Chapter Text
With her hand resting on the crook of Halbrand’s elbow, Galadriel lets herself be guided through the city. Halbrand seems to lead her to a residential district, and she watches as shops and inns are replaced by houses made of white stone. Small flowerpots filled with colorful flowers, garlands, or curtains give each house a unique touch.
“A little more to the left.” The corners of her lips twitch as Galadriel hears a familiar voice. She smiles as she watches the scene unfold before her eyes. Theo is standing on his toes, his face drawn in concentration, his tongue peeking out of his mouth as he tries to hang the garland of seashells above the door.
“Need some help?” Halbrand offers with a smile and captures the attention of mother and son. Theo’s arms drop and he lets out a long exhale, seemingly glad for the distraction and the chance to catch a break.
“Lady Galadriel, it is good to see you,” Bronwyn greets her warmly, extending her hands, and Galadriel shares the sentiment, reaching for them. It is good to see the healer again, who quickly took the responsibility of caring for her village.
“Lord Halbrand, I wouldn’t ask your aid for such mundane tasks.” Although there is a spark of amusement in her voice, Galadriel notices the quick incline of her head. Theo is still holding the garland in his hands, stealing a few glances at their direction.
“Nonsense, I would like to help.” Accepting no further protest, Halbrand walks over to Theo, who gives him the garland and returns to his mother’s and Galadriel’s side.
“I kept the sword you gave me safe,” Theo tells her with a proud expression, and while she appreciates the honor, she wishes that the young man shouldn’t have to carry a weapon at all.
Due to his almost ridiculous height, Halbrand had no problems hanging the garland and quickly returns to their little group.
“Is Isildur well?” Theo asks, a youthful hope in his voice, and Galadriel is grateful that she can give him a nod. Only the Valar know how often the young Númenorean had cheated death.
“Arondir is showing him where his people reside,” Galadriel explains, and watches the soft, affectionate smile on Bronwyn’s lips.
“The people of Númenor preferred a district closer to the sea. Most of them are quite homesick, and from what I gathered, Pelargir soothes and aggravates that ache.” Brownyn’s gaze turns toward the sea.
“Are you happy with your domicile?” Galadriel asks, genuinely curious. The house certainly looks more welcoming and appealing than the tents and huts of the camp. While it won’t immediately replace the home they have lost in the Southlands, it certainly beats sleeping in huts and on the road.
“I still can’t believe our luck. This city has welcomed us with open arms, and I start to feel a peace I haven’t felt since I killed that Orc to save Theo.” A shadow passes over her face as she seems lost in her memories, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder. Theo tilts his head towards his mother.
“The people of Pelargir have been the most gracious hosts. As their city had once housed a much larger population, many districts had been empty, well-cared but without life. They offered us a home without asking anything in return and opened their shops and inns to us. Many have found a new home here.” Halbrand adds himself to the conversation, his arms crossed as his lets his gaze wander over the city. “The south owes them a debt.”
“Can you see yourself live here?” Galadriel asks, careful to keep any judgement out of her voice. She can perfectly understand if the healer and her family would prefer to stay here, to live a peaceful life after the horrors they have faced.
“No.” Galadriel can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at the woman’s resolute tone. “While I can see myself staying here for a moment, I will not abandon my true home. I will not let it fall into the hands of monsters.”
“We will fight,” Theo claims boldly, and Galadriel can see him with her sword in hand, a boy willing to stand up against the very evil she had fought against for ages.
“We will fight with our king,” mother and son say in unison as they give Halbrand a look full of loyalty and reverence.
“I count myself lucky to have you at my side. We will reclaim our home.” Galadriel can already see Halbrand on the battlefield, commanding his people while fighting by their side, a crown adorning his brown hair. The king of the Southlands. “But let us enjoy the festivals this evening.” The mood shifts, and everyone except Galadriel shares a knowing look.
“I can’t wait to wear the dress I bought,” Browyn says with a soft sigh, and Galadriel glances down at her own clothing. While the tunic is agreeable to wear, and a pleasant change from armor and chainmail, it is quite plain, and Galadriel can admit to herself that she misses the feeling of soft silk against her skin.
