Chapter Text
“Lady Galadriel? May I trouble you?”
She raised her head at the sound of Mablung’s voice. He was standing somewhat uncertainly in the doorway to the weavers’ room. He seemed tired, as well he ought after the past few days, and there was a worried glint in his dark eyes. Galadriel stood up from her loom.
“Of course. What is it?” she asked.
He glanced around and, finding the room empty but for her, stepped in. He crossed the floor to her but did not sit down.
“Usually I would ask the Queen Melian, but, given the circumstances…” he said in a low voice. “And I know she has taught you, and considers you skilled.”
Galadriel nodded. “Let the Queen mourn her daughter in peace, if I may serve.”
“Thank you”, said Mablung. “So, we are to dispose of the wolf’s remains, but… I think there is something wrong with it. Something that goes beyond my understanding.”
“I see. If you show me where the carcass is, I can certainly take a look and tell you what I think.”
The hunters had left Carcharoth lying where he had died. Galadriel glanced with interest around the clearing. The signs of the struggle a few days ago were still plain to see, the bent grass and churned earth and the blood upon the stones. She could see where Beren must have lain, and Huan, and in the middle of everything, the wolf’s still, massive form. It seemed that not even the more opportunistic of the animals of the woods had dared to come pick at that flesh; the carcass was entirely undisturbed.
Galadriel stepped closer, wrinkling her nose at the smell of decay. Mablung knelt down, pushing the edges of the cut on the wolf’s stomach aside with a stick.
“I know it does not look like much on the outside, but on the inside…” He shook his head.
Galadriel knelt next to him to look. Mablung was right. Even in the blackened ruin she could still make out the shape of the organs, and she did not like what she saw. She was not as avid a hunter as some of her family, nor had she fought in quite as many battles. But she had seen enough to know what she was now looking at. Those were not the insides of a wolf.
“I wonder what the poor thing was; whether it was an orc or a thrall”, said Mablung softly, more to himself than to her.
It was a good question, and Galadriel found herself overtaken by a strange curiosity. A body several days dead was rarely forthcoming with many details of its life even for those with eyes to see much that was hidden, but she could try.
“If it was a thrall, then it was a hideous thing to do”, she said grimly.
“Have they ever done anything but hideous things?”
She said nothing in reply, though she agreed. She reached her hands through the wolf’s matted fur until they reached the skin, one resting on the back of its head, the other on the stomach by the wound. The wolf’s mane of fur across its head and neck was yellowish, almost golden. Were it cleaned of all the dirt, it might have been only a shade darker than her own hair. It disturbed Galadriel, though she did not yet understand why.
She stared intently at the body and reached even deeper in her mind, past the ruin visible to the naked eye. It took some time before she found anything to grasp, a small, lingering echo of the living spirit that had inhabited the flesh. She bent her mind on the echo.
The first thing she knew was burning pain, pain so intense that at first she could only gasp. It felt as though it was her own flesh that was burning. Burning, burning, not just within her, in her guts, but also across her skin, on her chest, her back, her legs, everywhere. The bitter stench of smoke filled her nose, the air was thick with it. She coughed, and gasped, and tried to master herself again.
“It is only a memory”, she reminded herself. “It can only hurt me if I allow it.”
She gathered her strength and leapt back into the fire. She suffered the burning, let the sensation pass through her. She had survived Ice before; she could survive the memory of Fire. When she knew she had her balance, she opened her eyes.
Everything was on fire. The grass, the hillsides, the pines on the dry hills and the spruces of the cool, shadowy vales. Her land burned. She heard screams, called to her men, headed towards them. Her mail shirt was unbearably heavy and hot, her helmet burned her cheeks, but she heard the screams, she could not leave those people there, her own people. The flame of her wrath burned even hotter than the fires around, shielding her from them. The enemy would pay dearly for every inch of land, for every life they took, she would make sure of it!
“My lord!” someone cried behind her.
She whirled around. Behind her stood Calarastor, one of her captains, in scorched armour, flaxen hair come half out of its battle-braids, the locks that fell loose from under the helm singed at the ends. He looked frantic, out of breath — he must have run many miles from the south to reach her. She cursed. She had sent Calarastor away! He should not have been here, he should have been where he still had a chance to flee, to live!
Galadriel wrenched herself out of the memory. She found that she was shaking. Calarastor had been Aegnor’s most trusted captain, and a confidant to him since before they had known of such things as war or soldiers or captains. Never far from him. It was love for Aegnor, Galadriel suspected, that had brought Calarastor into exile to begin with. And there was none but Aegnor he would ever have called “my lord”. The memories, if they were true memories and not some trick of the enemy, were Aegnor’s. Her brother’s.
