Work Text:
Galadriel stared at her reflection. She ought to know her own face after thousands of years, she knew, but there was little she recognized of the woman before her; the heavy swell of her belly now too large for a gown to conceal, her face rounder than she had ever seen it, and softness that was wholly unfamiliar. How could this be her? Where was the commander of armies, the slayer of monsters, the vengeful hunter who had pursued Sauron to the ends of the horizon?
No matter how long she stared, Galadriel could not find her.
“My lady?” Her maid called her attention, hesitating by the door. “My lord Elrond is here and has requested to speak with you.”
Galadriel closed her eyes. Elrond. They had not spoken in months, not since the truth of her pregnancy had come to light. And the identity of her child’s father. She had never seen him so angry, so disappointed. And the disappointment had been the worst of it all.
“Not tonight,” she said, refusing his request, and rubbed the swell of her belly as she felt her child stir restlessly beneath her palm.
She was angry too.
He was her greatest friend and in her hour of need he had abandoned her. They all, more or less, abandoned her. It was only by Gil-galad’s charity that she had been permitted to stay in Lindon, though as time wore on she saw the gesture for what it was. Glorified imprisonment within a gilded cage. It was better to keep her safely tucked away where she could cause no further harm, to herself or Arda. Or fall further from grace, though she did not think that could be possible.
“I’m sorry my lady,” her maid said again, half-stuttering her apology. “He is… rather insistent.”
Galadriel turned to face her then, ire battling with her weariness. She was close to her time now, and each dawn left her more tired than the day before. The babe was strong. From the first moment of her quickening, her fëa grew steadily in strength and the light of the One. Galadriel had little room to expend her energy on much of anything but focusing on her own peace and keeping her heart hopeful for the health of the babe.
Ultimately, weariness won over her ire.
“Very well,” Galadriel nodded. “Let him in. And please send for some light refreshments.”
“Yes, my lady,” her maid curtsied and returned to the door to open it wide.
Elrond, like herself, had changed near beyond recognition. Gone were his boyish smiles and soft robes, the sweet humor in his eyes. A warrior stood before her now, his helm tucked under his arm, dressed in full plate and with mud still drying on his cloak.
One that had seen battle and lost it, if she had to guess.
She had never wished this for him.
He bowed, his eyes cast to the ground. “My lady.”
“Elrond,” she greeted him, forgoing formality. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? It must be something… dire.”
“Indeed, my lady, the situation is… very grave,” Elrond said, raising his head. His gaze fell to her belly and a shadow crossed his face, his lips pressing into a thin line as his jaw clenched. He sighed, the expression fading into true weariness. “May we sit?”
Galadriel nodded and gestured for him to sit on the small sofa in front of the hearth, and took her seat opposite in the overstuffed armchair where she occupied most of her day. “I expect Nevenna to return with tea soon, if you’d rather wait to ensure we won’t be interrupted.”
Elrond shook his head. “My reason for coming is dire but not a secret. Are you… informed as to the state of the realm?”
“I am not,” Galadriel said, bitterness bleeding into her voice. “When the High King relieved me of my command and gave it to you, I became a private citizen once more. He determined it to be… unnecessary to keep me apprised as to the larger state of the realm, and ordered me to focus on rest. I am surprised he let you visit me.”
An uncomfortable, guilty expression crossed his face.
“Unless… he does not know you’ve come to see me?” Galadriel asked, raising a brow.
“He does not,” Elrond admitted, shifting in his seat. “Nor would he condone…” he trailed off, hesitating to continue.
“The High King is wise,” Galadriel said after a moment, offering him an encouraging smile, “but he, like many great kings, is not always inclined to take leaps of faith when they are not guaranteed a landing. Speak, Elrond. I will listen.” Which is more than he had done for her, though she left it unsaid.
Impending motherhood had made her soft, it seemed, and more forgiving.
“Adar and his orcs laid siege to Eregion, to Ost-in-Edhil itself. They were able to repel them but only just. We faced Adar and his horde directly on the battlefield and won by a slim margin; the Uruk is dead and is legion is scattered, leaderless. They are fleeing back to the Southlands and the safety of the smog in droves. But… the victory came at a grave cost. There is a new lord of Eregion.”
“New lord?” Galadriel asked, alarmed, as her pulse quickened. “Where is Lord Celebrimbor?” He courted her once but reminded her far too much of her uncle to consider him properly, though he had undoubtedly inherited the best his line had to offer. A fast friendship, built on a foundation of respect and keen understanding, was formed instead. Her heart might break if he perished at the hands of Adar, who she might’ve killed sooner and prevented all of this.