“Arondir won’t know what hit him,” Theo teases, and this small comment shows how close mother and son have grown with the Elf. Relationships between Men and Elves will never cease to astound, but maybe this can be the beginning of a change.
“We will see you at the festival,” Bronwyn laughs, wrapping her arm around her son’s shoulder and pushing him into their home.
Galadriel walks down the street with Halbrand, and while her hand no longer rests on the crook of his elbow, their fingertips sometimes brush as they both let their arms swing in a relaxed manner.
Halbrand greets frequently, offering a kind word to the Southlanders, the people of Númenor and Pelargir alike, and they all return it, sharing the same respect. The best leaders have a certain charisma, and Halbrand is no exception. Galadriel has no doubt that the bond between the people he traveled with is nigh unbreakable, that they will follow their king wherever he goes.
“Do all Southlanders share Bronwyn’s determination to return to their home?” Galadriel inquires when Halbrand takes her to one of the quieter side alleys.
“Yes.” While his eyes are gleaming with pride, a hint of resignation also tints Halbrand’s voice. “The general agreement is that while some rest and in Pelargir is welcomed and needed, the Southlanders will return and reclaim their home, even if it has become a barren wasteland.”
“They seem to be willing to follow their king everywhere,” Galadriel states quietly, her voice neutral. She can let herself admire his achievements.
They pass through a small courtyard, a looming oak occupying the center, with the sound of wood clanking against wood capturing her attention. Two boys are sparring with swords, their swings and thrusts clumsy but determined.
“You will never win, foul invader,” the older boy shouts as he brings his sword down, almost landing a hit on the other boy.
“Mother says that you shouldn’t hit as hard,” the other boy protests, evading another thrust from his brother. What he may lack in strength, he makes up with agility.
“Practice makes perfect,” the older brother counters through clenched teeth, pursuing his brother as the latter continues to evade, circling around the tree, fully pushed to the defensive.
A small root makes him trip, and the younger brother finds himself on his back, looking up at the tip of his brother’s sword almost touching his nose. His grip around the sword loosens, and he looks up, his gaze filled with resignation.
“You’re getting better,” the older brother praises as he lets go of his sword and extends his hand to help his brother up. He rubs the dirt off his brother’s shoulders, the gesture familiar and affectionate.
“The last one to arrive at home has to do the cleaning alone!” the younger brother suddenly exclaims, dashing away, and his older brother gives chase, their laughter louder than their pounding footsteps.
Galadriel has watched the scene unfold, a small smile tugging at her lips. Memories of a distant past start to awaken from their long slumber, bringing sorrow and melancholy. She lets herself remember the antics of her siblings, can see Angrod and Aegnor hone their skills just as the brothers did, can almost hear the exact timber of their voices.
“If we strike hard and true, war will not reach these children,” Halbrand states quietly, ripping her from her memories.
“You cannot promise that,” Galadriel counters. Just as the Elves had learned the horrible meaning of death all these centuries ago, these children may have to wield swords made from steel instead of wood.
“I can.” There is no arrogance in his words, only a resolute certainty that age and power grant over centuries, even millennia. Could he truly promise that? Would he guarantee peace? And more importantly, how can she truly guarantee this future? A thought passes her mind, as risky and rewarding as trying to steal from a dragon. Could she coax an oath from a Maia’s lips?
“I can see the gears inside your mind shifting. Leave the plotting and the scheming for tomorrow,” Halbrand says, his voice light and teasing, and Galadriel huffs a breath through her nose, but lets her mind rest as she follows him.
They seem to have reached their destination: located on the right edge of the market district lies a small tailor’s shop. Trough the clean window, Galadriel glimpses rows of dresses, tunics, cloaks, or breeches.
“We can’t show up for Méra-o i-hon looking like that,” Halbrand says with a grin, giving her clothing a pointed look.
“You’re wearing armor,” Galadriel counters drily. She remembers her vision of him as she was healing Isildur, when he was also wearing armor. She never inquired why. This would change now, she decides as she raises an eyebrow at him.
“There have been reports of orcs at the border,” Halbrand replies, his grin fading as he reaches for his hip where a sword ought to hang. “They have either followed our trail or have decided to target larger cities.”
“These are troubling news,” Galadriel says. Their enemy must not be underestimated. It still needles her that she failed to stop Adar’s plan, that she didn’t see through his ruse. It cost the Southlanders their home.
