Chapter Text
Galadriel feels the wind pull at her braid as she traverses the mighty forests of Enedwaith, her world disappearing in a blur of blue and green as she whispers to her steed, a tenacious mare with a white coat. She is called Isilme, moonlight, and Galadriel couldn’t have picked a better name.
She briefly stopped in Eregion for provisions but had steered clear of the heart of the land, avoiding the people she had left in a hurry. There is no need for them to know what she plans to do.
She continues her ride until the sun sets and her horse requires the rest it deserves.
After setting up her tent, she eats some of her rations and waits for sleep to come. While the cold of the night is nothing compared to the iciness of the northern wastelands, it still chills her bones, and she drapes his coat over herself. Galadriel is better than the childish wish inside her to discard any of his belongings, and it does provide warmth. Some of his unique scent even lingers. Galadriel tries not to interpret too much into his small kindness.
Her dreams have been her own, and she hadn’t been visited since her departure from Forodwaith. Sometimes, Galadriel feels a presence pressing against her mind, or can almost hear his voice, but he remains silent and unseen, certainly rejoicing that she has heeded his call at last.
She may come for him, but not in the way he intended.
The sadness inside Galadriel settles deep within her heart as she continues her journey through the Southlands, or what’s left of them. She is currently approaching the edge of the volcano’s reach, her horse still standing on green grass instead of scorched earth.
This is not her fault. She may have brought Sauron back to Middle-earth, even put a crown on his head, but Adar has been operating on his own. He turned the Southlands into a barren, ruined and hostile country. But still, her guilt cackles, she failed to stop him. Her dagger has drunk his black blood, but she didn’t kill him. Just like she didn’t kill Sauron.
Galadriel shakes her head, trying to disrupt these thoughts, and dismounts in one quick move. Saddle and bridle are now hidden in the hollow of a tree, and Galadriel carries her load on her back. She gently drags her hand over Isilme’s nose, preparing herself for the good-bye.
“Termáre,” she whispers, knowing that her command will be listened to. Stay. “You cannot and should not follow where I go.” Her voice is sorrowful, and she gives the horse one last look before turning around and continuing her journey alone.
These lands have become devoid of people, and even animals have become scarce, instinct pushing them to seek a safer home, free of darkness and corruption.
Some of the deserted villages show signs of a fight, like black blood marring the roads or burned ruins that used to be homes and shops. She crosses them briskly, trying to outrun the blame nipping at her heels. She promised these people a king and a better future and delivered neither.
Galadriel steps over corpses of orcs and spots a row of graves. She takes a moment to put some flowers on them, whispering an apology in her native tongue.
She rolls her shoulders, feeling her load shift, and looks at the sinking sun. These lands are no longer safe to travel by night, even for her. She must make haste.
Galadriel stands on a hill, looking down at the village protected by a wall, nestled in a valley that is bordering on the orc’s new, dead home. It has been spared of the destruction that befell so many villages, and Galadriel assumes that the orcs either haven’t found it yet or ignore it on purpose.
The air is starting to lose its crisp, fresh nature and the sun only manages to peek through the gray clouds of ash. Not for long, and she will walk on dead ground and through darkness.
As she heads down the road, the wind carries a melody to her ears, hummed by a voice she has heard so often over the last months.
She has found him. Her heart picks up the pace, and so does she. She enters through the open gate into the village and follows the music.
He seems to have taken up residence in the blacksmith’s shop, and it doesn’t surprise her. She spots a still burning forge in the background, and watches as he puts down a forceps. He’s inspecting a sword he seems to have finished right now, his intent gaze searching for imperfection or blemishes.
Galadriel remembers the moment in Númenor, showing his proficiency with the sword. She had briefly wondered how a smith’s aide from a small village could develop such skills, but she didn’t question it, didn’t follow the line of thought. Foolish. Her mind keeps turning, keeps showing her the little moments she missed.
He looks at her at last, his green eyes lit up with elation, wearing a smith’s smock and a small smirk, and Galadriel grits her teeth. He has no right to be so smug, she fumes.
“My queen arrives,” he greets her, pushing a sweaty curl from his forehead.
“I am not your queen,” she counters, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword as she narrows her eyes at him. Confrontation is easier than sorting through her feelings and the reasons for her presence.
“Are we to cross swords again?” he asks, twirling his hand and spinning the sword. “Do you think it will have another outcome than last time?” He doesn’t take a fighting stance, but rather waits for her answer. He flaunts his mastery of the sword openly, but Galadriel must admit that his words hold merit. The chance to best him in an open battle is slim.
He must sense her conflict, for he places the sword on an anvil and extends his hand.
“Come with me. Night is falling and you must be exhausted.” His words sound so alluring, and the Galadriel swallows down a witty remark as she nods at him. She refuses his hand, gesturing at him to move instead.