Elrond’s frown, already pronounced, deepened. “He has been… removed as Lord. The gwaith-i-mírdain, the only one we’ve spoken with, cited erratic, obsessive behavior. He has been consumed by his craft and even when the drums of the Uruk and their horns were blaring at his gates could not bring himself to to address it. A different Lord took command and saw them to victory, and it is to him that they have pledged their allegiance and declared as rightful ruler of their realm.”
“Who?” Galadriel asked, the relief she felt at learning of his survival giving way to quickly rising rage. How dare they turn their backs on their liege lord!
“He calls himself… Annatar.”
Galadriel snorted. A pretentious, presumptuous name. “The Lord of Gifts? And what gift did he bring to Ost-in-Edhil but treachery?”
Elrond shifted in his seat once more, inclining his head. “I believe… he has other names,” he said, his eyes flicking to her belly.
Galadriel stilled, her breath caught in her throat. “Oh. Are you… certain?”
“No,” Elrond admitted, rubbing a palm across his face. “But when I spoke with Mirdania — the smith who came to speak with me and inform me of the situation — she told me that this Annatar was an emissary of the Valar, a maia. That he should come in their greatest hour of need when the Valar have not seen fit to interfere in many years, and then take control of the realm…”
“It is suspicious but—”
“And,” Elrond continued, interrupting her with a pointed, worried look. “He requested to speak with you, specifically. Will speak with… no other, in fact.”
It was not proof, exactly, but Galadriel had a feeling in her gut that Elrond was right. There were too many coincidences for it to be any other but Sauron himself. No Maia had been seen in Arda in many years, and it was truly unlikely the Valar would send one now. If the smith confirmed him as such, she must’ve born witness to some of his power or she would not have believed it. None of them would have. It could be no one else.
Galadriel lay a hand on her belly, as much an unconscious motion to protect the precious treasure within and to find comfort in the steady thrum of life she could feel beneath it.
“The High King would deny him. He believes we can force him out of Ost-in-Edhil, since they have undergone a siege and have not had time to recover. He… does not want you involved, particularly in your condition.”
It was a sound plan, and Gil-galad was likely correct in his assessment. “You disagree?” she asks, knowing that Elrond must or he would not be here.
“No, I am certain that it would be incredibly successful, in fact. But the cost of doing that — of waging war on our own people when it might be avoided… I believe it is an avenue worth exploring.”
“And by that you mean, you would offer me up instead?” she asked, smiling bitterly. She could not blame him. It was, to a point, a game of numbers. And the last thing their people needed was to be fighting amongst themselves.
Elrond squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders drooping, threating to collapse beneath the burden. “I would never force you, Galadriel. And the High King would not approve it. But I would ask you to consider it nonetheless.”
“And what do you think a conversation between us will achieve? Our last conversation did not go well, if you recall.” He had left her to drown in the Glanduin, in fact. After she tried to kill him.
“I think the situation is quite different now,” Elrond said, voice hardly above a whisper, as his wary gaze once more fell to her belly. “How are you… feeling?”
“Pregnant,” Galadriel replied, tone flat, and settled back into her seat the door handle rattled and her maid entered with a tray of tea and orange-honey biscuits. They were an indulgent treat but one of the few things her child would permit her to eat consistently.
“Thank you, Nevenna. You may retire for the evening,” Galadriel said, dismissing her with a smile.
Her maid curtsied and left the room, leaving them alone once more. Galadriel poured them both tea and set a biscuit on his plate before maneuvering the rest onto her own.
“So, you think Sauron will be so moved to see me, and his child, that he will… what, surrender immediately?” She doubted he would surrender his seat so readily now that he had it.
“You tell me,” Elrond said, raising a brow, taking a grateful sip of his tea. “You seemed to think he was not insincere when—”
“Oh, now you want to listen?” Galadriel spat, unable to stop the fury rising. “You didn’t seem to be quite so willing before when the High King stripped me of my rank and all but imprisoned me here!” She choked back the swell of bitter emotion that threatened to send her into hysterics.
Guilt flickered across his face before his expression hardened. “You made a grave error in judgment, Galadriel. Do you think you should have kept your rank?”
“No,” she hissed, lip curling in a sneer. “No, but I expected some compassion from my oldest and dearest friend — from one who swore never to doubt me again. I was deceived, Elrond. And as a result my heart has broken twice over. And I have borne it alone, in this gilded cage.”
“You were deceived to his identity — but you still believe that he cared for you, truly cared?” Elrond pressed.
She could only bitterly admire his resolve.
Galadriel rose to her feet and moved to stand in front of him. “Give me your hand,” she ordered, holding her own out.
Elrond frowned but obeyed, and when his hand was secure she pressed it to her belly where she could feel her child’s eager kicks. He flinched, for a moment, before softening, the weight of his hand falling more naturally on the swell of her belly.
