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Chapter Text

Galadriel wears no armor when she rides toward a small, time-worn village at the outskirts of the ruined Southlands. She heads for the appointed meeting place in a simple grey dress with a darker grey cloak over it, gathering her resolve as she approaches the border of his ash-covered realm.

She did contemplate putting on the armor that he once made for her, but she wasn’t entirely sure what point that would be making. Even looking at that armor is hard to bear now, just one more painful reminder of everything that passed between them. One more remnant of all the things he did and said as Halbrand, all the things she still cannot quite believe were insincere. But she’s been a fool. She’s been so incredibly, incalculably wrong, and she can only cling to the faint hope that she’ll still find a way to redeem herself.

In any case, if Sauron decides it’s to be combat between them, no armor can save her anyway. His strength already far exceeded her own when she confronted him in Eregion, and she dares not think of how powerful he might now have become, having recovered his armies and his dark artifacts. No, armor will not save her. She must wear her defenses around her heart and her mind, now.

The danger of an orc attack is ever-present here, so close to the shadowed land. But although the sky is perpetually grey, there is still a little sunlight at this distance from the doomed mountain. A weak but comforting glow is streaming between the trees, flickering over her as she rides along the forest’s edge. Human attackers could prove a problem, but her ring’s power hums protectively from her hand, easing her mind. If she’s careful and moves stealthily along the treeline, she should not be easily noticed by anyone who means her harm. She shouldn’t be spotted unless she chooses to reveal herself.

Sauron has promised to come to this negotiation in person, and he surely means to seize the opportunity to try again to sway her to his cause. Having his minions kill her, or allowing any harm to come to her before she even reaches him, would not serve his aims. It’s unlikely that she needs to fear an ambush, she tells herself. There is no threat here that is greater than Sauron himself. And he probably doesn’t want her dead – at least, not yet.

He had every chance to kill her while she was unconscious at the river, and he chose to leave her alive. Of course, there is a possibility that he’s changed his mind by now – perhaps he only let her live to ensure the completion of the rings, if that served some hidden purpose to him. But deep down, she knows that he won’t have given up so easily on the future he proposed on the raft. What Sauron really wants is for her to come willingly to his side, and the letter he sent confirms as much.

She wonders again why he chose to send his summons in such an unsophisticated way – on a simple folded piece of paper, delivered by a messenger who came and went by cover of night. It was written in neat elvish script, and as if to taunt her, it was signed with his cursed sigil. Still, she would have expected something more dramatic from Sauron, something less... conventional. He is probably reveling in the idea of her confusion, in her inability to figure him out.

Galadriel’s true strength will be in allowing him to underestimate her, and letting him believe he has the upper hand for long enough to learn something useful from him. She has spent days preparing herself for the moment when she’ll have to face him again, shoring up her mind’s defenses, testing her resolve against imaginary scenarios. His letter spoke of the potential alliance between them, and although she is still every bit as determined to decline any offer he might make, this time she intends to ask more questions about his intentions. She needs to uncover what it is that he’s doing out here.

She will learn exactly what plans Sauron has for Middle Earth. And in doing so – in retrieving some crucial piece of knowledge or discovering some weakness in his scheme – perhaps she might claw back some of the grace she lost when she inadvertently assisted him in the first place. If Sauron is still as foolhardy as he was in Eregion, if he’s still as brashly overconfident and as certain that she would not refuse him if she would only hear out the whole of his vision for the future... then that folly might lead him right to his doom. She has chased him for centuries; she is not going to fail now.

Elrond is the only one who knows about the letter, the only one who knows about Sauron, the only one who knows where Galadriel is going at all. She made him privy to the truth only by necessity – that is to say, Elrond cornered her in the stables as she was trying to slip out of Ost-in-Edhil, and wouldn’t let her leave Eregion until she told him something. He demanded answers she didn’t want to give about what happened with Halbrand, and the rings, and her erratic behavior. He questioned her relentlessly along every angle and refused to give way. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her judgement, Elrond insisted. He swore that he did, he would, he wanted to. But how could he prove that he trusted her when she wouldn’t tell him anything?

At last Galadriel gave in to Elrond’s questioning, and when she did, she broke down and told him everything. She kept the story brief, and left out some of the unnecessary details, but at long last she held her dear friend’s hands with tears in her eyes and confessed it all right there in the stables. Elrond was decidedly unhappy about it, and there was so much he didn’t understand. But he had sworn to trust her now, and he could hardly go back on it. Their repaired friendship was still far too fragile, the wounds between them too fresh, for him to dare challenge her again.

And so, Elrond helped her onto the horse, and bid her a worried farewell, and promised not to breathe a word of it to anyone.

Just... please make sure you do refuse him, was the last thing Elrond said to her. Come back to us, Galadriel.

She said nothing in reply.

Her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she dismounts her horse by the edge of the forest. She makes her way on foot toward the dilapidated village, moving steadily toward the meeting place that Sauron’s letter described. The mountain of fire looms large on the horizon, its perpetual ash cloud a blight on the sky. Even here, outside the reach of the shadow, the air tastes of burnt dust and faint decay. This entire land is a ruin now, destroyed and twisted by Sauron. Corrupted, just like everything else he has ever imagined or had any hand in creating.

Well... almost everything.

Galadriel twists the ring she bears around her finger, sensing the soothing flow of its power. Sauron has never touched this ring – he was gone from Eregion before the alloy was even made – and yet sometimes it feels his all the same. She tries not to think of how its very existence is inextricably tied to Sauron’s return to Middle Earth, to her stubborn insistence on dragging him from Númenor to the Southlands, to her decision to take him to Eregion when he feigned that life-threatening wound...

This ring is his, and hers, and theirs. He has never touched it, but even as it brings her comfort and protection, something about it sings of what the two of them would have been, together. And as she feels the ring humming to her, she wonders what depth of strange, terrifying power truly lies within it.

She’s angry about so much. So many regrettable choices. So many feelings she wishes she had never felt... and that misplaced, forsaken fondness she wishes she could carve out of herself like rot from a piece of fruit. Some cursed part of her heart yearns for Halbrand still, longing hopelessly for a man who is not real. Another part hates that she so much as remembers Halbrand, recoiling at the falseness of him, at the idea that she ever saved him, or helped him, or cared for him in any way.

But she does. Did. Did. She cared so much for him, she trusted him, she respected him—

She doesn’t let her mind linger on the word desired.

She misses him with a bitter, relentless ache that feels like grief. But there is no Halbrand, and there never was, because Halbrand is Sauron. He is Sauron, Sauron, Sauron. Galadriel does not need to ride to the south to find a war, for she feels like she has been waging one against herself since the moment Elrond pulled her out of that river.

In fleeting moments of weakness, she sometimes still thinks of Halbrand as he was before. In Eregion after he left, she would lie awake at night unable to find rest, trying to banish his false face from her thoughts. But whenever she let her hand stray down beneath the sheet to soothe herself, it was him she saw when she closed her eyes: her Halbrand, her clever and talented smith, her lost king of the Southlands, her friend. The one who kindled such unfathomable feelings in her that she’d actually been on the brink of taking a mortal man as a lover. And sometimes – just once, she told herself, just this once – she allowed herself to forget the lies for a moment. She imagined Halbrand’s hands running over her, his mouth on her neck, his fingers tangled in her hair, his warm body pressed against hers as she found her release. And afterwards, she screamed rage into her pillows, furious at her unbelievable foolishness.

She hates the memory of him now. She wishes that Halbrand had died on the battlefield in the Southlands, or on the road with that orc’s lance speared through him. She wishes that he’d never made it to Eregion, that he’d succumbed to his injuries on the third day of the journey just like everyone predicted he would. She would have had one more thing to hate Sauron for, one more name on the long list of people Sauron stole from her... but it would be so much easier that way. So much easier to mourn Halbrand. And to avenge him.

But how can she avenge a man who doesn’t exist by striking at the very enemy who brought him into being in the first place? The same enemy whose monstrous heart she’d somehow felt beating as the mirror of her own?

And what of the strange bond between them? Does her own darkness really run so deep that she was capable of feeling perfect, glorious harmony with Sauron when they fought side by side? She doesn’t know how she’s meant to reckon with any of that. She most definitely omitted any mention of their otherwordly connection from the story she told to Elrond.

Still, she is so much stronger than Sauron thinks she is. She, too, has gained power and resolve since they last met. As she approaches the meeting place, stepping carefully through ash and mud, she reminds herself that she already refused him once when she was much weaker, when her guard was so much lower than it is now. And she will refuse him yet again. She’s only here to learn his plans. Discover what he fears, give him the means of mastering it, then use that to master him. It gives her some warped satisfaction to think of using his own manipulation tactics against him.

But first, she has to get through seeing him face-to-face again... in this shabby ‘stronghold’ in a Southlander village, in this building that looks more like a ramshackle barn.

Galadriel steps up to the rickety wooden gate that serves as a door. This place is definitely a repurposed barn, not so different from the one in Tirharad where she once let her darkness overtake her. She pushes that thought away abruptly, steadying herself and intentionally blanking her thoughts before she enters. She will give him nothing to latch onto if he reaches for her mind.

She slides the ring off her finger as she steps inside, slipping it into a little hidden pocket inside her grey cloak. Perhaps Sauron can sense that the ring is here anyway, but there’s no need to let him see it if he doesn’t.

As she feels the ring’s shielding protection dissolve from around her, the black-robed figure sitting at a table in the middle of the room immediately looks up. Her blood runs cold. Sauron.

It’s him. He’s really here, and he’s staring directly at her. His eyes glint forebodingly from beneath the dark cowl of his cloak, shadows obscuring the rest of his face. There’s no one else here – it’s just him alone, sitting at this plain wooden table with an empty chair across from him.

Galadriel pauses mid-step, locking eyes with him and channeling unshakeable resistance into her gaze. She’s all tensed muscles and raw nerves, braced for him to do something to challenge her. But to her complete shock, he doesn’t do anything. He just sits there, observing her silently as she moves a little closer.

Despite his proximity, she senses none of Sauron’s insistent power pressing against the edges of her mind. He isn’t reaching for her, testing her will the way he did that day by the Glanduin. And, to her much greater relief, there’s no trace of that warm, magnetic energy that used to shimmer between them when he was Halbrand. That awareness of him, that intoxicating harmony pulling her toward him, it’s just... gone. She doesn’t feel him here at all.

Perhaps he’s shielding himself from her somehow, waiting for her to come closer before he ensnares her. Or... could it be that their connection has actually been broken? Maybe it really was severed for good when they screamed at each other on the raft. Maybe facing him will be easier than she thought.

Galadriel squares her shoulders, raises her chin and walks confidently toward him. The table is angled sideways so they’ll both have a full view of the room as they negotiate; no one’s back will be to the door. It’s surprisingly considerate of him. She approaches the empty chair with cautious suspicion, still half-expecting a trap to be sprung. But nothing can prepare her for what she sees when he throws back the dark cowl and reveals his face.

It’s not Halbrand under the cloak. No... it’s not Sauron at all.

It’s that orc commander, the moriondor, the corrupted elf she should have killed when she had the chance.

The one they call Adar.

“Commander Galadriel,” he says softly, inclining his head to her in some mockery of respect. “How gracious of you to come.”

Chapter Text

Adar. Galadriel stares at the servant of Morgoth who dares name himself father in an elven tongue, and she’s momentarily stunned into silence.

She blinks slowly, a cascade of realizations clicking into place behind her eyes. It was Halbrand – Sauron – who called out to her to spare Adar’s life, pulling her back as though it were some kind of act of mercy. And why? Oh, it’s all so bitterly clear to her now. Because this orc is, and always has been, loyal to the Dark Lord. First to Morgoth, and now to his successor.

Here is yet another creature of darkness that remains alive only because Galadriel let him live.

She thinks back to the chase on horseback, to the decoy key, to Halbrand’s confrontation with Adar when the orc was thrown down from his toppled horse... If the two of them are indeed still allies, then all of that must have been staged. Planned and plotted in advance, just as false as the rest of it. And surely it must have been Halbrand who broke the chains and set the orc free in the barn. She did leave them alone together for a short while when she walked away into the forest... Oh, what a hopeless, ridiculous fool she has been.

Her stomach turns as she remembers what happened after Halbrand joined her. That conversation in the woods. The one she replayed over and over again in her mind, that fragile moment she held on to as they rushed to Eregion in a last hope to save Halbrand’s life. But absolutely none of it was real. Deceit upon deceit upon deceit.

Why had she thought it was a good idea to come here at all?

The orc is sitting perfectly still at the table, his hands folded calmly in front of him, waiting for her to speak. There’s an inscrutable look on his face; maybe amusement, maybe curiosity, perhaps simply disdain.

“It’s you,” she hisses through her teeth. “Well, this is a surprise. The mighty and powerful Dark Lord hasn’t even the nerve to come speak for himself, so he sends a servant in his place?”

Adar sighs deeply at that, and presses a hand to his forehead. “Oh, no, no, no. Please. Not this again.” His voice sounds exhausted. “Must I really explain to you once more—”

“Keep your wretched words, orc!” she snaps. “I will not treat with you. Nor will I convey any response to Sauron’s requests to anyone’s ears but his own. The message I received stated that I was to negotiate with the leader of Mordor’s army. In person.”

“Yes... that’s right. That is what it said.” Adar draws out the words very slowly, as if he were explaining something to a tiresome child. “That is exactly what it said in the message that I sent you. The message that you got from me, the leader of the Uruk army of Mordor. My army. Now... please sit down.”

She doesn’t sit down. “Cease your pointless games. That message was signed with his sigil.”

“It was signed with the glyph of Mordor,” the orc corrects. “That sigil does not belong to him now. It is the symbol of the home I made for my children. A home I have sacrificed and bled for. A home in which he is very much still unwelcome.” Adar sighs again. “Which is exactly why I had hoped you might be of some assistance to us. And us to you, of course... since I believe our interests align. If you would sit down, please, and listen...” He gestures at the chair across from him, then says in soft, perfect Quenya: “Perhaps you will see that we are not so different after all.”

Galadriel holds back a shudder, to hear such lovely words flow from his cursed mouth. Her jaw clenches. “I am nothing like you.”

“Suit yourself, if it makes you feel better to believe that,” he says with a small shrug, switching back to common speech. “But you will hear me out. You want to know what I have to say... as much as it pains you to accept help from an Uruk.”

His calm demeanour is infuriating. There’s no anger in his voice, no accusation – just that soft and measured tone that’s somehow so much worse. Galadriel briefly considers walking away, just turning around and walking back out without so much as another word. But she needs to discover what Sauron intends here. She’s travelled all this way, and she has no useful alternative. She has no choice but to confer with the orc.

Gritting her teeth, Galadriel pulls out the chair and sits down slowly, smoothing her grey cloak around her.

“Good,” Adar says with the ghost of a smile. “Now. I hope you will allow me to extend a little hospitality.” He raises his hand and signals to someone standing outside, a figure just visible through the gap between the crooked boards that make up the barn door.

A few moments later, a grey-haired human man in plain, shabby clothes comes in, carrying a small tray. He briefly bows his head to Adar and then to Galadriel, and places two mugs of what looks like ale on the table.

“Thank you,” Adar says, a surprising kindness in his voice.

The man bows again, and breathes a reverently-whispered “Adar” before he retreats back out the door and shuts it behind him.

Galadriel looks down at the grubby mug in front of her, wrinkling her nose. “What is this?”

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything that’s more suited to your refined tastes,” Adar says. “As you can imagine, our resources are somewhat limited here.” He lifts his mug and drinks. “But we make do. I must say, I have almost grown to like this Southlander brew.”

She weighs up the possibility of her drink being poisoned, then decides that’s probably low on her long list of concerns right now and takes a mouthful. It’s lukewarm, and it’s most definitely mediocre, but it does seem to be regular, unpoisoned ale.

“We have much to speak about, Commander,” Adar says, “and I would like to offer you some advice.” He pauses, tapping his clawed, gauntleted hand on the table, watching her face for her reaction. “Our last meeting did not exactly endear us to one another. But I thought that maybe you and I could... start over, to our mutual benefit. And try to establish some trust between us.”

“That seems highly unlikely.” She makes no attempt to hide her derision. “Why would I trust you? You are a creature of Morgoth, whose aims are none but destruction, suffering and deceit.”

“Ahhh, Galadriel.” He shakes his head with that placid half-smile, but there’s something sad in his eyes. “You really do take me for a monster. And yet you still won’t spend a moment to reckon with your own actions. How nice it must be to think yourself so righteous... so beyond reproach.”

“I suppose you believe you’re the one who has the moral high ground, then?” Galadriel’s voice rises, and she detests how obvious it is that he’s getting under her skin. “After all the chaos and death you’ve wrought here? After who you’ve served... and who you still serve?”

“I did what I had to do, to protect my children,” Adar says. “To repay the debt I owed to them, for bringing them into being. In that particular matter, I regret nothing.” There’s a space left in the silence afterwards, the weight of things unsaid: In other matters, I regret many things. “But I serve no master now, Galadriel. I serve none but the interests of my children. You may choose not to believe me, but nonetheless—”

“Of course I do not believe you.”

He studies her closely in that scrutinizing way that makes her want to shrink in on herself. But Galadriel holds her chin higher, her shoulders straighter. Under the table, she slips her knife down her sleeve and into her hand, clutching the hilt for comfort as she once clutched Finrod’s dagger.

When she saw Adar last, the orc had been defeated and captured, beaten down and hurt. But he’d still been so indomitably proud in his quiet way, even as she held a dagger to his neck. So unafraid of her, so certain that he would eventually triumph. On the surface, Adar looks even wearier and more exhausted now than he did back then, and he still has those haunted eyes that have seen far too much. But there are new, sharper edges to him now, and he exudes strength and resolve. He sits very straight, with an air of resigned fearlessness about him, the kind that always makes her nervous. The kind people get when they think they have nothing to lose. He’s still studying her intently, like he’s searching her face for something.

“Tell me... are you a mother, Galadriel?” he asks at last.

The question unsettles her; it feels uncomfortably personal. She knows he is just probing for weaknesses, or reaching for some misplaced kinship, but he will find none here. She will not show him any cracks in her armor.

“No,” she says. Not that it is any of your business, you foul, wretched— “My husband was lost to the war, early in our union. We did not yet have any children.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling him anything more than what he asked for. But she needs to find out what he’s after, so she takes his conversational bait.

Adar dips his head down, lowers his eyes. “I am sorry about your husband,” he says. “Truly. It is never easy, losing kin.”

The orc’s words feel like they’re crawling over her skin. She’s reminded of another false apology that she buries, buries, buries, shoving it back into the depths of her mind. No. She won’t think of it now. She won’t picture the way Halbrand’s haunted face looked in the firelight, how sincere his sorrow had seemed that night in the forge in Armenelos. No. This is Sauron’s servant in front of her, he’s searching for weaknesses, and he will find none.

“You must understand, then, the lengths you would go to,” Adar is saying. “What you would do to avenge that kind of loss. You must know how much you would be willing to risk, to strike even a single blow against an enemy who caused your loved ones such pain–”

“You are one such enemy!” she growls. “You, and every other creature of Morgoth who spilled the blood of the Eldar! Cease implying that you and I are alike, that we have suffered in anything like the same way. Those corrupted beasts are not your children. You and I are not alike!”

“And yet,” Adar says slowly, “the fact remains that I have much more in common with you than I ever had with Morgoth. And if you and I were to make an alliance—”

“That is enough!” She slams her knife down on the table, baring the blade enough for him to glimpse it from under the bell of her grey sleeve. “You speak of an alliance, but you’ve yet to tell me anything about what you propose, or why you’ve summoned me here. If you wish to persuade me of something, then speak while you still have a tongue. What advice could I possibly need from you?”

Adar ignores the knife and unhurriedly drinks a mouthful of ale before he replies. He sets his mug back down with purposeful emphasis and leans forward, both elbows on the table. “Well,” he says, “for one thing... between the two of us, I’m the only one who has actually managed to kill the one you call Sauron.”

“Managed to disembody him temporarily,” Galadriel corrects. “If what you said to me in that barn was even true.”

“When you last came to the Southlands, it seemed that declaring him king formed the basis of your current attempt to rid the world of him,” Adar shoots back. “So I would argue that you haven’t come up with anything much better.”

“You know an awful lot for someone who is not his ally.”

Adar sighs wearily. “Galadriel... please. I told you when you had me in chains, and I shall tell you again now as I sit here in complete freedom: I do not serve him. And I wish very much to remove him more permanently from my path... exactly as you do.” He fixes that searching gaze on her. “You do still wish to kill Sauron, do you not?”

A pause, infinitesimally small. “Yes,” she says. “I have hunted him for centuries. I am not about to stop now.”

It gnaws at her, that imperceptible gap between the question and her yes. Adar can’t have noticed it, but she feels her mind fill with it, a void like howling wind, like the sound of a window left open just a crack.

“Hmm.” Adar’s expression is benevolent, serene, quietly pleased. She can read no malice in his face as he pretends to welcome her threat to the Dark Lord. For a moment she wonders... could he be telling the truth? Could it be that Sauron is not his master?

No. He has to be lying. Deceit upon deceit upon deceit.

“I do intend to destroy Sauron, and I will succeed,” she repeats, more for herself than for the orc, willing her conviction into her words.

“Then our intentions do align, as I suspected,” Adar says. He reaches into the satchel that rests at his side, then places something heavy on the table between them. A parcel, wrapped in a piece of black leather. “As proof of my cooperation, and as a sign of my good will... I would like to offer you this. I think you will find it of great value in your... endeavours.”

She looks at the parcel, but refuses to touch it. She doesn’t need to open it to guess what’s inside.

“That is the dark artifact... isn’t it? The key you took from the village. The one that was used to wake the mountain.”

“Yes,” he says. “The key. The hilt of a sword, actually– and it becomes the sword itself, once activated. It is a shadow blade, quite a powerful one. Forged by Sauron himself, at Morgoth’s command.” He nods at the parcel, nudging it toward her. “Of course, I understand if you want to check the contents thoroughly this time,” he says, a sarcastic note in his voice. “Go ahead. Have a look, you’ll find it accounted for.”

“What would I want with it?” She still doesn’t touch the thing on the table. “You’ve already set it to its evil purpose. That can hardly be undone. And if it is really so valuable... then why not keep it for yourself?”

“Unfortunately, the spell it carries is too weak to be useful when activated with Uruk blood,” he says. “The shadow blades were never intended for our use as weapons. This one was left in the care of the humans who fought with us, who swore loyalty to us... but humans, too, can access only a fraction of its power. They cannot comprehend what this blade is truly capable of.”

“I fail to see what any of this has to do with me.” Galadriel lifts her mug and takes a mouthful of her drink to occupy the pause before he responds. Her other hand is still clutching the knife, its blade glinting just inside her sleeve.

“Ahhh.” The orc sips at his own ale, looking contemplative. “Well, you see... though some experiments of my own, I have come to the conclusion that one of the Eldar could wield this weapon very effectively. And I do mean with vastly greater power than any human or Uruk could.” He leans forward again. “Do you understand? This shadow blade could prove strong enough to strike Sauron down. In the hands of one of the Eldar, I believe it could wound him, beyond simply banishing him from his current physical form.” He nudges the parcel closer to her again. “Galadriel, if you were to bind this weapon to yourself—”

“I will do no such thing.” Galadriel pushes the leather-wrapped artifact abruptly back toward him with the point of her knife, and it almost knocks over his mug. “You think I’m fool enough to believe this? You would have me bind myself to some dark artifact, to allow you to put me under some kind of horrific spell?” Her face contorts into a grimace. “You have the nerve to sit here speaking such obvious lies, while you serve him still.”

Adar makes a disdainful sound low in his throat. “You really cannot believe me, can you? But Sauron has long been my enemy. You saw with your own eyes how he meant to slay me that day after the battle, when I failed to recognize him – in fact, it was you who stayed his hand, was it not?” There’s that long, scrutinizing stare again. “Perhaps you were right all along when you said that you needed me alive. You knew you needed my help.”

Galadriel frowns, considering the wrapped object on the table. “What assurance would I have that this is not a trick? That the dark arts you’ve woven on this... this thing would not corrupt me the moment I tried to wield it?”

“No assurance except my word,” he says, “for what little that is worth to you. But this blade will cause you no corruption, save perhaps for amplifying that which is already there.” That half-smile again, quietly mocking. “You have no reason to believe me, I know. But I would not be here if I did not need your help as much as you need mine. I’ve put myself at quite some risk to meet you here, unarmed and unarmored... and I have shown you a trust that you did not deserve, after what you did to me the last time.”

Adar holds open his black cloak, and indeed, she sees that he has no armor on. Only a thin, faded grey tunic and a black leather jerkin protect his chest. Then he lets go of the cloak and extends both of his hands toward her, palms up, in a gesture of peaceful openness. He still wears his spiked gauntlet on one hand, and the other wears a plain black glove, but it’s clear that neither holds a weapon.

“I know that we cannot see eye to eye, Galadriel,” he says, his expression almost pleading. “But I am telling you the truth when I say that I do not serve Sauron. And that I do see in you an unfortunate kinship.”

She weighs up his words. Kinship is not one she wants applied between them. “Because we both want to destroy him?”

“Yes. And because I think we have both found that task... inconveniently difficult to carry out, for reasons well outside the problem of his immortality.” Adar picks up his ale again and takes a long sip, as though to steady himself for his next words. “An age ago, when we still served Morgoth together... I knew Sauron very well. At least, I thought that I did. He was my friend, and... I trusted him. A grievous mistake that I have lived to regret many times.” A pointed pause. “As I’m sure you understand.”

There are tears glistening in the orc’s eyes, and for a brief moment Galadriel feels something dangerously close to compassion for him. She bites down on the inside of her cheek.

“After Morgoth fell... of course, Sauron was the obvious successor,” Adar continues. “But in my foolishness, I had let myself hope that I would rule alongside him. I thought that I would stand with him as his lieutenant... or even as his equal. We would rebuild our army... make our own plans... make this whole world our own. We’d rule it better than Morgoth did. And we would heal the damage that had been done to Middle Earth, just like he talked about. He said we would do it together, that I would be at his side... and I believed him.” Adar looks down at the table before raising his gaze to Galadriel’s again, eyebrows raised, a flash of something wryly amused in his sad eyes. “It would seem that Sauron has a proclivity for elves with a certain... touch of darkness about them, hmm?”

Galadriel’s hand tightens on the hilt of her knife. How dare he—

She moves the blade abruptly toward him across the table, very nearly grazing the black-gloved hand that’s wrapped around his drink. But the orc doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t move his hand away. He just nods at her, indicating her knife with a tilt of his head, as if to make his point. “Mmm hmm.”

Adar is silent for a long time after that, blinking slowly. He sets down his ale and stares down into it as though he’s looking right through it, his gaze distant.

“How is it that you came to betray him?” Galadriel finally asks. Her voice shakes.

