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When Orodruin explodes and fire reigns down and a lightless day falls over them all, Galadriel is alone. She is alone when she finds Theo, the son of the healer, cowering before some escaped orcs, and Galadriel makes quick work of the first and the second orc, but then Theo surges forward into the fight once more, and in trying to protect him from his own foolishness, she takes a spear to the abdomen. It is a spear that splits through her armor and into her flesh, it is a spear that pierces not quite fully through her to her back, it is a spear, covered in gore and rot and mud, that sends her to her knees after she beheads that final orc.
Galadriel does not remember how Theo drags her from the site of battle back to camp; more importantly, she chooses not to. She refuses to remember the indignity of the pain or the way she'd leaned on Theo more than she should ever have needed to lean on such a young man, and even as she maintains her gratitude toward him, Galadriel is still far closer to death than not by the time they reach the camp.
Galadriel does not remember stumbling out of Theo's support when she spots Halbrand, crowned in the bright haze of her blurred vision, and she does not remember taking a singular step by herself before she slams into the ground. She does, however, remember the vicious pain that struck through her upon her body failing her, and then Theo's small, boyish hands struggling to lift her when hands not yet slick with her blood hefted her into his arms by himself. She refuses to remember the worry, the fear, the rage, in Halbrand's eyes as their gazes briefly met, snapping together and clicking into place, before he was already moving her for Bronwyn's tent.
For all the blessings upon the elves, the pain of removing the spear and its many splintered segments render even her immobile and weak, vulnerable and in-and-out of consciousness. There are gaps between her waking moments, and Galadriel distantly can hear a fervent plea for her to, "Stay, Galadriel, hold steady," but her body burns with the pain and she's freezing and cramping, and she knows that these men cannot save her.
She remembers an argument about where they can take her, if they would let her die in these mortal lands or risk the cost of moving her, and then, "Eregion is not far," she hears someone, perhaps Arondir, say, and she lets out a low moan as the pain flickers through her chest cavity, and she hopes they hear it as the sign of agreement it is. "You will have to ride as fast and as hard as is safe for her, but you would make it."
She does not remember there being an argument about who would take her.
Galadriel is secured to a horse with Halbrand sat behind her to hold her steady, and though she cannot sleep in this state, she finds herself lost in a waking dreamland of fire and smoke and pain as they ride for her only chance.
They ride until she cannot any longer, and Halbrand makes their camp as she braces for the pain as best she can. She leans against the tree trunk Halbrand set her up against and bitterly, blithely wonders if this is truly her end. Galadriel feels her life beginning to drain away, and she sets her jaw and studies the land around her.
This is not where she thought she would meet her end, nor how she thought she would meet it, but it is far a terrible end, Galadriel tries to reason. She tells herself this death, quiet amongst the trees and grasses after a battle, is deserving of her, that she is deserving of it, and she even tries to swallow the lies for what they are; even in this weakened state, she struggles.
"Halbrand," she croaks, and her voice is not harmonious but rough and cracking, and Halbrand's head immediately snaps up as he finishes attending to their camp. His brow is furrowed with concentration, and Galadriel dares to smile as she looks at him, as she tilts her head and studies him. "I need you to do something for me."
"What?" he asks quickly, immediately, as he kneels down to look at her.
If she were any kinder, any crueler, her mouth would twitch into a smile, but she cannot manage this. "I need you to have me interrred beside my brother," she says, and Halbrand is already shaking his head.
"You will not die," he says, insists, and Galadriel's throat thickens as pain wracks through her all-too fragile form.
"You will do this for me," she tells him. She knows what this is, a walking corpse's final ask, and it is a heavy burden to bestow upon him, but he will bear it. For her, he will bear it.
"I will not need to," he says, and he is mortal, of course, he denies her. Now, her mouth twitches at the corners, but she still doesn't smile. "You will not die."
