Chapter Text
In and out of consciousness, a voice speaks to him.
Don’t you dare die.
He is adrift, thrown back and forth by the violent currents. Gasping, unable to move, chocking on blood. Sharp pain stabs straight through him, over and over again. There is no shore, no respite from the cloying wetness and the sharp torment in his gut and chest. But she is here: a dream, a spark of light swimming in and out of focus. He feels her strong hands, pressing into the source of his pain, prodding him, moving him, forcing him to stay awake, not to succumb to the darkness for the final time. Her brows are furrowed, her mouth set in determination.
What strange images his mind decides to show him in his final moments.
Don’t you dare die!
Galadriel dissolves and his children appear, circling him like crows. Fear, fury and hate are painted on their faces. His children, with black streaks of his blood marring their skin; they raise their blades and hack away at him, over and over and over again. It’s agony, but the physical pain is almost nothing compared to the turmoil that blooms in his chest. Because Sauron is here, looking on as the gift he had given Adar becomes his doom; just like every gift the Deceiver has ever given. Nothing good ever comes from that which he has touched.
And yet, even dying, even betrayed, Adar finds in himself no anger nor hate. Nothing but despair.
Those are his children. His own, who may have turned on him, may be killing him now, but he still loves them, perilously so, with all that is left of his heart. He knows it is Sauron’s doing. Galadriel was right; he had pushed them right into their enemy’s grasp. The blades cutting him open are only the consequences of his actions. He accepts them as his due punishment for the disregard he has shown.
He knows what awaits his children at Sauron’s hands. And he fears. As the blows stop falling, like water drying up in a waterfall, he lies there, choking, paralysed by agony that has little to do with his cut up body. He stares up at their tired, determined, familiar faces, and all he can think of is how he has failed at this one role he had fought so hard to claim for himself.
“My children.” the words on his lips taste of wine and death.
“They are children no more.” Adar watches helplessly as Sauron motions to Glûg. His son looks down on him, determination written on his face, and raises his blade.
The darkness overtakes Adar’s vision before the sword reaches his neck.
***
“I said, don’t you dare die.”
Consciousness comes to him gradually. Gossamer threads of sounds and shapes, stretched through the darkness and slowly growing in strength press on his mind and body. The blissful numbness slips from him, leaving nowhere to hide from his painful existence.
Each time awareness comes back to him, he has to fight not to pass out again. He is on fire, tense and shaking from the onslaught of pain radiating from his core into every inch of his body. He tries to breathe in and immediately starts choking, spasming in a coughing fit that sparks stars behind his eyelids and rips a desperate moan out of his hoarse throat. Sometimes, he hears movement next to him, a voice, gentle hands landing on his shoulder. He pays them no mind. He screws his eyes shut and succumbs to the darkness.
***
He is walking through a muddy, abandoned battlefield. Glûg is at his side, with his sword in hand, watchful and ready as always. Adar is not; at least not consciously. Crows and ravens quarrel around them, feasting on the corpses of men that were left behind. The clouds cover up the sky, hardly letting any sun through their curtains. A wolf’s howl sounds off in the distance and Glûg turns sharply in the direction of its voice. They are alone, just the two of them, like so often before. Adar stops, waits for his son’s tense shoulders to relax a bit, waits for him to lower his blade before turning back to their path.
They do not speak; there is no need for it. Wet earth squelches under their boots as they make their way forward, an occasional indignant caw of a crow being the only other sound on the battlefield. Clouds darken on the horizon, writhing and bulging with a promise of rain, perhaps even a storm. Glûg still has the sword in his hand, carefully surveying their surroundings. Again, Adar pauses, observing the uruk as he walks past him. His son is watchful and guarded. Why are they here? He can’t remember. Glûg is wearing armour, but there is no blood on him or his blade. Where are they? The soft, well-tracked ground and grey skies give no indication of their whereabouts. Adar watches as a pair of crows land on a nearby corpse, their sharp beaks mercilessly cutting into the dead man’s face. He watches as the birds rip up the pale skin, sharp claws holding down the flesh to be torn into pieces and consumed. One of the corvids loses its balance, and with the flapping of its wings rips out a greasy strands of dark hair, revealing a pointed ear. An elf.