“It was him who betrayed me first,” the orc says bitterly. “He never intended for us to rule together. No. He used me, because the Uruk army was loyal to me, and he needed me to reassemble what was left of them. Our forces were scattered, their destiny unclear... and he knew the Uruk might have turned on him without me. He could not control them all at once as easily as Morgoth did.” Adar pauses, takes a slow drink from his mug. “The rest of it, I told you before: he became obsessed with his experiments, with harnessing the forces of the unseen world. He was consumed by a relentless need for more power. And then... he started to draw the Uruk to the north with him. He manipulated their minds, grew more adept at controlling them... and in that fortress, he sacrificed them for his ambitions. One by one, he drained them of life, for nothing. His experiments weren’t even succeeding.”

Galadriel doesn’t lower her knife. “And after that?”

“After that... he did not need me anymore, so he cast me aside. He would no longer take my counsel, even when I all but begged for him to listen. He was as cruel and ruthless as Morgoth had been... and I could take no more of it. And so... I shattered him, to break his hold over the Uruk.” Adar draws in a long breath. “He underestimated me. I caught him off guard and split him open with a shadow blade, and I destroyed his physical form. Unfortunately, in my hands the blade was not powerful enough for a more... permanent solution.”

Galadriel looks at the leather-wrapped dark artifact sitting ominously on the table between them, then looks back to Adar. “Supposing that I still did not believe you,” she says, her hand steady on the knife. “What made you think I wouldn’t slit your throat right here, that I wouldn’t end you like I should have done the last time?”

Adar sits back in his chair. “Well,” he says. “First of all, this place is surrounded by my children. We are four dozen strong – my best archers accompanied me here – and you are without armor, just as I am. Should you exit this building without me, you would not make it to the end of the lane.” He pauses, tilts his head. “Furthermore, you came entirely alone – so I dare say there is no one among your friends or comrades to whom who you could begin to explain the whole truth of what you’re doing here. Your High King surely has no idea how close you had become to our new Dark Lord... am I right?” He gives her one more searching look. “You need an ally, Galadriel. And, much as you hate it, I’m the only useful one you have.”

She says nothing, but she does withdraw the knife, pulling it slowly back to her side of the table before returning it to her sleeve.

“Good,” Adar says with a small, satisfied nod, as though she has already accepted his cursed bargain. He lifts his gauntleted hand and taps a clawed finger against the parcel on the table. “Do we have an understanding, then?”

“Make no mistake, I still do not trust you,” she says. “You are no friend of mine, and you never will be.”

“I do not need your friendship, Galadriel.” Adar slowly unties the parcel and folds open the leather wrapping, revealing the twisted metal shape of the dark artifact within. He slides it toward her. “What I need is for you to take this shadow blade and run him through with it.”

Galadriel tips back her mug of ale and finishes it. And then, with her gaze locked firmly on Adar, she slowly reaches out and picks up the hilt of the black sword.

Chapter Text

Galadriel rides back toward Eregion at maximum speed, hurtling out of the ruined Southlands and away from that cursed place as fast as the horse will run. She rests as little as possible, pushing her horse relentlessly on and on, until at last she feels the grip of that choking darkness growing looser again. Then the shadows of the doomed mountain finally fade into the distance, and she can no longer feel them there behind her, reaching and grasping to pull her back.

The dark sword hilt seems heavier than it should be in the satchel she wears on her back. Sometimes she swears she can feel a strange, sinister cold coming off it, burning through the back of her cloak. She has only looked upon the thing once since she took it from the orc. When she stopped to let her horse drink, she laid the leather wrapping on a patch of grass and opened it gingerly. She studied the artifact without touching it, tentatively holding her palm just above it, and found that it emitted no cold or heat whatsoever. It was nothing but dead metal, just as it had been when she picked it up before. Harmless and lifeless. Just metal.

But it unsettles her still, and she cannot wait to be rid of it, to hide it in some corner of the vault in Ost-in-Edhil while she thinks about what to do next. Everything around her feels empty and false and hollow, just like it did in those terrible days after she learned the truth. Nothing feels right, and she startles easily, her mind jumping at shadows everywhere. The sun on her face cannot warm her. She longs to reach the city walls as fast as possible, to speak to Elrond again, to fall asleep peacefully in her own rooms in a warm soft bed. She wants to close her eyes and let this all go away, just for a moment.

She wills her horse onward: faster, faster. But the quickest way to the city is to retrace the same route she took the last time she made this journey, when she rushed to Eregion with a dying mortal man and a fool’s hope. And it is as though she rides alongside the ghost of herself, watching that stubborn, determined Galadriel who holds Halbrand next to a campfire, who cradles his head while he drinks down the painkiller, who tends his injuries and strokes his hair and dreams of impossible things. She stops for water at the same stream, and both Galadriels kneel on the bank and weep.

She doesn’t know exactly what she’s going to do with the cursed artifact. Oh, she knows what she can do – she can bind it to herself, risk whatever its dark enchantments might do to her, and run Sauron through with it. She can end him, untether him from this world, just like the orc said. But first comes the matter of finding him. A matter in which she no longer knows where to begin, and in which she is not entirely sure she trusts herself anymore. She’d thought to reaffirm how strong she was when she rode out to the Southlands – to Mordor – to refuse him for the second time, and that resolve hasn’t left her. But Adar’s words have unravelled her carefully constructed half-truths, and now she feels wrung out and delicate.

She’d believed so wholeheartedly that it was Sauron who was seeking her out, that he was the one who sent her that letter, that he would offer her an unspeakable alliance once more. She’d been so sure that he would plead for her to change her mind, and that she could prove her strength by denying him again. But there is no evidence that Sauron wants her to reconsider, or that he’s looking for her at all. It has always been her looking for him, century after century, and now things are back as they always were.

The thought that Sauron might actually leave her in peace until she moves to attack him should probably be comforting. But it is not. Somewhere among all those feelings Galadriel is burying, the idea that he no longer thinks about her pains her like a poorly-healed wound. It seems impossible that he doesn’t, not when these thoughts of him still pull her so strongly into despair. It seems impossible that he no longer needs her, when he has left her with this cruel and devastating wanting for something she can never have back.

Sauron had felt that inescapable pull between them. He said as much when they sat together in the forest after the battle, and she knows that part was not entirely false, because she felt it too. That startling connection, that synchronicity. No one has ever fit so perfectly by her side.

Galadriel tells herself that she only mourns for Halbrand. She tells herself that she aches for the strong-willed human smith she’d so foolishly desired, knowing all the while she had no future with him anyway. Grieving a man who doesn’t exist is bad enough. But deeper still, she fears something else, something far worse. Something she cannot give voice to, that she can never speak aloud, not even to Elrond.

She buries and buries and buries it in her mind, but it always claws its way to the surface.

She wants Sauron.

Even with the whole terrible truth of it laid bare in front of her, she cannot stop wanting him, even now. Halbrand is Sauron, and he always has been. They are the same being. It was always Sauron she was connected to, the one who felt like he held the missing piece of her, the one who saw her and understood her the way no one else does. It’s incomprehensible, even more so than her intense, all-consuming infatuation with a mortal man. Halbrand may have been a clever fiction, but underneath it all, it’s been Sauron she was longing for the whole time.

She still wants him, and she hates him all the more for it.

Galadriel pulls her rage tighter around her, surrounding the bastion of her heart and mind. She needs to feel vengeful. She imagines facing him from the opposite side of a battlefield: Sauron the Abhorred, standing there in his spiked armor so much like Morgoth’s, fearsome and terrifying. She imagines igniting that shadow blade and splitting Sauron open with it like Adar did, the dark hilt dripping with her blood as the life drains out of him. She imagines crushing him under her boot as she plunges that black, fiery sword into his chest, destroying the Dark Lord, shattering the ruthless sorcerer who would make himself Morgoth’s heir. But no matter how many times she kills him in her mind, she can never give him Halbrand’s face as she ends him.

It’s only afterwards, when she cradles his broken and bloodied body in her arms, that she pulls off the spiked helmet and looks at him. The battlefield fades away as she reaches out and gently smooths his tangled hair back from his face. And then he’s Halbrand again, and she’s in another place, at another time. She is the ghost of her past self, tenderly laying him down on a blanket next to a small campfire, on the way to Eregion to save his life.

She kneels beside him, placing her cool palm against his fevered forehead, willing strength and life into him. Whispering that he must open his eyes again in the morning, because she needs him to survive.

Because she cannot let him go.

Chapter Text

A few hours out from Eregion, night is falling and Galadriel is more impatient than ever to reach the city. She’s exhausted, and so is her horse, but if they press on they could be inside the city walls by the time the sun rises. She’ll stop to let the horse take a short break, and then she will ride on until morning.

It’s a crystal-clear night, warm and starry, and she hardly recognizes this landscape under such calm conditions. The last time she saw these hills and valleys, they were flowing with mud in a frightful downpour. Galadriel sits down in a small forest clearing, rests on the soft grass and leans against a tree. She tries not to think about when she last travelled this path... not to think about the past in general... not to think about anything at all. She clears her mind, and drinks slowly from her water skin while her horse grazes nearby.

She has no good reason to remove that cursed sword hilt from the safety of her bag again. But as she sits there staring up at the stars, something compels her to take out the parcel and have just one more look at it. She sets it on the ground like the last time, and carefully opens up the leather wrapping. The thing still looks exactly the same – ugly and threatening – and she recoils a bit at the sight of it.

But she supposes she should at least try holding it properly, if she really thinks she’s ever going to be willing to plunge this evil thing into her arm and bind it to herself. Adar demonstrated its use for her, and the image of it still haunts her, his ink-black blood dripping onto the hilt as the shadow blade formed itself in his hand. This weapon looks like it belongs in the hands of a creature like him. Not in hers.

Honestly, this whole endeavour seems like an inordinately bad idea, the possible consequences of which she’s still boxing up in the back of her mind. But no harm will come of it if she simply picks the thing up. She already held it once when she sat with Adar, and nothing terrible happened. She wasn’t even wearing her ring then, and now the ring is back on her hand, humming its calming protection.

She takes a deep breath, and reaches out with both hands to pick up the hilt. She will give it no blood. Only hold it for a moment.

But as soon as Galadriel’s ring-bearing hand brushes against the black metal, something extraordinary happens. A sphere of bright white light forms instantly around her ring, and a pulsing field of power about as big as an apple and as thin as a soap bubble shimmers into being. She senses the flare of the ring’s power intensifying on her hand, and a feeling of cold crackling static crawling up her arm.

Her first instinct is to immediately drop the hilt, but she finds to her horror that she cannot release it. She can no longer let it go; even when she relaxes her fingers and tries to let it slip back onto its leather wrappings, the artifact does not leave her hand. It feels as if the ring has fused into the black metal, and the two objects are sticking together like magnets.

She covers her ring-bearing hand defensively with her other hand, wondering if the ring will slide off her finger and be pulled away from her. But the ring remains steadfastly in place. It isn’t trying to escape her... but nor can she stop it from pulling that cursed hilt toward her palm.

Galadriel’s heart hammers against her ribs, panic rising in her throat. She wills herself to breathe slowly, searching her mind for any explanation of what’s happening. It’s not as though she has a full understanding of her ring’s powers, or all the things it can do – no one knows the whole of it. No one, save maybe Sauron himself.

The three rings that Celebrimbor made have done exactly what was expected: they stopped the decay that was consuming the tree, and that was all that really mattered to the High King and the elven council. The rings restored the tree, they stopped the fading of the elves... but as for what else they can accomplish? It’s a mystery. Of course, none of the others have any idea of the danger that wearing these rings might pose. They don’t know who was truly involved in Celebrimbor’s process of discovery.

The three who were chosen to bear the rings have simply been wearing them and waiting, slowly learning their properties and powers as they reveal themselves. Galadriel knows the one she wears has a protective nature, and that wearing it makes it difficult for enemies to perceive her. But Sauron’s influence was there in its making, even if his only hand in its creation was to hold the puppet strings. Who knows what insidious advice he might have poured into Celebrimbor’s ears, or what dark enchantments might have found their way into the making of the rings? And what causes this ring to resonate with an evil weapon that was made at Morgoth’s command?

Calm, calm, she tells herself. Give yourself a moment to think.

She tries once more to pull the ring and the hilt apart, but the attraction between them has only intensified. She dares not try to remove the ring intentionally, in case it remains fused to the dark artifact. Instead, she concentrates and directs her full focus onto the ring, nudging it for answers with her mind. Its power flares again in response to her attention, and the sphere of light that surrounds it grows a little wider. It’s encompassing both of her joined hands now, glowing all around them where they clasp the hilt.

She can feel the steady stream of energy the two objects are generating; power is flowing between them, amplifying, returning again in a graceful loop. And she can hear something... just at the edges of her perception. Something like otherworldly music.

Almost without meaning to, Galadriel lets herself draw from that swirling stream of energy. She lets that strange music flow into her consciousness, and the crackling power moves swiftly up her arm. She pulls it inward, toward herself, to try to sense its nature a little more closely... and it amplifies again.

She knows she’s made a mistake the moment she feels the magnitude of its full intensity unleashing. But by then, it’s too late. It’s as though she’s turned a key, like the brute who set off the Orodruin mechanism. The power floods into her, rushing over her like an unstoppable wave.

Though she spilled no blood for it, the shadow blade flares to life in her hands, unfolding into a fierce, terrifying sword that’s almost as tall as she is. The blade itself is black as the deepest night, flecked through with molten red heat and surrounded by tendrils of swirling darkness. And down the center, a beam of sharp, impossibly bright light sluices from the hilt to the end of the extended blade.

She stands holding the sword with shaking hands, staring at it in awe and horror. It’s dramatically oversized for her frame, but still it seems to weigh nothing at all. It’s as if the blade is made of smoke and light. She spins around, dizzied and off-balance, aware that the glowing sphere that emits from her ring now surrounds almost her entire body.

She stares at the sword and holds it up higher, raising it aloft into the sky. That ascending, ethereal music gets louder and louder, and she tilts back her head, opens her mouth and screams. At least, she thinks she’s screaming, but she cannot hear herself. All she can hear is that music. All the while, power continues to surge into her, overwhelming her until she can see nothing but dazzling white lights.

Galadriel falls to her knees, her face still tilted up toward the stars as she plummets into the abyss of unconsciousness.

But it isn’t long before the visions take hold of her, and vivid images begin to unfold in her mind.

The shadow land surrounds her in every direction: desolation and destruction as far as she can see. A suffocating darkness, billowing smoke, ash, rolling storm clouds. That doomed mountain is on the horizon, sparking with fire.

She is standing at the top of a tall stone tower, obsidian black, darker than a starless night... and standing before her, silhouetted against the blood-red sky, is Sauron. The Abhorred One, the cruel lieutenant of Morgoth, in his dark armor and spiked helmet. He holds a barbed spear in his hand.

He takes a step toward her... and another... and another... but she is not at all afraid of him. She does not flinch, she does not make any move to defend herself.

And then Sauron, the dread sorcerer, kneels in front of her and bows down. He lays his spear at her feet, lowers his head and cowers in her shadow.

She reaches down for his neck, seizing hold of him with a long, clawed hand that is not her own. He is powerless before her; she knows she needs only to close her fist to crush him. She drags him toward her, and the ground shakes.

She turns to cast Sauron over the wall; she means to throw him from the tower, to let him be dashed on the jagged rocks below. But as she turns, lightning flares through the burnt sky, and she sees the flash of a reflection in the polished obsidian stone. Her reflection, enshrouded by swirling smoke.

She is wearing Morgoth’s crown, and Morgoth’s monstrous armor.

And in her other hand, she is holding that flaming dark sword.

Galadriel spins around, dizzy with horror. She releases her clawed grip on Sauron, and he crumples to the ground. At the same time, she drops the shadow blade, throwing it away from herself, stumbling backwards, backing away from it...

But she has lost her footing. Misstepped, lost her balance. The wall she falls against crumbles beneath her grasping hand, and now it is her who is plummeting over the edge.

She is falling from the tower... falling... falling... falling...

But she never hits the rocks. No, she falls into dark water, rushing and cold. A tempestuous ocean, churning with storm waves.

It only takes a moment before she’s dragged below the roiling surface, unable to move, unable to swim. She is drowning again, drowning like she always does, sinking too quickly. She’s being dragged to the depths, weighed down by the heavy armor, and nothing can save her.

She screams and screams, trying to get free as the water starts flooding her lungs. Too late, too late, too late. But as she opens her eyes and looks up, she sees that a bright tether of light is unspooling above her, trailing in her wake like a rope.

And there is someone else in the water, high over her head. Someone fell – no, jumped – into the ocean after her.

Sauron.

A flash of lightning illuminates the water, and she sees that he looks like Halbrand again. Her Halbrand, the mortal Southlander who saved her from drowning in the Sundering Sea. Her Halbrand, following the rope, pulling her free, pulling her back. She feels his hands take hold of her, strong and steady, and he drags her up, up, up... until her head finally breaks the surface.

She reaches out and grabs hold of the edge of their raft with a gasping breath, coughing up water, her lungs burning. She climbs onto it and pulls herself up onto the uneven planks, crawling to safety—

Galadriel opens her eyes. She’s lying face down on the forest floor in the clearing, her outstreched fingers clutching at gnarled tree roots. The ring is still there, safe on her hand, but the whirl of tumultuous power is gone, and the dark sword hilt lies on the ground a short distance away. The flaming blade has disappeared now, and only the usual lifeless piece of black metal remains.

With great difficulty, Galadriel manages to roll herself onto her back and looks up toward the stars. It’s still dark out, but she has no idea if she’s been unconscious for three minutes or three hours. She has a pounding headache, her vision is blurred, and every muscle in her body hurts; she can hardly move.

She lies there for a while, pressing her hands to her head, before she finally composes herself enough to sit up. She crawls over to the sword hilt and carefully picks it up with the leather wrapping, never allowing it to touch her hands or her ring. She ties it up and bundles it quickly back into her satchel.

Her horse is still there, on the other side of the clearing, and as soon as she’s able to stand up and walk, Galadriel makes her way over to her mount. But when she tries to approach, the horse rears up and shies backwards, moving away from her skittishly.

Galadriel murmurs gentle words, tries to reach out to stroke the horse’s mane, but the animal won’t come to her; it’s as if her horse does not recognize her at all.

“Come on,” she whispers soothingly. “It’s just me, you know me. It’s all right. It’s all right...”

Finally, the horse settles down enough that she’s able to climb back onto the saddle. Galadriel is so dizzy that she can hardly stay upright, and the horse is still uneasy, stamping in circles and unwilling to start moving. Nothing about this bodes well, but she can’t think right now.

She lies down flat against the horse’s neck, resting her aching head, and she pleads with elven words: “We need to go home. Come on now... please, let us go swiftly... please—”

And then, in what seems like a single instant, the starry sky above them suddenly goes pitch dark. Where the stars shone a moment ago, there is just total, eclipsing blackness, like a flame has been snuffed out. There’s a huge, ground-shaking crash of thunder, and fierce orange lightning splits the sky.

Galadriel’s horse rears up and bolts, tearing madly out of the clearing and out of the forest, hurtling right down a steep incline without slowing down. Hooves slipping and sliding on loose rocks, the animal is running frantically in wide-eyed terror, zig-zagging down the slope as Galadriel barely clings to the saddle.

Thank the light, it looks like there’s a dirt road up ahead – that’s where they need to go, to level ground, before the panicked horse breaks a leg. With what strength she has in her, Galadriel pulls and turns her horse toward the road.

The horse surges into a gallop then, dashing straight down the middle of the road as the storm opens up overhead. She can see faint lights in the distance, and the roofs of a few low buildings. There’s a village up ahead; that light is coming from windows, and it’s getting closer, closer, closer—

Just as they reach the nearest building, there’s another crash of thunder. Galadriel’s horse rears up again, jumps over the low wall that surrounds the courtyard, spins around suddenly and throws her.

Pain rattles through Galadriel’s body as she makes contact with the hard ground, scarcely managing to prepare herself in time for the fall as she rolls over uneven cobblestones. She lies there stunned, the air knocked out of her lungs, her chest heaving with the effort of taking a breath as pelting rain falls on her.

After a minute she manages to pull herself up onto her hands and knees, and checks herself over. Her ring is still on her finger, and the bag with the sword hilt in it is here, on the ground next to her. She’s winded, and probably badly bruised, but nothing feels broken. She still feels dizzy and weak, and her head aches horribly, but all things considered... she’s all right.

Could be worse, she tells herself. Could be much worse. She’ll be fine, surely, she just needs to get her bearings.

When the next blaze of lightning illuminates her surroundings, Galadriel gets a better look at the cobbled courtyard. She’s just in front of the steps that lead up to this building’s wide wooden door. There’s a little stable off to her left, and her horse is over there too, standing calmly in front of the gate as if waiting to be let in.

She squints through the rain, looking up at that door and those steps again. Through her searing headache and doubled vision, she cannot quite discern why this place looks... so very familiar...

And then she realizes where this is. She has sheltered from a storm here once before, here at the edge of this human village, a few hours away from Eregion.

At a tiny inn with a roaring fireplace in the downstairs tavern, and just one small room upstairs.

Chapter Text

The sign on the door says the tavern is closed, but Galadriel takes her chances and knocks anyway, hoping someone will hear it over the crashing thunder. Alas, there’s no answer, even when she bangs both of her fists on the door.

She tentatively turns the handle and pushes it inward. The door is unlocked, and it swings open easily.

“Hello?” she calls. It takes just about all the strength she has to compose herself, to pretend that she’s perfectly fine save for being a bit rain-drenched. Thankfully, being soaking wet, windswept and bedraggled can probably do a lot to cover why one looks out of sorts.

“Sorry, tavern’s closed!” a voice shouts from the bar. “Locking up in a minute!”

Galadriel braces herself against the door. “I – I won’t trouble you for long. I’ve been caught in the storm, and I just wondered if – if perhaps I might sit down for a little while to rest?”

Behind the bar, a tiny old woman is carefully drying clean mugs with a rag and setting them on a shelf. She turns her head, squinting in the direction of the foyer to see who’s there. As Galadriel steps inside, recognition immediately dawns on the woman’s face, and she beams a huge smile as she sets down the rag and hurries out from behind the counter.

“Oh! Oh, my goodness! If it isn’t the elf warrior! Come in, my dear – hurry up! And shut that door behind you, before you let all the cold air in!”

Galadriel’s cloak is dripping with rainwater, but that doesn’t deter the old woman from sweeping her into an enthusiastic hug that Galadriel awkwardly returns. Then the innkeeper steps back and looks Galadriel up and down. “Oh, dear. You look...” She pauses, as if trying to think of a diplomatic way to end the sentence. “You look... quite...”

“Terrible?” Galadriel offers, forcing a laugh.

“I was going to say battle-weary.” The old woman smiles, patting her arm. “Tell me, how goes the battle for the Southlands? Do you travel homeward again, to Eregion?”

Galadriel holds back a sigh. Of course, the innkeeper thinks she went straight back to the Southlands with a company of elven soldiers, just like she’d planned to. She thinks Galadriel has been waging war against orcs in the south this whole time. As she probably would have been, if so many other things hadn’t happened since she was last on this road.

“The battle goes... ah, not nearly so well as I’d like. But our fight will continue until the enemy is defeated and the Southlands are freed, of that you can be certain.” Galadriel tries to infuse her words with the kind of optimistic confidence she wishes she were feeling. What she’s actually feeling is so dizzy she can hardly stand up. She still has a piercing headache that feels like she’s been stabbed through the eyes.

“Are you on your way back to the elves for reinforcements, then?” The innkeeper looks at her hopefully.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Galadriel says. “I have some business to attend to in Eregion, and I ride to the city. But I do plan to head straight back to the south when it is concluded. Reinforcements or not.”

Army or no army, just like she's always sworn it... she will find Sauron. And she will end him herself, no matter the cost. She just needs to formulate a new plan.

Sauron. At the thought of him, a hazy memory suddenly tugs at her. She sees a flash of the vision that came when she held the dark sword in the forest. A blood-red sky. The shadow land. A black tower... It’s all a bit vague now, like a half-remembered dream. More like a nightmare. Sauron... kneeling down to her... no, kneeling to Morgoth. And that clawed hand, closing around Sauron’s neck...

Galadriel blinks, and the vision fades again.

“It’s odd, I was just thinking of you a little while ago, when I saw those big storm clouds roll in,” the innkeeper is saying. She tilts her head toward the window. “We haven’t seen a storm this bad since you were here the last time!” She laughs jovially. “I’d say you’re bad luck for the weather... but it was my good fortune that you came to my door, wasn’t it? I really cannot complain. With your generous coins, we bought some beautiful stone from a trader, and my grandson fixed the wall around the courtyard! Did you see how nice it looks now?”

Galadriel honestly cannot recall noticing the wall when she was here before, or this time for that matter; she had been a little preoccupied on both occasions. But she nods with what she hopes looks like enthusiasm. “Oh. Yes, it... it looks... lovely. So lovely that my horse decided to jump right over it.” There’s rainwater dripping out of her hair into her eyes, and she wipes her face with the back of her grey sleeve. It accomplishes little, because her cloak is also soaked. “I let my horse into the little stable out front, like the last time... is that all right?”

“Yes, of course it’s all right!” The innkeeper squeezes her arm. “Now, come on. Go sit yourself down by the fire, and hang up that wet cloak before you catch a chill. I’ll go and make you some tea.”

Galadriel thanks her, and turns toward the tables. She considers choosing a different one – any other table, she can take her pick, the place is empty – but in the end, she goes to that one anyway. She takes off her dripping cloak and hangs it on the back of a chair at the table nearest the fireplace. The same table where she sat and drank liquor with Halbrand, while a different storm battered the windows and a tempest stormed in her heart.

But she will not think of any of that. No. She will not.

The innkeeper brings out a large mug of piping hot tea, and Galadriel drinks it down slowly, letting it warm her while she thinks about the shadow blade. What she really needs to do right now is piece together whatever happened in the forest. She ignited the blade somehow, without giving it her blood, and that hilt... reacted to her ring? She’s felt very strange since it happened, so dizzy and drained. It’s as if the act of holding the sword for just that short while has taken some kind of toll on her. Of course, she was also just thrown pretty hard from her horse, so it’s difficult to say for sure if her condition is entirely due to the sword.

And yet... when she closes her eyes, she still can’t stop seeing disjointed snippets of those visions flashing up behind her eyelids. Morgoth’s crown, reflected in the polished stone. The tower. Sauron, bowing down in his spiked armor... She remembers falling from the tower, and sinking in the dark ocean water... and Halbrand’s hands freeing her, pulling her up to safety. Halbrand was there.

“Are you sure you’re quite all right, dear?” The innkeeper comes over and stands next to the table. “You seem... troubled. Can I get you anything else? Some food, perhaps? Free of charge.”

“I’m fine, thank you. Really. I’m just a bit tired. I’ll rest here for a little while longer, and then I shall be on my way.”

“Nonsense. You’ll stay here till this storm stops! It’s folly to go back out on the road now,” the old woman says. She stands there for a moment in silence, looking like she wants to say something else and hesitating. Her eyes keep skirting to the empty chair across from Galadriel, her expression pained. “I have feared to ask,” she whispers, “but... what became of your poor friend, the one with the lance wound? Did he make it to the city? Could the elves...?”

