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Galadriel stood in the bookstore, the small space around her bustling with energy as if it was an opera about to begin instead of the tiniest Waterstones in London on publishing day. She was glad for once that none of her readers knew her name or her face, but she was simultaneously itching to thank all the people who’ve passed the display she stood at, recommending the poetry collection to her and praising it with words such as ‘Wordsworth-esque’ and ‘something out of a parallel glamorous reality’.
She was particularly proud of that collection, The Two Trees she named it. Unlike her previous literary oeuvres, this one was Galadriel in her original flesh, calling back to her younger self who had no scratches on her body and no wrinkles on her face. Extracted from her golden childhood, not at all romanticised but miserably nostalgic and full of yearning for that magical place that seemed tucked behind a veil now. That physical place, underneath the two trees with Finrod, and that cosmic state of mind, childhood, innocence, light, all of which seemed so far away now, washed away with the tides that Galadriel had sailed from years ago. She did not mention Celeborn once in her heartfelt poems, for the loss of him was as if it’d occurred before the loss of Finrod. He was but a faint memory of hers now.
She was holding a copy of her book close to her chest, and before she let her thoughts take her away, she opened it to one of the pages she’d drawn on. This one was a jewel, a pearly-coloured one, she recalled. It was given to her by a dear friend when her first book, Heartbreak Hotel, was announced to be the number one New York Times bestseller. It was all that she had left of home, and she let that be known. She hummed, her fingers tracing the sketch, the poem that spoke of the glow of the rivers back home was perfectly placed beside the Silmaril and it sounded in her mind as she ignored the jingling of the glass door opening and closing behind her and the brush of her leather jacket against people’s sweaters as they pushed by her, trying to get to the display.
A man stood beside her now. He was nearly matching her in clothing; a white turtleneck underneath a long brown leather blazer, black dress pants, and brown loafers. It was the first thing she noticed about him. The only difference was that her blazer was black, not brown. She felt the corner of her mouth curl slightly as she closed the book and placed it back on the display. Then, she looked at him. His hair was long and slicked back, a few strands fell in his face, a sign that he’d walked here in the harsh wind and rain. He’d lifted his black framed glasses to sit at the top of his head, which made him look smart and efficient. His face was newly shaved and his eyes the greenest Galadriel had ever seen. He held a kind, somber gaze with her.
“Wonderful poet. Artanis, I mean. She’s my favourite.” He said, his accent heavy and Northern, the voice of a literary scholar, then he took something out of the inner pocket of his blazer and showed her a rather battered copy of Heartbreak Hotel , his rings casting a glare on the shiny laminated cover from the orange lighting of the bookstore. Galadriel smiled. “Have you read this collection yet?” He tilted his head towards the display.
She nodded. “It’s her best one so far.”
For some reason, she felt him inch back when he heard her voice for the first time, his eyes a little wider, and his movements more calculated. His face relaxed a microsecond after, and his lips were upturned now. “She’s one of the poets I draw inspiration from when I write.” He said.
Galadriel’s façade seemed harder to maintain after the stranger’s confession. She resisted the heat that threatened to colour her cheeks like a plague by settling for a surprised statement.
“You write?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, and the man nodded softly. He turned his head to the other side of the store and pointed at a display that half a dozen employees were putting up.
She whirled her head to meet his gaze that never left her figure when she realised. “Wait, you’re Mair—, ”
“Halbrand. Call me Halbrand.” He corrected in a hushed tone. “That name is my pen name, I don’t like the… attention some writers seem to attract, especially in these places.”
“I see.” She exhaled, continuing to stare at the unfinished display. She faintly noted his eyes trained on her.
“You seem to know me, um…” He paused when he realised that she’d never given him her name, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.
“Galadriel.” She continued for him, a little too eager for her own liking, Halbrand didn’t even hold back his grin. She opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off.
“Beautiful name.” He murmured and she forgot what she was going to say for a moment before she recovered.
“I—, thank you.” She took a breath. “I meant to say…I read your book, too.”
“Oh?” A smirk formed on his face. She shook her head, feeling a fresh familiarity growing between them.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She playfully scoffed.
“I don’t have to, you already did that for me.” He quipped then bent to pick up a copy of the book . She couldn’t help herself then.
“Take that one,” she pointed to a row of copies stacked at the top. “It’s signed.”
“Wait,” he froze halfway to the shelf. “She was here?”
Galadriel laughed internally, she loved the game she was playing. Their meeting was the work of the wonders both of them write about, a coincidence that nothing stood in the way of except Galadriel’s strong will and her enjoyment of playing with this enchanting man.