“Tomorrow, we will try to find a solution,” Halbrand decides, pushing open the door and ushering Galadriel inside. The faint smell of dye hits her nostrils, and Galadriel feels a little lost. She can’t remember the last time she strolled through shops, or bought clothing for her own pleasure.
“Do you care for some advice from an old man?” a voice from the back of the store calls out, catching her attention. Galadriel carefully walks past the walls of clothing, properly displayed on wooden cloth rails, and finds the man she supposes is the owner of the shop. He’s sitting behind a counter, sewing a blue feather onto a hat. His gray hair and wrinkled face betray the steady hand and shrewd twinkle in his gray eyes.
“We would love to hear your wisdom, as you seem to have a lot of experience with clothing,” Halbrand replies, offering the man a charming smile.
“I didn’t expect a king to flatter me, just as I didn’t see an Elf wandering into my shop,” the owner replies with a raised eyebrow. Words travel fast here, Galadriel thinks. Her ears are hidden beneath her golden hair and her gray tunic could be worn by anyone. She could be just another refugee. Halbrand, in his armor, may stick out more, but he wears no crown.
He finishes the hat, carefully examining it before putting it on a shelf, next to other hats.
“If you’re looking for clothing for the festival, you’ve come to the right place. Stroll at your leisure, and don’t fret if you want to try something on. We have dressing rooms.” The owner dismisses them with a kind smile, before leaving through the small door on his left.
Left to their own devices, Galadriel starts roaming through the shop, her fingers gliding over cotton, velvet and silk, admiring the owner’s work. After making her way through the shop, Galadriel realizes that every piece of clothing has the color of the ocean. The many shades of blue, green, and gray make her wonder if Méra-o i-hon is related to the sea.
While continuing her search for the right dress, she glances at Halbrand, who’s heading to the dressing room. Despite craning her neck, she can’t discern what he has found. Shaking her head, Galadriel focuses on her task at hand.
After she has found what she has been looking for, she enters the dressing room and slips out of the tunic to put on the dress. While she has selected several dresses, she picks the one her heart yearns to try on. Made from deep blue velvet, its neckline is highlighted by pearls and seashells. Silver strands cross the dress from her left shoulder to her right waist and back to her left hip. It resembles the dress she wore on that fated day near the river Glanduin. Galadriel wonders if the resemblance made her pick it.
She exits the dressing room and starts to look for a mirror, taking a few steps.
“Buy it,” Halbrand doesn’t ask but commands, and Galadriel forgets the mirror to turn around and face him. She stifles a gasp when she realizes how similar they look. Wearing a deep blue tunic with silver embroidery and black trousers, his simple attire befits a king who must reclaim his kingdom. All he needs is a crown.
“There are other dresses I have chosen,” Galadriel retorts, refusing to heed his command. Deep blue and silver; they look too much alike. Galadriel can already hear the gossip.
“And yet no dress will fit you better than this one.” His intense gaze seems hot enough to melt silver and pierce through armor, and Galadriel feels a shiver creep down her spine. They look too much like king and queen, her reason whispers.
She spins around to enter the dressing room again and try another dress, but just as Halbrand has predicted, the asymmetrical gray dress is too loose-fitting, and only leaves her frustrated. The other dresses don’t fare better.
As she exits the dressing room in the blue dress once again, Halbrand doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. Galadriel glowers at him, before returning to the counter, her tunic folded in her arms.
“Just as I offered to the king, you may leave your clothes here and wear your new ones right away,” the owner tells her, giving her an appraising look. “You chose well, if I may add.”
Before Galadriel can reach for her coin pouch, she feels Halbrand’s hand around her wrist. Galadriel knows that if she were to make this battle of strength, he would have to yield, if only to keep up appearances.
“Allow me,” he insists, reaching for his own pouch with his other hand. She will grant him his chivalry, while wondering at the same time where he procured that coin. They were given a pouch in Númenor, so they wouldn’t be destitute, but their clothing is high quality, the velvet feeling like an embrace.
“I hope you enjoy Méra-o i-hon.” The owner waves at them, and Galadriel and Halbrand exit the shop, ready for the festival.