Galadriel opens her mouth to reply, but before she can decide exactly what answer she should give, there’s a loud crash from the foyer. The front door has just flown wide open, admitting a swift rush of wind and whipping rain into the entryway. The two lanterns nearest the door sputter out.

“What in the world...” the innkeeper whispers.

At first, Galadriel can’t see anyone there. She wonders if perhaps she failed to close the door properly when she came in, allowing the storm wind to rattle the latch loose. But... no, wait.

There is someone in the doorway, a figure stepping out of the shadows.

A tall man in dark clothes stands in the little foyer, rainwater scattering out of his long cloak and dripping over the floor. Something about the feel of his gaze instantly sends Galadriel’s guard up, even before she sees his face. Her skin prickles. Under the table, she slides her knife into her hand, her heart hammering. It can’t be.

“Sorry, tavern's closed!” the innkeeper calls.

Then the man takes another step forward, and as he comes into the light, the old woman screams – a high, excited squeal of joy, as if unexpectedly seeing a long-lost friend. She all but runs to the door towards him, as fast as she can move.

“Oh, my word! Oh, my my my! I can scarcely believe it!” she exclaims, reaching out her thin arms to embrace him. “You live!”

Galadriel can’t breathe. It’s him. Sauron. And he still looks like Halbrand.

He’s just standing there motionless while the little old innkeeper hugs him tightly. His windblown wet hair clings to his face, and his arms are out at his sides; there are no weapons in his hands. An expression of absolute shock is frozen on his face as he stares at Galadriel.

He doesn’t speak out loud, but in her mind she hears him say her name like a question, low and incredulous. Galadriel?

“You are a lucky, lucky man to still be with us, you know that?” the innkeeper is saying. She points over to the narrow flight of stairs that leads up to the top floor. “Last time I saw you, we had to fetch my grandson from next door to help your friend carry you down those steps in the morning! You probably don’t even remember that, do you? You were unconscious, barely breathing. But now... why, just look at you!” She beams at him with that kindly smile, like she’s about to reach up and pinch his cheeks.

Sauron doesn’t even glance down at the old woman, or seem to hear a single word she’s saying. He doesn’t step out of her way as she squeezes past him to go close the front door. He doesn’t move at all. He’s still standing there with his hands at his sides, his mouth open, his gaze fixed on Galadriel.

What are you doing here? Galadriel shoves the words toward Sauron with her mind, their edges sharp and jagged.

He narrows his eyes. You tell me.

“Here, now, let me just shut this, you’re letting the cold in...” the innkeeper says. She secures the door, then pushes past him again as she comes back. “I’ll go boil some more water for tea, shall I? Go on. Go sit down with your friend. I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.” She pats his arm and heads back behind the bar and into the kitchen.

Galadriel staggers to her feet. Her heart is slamming frantically against her ribs, and there are stars at the edges of her vision. As soon as she stands up, she feels like the room is tilting wildly from side to side.

Sauron’s gaze darts around the room, as if he’s searching for someone else, but there’s no one here. He seems... strangely nervous, and he’s backing away slowly, inching back toward the door.

Is this a trap, Galadriel? Some kind of a trick? What is this?

What do you mean?

“Sorry, I... I need to go see to my horse,” he says out loud. He reaches behind him and grabs the door handle without turning his back to her. Then he flings the door open and takes off down the steps, disappearing back outside.

Wait, no!

Galadriel starts after him, then whirls back to grab the satchel that holds the shadow blade from the floor beside her table. She loses her balance when she leans down, and stumbles painfully to her knees. But she drags herself up again, bracing herself against the table, nearly knocking over what’s left of her tea before she manages to sling the satchel over her shoulder.

There’s no time to think, no time to reason with herself. She chases after Sauron, staggering down the steps and out into the courtyard, running into the pelting rain.

Chapter Text

Outside, the storm is still raging, and the fierce wind whips rain into Galadriel’s face. But as she dashes out into the middle of the courtyard, the rain abruptly stops. Thunder and lightning are still crashing through the roiling clouds, incredibly close, as though the storm is directly overhead... and not a single drop is falling anymore.

This should probably concern Galadriel more than it does, yet she barely pays it any mind as she concentrates on her unsteady feet. She’s in no state to run, as off-kilter as a tavern patron who stayed for one too many. Nothing but sheer force of will keeps her upright as she slips and slides on the still-wet cobblestones, but she cannot possibly let him escape right in front of her again.

“Sauron!” she screams into the storm, her voice immediately swallowed by the roar of thunder. “Sauron!”

When the courtyard is illuminated by another burst of lightning, she sees that the gate to the little stable is ajar, and dread seizes her heart. Has he done something to her horse, to prevent her from pursuing him? She runs up to the open gate, clutching the swinging door for balance, half-falling into the stable.

Her horse is still there.

And so is he.

He’s leading another horse into the stall next to hers, speaking to it in a low, soothing voice, patting its head. As if he’s a perfectly normal human man getting his horse settled for the night. As if they didn’t just have that incredibly strange encounter in the tavern.

“Sauron!” she shouts again, and this time he turns around.

She catches her breath, suddenly realizing her recklessness in chasing him. She barely has the strength to stay on her feet, much less to confront the Dark Lord. All she has in her hand is a knife that she could scarcely hope to scratch him with, never mind wound him. And although she carries the shadow blade in the satchel at her side, there’s no way to extract it without him noticing – if she could even withstand a new attempt to wield that cursed blade.

“Galadriel,” Sauron says, exhaling her name with something like amazement. “It truly is you.” There’s still a shadow of suspicion on his face, and he’s studying her closely as if he still expects some trick. But he no longer looks quite as nervous as he did in the tavern.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. “And why did you run out, just now?”

“I told you I had to see to my horse, did I not?”

She blinks in disbelief. “I... I did not expect you had really brought a horse.”

“And I did not expect you at all, Galadriel,” he says. “So it seems that we share our surprise.”

It disconcerts her that he has kept his human guise. He still sounds like a Southlander, and he looks the same as the day she met him, right down to the dishevelled wet hair – though he wears fine black travelling clothes and a regally embroidered cloak now instead of rags. He is still Halbrand, and beneath her simmering rage, her heart aches at the sight of him.

“An unlikely story. Why did you come here, then?” she demands. “What did you presume to find when you stormed into that tavern?”

“That is a very good question. Believe me, there is a great deal I’d like to understand right now, too.” He glances at the small, ornate knife that she still brandishes in front of her. “For instance, what it is you hope to accomplish with that. Shall I come closer, if you really enjoy holding useless weapons to my throat so much, my little elf? ”

“Do not address me that way,” she says through gritted teeth.

He smirks. “Well... if you’d prefer my queen, you need only tell me that you’ve changed your mind.”

Her hand clenches around the knife, fury boiling in her veins at the nerve of him. Her great enemy stands before her, wearing the false face of the man she once cared so much for, and he mocks her. He still smiles at her with Halbrand’s smile, and she wants to tear his wretched unfeeling heart right out of his chest. How dare he do this—

Before she can think, Galadriel raises her arm and hurls the knife at him, useless as it is, releasing it with a feral scream. Of course, he catches it easily, snatching the blade out of the air with his bare hand. He calmly drops the knife on the ground, and looks down at the tiny trickle of blood on his fingers.

“Ouch. I suppose I deserved that,” he says. He wipes his hand on the edge of his black tunic, then flexes his fingers and swiftly heals himself. “Do you feel better now? Or would you like to throw it at me one more time?”

Galadriel opens her mouth indignantly. But before she can say anything else, she suddenly realizes how very clearly she could hear him speaking just now. There’s dead silence in the stable, aside from the soft sounds of the horses. No more roar of thunder.

The storm has suddenly ended.

She looks through the open gate behind her and sees the storm clouds dissipating with unnatural speed, disintegrating into a fine, wispy mist. Behind it is a bright white moon, and a clear sky peppered with stars. The air is just as warm as when she was back in the forest clearing, and there isn’t a single whisper of wind.

“What is this? Some manner of dark sorcery?” she demands. “That storm started out of nowhere... then the rain stopped... and now it’s gone?”

“Ah! Yes, indeed! The storm was my doing.” There’s a proud, accomplished look on his face. “I thought it turned out quite well, given it was the first one I’ve conjured in centuries. I’m still slowly regaining my powers, experimenting with them a little... What did you think of it?”

“I thought it seemed strange. There was something wrong about it, like all creations of evil.” Galadriel glares at him, willing the steel into her gaze that she no longer has in her hand. “Did you really conjure up a whole storm just to remind me once more of the past?”

Sauron holds up both hands defensively. “I didn’t even know you would be here, Galadriel! I knew not who I pursued. I only hoped to slow them down and make them take shelter somewhere, so I could get a closer look.”

“A closer look at what?”

His searching gaze goes directly to her satchel. “I think you know very well at what.”

“And I think you should explain yourself.” She forces the brash confidence of the Commander of the Northern Armies into her voice, hiding her nerves the same way she once did when she stood in a Númenorean throne room wearing nothing but a tattered shift. But her heart is sinking. He knows, and there is absolutely nothing she can do to prevent him from taking the shadow blade. What small chance remained of catching him by surprise with it has just evaporated before her eyes.

Sauron takes a step toward her. “Five days ago... I first sensed a power flare when Adar activated that weapon,” he says. “When he drenched it with his blood and the shadow blade was ignited, I was alerted to its location and I perceived its bearer. I have been looking for that sword ever since I went to Mordor... but so long as it remained unused, I could not discern it.”

He pauses, as though he’s still deciding exactly how much of this story to tell her. He is surely speaking with his usual blend of half-truths and omissions.

“I gave chase, following the after-image of the power flare to track down the sword hilt,” he continues. “I thought it was Adar who carried it still, and that it was him I was tracking... but the hilt proved extraordinarily difficult to keep focus on. Everything was so indistinct to me, as if it were being deliberately shrouded from my sight. I have pursued that hilt ever since it crossed the border out of the Southlands... but the after-image was fading, as it does with time. If the blade had not been activated again, I would almost certainly have lost its trail.”

Galadriel remembers how she’d felt the dark artifact exuding an eerie chill every so often, and how the cold burned into her, even through the satchel and through her cloak. She realizes that must have been when his sight was upon it, and she shudders.

Sauron takes another step toward her. “But then, tonight,” he says, “there was another power flare. One so strong that I doubt Middle Earth has seen its like in centuries. I should have been able to see the bearer again as soon as the blade was ignited, but when I tried to perceive who held it this time... I could not. So I followed in great haste, pursuing that after-image.” He looks toward the inn, confusion crossing his face. “Then I got here, and I saw this place... and I thought for certain that it had to be a trap, or some sort of trick to ensnare me.”

“And yet you walked right into it, unarmed and unprepared?”

“I couldn’t help it, Galadriel. I had to know who was here, even though I feared the answer. The power with which that weapon flared... I thought for a moment that... I thought it would have to be...” He trails off, abandons the sentence. “But it was you who ignited the blade tonight, wasn’t it? You are here alone.”

She nods her head. If Sauron now believes her to be more powerful than she is... then let him fear it. Her only hope is that he somehow doesn’t notice her weakness, for she is so drained of strength right now that she could hardly put up the slightest defense against him.

“That is... most remarkable.” His brow furrows in thought. “But how...”

He takes another step, and he’s right in front of her now. His eyes flick down to her ring-bearing hand. She goes to hide it inside her sleeve, but it’s too late; he lunges forward impossibly fast, seizes her wrist and pulls the sleeve back.

The ring sparkles on her finger, and she swears its glow gets a little brighter when he touches her, as if in response to his presence.

“Ohhh... I see,” he whispers. He pulls Galadriel toward him, tilting her hand from side to side as he inspects the ring with an unsettling, covetous smile. “Oh, this is very good. Your smiths followed my instructions perfectly.”

“Release me!” she commands, not for one moment thinking that he’ll actually obey. But to her great surprise, Sauron does drop her hand, and she jerks it back, cradling it protectively against her chest. He’s standing so near, and even with the shield of her rage and resolve drawn tight around her, she can feel Sauron’s presence, his mind and his power hovering at the edge of her consciousness like dark smoke.

Can he sense how weak she is, how little resistance she could put up if he reached into her memories again? She backs away from him, so dizzy that she has to steady herself with one hand on the stable wall.

“You needn’t keep your distance,” he says softly. It’s Halbrand’s voice, saying Halbrand’s words. But he is not her friend. He is not Halbrand. He is Sauron, the deceiver, the monster. A friend of Morgoth’s. “I’m just trying to figure out what is happening here, Galadriel. I have no intention of hurting you. I’ve never meant you any harm.”

“Never meant me any harm? Really?” Her barely-contained rage explodes from her as she faces him. “And what about when you shoved me into the river unconscious and left me to drown?”

“What?” His eyes go wide, as if the very idea is shocking to him. “I did not leave you to drown! I never have, and I never would, that was the whole point! I was going to pull you up... oh, come on, Galadriel, don’t look at me like that... you know I was going to! I was obviously re-creating our little moment from the raft, and I would have rescued you. I only meant to remind you that you do need me after all, to wait long enough for you to realize it. But then I heard Elrond coming. He was calling for us, and he was already halfway down the stairs, so what was I meant to do? He interrupted me before I could save you! And I – well, you can surely understand why I had to run—”

“Because my closest friend would have seen you holding my head underwater?” she says acerbically. “Yes, I can see how that might be difficult to explain. Running away was the much better option.”

“I would have made it up to you, Galadriel. And I would have explained if I’d only had a chance... but it all just went so wrong so quickly. That was not how any of that was meant to go.”

“You invaded my mind! Twisted my memories against me!”

“I was caught off guard, that’s all. I acted without thinking, and you misunderstood my intentions. I am sincerely sorry—”

“Stop it!” she shouts. “No more of your empty apologies. You impersonated my brother, whose death you caused. What part of that was ever meant to convince me that your intentions were good?”

“Ugh.” He sighs, pressing a hand to his temple. “Well... all right, when you put it like that, it just sounds... so much worse than what I intended. I do regret it. Truly. I was out of order, I was completely wrong, it was entirely my fault... however you’d like me to say it, I am sorry. And I will make it up to you.”

He’s slowly moving closer and closer to Galadriel as he speaks, and now she is cornered. Her back is against the wall, and she doesn’t even have the comfort of a pointless knife in her hand anymore. There is nowhere to run.

She lifts her chin defiantly, summoning that unwavering commander’s confidence. But she’s so dizzy she can hardly see straight. She still has a searing headache, and bright lights are sparkling at the edges of her vision. The best she can hope for is that Sauron will somehow leave of his own accord before he makes up his mind to harm her. But he surely won’t leave without the shadow blade.

“Cease your incessant talking and just do what you came to do, deceiver,” Galadriel says. “You want your shadow blade back? Then have it. Take it, and be gone from my sight.”

She reaches into her satchel, pulls out the leather-wrapped parcel and throws it onto the ground. She won’t give him the satisfaction of watching her struggle to protect it, for there is nothing she can do to stop him anyway. Even if she were willing to risk igniting that blade again, she would never be fast enough to strike a blow on him, not when he already knows she has the weapon. It’s as good as lost. And now she may as well be back where she started, lying helpless in the Glanduin with him holding her head underwater.

But Sauron doesn’t lean down to pick up the sword hilt. Instead, he turns around and walks away from her. He goes over to a wooden bench near the stalls where their horses are tethered side by side, and he sits down, resting his hands on his knees.

“You hoped to kill me with that shadow blade, I’m sure,” he says quietly. “You meant to split me open, just like our friend Adar did the last time. I’m sure he wove a fine tale when he placed that hilt into your hands... perhaps a nice story about how you could strike me from this earth and thoroughly banish me, is that it?” He looks up at her again. “I only wish to speak to you first, Galadriel... before you decide if you want to do that.”

“And I do not wish to listen. I’ve already given you what you want.”

He sighs. “Galadriel, I could have snatched that hilt from you the moment you stumbled in here, if that were all I wanted. I can plainly see that you are barely standing up, no doubt the effect of wielding that blade the way you did. And yet, I’ve done you no harm. So please. Just come and sit down. Talk to me. Help me understand what is happening.”

Galadriel hesitates for a moment. And then, she walks over and sits down slowly next to him on the bench, mostly because she’s not sure how much longer she can actually stand. The ground is spinning wildly under her feet.

“Speak, then,” she says. She takes a deep, steadying breath, not looking at him. “Say whatever it is you have to say, and then take your cursed weapon and leave.”

“Galadriel... something happened when you ignited that blade tonight,” Sauron says. “The very thing I’ve been trying to achieve for... a very long time. You tapped into a power I’ve not seen since Morgoth was vanquished. When I first sensed that flare... for a moment I had the foolish, terrifying thought that – that perhaps Morgoth himself lit that blade. That somehow he had already returned among us.”

Her heart pounds, remembering a flash of her vision – the top of that impossibly dark tower... Sauron kneeling down before her... and Morgoth’s crown reflected in the stone. Morgoth’s crown, upon her own head.

“You thought the shadow blade might be in Morgoth’s hands, but you pursued it anyway?” she says incredulously.

“I truly had no idea what or who I would discover when I found it. There were several possibilities... and none of them were particularly good.” He sighs. “I told you before that I couldn’t see the bearer when the blade was activated tonight, and that is the truth. I did not see who wielded the sword. However... while I was trying and failing to perceive it, I did see an unusual vision. I saw Morgoth restored, standing in front of me and threatening me. I was made to bow to his will, to kneel down before him. I felt his grip closing around my neck again.”

Ice flashes through Galadriel’s veins as his words sink in, and she cannot look at him.

“And then... right after that... I had a vision of you, Galadriel,” he says. “I saw you drowning in the Sundering Sea. Needing my help. And I thought — I thought it might be some kind of a lure, to bring me in. But I couldn’t stand to watch you drown again. All I could do was follow that rope anyway, just in case. I took hold of you, and I pulled you up, and I... I put you onto our raft. Safe.” He exhales softly. “When I snapped myself out of the vision, I set to work summoning that storm, to slow down whoever was escaping with the hilt. I kept tracking it, and... then I arrived here. And you were in the tavern, sitting at that table.”

“That vision,” she whispers. “When I ignited the sword... I saw it, too.”

It’s not lost on her how much this parallels their confession in the Southlands forest, when they sat together after the battle. But she is wiser than that, now. He is a master of deceit. Perhaps he created that vision himself, and somehow sent it into her head through the sword, or through the ring...

“You saw the same thing?” He sounds genuinely stunned. “Me saving you from the sea?”

She hesitates. “Yes. I was drowning, and I saw you following the rope to get to me. You pulled me up, and you brought me to the raft.”

Why should she tell him that they shared all of it, and what part she played in the first half? If the vision is his own doing, then he knows already. And if it isn’t... then she needs more time to contend with what this might mean. She will simply use his way of answering questions. Not a lie. But only part of the truth.

“Hmm,” he says. “It seems our fates remain entangled, Galadriel, whether you wish it so or not. There is much of this I don’t yet understand. I have so many questions.”

“I have a question, too,” she says. “You are the one who forged that hilt for Morgoth, are you not? That is why you can sense the shadow blade– because it is your own dark craft. So... did you know when the key was being turned in the Southlands? Did you sense it, all of the other times when someone ignited that blade, before the mountain was woken?”

“No. My powers were still a great deal weaker back then,” he says. “I didn’t begin to recover most of them properly until after I was healed by the elves in Eregion – something for which I must thank your people, by the way. They really did do wonders for me. But I wasn’t looking for any of Morgoth’s artifacts when we first landed in the Southlands, anyway. In fact, I’d consciously blocked my attunement to any dark forces as we rode into that village, lest I accidentally give my identity away to the orcs. My entire focus that day was on winning the battle. And after that, well... afterwards... my mind was very much occupied with... you.”

“I see,” she says quietly.

“Galadriel. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I really did not lie to you. Everything I said that day after the battle was the truth. Those were perhaps the truest words I’ve spoken this age. And when I was fighting beside you, I did feel—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts. Her voice shakes. “I do not care what you felt. And I do not wish to speak of that day.”

“What are you so afraid of that you cannot even look at me, Galadriel?” She feels him shift closer to her on the wooden bench. “Do you fear that if you look at my face, you will not be able to turn away from me again?”

“I have no desire to look at you or at that false human face of yours,” she lies. “I suppose you haven’t yet regained your ability to change form? I don’t expect you’d want to look like Halbrand anymore if you had.”

He laughs at that. “Well... I certainly didn’t ever expect to keep this face for very long. I was sure I’d change back to an elven form as soon as my powers had been sufficiently restored. Once I had you at my side... I thought I’d become some slender, ethereal, silky-haired elf lord for you. One you’d find much fairer than a mortal Southlander.” She still isn’t looking at him, but she knows the corner of his mouth is going up in Halbrand’s familiar smirk. “Ahhh... but I was so very mistaken! Because elf lords never have stirred your passions much, have they, Galadriel? Little did I know just how fond you’d become of this form. I admit I’ve become quite partial to it myself, now that I’ve seen how much you—”

“That is enough!” she hisses, finally turning her head and locking eyes with him. “Stop talking!”

He arches an eyebrow. “Would you rather I be doing something else with my tongue?”

“Halbrand—” she says warningly. His old name slips out, and she claps her hand to her mouth.

“Mmm. It really does something to me when you say that name,” he says. “You’re welcome to keep calling me Halbrand, if you like.”

“I will not,” she says. “I will call you what you are. Dark Lord. Monster. Deceiver.”

He exhales wearily. “And yet, despite it all, you must admit that I did not tell you any lies, Galadriel. Those stories you chose to believe about me, about the lost King of the Southlands... you made that up for yourself! I told you that I had done evil. I told you that you would cast me aside if you knew what I had done. But I did not lie.”

“You did not need to lie to deceive me. Halbrand does not even exist!”

“Halbrand is me, Galadriel. Just like all of the other names I have been called, it is simply a name. Everything Halbrand said to you, I said. I had truly hoped that when the moment came, when I gave you the whole truth of who I am... that you would understand.” There’s a bitter disappointment in his voice.

“You gave me nothing!” she shouts. “You gave me no truth! It was I who finally forced the truth from you, only by catching you in your own deceptions! If you wanted me to know who you were so badly, if you were really so certain I’d understand, then why did you not simply tell me?”

Sauron is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. He reaches over and ever so gently tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against her temple, and her traitorous heart still leaps at his touch. “Galadriel... do you remember when you asked me why I didn’t kiss you on that day we sat in the forest? You wanted to know why we held back from each other after the battle, why I didn’t just act on what I was feeling. Remember that?”

She freezes, a cold dread creeping into her bones. “No. I have never asked you that.”

“You did, Galadriel. I tried to explain to you that I wanted it to happen at the right moment, at a time when you wouldn’t write it off, when you wouldn’t regret it. And this... this is exactly the same. You found out who I was before I meant for you to, but I was so close to telling you already. I just wanted to wait for the right time. I was planning to talk to you after we’d finished making the rings, after you saw how I’d saved the elves for you—”

“No... no, no, no...” Galadriel isn’t listening to the rest of what he’s saying. Her breath comes too fast, her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. “That isn’t possible! That conversation... about why we held back in the forest... that only happened in a dream! You’ve never actually said those things to me! And I didn’t really – we didn’t – that was just – ”

“Galadriel.” He reaches for her slowly, tentatively, as if he’s waiting for her to push him away, but she’s so stunned she doesn’t even move. He slides his arm around her shoulder and leans close to her, his lips brushing against her ear. “I cannot forget what we’ve shared in our minds... and nor can you,” he says in that soft, low voice that always undoes her from the inside. “You’ve already told me the truth. Do not deny that you still desire me.”

Galadriel pulls away from him, sliding as far away from him as she can on the bench. She feels unmoored, unsteady, bright starbursts blooming at the edges of her field of vision.

“It wasn’t a dream... was it?” she whispers. “That night... on the way to Eregion, when we stayed here... that was all you! You and your cursed illusions!” Her voice rises, shaking with rage. “It was you, invading my mind! Manipulating me! Making me feel things—”

“No!” he shouts, desperation in his voice. “No, Galadriel, no! It wasn’t like that at all. If anything, that night was mostly you! I did join you in your mind, yes, but I manipulated nothing. You were the one who led!” He reaches for her imploringly. “Don’t you remember how I told you I was completely at your mercy, that I was yours to command? I did exactly what you asked me to do!”

“Get away from me,” she gasps, shoving his hand away. She still cannot catch her breath.

“Galadriel...please. Calm yourself, just give yourself a moment to think.” There’s no anger in his voice, only that miserable pleading, that false sincerity that he conjures so easily. “I was so weak I could hardly sustain that illusion! And you saw for yourself what happened to me afterwards, how it drained me of my power! That’s what it cost me to join minds with you, to give you those moments you wanted. I very nearly died doing that with you, fool as I was.”

“Pity you didn’t, then,” she snarls through clenched teeth.

Her face burns to think of what happened that night – what she said to Halbrand when she thought her dream was hers alone, when she thought she could let go of her restraint and abandon all common sense. And he knows everything, because he was there. The truths she told him... oh, light, the things she did with him! The way she touched him – her hands all over him, her tongue in his mouth, asking him for more and more—

“I am sorry for what I did when you confronted me at the riverside,” Sauron says. “I was wrong then, and I regret it. I was angry, and I was so afraid I was losing you that I panicked.” He’s staring intensely into her eyes, looking every bit as sincere as that night he apologized to her in the forge. “But what we shared on the way to Eregion? That, I will never apologize for, because I did not manipulate anything. I never lied to you, Galadriel! Every place we went to, everything you wanted us to do... that was all already in your mind! I cast an illusion for you, yes, but that was all I did. An illusion in which to grant you what you desired!”

“Oh, please. Cease implying that it was all for me. Just admit that you used me to your own ends, that you did it for your own benefit.” She blinks back furious tears. “It gave you satisfaction to know how much I desired y— how much I desired Halbrand. You wanted to make me say it, to make me show you... and you got exactly what you wanted.”

“We,” he insists. “We got what we wanted. You say you desired Halbrand as if you’re still pretending he is some other person, but you know very well who you desired: me. You wanted me just as much as I wanted you. And I showed you exactly how good we could be together. I held that illusion for you at my own peril, because I could not tear myself away from you, Galadriel. I could not make myself end it, even as I was burning out my link to my mortal form, even as I was risking everything! That’s how desperately I wanted you.” He reaches out and clutches her hand in his. “That night, I would have done anything for you. And I would do it still, if you asked it of me now. Just tell me what you want, and I will make this up to you.”

“I want you to leave,” Galadriel says, looking down at the dirt floor. Her voice cracks on the words, and she cannot meet his eyes. “What I felt for Halbrand was not for you, and it never will be. The only desire I have that involves you is the desire to rip your roots from this earth and cast you into the Void with your forsaken master.”

“Hmm,” he says. He doesn’t let go of her hand. “If that’s true, Galadriel... then why can you not look at me while you say it?”

She does not reply.

“Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me that you do not want me, and mean it... and I will never reach for your mind again,” Sauron says. “I give you my word.”

