toes curled as her hands scrabbled for any kind of purchase to brace herself through such doting torture.

His tongue worked tirelessly, lapping away in relentless pursuit of her pleasure.

Her legs were spasming.

She wasn’t sure if she was still breathing.

He was winding her up like a toy all over again without ever really coming down from her last release.

Yet somehow it was building again.

As though the first were only a shoulder of a greater mountain summit – one that she was ascending now with merciless certainty.

One step.

Then another.

Then-

The pinnacle.

And like a rush of wind, the pleasure hit her.

This time she was screaming.

Thrashing.

Her body jerked like a lightning bolt had been shot through it, bucking her hips and crying out his name.

All the while tears of ecstasy streaked past her temples and soaked her hair.

For a moment, she forgot. Not the argument - never that - but the sharp edge of it dulled in the face of her bliss.

Then finally, this time, Mairon slowed his efforts and coaxed her down gently.

‘That’s it, I have you. Breathe, calinya…’

When finally the tension in her limbs began to recede, he stole one last taste of her – dragging his tongue down to where she had spilt her nectar and collecting it in greedy swipes.

For several moments, it was all she could do to lay there, boneless and breathless, staring up at the sky.

With a sweeter smile than she was expecting, Mairon climbed back up her body and lay his forearms by her shoulders so he could gently wipe away the tears from above her cheekbones. Then grazing his nose tenderly against hers, he murmured softly, “Was that what you wanted?”

She huffed a bashful laugh in return, biting her lip as she nodded.

“Good.” He crooned, pecking the tip of her nose before descending onto her lips in a kiss that was both tender and worshipful, passionate and lingering all at once, as if he were breathing in the taste of her.

Time slowed, and the world around dissolved into a hazy afterthought.

Then, pulling away just enough so Galadriel could see his full face, his smile transformed into something more devilish. “My turn.”

Suddenly he sat back on his heels and hovered his palm over her stomach. “I’ve been saving this trick for just the right moment.”

With an arc of his hand, the rest of her clothes dissolved into a smoke of crimson and grey - the colour of the fabrics - and began curling away on the wind.

Galadriel let out a shriek, and she could not be sure if it was due to the frigid air against her skin, or the method in which he had utterly destroyed her clothes.

“Don’t worry,” he grinned, “they’re not gone. They’re just… hidden away for now. We won’t need them for a good while.” And with that his own clothes dissipated too in furls of green and blue before disappearing altogether, as though they had slipped through a seam between this world and the next.

Leaning over her, he slid his hands to her hips, his thumbs drawing large circles across her belly as he raked his gaze over her breasts, biting his lip at the sight of her nipples - so tantalisingly pert amid the cold.

Perhaps it was the breeze, or the way he was staring at her that made her skin prickle with goose bumps. Or maybe it was neither, and simply the sight of his erection so proudly on display, engorged and eager for her to take him. A little seed was already seeping from the tip in anticipation.

Slowly, he worked his hands across her skin, up over her ribs and each cupping the globes of her breasts before swiping his thumbs over nipples. Hardened against the weather, they sprung back in defiance of him.

She released a strained breath.

Her bosom heaved as he circled his thumbs again, compelling the two peaks to stand even sharper to attention.

Suddenly he bent, latching his mouth to her left breast while continuing to massage the right with his palm.

She let out little moans as his tongue flicked at the tip, echoing all the ways he had already made her come undone for him elsewhere. Her moans twisted into little whimpers every time the head of his length bumped against her core – so teasingly close to breaching her walls.

Mairon’s attention switched to her right breast, and while his left hand was occupied kneading the other, he reached down between them and guided himself through the line of her, gathering her sex with his tip until he was thoroughly coated.

Then he pressed himself inside.

One inch, then two.

Pulling out a little before pushing in again, deeper.

Her walls ached so delightfully with the stretch. Her breath hitching with every rippling part of her he widened.

Even after countless times, he still seemed ever so slightly (perfectly) too big for her – her body needing to adjust to him every time like it was the first. But even so, she would take him so well, her body moulding so obligingly as he made room for himself.

He drew out again.

He was still suckling at her breast when he finally, vehemently, thrust all the way in; biting her nipple just as he hit the base of her.

She gasped at the sensation – pain and pleasure – such delectable bedfellows.

Tearing his lips away from her breasts, he sat up again, delighting in how her neck elongated with the tilt her head as she took all of him. He was still massaging her breast as he used his other to grip her throat, so tantalisingly exposed.

He needed not to squeeze hard, just enough to make her look at him.

And she watched intently as he dragged his hand down her chest and rested his palm at her sternum.

Then with another purposeful, staccato, thrust he compelled her to press herself up into his hand.

As she did so, she felt the frosty air recede. No longer was her skin alive with pimples trying to defy the cold, but instead it was alive with a humming – a warmth spreading through her entire being as though she had just lowered herself down into a hot bath.

It was so comforting that she even found herself releasing a contented ‘oh’ as the heat continued to course through her body.

“Better?” Mairon smirked.

“Mmm… much.” She replied, as the last of her goose bumps faded.

“Good.”

Without warning, he hooked her legs - folding them up on herself so her knees were up near her breasts.

Using her shins as anchors, he bore down on them as he began to rigorously rut into her, fast and savage.