She did not want to believe it. Could not believe it. It had to be some cruel trick of the enemy, though she did not understand what purpose it could serve. Aegnor had died in the battle, some years ago now. These memories could not be real, there was no way the enemy could have put Aegnor’s real memories into the wolf. But she had to be certain. She would not have peace until she was.
Mablung said something to her. She was too distracted to tell what it was. She felt his hand on her shoulder and shrugged it away. Then she took a deep breath and plunged back into the memories.
“My lord!” Calarastor repeated. “Your brother is dead. The enemy is moving to surround us, we must—”
She laughed, a bitter, fierce sound that rang in her ears. It shook her. So had Aegnor laughed at seeing the glow of the burning ships on horizon, at understanding that Fëanor had betrayed them. It was not a laugh of joy; it was making mockery of despair, refusing to submit to fear. It was how Aegnor would laugh in the face of death.
“Then there is no escape for us. But let us avenge ourselves, while we still may!”
No. She could not believe this. She reached deeper, further back, seeking something other than war, something other than the misfortunes the Noldor had faced in Middle-Earth. All the while she was careful to keep her own thoughts tightly locked, held back so that no trap left in this carcass could take her memories to use against her.
There was light. Gentler, here, not burning, bright but soft, filling the air as clear water fills a vessel. Not the light of the Sun, but Treelight, the lost light of her youth. There was a sweet scent in the air, and laughter and cheers and chatter of many voices.
She took a sip from the jewelled cup in her hand and turned to Fingon at her side, a younger Fingon, less worn by care, with hands still more used to the harp than the sword. He was looking further off with amusement, and the eyes of memory following his gaze, Galadriel saw two girls, still a little short of full maturity of body, wrestling. It was Aredhel she recognized first, Aredhel dressed in hunter’s garb, hair in a long braid that flew like a whip when she moved suddenly, a wild grin on her face. It took her a moment longer to recognise her opponent, a girl with golden hair and laughter on her lips, wearing an athlete’s tunic. Then she turned a little and glanced at her, and Galadriel looked directly into her own eyes.
“I wonder what it is that made them both such wild girls”, Fingon said, fond and amused.
“Ah, I think Artanis will grow out of it yet”, she heard herself reply, as Aegnor must have replied.
“So long as it is growing out of it, and not being stifled by the court.”
Galadriel remembered that feast. Not Aegnor and Fingon standing and watching, but Aredhel’s clothes under her hands, the sting from the end of her braid hitting her face, their laughter, the sweetness of triumph when she finally overcame Aredhel. She remembered her mother combing the tangles out of her hair afterwards, and Angrod and Aegnor together getting her a little more wine than she was supposed to have as a prize for her victory, when their parents weren’t looking. She did not recall what in particular the feast had been in celebration of, but she remembered the day well enough. This was a real memory. It had to be; it had none of the markings of the enemy’s touch, of lies or twisted images or treacherous shadows, no matter how carefully she looked for them.
She pushed forward again in the memories, to the fire, to the battle. What had happened next? How could these memories have come here, in the wolf’s body?
She felt the burning again, she heard screams. Then all was dark. Cold replaced the burning, she shivered. Her body hurt all over, even breathing hurt, the cold air stung in her throat and all the way into her lungs.
A hand grabbed her chin, sharp nails digging into her flesh as her head was pulled upward. She gasped.
“Open your eyes, little princeling. I know when my prisoners are awake”, said a soft voice.
She could not help but obey. A figure stood over her, a figure in black silks and fine furs, gold chains draped around his neck and waist. In the shadows of the wolf-pelt hood glowed two golden eyes. The air was thick and heavy with his power, power she was no match for. She jerked back. The nails under her chin dug in deeper with the movement. Her back hit a wall of stone, cold and rough and damp.
Laughter rang cold and loud in the room. “Why do you bother? What do you think you can do? You cannot escape, little princeling.”
She wanted to say something clever, something angry and defiant and proud, but her mind was too confused and fear made the words die in her mouth. Instead she wrenched her head momentarily out of the enemy’s grasp and spat at him.
That earned her a slap on the face. Then Sauron — for Sauron it had to be, she understood — turned and strode away from her.
For some time she was alone in the dark, straining at the bonds she now realized were at her wrists. She heard echoes of screams and howls from somewhere far away, felt movement in the air brush her skin now and then. She tried in vain to gather her courage, gather her strength, but they seeped out of her with each heartbeat. She had spent much of her strength in battle, she had none left now to break or unlock her shackles.
It could have been mere moments, or it could have been hours, she could not tell. But when Sauron at last came back, he bore a goblet of gold in his hand. It was Noldorin work, she could tell, whether stolen or made by some poor thrall. Somehow that made the anger flare up hotter in her heart. The treasures of her people! How dare he lay a hand on them!