This is the moment she always expected when she rode to the Southlands to meet the sender of that letter. She always knew she would have to face Sauron like this. That she would have to refuse him again, and find some way to bury everything she’s ever felt for him. To prove once and for all how strong she is, that he hasn’t won, that he will never win.

He releases her hand and reaches up to place his palms on either side of her face. He gently turns her head toward him, and she lets him do it. She steadies herself, gathers her resolve... and she finally allows her gaze to meet his.

He’s cupping her chin in his hands, exactly the same way he did before he kissed her in their shared dream. There are tears glittering in his eyes; false, deceitful tears from the monster who wears the face of her friend. He looks at her like Halbrand, as if nothing has changed. But he is Sauron. He is the Dark Lord, the enemy she’s pursued for centuries, and she needs a blade in her hand.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me that you don’t want me, Galadriel, and that your heart has not desired this.”

He’s leaning forward now, his mouth and his mind so very close to hers, his presence surrounding her, and she trembles with longing.

“I... I don’t...” she begins.

He is Sauron, and she hates him... but oh, how she does want him. She burns for him, even now, even knowing exactly what he is, and she cannot stop. Her breath hitches.

His lips are parted, half-smiling now as he awaits her capitulation. He closes his eyes... and suddenly, he looks so incredibly vulnerable.

In a split-second, Galadriel wrenches herself away from him. She flings herself off the bench, hurling herself toward the black leather parcel that still lies in the dirt where she threw it. It’s such a ridiculous gambit that she regrets it the very moment she’s done it. She’s completely miscalculated how little balance she has, how weak she still is, and she falls straight down, landing hard onto her hands and knees. With all the effort she can muster, she lunges forward to crawl toward the sword hilt, but it’s so far away—

Sauron doesn’t even need to intervene to stop her, because gravity does it for him. Galadriel collapses onto the dirt floor, her body giving out, her limbs no longer obeying her. She crumples gracelessly to the ground in the middle of the stable.

Oh, Galadriel, Sauron says in her mind. Oh, my foolish, foolish little elf.

And then, everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Out of the darkness, the images from the shadow blade vision explode into Galadriel’s mind in disjointed bursts. They shatter there like so many sharp splinters, playing over and over again while she screams in silent agony.

The shadow land, desolation and ruin. The mountain of fire, destruction raining down. That jagged dark tower, and Sauron the dread sorcerer on his knees. Morgoth’s crown reflected in polished obsidian. Blood-red sky split by lightning. A long, clawed hand reaching for Sauron. The endless sea all around her; dark water, rushing and cold.

She drowns in the Sundering Sea, her lungs burning as she struggles hopelessly to free herself. And then he is there again – Halbrand – pulling her up to the surface. She feels his hands gripping her, lifting her toward the raft, holding on to her as she coughs up water and gasps painfully for air.

Galadriel opens her eyes and breathes in slowly, tentatively... but there is no more water flooding her lungs. She can breathe normally.

Her vision is still slightly blurred, but her surroundings are gradually resolving into sharper focus. She’s in a narrow, dimly-lit room, illuminated by a single flickering lantern. A room with a low wooden ceiling, with a table and chairs crammed into the corner, and one little window. It’s that tiny room upstairs above the tavern, she realizes with a shock. The very same room she slept in with Halbrand the last time she was here.

She’s lying on the bed, with a soft knit blanket laid loosely over her. And Halbrand – Sauron – is sitting there next to her on the edge of the bed, his warm hands encircling her wrist.

“Oh, no,” she whispers hoarsely. “No, no, no, no...” She attempts to sit up, but she’s instantly overwhelmed by dizziness, and her head falls straight back against the pillow.

Rest, Galadriel, Sauron says in her mind. Lie down. You are safe here.

“Stop that!” she chokes out. “Stay out of my head! Just... speak out loud, if you must.”

She summons enough strength to snatch her hand away from him – thank the light, her ring is still there, glowing softly on her finger. He hasn’t tried to steal it.

“Sorry,” he says. “But please, Galadriel... you must be still. You need to rest.”

She turns her aching head to the right as far as she can, craning to take a better look at the rest of the room. Her dark grey cloak – which she’d left behind in the tavern downstairs – is hanging there over the back of one of the chairs. The leather-wrapped bundle with the sword hilt inside it is sitting on the table. And her satchel is there, too, with all its contents strewn out over the tabletop as if he’s looked through everything. Including at least one thing she’d very much rather he hadn’t seen.

The number of things he knows about that she wishes he didn’t just continues to grow.

“What were you doing to me, just now?” she demands. She can still feel a strange warmth radiating around her wrist where he held her.

“Well, I was attempting to share a bit of my power with you, to help restore your strength faster,” Sauron says, looking down at his hands. “But I don’t know if it was really helping very much. Doing healing magic on others is, ah... not my strong point.”

“I don’t imagine you’ve had much occasion to practice it,” she says, making no attempt to hide the disdain in her voice. “No matter. I don’t need your help, and I want nothing to do with your power, regardless of the purpose. I asked you to leave me alone.”

He gives an exasperated huff. “Right. I see. So... are you saying I was meant to abandon you there? Just to leave you unconscious on the ground in the stable until the innkeeper came looking, so you could once again accuse me of running away?”

Galadriel’s heart suddenly seizes with dread. “The innkeeper!” she gasps. “Oh, no, no! Did she come looking? You – you didn’t harm her, did you?”

“Galadriel.” Sauron shakes his head. “Will you never stop thinking the absolute worst of me in every situation? Of course I didn’t harm her! I simply instilled in her a... light compulsion to go into the kitchen and slice potatoes, just before I went outside the first time. She didn’t come looking for us, and she didn’t see me bringing you in. She probably didn’t even realize any time had passed.” He raises a finger. “And before you ask, yes. I did pay for this room.”

Galadriel lies back with a sigh of relief.

“Also, now that I’ve carried you up those damned stairs, I think you can consider our scales balanced for the last time we had to get up here, hmm?” Sauron says with a smirk. “I’ll even carry you back down in the morning, if you like.”

“You will not carry me anywhere in the morning, because you are leaving! Immediately!” She struggles to sit up again, and this time she actually manages it, dragging herself up unsteadily onto her elbows. Her head still aches, but she does feel quite a bit better than she did in the stable. Maybe whatever half-formed healing magic he attempted worked a bit after all.

“I see you have not given up on your constant need to command me,” he says, his face amused.

She ignores that. “Leave. Take the shadow blade, give me back the rest of my things... and let us part ways,” she says.

Sauron laughs softly, and she’s suddenly reminded of how he mocked her in the Númenorean dungeon.

“Ohhh, really? The rest of your things?” He reaches over to the table and plucks one small object from among the scattered contents of her satchel. She doesn’t even need to see it to know exactly what’s in his hand. “This, too?”

He holds it up to her face: a worn leather pouch, with the crest of the King of the Southlands hanging from it.

“Have you really had it this whole time, Galadriel? I thought I’d lost this!”

“Bronwyn gave it to me for safekeeping when we set out for Eregion,” she says, averting her eyes. “Looking back on it, she probably intended that I would bury you with it... since she didn’t believe you could survive.”

“I see,” he says quietly. “And you didn’t think to give it back to me, in Ost-in-Edhil?”

She blinks, unexpected tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. “I... I always meant to return it to you when we went back to the Southlands together, when we rode to reclaim your lands from the orcs. I suppose I’d once imagined that I would press it into your hand on the eve of our next battle... as we prepared to fight side by side again.”

“And yet, after all that’s happened, you’ve still kept it,” he says. “You’ve carried it with you all this time, even now.”

“I took it with me now because I travelled to the Southlands. And I’d thought that... perhaps I might give it to someone there.”

She knows that he knows it’s a lie. A half-truth, at best. But he says no more. He just sits in silence for a long time, holding that crest in his hand, looking down at it. Then he finally sets it back down on top of the pile of her things, gets up from the edge of the bed, and goes over to the window.

He stands there with his back to her, staring out at the clear and starry sky, leaning on the windowsill because the ceiling is slightly too low for him to stand up straight.

“You really don’t intend to leave, do you?”

Sauron doesn’t turn from the window. “Galadriel, you do not understand the whole of what has happened tonight, or you may not be in such a hurry to dismiss me.”

“What if you explained yourself, then, instead of playing these insufferable games?”

“What if you rested, and we talked more about it tomorrow? I have much to think over. We will have enough trouble to deal with soon enough.”

“No. You will explain yourself tonight, if you insist on staying,” she says, as if she can actually compel him to do anything. “What trouble do you speak of?”

He exhales a long, deep sigh, still staring out into the night. “Well, first of all... that power flare will likely have stirred up every dormant dark beast, every remaining servant of Morgoth, every evil creature and crawling nameless thing from here to Rhûn. And I’ve yet to determine what I should do about that.”

“What?” Galadriel’s skin prickles as she follows his gaze out the open window. She doesn’t trust him – of course she doesn’t – and as always she’s sure that he’s carefully evading an important point. But as he speaks, she is convinced that this much is true: Sauron is afraid of something.

“Luckily, I do not think they could tell where you were,” he says. “You can thank your ring’s protection for that. I could barely determine your exact location, and I had my sight on that blade already. But you can be certain that they have all heard that song heralding their master’s return... just as I did. The orcs will be aware of it. Adar, too.” He turns to her, his expression somber. “And perhaps even Morgoth himself.”

“That’s impossible. Morgoth was chained and banished to the Void,” she whispers, as if stating it aloud will somehow ensure that it’s still true.

“Yes. And I do believe he remains so... at least for now,” Sauron says. “But there are things that can transcend that boundary. Powers of the unseen world, powers beyond even my reckoning. I must admit I’m feeling slightly concerned regarding a certain prophecy at this moment, Galadriel.” His stare is fixed on her with something like suspicion. “I cannot help but contemplate the very same foretelling that your High King feared.”

Her heart drops. “How would you presume to know anything about that?”

“Ahhh, how, indeed,” Sauron says with a twisted smile. “As it happens, I overheard Gil-galad speaking to his inner circle, back when we were in Ost-in-Edhil. They were discussing the work on the rings, and some other things... and I suppose they did not imagine that a low man from the Southlands would have such excellent hearing when they spoke behind a single closed door.” He chuckles to himself. “Or that I’d understand the elven tongue.”

Galadriel knows exactly what foretelling Sauron speaks of – the reason Gil-galad had been so keen to exile her to Valinor. Elrond did finally confess that to her, the day when she confided in him about the letter, when she at last told him the truth about Halbrand and her unfortunate role in bringing Sauron to Middle Earth.

She has asked herself many times since then whether knowing what Gil-galad believed would have changed her course. Whether knowing what was foretold could have stopped her from jumping from that ship. But she knows, deep down, that it would never have changed her mind. Prophecies, after all, do not always come to pass.

“Why should you be concerned about a prophecy that benefits you, even if it were accurate?” she demands of Sauron. “Speak plainly, deceiver. No more evasions. What exactly did you overhear in Ost-in-Edhil?”

“Hmm... I cannot recall the precise wording, but I believe it was something like...‘it was foretold that Galadriel would inadvertently fan the flames of the very enemy we sought to extinguish.’” He laughs again, bitterness in his voice. “Naturally, when I heard that, I was sure that prophecy was about you and me. Oh, I was so delighted, you cannot even imagine, Galadriel. I was so very certain, then, that I was close to triumph. Remember what I said to you in the courtyard? ‘You pushed me to heights that no one else could have.’ Oh, my little elf, I thought that you would come to me so easily when the rings were finished, when I showed you the limitless wonders of what we could do together. You always did say that we were brought together for a purpose.”

“Those words I said about our shared purpose haunt me still,” she says ruefully. “I wish I’d never spoken them.”

“Ugh. I am beginning to think that I agree with you.” Sauron sits down again on the edge of the bed, and he clenches his fists against his knees. “You know, overhearing that damned prophecy is probably why I got so overconfident with you. It’s why I charged ahead and told you the whole truth sooner than I’d planned to, and just let my guard drop when you found that scroll. I did not believe I could fail to convince you, if even the elves thought our meeting was fated! But now... well... now...” He looks over to the open window again. “Galadriel... I’m not so sure that what was foreseen about you lending the enemy a hand was about me after all.”

“Morgoth,” she whispers. “You think that prophecy is about Morgoth returning. And that I... that I’ve inadvertently...”

“We will soon find out,” he says ominously. “Do you remember when you spoke to me of a parchment you uncovered in the Hall of Lore, back when we were in Númenor? You said it told of a plan to be enacted in the event of Morgoth’s defeat, which was to be carried out by his successor.”

“Yes. That is what was recorded in the document.”

“And do you believe that the creation of the shadow land was the plan that the parchment alluded to? That establishing Mordor was the goal?”

“I suppose so... yes, it seems likely. There weren't exactly many more details on the page, but the drawing represented a map of the Southlands.” She frowns. Her mind is still too clouded to think clearly, and she cannot understand what he’s getting at. “Why? Do you believe otherwise?”

Sauron drags out a weary sigh. “You know, Galadriel... for all your centuries of scrutiny, for all your careful attention to our plans and to the Dark Lord’s methods... I am very surprised that you were satisfied with that answer. Now, let’s start again. Ask yourself this, taking into account all that you know about Morgoth. If Morgoth prepared a plan to be enacted in the event of his defeat... do you believe that such a plan would be concerned with the well-being of his successor, or with making a home for his remaining creations?”

She hesitates, allowing Sauron’s words to sink in. And it all suddenly seems so clear, so horrifyingly obvious.

“No. No... of course not,” she whispers. “Morgoth was selfish, and destructive, above all else. I dare say he would not have cared what became of his successor, nor of Arda, nor of anything else, if they were no longer under his thumb. If he could not have something... he would just as soon have let it burn.”

“Correct,” Sauron says, too brightly. “That plan the parchment spoke of had nothing to do with ensuring the success of a new Dark Lord. No. The plan was, is, and always has been the same: to break Morgoth out of the Void and bring him back. To restore him to Arda. The unlocking of that mechanism, and the waking of Orodruin, was only the first step.”

“Oh...” Galadriel whispers, her heart thundering, a new wave of dizziness overtaking her. “We have all been so, so mistaken. If you speak true... then... things are so much worse than we believed.”

Before she can think, she grabs for Sauron’s arm to steady herself, and he reaches out and catches her quickly. He holds her arm just below her elbow, as he did on the landing in Míriel’s throne room, as he did on the ship when they set sail for Middle Earth. As he did when she still believed in Halbrand, when his steadying presence anchored her to everything she was fighting for. She wants to tear her arm back from his grip as soon as she’s done it, but he holds her there tightly, looking into her eyes, keeping her in place.

“I know the plan well, Galadriel,” he says. “I was there when it came together, and I knew exactly what needed to be done. But when the time came, and Morgoth fell... I turned my back on it. I enticed Adar to my cause, and together we conspired to strike out on our own. I convinced Adar that we should try ruling Middle Earth ourselves, instead of freeing Morgoth and kneeling to him once more.”

Galadriel’s heart is chaotic in her chest, her lungs constricting like they’re full of water again. “That is why you now fear Morgoth’s return, rather than welcoming it,” she whispers. “Because Morgoth will find out that you betrayed him.”

Sauron nods, an almost imperceptible motion of his head. He releases Galadriel’s arm at last, and he lets her go. Then he reaches behind him and picks up that little pouch from the table again, cradling it in the palm of his hand.

“That mountain of fire was meant to have been unleashed an age ago,” he says. “The key should have been turned as soon as Morgoth was bound... and that duty has always lain with the Southlanders who swore an oath to us. But when Morgoth fell... I rushed straight to the Southlands, and I found the one who kept the key for us. I killed him before he could touch that cursed lock with the shadow blade. And in that moment... I knew that I had forsaken Morgoth, and that I served him no more. It’s why I held on to this.” Sauron runs his thumb over the crest as he speaks, his gaze distant.

“You did find it on a dead man,” she says softly.

“Yes. I told you that I did not lie, Galadriel. The man I killed that day was the last of his line, the one whose name was on your scroll. The last to lead the united Southlands and bear this crest.”

Sauron stares at her with that haunted, desolate look, his eyes so achingly sincere that she could nearly forget how easily he deceives, how casually he manipulates her. She looks away from him.

“What became of the key, then?” she asks. “Why did no one else take up the task? Morgoth had many followers, and he surely had other loyal lieutenants to do what you would not.”

“Yes, and that is precisely why I wanted to find the key – to ensure that no one else could get to it,” he says. “I could have found a way to destroy it. But foolishly, I acted in haste that day. I did not think to secure the key before I killed its keeper. And as it turns out, the sword hilt was not in the vault where I expected it to be. I had absolutely no idea where it had been moved to. After that... I could no longer have freed Morgoth even if I had changed my mind, for the key was lost to us. No one ignited the shadow blade, and I was unable to discover it. It disappeared from my sight for centuries.” He sighs wearily, and sets the crest back down on the table again. “In the meantime, of course, the elves began to move into the watchtowers and the Southlands fell from our grasp. I relocated my base far to the north... and I established a new stronghold at Forodwaith...”

He pauses, trailing off when he sees that Galadriel is once again struggling to stay sitting up.

“Galadriel,” he says, his voice softening. “Please. Will you at last accept that you need to rest, and that we will continue with all of this tomorrow? There is nothing to be done about it tonight.” He gestures around at the room. “Surely you must see that you are safe here now, even if you resent me watching over you. Sleep for a while. Try to find some peace.”

She glares at him. “How am I meant to find any peace when you’ve just told me such unimaginable horrors? My mind was already full of horrible visions from that blade...”

“Well, I did try to tell you that you should rest first and that we’d speak of these things later,” Sauron says. “But as always, you could not be persuaded of anything, my stubborn little elf. You must always get your way.”

He lifts his hand and so very gently brushes Galadriel’s hair back from her face. And despite her distress over what she’s just heard, she still catches her breath at the softness of his touch, at the spark of longing it leaves in its wake. No matter how false she knows this is, no matter how furious it makes her that he takes such liberties – that he’s even here – she cannot make herself pull away from him. He leaves his hand there, resting at her temple, his thumb stroking slow circles against her cheek.

“Why do you do this?” she demands through gritted teeth. “If you still think you will convince me to join you—”

“Galadriel... shhh. Stop. I am convincing you of nothing,” he murmurs. “Just once, please... stop fighting me. Let me help you to calm your mind, so you can sleep.”

She can feel his power surround her again, his mind drifting against hers like soft tendrils of smoke. And yet, there’s no force or intrusion in it, even though he knows she lacks any strength to defend herself. He could probably rummage through her thoughts now as easily as he upended her satchel and pawed through the contents. But he doesn’t do it.

He’s just waiting. Waiting for her to open the door.

Oh, she knows very well that no good could come of this. She’s exhausted and defenceless, and he does nothing but deceive. But if he insists on remaining here, then perhaps she needs to show him that she does not fear him anymore. She must show him that even now, as weak as she is, she is still strong enough to withstand whatever he can conjure. She will not be broken again by his tricks and illusions.

She seizes his hand tightly and tugs Sauron toward her... and she opens her mind to him willingly.

Galadriel’s eyes flutter open. She is lying on the raft again, but this time, the storm has passed. She’s sprawled on her back across the uneven boards, staring up at a brightly starred sky. The water around her ripples soothingly, and gentle waves rock the raft back and forth, lulling her until she feels relaxed and drowsy.

She turns her head then, and sees that he’s lying on the raft beside her. Of course he’s there, with his ragged clothes and his wet hair and that Southlander’s crest on a cord around his neck. She can think of him by no other name right now except the name of the man who leapt into the sea to save her – the man who pressed her lost dagger back into her hand. Halbrand.

He says nothing, just watches her with a soft smile, entwining his fingers with hers. Anchoring her.

Galadriel curls up with her head against Halbrand’s shoulder, lets her breathing grow slow and even, and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

When Galadriel opens her eyes, there is daylight outside the window. The light streaming in is rich and golden – not the bright light of morning, but that of a sun already low in the sky. Late afternoon. She sits up on the bed with a start, throwing off the knit blanket and scrambling to her feet.

Her first thought is to check for the ring, and she immediately feels that it’s still there, safe on her finger. Her head doesn’t hurt anymore, and she feels more or less like normal. But she’s been here for almost an entire day.

She sorts through her sleep-clouded thoughts for the last thing that happened. She remembers waking up here to find Sauron attempting healing magic on her, and their conversation about Gil-galad’s prophecy. She remembers Sauron’s chilling warning – that power flare will likely have stirred up every dormant dark beast from here to Rhûn – and his story about how he killed the last king of the Southlands. And she remembers Sauron asking to join minds with her again... and falling asleep with him on the raft...

She looks around the little room. Her boots sit neatly on the floor by the bed, and her now-dry cloak is hanging on the chair. Her satchel and all of her things are still laid out on the table – including the little pouch with the Southlander’s crest – but the shadow blade is gone.

And Sauron is gone, too.

He finally did as she asked. He took that cursed weapon and left, and she should probably be extremely relieved. She should be... but the feeling that comes over her first is something much closer to bitter disappointment. And anger, because he left so many questions still unanswered last night, only to abscond without ever answering them. She shouldn’t be surprised; she did ask him to leave, after all. Perhaps the more surprising thing is that he actually listened.

She doesn’t care that he’s gone. All the better, really. She’ll get her horse and ride straight to Eregion tonight, and she’ll be at the city gates by morning. Surely she can puzzle out these strange happenings much more rationally on her own, without the constant confusion of his elliptical misdirections and half-truths, and his... other attempts to distract her. She just needs time to think, to take in everything that’s happened. And then she’ll get right back to fighting, in whatever way she has to.

Galadriel finds her comb among her things on the table, and she untangles her hair as best she can. She puts on her boots and cloak, gathers her belongings back into the satchel, and heads out into the little hallway that leads to the stairs. As soon as she reaches the top of the staircase, she can hear the hum of gentle noise floating up from the tavern – it’s busy and full of locals at this hour. The room is lively with conversation, movement and laughter.

When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, the first person she sees is the innkeeper’s young grandson standing by the bar – the very same boy who helped her carry Halbrand down that perilous staircase when they were last here. Galadriel has never been very good at telling humans’ ages, but she guesses the boy is probably about the same age as Elendil’s son; a grown man, but only just. He’s currently occupied with lining up mugs of ale on the counter, while the innkeeper collects them to take them out to the tables.

He recognizes Galadriel immediately when he looks up, acknowledging her with a cheery nod. And then, he points across the room with his free hand and grins, indicating the back corner of the tavern with a mouthed ‘over there.’

Galadriel turns to look where the boy is pointing.

And there’s Halbrand – Sauron – sitting at the corner table with a mug of ale in front of him, enthusiastically shovelling food into his mouth from a wooden bowl.

Galadriel lets out her breath, smiling without meaning to as she weaves her way through the crowded room toward him. She does not interrogate the feeling of incredible relief that floods her when she sees him there, but the tension is dropping from her shoulders, and the knot of worry eases a bit in her chest. She meant it when she said she wanted him to leave, of course, but... there’s just something unsettling about the idea of losing track of him again.

He smiles back when he sees her, a genuine Halbrand smile. Galadriel pulls out the chair across from him and sets down her satchel.

“She lives!” he quips around a mouthful of roasted potatoes. “At last! I was going to bring some food up to you.”

“The shadow blade... do you have it?” she whispers urgently as she sits down.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got it. Don’t worry,” he says, his face almost amused. “And I’ll be holding on to it, for my own safety. Now, come on. Sit down and have some dinner before you launch back into your quest.” He scoops more potatoes into his mouth.

There’s still something so incredibly mortal about the way that he eats, digging into his food with unabashed appetite. She remembers noticing this about him in Númenor, how much pleasure he takes in even the simplest meals. In Eregion, too, he always loaded his plate up at dinner like he was never going to taste food again. She had supposed, once, that his life in the downtrodden Southlands must not have afforded him many chances to eat well. As it turns out, it was more that he hadn’t had a corporeal form in several centuries.

“They’ve already brought me two bowls of these. Apparently, someone sliced up a lot of potatoes late last night,” Sauron says, taking another bite with a laugh. “Mmm. Amazing. You need to try some.”

“That is a bowl of roasted potatoes,” she says doubtfully. “I’m not sure I’d describe that as amazing.”

“Oh, my little elf.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “It really never occurs to you to simply enjoy something, does it? You’re too occupied with throwing yourself headlong into whatever battle or righteous quest compels you at the given moment. Why is it that all I ever see you do is deny yourself even the smallest enjoyment of anything?”

She leans forward, lowering her voice to a furious whisper. “Last night, you told me that every remaining evil creature in this land has probably been awakened,” she hisses. “You told me that there was a plan to free Morgoth from the Void! And you expect me to care about eating potatoes?”

Sauron looks at her as if she’s just spoken an unfamiliar language. “Would not eating them change anything?” He dramatically spoons more into his mouth. “On the contrary, if I’m about to face the wrath of my vengeful Dark Lord, I’d like to eat as many roasted potatoes as I can while I still have a body!”

She has to admit that he has a good point, and she really does hate it when that happens.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But it is not true that you’ve never seen me enjoy anything. For example... what about....” She pauses and thinks back. “What about that sword fight, when I first trained the company in the square in Armenelos?”

She had enjoyed that. She’d felt... alive, and strong, and truly exhilirated, for the first time in decades, if not a century. Her search had felt aimless and frustrating for so long, but suddenly, in Númenor, she’d found real purpose again. A battle on the horizon, an eager company willing to follow her, a clear goal to strive for... and of course, there was the fact that he was there. Though she would never say it out loud, Halbrand’s very obvious watching probably had no small part to play in her enjoyment of that display.

“Mmm. The sword fight, yes. I did very much enjoy that, too,” he says with a secretive little smile. “But you’re still talking about fighting, Galadriel. What about something that’s not related to battles or swords or tracking down your favourite ancient and powerful adversary?”

She does not indulge him with a reaction to that. Still, it does shock her a little how difficult she finds it to answer the question. What’s even more annoying is that she knows Elrond would probably agree with Sauron. This is exactly the same thing Elrond said to her every single time she was back in Lindon between campaigns.

“When Elendil and I rode to the Hall of Lore... there was a moment,” she says quietly. “We passed through a stunning landscape... and my horse ran down along the beach. I... I think I did actually let myself appreciate that.” It had been a few years since she’d been on horseback, then, and something about the sight of that beach had stirred a true, deep joy in her. Her eyes tear up unexpectedly, recounting it. “Númenor is so incredibly beautiful,” she says. “I do wish I’d had a chance to see more of it.”

“Yes, well... you may recall that I did try several times to tell you that we should’ve stayed there,” Sauron says.

He chews his food in silence for a while after that, and she says nothing more.

The elderly innkeeper brings Galadriel her own bowl of roasted potatoes – which she resentfully admits are quite good – and Sauron drinks another mug of ale while he waits for her to finish her dinner. As she eats, she thinks through all the questions that she still wants to ask him: about the shadow blade, about Morgoth, about the other things he said last night. She’ll have to be quick about getting him to talk, if she still wants to set off for Ost-in-Edhil by sundown. A part of her wonders if he plans to follow her all the way there.