“We cannot conceive without love, Elrond,” she murmured softly, reminding him as she had reminded countless others. “This child could not exist if his feelings were not genuine. More, in doing so, he has bound himself to Arda in a permanent way, for her conception has cost him some of himself as it did Melian. I do not think he would have risked that if his feelings were but a façade alone.”
Elrond hummed, contemplative, before the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile. “It’s strong. Like her mother.”
“She is,” Galadriel agreed, returning his smile, and returned to her seat.
“She?” Elrond raised a brow. “How do you—”
“I simply do,” Galadriel said, shrugging, and reached for a biscuit. “I can feel her fëa nestled against mine, and I just… know. ”
“Do you know when she is meant to arrive?” he asks, taking another sip of his tea.
Galadriel shook her head. “Not entirely. The artificers expect I am close but… as there as only been one other birth of this nature in our recorded history, and much of that was lost when Beleriand fell, they can only guess.”
He looked down at his cup, his smile fading into a grimace. “I would not put you in danger Galadriel, or your daughter. I am ashamed to have even asked now.”
“No, mellon. Do not be ashamed. You are a Commander now, and it is your duty to consider all possibilities. Your plan is… not without merit.”
“Bargaining with Sauron has not gone well, by and large, in the past,” Elrond argued. “Are you not… angry with him still?”
She was. She was furious, in fact. At him, at herself, at everyone. But all evidence to the contrary she was not a creature born of anger, and beneath the fury there was heartache. He was responsible for so much suffering. Her daughter kicked a little harder against Galadriel’s palm. And so much joy.
“I am, but it is not so great as it once was,” she admitted, feeling her stomach flip with the treacherous, painful admission. “My love for my daughter, for this babe that has not even taken her first breath, is greater than my hatred has ever been. I have given it much thought, as I have had time to do little else these past months, and… I decided to let it go.”
“Let it go?” Elrond asked, raising a brow.
“I do not forgive him, for his deception or the suffering he has caused — is causing. But I dare not keep that hatred warm and alive in my heart and risk it poisoning my daughter. Letting go… is not something I could have ever done for myself alone. Without her, I would have hunted him to the ends of Arda, into the Void itself.”
“What’s left, then, if not anger?”
“Pity,” Galadriel said, taking a deep breath. “And love. For I have seen and known parts of him that no other have. Glimmers of who he might’ve become without Morgoths influence.”
Elrond considered this, silent for a long while, before asking: “And do you think it will be enough to… stay his hand? To convince him to leave Eregion?”
Galadriel settled back in her chair, shoulders lifting as she straightened and a more familiar steel returned to her eyes. It was too late to save her brother. She could not save her husband. But there were Elves within Ost-in-Edhil who she might yet save.
“We shall see.”
It was well that Gil-galad was tired of her presence. He did not question her when she informed him of her intent to spend the rest of her confinement in Lórien. Elrond wished to accompany her but leaving together would have made their intent far too transparent. So, she left with only a small company of hand-picked, loyal guards, in the early morning. Though the circumstances were less than desirable, she was grateful to be gone from Lindon. She had greatly missed the freedom of riding.
Their travel took longer than she liked but there was little to be done for it; pregnant as she was, frequent stops were an unfortunate requirement. Her guard would have preferred her to travel in a carriage but that would have slowed them even further and Galadriel was unwilling to cause further delays.
Not when Ost-in-Edhil remained in near-ruin, and Celebrimbor’s life very likely hung in the balance. She had been conflicted on whether to bring Nenya and had ultimately elected to leave it with Elrond, though he still refused to wear it. While she would have been grateful for it’s protection, the risk of it falling into Sauron’s hands was too great, nor was it one she was willing to take. She knew he would not harm her if she did not initiate battle first, or if she had nothing he wanted.
“My lady,” one of her guards guided his mare to trot alongside her. “We are nearing the city gates. How do you want to proceed?”
“Go to Elrond’s lieutenant first,” she commanded. “Give him the orders that Elrond has written for us. Then, go to the gate and announce me. I will follow.”
He nodded and maneuvered his mare to gallop ahead and heed her command. She pulled on the reins of her own horse to bring it to a halt, and unclipped her cloak from her shoulders. “Help me,” she bid her nearest guard, who helped her dismount.
While she could no longer fit her plate, it would have been unwise to travel without some manner of armor. A gambeson a size too large to accommodate her belly had been pilfered the evening before they left, and while it had been serviceable enough on the road it would send the wrong message if she were to arrive at their gates wearing it. Finding some measure of privacy amongst the trees, she gratefully changed into one of her finer gowns, eager to be free of the constraints across her belly or the ill-fitting pants she wore beneath it, and donned her heavy cloak once more.
Arriving at the gates wearing a gown instead of armor, bearing supplies instead of weapons, would surely gain her admittance.
