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“Look at his scars, it’s the Moriondor !”
" Shhh ! Yes, it's him. Don't shout, he'll hear us."
"Mom doesn't want us to look at him. Come on, let's go."
"You're always scared. Go away, you coward!"
The little whispered voices of the children reached his ear. He was used to it now and no longer took offense. However, he avoided looking them straight in the eye for fear of scaring them. The adults were something else. Some did not hide their hostility, but he passed by without reacting and without turning around.
He heard the sound of small footsteps running away and continued on his way, a half-smile on his lips. His steps always led him to the forest path. He had to walk for about an hour before reaching the edge, then he would continue, going deeper into the trees.
Those who had passed him had noticed the way he walked. Regular, fast, silent. Centuries spent walking day and night with his children at his side had given him this power, this assurance, and an extraordinary endurance.
He often forced himself to do this training for hours, rarely stopping.
But today he had rested in one of the small clearings. The stump of an old tree, covered in moss, had provided him with a comfortable seat and he had remained there, his eyes half-closed, savoring the rays of the sun on his face, letting his thoughts wander.
Bathed in warmth, lulled by the light sound of the leaves dancing in the trees in a warm breeze, his face had nevertheless gradually darkened. The flood of memories came back to haunt him, even in broad daylight. Because he had forgotten nothing, nothing. The heat that had invaded him when he had put the ring on his finger, the amazement of feeling his whole body transform, the weight that had suddenly lifted from his soul chasing away thousands of years of darkness. And then later the betrayal of his children, the intense pain caused by the blades that pierced him. He saw himself lying down again, the acrid taste of his black blood in his mouth, the faces grimacing above him, still hearing their hating cries. He had thrown his last strength into a gesture of his hand towards those who were abandoning him, his vision had gradually darkened and then… nothing.
***
His eyes had slowly reopened. Everything was blurry, yet with a feeling of bright light. It had taken him several times to keep them wide open but without being able to distinguish anything. The sounds, muffled at first, became clearer. Voices, birdsong. He felt that he was lying down, perhaps in a bed, on something soft. His right hand started to rise but fell back quickly, and tore a groan of pain from him.
A clear voice then spoke to him: “Do not move. Stay lying as you are. You are not yet completely healed.”
He looked for the voice but couldn't turn his head as an another wave of pain hit him. He tried to speak but his sore throat wouldn't let any sound through. Exhausted, he closed his eyes again and let himself fall into a deep sleep.
Two days had passed. The voice had taken the form of a She-Elf that he saw entering the room several times a day to care for his wounds and give him something to drink. Another Elf had come to wash him, taking great care not to hurt him. He had noticed that his usual clothes had been replaced by others, of a fabric so light and soft that he almost did not feel them on his still bruised skin. However, he could not get up, his movements were still painful but his sight had completely returned, and, for the first time, he had been able to speak, a little. He had waited for her to come, early in the morning and had asked in a hoarse and almost inaudible voice: "Where am I? "
Standing next to the bed, the Elf looked at him. “You are clearly not in the Halls of Mandos, if that is what you expected. You are alive, and believe me, that is magic. When they brought you here, no one could believe for a moment that you had survived so many injuries. You were literally torn to pieces and your heart was not beating anymore.”
“Who?” he said again with difficulty.
“Two guards carried you out on a stretcher, followed by the High King, Gil-Galad and Elrond Peredhel . ”
"But how..."
“Enough questions for today,” she interrupted him gently, squeezing his right hand with hers. He obeyed and just stared at her, with his penetrating gaze. “ You have been placed under my care and I will continue to treat you as I have been instructed. You are recovering quickly, anyway. Most of the wounds have already closed.”
She walked away towards the door: "I'll be back soon to bring you some food."
Just before leaving, on the doorstep, she gave him a worried look: "I know who you are. The Moriondor. Adar." Without giving him time to react, she closed the door.
Adar lay motionless for a long time, slowly realizing that he had indeed survived Sauron's massacre. But he had not survived on his own, and that thought alone kept him awake for much of the following night, tossing and turning despite the residual pain, unable to find restful rest or an answer to his question: why was he alive?