Finally, she folds her arms and gives Sauron a challenging stare. “You said we’d speak later about a great many things,” she says. “And I will soon need to leave, to head back to Eregion. So, it’s time to talk.”

“What’s the rush to go back, Galadriel?” Sauron finishes his ale and sets down the empty mug. “Eregion will wait until tomorrow. It’s not long until sunset, and I’d not be keen to travel in the dark right now. Besides, we’ve still much to discuss. It could take some time.”

”Well, we cannot speak of anything here,” she says, looking around the crowded tavern. “There are far too many people around.” It would be difficult for anyone to overhear anything with the level of background noise, but she would not take the risk.

“Then let’s go outside for a bit while we still have the light,” Sauron says. “It would do you good to get some air, and the horses could use a stretch. And also...” He pauses. “I’d like you to take me to the place where you activated that shadow blade. I want to check the area, to see if there are any... residual traces of what happened. And to determine if anyone – or anything – else could track us here.”

They mount their horses and follow the flat expanse of the dirt road out of the village, back in the direction Galadriel came from. Before long, they find the tracks they’re looking for: the long trails of chaotic, scraping hoofmarks where her horse slid down the hill before joining the road. They leave both of their horses tied to a tree near the roadside, then they continue on foot up the steep incline, following the horse’s panicked, erratic tracks all the way back to the clearing where Galadriel ignited the blade.

In the clearing, Sauron looks around slowly – first walking the periphery, then looking at all the surrounding trees. Finally, he kneels down and places both of his palms against the ground, right near where she fell with the sword. He closes his eyes, mumbling some incantation to himself while she watches him curiously. She can’t see anything much happening, though there is a sudden, otherworldly wind that swirls around the clearing, lifting up all the scattered sticks and loose rocks around him. She feels a burst of chilling cold, and a slight rumble in the ground... and then it passes, and the air is still again.

When Sauron stands up and brushes off his palms, he looks more pleased than nervous, which she hopes is a good thing.

“Well?” she says. “What did you discern?”

“There is some residual energy here – but I do not believe anyone could use it to find this place at a distance,” he says. “It is very difficult for me to sense it, even here. Even when we already stand at the exact location. Your ring’s protection was strong, indeed.”

“My ring,” she whispers, spinning it slowly around her finger. “Do you think that... the fact I wore the ring when I wielded the blade was significant?” She considers telling him exactly what happened when the blade was ignited – that way her ring had seemed to connect with the sword hilt and exchange power with it – but she does not want to hand him information. Better to see what he already knows, first.

“Yes, I do,” he says. “And not only do I think it was significant, I think it was essential.” He studies her. “You did not give the hilt any blood, did you, Galadriel?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No.”

“I thought as much.” He walks over to her and grabs her ring-bearing hand, examining the ring the same way he did last night, turning her hand from side to side with that slightly unhinged smile. “Remarkable... just... mmm, absolutely remarkable.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve discovered, or not?” She is pointedly not paying attention to the warmth of his hands against her skin.

He slowly releases her hand and moves a few steps away, still circling, still looking around as if to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.

“Well...” he says at last, “you are familiar with the origins of mithril as described in the Song of the Roots of Hithaeglir, of course... I think we all spent sufficient time discussing that?”

“Yes.” She nods. It had been her task to liaise with the archivists as they hunted for more accounts of the legend among Ost-in-Edhil's records, back when Celebrimbor and Halbrand had been deep in the work on the rings. She read all of the materials herself as she brought them up. “The legend itself is apocryphal, and the account exists in several slightly-different versions... but the core ideas are always the same,” she says. “The presumed nature of mithril formed the basis of Celebrimbor’s experimental theory of resonance, the one which proposed a circular—”

“Celebrimbor’s experimental theory of resonance?” Sauron rolls his eyes. “Of course, sure. The great Celebrimbor. I’ll let it slide. Carry on.”

“Well, I think what you’re waiting for me to say is that the mithril ore may contain fragments of the light of a lost Silmaril,” she says.

“Precisely,” Sauron says. “More specifically, fragments of the light of the Two Trees. It’s nowhere near as much as there would be in an unbroken Silmaril, of course – mithril holds only a small amount by comparison – but with the additional amplification of the alloy, combined with the enchantments placed on your ring... I think the potential of that small amount of light became strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?”

“For this.” Sauron reaches to his side, where he’s got the dark hilt of the shadow blade attached to his belt. He flicks the hilt deftly into his hand with a little spin. Galadriel takes a wary step back, but he’s not igniting the blade. He just holds it loosely in front of him.

“The blade can be activated with blood, as you well know,” he says. “That taps into a lesser form of the sword’s power. But there is another hidden power inside this blade, a power that we forged into several of the weapons that we made around this time. A power that was reserved for Morgoth’s use alone, and only he carried the means to unlock it.” Sauron reaches up and reverently brushes his fingers against his forehead. Morgoth’s crown. And the Silmarils that rested within it.

“We never imagined that anyone but Morgoth would unleash it, since it required the close proximity of a Silmaril,” Sauron says. “But I believe that when the hilt came into contact with your ring last night, you accidentally unlocked the blade in a way that only Morgoth – or rather, someone in possession of a Silmaril – should have been able to.” He shakes his head incredulously. “That power was intended to be wielded by a Vala! It is so much more than should ever have been channeled by an elf. No surprise that it affected you the way that it did. Honestly, it’s a wonder you survived it.”

She stares, open-mouthed.

“You can thank the great Celebrimbor for the incredible work on that ring, whose protection surely saved your life.” Sauron’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“When Adar gave me the hilt,” Galadriel says slowly, “he showed me how to use it. He expected that I would use blood to activate it, to bind its power to myself. But... there was something else he said. He said he gave it to me because the Eldar can draw more power into the weapon than orcs or humans can.” She pauses. “We Eldar also carry a trace of the light of the Two Trees within us. Do you think that is why the shadow blade may yield more power to us?”

“Certainly, yes. It would be nothing like with your ring or with a Silmaril... but it could still have an effect,” Sauron says. “This is fascinating. To think... that all this time... ”

He leans on a tree like he’s overwhelmed with everything that’s happened, and he slides down to sit on the ground with his back to it. There’s a strange, wistful expression on his face, something between disappointment and longing, as he turns the sword hilt over and over in his hands. He runs his fingers over the jagged edge of the dark metal, and for a moment, she thinks she sees tears in his eyes.

“You know... if I were to put on your ring, and wield this sword as you did... I could probably take command of the Dark Lord’s awakened army,” he says. “This is a better chance than I’ve ever had of summoning them all to my side. Even those mighty beasts that have slumbered in forgotten places, even those creatures who served Morgoth but would never obey me... they would all come if I called them. They would believe me to be as powerful as Morgoth was... if they did not mistake me for him entirely.”

Galadriel slowly, cautiously sits down on a patch of mossy grass next to him. She’s turning the ring around and around on her finger again as she looks at his face, feeling that deep-down certainty that he’s holding something back. “If that were true... then why haven’t you done it?” she asks. “Why didn’t you simply take the ring from me while I slept?”

“Oh, I did consider it,” he says. “Do not think for a moment that I didn’t want to. But the ring’s protection was the only thing that kept you alive when you channeled the power. I did not know what removing it would do to you... if it were to be separated from your finger before you had recovered.” He looks at her, and his face softens. “One day you will actually believe me when I say I do not want you to come to harm, Galadriel.”

She narrows her eyes, studying him. “Be that as it may, it does not explain what stops you from taking it now, when my strength is clearly restored. Do not tell me that you could not force this ring from my hand at this very moment if you wished to. So why? Why have you not taken it?”

There’s some of that skittish nervousness in him that she saw when he first stormed into the tavern, that little shift in his energy that makes her sure he’s afraid. He doesn’t reply to her question.

“There is a reason you haven’t stolen my ring and ignited that blade,” she says. “And it certainly isn’t mercy for the fate of Arda, nor regret for your evil deeds, nor any affection for me that stays your hand.” She watches his face for a reaction. “I think... you have not attempted to wield the blade yourself because you already know you cannot.”

Sauron’s shoulders slump, and he pinches his fingers to the bridge of his nose with a wince. “Fine,” he spits. “Fine! All right! You are right, Galadriel!” It’s the closest he’s come to losing his temper with her since their horrible confrontation at the riverside. “It is exactly as you say. I cannot risk wielding that blade... as terribly tempted as I am to try. I didn’t do it because I can’t.”

“Why?” she demands. “Why can’t you?”

He exhales a long, mournful sigh. “This blade is my creation, like so many other objects I made while I served Morgoth,” he says. “But the truth is... although the ideas were always mine... I was only able to achieve this craft with the help of Morgoth’s magic. We crafted such things together.” He pauses, staring into the middle distance for a while before he continues. “As a result, the shadow blade carries a... a sort of echo of Morgoth’s will within it,” he says. “It wants the bearer to act in Morgoth’s interests, and that draw is extremely powerful.”

“So it is Morgoth’s magic you fear? That you will become... affected by it?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Sauron sighs again. “When the humans and the orcs ignite the blade... it seems mostly to inspire a lust for power, and a conviction that serving the dark will grant it to them. It provokes a general desire to embrace whatever darkness already lies within the bearer. But for me...” He looks down at the hilt. “In my hands, I fear this would have a much stronger hold. I am already drawn to Morgoth. I was once bound to him, and I might be bound still. Perhaps irrevocably. If I were exposed to an echo of his will... I fear it might compel me to carry out the rest of the plan. I will desire to release him from the Void, and I may not be able to resist that pull, even at my own peril.”

“Then clearly we must destroy it!” she says. “That hilt can be destroyed, can it not? How do we—”

“I’m not sure that will be enough, anymore,” Sauron says. “The plan to release Morgoth is in motion, with or without me. I told you the awakening of the mountain of fire was only the first step, but I have not yet told you the rest.” He stands up, returning the sword hilt to his belt. “And on top of that, I am quite certain now that Morgoth’s creatures have been awakened. I could feel it when I touched the earth, over there – I looked back at what happened last night, and I felt how they all turned their heads, how they stirred as they heard that song. It may not happen overnight, but they will rise up. They are already restless, and they are seeking their master, even now.”

“So... what should we do? How do we stop this?” she whispers.

“We.” He chuckles softly to himself. “What should we do, indeed, Galadriel. I asked you once to stand at my side, to bind me to the light as I bind you to power. This is the solution. Together – with your light anchoring me against Morgoth’s will – we could accomplish it! With your help, I think I could harness that dark army. We could gather all of Morgoth’s remaining creatures, including the orcs, under our banner. Adar himself would kneel to you, Galadriel!” There’s a triumphant look on Sauron’s face, a flicker of bright flame glowing in his eyes as he speaks. “We would leave Morgoth without his servants – turning his own army against him when he returns.”

“And then?” Galadriel asks bitterly. “What then? I’m to help you repel Morgoth, only to install you as the new ruler? You would have me deliver you an army of horrors... which you’ll then use to conquer the rest of Middle Earth! Do you think me a fool, Sauron?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Even if I wanted to believe that you’d make me a queen, that we’d repair Middle Earth together... I know exactly what would happen,” she says. “You said the same things to Adar once when you needed him to rally your forces, promising him that you’d rule together. And then you turned on him the moment he stood in the way of your ambitions.”

“No! You are wrong! Adar betrayed me, that orc has filled your head with lies!” Sauron’s eyes flash blazing fury as he steps toward her. “You will join me, Galadriel, one way or another. It’s only a matter of time until you—”

“I will not! My answer is no, and it will always be no!” she screams. “Prophecy or no prophecy, I will give no more inadvertent aid to the enemy – to any of you!”

Sauron opens his mouth and inhales sharply, like he’s about to say something more. But then he whirls around and storms off instead, a furious wind stirring up in his wake. The ground around him trembles, and nearby birds squawk and flap frantically out of the trees as he passes. He stands at the edge of the clearing with his back to her for a long while, his black cloak whipping in the wind as he stares toward the hill that her horse slid down. The sun is nearly set now, and the last rays of daylight are slipping away.

Finally, the wind settles, and Sauron turns around and slowly walks back to her. His expression is calm but grim.

“If you do not help me, then Morgoth will return to power,” Sauron says. “What has been set in motion will not be stopped. And when the day comes, and he steps back into Arda... then it will be too late. He will swiftly regain his hold over his army, and over all of these lands. He will claim Adar and every last one of his orcs, all the evil creatures and dark beasts that he once commanded... and probably me, as well. Whatever chance we had to stop him will be lost.”

“I will never help you, Sauron,” she says. “It will not be by my hand that you rise as a tyrant over Middle Earth.”

“Galadriel... either you help me, or you will be helping Morgoth.” He smiles wryly. “Gil-galad’s prophecy will be fulfilled one way or the other. But eventually, you will have to make a choice.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel lies on the bed in the little room above the tavern, staring at the low wooden ceiling. Rest eludes her; her mind reels with the events of the past few days, and she detests all of this. She deeply regrets not setting off for Eregion tonight, despite Sauron’s entreaties against it. He spoke of things he could sense stirring in the distance, things she would not want to meet on the road, but she has fought off many a vicious beast in the darkness before. What is out there cannot be worse than this feeling of helplessness, of waiting, of not-fighting. Maybe she’s still charging toward every obstacle at full gallop, but she doesn’t care. All she wants is to be going somewhere, and doing something.

At first light, she’ll ride for Ost-in-Edhil, straight back to Elrond, to tell him everything. Prophecy be damned, perhaps she’ll ask Elrond to write her a speech, to find words the High King cannot ignore. And then she’ll ride on to Lindon, and somehow make Gil-galad give her back the command her title demands, and give her a new company. The elves cannot sit safe in their realms while the Southlands burn and the Dark Lord’s creatures rise.

But she dreads to see the High King again, with his thinly-veiled contempt and suspicion, and she cannot possibly go to Lindon until she figures out what to tell him. Something that definitely isn’t the whole truth. She wonders if there might be some way to raise a company in Eregion and go back to Mordor without the High King knowing about it, even as she realizes how absolutely outrageous and impossible that is. There is only so far she dares push him, and she may already have overstepped that line one too many times.

Sauron’s words still echo in her head, all the things he said as they made their way back to the inn from the clearing. Galadriel, you wouldn’t need to beg Gil-galad for an army if you help me seize Morgoth’s! Why do you deny what you want, Galadriel? You could be a queen in your own right, with a king at your side who would never place a single limit on your power! Don’t you want to take back the Southlands? Don’t you want to stand against Morgoth, your true enemy? We can fix this! Together we can set all of this right. We can save Middle Earth. Galadriel, please, Galadriel! Look at me and tell me your heart does not desire this. Look at me!

She still doesn’t know if he plans to follow her all the way to Ost-in-Edhil, and she has not asked him. He has spoken little to her since they came back to the inn, but he shows no sign of leaving, either. She’s oddly reminded of the old days of their stalemate in Armenelos, when she demanded that he accept the mantle of the King of the Southlands and help her fight for his lands. She thinks of the unrelenting attempts she made to persuade him to join her while he repeatedly resisted it, and the reversal of their roles is not lost on her. Nor is the fact that he did give in to her, eventually. Somehow, their destinies are still caught up in one another, always pulling in opposite directions and then crashing together again.

When she gets up to look out the window, she can see him out there, pacing around in the courtyard. He’s walking slowly back and forth like some prowling cat, staring into the dark beyond the wall. Keeping watch, he said. But she does not need Sauron’s help, nor his protection. Even if she believes that he speaks the truth about the stirring of Morgoth’s creatures, there is no evil thing crawling out there in the night that poses a more present danger to her than him.

He reaches the far wall beyond the stable and stands there for a while, perfectly still, his head tilted to one side like he’s listening. And then he strides back to the other side of the courtyard and circles around again. She wonders if he’s hoping he will find something out there to fight, something to scream at and rip into and tear apart. Maybe he, too, just needs to feel like he’s doing something.

Or maybe he’s only staying out there because he knows she doesn’t want him in here.

The first time they slept in this room, he was still Halbrand. She agonized with worry over him, and how unwell he was, and whether it might be too late for the elves to save him. She would have done anything, then, to keep him by her side – her stubborn and conflicted smith, her crownless Southlander king. A man who had touched the darkness, and who did not flinch away from hers. A man whose very heart felt like the mirror of her own. She remembers curling up in this bed beside him, laying her head against his fever-hot shoulder, hoping that somehow she would still get more chances to hold him.

Some broken, deranged part of her wonders what would happen if she asked Sauron to hold her now. She has no doubt that he would, that he would come to her without hesitation. He is right there in the courtyard, and if she called to him, he would come. He would lie beside her, and hold her, and touch her, and probably do much more than that if she asked it of him. As angry as he is, she is sure he would not refuse her. He desires this, too; he enjoys touching her and he makes no secret of it. He claims to have wanted her so desperately once that he nearly allowed his fragile human form to perish, and risked everything he’d waited centuries for.

But what does he want, really? What can a corrupted, evil being like him ever truly want?

When he cast the raft into her mind last night, he was so unimaginably tender, clasping her hand just like he did after they saved each other on the Sundering Sea. He did nothing but let her fall asleep on his shoulder, soothing her mind so she could rest. But any benevolence he shows her can only be more deceit. That was clearly an attempt to soften her feelings toward him before he asked her to help him rally Morgoth’s dark army.

She cannot possibly trust him. And she will not let him in again. No matter how strong she thinks she is, his proximity chips away at her self-control, strips away her rationality, burns down all her reasonable thought. It has been this way ever since Númenor – and maybe it’s even worse now. This yearning for him, this terrible desire to be near him, is like a curse she can’t seem to break.

He has seduced her once already, in her mind, when they lay entwined in this very bed. It seems so long ago, that first time they were here. But he knows this weakness in her; there is nothing she can do to conceal it from him now. In that blissful dream, she gave in to her longing for Halbrand, for a mortal man, and she would have given him everything. She wanted him, even though she shouldn’t.

And as hard as she tries to deny it, she wants him still. Even though he is not Halbrand. Even though he was never a mortal man.

She lies back down and imagines him here, beside her in this bed again. His body warm against her back, his arms wrapped around her, his face pressed into her hair. And she hates that she’s thinking of it. She hates how much more she wants from him; his hands sliding beneath her clothes, his hungry mouth kissing her bared skin, his tongue—

No. She cannot, will not think of him in such ways. She presses her thighs together, restless with the temptation to reach down between her legs and indulge that aching need. But no. No more. She promised this to herself, she swore it. Never again with Halbrand on her mind, no matter how badly she longs for this release. Not while thinking of him.

He is Sauron. She will never be at his side. She will not rally the scattered remnants of Morgoth’s monstrous army for him. She will never go to his bed, nor be seduced by his false affection. There is no reason she should even think of laying her hands on him except to kill him.

She gets up again and looks out the window, and he’s still out there, just visible by the flickering lantern near the stable. He’s looking at the shadow blade hilt again, turning it over in his hands. He holds it and stares at it for a long time before he finally returns it to his belt.

And then he starts walking back and forth across the courtyard again, his black cloak flowing around him as he watches the darkness beyond the wall.

Chapter Text

In the bright light of early morning, as she leads her horse out from the stable, Galadriel finally takes a proper look at that new wall around the courtyard. She failed once more to notice it when they came and went from the inn yesterday, but now she pauses with deliberate intent, admiring it fully. The innkeeper was right – it is absolutely beautiful stone, and her grandson did a fine job laying it. Those Númenorean coins really were worth a lot more than Galadriel realized.

Smiling to herself at the memory, she steps closer for a better view. And then she sees Sauron there on the other side of the wall, walking along the outer edge. His eyes are half-closed, and he’s trailing his fingers lightly over the stonework while he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like the Black Speech.

“Excuse me! What are you doing?” she asks him sharply.

His head snaps up. “Well, good morning to you, too, Galadriel!”

“I asked you a question, and you will answer it.” She points to his hand, still resting against the wall. “What are you doing right now?”

“An enchantment. I am marking this place in the name of Morgoth,” he says matter-of-factly. “We have our signs.”

She stares at him. “You’re... what?”

“Calm down, Galadriel. It’s for protection. It marks this whole village as loyal to the Dark Lord... just in case.”

He doesn’t say in case of what, but he does not need to.

Galadriel thinks of leaping onto her horse then, galloping at full tilt down the road and away into the hills. She thinks of leaving him behind, and running swiftly for Eregion right this very minute. But it’s not as if she could ever outrun him. He knows where the city is, and there are only so many paths she can take. He will follow her to Ost-in-Edhil whether she wants him to or not... and given the alternative, she would rather have him in her sight.

So she doesn’t run. Instead, she waits for him, lingering at the edge of the courtyard and glaring at him while he finishes his repulsive incantation. She waits while he goes to retrieve his own mount from the stable. She waits until he leads the horse out and comes to stand right in front of her.

They stare at each other for a long moment, their gazes locked like swords.

And then, without exchanging another word, they both swing up onto their horses and set off side by side toward Eregion.

They travel for most of the morning in silent synchronicity, their horses keeping perfect pace with one another. When Galadriel stops and dismounts to let her horse drink at a stream, Sauron slows his horse, circles back to her, and does the same. She watches him from a wary distance, looking out of the corner of her eye while pretending to ignore him.

He kneels down at the bank of the stream, scoops up some water and splashes it onto his face, raking his wet hand back over his wind-ruffled hair... and it’s enough to make Galadriel’s heart do that traitorous flip. She wonders if he’s doing that on purpose, if he somehow knows it reminds her of the raft, of the way he looked when they met. Of Halbrand. But perhaps he’s just warm after a whole morning of riding in the sun, and he simply wanted to feel cold water on his face. It’s futile trying to guess what might be going on in his head.

Sauron stands up slowly, letting his damp hair fall untidily over his eyes. He goes to collect his horse while not looking at her, and hops up into the saddle. And then he sits there and waits – very much still pretending to ignore her – until she mounts her own horse and they set off together again.

Galadriel does not think about what’s going to happen when they reach Ost-in-Edhil, continuously pushing that thought away as the midday sun climbs high into the sky. She does not think about it as they both nudge their horses into the shade and follow the edge of a small forest to keep cool. She does not think about it when the sun begins to drop lower again, when they stop to sit down on a hill and share the bread and cheese they brought from the inn. They look in opposite directions while they eat, and they still don’t exchange a word.

Now they’re nearing the border of Eregion, and she’s still not thinking about it. But this time, it’s Sauron who stops his horse. He turns sharply off the path next to a worn stone road marker, bringing his mount to a full stop. It takes Galadriel a few seconds to realize he’s no longer beside her, but she immediately slows her horse and turns back to rejoin him.

She looks around in confusion, wondering why he stopped here. There is no water nearby, nor any greenery for the horses to graze on.

“I think this is where we part ways for now, elf. I’m going this way,” Sauron says, gesturing toward a path that winds up the hillside on his left. “And you’re going that way.” He points to his right, in the direction they’d been travelling – toward Ost-in-Edhil.

Galadriel blinks in shock. This is not what she expected. Not that he ever does what she expects.

“What? Where are you going?”

“You didn’t really think I was following you, did you, Galadriel? I’ve got my own plans.” There’s a smug look on his face when he sees how stunned she is. “I’ve been thinking about what to do, given the current situation. And, unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind about what I proposed to you yesterday... I need to go back to my old stronghold up north. I’m going to Forodwaith.” He gives her a twisted smile. “You’re welcome to follow me, of course, if you’d like to come along.”

“To the Northern Waste? That horrible place?” She shudders to think of it. “That fortress is falling apart! It’s a ruin now, completely derelict. What could you possibly want to accomplish there?”

“Well, I left some of my things behind, when I was... unexpectedly separated from my body.” He rolls his eyes. “There were my own books and parchments, of course, and all my notes from the workshop... but most importantly, I had some scrolls of Morgoth’s that I stored there. And there was one in particular that pertained to the... well, that plan which I quite urgently need to find a way to stop.” He heaves a long sigh. “I know it’s probably a fool’s hope that Adar didn’t destroy everything, since I’m sure he intended to burn all my papers. But I’m hoping that he overlooked my secret compartment, if he didn’t thoroughly search the—” Sauron stops his sentence short, seeing the expression on Galadriel’s face. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I think... I might have your books and notes,” she whispers. “And Morgoth’s scrolls, as well!” Her heart is beating frantically, as though it’s trying to escape her ribcage. “They were in a hollow compartment beneath the floor, were they not? Reached by the hidden passageway that runs under the main workshop?”

“Yes! Exactly!” His eyes go wide. “You found that?”

She nods slowly. “After my company mutinied against me, I agreed that we would go back to Lindon, and that we would travel no further north. But they did concede to grant me one day to search the fortress before we left, as we’d already gone to such great lengths to locate it. I found all those notes and scrolls then. And I took them home with me to Lindon, intending to study them to see if they held any clues before I set out again with a new company.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, the High King had other ideas, and I never had time to examine them properly.”

“So... you know where they are right now, then?” Sauron’s face brightens with something that looks very much like hope. “The scrolls are in Lindon? Where exactly in Lindon?”

“I don’t know. I would have to ask Elrond,” she says. “I gave everything to him for safekeeping, when I learned I was being shipped away to Valinor. He promised me that he would take up my fight in the event that the darkness returned, so I gave him all of my research. All the things I’d collected over the years... about Morgoth, about you, about your dark artifacts and your sorcery, every last scrap, including what I brought from Forodwaith. Elrond said he’d keep it all safe for me, so I’d imagine he probably put it somewhere in the Lindon archives.”

Sauron looks as close to overjoyed as she’s seen him since those days in Celebrimbor’s workshop. “Oh! Well, that’s just perfect, then!” he exclaims. “Forget about going to Eregion. Come with me, we must go to Lindon! You will speak to Elrond there, and get those scrolls back for me—”

“No, we are not going to Lindon to get anything.” Galadriel's jaw clenches. “Elrond is still stationed in Eregion, besides. He’s in Ost-in-Edhil. And he’s probably worried sick about me right now, since he believes I rode to the Southlands to parlay with you. Of course, he does not know that the summons I received turned out to be from Adar... and yet, I don’t suppose that even matters now, since I somehow found you anyway. Because I cannot get a moment’s peace from you!”

Sauron laughs loudly at that.

“What is it that you find so amusing?”

“You really went all the way to the Southlands looking for me, only to discover Adar instead,” Sauron smirks. “Again! This is the second time that has happened... oh, what a disappointment that must have been, my poor little elf.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she growls. “In any case, I must ride to Ost-in-Edhil today, to let Elrond know I’m all right. I owe him that much.”

She already regrets blurting out that she took Sauron’s things from the fortress, and she’s furious with herself for that impulsive confession. Why didn’t she just let him go, just let him waste his time trudging all the way to Forodwaith to search for something that wasn’t there? She could have gone to Lindon to fetch those scrolls and look at them for herself, without him ever finding out. What possessed her to tell him?