She returned to her guards and accepted their aid in returning her to her saddle, and resumed their approach. Her heart twisted as they broke through the treeline and took in the destruction outside the city walls. Blood still stained the earth, and the grass remained ruined where bodies had lain. The Elves had collected most of their dead already and were laying them to rest, but in the shadows and remains of the battle Galadriel could see the story unfold. Her lips pressed into a thin line. This, on it’s face, had not entirely been Sauron’s fault.
Adar and his Orcs were the ones that had attacked the city. As they surely would have done eventually anyway.
But they had attacked now because he was here. Because he hid behind Ost-in-Edhil’s walls. He was, as so often in history, not directly responsible for the destruction here but a whispered voice from the shadows encouraging it. To what end, she could not fathom. But she would find out.
Head held high, she guided her horse through the line of soldiers and rode to the gates where her guard waited, holding her banner high.
The gates opened as she approached, groaning beneath the crank, and revealed a small party waiting to greet her.
A blonde woman stepped forward and bowed, the hem of her emerald gown trailing in the mud. “My lady Galadriel, this is a welcome surprise. I am Mirdania, head of the jewel smiths and herald of the Lord of Eregion.”
“Is it?” Galadriel asked, dismounting her horse with the help of her guard, and turned to face her.
“Commander Elrond told us he was going to consult with the High King and return; we had no idea you would be coming instead!”
“Not instead,” Galadriel corrected. “Ahead of. Elrond seemed to think my presence might be… beneficial.”
“The Lord of Eregion agrees,” Mirdania said, beaming. “He was… ecstatic to hear the announcement of your name.”
“Where is Celebrimbor?” Galadriel managed to keep her tone neutral, despite the bubbling anger threatening to boil over. It was a grave insult for this girl to title herself in such a manner when her lord — her real lord — was in jeopardy.
Of course, there was an equal possibility that she had been taken in as Galadriel had. Deceived. Seduced, even.
The similarity between them did not escape her notice.
Mirdania’s pleasant expression faltered. “My lord Celebrimbor fell ill before the siege. His mind is… gone. We do not fully understand why but can only assume it was due to the obsession with his craft. But I think my lord could offer a better explanation, if you’re ready to see him? Or would you rather refreshen yourself first? We’re having rooms prepared for you.”
Galadriel weighed the risks. If they gave her time to refreshen herself, she might have time to sneak away and find Celebrimbor and get to the bottom of the situation. Of course, they likely would not leave her alone, and she wasn’t eager to find herself in another gilded cage.
“I will meet with Lord Annatar,” she decided, hoping it was the right choice. “Though I confess I am weary from my journey, I believe the situation too precarious to leave idle for a moment longer than necessary.”
Mirdania grinned at her, girlish wonder in her eyes. “He said you’d say that. Come, my lady. He’s in the meeting hall.”
Galadriel nodded and moved to follow, her guards a step behind her, when Ost-in-Edhil’s soldiers formed rank before them.
“Oh, I do apologize, my lady. Your guard are not permitted entry,” Mirdania said, smiling uncertainly.
“My lady,” the guard holding her elbow shook his head. “I do not like this. Please, return with us to camp.”
She wished she could. But it would achieve nothing to turn and run now. “I cannot. Thank you for your escort, all of you. I will return to you at camp after I have spoken with Lord Annatar.” If she could not keep her guard with her, then she was certainly disinclined to stay as his guest.
“As you say, my lady,” her guard replied, casting her one more uncertain look before bowing and retreating through the gates with the rest.
“This way,” Mirdania said, gesturing for her to follow, and began their walk at a steady pace.
Galadriel walked sedately behind, forcing the girl to slow, and took a careful appraisal of the city. The walls had certainly taken a beating, as had some of the buildings behind them, but the city looked largely unchanged. Quieter, perhaps. The air was ripe with tension. The inhabitants of the city now bore glassy eyes and gaunt faces, the horror of war lingering on them. It would never truly go away. Come what may of the city, of the war. Whoever survived would be indelibly marked by it. The joy and peace these people — many who were too young to remember the war of Beleriand or the first war with Morgoth — had known, or would ever know, would forever be cast in shadow.
If Mirdania was irritated or confused by their slow march, she did not show it. Instead, she chattered endlessly about the trade bargains they had made with the dwarves, and how their plans for rebuilding were well under way. Of her new lord, she could only manage to extoll his many virtues: his kindness, his cleverness, his dedication to Eregion.
Galadriel was only half-listening, focusing more on keeping her gait even to prevent an unseemly waddle than taking in their plans for reconstruction or the starry-eyed compliments for one undeserving of them.
“Do you know the Lord Annatar, lady Galadriel?” Mirdania asked, a careful curiosity in her voice. “He was unknown to us before he arrived but the joy he expressed on hearing your announcement…”
It was all but a confirmation, in Galadriel’s mind. “I expect he has gone by many names, Mirdania. And while Annatar is new to me, I expect the same man wears it as he as worn the others.”