Immediately, fresh moans of both pleasure and surprise burst forth from her lips.

With each thrust, his weight pushed her shins further down, widening her hips all the more as he carved himself a path into the very core of her.

Galadriel’s hands went wide, ripping away tufts of grass between her fingers as she struggled for a way to ground herself.

A self-satisfied sneer pulled at Mairons lips and the determination in his eyes hardened, looking down upon his elf with a hunger he would never get bored of satiating. Her little moans spilling forth, the way her brow crinkled, the way she twisted and writhed as he pried out her bliss again and again.

“Galadriel, look at me.” He commanded. Gone was his feigned submission from before. Now, he only had intentions to dominate. To fuck her in all the ways she said she wanted, and by the gods he was determined to grant her desire to see stars in the light of day. He wanted her to know just how much he relished being inside her like this, how much he craved her and would never cease chasing these moments down like a wolf on the hunt.

“Look at me.” He repeated, when she struggled to focus on the first time of asking. But when she finally managed it, he locked eyes with her, unwilling to let her go now that he had her.

“Spread yourself for me…” He panted between his words, still exerting himself with relentless intent between her thighs. “I want to see you better.”

Galadriel was still mewling away and barely able to think straight, let alone find the coherency to do as he asked. But when he nodded eagerly at her with those ravenous green eyes, she found the will to cut through the haze.

Reaching down between her legs, she brought her fingertips to her folds and parted them further for him, allowing him to see every perfect contour of her.

He sighed raggedly at the sight of it, drinking in how perfect she was – his neat little elf.

“Touch yourself.” Another demand. And one she met readily.

Sliding her fingers down herself to where he entered and re-entered her, she collected her own wetness and swirled it back up to where she was most sensitive and began slowly working herself as he continued to grind away inside her.

“Don’t be gentle, calinya. I want to see you fuck yourself.” Though his words were strained, they brooked no argument as he stared down at where she made measured circles over her flesh.

So, she began to hurry her movements, increasing the pressure and switching to an up and down motion.

The combination of sensations had her bliss rising quickly – him pounding away at that sweet spot deep within while she chased exactly the right feeling up above.

He felt her clench around him the closer she got. “That’s it, good girl… come all over me. You can do it.”

The pressure rose, fizzing up from within and bursting to the surface – a fountain of pleasure ripping though from where her own fingers stroked herself so rigorously.

She cried out. Stomach clenching as she folded in on herself. Another wave of bliss swirling through her.

With her free and she grasped at Mairon’s shoulder, digging her nails so deep into his flesh that they left little crescent shaped lesions - nothing he couldn’t heal instantly. So, he let her dig deep as she wanted as a fresh wave of warmth flowed forth from inside her.

Mairon let out a laboured, insatiable sigh. “That’s it, Galadriel… ah I can feel you. Damn, you feel so good.”

By now she had come down from her high and was utterly at his whim – her body spent and languid, melting into the grass. Her hand still rested lazily over where she had pleasured herself.

Suddenly, Mairon pulled out, leaving her momentarily forlorn and whining at the absence of him.

“Go inside yourself.”

Her eyes flicked up to him, and she saw such undeniable yearning there that she was powerless to disobey. But she did not want to disobey. She wanted to please him in every way he commanded. In every way she knew he hungered for.

So, with a devilish glint in her own eyes now, she eagerly traced the line of herself and breached her own walls with her middle and third fingers – sliding effortlessly inside after so many peaks and having Mairon stretch her so delectably.

He gawked intently as she began pumping her own fingers inside herself, trying her best to go as deep as she could despite never fully reaching where she wanted. Her fingers were simply not long enough and the angle was difficult, but she knew that was not what he was hoping for anyway. She knew that he just wanted to watch her penetrate herself, whether she managed to hit the right spot or not, it was about the act, not the result.

She made tiny moaning noises anyway and writhed a little, getting carried away with how he revelled in the sight of her as he stroked himself.

“Taste yourself.” His face was stern but there was a salacious glee behind his eyes.

Galadriel wasted no time in withdrawing her fingers and bringing them to her mouth, letting the tips coat her lips seductively before she closed them around her middle finger and sucked on her own arousal, making a low groaning noise as she did so.

Tipping his head back, Mairon’s eyes grew hooded as he watched, his tongue undulating from behind his slightly parted teeth.

‘Want some?’ Came her voice, floating teasingly into his mind.

Rapt, it was all he could do to nod in return.

Retracting her finger with a pop, she offered up the other one that was still coated, and he greedily lunged for it – his warm mouth enveloping it whole and stripping it of her nectar with his expert tongue. As he did so, he grabbed at her rear, his fingers digging so forcefully into her flesh that he lifted her hips up off the ground.

She squealed in both excitement and surprise.

Tugging back his head, he released her finger, a low growl humming in the base of his throat. “I want this,” he squeezed her haunches where he held her a little tighter. Then, lowering his head, he made his next command as he glared predatorially at her from under his brow. “Turn over.”

He didn’t wait for her to move by herself. Instead he forcefully flipped her over at her hips, not caring that one of her heels managed to catch his jaw as it passed.

She squealed again at being so urgently manhandled, her nipples and chin scraping on the ground as he tugged her to him and bent one of her knees.