Then again... while she thoroughly doubts most of his motivations, she does believe that Sauron wants to stop Morgoth from returning to Arda. And if the scroll he seeks does contain some pertinent information set down by Morgoth, then Sauron might be the only one who could easily interpret it. Isn’t it best if Sauron does get Morgoth’s scrolls back, but that he gets them while she’s there to see what he’s doing with them?

“Well! I suppose we shall go to Ost-in-Edhil together,” Sauron says cheerily. “You can bring me with you, and I’ll just... have a little wander around the city while you talk to Elrond and find out where he put the scrolls. I truly have missed the place.”

“No, you absolutely will not have a little wander around the city,” Galadriel says. “That is out of the question. You will wait for me outside the walls. And I do mean far outside them.”

“Galadriel, really.” He laughs. “I cannot believe that after all your centuries of searching for me, you now do nothing but try to dismiss me and send me away! What happened to chasing me to the ends of the earth?” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I mean, it’s up to you. You can, of course, leave me unsupervised outside the walls. I trust that I can find a way into the city on my own.”

She grits her teeth. “Listen to me. I may not have told anyone except Elrond the truth, but I did make it abundantly clear that no one in Eregion was to treat with you again. Even if there weren’t a thousand other reasons why not to bring you into the city... even if I could persuade Elrond to keep quiet about who you really are if he happened to see you... Lord Halbrand of the Southlands will never be welcome anywhere in Ost-in-Edhil again.”

Sauron tilts his head and smiles slowly. A strange look crosses his face, that bright glimmer of flame passing through his eyes.

“Ah. Well, it’s a shame that Halbrand is longer welcome,” he says. “But supposing that the esteemed Commander Galadriel were to bring a new friend to the city? I could simply take on a different shape. And yes, I have recovered some of that ability – I’m perfectly capable of changing my appearance if I want to.”

“You cannot be serious.” Galadriel stares at him dubiously. “On what pretext would I bring a new friend back with me this time? I don’t suppose you plan to feign a life-threatening injury again, to have me drag you back there in your new guise?”

He winces. “First of all, Galadriel, that injury was very real, and it caused me no end of agony,” he says. “It was a terrible inconvenience, and I only wish I had feigned it. Secondly, I would never dare to weaken myself like that now. For I am certain that, were you to discover me gravely injured again, you would immediately throw me into the nearest river. Probably after making an impassioned, vengeful speech about how much I deserved every bit of how much it hurt.”

“Whatever makes you think I would do that?” She relishes the bite of sarcasm in her voice.

“Mmm, just an intuition.” He gives her an indulgent smile. “Now, away with that idea. We will have to construct something that’s actually plausible. Something useful.” He swings down from his horse and walks toward her. “We’ll need a story to explain what business I have in Ost-in-Edhil, and a new guise that would get me into the city in good graces.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No. I do not think this is a wise idea at all.”

Sauron offers her his hand to help her down off her horse, but she ignores him and dismounts without touching him.

”Oh, Galadriel... I’m sorry. Is it the thought of me losing this particular form that vexes you so?” He looks at her impertinently, that cheeky smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You know, I could still change back for you sometimes, if you so badly want your favourite Southlander to—”

“A new guise,” she interrupts. “You were saying? Talk, Sauron.”

“Fine,” he laughs. “So you do want to hear my idea now, hmm? All right... how about this... I am a long-respected elven scholar, with centuries of specialist academic knowledge about Morgoth’s arcane arts and dark artifacts.” He spreads his arms wide with theatrical flair. “And that is why I’ll need access to the Lindon archives, to look at those scrolls you gave to Elrond. You’ve enlisted me to assist you with your research into what remains of Morgoth’s influence—”

“Hold on. No. Stop right there.” She holds up her hand. “You are a long-respected elven scholar... who no one else has ever heard of?”

“If you were not so impatient, Galadriel, I was getting to that,” he huffs. “Now. No one in Middle Earth has heard of me, because as it turns out, I only recently sailed in from the Land of the Star!” Another dramatic arm wave. “That’s right... I’ve come from Númenor. And that is where you and I first met. I encountered you there on the island... and I spoke to you when you came to the Hall of Lore seeking information about Sauron.” He grins proudly. “You see, my little elf, the most effective fabrications always have in them a sprinkling of the truth.”

“An elven scholar who came from Númenor,” she repeats grimly. “Right. The isle so known for their current hospitality toward elves.”

“Come on, now, you know very well that many of the previous rulers were fond of your kind! And even our good queen Míriel is now cautiously loyal, is she not? You elves, luckily, live very long lives... so our scholar could well have been in place on the island for several centuries. He could have been there long before elven ships were banned from landing.”

“Hmm,” she says, still nowhere near convinced.

“Let me make the case fully before you discard it.” He gives her a scolding look. “So... our clever scholar is a member of a small enclave of elves who have been on the island since the days of Elros. An enclave which, as a matter of fact, does really exist. Yes, I heard some things while we were in Númenor, I learned some secrets. I have my sources, Galadriel!”

“Númenor has an elven enclave?” she whispers. “Really?” She wonders if Elendil is aware of it.

“Yes. There are apparently still a few elves on the isle, ones who remained quietly in hiding rather than departing when the whims of the crown turned against them,” Sauron says. “Their presence has, of course, always been known to the elf-friends, but otherwise they have kept to themselves. And if there are elves there... then surely there are scholars among them! You told me yourself how many valuable records are housed in the Hall of Lore. You saw accounts written in the Black Speech, and scrolls documenting the aftermath of Morgoth’s reign and his legacy in Middle Earth. Who took those documents to Númenor back then? Someone must have been archiving all that knowledge ever since Elros founded the place, just waiting for it to be called upon whenever the next evil surfaced.”

He brings both his hands to his chest, indicating himself at the words next evil with a grin.

“All right,” Galadriel says slowly. “But, do tell...how did one such Númenorean elf come to Middle Earth right now?” she asks. “And if this scholar is so interested in the Lindon archives, why is he travelling to Eregion with me?”

Sauron gives her that triumphant smile again, like he’s already thought of everything. “Aha! Another opportunity to add a sprinkling of truth,” he says. “I happen to know that a Númenorean ship recently made landfall in the Southlands. Míriel sent back only a single ship and a tiny company of soldiers, but they did return, just as they promised. What’s to say they didn’t bring this elven scholar along with them? Our good queen probably thought he could be of assistance, what with the... dark happenings around the place. Which brings us up to the present day. When you journeyed to the Southlands just now, you encountered this dear scholar of yours – your friend from the Númenorean Hall of Lore – and you asked him to travel back with you! You thought he could help interpret some of the material you collected from that horrible, evil fortress up north... from Sauron’s apparently rather badly-hidden secret compartment.”

“That is... hmm. That is actually... ugh, it is somewhat plausible,” Galadriel admits grudgingly.

He gives a mocking bow. “Thank you.”

“Honestly, though, how do you come up with these elaborate schemes so quickly? Do you just lie awake at night trying to think up new ways to deceive people?”

“Mmm, well... I am awake most of the time now, regardless of the time of day – since more of my powers started coming back, I’ve a lot less need for sleep,” he says. “And as for the schemes, no, I don’t try very hard. They mostly just pop into my head. Innate talent, I guess.”

“You truly are an appalling creature.”

A strangely disappointed look flickers across Sauron’s face for just a fraction of a second, and then he recovers his flippant expression. “You know, you could try appreciating me sometimes, Galadriel. I remember when you used to like me quite a lot.”

“And I would rather not be reminded of it,” she says curtly. “I have accepted that I probably need your help – as you need mine – and you can be as smug and self-satisfied as you like about that. But we are nothing more than temporary allies, for so long as we must be, against a common adversary.”

“Temporary allies. Hmm. So, does that mean you will take me into Ost-in-Edhil with you?” He looks at her with wide, pleading eyes. “I would be a perfectly-behaved guest, Galadriel. And I still haven’t seen some of your favourite places you promised to show me! You might recall I was a bit busy the last time, helping to save your people.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Of course... you could leave me outside the walls, and I’ll simply change into a shape you don’t recognize and sneak into the city anyway. You’ll have to try to find me. That could be a fun game, I suppose...” He chuckles. “Perhaps you miss hunting for me?”

Galadriel exhales a long sigh. “All right, that’s enough. I’ll take you into the city – very much against my better judgement, to be clear,” she says. “But there will be no sightseeing. We will stop in Ost-in-Edhil for one night. Just long enough for me to report back to Elrond and let him know I’m alive, plan what I’m going to say to Gil-galad in Lindon, and find out where Elrond stored those scrolls.” She looks at Sauron warningly. “And while we are inside the city walls, you will follow my lead, understand? If I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving. Immediately.”

“Commanding me as usual, hmm?” he smirks. “Fine. Anything else?”

“You will stay out of my mind, unless you need to convey something of critical importance that cannot be said aloud.”

“Right. And... do I get any say in this bargain?” He folds his arms. “You cannot be the only one who makes demands.”

“What is it you would ask of me, Sauron? Do not make me regret this more than I already do.”

“I ask only for your civility. Say whatever you will to me when we are alone. But in public, in front of all others, you will give no sign that I am not who I say I am. You will afford me the same kindness and respect that you would show to a friend. Affection, even.”

“Kindness and respect,” she says pointedly. “Granted. So long as you keep your part of the bargain, I shall keep mine.”

“You have a deal,” he grins.

“Then we will depart at once.” She moves toward her horse, poised to mount her saddle. “If we ride swiftly, we will be at the city gates well before the sun goes down. Let us get it over with.”

“Ah! Wait, Galadriel, wait. There is... one more thing,” he says. “I think we’d better do this now, before we’re in sight of the city. I need your help with something.”

She turns back to him. “With what?”

As if in answer, she senses Sauron’s power building up around her, that familiar energy surrounding her. And then, as he steps closer to her, she feels his gentle nudge against her mind. He’s asking her to open the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. I promise I won’t take anything except what you want to give me, Galadriel,” he whispers, brushing his fingertips against her temple. “I just need to construct a face. Now... can you picture a few pretty elf lords for me, please? Handsome, but... not too memorably handsome, you know? Charming, and refined... and probably a little bit, mmm, how shall we say... pretentious? Think of some elves who look like they belong at your side, in their eyes.”

Cautiously, Galadriel lowers her defenses a sliver, and he continues to wait. She hesitates for a moment longer, knowing deep in her bones that this whole endeavour is probably a terrible idea. But still, for reasons she cannot begin to explain to herself, she slowly opens up to him. She feels him slip into her mind, his intoxicating presence coiling there like dark smoke.

She lets her head fall back, closing her eyes and leaning against him as he cradles her, his fingers still stroking her face. So much for never letting him in again. She tries not to think about how close he is, or how infuriatingly good it feels to be held by him, lest he witness that thought.

But, true to his word, Sauron only skims lightly over the specific thoughts she holds out to him. A series of faces flickers through her mind, and she can tell he’s flipping through them, looking over the images of her friends, battle companions and distant Noldor kin as they surface in her memory. A great many of them fit his desired description surprisingly well.

“Oh... oh-ho, yes, lovely... hmm, that’s good... yes... oh, mmm-hmm... very good...” he comments as he peruses them. “All right... I think that’s enough. Thank you, Galadriel.”

Galadriel feels him winding back that intimate connection, ending their mind link. He releases her and walks a few steps away, mumbling something to himself under his breath. She watches him pull up the hood of his black cloak, covering his head as he turns his back to her.

And then, she senses a sudden shockwave of power rolling off him. A strong, humming oscillation ripples through the surrounding air, stirring the nearby small trees and rustling the dry grasses beneath her feet. Her skin prickles with something between anticipation and dread.

Sauron spins back around to face her – dramatically throwing off the cloak – and she gasps out loud when she sees him. Of course she knows that he was once an extraordinary shapeshifter, and he did say his powers were coming back to him... but to watch it happen right in front of her like this still stuns her.

He’s not Halbrand of the Southlands anymore. Instead, he has the look of a regally beautiful elf, with high cheekbones and perfectly arched eyebrows and long pointed ears. He still has about the same height and build as he did in human form, but there’s no scruff on his smooth, pale face, and his silvery-blonde hair flows well past his shoulders. He looks at once familiar and not, like a strange, soft amalgam of several different elven faces from Galadriel’s past. Thankfully, at least he bears no resemblance whatsoever to Finrod.

Sauron looks at her and smiles – a serene, elven smile so very unlike Halbrand’s smirk. But when she steps toward him and studies his face more closely, she realizes something. He’s kept Halbrand’s eyes.

“Your eyes,” she whispers. “You... didn’t change them.”

“Ahhh, quite intentional. I kept them for you, my little elf!” He speaks with the Southlander’s teasing voice from his elven mouth, and it’s beyond disconcerting. “Just for you, Galadriel. So you’ll always remember it’s me whenever we get close... like this.”

He leans down to her, his forehead nearly touching hers as he locks his gaze on her, and her breath hitches. And then, he lowers his lips to her ear, and he changes the sound of his voice entirely as he murmurs melodious, fluent syllables in Quenya: “Call it a gift.”

Chapter Text

By the time Galadriel’s horse passes through the last archway on the bridge into Ost-in-Edhil, Elrond is there waiting. Word of her impending arrival must have reached him from the lookouts on the walls, and he’s already out in the courtyard to meet her. They reunite in almost the same place as the last time she rode into the city – when she galloped through these same gates with a barely-conscious Southlander and a hope that it wasn’t too late.

“Galadriel!” Elrond calls, joy and relief in his voice. He runs toward her horse with his arms outstretched before she’s even swung down from her saddle.

Behind him, the two richly-attired city stewards who were attending him are just exiting the arches. Everyone seems to be in high ceremonial dress for some reason, but Galadriel doesn’t pay that strange detail much attention as Elrond pulls her into his embrace and presses his forehead to hers. Deep lines of concern are plain on his face, and he looks exhausted, but his eyes shine with happiness when he sees that she appears unharmed.

“Oh, it is so good to see you back, Galadriel,” he whispers. “You cannot imagine how I have worried.”

“Be at ease, Elrond. I am well,” she says. “And we have much to talk about.”

Elrond looks up as he releases her, his gaze flicking to the second horse that has come along right behind hers. Its rider dismounts gracefully, and Elrond takes in the regal elf in decidedly not-elven black travelling clothes who comes to stand beside Galadriel.

“Oh!” Elrond exclaims in surprise. “You’ve brought a guest!”

“Yes! This is... a friend I most fortunately encountered in the Southlands,” Galadriel says with a smile. Her throat feels too dry, and suddenly she can’t remember a single thing about how an introduction is meant to go. “A friend newly arrived from Númenor, with the ship that brought a fresh company of soldiers. He is a renowned scholar... and... a specialist of the arcane arts and dark artifacts of Morgoth,” she goes on, the words running together as they spill from her mouth. “He will be assisting me with some of my research.”

Elrond and the two city stewards are looking curiously from Galadriel to the black-clad elf and back again as she speaks.

This is already going terribly. Is she smiling too much? Too enthusiastically? Talking too fast? She looks at Sauron, realizing with growing panic that she hasn’t actually said a name and introduced him. In fact, they haven’t even agreed what his name is going to be.

But he’s got this. Of course he does, he’s a master of deceit.

“My name is Annatar of Arandor,” Sauron says smoothly, inclining his head to Elrond in an elegant bow. “Archivist and fellow of the Númenorean Hall of Lore.” He looks up at the Ost-in-Edhil skyline with an amazed expression on his face. “And I am truly honored to finally see this beautiful place in person. Galadriel has told me so much about the wonders of Eregion, ever since we first met back in Númenor.” He speaks flawlessly with elven words, those melodious sentences flowing from his mouth like bright jewels. The timbre of his voice is very different from Halbrand’s, and he has transformed his bearing completely, embodying the serene demeanour of a noble elf.

“Well, what an unexpected pleasure!” Elrond says, recovering diplomatically from his obvious shock. “We’ve not had any Númenorean visitors here for quite some time. We bid you welcome to the city, Annatar.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance...” Annatar glances toward Galadriel expectantly, prompting her with a look.

Right, the introductions. She’s still supposed to be doing introductions.

“This is Elrond, son of Eärendil, Herald of High King Gil-galad,” Galadriel says. “Elrond is a very dear friend of mine.”

“Son of Eärendil? Oh! Can it really be?” Annatar steps toward Elrond, examining his face with great interest. “Elrond! I really should have known... you look so much like your brother. He always spoke very fondly of you.”

Elrond’s eyes grow wide. “You knew Elros?”

“Yes, of course! I don’t believe there was a single elf on the isle back then that your brother did not know well,” Annatar says. “We owe Elros a great debt for establishing the Hall of Lore, in which so much crucial knowledge has been preserved. That legacy has allowed me to conduct my research all these years.” He smiles easily, reaching over to touch Elrond’s shoulder. “I would love to recount some stories about your brother, if you’d like to join me for a meal sometime?”

A real, joyful smile is breaking over Elrond’s face as Annatar speaks. This is possibly the happiest Galadriel has seen Elrond look since long before Gil-galad ordered her away to Valinor, and she feels a horrible pang of guilt. Of course her dearest friend is smiling over a complete lie – a lie that she’s indirectly responsible for.

“Yes, certainly! You should come and dine with us tonight!” Elrond says excitedly. “And if you wished to experience the full splendor of Eregion’s hospitality, you really could not have timed your arrival more perfectly. Tomorrow evening, we will be holding a great banquet and celebration here in Ost-in-Edhil, hosted by High King Gil-galad himself. You’ll join us, of course?”

“How fortuitous!” Annatar says. “Yes, most certainly. I’d be delighted.”

“Wait... the High King is coming here?” Galadriel flashes a worried look at Elrond. “Tomorrow?”

“Already arrived, actually. He has been here since this morning,” Elrond says. He gestures upward, and Galadriel sees what she really should have noticed as they approached the city: Gil-galad's blue-and-silver standard, flying from each of the towers. “I swear half of Lindon is here as well, with more guests on the way. And we are expecting Prince Durin and a group of emissaries from Khazad-Dûm shortly.”

“Oh! That... is... a surprise.” Galadriel tries to swallow the panic that’s once again rising in her throat. She rests her hand on Annatar’s arm, glancing up at him. “I knew nothing of these plans.”

“It was a surprise to us all,” Elrond says. “The event was announced the very day you set off for the Southlands, and we’ve been preparing ever since. There’s to be a feast, fireworks, speeches, dancing... We toast to Lord Celebrimbor’s incredible achievements; the whole day is in his honor. And we will officially be unveiling the new forge.”

“Celebrimbor? The famous smith?” Annatar exclaims.

“Yes indeed, the one and only.” Elrond beams proudly. “Truly a master of his craft. He is the hero of the hour! I’m sure Galadriel has told you about Celebrimbor’s role in averting our recent... difficulties.”

“I know of the rings, yes. Such a remarkable accomplishment,” says Annatar. “As a matter of fact, I have a keen interest in the craft myself.”

“Oh? Really?” Elrond’s eyebrows go up. “You’re a smith as well?”

Galadriel tightens her grip on Annatar’s arm, digging her nails into him like a warning.

“Ah... alas, no. Not formally trained.” He smiles placidly. “But I do dabble, from time to time. I’ve been told I have a natural skill for it.”

Galadriel bites back her apprehension, unable to shake the dreadful feeling that she’s just made yet another grievous mistake. She arranges her face into a mild expression that she hopes conveys interested listening, but she doesn’t loosen her grip on his arm.

“My field of study is more concerned with understanding the nature of artifacts of power which have already been made. Particularly those that were used by Morgoth,” Annatar goes on. “That is where my interest in the craft comes in. I am curious about the... reverse-engineering of such artifacts, and what we might learn through their power. I would love to converse with the master smith himself, if the opportunity arises.”

“Well, Celebrimbor is always about,” Elrond says. “I’m sure he’d love to meet you. I actually just passed him a little while ago, walking in the gardens.” He reaches out to take Annatar’s other arm. “Come, perhaps we can catch up with him right now, and I could introduce you—”

“Or perhaps we should find Annatar a guest room first,” Galadriel cuts in, smiling through clenched teeth. “There will be time for more introductions later. We need rest from the road.”

“Oh! Right, yes... of course!” says Elrond sheepishly. He motions to the two eager-looking stewards who have been hovering nearby waiting to be useful, and they hurry forward. One of them quickly takes hold of the two horses and leads them off in the direction of the stables, while the other one comes to stand at Elrond’s side.

“We have the good fortune of welcoming an extra guest this evening,” Elrond says to the steward. “This is Annatar, newly arrived from Númenor. We’ll need a place set for him at the High King’s welcome dinner tonight – seat him next to Commander Galadriel, please, if you can – and he will join us for the banquet tomorrow, too. We will need to find him a suitable guest room.”

The steward shifts his feet, an anxious look on his face. He lowers his voice. “Herald Elrond... adding a guest for the dinner and the banquet will be simple, that will be no trouble at all. But I’m afraid that the, ah, accommodations might prove more difficult,” he says. “We’re a bit tight in the central buildings already, what with the High King’s retinue and all the guests from Lindon. I’m not sure there are any more vacant guest rooms, especially as we’re still expecting the dwarven delegation.”

“Hmm.” Elrond frowns in consternation, and he pauses to think for a moment. Then, his face suddenly brightens. “Ah! I know! There should be a room in the smiths’ wing that’s still empty. The one, ah... the one that was vacated by Lord Halbrand. I don’t believe we ever reassigned it.” He glances at Galadriel with a small wince, as if in silent apology for saying Halbrand’s name. She does not acknowledge it.

“Perfect,” Annatar says. “The smiths’ wing will suit me just fine.” There’s a subdued but self-satisfied smile on his elegant face, just shy of a smirk.

The steward nods, his face relieved. “Excellent. I’ll see to it that the room is readied immediately.” He bows quickly before scurrying off.

“Well! That’s one problem averted!” Elrond smiles broadly at Annatar. “If there’s anything you require during your stay in the city – or anything at all we can do for you – please let me know and I’ll see to it myself.”

“Ah, yes – actually, there is something,” Annatar says. “There is the matter of... some archival materials that I believe are currently in your care? We’ll need to retrieve those, as soon as possible.” He arches an eyebrow at Galadriel.

Galadriel holds back a sigh – he really couldn’t let it rest for even half an hour.

“Annatar speaks of my research materials,” she clarifies. “Elrond... what became of those three trunks that I left with you back in Lindon? There were some important scrolls among those things that we would like to examine.”

“Oh.” Elrond gives her a pained look, as if he really wishes she hadn’t asked about that. “I’m afraid I don’t have them to hand just now, Galadriel. I’m so sorry. I did keep your things safe for you, just as I promised... I even had the trunks brought up here to Ost-in-Edhil, to keep them with me when I started to spend more time here.” He glances apologetically at Annatar. “But just before the rings were made, when we were told we might have to depart and disband the city in haste... I didn’t think that leaving records of that nature in an abandoned settlement would be prudent. They could have fallen into the wrong hands. So I—”

“You destroyed them?” Galadriel whispers, her heart sinking. “Oh, no.”

“No, of course I didn’t destroy them! I gave them to Durin for safekeeping,” Elrond says. “They belong in Middle Earth, after all. If anyone was ever to have need of that knowledge, it would be here. I trust Durin with my life, Galadriel. Your research is safe. We put your trunks into an underground vault in Khazad-Dûm.”

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“Ah! Well! Khazad-Dûm is not terribly far from here, is it?” Annatar says. “And you said there’s a dwarven delegation coming for the banquet, did you not? Perhaps Galadriel and I can go back with them afterwards, and retrieve what we need.”

“Absolutely!” Elrond smiles. “After the banquet, I’m sure Durin will take you back with his personal escort. I may even try to slip away and join you, too, if the High King doesn’t demand my duty here. I’ve not been back to the mountain in a while.”

He pauses, a flicker of anxiety crossing his face as he looks up at the sinking sun.

“What is it?” Galadriel asks. Something about the expression on Elrond’s face unsettles her. “What troubles you?”

“It’s... nothing. I just hope all is well with Durin,” Elrond says. “The delegation from Khazad-Dûm was meant to be here today, in time to join us for dinner tonight. I would have expected them by now, well ahead of tomorrow’s celebrations. It’s really not like Durin to be late for a party.”

“I’m sure they’ll be along soon,” Galadriel says. “Perhaps something has simply delayed them on the road.”

“Yes, well... that idea worries me, too.” Elrond glances at Annatar, as if deciding whether to continue with what he’s about to say in front of a guest. But he carries on. “When the High King arrived this morning, he told us that his guards killed two strange wolves on the road last night. Massive creatures. Ones that were likely of the... old variety,” he says obliquely.

Annatar’s brow furrows. “Is that a common occurence around these parts? Sightings of strange wolves of the... old variety?”

“Well, from time to time these things do crop up,” Elrond says. “The forests of Middle Earth are full of odd creatures, some of them remnants from the war. Most of them are wild things, directionless and feral. These two, though... they behaved strangely. The High King said it felt as though they were watching. Like they were deliberately searching for something.”

“Mmm, or perhaps someone,” Annatar says.

Elrond gives a visible shudder. “After our recent problems, and what’s happened in the Southlands, I think there might be good reason for concern. I have expressed my worries to the High King.”

Annatar nods in agreement. “Yes, indeed. Quite concerning.” He looks pointedly at Galadriel. “It sounds very much like someone ought to do something about it, don’t you think?”

“The High King has instructed that we remain vigilant,” Elrond says. “Patrols will be dispatched at sunset, to meet any remaining guests on the road and escort them safely to our walls. I am hoping this is an isolated incident, but we are taking precautions. You can feel very safe here, Annatar. I assure you, there is not much that could get past the defenses of Ost-in-Edhil.”

“Mmm.” Annatar looks back in the direction of the main gate. “Yes, I imagine a place like this is quite well-defended against creatures of the dark. But still... evil does have its ways of sneaking into places it shouldn’t.”

“We can take a little tour around the walls later on, if you like. I can show you the extent of the city’s security, and all of the measures we have in place, if that will put your mind at ease.” Elrond looks at Galadriel. “Though, of course, perhaps Galadriel would like to take charge of your tour—”

“I think we badly need to rest before dinner,” Galadriel cuts in, “and we can discuss all of this later. Elrond, if you don’t mind – I would speak to you alone after this.”

“Of course,” Elrond says. He looks behind him, where the steward he dispatched earlier is swiftly walking back toward them.

“All is well. Lord Halbrand’s old room is being prepared,” the steward whispers to Elrond. And then, to Annatar, he says: “Please, do come with me. We will get you some refreshments while your room is readied.”

“Thank you very much,” Annatar says. “Until later, then, Herald Elrond? Many thanks for the warm welcome, and we shall speak more at dinner.” He turns to Galadriel with a dramatic pause, then takes her ring-bearing hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses it. “And thank you, Commander Galadriel. I do so look forward to working together.”

He keeps hold of her fingers just a little too long, his lips lingering against her knuckles, and the glow of her ring reflects in those jarringly familiar eyes. Then he finally lets go of her hand, and he turns around and walks calmly away with the steward, his long black cloak trailing behind him.

Galadriel lets out her breath.

“What a day!” Elrond sighs, letting his composure drop the minute they’re alone. “I think I might need to lie down before dinner, too.”