Another crow comes flying to join the feast. Adar observes as it sits itself on the corpse’s thigh and tears into the uncovered flesh of the leg-wound. Why is he watching them? The two first birds have made good headway on the dead elf’s face, but countless grey burn scars are still clearly visible on the white skin. The nose, clearly broken countless times, is now half eaten; a small, dark hole gapes above the slim lips. Pale eyes stare off unseeingly into the distance. The bigger bird caws determinately and cocks his head to the side; Adar watches transfixed as it strikes with its beak. With one swift move, it gauges out the elf’s eye.
“You made it happen.” Adar flinches and whips around. Glûg stands next to him, looking on with grim determination as the birds further mangle the dead elf. The birds jump up startled when the uruk moves closer, but only momentarily; almost immediately they land back and continue to dine. Adar’s eyes follow his son’s movements. He feels a lump growing in his throat, his chest contracting, making it difficult to breathe. He wants to speak, but no words leave his lips as the uruk he raised looks down on the dead, disfigured body, letting it be torn and shredded to pieces.
“It’s all your fault.” Glûg says again, and Adar wants to move. Needs to move. He must step forward, to get to his son, but his feet stay glued to the ground as his child adjusts the hold on his sword. “You said you loved us.”
I do! The words stay lodged in his throat and he chokes on them like on a stray bone. Why can’t he move?! The uruk doesn’t look at him. He speaks down at the corpse. “It’s all your fault.” With one quick movement the blade rises and falls and the air erupts with caws and violent flapping of wings.
***
The sky is dark, when he wakes. Sparse glints of starlight sneak through the tree cover, marking the outlines of trees in faint silver. Adar breathes in the chilly air. At first he is groggy, but as the quiet sounds of forest nightlife around him start filtering in, so do the memories. He takes stock of his aching body, the hard ground beneath him and a blanket (blanket?) laid over him. He is alive. But how? He tries to move, but immediately stops; arrows of pain shoot through him, the pale stars suddenly flashing brightly in front of his eyes.
“That was a bad idea.” The quiet, smooth voice sounds off to his right. Adar startles and winces again. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe through the stinging sensation, willing his mind to hold out against the pain. He can’t fall unconscious again. Not like this. After what feels like hours, his body sails from a raging storm of pain into a steady – however still strong – current of suffering. Adar keeps his eyes closed for a moment more, before opening them and looking in the direction of the speaker.
In the pale starlight, his gaze meets the pensive, tired one of lord Elrond.
The night’s quiet murmurs grow louder till the point of ringing in Adar’s ears. Elrond looks, for the lack of a better word, rather horrible.. His curls are matted, clumped together with mud, his face only partially washed of grime and blood. He sits on what appears to be some stump, arms resting heavy on his knees, palms clasped together, as if engaged in some serious negotiations, or a prayer. Perhaps both? It would explain the tiredness. Personally, Adar has long thought of any bargaining with the Valar to be a harrowing battle.
Elrond doesn’t say anything more. He sits still as a statue, observing Adar with a look in his eyes that screams ‘oh, how the tables have turned’. Adar returns his gaze; exhausted and aching as he is, he reckons the elf is due at least some satisfaction.
A thousand questions buzz around his head. How is he still alive; more importantly, why? Why is he alive? If he focuses, Adar can discern some rustles that that do not come from nature; sounds of living creatures, snippets of words, too soft and quiet to be his uruks. Other elves then. They are not alone, but not captive, seeing as neither of them is chained, and clearly not in Eregion anymore. Adar inhales through his mouth, ready to break the silence, but something catches in his throat and soon he is coughing and gasping for air so hard he retches, tears and spit dribbling down his face, convulsing like a fish ripped out of a stream.