There was no time to catch her breath before he parted her and plunged himself back in, gripping her twin mounds tightly as he ruthlessly screwed her to the ground.

Howls of pleasure came tumbling out the side of her mouth that wasn’t buried in the grass. This angle had her almost screaming in delight.

The more rigorously he pounded, the more she could feel the soil underneath her slicken and stain the side of her face, her breasts, her stomach. The knee that was bent began to sink in to the earth. But she couldn’t care less so long as he kept so feverishly demanding her pleasure like this.

She barely had time to suck more air back in between each gratified sigh.

“That’s it, niben edhel nîn, take it. Take me. Take all of me.” There was almost a feral anger to his voice, the words were spat through gritted teeth. “This is what you deserve… I’m going to fuck the doubt out of you… Make our bond unbreakable, just as you wished.”

He ceased his rhythmic rutting now and switched to hard, staccato pumps and with his right hand he slapped one of her cheeks as punishment.

High-pitched wails met each one in return as Galadriel couldn’t decide which she felt more – the pain or the pleasure. All she knew was that with each sharp thrust, each stinging hand, more warm gushes were issuing forth from her core and without even realising, she was asking for more. “Yes… please, my love… punish me,” she gasped, already pushing back into him for more.

She keened as another merciless slap came down, another brutal surge from within.

When the skin on her rear had turned crimson red, he brought down one more hand for good measure.

She yelped this time - her delicate skin feeling well and truly disciplined. She was gulping in air to try and quell the pain.

Concluding she had had enough, he slowed his motions inside her and smoothed his hand over where he’d marked her. In a few soothing strokes, the redness vanished and the stinging subsided. With it, her breathing slowed.

“That’s enough of that… for now.” Mairon crooned, watching her recover, but not wanting to give her too long a respite. He intended to make this memorable.

No, not just memorable.

Transcendental. She wasn’t going to remember last night after this.

Already another idea was taking shape as he brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked. He kept it in there as he began undulating his hips again to a decent speed.

‘Calinya, I’m going to do something, but I want you to be alright with it. Tell me if it’s not something you like.”

Her moans faltered, nervous at what he was planning next, though she was still gratefully taking every inch of his gyrations.

‘Alright.’ Came her somewhat tentative response.

Taking his thumb from his mouth, he parted her flesh so he could see what he sought.

Galadriel waited with baited breath. Her fingers dug into the ground in anticipation.

Then she felt it.

A warm and wet circling motion.

It made her jolt – a shocked whimper escaping her.

But when she got used to the feeling, she settled, and find she was moaning anew with this strange but intoxicating sensation. She never knew that massaging here could feel like this.

‘Is it alright?’ Even in her head, his voice was thick with devilish excitement, so relieved she hadn’t told him to stop.

‘Yes… it feels incredible.’

To her surprise she even found herself grinding her hips for him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts while seemingly chasing more pressure from where he circled his thumb.

There was a tentative pause as he considered whether to ask his next question.

‘…And, would you like me to go inside?’

Slowly, she managed to crane her neck round to look back at him, her mouth still mewing at his ministrations but no words forming.

His body tensed – the air thick with electricity as he waited for her answer.

Gradually her eyes hardened against the ache of pleasure and into something bolder. There was a fresh intensity behind them as they narrowed, holding his gaze so firm that there would be no mistaking her desire.

She nodded. Once. Slowly.

It was almost enough to undo him then and there. But he kept control.

Their eyes never wavered from each other as he deliberately wet his thumb again and replaced it where it was.

Then, with an increase in his thrusts, he slowly slid his thumb inside.

A guttural groan erupted from her throat. It excited him so much that he knew he would have to make this quick.

He began sliding his thumb in and out – moans spilling forth every time he breached her – she was so tight.

Seeing her like this, taking him one way and the other, it was too perfect. Too delightful.

With every movement he could feel his own pleasure rising quickly. He couldn’t help but fuck her hard now, his hips slamming against her curves and his thumb pushing as deep as it could go in opposition to his other efforts. Every time he withdrew one he would fill her with the other. He wanted to drive it out of her - the doubt, the hesitation -

“Yes! Mairon… gods! How are you… doing this…?”

This tipped him over the edge – the knowledge that she could not comprehend the effect he had on her.

He felt powerful. Ravenous. Whole.

Grunting, he finished with a flurry of uneven thrusts, finally spending himself – the warm spattering of his seed coating the inside of her as he massaged the tip of his thumb within her other inner walls.

After a few more seconds her sighs dissipated and he slowly removed his thumb, collapsing over her with a groan and catching himself on his forearms either side of her. Resting his forehead between her shoulder blades. Only their breathing, gradually slowing, filled the space between them. He placed a kiss upon her back where it was still rising and falling heavily.

The memory of the night before lingered - not gone, but… quieter.

He closed his eyes and let himself rest there a moment. “Are you alright?” He whispered against her skin. “Was that what you wanted?”

She let out a soft breath - something like a laugh, something like relief - and nodded.

The quiet stretched between them again.

“That was…” She struggled for the words... “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes.” He murmured, dragging his hand now down one side of her back and admiring the way her skin rippled beneath it. His hand lingered longer than necessary, as if confirming she was still there, relieved to know that she was. “I didn’t think you’d ever let me do that.”