“I cannot believe Gil-galad is here. I really did not expect him in Eregion right now.”

“As I said, it was a surprise to us all.” Elrond rubs his temple. “Honestly, I have been dreading his arrival since the moment the celebration was announced, knowing you were gone to the Southlands. Your absence when he got here this morning has already caused me no end of trouble.”

She frowns. “How so?”

“Well, first of all, you know very well that you were meant to leave your ring in Celebrimbor’s care if you left the city walls. When you departed, I assured Celebrimbor that your ring was safe in the vault, and that you had left it with me. I lied right to his face for you, and I did not like it one bit. Naturally, Celebrimbor unwittingly repeated that same lie to the High King today when he asked about the third ring.”

Guilt seizes her again at the concern on Elrond’s face. “Oh, no! Gil-galad didn’t... ask to see my ring, did he?”

“No, thankfully not. But he does plan to have Celebrimbor show off all three of the rings at the banquet tomorrow. Which presented a rather insurmountable problem, had you not brought it back when you did.”

She gasps. “What were you planning to do if I hadn’t returned in time?”

“I don’t know, Galadriel! Probably spend all of tomorrow extremely anxious and miserable, before finally losing grip on my sanity and fleeing into the forest before the banquet started?” Elrond laughs nervously, then clasps both of her hands. “But no matter, you’re here now, Galadriel. All is well. Now, please, give me that ring! I’ll take it to the vault and put it away before you... arrive. Later on, we’ll let the High King see me giving it back to you.”

Galadriel quickly slips the ring off her finger and hands it to him, and Elrond carefully tucks it into an inner pocket in his embroidered vest.

“I hate all these deceptions,” he mutters to himself. “I haven’t the stomach for such things.”

“I am truly sorry, Elrond. For causing you so much worry again.”

“Ah, well.” He sighs, and a tired smile slips slowly onto his face. “I am beginning to think the stress is simply a hazard of keeping your friendship, Galadriel. One which I will gladly bear in exchange for the joy of having you among us again.”

“Thank you.” She smiles back, and her heart aches to tell him everything. “Believe me when I say that I really do not feel worthy of your good graces right now, Elrond. But I am grateful for them nonetheless.” She pauses. “There is so much I’d like to tell you, about my journey to the Southlands and what I discovered there — but I suppose it should wait for a better moment. You must be terribly busy right now.”

Elrond looks behind him, toward the archway that the steward and Annatar departed through. “Well, you’ve certainly brought back a very intriguing guest,” he says. “A specialist in Morgoth’s arcane arts! And he knew Elros! Truly amazing. I do look forward to speaking with him at dinner.”

“I’m hoping he can help me with some particularly difficult Black Speech translations,” Galadriel says. “We’ve also brought back a... an artifact from the Southlands that needs further study. A weapon with dark enchantments on it, made for Morgoth by Sauron. It is in Annatar’s keeping at the moment.”

“Galadriel... I must ask you.” Elrond lowers his voice. “Did you encounter Sauron when you were in the Southlands?”

“No,” she says. “I saw no sign of him in the Southlands. When I arrived at the meeting-place, I learned that Sauron was not the one who sent me that letter. It was sent by the moriondor, the one who calls himself Adar. He wished to propose an alliance against Sauron... and I did not give him a definitive answer. However, he did give me the artifact – that sword of Morgoth’s – as a sign of his intentions.”

None of what she’s just said is a lie, she tells herself. All of that is technically true. But she knows very well that one need not lie to deceive.

“I imagine you’ve much to think about, Galadriel,” Elrond says, studying her. “I will not bother to suggest that you seek the High King’s counsel on these matters... for I can see already that it is not in your plans to tell him any of it. But it’s probably for the best that I know no more about this until after the banquet, for both of our sakes. I am already keeping far too much from Gil-galad, and it pains me greatly.”

Every half-truth she tells Elrond weighs on Galadriel’s shoulders like a stone. Still, there’s not exactly any other choice. With Gil-galad’s prying eyes on everything, with so many guests already here, with the dwarves about to arrive...she cannot possibly ask Elrond to bear this. Elrond already keeps his silence for her about Halbrand’s true identity and Sauron’s involvement with the rings, and it’s clearly troubling him. He’s just practically begged her not to tell him anything else.

Galadriel nods in understanding and squeezes Elrond’s shoulder. But the stark reality of what’s happening is slowly sinking in. That steward has just gone to install Sauron back in the smiths’ wing, in Halbrand’s old room. The High King will soon be politely introduced to their disguised enemy for the second time. The remnants of Morgoth’s army of horrors have been awakened by her own hand... and she has become entangled beyond all reason with the would-be new Dark Lord of Middle Earth.

Here she is, lying to everyone about everything, all while she calls Sauron deceiver.

“I suppose we shouldn’t dwell any further on dark things this evening,” Elrond says. “This is a time of celebration, and we should try to make the most of it before the next problem makes itself known.” He turns to Galadriel. “Come... you’d better get to your rooms. You need to rest and get cleaned up for dinner, and I’ve got more preparations to attend to. But first, I’ll go to the vault, to put this away!” He pats his vest over the pocket that conceals the ring.

“Thank you, Elrond,” she whispers. “You are my dearest friend, and I do not deserve you.”

“I am glad you’re here, Galadriel. The most important thing is that you’re safe. One less thing I need to worry about.” He links arms with her and steers her into the inner courtyard. “Tonight, we’re going to put our troubles aside and have a pleasant dinner... and we shall enjoy the company of your wonderful friend.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel has rarely allowed herself to revisit those weeks that Halbrand spent in Ost-in-Edhil, right before everything fell apart... right before the very idea of Halbrand crumbled to dust. She has thought far too much about the raft, and Númenor, and the journey to Middle Earth. She has thought about the battlefield, and the aftermath, and their desperate run back to Eregion, time and time again. And yet, she has always avoided dwelling on Ost-in-Edhil, on those strange days when Halbrand was working with Celebrimbor in the forge.

If she were not so ridiculously enamoured with him, she surely would have noticed much sooner that something was wrong about Halbrand. His incredibly fast recovery, his odd behaviour, his knowledge of things no mortal smith from the Southlands should have learned about... even if he did have a royal ancestry. There were so many signs that she missed. Out of all the ways Sauron deceived her, it’s what happened in Ost-in-Edhil that makes her feel the most foolish, and that’s what makes it sting so much more than the rest of the memories.

Whenever she actually contemplates it, she feels the wound to her pride as acutely as the wound to her heart. This banquet to toast Celebrimbor would have been hard to get through no matter what. But knowing that Sauron is back here, too – that he walks these same halls in a new guise, invited in once again by the esteemed Commander Galadriel – she cannot stop herself from picking at those wounds. They’ve even put him back in the same forsaken room. Sometimes, it feels as if destiny itself is mocking her.

In her dressing room, she reluctantly gets ready for dinner, looking through her gowns with an exhausted sigh. Most of her extensive wardrobe is still in Lindon; almost everything she has here is clothing she acquired in those short weeks between her arrival with Halbrand and his sudden departure. She has not had much enthusiasm for anything as inconsequential as new dresses since then. As she scans through her relatively small selection of garments that would suit a dinner with the High King, her hand lands on a dress she once chose for a different king. The dress she wore on the final night Halbrand spent in Eregion before his deception was exposed.

As she lifts the shimmery gown off the rail and lets the material flow through her fingers, the vivid memory floods in. The last time she laced herself into this dress – this cloud of pale green fabric shot with silver, so buttery-soft that she could never stop running her hands over it – she had fully intended that he would be the one to take it off her. She remembers choosing between two dresses that night, and selecting this one because it does up from the front. Because she wanted to watch him while he untied it, to see the look in his eyes when she took his hands and brought them to her silver laces. That night, she had decided: she would go to Halbrand.

There were very few elves she knew of who had ever taken mortal lovers – but perhaps it was just that such things were rarely talked about. After all, most illicit love affairs did not inspire songs or legends that would echo down the ages. Most left no legacy beyond the aching hearts of those fools who would clutch at the impossible, who would become entangled when they knew very well they should not. Most heartbreak did not make history.

And if Celebrimbor’s attempts failed, if the blight on the tree could not be stopped... if she was really about to be shipped off to Valinor once again with her life’s work still unfinished, with Sauron still undefeated, with the Southlands not reclaimed... then nothing mattered anyway. Why shouldn’t she have Halbrand, just once, before her fate was ripped out of her hands? Wasn’t her heart about to break anyway? Why should she care anymore if it was proper, or if there was any future in it? Everything was fading, but this – this bright and blazing desire between them – burned like torchlight in the darkness, and she wanted to be consumed by it.

This was all going so very differently from the way she’d imagined things would unfold when they got to Eregion. She’d thought his recovery would take longer, for one thing, and that she’d have a bit of time – time to spend an afternoon sitting in the gardens with him when he was well enough, time for her to show him some of her favourite places in the city once he was able to walk around. Time to strategize in a war room and talk about battle plans for the Southlands, to discuss what their next move should be when he returned to his people. When they returned to reclaim his lands together.

But time was the one thing they didn’t have. The darkness had already struck so much closer to home than Galadriel had ever imagined. The circumstances had changed entirely with the news of the tree’s blight, and the uncertain fate of the elves.

Ever since Halbrand recovered his strength enough to stand, he’d been in the workshop with Celebrimbor and the other smiths, day and night. They’d barely been stopping to rest. And Halbrand seemed... distant since they arrived here. He seemed so far away from her, his attention locked firmly on the work in the forge – as it should be, she told herself. As it should be. There was nothing more important than finding a solution. The tree was dying, and there was no time, no time, no time.

Halbrand really shouldn’t be distracted from the work he was doing, and this wasn’t exactly the ideal moment for any confessions between them. Perhaps they had already said enough to each other on the way to Eregion, and they’d come as close as they should to acknowledging this maddening attraction between them. Perhaps it ought to have been enough just knowing that he felt it too. Even if Celebrimbor succeeded, even if the elves were saved from fading... perhaps a battlefield was the only thing that Halbrand and Galadriel were ever meant to share.

But despite the innumerable reasons she shouldn’t be doing this, Galadriel was still on her way to Halbrand’s room, wearing her buttery-soft dress, seeking out her mortal Southlander king. They’d moved him from his original room in the healers’ halls to this new room in the smiths’ wing, much nearer to Celebrimbor’s workshop. It was a relatively plain, simple room by the city’s standards, but she thought it must still seem luxurious to Halbrand. Everything he looked at in the elven city seemed to fill him with awe, even more so than his reactions to the sights when they’d first arrived in Númenor. And through the worry and despair she felt over everything else, Galadriel still delighted in Halbrand’s overjoyed smiles.

She walked down the corridor to his door, her heart racing at the thought of finally seeing him alone. She was more certain than ever that this was their last chance. The last opportunity she’d ever have to hold him in her arms, to throw down her defenses and surrender all reason. To let something be good just one more time before it all turned to ash.

She didn’t know yet just how accurate her premonition would turn out to be.

Galadriel stood there for a long time, staring at Halbrand’s door. She was sure he must be on the other side of it, because she’d checked at the forge and he wasn’t there. And he was never not there anymore, not unless he was in his room resting. All she had to do was make up her mind and actually knock—

“Galadriel?”

She whirled with a start to find Halbrand in the corridor behind her, looking like he was barely holding back laughter. He had obviously been watching her standing there with her hand half-raised, as she deliberated for far too long about knocking.

“Searching for me?” He smiled at her, and her remaining doubts melted away in an instant. However distant he’d been acting lately, their connection flared straight back to life when he was standing this close to her, smiling like that. He looked so unreasonably good for a man who’d not long ago been close to death – especially considering he had hardly rested all week.

“I was going to knock, but... I just didn’t want to disturb you,” Galadriel said, waving away her hesitation. “I thought you might be sleeping.”

“No, I was over at your door, looking for you, Galadriel! I wanted to tell you the good news in person – we’ve finally found something!” His eyes were alight with unbridled joy. “I think we’ve really got it! This time, it’s going to work... and it will be marvellous.”

Galadriel exhaled a long breath. “I would love to believe that, Halbrand,” she said. “Truly, I would. But I simply dare not hope, nor hang too much on it. There have been so many setbacks already. We could only dream that Celebrimbor would achieve something so difficult in such a short time.”

“Well, it seems the tides of fate continue to flow in our favor. Celebrimbor’s talent is extraordinary – if any elf can do it, he can. It is such an honor for me to be in the room while these things are happening, Galadriel.”

While he was talking, Halbrand reached out and caught Galadriel’s hand in his, entwining their fingers together, and it thrilled her to feel his warm palm against hers again. She’d last held his hand properly when he was still lying in bed being attended by the healers, not long after he opened his eyes and learned they had made it to Eregion. But she’d scarcely been alone with him for a moment since then. The most Halbrand had managed to touch her was to brush his fingers against her hand under the table, while they were sitting next to each other at dinner. That was on the first night he was feeling well enough to come to the dining hall, many dinners ago now. Every night thereafter, he’d been sitting with Celebrimbor and the smiths, continuing to speak of their project even when they had to pause to eat.

“You’ve clearly been of great help assisting the smiths,” Galadriel said, squeezing Halbrand’s hand with a smile. “Seems you’re aiming to become an honorary guild member in every realm you enter!”

Halbrand’s grin broadened. “Oh, that would be nice. Do the smiths get pretty little guild crests here?” He leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “Do you think I could... ask if I can have one?”

He was so unbelievably near now, his beautiful eyes fixed intently on hers. His gaze flickered down to her lips, and Galadriel had never been more sure that Halbrand was about to kiss her. He was going to do it right here in this public hallway, and she couldn’t bring herself to care even slightly about the lack of propriety. She needed this.

“I think... you could ask for a great many things you want, Halbrand,” she whispered, heat rushing into her cheeks. “And they would be granted to you.”

She heard his soft intake of breath at her words, saw that spark of desire flare in his eyes as he realized her meaning. He leaned even closer to her, pinning her gently against the door. Then he ran his palm ever so slowly down her side, caressing the soft fabric of her dress until his hand rested at the curve of her hip, and her heartbeat careened into a gallop. How had she ever thought she could turn away from this?

“Mmm. I like this dress. Might be my favourite,” Halbrand murmured. He traced along the embroidered neckline with his fingertips, skimming delicately over her skin, pausing with his hand resting on the tie of those silver laces. “I do enjoy you so very much in armor, Galadriel... but this...”

Instead of finishing his sentence, he reached over to turn the door handle. His room wasn’t locked, and when he nudged the door open, Galadriel stumbled back a little as it swung inward.

She grabbed for Halbrand’s sleeve, ready to pull him into the room and claim the fierce, reckless kiss she’d imagined since Númenor. The hungry press of her mouth over his would tell him all those things she never found the right words for. This night, she would hold nothing back. She would have her king. Oh, how gloriously she would have him—

But just as the door swung open and she took that small half-step back, Halbrand pulled away from her before she could kiss him. He was looking back over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on something behind him, and she realized at once that someone was shouting his name, yelling to him from the other end of the corridor.

A frantic voice, one she recognized well. Celebrimbor.

“Halbrand!” Celebrimbor shouted again, his footsteps approaching swiftly. She could see him now, still in his apron and heavy gloves, slightly out of breath like he’d run all the way from the forge. “There you are, Halbrand! Come! To the workshop, quickly! I’ve got to show you something, and – oh!” Celebrimbor startled, suddenly noticing Galadriel standing behind Halbrand. “My sincere apologies, Galadriel, I didn’t see you there! I’ll but borrow Lord Halbrand for a few moments, if I may. I need his eye on something.”

He took Halbrand by the arm and immediately dragged him away down the hall, muttering something about a formula and resonance quality.

“I’ll come find you when we’re finished!” Halbrand called back over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Galadriel!”

She watched them walking away in disbelief, the ghost of Halbrand’s touches still warm on her skin, her heart still beating too fast, her body burning with unquenched longing.

Of course there was nothing more important than this work. The very fate of the elves was at stake... what else had she expected him to do? But she sighed bitterly as she stepped back out into the corridor and pulled Halbrand’s door shut behind her. She leaned against the closed door, blinking quickly to dismiss the tears that pricked at her eyes.

She briefly wondered if it had occured to Celebrimbor to question why she was standing halfway into Halbrand’s room in the first place. But when she thought back on it later, she doubted Celebrimbor had given it a single second of thought. He was very much otherwise preoccupied.

Halbrand never came back out of Celebrimbor’s workshop that evening, and whatever experiment they had begun continued well into the early hours. Galadriel saw Halbrand just once more that night, when she lingered a while at the workshop entrance and watched him working. He looked deep in concentration, perfectly focused, and so very elated, drawing something out on a parchment while Celebrimbor observed. Maybe they really had found the answer this time.

Galadriel left silently without Halbrand ever seeing her there. She unlaced her own dress, hung it back up in her wardrobe, and fell into her own bed, alone.

The next morning, Celebrimbor spoke to the High King of a power not of the flesh, but over flesh... and everything shattered.

In her dressing room, Galadriel angrily shoves the buttery-soft pale green dress away, returning it to the very back of the rail. She chooses a deep blue dress for the High King’s welcome dinner; a garment with sharp, military lines and a high collar – and a starry motif across the shoulders that evokes Gil-galad’s standard. An outward show of deference from a Commander with no company to command, disguising her inner defiance.

A dress she can wear like a shield. A dress that does not beg to be touched.

But then again... Sauron does enjoy her so very much in armor.

Chapter Text

The evening of the High King’s welcome dinner does not start out well. Galadriel feels anything but welcome when she greets Gil-galad in the receiving line outside the dining hall, and the elven-king seems even frostier and more detached than usual when he speaks to her. He addresses her by her name only, pointedly omitting her title of Commander, and there’s obvious exasperation simmering beneath his calm, measured exterior as he watches her bow in front of him.

The flicker of a frown crosses his face when his gaze lingers on Galadriel’s hand, on the ring that Elrond returned to her just moments before. True to his word, Elrond made sure that the High King saw the exchange, and she could not miss Gil-galad’s disapproving stare across the room when she put on the ring and joined the receiving line.

She straightens from her bow and smiles through gritted teeth, moving on from the High King’s presence as quickly as she can without appearing disrespectful. She looks back, and she sees his shoulders visibly relax as soon as she walks away.

The source of Gil-galad’s current ire is really no mystery. Their last exchange of letters before she left for the Southlands was bordering on hostile, and she knows she has been treading the thinnest of lines with him for far too long. He has undoubtedly heard from several sources that she travelled outside the elven borders for an extended time, against his explicit order that she was to remain in Eregion. Of course, he has absolutely no idea that she also took the ring of power with her, and he does not know what prompted her journey, thanks to Elrond’s diligent secret-keeping. She can scarcely imagine what the High King would do if he actually knew everything, or even a fraction more than he already does.

Gil-galad believes that Galadriel has too much personal involvement in the Southlands conflict to see things clearly – he said as much when he last wrote back to Ost-in-Edhil from Lindon, denying her request for a new company to stand against Adar’s orcs. Her former friendship and sudden falling-out with the exiled Southlander king was no secret, and Gil-galad almost certainly thinks that her preoccupation with the fate of the Southlands is connected to Halbrand somehow. But whatever inappropriate entanglement he imagines occurred between them, it is nowhere near as bad as the truth.

At least she got through these initial greetings without speaking her mind to Gil-galad, much as it pained her to bite back her anger. The High King has called her to a private audience tomorrow morning – he wants to see her before the main festivities begin – and she really isn’t looking forward to coming up with an excuse for her most recent lapse in judgement. On top of that, the dwarven delegation seems to have skipped the welcome dinner tonight, so the High King will surely be feeling slighted – and he definitely won’t be happy that she’s planning to head to Khazad-Dûm after Celebrimbor's banquet. Or that she’s going there with the Númenorean scholar that she unexpectedly dragged here from the Southlands. Maybe there’s some way she can just... not mention most of that.

But Galadriel’s long list of High King-related problems empties from her head as soon as she enters the great dining hall, and discovers that her Númenorean scholar is already there. Although Sauron does not really stand out from the rest of the crowd in his elven guise, her eyes somehow land on him the very instant she walks in, as if she just knew where he was in the room. He’s seated near the middle of one of the long, elaborately-laid tables, and he’s staring right at the doors as she comes in – like he’s been waiting for her. He smiles and raises his hand ever so slightly to wave to her as their gazes collide, and she almost stumbles mid-step from the shock when she sees him.

The stewards have outfitted Annatar with appropriate dinner attire; he’s dressed in flowing formal elven clothing, gracefully draped in pale gold and deep forest green, and his head is now adorned with a thin gold circlet. Of course he wasn’t going to come to dinner in his travelling clothes – she doesn’t know why she’s so surprised – but it unsettles her to see him so completely transformed. He looks for all the world like an elegant elf lord that belongs in Gil-galad’s court, and it reminds her just how very little she can trust anything about him.

The only empty chair at his table is the one across from him – her chair. They’ve followed Elrond’s instructions and seated Annatar as near as possible to Galadriel, so there will be no hope of escaping him through dinner. Her jaw clenches. At least if they’d put him beside her, she wouldn’t have to look directly at him... but there is no such luck. He’ll be right in front of her. She walks to the table and takes her seat, deliberately not looking him in the eyes, but she can feel his gaze skimming over her, appraising her dress. He greets her in Quenya with that smooth, silken voice that isn’t Halbrand’s, and she manages a tight-lipped smile.

If she had feared that anybody here might recognize something of the mortal Southlander in this new guest, those worries dissipate quickly as the dinner begins. Galadriel can hardly recognize him herself – Sauron has altered just about everything to suit his new persona, from his posture to the way he laughs to his facial expressions. Annatar sits in his chair differently than Halbrand does. He eats his food and sips his wine with an austere restraint, totally unlike Halbrand’s ravenous enthusiasm. And where Halbrand exuded brash confidence, Annatar holds himself with a more subdued form of arrogance.

In this guise, Galadriel could almost forget who he is for a moment... but he kept those eyes. And he cannot keep them off her. Almost every time she glances at his face, he’s staring at her – sometimes smiling, sometimes just gazing at her over his wine glass, like he just happens to be looking straight ahead. She wishes he wouldn’t do that, and yet she can’t stop herself from glancing back at him to see if he’s still looking, again and again and again. She’s relieved when the dinner plates are cleared and the guests start to mingle and move around between the tables. At last, maybe she can get some distance from him. But no – because now it’s time to introduce Annatar to all the guests who weren’t sitting nearby. And absolutely everyone wants to talk to this curious elven scholar from Númenor.

As they make the rounds of the room and she makes introductions, Sauron is obviously enjoying himself far too much. He is revelling in the fact that she has to smile indulgently at him, praising him and his ‘expertise’ every time she presents Annatar to someone new. She continues to observe him from the corner of her eye when he separates from her, and she watches him sail from guest to guest, effortlessly making up nonsense and charming them all. Unsurprisingly, he spends most of his time glued to Celebrimbor and his entourage, and he stops to chat with just about every single smith in attendance. They are all delighted by him, practically shouldering each other aside to claim a moment of his attention.

Galadriel does not listen to whatever lies he tells Elrond, but she watches the two of them talking and drinking together for a long while when he finally leaves the smiths. And afterwards, Elrond comes over and embraces Galadriel with happy tears in his eyes, thanking her for bringing Annatar here. She doesn’t even know what emotion she’s meant to be feeling right now.

She cannot wait for this night to be over, but it’s far from through yet. There are more drinks being served, and trays of fancy pastries and sweets are just being carried out to the dessert table. There’s a general air of lighthearted merriment in the room that she can't bring herself to partake in, despite Elrond’s repeated attempts to cheer her up. All she can feel is foreboding, and her mind is already on the next day – on her audience with the High King, and on everything that’s still to come. She thinks about Morgoth’s creatures, all those evil beasts out there somewhere in the dark. And, of course... she can’t ignore the one that’s right here in this room.

Whenever Sauron drifts back over to Galadriel – because he always makes his way back to her side somehow – he never misses an opportunity to touch her. His fingers lightly skimming down her arm to get her attention. A little squeeze on her shoulder when he thanks her for another introduction. His hand casually brushing against hers when they stand close to each other. Worse yet, him being in a new guise has done absolutely nothing to diminish the effect his touches have on her. Some foolish part of her had thought being near him would be simpler if he wasn’t Halbrand, and that it would be easier to ignore him if he wasn’t in that form. But she doesn’t even have to see him to know when he’s nearby. She can feel his very presence when he comes close to her, and her heart beats a little faster. She’s sure he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that he’s doing it on purpose. He is basking in this.

Then, at long last, the night starts to wind down, and the guests begin to peel away from their conversations and trickle out of the dining hall. Galadriel could probably slip out and leave now; although the High King hasn’t departed yet, it’s well beyond the time when she won’t appear conspicuous in her early departure. But she can’t go, because Annatar is still here. She tells herself it doesn’t matter – it’s not as if she can control a single thing that Sauron is doing anyway – but it’s probably a bad idea to leave him at a party completely unattended. So she stays a little longer, and she keeps watching him from a distance.

He hasn’t broken character all evening, and she supposes that any oddities the others might have noticed in his speech or manner could easily be written off to Annatar’s centuries of living in an isolated island enclave. No one could possibly suspect that at this very moment, they are being entertained by their would-be new Dark Lord of Middle Earth. Or that it’s Galadriel’s fault that he’s here. Again. She clenches her fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms, but she doesn’t stop looking at him.

She sees his mask slip only once, just as he’s finally leaving at the very end of the night. The remaining small group of dinner guests starts to split up after the High King’s exit; they’ve all bid each other goodnight, and now they’re parting ways to head to their respective lodgings. Annatar is about to walk over to the smiths’ wing with some of his new acquaintances – yes, those are definitely two of the same smiths he worked right beside as Halbrand, and they have no idea. But Galadriel notices him hanging back in the dining hall for a moment after the smiths walk out. She sees him furtively snatch three left-over apple pastries off the dessert table and shove them all into his mouth, one after the other. He turns to look over his shoulder, smirking at her as he licks off his fingers – of course he knew she was watching – and then he slinks out the door to catch up with the rest of them.

Galadriel seethes quietly, but at the same time, she can’t help but laugh a little. Which only annoys her more. Something about what he said back at the inn still grates at her: his too-accurate observation that she doesn’t allow herself to enjoy anything. It’s painfully true that she has never known how to appreciate the lulls of homecoming between forays with her company. The pauses between campaigns felt strange and fraught to her every time, and she always chafes against the confines of the city after long months spent on the road or on the battlefield. The lavish dinners and lengthy social engagements feel too much like wasted time to her; time she’s forced to rest before she’s finally allowed to keep fighting. In Lindon, Elrond often scolded her for being halfway out the door the moment she arrived, saying her mind was already back on the battlefield before the first night’s dinner was through... and he wasn’t exactly wrong.

But Galadriel’s next campaign – if one could call it that – may very well be her last, if the worst should happen. She must not make the mistake of failing to appreciate the pause this time. No. She will do her best to appreciate it. And she does know how to enjoy something, thank you very much.