Sauron smiled, as if guessing her thoughts. He said no word to her, however, but grabbed a hold of her chin again. He pulled her mouth open and pressed the cup against her lips. A thick, warm liquid flowed in. The salty, metallic bitterness of blood filled her mouth.
She tried to spit it out as soon as she tasted it, tried to pull back and jerk her head away from the goblet, but Sauron was prepared for her resistance this time. His hold was tight and held her head in place. Even as she tried to spit the blood out, more was poured into her mouth, and soon she found that she had to either swallow or choke.
She would have rather choked, but her traitor body would not obey her. Helpless, she felt her throat move and swallow the blood, and felt it burn its way down into her stomach.
That was the last clear memory Galadriel could find. After it there were only broken flashes, Sauron’s voice chanting in some cruel tongue, more blood, pain, chains and a throne and vast underground halls, hands upon her, sometimes cruel and harsh, sometimes stroking her head and back in some mockery of tenderness. There was raw flesh in her mouth, and she found with a shock that she desired it, delighted in it, devoured it. There were orders, hardly understood in her mind but she felt herself responding to them, fulfilling them, nonetheless. There was ground under bare feet and hands — no, not feet and hands anymore, but paws — and rushing wind and running, and howling voices in the night, sometimes many, carrying news and messages, sometimes hers alone. Light, bright light, light that almost awoke a buried memory, buried feelings, and she desired it and it burned her and she feared it and hungered for it.
Through all those flashes, there was one constant sensation; searing pain, pain that would not abate, would not release her, that nestled in her mind, her lungs, her stomach. Any living creature within her reach, she had to maul them, hurt them, make them feel the pain she felt, she had to, she wanted to, all the world would have to suffer!
Galadriel tore herself out of the stream of memories. She pulled away from the carcass, scrambled to her feet. Mablung rose and came to her, frowning worriedly.
“Lady Galadriel? What is it?”
“He— Sauron—” she stammered. How could she even begin to explain? She was trembling with rage, the taste of hot blood still in her mouth. “He will pay for this”, she growled. “They will all pay for this.”
“What did you see?” Mablung asked again, reaching for her arm. She pulled away from him.
“Aegnor”, she managed. “They took him, they—”
He looked at the dead wolf grimly, then again at her. “I am sorry, Lady Galadriel. I did not mean to… to cause you such grief.”
She wanted to laugh. How could he try to console her, as if she was a child, as if she was some delicate flower to be coddled! No, she was not grieving, she was furious. Finrod’s fate had been bad enough. Aegnor’s— she had no words for it. But this could not go unavenged! She would not suffer it. Sauron, even Morgoth, they would see what the House of Finarfin was made of! She turned without another word, and, ignoring Mablung’s surprised cry, ran off back towards Menegroth.
Galadriel was glad now that she had kept practising swordwork, though many had looked strangely at her for it, and Melian had often chided her for it, saying she ought to leave such things behind. But she had kept practising, and she had kept her weapons and armour, though she had not gone away to war again after her coming to Doriath. Now she took them out of their chest. She changed out of her work dress and into shirt and hose and an arming jacket, and began to put the harness on. It was awkward work on her own, but she managed it. She braided her hair as for war. A set of spare clothes went into her pack, and some useful herbs, a knife, a tinderbox, some thread and some rope. She packed a waterskin and some food, the same sort of rations the marchwardens usually had (she had considered stealing some lembas, but had dismissed the thought almost immediately; in Doriath, it was for Melian to hand out and none other, and Galadriel liked and respected her too much to make such trespass against her rights).
She hung her sheathed sword on her belt. She threw a shadow-grey travelling cloak over her armour, pinning it at the right shoulder with a brooch like a golden serpent twined around itself. Finally she shouldered her pack, pulled her hood over her head, and slipped out of her rooms.
Even within Menegroth, she could move unnoticed if she wished. She reached the stables without anyone addressing her, and saddled her horse — a grey stallion named Daedal that Celeborn had given her some years before. The horse gave her a curious look as she led him out of the stables, but made no sound. She mounted and was off, a grey shadow flying into the darkening night ahead.
As Galadriel rode, she wondered where she ought to actually go and what was the next step in her plan. She could go to Nargothrond — Orodreth would help her if she asked, he would also be bound into a duty of vengeance for their family if he knew the truth. But no; Orodreth also had a duty to the realm and people that were now his. Nothing good would come of her placing him between two irreconcilable duties. No, she could not go to Nargothrond.
Likewise she could not go to Fingon; he was their cousin, and Aegnor had been a dear friend to him, but he was the High King. If she would not draw Orodreth away from duty to the folk of Nargothrond, she could not ask Fingon to step away from his duty either. And Turgon was gone, who knew where. To him she could not go. And before he had disappeared, he had had his own folk to rule over; for all she knew, he might well still do.