At this she folded one hand under the other on the ground and rested her cheek upon them. “It seems there are still a few things we can learn about each other.” She flashed him a mischievous grin as best she could, looking up at him from over her shoulder.

“I’m happy for you to teach me.” He placed an entire cluster of enthusiastic kisses along her shoulder blades as he finally withdrew himself from between her legs and hooked an arm underneath her so he could flip her over. Rolling with her, they both ended up on their backs – half her body lying on top of his, and the back of her head fitting snuggly in the crook of his shoulder. His touch gentled, lingering now where it had gripped before in the hollow of her hip.

“But first,” he continued, “I just want to lie here a moment with you.” He bent his head so he could kiss the side of her temple, only now noticing the amount of muck she had accumulated all over the front of her body. His knees and shins were no better. “But next…” A wry smile creeped across his lips. “We should probably go for that skinny dip.”

Laughing, Galadriel languidly bent the arm that was atop of him letting her palm fall somewhat clumsily against his cheek.

Gently, she gave his beard a loving stroke with her thumb.

For him, this was all easier than speaking. He preferred it in fact. And perhaps it would be enough.

The memory of last night felt distant - blurred at the edges.

A moment of peace passed and Galadriel sighed contentedly.

“Alright,” she conceded softly. “I no longer feel the cold.”

Chapter Text

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever held something so beautiful in my hands.”

Mairon pressed his body to Galadriel’s back and enveloped her, gliding his hands over her slick, silken waist and pulling her in tight.

After previously determining that they both were in desperate need of a bath, Galadriel had gone to scout out the trees along the shoreline of the tarn, hoping to find something particular. She had not bothered to dress herself, and given there was nobody around and that Mairon’s charm was still in place so she would not feel the cold, she saw little reason to. Not to mention the fact that she simply knew not where Mairon had spirited away their clothing to and she was not about to put on a clean garment from the saddlebags while she was still covered in mud.

After a short while, she found what she was looking for: a horse chestnut tree, below which there were still a few spikey seed parcels that had yet to be snaffled by the local wildlife. Once she collected as many as she could, she headed back to where Mairon was already knee deep in the water.

“We can wash ourselves with these.” She held them out to him as she waded in. “They lather up when mashed with water.”

“Can’t I just conjure us some soap? And a sponge?” Mairon was already splashing the water up into his armpits with sceptical air.

“That is fine for our pool at home, but the fish here will like these more.” She placed a few down on a nearby rock, then offered the rest to him. “Here, try it.”

Unconvinced, he took the nuts with a raised eyebrow and rubbed them between his hands. They were soft and easy to crush, and when they lathered up into a creamy foam, he had been pleasantly surprised.

Now with the warmth of him pressed against her back, she smiled fondly at his previous statement. “Am I really that beautiful?” She asked, now leaning into him and looking over her shoulder to nudge her nose affectionately against his chin.

“Mmm? Oh, I’m sorry, I was talking about these.” Teasingly, he swept his palms across her stomach and gathered her breasts in his hands, giving them an indulgent squeeze and pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Dipping his lips to her shoulder, he grinned against her skin, fully aware of how shameless he was being.

Feigning insult, she swatted his head away, her mouth screwing to the side as she fought a smile.

Playing his part, Mairon stumbled backwards a pace and scoffed, clutching at his chest as though truly wounded that she had not found his joke flattering. Not a moment later he had hold of her again, pulling her in by her hand and curling his arm around her back so they were navel to navel this time.

“You know I think you’re the most beautiful being in all of Arda.” He admitted, lovingly.

“Not solely my breasts?” She probed, a flirtatious sparkle in her eyes.

“Not solely your breasts.” Mairon blinked slowly in confirmation.

With a satisfied hum, she tilted her head back and leaned in further, pursing her lips in a way that reeled him in to a doting kiss - soft and slow.

Nearby songbirds chirped softly around them, underscoring their tender moment.

When the kiss broke, they remained close – their noses glancing one another and their eyes still closed in quiet bliss.

With a small huff, Galadriel mused upon his compliment. “It makes a nice change from my hair, I suppose.”

“Well your hair is there for all to see. I’d be worried if others were remarking on your breasts.” He looked down at where they were pressed against his torso and cocked a salacious eyebrow. “They’re for me alone.”

Taking a step back, his hands closed over the twin-swell of her bosom again, slow and deliberate. Then bending slightly, he claimed the plump fulness of her flesh with his mouth.

She smiled down at him, a bashful wickedness playing in her gaze. “Are you ready for round two?”

Chuckling open-mouthed against her skin, he bit down on the hardened peak of her mound in such a way that sent delectable shivers across her chest and had her offering more of herself into his possessive mouth.

‘Did I not satisfy you well enough earlier? Does my light need seeing to again?’

Before he had even finished thinking the words, she could feel one of his hands begin to drift down over the curves of her stomach in search of the warmth between her legs once more. But before he had a chance to get very far, she cupped underneath his chin with her hand and encouraged him to stand up straight again.

His hand had made it past her naval, but she rested a halting palm over it and allowed him to go no further. “You satisfied me plenty, but I might remind you of what I asked for: we have yet to do it every which way, and I do believe…” She let her eyes fall to his proud and throbbing manhood before flicking her gaze suggestively back up to him. “It’s your turn to be seen to…”

Taking his member in hand, she slowly sank herself down, fixing her eyes on his as her knees came to rest on the bed of the tarn.