“I wouldn’t know, I don’t know what she looks like.” She shrugged. Halbrand was staring at her, or Artanis’, signature on the first page of the book with a glint in his eyes that Galadriel only ever saw in Celeborn’s eyes, back when— , she expelled the thought from her head and observed Halbrand.
“How I wish I did.” He murmured and took his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyebrows knitted and his concentration unwavering. Galadriel was being tested for the thousandth time today and she knew it, but this man…this Halbrand , he’d awakened something in her that’s been dormant for years. It’s been too long since she shut the door on her dead husband, too long since she allowed grief and love to alloy inside her and consume her soul and mind. This stranger, her favourite novelist, who writes about ethereal beings with dirty laundry seeking redemption by reducing what made them cosmic and odd to a normality, standing beside her and letting his warmth seep over to her numb, cold body, was something of the stars’ making and absolutely not the works of the logic realised and set into stone by man.
“Let’s look at your book,” she exclaimed, realising that she’d held onto his elbow and pushed between dozens of customers to get to Mairon’s display of ‘ Of Volcanoes And Fool’s Gold’ too late.
Meanwhile, he was looking at her as if he’d hit a wall, letting himself be led by her across the bookstore, or possibly anywhere , her hold on his elbow making his hair stand on ends even through the layers of clothing separating her from his flesh. He felt as if he’d always known her, this girl he’d picked from the wildest crowd he’d ever seen in a small town’s Waterstones . Her familiarity felt too unreal for him, and for a wild second, he wanted to touch her golden hair to make sure she was real and not the muse he’d created for himself to leave a dark past behind. Maybe she was that muse, maybe he’d arranged with her to meet him here in a faraway dream.
His book was, in a way, a continuation of his previous ones, taking another shot at picking at his hero’s — or villain’s — shortcomings and endless guilt. It was, he decided, the conclusion. He’d put his mind to shedding light onto darkness from other points of view after Of Volcanoes And Fool’s Gold, hoping that he’ll find his own redemption this way. Halbrand loved this novel and looked forward to releasing it, wanting his readers to see through his merciless deprecation of his very own Sauron by having sniped that same deprecation as a bullet from a different shooting position. This book was the undoing of all the knots, it was his first day as a freed prisoner in the cab heading home.
He entered that bookstore in hopes of finding a signed copy of The Two Trees, not even paying mind that this was his own release day, too. This was the perk of having a made up pen name; no one knew who you were, and in a city as crowded as London, Lord knows he’d have been mobbed by merely entering.
Instead of being mobbed, he found who he’d hoped liked Artanis as much as he did, standing at that display without paying so much as an ear to anybody around her. Her hair sprinkled with droplets of rain, wearing clothes nearly identical to his, and looking upon him with the most bewitching eyes he’d ever set his gaze upon, she confessed that she knew him.
He felt her alliance in his bones, her friendship, her light , filling him from the ground up. She had this sense of play in her that destroyed the stoic, smart exterior he’d put on before entering the bookstore. Within three minutes of knowing him, she began bickering with him, seeking within him what he realised he seeks within her.
And by the time he’d left his trance, Galadriel had already paid for her book and even his and was waving a hand in his face.
“Sign it for me?” She held a pen and her copy in front of him.
“Outside.” He promised with a gentle smile.
When outside, he signed the book against a wall, with a note that said “with love and friendship, hal x” and turned to her, who was photographing him with a grin plastered on her face that made him believe for a second that this was June, not February.
“Now, you don’t make me sign your book and not sign mine, that’s just unfair.” He tilted his head, she kept photographing him anyway. “Galadriel.” He covered his face and laughed, scandalised. She started laughing with him and turned the camera to appear in the photos with him. She was smiling like an overjoyed child and he was looking at her as she did so in most of the photos, and he almost chastised himself for reaching behind her to hold her by the waist and placing his chin on her shoulder to make faces at the camera, but he didn’t. Her smiles at her phone were a sign she loved it, and he just watched her.
“Did you want something?” She turned to him after gazing at the photos she took.
“Sign my book?” He repeated, which made her smile wider. A car started beeping for her at the end of the road.
“I—,” she pointed to the car.
“This is the only way, Galadriel.” He sounded like he was begging. The only way I can keep you with me.
“I told you to get the signed copy, Halbrand, I didn’t take you for a forgetful man.” She shrugged and waved at him as she walked backwards on the pavement.
And there he stood, like a fool, having just spent the most surreal moments of his life with the woman who inspired most of his works and he didn’t even know it was her. He hugged the book close to his chest, knowing he’ll write another one if he got home now, and he sank onto a bench, holding onto her words like a stowaway.