Chapter Text
His children had dragged the Commander Galadriel away, but her words still rang in his ears. This must be what Sauron wants, she had screamed. It should have been easy to ignore her words—an elf, a self-declared enemy who would happily kill any and all of them and think no more of it—and yet her hatred of Sauron had not been feigned, and it had not been impersonal. He had seen the way she looked at Halbrand back in the Southlands, the way the mortal—or so he’d thought him to be then—had effortlessly commanded her attention. And he had witnessed her spit the name of Sauron not a few hours ago, anger and pain boiling underneath. He may not have experienced the softer emotions himself in an Age, he might not even remember much of his life before Morgoth and the Thangorodrim, but he had lived long enough and had sufficient experience of Sauron to understand quite well the general outlines of what must have happened. Ever did the Deceiver seek to foster love in those who should have hated him, and much too often did he succeed, at least in the short term. It was the cruellest of his many cruelties, Adar knew: after all, he, too, had once loved Sauron.
So why is the elf convinced this is a trap? Had she a reason to lie? She wanted to save Eregion, save her kin, save Celebrimbor whom she called her friend and whom Adar knew to be her family—but would she go so far as to use the Deceiver’s name to excuse her ends? And yet she had been desperate that he hear her, that he listen to what she was trying to say. He had not. Now he wondered if that was a mistake. After all, why should Sauron, as Halbrand, have arrived at his camp apparently for the express purpose of having him extract the information of Sauron’s whereabouts from him? It was a point that had been niggling at him ever since Galadriel’s impassioned plea. Adar sighed; he would have to talk to the provoking elf again, after all.
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Galadriel was furious, desperate, and scrabbling helplessly at her shackles while being taunted by a set of orcs when suddenly they fell silent. She looked up, and there he was, her captor, the orc commander, the deluded moriandor. “What do you want?”, she all but spit at him. “To talk,” was all he said, gesturing with his chin to the orcs guarding her. They filed out silently, and Adar returned his attention to her.
“You did not listen to me when I tried to talk to you!” Galadriel’s eyes sparked with rage.
He held his hand, palm up, out to her. “I did not,” he admitted, “but I would do so now, if you would let me.”
She eyed him suspiciously, “Why?”
He pondered that, for she had the right to an answer. “You said this is a trap,” he said slowly, “and I can think of no reason why you would lie on this subject. I would hear more of your thoughts.”
Infuriating that he should assume she would tell him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it! She raised her chin, however, and flicked her eyes to her wrists. If he wanted to listen to her as a possible ally he would have to treat her as one. He took the hint and approached, dropping to his knees beside her chair as he worked to unlock the manacles that bound her. She was startled to hear him mutter, “I’m sorry.” In her surprise she turned to him, and found herself transfixed by his eyes, blue and piercing and regretful in their expression—elven eyes still, though set in an orcish face. Her breath caught in her throat.
Adar rose to his feet and stepped back, then eyed her quizzically as she made no move to free herself of her shackles. The colour rose in Galadriel’s cheeks, but she shook off her embarrassment and got straight to the point: “Why would Halbrand come to you and allow you to extract the information on Sauron’s whereabouts from him, if not to ensure that you would come with your army where he was? Why would he want you here, if not for your army? You want to kill him!”
Adar sighed, “And that is precisely what has been troubling me ever since you shouted at me on the cliff.” He paused, “But what would Sauron want with my army? Who has he to fight? The elves of Eregion let him in of their own free will, and he will not allow them to retain their free will if they seem like to put him out again.”
“But there is an elven army marching this way for all that, Uruk.”
“So you believe he wishes for my children to take on your High King’s forces?”
“Ever does Sauron sow discord.”
He gave her an ironic look. “Are you trying to tell me that without the machinations of Sauron, the elves would leave my children alone?” he demanded.
Galadriel drew in a breath to retort—then let it out all at once. He had a point. “Perhaps not, but do not forget, Uruk, that it was Sauron’s Master who first caused this strife amongst us.”
To her surprise, he started laughing, a low, guttural sound. “I do not forget, my lady, I could not”, he told her, amusement shining in his eyes. “My life has been defined by Morgoth more than most elves, after all.” He paused, as she made a strangled noise. “Nevertheless, you must admit that the elves might well be marching on Eregion simply because we are here.”
Galadriel sighed. “The elves are marching on Eregion because you are here, but they need not fight you if you do not fight them.”