Mairon’s breathing intensified with anticipation and Galadriel could not help but be spurred on by it.

With her mouth now at the perfect height, she indulgently swiped her tongue from base to tip – a devilish grin creeping across her face when she saw how it made him twitch.

“Elf…” he groaned, as she wrapped her lips around him. “You’ll be the death of me.”

She batted her eyelids up at him, and with a push of her lips, enveloped him further.

‘And you me…’

“Our aim should be to destroy the mechanism at Ostirith – break it in such a way that the key will no longer fit. Then, it won’t matter if they find the sword or not. They won’t be able to use it.” Mairon traced slow, absentminded circles over Galadriel’s upper arm as they lay together on the grass – her head resting on his chest.

The sun was dipping low against the sky and was almost touching the line of the larger hill as it sloped down to meet the water. Their day had been energetic to say the least, and they were happy to rest a while before continuing on their journey. Neither one of them begrudged the time lost, and although there was need for haste, it felt important to spend this time aligning themselves with one another again. The past few days had felt so… fractured.

Galadriel nodded in agreement. “There is an elven garrison there. Or… there was. Whether they were recalled to Lindon after my banishment, I do not know. What if the enemy already holds Ostirith?”

“Then we will have to take it back.”

She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “That will require the help of the people of the Southlands.” Her words fell heavy – both of them knowing all too well their lack of successes in recruiting others to their cause thus far.

“They will fight to save their home.” Mairon’s eyes narrowed, memory stirring of what it was to stand opposed by those defending what was theirs. “And besides, I am still a sorcerer, am I not?” He smoothed her hair and placed a kiss upon her head.

With knitted brow, she pondered, “But how will you use your powers now your influence over the dark forces is weakened?”

A knowing glint returned to Mairon’s eyes and the subtlest of smiles tugged at his mouth. “I still have some tricks left.”

Although she made no response, Galadriel nuzzled further into his chest, drawing pensive patterns with her nose.

“Galadriel…” He gently tipped her chin up so she would look at him. “There is nothing in this world I cannot overcome so long as you’re with me. Whatever happens from here on in, we’ll face it together. I’m not afraid.”

Though he looked down at her from under half-closed lids, there was nothing drowsy or spiritless about the way his eyes gleamed. Caught in the waning sunlight, Galadriel could discern only a reassuring steadfastness - the kind of surety that comes with calm waters on a still summer’s day, that their boat would not falter. That they would sail now into unknown seas and face whatever storms might arise head-on and come out all the stronger. There would be no more heated accusations or lack of faith in each other, only safety in the knowledge that they would find their way back to shore no matter the tides. They had each other, and that would be the only thing of consequence in a darkening world.

“Then neither am I.” She whispered, gazing unwaveringly up at him as though all her hopes for them and the world beyond might rest upon his shoulders, and she would never now fear that he could not carry them.

“Well then, calinya…” He gently tugged her chin a little more with his fingertips, persuading her to come closer so their lips could meet, and when she did, he kissed her more sweetly than the sun might caress her skin on a warm spring morning. Then, he held her softly in his gaze. “Shall we go save the Southlands?”

A slow smile of agreement spread across her lips. “Yes, my love, I believe we shall.”

From then, they spurred Rána on at a steady pace, and though he was carrying two, he made swift progress southwards. The miles fell away beneath them, and it did not take long to reach the Gap of Calenardhon before turning east. They had expected to encounter more signs of the enemy, but it was not so, and Galadriel thought perhaps they were already too late; that the orcs were now gathered in force and were preparing to enact their plan while the two of them were still so many miles away. But, within two weeks they were on the north-western borders of the Southlands, staring up at the mountainous rock wall that defended it with no sign yet that the enemy was nearing their goal.

“There’s a natural break in the mountains around ten miles further east, it’ll be easier than trying to climb them.” Mairon pointed to their left along the northern range of fells. “We should reach it by nightfall if we’re quick – find somewhere to shelter for the night. From there, we’ll follow the mountains south to Ostirith.”

Glancing behind them, Galadriel peered westward at the low hanging sun. Though they had made good time, much better time in fact than if they still had the northmen with them, she could not help feeling as though the days were too short. With a bleak smile, she nodded at Mairon, and he kicked Rána on at a canter.

After an hour, much of the world had grown dark about them – the jagged line of summits to their right were black against the dwindling sky. The night was still and clear, and Rána’s hooves rang hollow on the shale.

Rounding a hilly shoulder, they found the mountains suddenly fell away southward to reveal a wide valley stretching out into the gloom. Beyond, the world opened up into a vast plain, of which little could be discerned until the light returned on the morrow. But in the distance, perhaps a mile ahead, there was the distinct flicker of firelight tucked in beneath a rock buttress of one of the western fells.

The pair shared a glance before cautiously plodding on towards the glow.

As they approached, the last of the twilight had faded, and the new moon leant no aid. The only distinction between land and sky was that at some point between looking above and looking beyond, the stars stopped. The closer they came to the fire, their surroundings darkened all the more.

About fifty yards out, the low murmuring of voices could be heard.