Sweat beads her brow, and she leans against the tree, closing her eyes for only a moment to savor the pain of her condition and the last sensations of her life. She keeps her eyes closed as she says, "I cannot ride any more, and we're not even through the first leg of our journey, Halbrand." His name on her tongue is sweet-bitter, a promise of a potential future now gone, but she says it anyways.
Halbrand stills, she feels it without seeing. "You cannot die," he whispers, and something in her compels her to open her eyes. The stars themselves twinkle in his evergreen eyes as she looks at him, studies him. A wheezing breath flutters in her chest, and Galadriel stays silent as the truth of the matter comes over them both.
They will not make it to Eregion. She will not live. The elf will die before the man, in a bitter twist, and then they will both be alone once more.
Galadriel's throat thickens, but she does not look away from Halbrand. She is a warrior, and she has faced down death a thousand times, but she never thought she would find it in the arms of someone who looks at her like that. Someone who will mourn not the Commander of the North Armies or the incessant agitating believer or the warrior, but her.
She wets her lips, but Halbrand is already there, easing the waterskin into her mouth and allowing her to drink her fill before another tremor runs through her. "You cannot die," he whispers again, but his voice is deeper, rougher, now, and Galadriel's eyes flutter as his grip on her forearm tightens. "I refuse."
She blinks, and it is in this brief moment that the world is upended.
The light of Valinor is impossible to forget. It is blinding, it is piercing, and it is emanating from Halbrand's hands. Between these blinks, the man she's known turns the putrefying and rotting flesh of her abdomen to something hale and hearty, something secure and strong, and she can no sooner breathe than Halbrand is gone.
Only Sauron remains.
But the Deceiver does not move away from her. He stays, his hands on her once-wound, and even as the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile, there is nothing she recognizes in his eyes. There is no malice or cruelty, there is no vindictive hatred, there is only-
"You." The pain of the poison is still being drained from her body as she spits at him, but he doesn't blink. Galadriel presses her back against the harsh bark of the tree, pushes herself away from him despite the pain it causes her still-sensitive wound, and she does not know where to look, at his hands or at his eyes or at his mouth, and her heart enters a staccato as she stares and sees who she knew as Halbrand with a Maiar's power.
His mouth flattens as he nods, but his touch stays constant on her body, and Galadriel wonders if that is its own kind of punishment. Something angry pricks at her eyes, but she swallows it as she dares to look at his hands. She is not wearing armor, he could easily rip her innards out of the flesh he'd just mended, but he only tilts his head and keeps his touch firm but blindingly gentle. "Me," he agrees, quiet, and then, as if to reassure her, "I would not kill you after all this, Galadriel."
Her name on his tongue, it burns, it pierces through her chest and catches on the jagged edges inside her fractured body. "Why?" she rasps, already judging the distance between herself and her blade as too far, judges her strength too feeble to do much more than lift her head, and still, she uses all her might to press away from him as her hands lunge for his throat.
He does not even lift his hands to swat her away, and he stays looking down at the bloody cloth and smooth flesh beneath his palms as he says, "I told you to stay," and his voice is almost small, almost breath-taking with his grief. Galadriel's brow furrows, and he continues, "You are not to die, Galadriel."
Still, his hands linger on her body, the might of his magic still connecting flesh and sinew and removing illness from her, and she cannot conceive that Sauron is healing her, even as she immediately tries to use this growing strength to lunge for him again, the desperate rage in her throat only growing.
But this time, he catches her, both of her hands in his one, and Galadriel does not dare close her eyes as his eyes, still that familiar evergreen, finally flash to meet her gaze. There is too much there, too much that she doesn't want to see, but his voice stay soft as he says, "I meant it, Galadriel. Every word."
Galadriel feels sick. She feels ice and flame and crashing waves and mossy tree bark, all in her and all at once, and she stares at him. "Meant what?" she manages, and she knows it is falling into his trap, but she needs to ask, she needs to know.
"All of it," he says, but she's already shaking her head.