The girl breathed a sigh of relief. “It is well that you are here, my lady. I fear that the circumstances being what they are…. well, Commander Elrond did not understand and I fear the High King will not either. It is good for my lord to have a friend on his side.”
That was quite a presumption but Galadriel didn’t correct her and resisted the urge to lay a hand on her belly. They had been a little more than friends, she would argue. But her cloak did a satisfactory job of concealing her figure and the timing of that particular reveal was important.
“I am hopeful we may come to an agreement that is best for everyone involved,” Galadriel said instead, and offered her a gentle smile. It was the truth, even if she wasn’t certain it would be possible.
Mirdania jogged ahead as they approached the meeting hall and whispered to the guards at the door, who cast their surprised gaze on Galadriel before preparing to open the door.
“This is where I leave you,” Mirdania said, bowing her head. “I have other work to attend to before the moon rises. My lord is expecting you. I hope I will see you again before you depart.”
“Thank you, Mirdania,” Galadriel said, giving her a genteel nod, and steeled herself.
The guards opened the doors for her as she approached, and closed behind her just as quickly once she stepped inside. The hall itself was, like everything in Ost-in-Edhil, a feat of beautiful architecture with grand carved pillars and exquisite mosaics along the ceiling. It was dimly lit, with only half the candelabras and braziers alight, but it offered a warm, comfortable glow to the room.
At the end of the hall, where she knew a podium had once stood — Celebrimbor preferred to stand when addressing his people — was a lavish chair. It was not quite a throne, not permanent or ostentatious enough, but it’s purpose was apparent.
And sitting in it was a strange and yet familiar figure.
Blonde hair, crowned by golden laurel, was pulled away from his face — a face she knew all too well — to reveal pointed ears not dissimilar from her own. He had traded his simple tunic for black velvet instead, and chest plate adorned with an ouroboros not unlike the sigil for her house.
“Hello, Galadriel,” he greeted her, his voice the same tenor but his accent changed.
“It’s Annatar now, is it?” she asked, raising a brow as she walked closer. “Or, shall I call you something else?”
A smirk stole across his mouth, mischief in his eyes, as he seemed to swallow his first response before speaking the second: “Annatar is fine. Welcome to my city.”
“You mean Celebrimbor’s city,” she corrected, giving him a tired look. “Though from what I understand he is no longer considered the Lord of Eregion. How did that happen, I wonder?”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I thought you were here to negotiate.”
“I have many purposes to coming,” Galadriel replied and halted as she approached the dais. “Negotiating is one of them. Discovering the truth of what has befallen Celebrimbor is another. And there are other reasons, too.”
“They must be truly concerned to send you,” he said, his smile taking a cruel turn. “They locked you up, I heard. When they found out. I did warn you, did I not?”
Galadriel kept her expression neutral. It did not bode well that he had spies within Lindon, within Gil-galad’s court, to be reporting such a thing. Though, he could not know all. He would surely have come for her if he did.
“Are you my sacrifice, Galadriel?” he continued, a low chuckle following, his eyes growing dark.
“What has happened to Celebrimbor?” she asked, ignoring his jabs, and folded her hands in front of her.
He hummed, his head cocking to the side. “Has your time in imprisonment changed you so much? Time was, you would have tried to strike me for a remark like that.”
Motherhood did that to a person. As did suffering a deep betrayal and the consequential shunning from her own people. “Striking you serves no purpose. And we have both changed, I think,” she replied.
“But not entirely,” he countered, his own expression softening, “I suspect.”
“No,” she admitted, lips pressed into a thin line.
Despite her best efforts.
“Celebrimbor?” she asked again, raising a brow.
“It’s rather rude, Galadriel, to inquire so persistently about another man when you are reuniting with your lover. Are you trying to inspire jealousy?”
“Former lover,” she corrected him, her cheek twitching. “And it is my understanding that he is unwell — so unwell, he is unfit to rule, apparently. He was a friend to me far longer than you and I shared a bed.”
His smile faltered, a darkness in his eyes; a jealousy she had seen only a glimmer of, in the aftermath of his petty brawl, in a Númenórean cell. “He is consumed with his work. As Fëanor was when he crafted the Silmarils, so now is Celebrimbor.”
“Crafting what?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
Celebrimbor had crafted the Three for Elves, and having even briefly tasted their power Galadriel knew he would be tempted to make more. Especially if given the right kind of encouragement.
“Rings, of course,” he said, confirming her fears. “It’s very selfish of the Elves to keep the three he made — the three I helped design — all to yourselves. In his wisdom and in a feat of incredible diplomacy, Lord Celebrimbor has decided to share his gifts and make rings for others, too. Dwarves, and worthy Men.”