At first, neither could be certain if the voices were friend or foe – their hands drifting to the hilts of their weapons lest they needed to draw them quickly.

They pulled Rána to a stop so his heavy footfalls would not give away their approach. Leaping silently to the ground, they kept low, separating so they might flank this small group of – whatever they were – from either side.

As they advanced, they could discern a group of six or seven, but little else until they got closer – their shapes obscured by the dim firelight.

Galadriel pressed herself against a tree on the left while Mairon took up position behind another tree on the right.

Both held their breath. Weapons poised.

With a nod to each other, they cautiously rounded their trees to sneak a better look.

But upon realising who they had stumbled across, Galadriel glanced back at Mairon with a questioning frown, who responded with an up-tick of his eyebrow before stepping out from behind his tree and striding over to the small circle of huddled bodies.

“Share your fire?”

The group turned with a start. Some springing to their feet and meekly brandishing improvised weapons as they tried to back away. Others that were too weak to stand simply stared wide-eyed and trembling at the tall stranger who had seemingly sprung from out of nowhere.

The faint murmur of terrified whimpers spread around the group. Nobody dared reply to Mairon’s question, even as he lifted his palms up to assure them that he meant no harm.

All, that is, except an old man of diminutive build. He had long white sideburns down to his jaw that made him look quaint and grandfatherly, and there was a glint in his eye that made him seem keener than most. He had not sprung to his feet as some of the others, but not for the lack of strength, unlike the older woman that lay across the opposite side of the fire. Curiously, he simply chuckled in an unalarmed kind of fashion as he poked the flames a little with a thin stick before turning to Mairon – his eyes kind and apologetic. “Our fire won’t stave off much of the cold, I’m afraid – most of the wood is too wet to burn. But what warmth we have, you’re welcome to share.” He extended a friendly smile toward Mairon and gestured for him to sit.

Mairon nodded in reply and took a slow step forward.

The others around the fire seemed to soften towards him, following in the lead of the old man and cautiously resettling themselves in the circle. But no sooner had they done so, did Galadriel stepped out from the shadows behind Mairon, having skirted back round to his position after realising these people were no threat, and did not deserve to feel pinned between two unknown foes.

They flinched again, attempting to scramble away – those with more of their wits about them spied Galadriel’s pointed ears poking through her hair and reached for their weapons once more. But before any of them could raise them, Mairon held his hand up haltingly, “She’s a friend!” He assured, “We’re both friends to the men of the Southlands, and unless you are either orc or werewolf, we won’t harm you.”

An uncertain look passed between the ragged and travel-worn faces before all looking again to the old man for guidance.

“You’ll have to forgive us, friends,” he said, leaning both of his hands on his fire-poking stick like it was a small crutch. “We have suffered the cruelty of what orcs and wolves can unleash all too recently.” The man soothed. “You find us weak and wary on our pilgrimage and less trusting than we used to be. Be assured, it bears no reflection on you. Come,” he waved them over to sit in the empty space to his right. “Sit by our fire. We will gladly take your story as payment for sharing our warmth, if you have the will to tell it.”

“That is very kind,” Galadriel finally spoke. “Might I leave my companion to tell our tale while I tend to your injured and sick?”

The group regarded the question with a wary silence.

“You’ll not find another healer as skilful as the Lady Galadriel south of the Misty Mountains,” assured Mairon. “You should let her help you.”

“Then we’d be fools not to accept your help gladly, Lady Galadriel.” Said the old man, who nodded for her to begin treating the aged woman on the floor, before turning back to Mairon. “And what of you, friend? What shall we know you by?”

“I’m Halbrand.” Replied Mairon, watching Galadriel with pride and adoration as she pried several dried herbs from her medicine pouch while examining the woman’s foot, which had a nasty and putrid lesion across the instep.

The old man was quick to notice the way Mairon looked at her.

“That’s a local name.” Said the man, fondly. “How be it that a man of the Southlands came to… befriend an elf?”

Galadriel’s gaze flicked quickly over to Mairon before continuing with her task.

For a moment, Mairon did not respond while he attempted to wrap his mind around the idea of Halbrand being a southern name. It was not something he had considered before, and when he first introduced himself as such, years ago in the far north, it was because it simply came naturally to mind more than anything else – as though it suited him. Having been prompted to think on it, he supposed now that it was rather southern. Ever the tactician, he was not about to correct the man’s assumption if he felt it would warm the group to them further. They needed to get their bearings in this land, and procure as much knowledge of the enemy’s movements as they could.

Let him think what he wishes for now. It does no harm.

“We met by chance, in the north if you can believe it. I was… far from home. Galadriel helped me find my way back.”

The old man studied Mairon as he mused quietly on the story of their meeting before responding. “Then, you have a good woman there I’d say.” He nodded knowingly across the fire in Galadriel’s direction as he leant towards Mairon. “Keep her sweet. You’d do well not to let her go.”

Mairon hummed warmly in agreement, but then a melancholy settled in his features as he gazed over at the woman he loved. “Sometimes I think I do not deserve her.”

The old man chuckled again, as though little in this world could truly surprise him. Mairon suspected he had never travelled beyond the Southlands, yet there was a breadth to him nonetheless - the kind earned by watching people closely and hearing the same stories told a hundred different ways.