Orodreth, Turgon, Fingon; she could not ask any of them for aid. But in all the world there was none other that could or would join in this vengeance for the sake of either kinship or friendship.
She was alone. She only was not tied down by another duty, and had the right and the duty to seek vengeance for this. That thought only strengthened Galadriel’s resolve. She was alone, and so she must avenge her family, for no one else would.
The first grey light of dawn was filling the air when she paused to let Daedal rest a while. The horse wandered away to drink from a little stream bordered by young willows that ran nearby, and to eat the grass that grew tall and green. Galadriel herself sat on the roots of a great old linden tree. She considered her route. So far she had been simply riding west from Menegroth, following the road that ran along the northern bank of the Esgalduin. But sooner or later she must find her way northward; for the rumour was that Sauron, after his defeat by Lúthien, had fled to hide in Taur-nu-Fuin.
In her grey cloak and hood Galadriel looked much like any messenger of Thingol’s on some urgent errand, and she did not think she would be questioned, whatever road she took. So she could cross Sirion by the bridge near where River Teiglin ran into it, and then ride along the edges of the Forest of Brethil, following Teiglin until she came to the road leading north toward the Pass of Sirion. Or she could turn north sooner. She had heard there was a pass that skirted the western edge of Ered Gorgoroth, that one might travel by without getting caught in the shadows of Nan Dungortheb or the perils of the Mountains of Terror. But Galadriel did not much like that; she did not know the way for certain, and she knew taking that route might, if she became lost or the way was more dangerous than she guessed, force her to try her strength against dangers of those evil lands that lay near to it. And she did not want to spend too much of her strength too soon, rather sparing it for when she found Sauron.
Nonetheless, turning northward earlier rather than later might work to her advantage. If Thingol and Melian heard of her leaving, they might seek to bring her back and keep her in Doriath. But she was a guest, not a ward, and she would come and go as she wished, and now she did not wish for anyone’s protection, however well-meant. Anyone sent looking for her, she thought, would likely think she had gone to Nargothrond first, seeking Orodreth. So if she turned northwest now and rode until she reached the Mindeb, and then followed it north, crossed it into Dimbar, and then rode westward to come to the Road to the pass of Sirion north of Brethil, she would get well ahead of anyone sent after her. And there was only so far that Thingol would let his folk go in search of her. Yes, that seemed like the best plan.
It was well into the day before Galadriel thought Daedal was rested enough to continue, but at last she mounted again, and guided him to a little path running deeper into the woods, and then off the path altogether. She kept a little slower pace, sparing him for the long journey ahead. The forest was shadowy and the air under the trees cool, and it would have been a pleasant ride, if not for the wrath burning in her heart.
She travelled so for some days more. Daedal was good at picking his way through the trees and underbrush even when there was no path, and it was sooner than she expected that she came to the banks of the River Mindeb near the northern marches of Doriath. As the trees became more sparse she urged Daedal to a swifter pace, and only a little more than a day’s ride later she came to the road that ran from west to east, skirting Doriath’s borders.
Before the end of that day she was almost across Dimbar. The moon climbed slowly into the sky. Wind blew against her face from the west as she bent close to Daedal’s neck and urged him to a gallop for a while. The road had turned northwest to follow the course of Sirion, which ran like a glittering belt of pearls and diamonds a little ways to her left. In the distance to her right, the mountains rose tall and grim to pierce the night sky, black with moon-silvered edges liked bared swords.
Despite the grim duty set on her shoulders, some part of Galadriel rejoiced. For the first time in many years she was travelling in the open lands again, and she was free, with no escort, no protection, no-one to set rules for her or confine her. Here she was her own master. And she was strong now, she knew it, even stronger than she had been before she first set foot on the Ice, so long ago now. In her years in Doriath she had learned much from Melian, and discovered many things by herself. Her stay in the kingdom had served her well. But now it was time to prove what she truly was capable of. She would do her duty to her family; she would avenge her beloved brothers. And then— once she had done it, once she had her vengeance. Then she could stretch her wings wide open. Then she could fly, fly free as a wild bird with no jesses on her ankles!
She was within sight of the Ford of Brithiach when she finally stopped. She had never travelled this way before, and though she was certain she could get across herself, she was not certain Daedal would cross it in the dark. So she led him a little off the road. She let him eat for a while, and watched as he settled down to sleep. She would sleep too, for a little, but not quite yet. She climbed to the top of a small hill and sat down there, sharpening her sword. She found that her eyes were drawn almost irresistibly toward the lines of the mountains behind her, eastward. Almost she thought she could see through and beyond them, to the haunted lands of Taur-nu-Fuin. There, somewhere in those highland forests, her prey waited. She would not let it escape.