Galadriel felt her stomach twist at the thought, bile rising in her throat, and her daughter begin to kick, sensing her mother’s distress, and from thoughtless habit she lay a hand on her belly to soothe her. Realization came too late as she saw his eyes track the movement and still, lingering there, and the room fell starkly quiet.
He stood and moved towards her with measured steps, his eyes affixed to her stomach before rising to meet her gaze.
Sighing, Galadriel removed the pin from her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. “And now you see my other reason for coming.”
Petty as it was to admit, she could not help but enjoy the genuine surprise on his face, and the shocked silence that followed.
“This war cannot continue,” she said firmly, holding his gaze, and took advantage of his silence. “It must not. The people of Eregion are suffering. Adar’s forces have laid waste to much of the farmland, and left a river of blood in their wake. This city is a shell of it’s former self and though you may rebuild it, it will never be the same. More, these are Elven lands. You cannot keep it.”
“May I?” he asked, ignoring her overture for peace, and stepped closer with his hands outstretched.
“Do you think you deserve to?” she returned, raising a brow.
He flinched as if he’d been struck, recoiling from her for a moment before the shock faded entirely and a more familiar, calculating expression returned. “Is this to be part of the negotiation? I didn’t think your honorable High King had it in him. Using you, our child, as a sacrificial lamb seems… uncharacteristic. But perhaps it wasn’t him. Perhaps it was the boy. The Herald made Commander, who now bears your title. You were great friends too, if I recall, but he has sent you to me nonetheless. How angry was he to learn who you invited to your bed?”
“I came of my own accord,” Galadriel snapped, unable to entirely calm her rising temper. Elrond’s betrayal had hurt the most out of all of them. “Our people cannot suffer a war amongst ourselves. Not again.”
“So you would sacrifice yourself, then? Sell yourself to me in exchange for…?” A small, sinister smile broke across his face.
Galadriel glared at him. “I cannot be bought, Sauron. And that is not why I came.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked, raising a brow. “And if I said I wished to lay my hand on your belly — to feel our child stir beneath my palm — you would not put a price on that?”
Her teeth clacked together as her jaw snapped shut, narrowly preventing a vile curse being lobbed between them. “That was not my intent.”
He stepped closer, towering over her, with a soft smile on his face. “Wasn’t it, though? For what purpose could you have to reveal this to me now and yet deny me? Come now, Galadriel. Do not lie to me, or to yourself.”
He was right, of course. She had avoided thinking about it in such a manner but he was, crudely, correct. There had been no hope of him seeing her belly and immediately surrendering, but she had hoped to use it as an incentive for him to take care of things quickly.
An incentive, not a bargaining chip.
They were not the same.
“I wanted to deal with business first. Celebrimbor. The state of the realm. I had no intention of using our daughter as a—”
“Daughter? It’s a girl?” he breathed, excitement smothering the darkness in his eyes, the madness receding. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she answered testily, tired of being asked. She would not have said so if she was uncertain.
“We can go see to Celebrimbor now,” he offered, licking his lips. “But first I would…” he gestured once more to her belly, hands lingering in the air in front of her.
It was to his credit that he did not reach for her regardless of their discussion. But he had ever been mindful of her autonomy. It was an unspoken agreement between them, that permission be granted before touch. As Halbrand, she had noticed that he seemed to be somewhat touch averse. With few exceptions, she had made a point to offer touch rather than demand it — whether it be taking his arm, or pulling him for an embrace.
“Very well,” she agreed, hesitating only for a moment before guiding his hand to the swell of her belly, just on the right side where she could feel their daughter kicking in earnest.
“I can feel her,” he murmured, raw emotion cracking the facade he bore as tears welled in his eyes. “Not just her feet but her fëa. My little fire-heart.”
“A child that will be born in the middle of a war if we cannot come to an agreement,” she reminded him, struggling to keep her own emotions separate and not be swept into his. “Is that what you want?”
“I could protect her,” he argued, and lowered himself to his knees before her to press his forehead to her belly. “I could protect you both, if you would let me.”
“You would protect us but not put an end to the circumstance from which we would need protecting?” Galadriel scoffed and shook her head.
“I am trying to make this world better, Galadriel,” he argued, rubbing soothing circles on her belly. “A world without war at all. Sacrifices must be made.”
“You cannot prevent war by starting it,” she growled, stepping away from him. He was too close, his hands too familiar.
He remained kneeling for a long moment before rising. “You could have prevented this,” he accused, stalking closer to her. “If you had accepted my offer—”
“And now you blame me?” Galadriel rasped, anger on the verge of choking her.
“If you had accepted my offer,” he continued, the words hissed between clenched teeth, “you could have commanded me to do your will — whatever that will might have been. I would have made you a queen, for all of Arda to worship and obey. Myself included. By your refusal, you have forfeited your right to command me to do anything.”