“No man is worthy of his wife. But it is the good men who know this. Whatever shame you carry, whatever you may have done to think her too good for you, know that in simply acknowledging this, you’re already a better man than most.” He raised his eyebrows at Mairon, solidifying his words with a knowing smile before offering his hand in friendship. “I’m Diarmid.”

Mairon shook his hand with a warm smile of his own that deepened the creases around his eyes. It felt good to speak with someone (other than Galadriel) who was not trying to ask something of him, or suss him out, or better him. In fact, he was surprised to find he had taken an instant liking to the man, and wondered now about their situation.

“What are you doing out here Diarmid? You mentioned orcs and wolves...” He then gave a nod to the pitiful bundle of sticks that was already burning low. “The fire is a risk – we saw it a mile out.”

“Aye,” agreed Diarmid. “It’s a risk. But it is winter, and we have the sickly folk with us. Makes little sense to escape our enemy only to allow the cold to kill us.”

Mairon spotted how Galadriel bent her ear in their direction now, even as she moved to the next ailing soul.

Unable to refute Diarmid’s logic, Mairon simply gave a grim nod in return. “You’ve been attacked then?”

“You’ll find few who haven’t. I know of no settlement that hasn’t been hit. So strange… they kill and maim, or course, but there’s something more to it. They scour. No rock unturned, no home left unemptied. It’s as if they’re looking for something.”

Galadriel took a moment away from her task to glance over to Mairon.

‘They haven’t found it.’

‘Not yet. That’s good.’

“…but orcs do what orcs do I suppose” Diarmid continued, his voice turning thin and sombre. “Those that manage to flee get picked off by the wolves.” His eyes fixated themselves on the firelight as though the stirring of memory were alive in its bright orange heart. “Great big things unlike any wolf I’ve seen before...”

He did not go on, and his face turned ashen and drawn.

A silence fell about the pitiful camp as though all there were recalling the same terrifying memory they dared not mutter.

It was only then that Mairon realised these half-dozen ragged companions were likely all that was left of an entire village that now lay empty, crumbled and blackened somewhere out there on the wider plain. He appreciated all the better now the way they had reacted to him stepping out from among the trees. But even greater than this, was his admiration for Diarmid, who even after all he had no doubt seen, was able to hold on to his humanity and extend an invitation to share their fire. Not only this, but that he still managed to do so with an air of joviality about him – a cheeriness in spite of it all – as though he knew somehow that friendship and kindness would win out against all hurts in the end.

Solemnly, following Diarmid’s, Mairon’s eyes strayed into the fire then, contemplating their lot and what little chance they might have to improve upon it. “Where are you headed?”

“Away.” Diarmid smiled bittersweetly. “As far away as the lands of men will allow. We’ll strike southwest once we’re clear of this line of mountains to the bay at the end of the great river. From there, if we make it that far, charter passage across the sea. ‘Tis said that an island exists where the sick don’t suffer and bellies are full. A place where even a lowly man can find himself grand, not just in stature and years, but in fulfilment of the soul.” The old man’s eyes became glassy in the firelight, and something glittered in those watery rounds that might have been akin to hope, if it did not seem still so distant in the blacks of his pupils.

A dream… he knows it is just a dream.

“You’re welcome to join us on our journey, if you wish, friends.” Diarmid shook himself from his reverie and smiled genuinely at both Galadriel and Mairon now. “There’s nothing forward but death, if you mean to go on south and east.”

As Galadriel squeezed the shoulder of one of the men she had been treating, she looked on at Diarmid with polite regret. “South is our road. We have a matter that requires out attention at Ostirith.”

Diarmid turned to Mairon, something pleading in his expression, as if he needed to hear it was not so.

It stung more than Mairon expected to be unable to reassure the man. Instead, he was obligated to nod, slow and heavy. “Do you know who holds it?”

With a grimace, as if not wanting to encourage this path with any more talk of it, Diarmid confessed, “I’m sorry to say I don’t… the elves did patrols around the villages when they were there, but we’ve not seen head nor tail of them recently. But then, we’ve simply been trying to get to where we’re going in one piece. What’s been happening at the watchtower has been the least of our concerns.”

“I understand. Thank you anyway... friend.” Mairon replied, a little depleted that there was nothing more useful the man could tell them. But despite this, it felt truly pleasant to call someone friend - and mean it.

“I have not known you very long,” Diarmid continued, trying to brighten the mood – or perhaps he was not even aware of it, Mairon thought, and it was simply in his nature to instil optimism. “But you have a good spirit about you both. I can say with all earnestness that I hope you fair well on your journey. You’ve chosen a dangerous road, but we all must choose whichever way we believe to be good and right. That’s all we can do, in the end - to choose goodness at every turn.”

Mairon regarded the man a moment – a half-smile resting on his face as he contemplated Diarmid’s words. Glancing over to Galadriel once more, he found that she was smiling warmly back at him. He only needed to brush his mind softly against hers to know she was proud of how far he had come, and had faith in him to keep on down the right road. Only a few seconds ago, this might have felt overwhelming for him – that he was not even sure he had faith in himself, let alone live up to others’ expectations. But if he could take away this simple lesson, of one good choice followed by another, then perhaps this chance-meeting was not so fruitless after all.

The morning came with a start.

A high-pitched cackle ripped through the air as an orc jumped down from a tree and landed in the now cold fire pit.

