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“We call them artificers. Most wounds to our bodies heal of their own accord, so, it is their labor instead to render hidden truths as works of beauty. For beauty has great power to heal the soul.”
~ Arondir, admitting that Rings of Power elves have plastic surgeons or something, Season 1 Episode 1
He had been sitting on the divan for nearly an hour, staring beyond the glass doors that opened out to the small balcony off of his room. The sun had long since fallen below the distant tree line and as the light grew dimmer outside than in, he was finally forced to face his faint reflection in the glass.
His pale face was thin, but no longer ghoulishly so. Gone were the scars that had twisted his skin like melted wax and warped his features. His hair was a dark shadow, adapted over the centuries to his time inside dim dungeons with little nourishment. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to be reminded. Taking a breath big enough to lift his shoulders, he opened his eyes again to focus on his surroundings.
The room was small but comfortable for its size, with few curiosities to distract him from his thoughts. It was no dungeon, but certainly a statement to his current status as an unknown… Guest? Invalid? Prisoner, perhaps.
Once, long ago, he might have been amused that the room's size insulted his station, when he had had a station. Now, he merely tried not to think about the amount of time that had passed since he had last slept in a proper bed, in a proper elven abode. His isolation was only punctuated by the scheduled visits made by the artificers to check on his healing progress or to offer what therapy they could to manage his horrific non-physical injuries. The latest appointment had been exhausting, but now his body felt it best to change positions. He swung his legs up and lay back on the divan.
As he lay there, he felt a deep sense of unease wash over him. Whenever he moved a certain way, he could feel the awkwardness of his body. His limbs felt too long and too thin, as if he had put on an old coat and found that it no longer fit him properly. The artificers had assured him the dysphoria would fade in time, though he wondered exactly how much experience they had with hroar as mutated as his was.
He closed his eyes, trying not to wander too close to the darker parts of his memory and settled on plotting instead. He would have to find a way to leave this room soon. It had been three weeks since he had been brought to a settlement with advanced enough healers to treat him. Longer still since he had stumbled upon the patrol that had brought him in, nearly dead after having been driven out of Mordor. That he could still pass for an elf gave him little solace. That would make it nearly impossible for him to blend in with the uruk and get close enough to the Dark Lord to avenge his children. Again.
The only other option was to gain the trust of a race that he no longer considered himself a part of, and raise an army. That would mean more of his flock would die. That would mean facing her. That thought alone was all encompassing in its terror, despair and cold fury. So far he had been spared an encounter with the elven army commander due to her rotation schedule though surely she knew who and where he was by now.
Even as he thought of her, a soft knocking came from his door. He found himself sucking in a quick breath and he realized he had been holding it for a while. Closing his eyes and listening to the pause from the other side, he thought perhaps if he stayed silent, the visitor would leave.
Instead he heard the door to his room click open and the moment he wished he did not dread began as he sensed her presence. He heard the swish of her dress, the waft of air from the closing door carrying a faint scent of her to him. Orange and sage blossom. That triggered a memory he could access almost without regret; Dancing by the river that no longer existed.
Galadriel hovered by the door for a moment, relieved to find him apparently asleep for she was unsure of what she would have said upon entry had he been awake. This was the first time she had seen him alone since his return. She had been away when he had first arrived and during her previous attempt to see him he had been unconscious, laid bare on a table for her to inspect while half a dozen artificers worked on him head to toe. The shock of recognizing him for who he was and who he used to be had been enough to make her sick. It had been a fortnight since she had fled from that room to weep in private.
He felt a pang of shame as he realized how much he had changed over the centuries such that he could not yet bear to look at her. As she who had once been his lady wife approached him, he braced himself for her reaction.
She stopped at the side of the divan, her eyes fixed on her once-beloved husband. The healing had gone well. He looked no different from the elf she had wed, but beyond the physical, which only the most skilled elves could perceive, he seemed wholly different somehow. Still, she could sense a glimmer of the elf she had loved, and that gave her aching heart some hope.
Memories flooded back to her, memories of a time before his disappearance, memories of a time when he had been bright with life, not a creature marred by darkness and experimentation.
Celeborn?
Not receiving an answer, she knelt silently and reached out a hand to touch the one at his side, hesitating for a moment before making contact with his skin. His skin was cool to the touch, unlike the warmth she remembered from so long ago. He remained inert so she closed her eyes for a while, trying to calm her nervous pulse. Finally, she felt his hand twitch beneath hers. She looked up to see him watching her, the smile in his eyes faint. Her own expression automatically echoed his.
"This is a dream," he mumbled, his voice weak. Strange to his own ears, his smile disappeared when he heard it.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes. "Then it is a good dream," she said, her voice catching in her throat.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other, taking in each other's presence after so long apart. And then, slowly, she sat on the edge of the divan next to him, not letting go of his hand, though it lay limp in hers.
"Do you know me?" he asked, face impassive, his toneless query giving no indication of either dread or hope of her answer. Only his eyes looked a little wet. Indeed, she had not recognized him during their first encounter after so many centuries apart, so changed had he become.
She considered her words carefully, her voice low. "I once knew a prince who loved and was beloved of his subjects. He would do anything to ensure their well-being, safeguarding their hidden kingdom. And when that was no longer an option, leading them into battle." She paused, her memory stumbling over the last moments they had spent together before being separated by war and time.