“And you will convince the elves to stand down?”
“I will convince them to join you in your stand against Sauron, Uruk.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then we are all lost.”
The orc commander nodded. “Very well, we must do what we can to help you succeed in convincing your kinsmen, Commander. But that still leaves unanswered the question: why does Sauron want my army here?”
“The elves…”
“But you just said the elves are here because we are here. And if you did not know Sauron was inside Eregion when we last spoke, Lady Galadriel, are you sure your High King could know of this?”
He had a point. Galadriel thought about this, why did Sauron want Adar’s army here? Simply to lure the elves? Or something else…something more? She did not know, but the whole situation made her uneasy: after all, the last time Sauron was without an army, she had gifted—nay, almost forced—one on him. And now here was Sauron, ostensibly without an army, but with two great armies simultaneously converging on his location: one of which he had gone out of his way to lure there, the other following in the wake of the first as inevitably as the night followed day. When she glanced at him, Adar looked as troubled as she felt.
“Sauron wants our armies here,” his voice was tired. “Perhaps that means we should remove them.”
“You would leave?”
“I could try. But,” he hesitated, and his voice was soft when he asked, “What of the elves?”
“What of them? Surely you’re not asking again if I could guarantee Gil-galad will not march on Mordor—I told you, I have no way of knowing what he will do, I haven’t spoken to him in weeks and he wasn’t particularly happy with me when I last saw him!”
“No, Lady Galadriel,” Adar sounded exasperated, “I mean what of the elven army that, according to you, currently marches towards Eregion. If Sauron wants armies, there’s no reason to suppose that he only wants one composed of the uruk.”
How like an orc, she thought bitterly. “You would have us abandon our kin!”
“I do not believe your kin remain in a state where they would realise they had been ‘abandoned’, as you put it,” he responded evenly, “and I am not suggesting the elves do something they have not done to their kin in the past when those kin have been deceived, so there’s no need to act so outraged.” Dimly it penetrated the fog of her rage that he was referring to the treatment the moriandor had received—that he had received—after Morgoth’s deception of them, but before she could even begin to parse why he was bringing that up, he continued, “I’m simply asking a practical question that must be asked. If I remove my army, that still leaves the elven army. If it decides to pursue me, I must take steps for our protection, and if it decides to stay and lay siege to Eregion, then is there a point to my lifting my siege? The elves would do better to join us. Unless, like me,”—and improbably, his voice gentled—“you think having any army near Sauron when he apparently seems to want them there is a bad idea.”
Galadriel deflated. He had a point. In fact, he was making the very point she had been trying to make to him. Sauron wanted armies. The armies must not be allowed to fall within his sphere of influence. Oh Celebrimbor! She swallowed past the tears that threatened to clog her throat, and steadied her voice as best she could, “I will ask Elrond, who leads the elven forces, to stand down and move off. He is my friend, I can reason with him. Of course, the High King could still over-rule us,”—she swallowed—“but I can at least buy us some time.”
She heard him sigh. “I will speak to my commanders. It’ll take some time to pack up and move out. For the time I would suggest, if you agree, that you remain here, for if the elves see us they will come to us, which will make it much easier to arrange a parlay for you with their leader than if we have to roam the wilds looking for them.”
“You would not let me ride out to look for them, then?”
“And how will I know you will do as you say, my lady?”
“You have my word!”
He tilted his head at that, “But I know you not, Lady Galadriel. Only your reputation, which speaks of your hatred for my children, and what you’ve told me yourself, which is that you accidentally helped Sauron return to Middle Earth at the head of an army.” Then he suddenly smiled at her, “But we are doomed if we do not place any trust in each other as allies for all that, so if you wish to ride out and look for the elves I will not stop you. In any case when we move out you will have to ride out; I merely suggest that if you do stay here until we are ready to move and the elves do spot us before then—neither of which is a certainty—it might be more practical.”
She sighed, “There is sense in what you say, Uruk.”
He nodded to her, moving towards the entrance. “I will talk to my children about folding up camp and moving on. If you need anything, ask Grishlak to send someone to find me. I would suggest you not leave this tent until I return, Commander Galadriel, for I would prefer not to have you fight any more of my children before I can explain the changed circumstances to them.”
Galadriel inclined her head to him, then wandered over to the table, still piled with food. She picked at a red berry, and then—finally alone—allowed the tears to come. Forgive me, Celebrimbor.