The next morning, as dawn was breaking and already bathing the room in a pinkish light, the Elf entered the room. She found Adar sleeping on his stomach across the bed, bare-chested, bathed in sweat amidst the crumpled sheets. Her gaze lingered on his long, disheveled dark brown hair, his back, on the multiple scars and traces of injuries that formed silvery patterns on his slightly gray skin. No place had been spared. She shivered. She knew the history of the Moriondors, of course, but she had never imagined finding herself face to face with one of them, especially Adar, the Father of the Orcs.
She came closer and touched his shoulder lightly. Adar moaned softly. She insisted again, touching him more firmly: "You're going to have to try to get up."
Adar opened his eyes and slowly turned over. She noticed that a few drops of black blood stained the bed. One of the wounds had reopened but nothing serious.
On his back, he stared at her. She noticed once again the pure blue of his eyes that gave him a hypnotizing beauty despite his ravaged face.
"I will help you".
With a hand on his back, she accompanied his movement to sit up while seeing him grim. "Does it hurt?" He turned his head. His face was dark and his gaze hard: "It's nothing. This pain is nothing," he said in a dull and husky voice.
She picked up the garment he had taken off during the night and helped him put it back on before he tried to get up. The extension of his arms drew a small whimper from him but he recovered immediately.
Barefoot on the ground, he slowly stood up, clinging to the Elf's arm, which sagged a little. He was now standing right next to her, a head taller than her, imposing. His right hand still clinging to her arm, he put one foot forward, then the other, hesitantly at first, then his balance became more assured and he was able to take a few steps.
"There you are."
He let go of the Elf's arm and suddenly exclaimed: "My hand !" He looked at his left hand, raised before his eyes and twirled it in front of him, his eyes surprised.
"When they brought you in, you were dressed in your armor, torn, covered in blood, and you wore a spiked gauntlet on your left hand. I was the one who took it off, so we could remove your clothes. Your hand was protected inside and was not harmed."
“But my hand was… like burned, yet, for so long.”
"No, when I took the glove off, your hand looked normal, better than the other one in fact."
“The ring…”
"You say?"
“No matter. I must see King Gil-Galad and Commander Elrond. As soon as possible,” he said, his tone suddenly firmer. “I must know what happened.” He looked at her with a sudden look of concern and asked almost rudely, “What do you know? What happened to Ost-in-Edhil? Sauron?”
The Elf's gaze shifted. In a weak voice, she confessed to him that the battle had been lost, Eregion had fallen, and the surviving Elves had taken refuge in a secret, protected place, a sanctuary. This place where he was here, now, with them.
“Take me to Gil-Galad, right now,” he commanded, but this time in a low and more gentle voice.
“Wait,” she said, taking his arm, “he will come to see you this morning. When I told them you were feeling better, they told me they would come. Stay here, they won’t be long. In the meantime, you can go wash up next door. This time, you can do it alone. I have already left some clothes for you.”
She didn't have to wait long and saw Adar reappear, dressed in a long, watered tunic with deep blue highlights. His presence was striking. Apart from his marked face, everything about him revealed the beautiful Elf he had been once.
“I haven’t worn clothes like this since…” He trailed off. A heartbreaking thought crossed his mind. His children. When he had worn the ring, when he had become an Elf again, he had worriedly wondered how his children would react to his appearance even though he still wore his armor and his sword. Now he had the features of the Uruk but wore Elf clothes and no armor, no sword. And his children had betrayed him, killed him in front of his worst enemy. Or so they thought. How many would survive Sauron’s murderous enterprise? His vision blurred.
“…for a long time,” he finished, in a whisper.
Noises were heard, voices, footsteps approached. The door suddenly opened, opened by a guard armed with a spear that he kept pointed at Adar, and then entered the High King, Elrond and Galadriel who seemed however walking with difficulty.
Adar stood in the middle of the room, facing them, his gaze moving from one to the other, surprised to see Galadriel accompanying them.
Gil-Galad looked at him with a contemptuous air. Elrond, for his part, held his gaze, his chin raised, but his worry was reflected in his entire posture. He still bore the marks of strangulation that Adar had inflicted on him. As for Galadriel, who was leaning on Elrond, Adar noticed, she could not hide her emotions: relief, admiration. Adar kept his eyes on her, overwhelmed by the images that flooded through him: the ring he had returned, the commitments he had made: "No more flames, no more darkness ..." But above all, he kept within him the vision of her, watching from afar his savage murder, without moving.