She took a breath and continued, "Despite being so protective of his own, he was a soul so generous and courageous that he deigned to love a princess from another world. Even when she had naught to offer him but her self and the strife of her kin."
The quirk of his mouth was not cruel but lacked true amusement. Doomed they had been, whether he had loved her or not. In truth, he could no longer recall much of their time together, his memories scourged from him. Some time during the centuries of violence, he had resigned his past life to the darkness. To hear her tell of it, however, felt right to him in a way he had not thought possible. Now that they had come together at last, he waited to discern what shape their love had finally taken. He remained silent, allowing her to continue.
"The Powers may have," she hesitated, "altered your form, but they could not change who you are. Who you've always been."
She leaned closer, close enough for him to breathe in her scent. He inhaled and nearly closed his eyes before recalling the last time she had come this close to him, with a dagger at his throat. Meeting her gaze again, his teeth clenched at the memory. Perhaps he had changed too much, beyond recognition, and beyond recovery.
"You have always been so sure of everything," he said, not unkindly.
She recoiled, stung by the shame of recent events, of her complete failure in recognizing Sauron, her greatest enemy, though he had stared her in the face. Worse, she had welcomed the man as her companion-in-arms, so sure had she been of his worth and pedigree. If such a confusion were possible, then so too was looking upon her soulmate housed in a reconfigured body and not knowing him.
Guessing at her thought, for neither of them could yet read the other's heart, his anxiety spiked. The thought of his enemy roaming free nearly choked him and he struggled to sit up.
"You had him!" he rasped. "You had him and you let him escape."
"Do not blame me for the deceiver's actions," she retorted defensively, and for the first time since she had entered the room, she was unable to meet his gaze.
Eventually, she admitted quietly, "It would be more correct to say that he had me."
The being that had been Celeborn was long used to Galadriel’s emotional displays of anger, of haughtiness, of benevolence on occasion, but rarely of insecurity.
Unnerved by her hesitation, he demanded, "What happened?"
She sighed and lifted her gaze again, but could not look directly at him. Speaking slowly, as the memory still pained her, "I will not deny that I was tempted by the thought, by the power to heal Middle Earth, even in his way. But when he spoke of binding to me so that I could be his light, I could only think of myself having already been bound to you." Despite the centuries-old loss of her partner, her heart had held during that critical moment when Sauron had made his offer. She had quailed at the thought of replacing Celeborn with the Dark Lord.
Now, as she beheld her beloved returned, a small smile made its way to her lips as she lifted a hand to gently run her finger tips along his temple and jawline. He tried not to flinch at the spark of her touch.
Her tone was fond, "You, who always rode to battle foolishly at the head of the column." Then, more wistfully, "You, who led your people with love and not terror."
"You flatter me," he mused, "but I am not so noble as you remember. I am no longer above using terror against my enemies." Even looking as he did before, the war's damage could not be undone. He lifted his trembling hand from hers, turned it to see if it matched his recognition, and finally closed it into a fist.
Looking at her, he continued, "Neither do I have anything to offer you if purifying this land is what you truly desire."
She was about to protest, but he stopped her with a narrowing of his eyes and asked, "After all your time here, has your ambition been corrupted to such meanness?"
After a pause she answered, "It has never been higher. For now I must save all peoples from Sauron's influence, including your... children." She was unsure if he could read the automatic revulsion in her expression, though she tried to hide it. To show her sincerity she took his hand again in both of hers.
She said simply, "Yet my ambition means nothing next to your forgiveness." Having said it out loud at last, she struggled at the brink of possibility should he not give it. Her throat tightened and she could only manage a whisper. "Please."
He felt his heart ache in response to her plea and knew then his love for her had not been lost to the darkness. In another life, he might have laughed at such an easy victory from her. Now, only the raising of his eyebrows indicated his surprise at her self-awareness, her acceptance. What more could he ask for, much less deserve.
"You may have it, meldanya," he said gently, "and more than that besides."
He leaned forward and gently kissed her brow, causing her to feel a brief thrill in her chest. When he pulled back, the sight of her smile for him was so glorious he thought he might swoon. Before he could, she had flung her arms around him in a hug too tight to be imaginary, knocking them both off balance and pressing him back against the couch.
She pushed herself up a little, her hair curtaining his peripheral vision and he became lost in the light of her eyes. He swallowed. She waited, her smile widening as he lifted a hand to brush his finger tips in wonder across her cheek, over her ear, finally coming to rest at the base of her head. When she blinked, her grin was consumed by his kiss, the pressure from his fingers a gentle demand. The increasing passion of their kiss spread lightning through her spine, from the back of her head to her lower back.
He became aware of the weight of her upper body on his as she mounted the divan, swinging a leg over him to hover like a cat about to pounce. Her lips trailed to the edge of his mouth and below his jaw before he could think to recapture them. Tilting his head back for her, his hands began to roam freely, seeking to satisfy the desire to touch her skin.
She could hear his breathing quicken even as she kissed the spot where she had once nicked him with her dagger, that thin scar line now invisible. She nursed the pale skin there briefly in apology before licking her way to his ear.
Over the sense of his own blood rushing, their mutual desperate fumbling need to make up for lost time, he heard her soft murmur in his ear, "I would have you now, husband."
His affirmative was more of a hiss than a word.
Then no more words were needed for the song of their reunion.