A pair of strong arms wraps around his chest and pulls him up, punching a new groan out of him. Sparks burst under his eyelids, blinding him almost to the point of passing out. Still, he is held firm, moved on his side as he coughs and chokes and tries to catch his breath. When he finally does, the arms move him back. Like a doll with its strings cut.
His back is rested on something and a warm palm is laid on his forehead, slightly raising his head. A cup of cold water is pressed to his lips; he is allowed only a few sips before the cup disappears, but he is grateful anyway, swallowing around the moisture in his irritated throat. Adar leans his entire weight on the person holding him up. He feels more exhausted than ever in all the millennia he has been alive.
“Á súya, Adar. Natye varna.[1] We are safe. Á súya.” The person moves, and he is laid back down gently (so startlingly gently) on the ground. Hands smooth along his shoulders and chest and his instincts urge him to move away, but he is too weak to even try. He hears voices above him, but doesn’t focus on them; he can’t. Whatever they are deciding to do anyway, he will not be able to protect himself. He resigns himself to his fate.
There is some shuffling. Again, an arm sneaks under his neck and his head is lifted up and a drink put to his mouth – a broth of sorts? A pleasant warmth spreads through him. A sip, then a break, then again, the broth soothing his dry throat. It is a kindness, such as he would have never expected. Four mouthfuls is all he can manage. As the cup is moved away, he cracks his eyes open, just to see a blueish grey fabric and a golden curl swaying in front of his face.
Lady Galadriel scrutinizes him with a customarily furrowed brow. She too has dirt on her face, and she seems tense and weary: though whether she is more that than usually, Adar can’t say. The care and gentleness with which she touches him unsettles him; she holds him steady as she lowers him down to the ground. Her other hand skids around his chest and thighs; the familiar clean magic of Nenya tickles his skin, seeping into the many wounds with its reassuring glow. Seemingly satisfied with what she finds, lady Galadriel moves away and sits down on the ground, keeping one hand – not the one with the ring – on his arm. The relief in her voice only startles him further.
“You are awake.” It is all so strange to him, as he lets his head fall a bit to the side in order to see her better. Lord Elrond, he notices, stands behind Galadriel, resting against a tree with a cup in his hand. He is looking at him and his lover (they kissed, but whether that was only a distraction to help her escape, Adar isn’t sure); his features, weary and tense as they are, hide something else in them, a shakiness of sorts. Adar can’t tell what it is – annoying, given how easily he could read the elves up to this point.
Elrond catches his eye. Immediately, the elven lord straightens up, wiping his face clean of any emotions. “I will tell the king he has awoken. Á hara hí, Alatáriel [2].” The elf retracts without waiting for an answer, quietly disappearing between the trees.
For her part, Galadriel doesn’t react at all to her friend’s words. She sits hunched over, hand resting on Adar’s arm, eyes staring unseeingly into the ground. Neither of them speaks for a while; he observes what he can see around them, then her face, hidden in shadow, then the leaves, moving above them with the warm breeze. Galadriel doesn’t comment on his roving gaze – she doesn’t move away or take away her hand. Her eyes are distant and she seems to be deep in thought. What she is thinking of, Adar is fairly sure he could guess.
Finally, he decides to ask the most pressing question.
“The rings?” Galadriel doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him, but something in her face tells him the answer before she speaks.
“Gone.” Adar feels his stomach drop and for a second he wishes this all to be a dream, a hallucination of a dying mind conjured up just before he passes into the peaceful darkness. No matter his wishes though, this is real; the pain of his body and the steady weight of Galadriel’s touch confirms it to him. His mind strays as he wonders at the gentleness and certainty with which she touches him. He doubts he could ever dream of her touching him in such a gentle manner – not anymore…
He clear his throat, attempting to concentrate. “Where?”
She answers him at once, though with the same tired, monotone voice. “A valley. Safe, north of Eregion.”
He can’t help but doubt that. “Safe?”
This time she lifts her head and meets his gaze, her words strong with conviction. “Yes. Protected by the magic of the rings.” Nenya glitters in the starlight, as if blinking awake at the mention of her. Galadriel continues. “We have been here for two days. The refugees from Eregion and the few soldiers that weren’t killed during the siege.”