“Are you so mindless that you need to be commanded to avoid destruction?” she snarled, refusing to be cowed even as he glared down at her.
“I am a creature of boundless vision and ambition, and it has ever been my goal to see this world restored to the peace it only knew in the dawn of creation when it was sung into being. If you don’t like my methods, then you should have been here to pull me back,” he whispered, his voice growing soft as he raised his fingers to brush against her lips.
“You told me, when Morgoth was defeated that it was as if a great, clenched fist had released its grasp from your neck. You have your freedom to make your own choices, and I will not be your scapegoat for them. Do not lie to me, or to yourself. If you wanted peace, there would be peace.” Galadriel said, refusing to be baited or blamed. She had wondered, as many had, where Sauron disappeared to during the war with Morgoth. For all that he was considered to be among his most trusted servants, he was largely absent from most battles, and in the aftermath had disappeared entirely. Now, she was beginning to understand.
He considered her for a long moment, his expression flickering between bitterness and anger. “What do you want, Galadriel?”
“I told you—”
“No, Galadriel,” he interrupted her, shaking his head. “I know what you wish for your people. What do you truly desire?”
Galadriel raised a brow. “Does it matter?” What she wished she could not speak aloud, dared not hope for.
“It might,” he said, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in his voice.
“I desire for impossible things,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other, and offered him a weak smile.
She wished for the man she had grown to love to not be her most hated enemy.
She wished that he was not the father of her child.
She wished that a part of her heart did not still ache for him even knowing the bitter truth.
“What is it you wish for?” she asked, wondering if he had ever even truly given it thought. “You say that you have always wished for peace, for the world to return to as it was when it was first formed, but we both know that is impossible. Morgoth ensured that. Is this… mission of yours truly what you desire, or do you cling to it from habit?”
He froze, his hand resting on her belly. “I helped create this world. I was there, helping the Valar in their craft, forming the very crust of the world. It has always been my purpose to heal it.”
“Purpose is not… static. It can change, become corrupted. For a time, I found purpose in seeking retribution, and over time it turned to a quest for revenge. I… hurt many people, most of all myself, in allowing my purpose to become corrupted.”
“You are not seeking revenge any longer, then?” he asked dryly, giving her a knowing look.
“I have a new purpose,” she said, covering the hand he lay on her belly with her own. “And while I cannot deny that I am still angry — I am — I am making a conscious choice to choose a new purpose. A greater, more important one. And you can, too.”
“You would have me give it all up now when I am victorious?”
“It will be short lived,” she warned him, shaking her head. “Gil-galad will not let you keep this city, particularly once he hears more rings of power have been forged. The elves you have enchanted within Ost-in-Edhil will not be able to stand up to the armies of the High King when they come calling.”
“Perhaps I will take my rings and return to Mordor then,” he countered. “Adar, the traitor who tried to murder me and stole my army as I was about to ascend to Morgoth’s crown, is dead. The Orcs are leaderless and will welcome my return.”
Well, that certainly explained his animosity toward the Moriondor. Galadriel felt her heart skip a beat. A bleak future awaited them all if that were to happen. “You could,” she conceded, keeping her tone mild. “And bring more war and death and chaos to this world. Or, you could find a new purpose. The greatest this world has to offer. One forbidden even to the Valar.” It was a gamble, to dangle such a temptation in front of his face. But it was a true one. The Valar, with the exception of Aulë, whose fate had hung in the balance for his disobedience, were only caretakers of the eternal flame. They were not permitted to create life. Even the dwarves had not truly been gifted with life until Eru permitted it. And Morgoth, for all his own efforts, had only ever succeeded in twisting life as it already existed.
In this endeavor, Sauron would surpass even the Valar.
His eyes flickered to her stomach, his gaze softening. “And you think me capable of such purpose? You would… allow me, such purpose?”
Galadriel considered it. Her own feelings were conflicted on the matter. She had seen the good in him — the best of of him. And she was tired of hating, of anger. She’d seen enough for a lifetime. Forgiveness would take an age, or longer. But it was not an impossibility.
“This child could not have been conceived if redemption were impossible, if the heart of you was entirely corrupted. If you decide to purpose this new purpose, I would not — could not — deny you.”
He contemplated her answer in silence for a long time.
“Change is… difficult for me,” he whispers.
It was not a denial, and Galadriel allowed the smallest tendril of hope to bloom within her. “We are creatures of eternity. It is difficult for us both, I imagine. But change we must. We must,” she insisted, trying to catch his gaze.
“And in pursuit of this new purpose… what precisely do you have in mind?”
Galadriel offered him a small, hopeful smile. “I have some ideas.”