He leads her towards an elegant building, most likely a major’s home or at least that of a wealthy merchant. She follows him into the heart of the building, her footsteps muffled by a thick carpet, a burning fire filling the room with warmth. Around a sturdy, round table stand many chairs, and several dead animals look down upon her, surely hunting trophies killed by the departed owner of this house.
She drags a chair towards the fireplace, sitting down and putting down her load. Galadriel keeps her gaze on the flames as he takes a seat next to her.
“You came.” His voice is gentle, but not as gentle as the touch he gives her, reaching for her hand, as if he wants to make sure that she’s no mirage. It sends a shiver down her spine, and Galadriel doesn’t bat his hand away. Honeyed words and warm gestures, she thinks, all to bind her to him.
The fire next to them casts his face in a golden light, highlighting his handsome features, and her fingertips suddenly prickle, eager to touch the stubble dusting his jaw. This feels so familiar and right, like slipping into a worn glove.
“I miss Halbrand,” she confesses, her voice almost a whisper. She misses her companion, misses the human she considered worthy to be a king, misses her friend who understood her like few did.
“I am sorry.” Liar, her reason warns her, but the words sound so sincere. He doesn’t specify for what he apologizes, but she accepts it nevertheless. She’s tired, and for a moment, she doesn’t consider every word he utters to have an ulterior motive.
“What shall I call you?” she asks, one of the many questions on her mind. Has there ever been a Halbrand? Or was he but an illusion, a means to an end, a form he took to infiltrate and cause havoc? She can’t bring herself to call him Sauron either, for the name tastes like ash on her tongue and always brings back Finrod’s memory. She sits next to his murderer and yet he still draws breath, because she failed and continues to fail to kill him. Her shame and guilt burns as bright as the fire next to her. Foolish elf with her weak heart, she scolds herself.
“You may call me Halbrand,” he answers, and Galadriel waits, fearing that her words betray her. “Or Mairon, for this is the name I have been given in the beginning.”
“I think I will retire now,” she announces, and he simply nods. She’s not fleeing, she’s retreating to continue this conversation tomorrow, she tells herself as she grabs her load, and heads down the long hallway, past framed pictures of lush forests, and into a free, spacious bedchamber.
She quickly slips out of her travelling gear, dismisses leather and chainmail for a simple linen shift, and lies down on the bed, almost sighing as her back hits the soft material.
“Wake up,” a male voice urges in a low whisper, and Galadriel’s eyes snap open, her hands flying towards the weight on her shoulder. Her sight sharpens and she realizes that she’s no longer alone.
“Halbrand?” she asks, trying to sort her thoughts. He nods and withdraws his hand from her shoulder as he steps back, allowing her to leave the bed. The familiar weight against her sternum is still present, and Galadriel feels a brief burst of relief.
“Orcs have just arrived,” he states, and Galadriel rushes for her sword, vowing to let it taste black blood. She dresses quickly while Halbrand – her mind or heart seem to have chosen a name – waits for her, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Will you at least let me slay them, or do they listen to their master?” she hisses, her words coated in poison. She hears the hideous beasts run around the building, and the hold around her sword tightens.
“I have no love for orcs,” Halbrand growls. “They are nothing but tools for war, bred to fight, obey and follow orders. Their creation has been a mistake.” Galadriel raises an eyebrow at his dismissive words. Another ploy?
“Then you should have no qualms about killing them,” she dares him.
“I will do as you wish,” he says with a wolfish smile, and Galadriel feels the heavy implication of his words. The dark Lord himself is hers to command. The thought scares her. The thought intrigues her.
They exit the building without making a sound. The small party, occupied with looting, is unprepared and certainly not expecting to be attacked. Galadriel’s sword sings through the air, sinking into flesh and ending the pitiful existence of these beasts. They don’t even put up a decent fight, and their deaths come quick.
Galadriel pulls her sword out of the orc’s stomach and looks around to the righteous carnage she and Halbrand have caused. They have started the fight side by side, and she has seen glimpses of him as he effortlessly dodged attacks and slayed the orcs mercilessly. A warrior just like herself.
One lone orc is alive, sprawled on the ground with Haland’s boot on his chest, holding him down. The orc is speaking, but the words make her wince as her ears ring with pain. The black speech.
Halbrand replies in kind, his voice sounding more guttural, and this hurts even more, reminding Galadriel that he’s of the same darkness. Their conversation seems to have ended, for Halbrand stabs the orc in one swift move, ending his life.
In the crepuscule, his eyes seem darker, and Galadriel feels a tendril of fear wrap around her heart.
“Be at peace, Galadriel,” Halbrand says to her as he lifts his hands, his sword falling to the ground. He sounds like someone talking to a spooked horse, and Galadriel wills herself to take a deep breath, letting the tension drain from her body.
“What have you discovered?” she asks, her voice devoid of emotion, sheathing her sword after wiping it clean on the orc’s clothing.
“The information we need,” he replies, and smiles at her.