He stays silent for a moment, processing what she said. The rings lost, them escaped with refugees. Protected by the rings. He cringes inwardly at the mention of it. He still doesn’t trust this magic, no matter the possibilities on Nenya’s healing power. Now, with the nine rings lost, Sauron’s power only grew. And he has an army. Adar mind involuntarily wonders about the fate of his kin. Another drop of sorrow fills the overflowing chalice of his soul. There is no point in delusions or lying to himself. His children will find no kindness on the path set before them.
He is faintly aware of the moisture collecting in his eyes. He blinks it away and again turns to Galadariel, who he sees is watching him with singular intensity. “How long?-” She answers immediately. “Three days.”
Three days. Adar meditates on the fact. The siege of Eregion was long; his children were exhausted from the prolonged and relentless combat. Now that the city was destroyed, he would have them rest and regroup, before heading back to Mordor. They could’ve spared the time, since all significant elven forces would have been defeated or would be lacking leadership. He doubts Sauron will allow the uruks any respite.
“Alatáriel.” His musings are disrupted by a strong voice and soft footsteps in the brushwood. The high king steps towards him, Elrond only a step behind. Gil-galad’s face hardens as he looks down at Adar – at Gladriel’s hand touching him. The she-elf focuses on her allies, clearly determined – though Adar suspects she’s never anything but. She does, eventually, remove her hand from him and stands up; somehow, it leaves him feeling colder and weaker than the second before.
He breathes in slowly and deliberately, striving to shake off the sensation and focuses on the elven lords before him. Gil-galad spares him one more severe glance before turning his attention fully towards Galadriel.
“I cotumo leyla hrómen.” His eyes again briefly find Adar, before he continues. “I hossë leyla acca. Láme ista –[3]”
“You don’t know where they will attempt to cross the mountains.” Were he any stronger and in a better position, Gil-galad’s raised eyebrows would bring him an immense amount of satisfaction. Adar continues, glad his voice doesn’t shake. “Sauron will not risk coming any closer to Moria, especially with his army so weakened. Now that he has the rings, he will go south, through the caverns, to the other side of the mountain range, by the rivers. From there–” A cough tears through his chest, interrupting him; he curls into himself, groaning.
Again, a strong pair of hands turns him onto his side, and though the movement sparks of pain light up with renewed force, he is grateful that he won’t choke on his own spit. Adar hardly thinks he could survive the shame of such an undignified death. It takes him a while to win the battle with his lungs – no surprise, as he is fairly sure he has more than a few new holes stabbed in them. When he does, all he can do is rest his forehead against the ground and pray he will be able to sleep soon.
“From there he will get to the Southlands and set up a stronghold.” He half-lifts his eyelids to look up at Galadriel kneeling by him, studying him with a look of concern. The situation they found themselves in does warrant concern, but at present, he doesn’t attempt to move.
Lady Galadriel lowers him once more onto his back and he closes his eyes, so drained he doesn’t even moan from the pain. Something is laid over him, and most likely they continue to speak, but the ringing in his ears makes it impossible to hear. The wounds in his stomach start to throb, as if something has buried itself inside him and was now trying to get out. He flinches, memories of flesh-eating worms springing up in mind. He watched many be eaten alive like this, from the inside, with no hope for recovery. His breath hitches at another stab of pain, followed by a half-silent moan. He tries to breathe through it, force himself to relax and fall unconscious. Find respite in the darkness, like so many times before. As he closes his eyes, his breathing evening out, a face flashes through his mind. Then another. And another. His children. Angry. Dead. Furious.
Something cold brushes his forehead. He starts, and the presence disappears, just to return, steady and soft. A fingertip traces over one of his scars as a mild sensation spreads from his head down to his limbs. It sooths the aches and relaxes his sore muscles. The angry faces of his kin dissipate like a ink in the water.
“Shhh…” He hears a whisper above him. “ Natye varna. Sleep.”
He sighs, surrounded in quiet, and does just that.