“Adar…” she said softly.
Adar then turned slowly to Gil-Galad and in a hoarse voice, called out to him: "What have you done?"
The High King took a deep breath, looked at Elrond, then Galadriel, then, turning again to Adar:
"When we saw Galadriel fall from the cliff," at these words Adar gazed at Galadriel with astonishment and intensity, "we rushed and found her badly injured. In the meantime, your "children" (the word was obviously repugnant to him) were setting Eregion on fire and blood. Luckily my power, combined with that of the two rings, mine and Galadriel's worn by Elrond, was able to keep her alive. It was she who told us that your Orcs had rallied to Sauron and that you had been killed. But as soon as we put her ring back on Galadriel's finger, she told us that she felt something unspeakable in her. A spark of life, fragile, very weak, that called to her. It was she who convinced us to find you as soon as possible. When we arrived, the place was deserted and you were no longer showing any signs of life at all, but Galadriel remained convinced that everything was not over and put the ring on your finger. At first, we had the impression that it didn't change anything because it didn't transform you as she had explained to us, but something almost imperceptible happened, a shudder, which pushed us to bring you here as quickly as possible, to Síriel's. The power of Síriel and that of the ring that we left on your finger for a whole day allowed you to come back to life.
"You're saying that even on my finger, the ring didn't transform me?"
Síriel stepped forward: "Death had already almost taken you. The power of death fought against the ring, all of whose energy was then concentrated on maintaining this last little spark in you, until I used my own powers."
"So when you were talking about magic, it was true," Adar whispered softly?
Síriel smiled, “Yes, it is considered magic here.”
Adar then turned to Galadriel. She felt pierced by his blue gaze which had become harder.
“Why?” was his only question, asked in his raspy voice. Galadriel felt herself shudder.
"Why did you let me die after everything I had just told you?" His gaze changed and became filled with infinite sadness.
Galadriel approached him and placed her hand on his arm. Adar did not back down. "Adar, I did not let you die. Believe me, please," she said imploringly. "Neither you nor I had seen how close Sauron had gotten and when I suddenly saw your Uruk stab you, I could not move. I tried with all my strength, I tried to struggle, to scream but I was prevented, as if paralyzed." Galadriel let her tears flow as she remembered the scene a few days earlier. "He forced me to watch everything, until the end, helpless, until the final blow. Then I felt that I could move again and I grabbed my sword to rush towards him as he had just picked up yours. We fought for a long time, you cannot imagine all that he did to defeat me. »
No, Adar didn't know. But he understood now that she hadn't abandoned him, like everyone else did, and felt a weight lift from his chest.
Adar then addressed Gil-Galad: "Now that I am alive and here, what do you intend to do with me? Am I going to be your prisoner forever? I no longer have my children, no one, which must rejoice you, I agree."
Elrond spoke: "During these few days, we’ve been thinking a lot."
Adar retorted, "Surprise me, Commander Elrond, that you have been able to catch your breath and your thoughts since our last meeting."
Gil-Galad cut him off, curtly: "Enough. You are alive because of us and because the fight against Sauron will only end with his death. Galadriel told us everything that happened before your Orcs turned against you."
Adar doesn't react to the spoken word, taking it upon himself.
"Certainly the situation has changed since your army is now that of Sauron but your presence can be an asset to us if your desire to see Sauron defeated remains, which I do not doubt."
Adar replied: “What do you expect from me?”
"That you help us. We will need to gather all our strength to continue this fight. Many of our most seasoned warriors fell during the battle of Eregion and we will need to train our young ones to fight better. For thousands of years, you have led your army in the worst battles. Your experience is unique, combat experience and knowledge of the Orcs, of course."
Adar reacted immediately: "Uruk!" he growled. "And you will never make me kill my children!" It was a heart-rending cry.
“Your children, as you say, killed you!” Gil-Galad exclaimed.
"My children have been fooled, as have many others, as have some of you!" Adar snapped back, glaring at Galadriel, who looked down and remained silent. "But you are right, perhaps I can help you, and perhaps I can bring my children back, for after all, they believe me dead. What will happen when they learn that I am alive?"
"Sauron has them, they will never return to you," Elrond replied.