A great peel of childish laughter echoed through the stone halls of Lórien’s keep, spilling out into the wild garden in the courtyard where Galadriel reclined on the blanket, basking in the warm sunlight filtering through the trees.
There was a time when she could not have conceived such peace, had not thought such a thing would be possible here. It seemed foolish in hindsight, to underestimate the great joy that was possible.
“Mama!” her daughter squealed, tumbling into her lap.
“Goodness, Celebrían,” Galadriel chided her, smiling, poking her belly. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your lessons?”
A familiar figure appeared behind her, a broad smile on his face. “The day is too beautiful to remain inside; I could not keep her there. The lessons will keep.”
Galadriel gave him a wry look. He would not keep her there, because he was incapable of not giving the child whatever she desired. “I see. Well, perhaps we might have a picnic instead, hm?”
“Yes!” Celebrían cried and planted a wet kiss on her mother’s cheek. “And we shall have pie!”
“We can see if there is any to be had,” Galadriel said, smoothing her silver curls from her eyes.
“If there is none, I’m sure the cook would gladly make—”
“Yes, thank you, Artano,” Galadriel said, glaring at him. He would spoil the child rotten if she allowed him. “But perhaps something more substantial for lunch?”
“Of course, of course,” he agreed with a wave of his hand, and leaning down to Celebrían’s level, continued in a loud whisper “but maybe just a small piece afterwards?” Which, of course, prompted a poorly restrained giggle from the girl.
Galadriel sighed. She could not blame him entirely. Their plan had necessitated his absence after Eregion for a time, and his incorporation into her household in Lórien had to be slow.
There had been no easy explanation to offer Elrond or Gil-galad why Sauron was gone by the time they arrived. The High King had been severely displeased with them both when he realized what they had done but he could not argue with the results; Eregion was once more in Elven hands and Sauron had, for all intents and purposes, been defeated.
Celebrimbor, free from Sauron’s thrall, promptly destroyed the corrupted rings he had forged under his guidance. For all that his physical recovery proceeded quickly, his mind and heart remained forever altered. It was unique kind of pain, to have your heart’s purpose turned against you. He never quite forgave himself for falling under Sauron’s influence to such an extent as to endanger his very realm, and in the end decided it was time for him to go West. Ost-in-Edhil, though not entirely destroyed, was left to be reclaimed by the wilds.
Elrond, for his bravery, had been given land to rule for himself and established his own house. Though Galadriel missed him, she could not begrudge him for it; it was well-earned, and she could think of no other who deserved to inherit Celebrimbor’s legacy. Beyond a brief visit after the birth of her daughter, neither the High King or Elrond sought her out again. Left to her peace, and in his new form, Artano was able to join her household without much suspicion. He was with her throughout the remainder of her pregnancy, and for the birth of their daughter.
Time passed and it became accepted fact that wherever Celebrían went, Artano would follow — her stalwart guardian and teacher.
No one would ever suspect him to have once been Sauron, Morgoth’s right hand, his most feared general.
Not with Celebrían in his arms giggling madly, smearing jam on his cheek and in his hair.
“Galadriel?” he addressed her, catching her attention. “Are you coming?”
He and Celebrían stood together, hand-in-hand.
“I thought we were having a picnic?” she asked, raising a brow.
Celebrían sighed loudly and shared a conspiratorial look with her father. “Mama wasn’t listening!”
“It’s such a beautiful day, her head must be in the clouds, little fire-heart! We were wondering if you would like to come with us to the kitchens so you might help decide what we’ll have for lunch,” he explained, tweaking Celebrían’s nose.
“You two go ahead. I know you’ll make good choices,” she said, giving Artano a pointed look, and smiled at her daughter. “I’ll stay here and save our spot, hm?”
“Okay!” Celebrían readily agreed, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Galadriel had no doubt that some manner of pie would be with them when they returned. “Come on ‘Tano!”
Galadriel watched them go, their joined hands swinging between them as Celebrían chattered without breath, and reclined back in the grass to doze, enjoying the sweet smell of the blooming flowers and the warm sun on her face.
The world would never know what became of Sauron.
He would fade into memory, a shadow of the Second Age.
But Artano would not.
In the time that followed, he would become a critical figure in history alongside Galadriel and Celebrían respectively, even escorting the latter along the aisle on her wedding day.
And in the evening of the party, when the music was loud and the party was in full swing, if anyone saw Galadriel and Artano disappear together down a garden path hand-in-hand, no one said a word.
The only surprise, at that juncture, was how long it had taken them.
The Third Age dawned in a time of unprecedented peace, and as the Elves continued to travel West as their longing for home grew too great and Men took up their stewardship of Arda.
Galadriel, however, remained.
Whatever curse had been placed on her line held no sway over her any longer, for her home had been found in a person, not a place, and he remained in Arda.