"I need you to say it," Galadriel urges, and a flicker of something she cannot identify flashes through his jaw. She looks up at him and squares her jaw and seethes, "I need you to say just what you meant."
He flinches as though she'd struck him. The Deceiver rolls his shoulders back, and he looks away before he meets her gaze once more. Green eyes are soft and molten and brimming with something she sickens to call hope as he says, "I meant it when I said I am sorry for your brother's death, Galadriel." She jerks viciously, but he holds her firm and continues to speak as though there aren't furious, hateful tears brimming in her eyes. "I told you I had done bad things, I told you I was a bad man-"
"A man is not what you are," she seethes, and he closes his mouth, allows the sharp sting of her words to fully reverberate through him.
"No," he agrees quietly, "it is not."
A silence comes over them, and Galadriel pulls at her wrists to free herself, even as he continues to hold her firmly in place. The only sound is their racing breath and sharp, frenetic heartbeats, and Galadriel tries to find the words that will free her, searches for a way out, scavenges and scrapes for anything that will make him reveal his true self once more.
But his thumb rubs over her pulse point with the calloused touch of a smith, and Galadriel closes her eyes so she does not see Halbrand's visage as she tries to think.
"I felt it too," he whispers, and then she is lost to the raucous riot inside her.
Galadriel breaks forward with a snapping maw for his throat, and he braces her against the trees with an easy force that knocks the wind out of her. Her eyes snap open, and he's staring her down, his expression inscrutable as he effortlessly holds her in place. "You feel nothing," Galadriel hisses at him, slinging all the barbs and accusations of an age spent looking for Sauron at him, and he flinches as though he actually feels remorse. "You are nothing."
"I am nothing," he agrees, but his words are still soft. "I am nothing, but with you, I have found a new purpose." Galadriel opens her mouth, but he is quick to continue, "Not to destroy, Galadriel, that was never- that was never my purpose. I was made-" and his lip curls ,"-to create, and still, I am not for destruction." He lowers his gaze and then adds, "Not for mindless destruction, at least."
"Orodruin-"
"The orcs do not take their orders from me," he cuts in with a sharp, disgusted shake of his head. "Not anymore. What happened in the Southlands, that was all Adar." He spits his name, and Galadriel studies him, tries to understand the bitterness twined with the pleading in his voice. "I want to rule as a king. Not as a dark lord, but a king." He tilts his head. "Can't you understand that?" he asks softly.
She realizes she can, and bile burns up the back of her throat. Her stomach quickens, and Galadriel leans back against the tree, although the loose tunic she wears largely protects from the roughness of the tree bark. "You wanted to stay in Númenor," she recalls, her voice distant to her, and he nods quickly, eagerly.
"I did not want this," he says, and she knows he is the Great Deceiver, she knows how he lies, but too much of her believes him far too easily. "I was ready to stay there, to work honestly, to build-"
"And I brought you back to Middle Earth," she finishes, realization curdling in her.
He falls quiet then, even as he nods, as though he knows better than to deny it. "I tried to abandon it," he says. "But it would seem I cannot, that forces greater than you or I have brought us together."
"Us?" The world around her seems to tilt.
He nods again, a brightness sparking in his eyes. "You have guided me to my true purpose," he says. "Those who do not see you, who do not appreciate you, they will, if only with me at your side, binding you to power. And you, you would bind me to the light, to keep me from… worser impulses."
Galadriel can see it. She can see the picture he paints, the world he dreams, and she wants it. She cannot deny the presence of her desire, but she could smother it, dampen it, smash it down and break it apart until it is no more but fragmented particles.
She does not; she cannot.
Instead, Galadriel's shoulders slump as she inhales, as she meets his gaze, and she sees him.
"Tell me everything," she orders, straightening her spine and strengthening her resolve, but despite her sharpness, there is hope in his eyes as he nods. "Tell me how I am to believe you, and tell me your plans."
He does.
They arrive in Eregion together. They are in unison, and they fight together, they build a life together.
Slowly, the world is made anew.