Adar waved the argument away. “Sauron holds them as slaves. But my children are not soulless, conscienceless beasts. Many of them were surely killed in the battle, far too many, and Sauron will spare the others nothing. Perhaps a few resisting would be enough to start. Seeing me alive, seeing that I still care for them, might spark something. Perhaps your ring could help us.”
Gil-Galad reacted to his words: "We will see about that later. Do you agree to help us as I asked you?"
Motionless, Adar sighed: “Otherwise?”
"Otherwise, you will effectively be held prisoner and in solitary confinement. We have little choice."
"What guarantee do you have that I won't turn against you if I help you?"
"What Galadriel told us about you. Did you lie to her?", Gil-Galad asked then eyed him quizzically.
Adar stood still for a few moments and then turned to her and slowly moved forward, until she could feel his breath on her. Holding her in his blue gaze, his raspy voice turned to a whisper: "When I gave you back this ring, heruni Altáriel, I meant every word I said to you." Galadriel felt her heart beat faster when he said her name. He looked at her as he had looked at her that day, in the forest, just before everything turned into a nightmare. "Today again, I swear to you that I will help you defeat Sauron."
"Thank you, Adar" she replied gently.
“Can you give me my armor back and a sword, High King,” Adar asked, his gaze still fixed on Galadriel, “mine is in Sauron’s hands now.”
Gil-Galad looked at Elrond then Galadriel and nodded.
***
Weeks had passed.
In the clearing, Adar was beginning to find a calmer breathing. The dark thoughts that had invaded him were slowly fading away. He stood up and resumed his walk back to the sanctuary.
Despite the High King's proclamations, the Elves' view of him had not really changed. He was the Moriondor, the Father of the Orcs who had taken so many lives. In fact, he often remained alone, which suited him. Respecting the commitment made to the High King, he trained a whole troop of Elves every day, to whom he taught all the variants of combat, the handling of many weapons, the hard way, how to eat all sorts of improbable things that would allow them to survive. He knew that time was running out and that the long-awaited confrontation would come soon. Many had protested, saying that their young could not be trained like Orcs. But that was without counting on the patience with which Adar gradually gained the trust and respect of the young warriors.
Adar entered through the wooden door that had been left open. He got rid of his sword, took off his breastplate, the one that had been returned to him, which made him recognizable among all and provoked the secret admiration of the young Elves, and headed towards the garden where he heard a song rising.
He approached silently so as not to be noticed. The one who was singing had her back to him and did not hear him arrive. He then gently closed his arms around her, pulling her against his chest and in a hoarse voice, whispered in her ear: " Elen sila lúmmen' omentielvo, Síriel '.
She turned around, her face flushed. She gently placed her hand on his scarred cheek and looked at him tenderly. " Elen sila lúmmen' omentielvo, Adar." A long kiss sealed this reunion.
"Your children came to see if you were here" she whispered to him mischievously.
“My children?” he said in a surprised voice, stepping back to look at her.
“Yes, that’s how they introduced themselves to me! We are the children of Adar,” they told me. “What do you think about this? They looked so proud of it! They came to see if you had time for some archery training.”
Adar, his throat tight, did not answer and moved a few steps away. Síriel saw him looking into the distance, his eyes shining. In the fading daylight, his beauty was striking.
One day, he promised himself as a tear made slowly his way on his marred cheek, he would find his children again, his first children. He had already forgiven them because forgiveness is not deserved, only given, and he would bring them back, give them the home and the peace he had promised them for so long. But today, he was proud of his new children and he swore to himself that he would do everything he could to protect them as well.
He turned to her and asked: “Do you always have the seeds?”
Siriel saw the trace left by the tears and her heart tightened. But then she smiled and her hand reached into one of her pockets, from which she pulled out a small black cloth containing the alfirin seeds. The very seeds that had fallen from Adar's bloody clothes the day she had taken them off him. She had carefully preserved them for him.
Adar bent down and dug into the soft soil with his bare hands. Then taking a few seeds from Siriel's outstretched hand, he kneeled and gently placed them in the hole before bringing the earth back over them to bury them. “Sinya cuivë anatfírië. New life, in defiance of death”, he said softly, “Never will these words have been so true.”
When he rose to his feet, Síriel felt her heart stop. For the first time, Adar was smiling.