The old woman sat up.

Whipping his flail round, the orc caught her across the face with the spiked iron ball. Her flesh opened and she fell lifeless to the ground.

In an instant, Mairon and Galadriel were up, both swords out and ringing through the air as more orcs bore down upon the camp.

A score of them came from all sides at once.

Galadriel stood against the first. It swung the flail again. But she caught the chain around her sword and yanked it free of the orc’s grasp. Swiping her sword away, the flail flung itself off the blade and hit another orc in the back of the head – its spikes embedded in its skull.

Then she lunged at the first orc. Thrusting her sword into its stomach. Twisting, she pulled the blade free with icy precision - its guts spilling onto the ground. She swung again, chopping its head clean off for good measure.

Mairon was fending off three more.

The first came at him head-on, cleaver raised. He stepped inside the swing, caught the orc’s wrist, and drove his sword up beneath its chin in one smooth motion. He kicked the body free before it fell.

The second lunged low, aiming for his thigh. Mairon twisted aside and slashed downward, opening its back from shoulder to spine. It collapsed with a shriek.

The third did not engage him.

It broke instead for Diarmid.

The old man had barely pushed himself upright when the orc bore down on him, blade lifted for the kill.

Mairon did not shout.

He moved.

Crossing the distance in a handful of strides, he seized the creature by the back of its collar and wrenched it backwards with such force its feet left the ground. Its blade fell short of Diarmid’s throat by inches before it fell to the ground.

Having flung the creature away, the orc came snarling and clawing at Mairon now.

But his expression did not change.

He drove his sword clean through its chest and held it there a moment - long enough for the creature to understand exactly who had stopped it - before letting it slide off the steel.

Diarmid looked up at him, eyes wide with fear and gratitude.

Taking the time only to nod at the man, Mairon then reeled round to help Galadriel defend the others.

They worked in tandem - weaving and turning about one another with lethal harmony. Like two voices aligning, they danced to the rhythm of their own song.

It had been too long since Mairon felt this – what it was to battle alongside her again. To feel like nothing could defeat them, that they could conquer all. It stirred his blood like a fierce desire. Through their bond he felt power surge between them, bright and intoxicating. With each deft stroke, each ring of steel, he could feel them binding closer.

Unstoppable.

Dropping to one knee, Mairon thrust his sword beneath where Galadriel swung hers. His blade found the belly of an oncoming enemy looking to hack at Galadriel’s shoulder, while hers slashed ruthlessly at the throat of another.

Then-

Pain.

Searing and bright.

His calf had been pinned to the ground with a jagged pike.

“Mairon!” Galadriel called out, hacking off the hands of the orc who wielded the offending weapon before landing a spinning kick to its chest so forcefully its body flew through the air and impaled itself on a broken branch of a tree.

“I’m alright.” He replied gruffly - not worrying about the use of his real name in the midst of the fray; no one would be paying attention. He wrapped his hand around the pike and yanked it out of his flesh.

It was tipped with poison. He could feel it. No threat to him, but it would take longer than usual to heal.

He heard another orc rushing from behind. Twisting round onto both feet again he raised his sword high.

Too late.

He froze. His eyes taking in the horror of the sight before him:

Diarmid, mistaking Mairon’s wound for weakness, had stepped in the way of the orc’s blow.

From behind, the rusted blade hacked a line from the man’s shoulder to his sternum.

All Mairon could do was watch as the orc wrenched the cleaver back out, leaving Diarmid to crumple to the ground.

Then the orc came at him.

Without a second thought, Mairon parried the cleaver away and drove his blade into the orc’s throat. He watched as black blood bubbled up through the wretched creature’s mouth, accompanied by sickening gurgling sounds before he snatched the sword back out, kicking the orc away in the same movement.

He dropped to his knees. There were only a handful of orcs left now, and he knew Galadriel would take care of them.

Bending over Diarmid, he pressed his hand to the wound – blood pouring out his back and staining the grass.

With all his will, he tried to muster the power to save him. But his own wound drained him, unbidden – the poison in his blood fighting for control.

The old man tried to speak, but could only muster a single word: “King.”

With the last of his strength, he pushed a pouch into Mairon’s hand. Then his last breath caught and his eyes saw no more.

Mairon fell still while the rest of the battle raged on around him. Diarmid had tried to save him, and in return, he could not do the same.

Though their friendship was fleeting, he shed a tear for the man, and wondered how many more would follow before this task was done.

Turning his hand over slowly, he stared down at the brown leather pouch. On one side, it bore an embossed crest of a kingfisher in flight. He did not recognise the symbol, but he frowned at it all the same as he tried to puzzle it out.

About him the sounds of battle grew silent as Galadriel felled the final foe. He could hear her breathing heavily with the effort somewhere behind him.

Four of the Southlanders had survived.

Even so, the birds were quick to take advantage of what flesh was on offer. A magpie descended on the face of the old woman lying only a few feet away and began pecking at her eye.

Mairon watched on with a cold solemnity.

As his gaze drifted back down to the item in his hand, resolve settled over him. Clenching his jaw, his countenance turned from grave to forthright as he nodded one final time in thanks towards his fallen friend.

One good choice. Then another.

Curling his fingers tightly around the pouch, he made it to his feet.