She stands there in the dining hall until she’s completely alone. When the very last of the remaining guests has meandered out, she walks up to the dessert table and picks up the nearest gold-trimmed tray that still contains some sweets. And then she walks right out of the hall, brazenly making off with it.

Galadriel walks back to her rooms, scooping fancy little leaf-shaped sweets into her mouth straight off the tray as she goes. She stops on the way to ask the evening attendants in her wing to have hot water brought up for a bath. Upstairs, she goes to her cabinet and she pours herself a tall glass of honeyed wine, filling it all the way to the very top. Then she undresses, ties her hair up on top of her head, and climbs into her bath with the glass, determined to sink into a blissful forgetting.

Sauron has it right, as much as she hates to admit it. There’s really no reason not to enjoy some of this. Of course, she still has to report to the High King in the morning, and Morgoth could be about to escape from the Void for all she knows... but indulging herself a bit tonight won’t change anything about what happens tomorrow. There’s nothing that she can prepare or plan for, nothing to be done until Celebrimbor’s banquet is over and they can get to Khazad-Dûm and retrieve those scrolls. Her only task tonight is to rest, and try to relish the calm before the oncoming storm.

Steam rises around her as the hot water soothes her tense muscles, and she stretches luxuriously in her bath. She sips her drink slowly, savouring the wine on her tongue, deliberately tasting every rich mouthful. And as she relaxes and lets her body unwind, she’s suddenly very aware of that sweet, insistent ache between her thighs, pleading for the release she hasn’t given herself in too long. She drains the glass of wine and sets it down. And then she closes her eyes, and lets her head fall back, and she slips her hand down into the water.

She tries not to think of him, but she can’t ever seem to stop. She still wants him terribly, and no amount of denial can make her forget about Halbrand whenever she brings herself to the brink. She always finds herself imagining things she should never have desired with him in the first place, much less now that she knows. Halbrand’s insatiable mouth trailing down her neck, his hands clutching her hips, his body pressed against hers... the scruff on his jaw grazing against her skin as he kisses her all over...

Sometimes she thinks of being alone with him in the forge after hours; she imagines him rucking up her dress and putting those talented fingers to work, pleasuring her in the firelight. Sometimes she imagines him lifting her against a wall in some hidden little alley in Armenelos, burying himself inside her as she gasps breathlessly into his shoulder. Sometimes she imagines rocking on top of him in her tiny cabin on the Númenorean ship, both of them trying desperately to keep quiet and failing. All the things that never happened, all the things that never will.

Galadriel bites her lip and abruptly pulls her hand back. No. She will not. Not while thinking of Halbrand, she promised herself. She sits up in the bath with a frustrated sigh, and she wants to smash that pretty wine glass against the wall. She did swear it – never again with him on her mind – and she meant it. She refuses to go back on this.

Not while thinking of Halbrand.

But...oh... oh.

Somehow, she is starting to get very comfortable with half-truths and technically-not-lies.

Galadriel takes a long breath, closes her eyes again, and leans back. And she imagines a smooth, elegant elven hand slipping under her dress in some dark corner of the empty dining hall. He holds her from behind and pulls her onto his lap, bracing her against his thigh as his fingers slide slowly to the exact place where she needs them. She arches into his hand with a soft sigh of delight.

She imagines him curling his fingers just so – undoing her perfectly, coaxing such sublime pleasure from her with every little stroke that he must be reading her mind. His other hand holds her steady, gripping her at the waist as she trembles against him, and she’s already so close to the edge. She tips her head languidly back and thinks of the elf who is not an elf kissing her bared throat with a slight graze of his teeth... and she falls apart.

She moans indecently as she slides down into the water, melting into that delicious, long-denied release. And she imagines him licking off his fingers just like he did in front of the dessert table... and his elven voice murmuring softly to her in Quenya: “Call it a gift.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel wakes to bright sunlight pouring in through the window. Ugh, far too bright. She blinks blearily, holding one arm over her face to block out the offending sunbeam, and slowly gets her bearings as she surfaces from sleep. Through her half-closed eyes, she looks around, taking stock of her surroundings: the beautifully painted ceiling, the fancy woven rug on the floor, that elaborately wrought table next to her bed... Right, she’s in her rooms in Ost-in-Edhil. She came back yesterday.

And Sauron came into the city with her, and Gil-galad’s entire court is here, and there was that dinner last night—

She sits up in bed, and as she moves, the empty bottle she was still half-holding drops from her hand and rolls away across the floor, startling her fully awake. Oh. Right, that. She remembers falling into bed last night and drinking the rest of that sweet wine – all of it – straight out of the bottle. What was she thinking?

Though she rarely partakes of such things, Galadriel could easily outdrink half a dozen human soldiers when it comes to mortal-made ales and spirits. Elves do not suffer most of the annoying effects of overindulgence like mortals do. But that was elven wine she was drinking last night; an exceptionally strong one, of the kind meant for delicate sipping. And she drank the entire bottle.

Her head is still clouded with a cottony haze, but not enough to prevent her from immediately remembering the rest of what happened last night. Gil-galad’s obvious exasperation over her unsanctioned trip to the Southlands. Sauron at the dinner in his elven guise, charming every guest in attendance, ingratiating himself once again with Celebrimbor and the smiths. His infuriating staring at her with those all-too-familiar eyes.

She starts to swing her feet out of bed, and stops. The gold-trimmed tray she stole from the dining hall is there on the floor, upside down and empty. Alongside the dress she was wearing yesterday, which is lying in a crumpled pile of blue and silver exactly where she flung it off before getting into the bath.

Oh, curse it all, the bath. The memory of it sends an instant flush of heat into her cheeks. Did she really—

She must’ve temporarily taken leave of all her senses yesterday, because there is absolutely no reasonable explanation for that. She covers her face with her hands and falls back into the pillows, swearing under her breath. Well... perhaps she has now banished that unappeasable yearning for good. That is it. He can test her resolve all he wants with his ridiculous games, with his ‘accidental’ touches and his staring and his whispering against her ear, but this ends here. No more thinking about him. Not about Halbrand, not about Annatar, not about Sauron in any form, no matter how badly she—

Wait, what on earth is that awful noise? It takes Galadriel a moment to process what has interrupted her thoughts, and what probably woke her up in the first place: there is someone loudly knocking at her door. Repeatedly. And they are not giving up.

She gets up, fetches a robe, and pads over to answer it in her bare feet. She opens it a tiny bit, not quite enough to see who’s on the other side or to let them see her.

“What do you want?” she growls through the crack.

“Galadriel?” It’s Elrond, his voice soft and confused. “What are you doing? You’re meant to be at your audience with the High King!”

“Oh! Elrond!” Galadriel pulls the door open a little wider. “Sorry about that,” she mumbles sheepishly. “What time is it? How long do I have?”

“Uh.” Elrond clears his throat. “About... negative half an hour.”

“What? No!” She clutches the doorframe, fury mingling with panic in her voice. “That is not possible! How could it be so late already? I think I overslept—”

“Listen... I told Gil-galad this was my fault. I said I was so busy yesterday dealing with all the guests and the preparations, I must have accidentally scheduled you for an hour later than I was meant to,” Elrond says. “I definitely told you the wrong time, didn’t I? But please, Galadriel! You have to be there. On time. Half an hour from now.”

When she sees Elrond’s pained, wide-eyed expression, Galadriel is suddenly overwhelmed with the guilt of it all. “Elrond... oh, Elrond, thank you.” She flings the door wide open and startles him by throwing her arms tightly around him. “I do not merit such generosity. If you only knew all of it... if you really knew what I’ve—”

“Galadriel,” he says warningly. “Do not tell me anything else that needs to be kept from the High King.” He pats her shoulder, but quickly extracts himself from her hold. “I told you I would trust your judgement, and I will keep my promise. But for the sake of our friendship, please. Just get dressed and be at that audience in half an hour, and we will speak of everything later. I’ll see you at the celebration.” He pauses, averting his eyes. “I do hope your feelings will still be as warm toward me at the end of the day.”

Before she has a chance to ask him what he means by that, Elrond spins on his heels and rushes off back down the corridor.

Galadriel is dressed plainly when she steps before the High King, wearing an unadorned tunic of the style usually reserved for wartime, with her hair pulled back in a severe, military braid. She wishes she had her vast Lindon wardrobe here – she would have come in her full ceremonial regalia as Commander of the Northern Armies if she had it – but this was the best way she could think of to make her point in the few minutes she had to prepare. Futile as it may be, she comes asking him once again to go to war.

Gil-galad does not hide his disapproval, and his scorn is immediately evident in the way he looks her up and down as she enters. He’s obviously in a terrible mood, and she’s not sure he believes that Elrond really made a scheduling error. Still, he does make a show of paying close attention while she offers up a thin excuse for her foray to the Southlands. He listens without comment as she explains the need for elven eyes on the situation there. He folds his hands contemplatively when she defends her decision to investigate on her own, in defiance of his order that she not leave Eregion. But he gives no real response to anything she says, until the point when she once again asks him for a company – and then, the two of them are instantly at the same old impasse. Unsurprisingly, Gil-galad refuses her request. And Galadriel can hold back her rage no longer.

“High King, we urgently need to send elven reinforcements to the Southlands!” she protests. “Dark forces are still at work there!” It’s all she can do to keep from outright shouting at him. “Surely we don’t intend to be complacent until they move against us directly, allowing them the time and space to spread beyond Mordor! We must act now! You’ve said it yourself, without the intervention of the elves, the whole of Middle Earth could be overtaken by darkness again!“

“When the intervention of the elves is needed, we will answer the call,” Gil-galad says, a steely calm in his voice. “But one moriondor and a small rabble of free orcs, camped in a little slice of volcanic wasteland, does not a Dark Lord make. Besides, I hear that the Númenoreans have established a military encampment in their old settlement in Pelargir. You conveniently neglected to mention that part. Clearly, they intend to hold the port and stake their territory there, given the weak claim to the crown in the Southlands.” He looks at her pointedly. “From what you told me of the battlefield, Númenor is more than capable of dealing with this threat themselves. Let them contend with the moriondor.”

“They will still need our aid, and our collaboration,” Galadriel says. “Númenor has sent but a small company, and the Southlanders are completely undefended in the—”

“My answer remains no, Galadriel,” Gil-galad interrupts. “Númenor did not care for our collaboration when they ordered our friendly ships away from their shores, when they banished the elves and turned their backs on us. And you know very well on which side the Southlanders stood when last we fought the creatures of the dark. For all the years we wasted watching over them, it seems they went the same way in the end. We owe nothing to them, nor to Númenor! If they require our aid, then let them come to us first. Let them beg our forgiveness for their insults. There is no reason for us to become embroiled unnecessarily in the wars of men.”

“High King, our intervention is needed immediately. This war involves us already! The moriondor is dangerous enough if he is left unchecked, but I remain convinced that there is a far greater threat to Middle Earth. Not in the future, but here and now!” she insists. “There are undeniable signs that Morgoth’s creatures are stirring, and they have a master out there, one who waits only for the right opportunity to make himself known.”

“Galadriel.” Gil-galad bites out her name in that sharp tone that means he is quite finished discussing the issue at hand. “I have been ever so lenient with you. I’ve been more than patient with your continued insistence on defying me. But you have pushed me far past my breaking point.” He takes a long, wearied breath. “The time will undoubtedly come when the elves will be called upon to fight again. And if a greater threat should emerge, our elven armies will rise up to meet it swiftly, on that you have my word. But you will not be in command of that charge, Galadriel. You should not even be here at all! Let me speak plainly: you are a liability. You have become completely unable to see past your personal feelings and your own obsession. Do not drag us into a new war simply because you cannot face putting down your sword.”

“High King, that is not—”

“Enough!” Gil-galad shouts, and he looks shocked at the force of his own outburst. He lowers his voice again, speaking through clenched teeth. “You will remain Commander in name, in recognition of your previous service. But let this be the last time you ask me for a company, Galadriel. The Northern Armies are disbanded, and you are no longer fit to lead. My mind is made up.” He looks down at her hand. “And, since I am quite certain you will nonetheless find some pretext to go running to the Southlands again, against my orders... you are to relinquish your ring of power.”

“What?” She is so stunned that she drops any semblance of deference. She balls her fists at her sides, her glare blazing with fury. How Gil-galad can possibly be this short-sighted—

“You would not have been my choice of ring-bearer, Galadriel, I have made no secret of that. You wear that ring only because I respected Lord Celebrimbor’s choices in the first instance... but no more. You may keep it until after today’s festivities, as you are already named as a ring-bearer in our celebration programme. But after that, you will turn your ring over to Elrond. A ring of power should be worn by someone who will remain steadfastly in elven lands, with the expected commitment to elven interests. It should not be left locked in a vault while you chase phantoms.”

“High King, you must reconsider.” Galadriel’s voice shakes with rage. “If you would consult with Lord Celebrimbor, I am sure he—”

“You are dismissed, Galadriel.” Gil-galad presses a hand to his temple like he has a headache. “Now, let us not mar Lord Celebrimbor’s day with these matters. You will hand over your ring to Elrond tomorrow morning, and you are to speak no more of assembling a new company, is that perfectly clear?” He sighs. “Go, Galadriel. Leave me. And please, put away that military tunic and find something properly festive to wear – I trust you have actually consulted our planned dress code for the ring-bearers at the celebration?”

“Of course,” she lies. She vaguely remembers seeing a note about the dress code, tucked into the celebration programme that was stuck in her door when she got back yesterday. Right, that fancy invitation she ripped in half and threw somewhere on her desk.

“Good,” says Gil-galad, looking very much like he doesn’t believe her.

“Thank you for your time, High King.” Galadriel bows stiffly, giving the barest of respectful nods before she turns and leaves the room.

Storming away from her audience with the High King as fast as she can without running, Galadriel doesn’t think about where she’s heading. She simply does what she always does when she’s furious – lets her feet lead her to water, the only thing that really helps to calm her. She turns in the direction of the Glanduin river, follows the nearest path, and takes the steps down to the riverside two at a time, her eyes half-closed, trying to sort out her chaotic thoughts.

It’s only as she gets down to the water that she realizes with sinking horror which landing this is. And what’s worse, there’s someone already sitting there. An elf with long silvery-blonde hair is perched on the far side of the stone bench, looking at the river.

Of course it’s him. What is he doing here, of all places?

“You,” she half-whispers, outrage unmistakable in her voice. “Why are you here?”

There’s nothing of his usual flippant expression on his face when he turns around. Sauron looks genuinely shocked to see her. “I could ask you the very same thing,” he says after a beat. “And this is a public place last I checked, Galadriel. I can sit where I please.”

She grits her teeth. “Fine. But why is it that you’ve chosen to sit here?”

Sauron looks away from her, gazing at the river again. “Would it make you happy if I said I’m reflecting on my mistakes?”

“No. But I doubt very much that anything would make me happy right now.” She walks to the bench and sits down at the opposite end, far away from him. “Gil-galad just told me that I’m being stripped of my ring. I’m to relinquish it to Elrond. As of tomorrow, I am no longer a ring-bearer.”

Sauron gives an abrupt, mirthless laugh. “Your High King is a fool, what can I say.”

“He thinks that my personal feelings prevent me from seeing reason about our military strategy against Adar. In his view, I cannot judge the situation in the Southlands dispassionately... because of Halbrand.”

Sauron shifts down the bench, moving slightly closer to her. “Mmm. I suppose that’s not entirely incorrect. It’s just not for the reasons he thinks.”

“He believes I am unfit to command.”

“Well, on that point, I could not disagree with him more strongly,” Sauron says. “Though your talent was sadly wasted commanding the pitiful Northern Armies of High King What’s-his-name. You should be leading the greatest army that Middle Earth has ever seen, Galadriel. Your power should be boundless... you are no mere commander, you are meant to be a warrior queen!” Galadriel refuses to look directly at him, but she can feel him moving closer still, sliding down the bench little by little as he speaks, until he’s right beside her. “You know it’s true,” he whispers. “All you have to do is say the word, Galadriel. Just think about it, think of the possibilities. We could raise an army against Morgoth, and you would be the strongest and the most—”

“Stop,” she says, holding her palm up to silence him. “Stop it. Do not do this right now, I cannot bear to listen to you talking. Especially here. I just want to seethe furiously in peace, all right? That is why I come to the water. If you wish to sit here... could you for once please leave me alone and keep quiet?”

He says nothing, just leans forward and softly kisses the middle of her raised palm. Then he gets up and silently goes back toward his own side of the bench.

He walks all the way to the far edge of the landing, where he starts rustling around in one of the flower gardens. What is he doing? Galadriel stares resolutely at the river and tries to pretend he’s not there. She will not look over at him. He’s obviously trying to get her attention, but he won’t succeed.

She glances over just once, and she sees him drop a little pile of flowers onto the bench next to him as he sits back down. Do not look, ignore him, do not look, she repeats to herself. She wants to get up and leave, to find another place down the river to seethe, but she won’t admit defeat. He should be the one to go. He doesn’t belong here at all, not in this city and certainly not here.

She glares down at the water and tries to think about how angry she is at Gil-galad, not about how she can still feel the press of Sauron’s lips against her hand. Every so often, she can see movement out of the corner of her eye as Sauron reaches over to pick up flowers from his pile on the bench. But he doesn’t speak to her; just as she requested, he doesn’t say a single word.

Eventually, he stands up again and meanders over to the riverside edge of the landing. He stands there for a long while with his back to her, facing the water, looking at the exact spot where she nearly drowned. Not for the first time, she wishes she knew what was really going on in his head.

When he finally turns to leave the landing, he has to walk right past her. Galadriel can see that he’s holding something delicately cradled in both hands... but before she can make any sense of what he’s doing, Sauron takes another step, stops in front of her, and kneels at her feet. Then he reaches up slowly and places an intricately woven flower crown on top of her head.

Galadriel’s confounded heart betrays her, beating against her ribs like a trapped bird as he touches her. And when her gaze meets Halbrand’s eyes looking up at her from Annatar’s soft elven face... to her great dismay, she’s immediately seized by that accursed longing again, that overwhelming desire to pull him closer. Sauron looks agonizingly sincere as his fingertips linger for a moment against her hair, gently adjusting the crown into perfect position. He still doesn’t say a word when he stands back up. He just steps away from her, turns, and walks silently up the stairs.

Galadriel stares at the water, breathing deeply until her heartbeat returns to normal. She doesn’t look toward the stairs again until long after Sauron is gone.

Chapter Text

Dress code: Please dress festively and wear pale colours (to symbolize light) with silver accents (in Celebrimbor’s name). Ring-bearers are also to wear flowers (for the prosperity & revival of elvendom in Middle Earth).

Galadriel reassembles the embossed invitation on her desk. She sits there staring at the two torn halves set together, as if the gilded words are somehow going to change if she looks at them long enough. This cannot be for real. This day surely can’t get any worse. She lets her head drop foward onto her folded arms and lies there facedown on her desk for a while before she finally sits up again. The elaborate flower crown has tipped off her head, and is now sitting mockingly on top of the invitation.

She stands up and slams open the doors to her dressing room, cursing her failure to acquire any more new gowns to keep in Ost-in-Edhil. There must be something else she can wear... She looks carefully at every single thing on the rail, just in case she’s forgotten something. But no, there’s really no other option. She only has one gown here that fits the dress code. Her soft, pale green dress shot with silver, the one that does up in the front with silver laces. The dress she’d once meant to drop onto Halbrand’s floor.

She’s thinking of him as Halbrand again, she realizes, but she cannot think of him by any other name in that memory. And she cannot separate the sight of this dress from Halbrand’s last night in Eregion – the last time anything was even close to fine. The last time he was still her mortal Southlander, and she still believed his lies.

Galadriel furiously brushes the military braid out of her hair and pins the flower crown into her loose waves, stabbing each hairpin into place like a dagger. She puts on that buttery-soft dress, doing up the silver lacing while muttering every swear word she knows in elven and mortal tongues.

But the fact remains: she’s going to these festivities in Halbrand’s favourite dress, wearing Annatar’s flowers upon her head.

The celebration is taking place entirely outdoors, and there couldn’t possibly have been a better day for it. It’s a gorgeous, sunny afternoon, warm but not too hot, and everything looks amazing. A large pavilion has been set up in the central city, next to the courtyard full of tables where the evening’s banquet will be laid out under the stars. Every tree, lamppost and building in the city is festooned with decorations and silver ribbons.

As Galadriel comes out into the courtyard to take a look before things start, she can see Annatar out there already, talking to the same two smiths he was with last night, exclaiming with his usual wonder about how fabulous everything is. But the minute he looks up and sees Galadriel there, he looks nowhere else. He stares at her in that way he does, like she’s all he can see, until she comes over to him.

She approaches to greet him – there’s really no avoiding it now that he’s seen her – and he doesn’t hide his surprise that she’s still wearing his flower crown. “Beautiful flowers, I like those very much,” he whispers as he leans in to give her a quick, polite embrace. When he pulls away, his gaze skims slowly over her dress, and he arches an eyebrow at her with a secretive little smile. Thankfully, he makes no further comment.

He looks rather magnificent himself, though she’s hardly going to tell him so. He’s wearing flowing elven formalwear in a colour somewhere between light grey and light blue, with jewelled silver clasps at his throat and a soft, pale velvet cape angled over one shoulder. His long hair is brushed to a perfect sheen, and he looks as regal as an elven-king. The absolute convincingness of his elven guise still throws her off-balance, and it angers her as much as it impresses her every time she hears him speak Quenya with that silken voice.

“I hope you’ll enjoy the festivities,” she says coolly. “I’d best be going – apparently, we have to rehearse our entrance for the ring-bearers’ procession.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have the grandest time,” he says, trailing his fingers lightly over her iridescent sleeve. “And I look forward to watching.”

The afternoon’s segment of the celebration passes in an uneventful blur of ceremony and ostentation. First, there’s a rousing speech from the High King – one of Elrond’s better ones, Galadriel has to admit. Then comes the official unveiling of the new forge; Celebrimbor and Gil-galad make a show of opening the grandiose entrance doors together, and the Lindon guests all file slowly into the tower to have a look for the first time.

The dwarves were meant to be here for the opening, and there is a slight alteration to the programme where Durin and Elrond should have spoken together about the collaborative construction project. Instead, Elrond speaks alone, making vague apologies for the missing dwarven delegation as that portion of the event is cut short. But little fuss is made of it, and the programme moves swiftly onward to the procession of the ring-bearers, and the showing of the rings. Galadriel stands with a stiff, stoic smile as elves gather around the ring-bearers to look more closely at each ring, while Celebrimbor presents them. Everyone exclaims once again over their perfection and exquisite beauty.

There’s a break for refreshments, and then it’s time for the main event in the outdoor pavilion: a long speech from the hero of the hour himself. Lord Celebrimbor, master smith and ringmaker, takes the stage to thunderous acclaim. Celebrimbor speaks in great detail about the making of the rings, weaving their story from the beginning: the blight on the great tree, the peril of all elvendom, the trials and failures of various solutions, and finally, the miraculous idea itself – resonance theory, harnessing the light of the lost Silmaril, the alloy, the use of the circular form, all of it. He thanks the members of his team, highlighting the contributions of each of his smiths, and he extends his gratitude to Elrond and Galadriel for their tireless assistance. He even thanks the absent Prince Durin for his provision of the mithril sample. There is only one of his assistant smiths who goes conspicuously unmentioned, one name that goes unspoken.

Galadriel steals a glance at Annatar while Celebrimbor is thanking his team, and the pretty elf’s expression is surprisingly blank – anyone else would see nothing in his face but a careful attention to the speech. But when she looks closely, she can see that his pale fingers are wrapped so tightly around his wine glass that his knuckles are bone white. His hand is shaking almost imperceptibly with rage, and his jaw is clenched. For a brief moment, she wonders if he’s going to shatter that glass in his hand. But as Celebrimbor finishes his speech, Sauron quickly recovers his composure. His posture relaxes; he smiles and shouts out Celebrimbor’s name with cheerful jubilation along with the others, lifting his glass high into the air.

Moments later, as he passes by Galadriel, he pauses to whisper in her ear: “There were four inaccuracies in that explanation of resonance. Not like it matters.” There’s more amusement in his voice than anger. And that’s the only thing he says about it. Not half an hour after the speech he’s right back in Celebrimbor’s orbit again, congratulating him and chatting and laughing with the group of smiths. He stays with them for a long time, and he’s still talking to Celebrimbor as evening falls and the guests slowly start to gravitate to the courtyard where the banquet tables are being laid out in the open air.

As one of the ring-bearers, Galadriel’s place setting at the evening banquet will be at the head table with Celebrimbor. Annatar, of course, has been seated somewhere among the regular guests. But as the grandly decorated tables are being laid, Galadriel sees from the corner of her eye that the stewards are carrying an extra chair to the head table. They’re swiftly rearranging things as the guests file in, and the place settings are being shuffled down to squeeze in one more. No one could refuse a request from Lord Celebrimbor on his special day. They’re relocating Annatar, and they’re seating him right beside the master smith himself.

Galadriel is so wrapped up in watching the stewards re-laying the table that she doesn’t notice Elrond beside her, trying to get her attention.

“Galadriel?” Elrond touches her shoulder, looking tentative and anxious, as if he thought she were ignoring him deliberately. They haven’t properly talked since this morning, since before Gil-galad delivered the news about the ring. Elrond glances down to where it glows on her hand, his expression pained. “Could we speak?”

“There is nothing we need to speak about,” Galadriel says. She gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. “All is well, Elrond. Do not burden yourself about the High King’s decision. It is not your fault.”

“Galadriel, I—“ he begins.

But just then, there’s a small commotion at the edge of the courtyard where the guests are streaming in from the pavilion. Galadriel turns, peering through the crowd to see what’s happening, and sees that several dwarves have just come through the flower-covered arches. It seems the delegation from Khazad-Dûm has arrived at last.

“Look! It’s Durin!” Elrond gasps. He abandons whatever he was going to say, excitedly pulling on Galadriel’s hand. “Durin is here! Come!”

Elrond pushes through the crowd, dragging Galadriel behind him as they struggle to move in the opposite direction to the flow of guests. The leader of the dwarven party – a red-bearded dwarf who must be Prince Durin – greets Elrond effusively, hugging him in greeting. The Prince’s party is small; only a half-dozen others accompany him. Galadriel knows from the size of the table reserved for Khazad-Dûm’s delegation that many more were expected. The leaders of the construction crews, the architectural consultants, and several members of the dwarven council had all been meant to accompany Durin.

“What tidings, Durin?” Elrond says. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming!”

“Ah, Elrond! You know I wouldn’t miss a party!” he says, reaching up to slap Elrond’s shoulder with a jolly laugh. But there’s a strange tension hanging over the group, and Elrond still looks unsettled.

Elrond studies his friend’s face, looking at the tiny delegation around him. “What’s happened, where is everyone else? Is Disa not with you?”

“Ah, Disa sends her apologies. She couldn’t be here tonight. She’s holding things together for me, back at the mountain.” He lowers his voice, drawing Elrond aside a half-step. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I should be here either. We’ve had some... trouble in recent days, and it didn’t feel right to leave. But you know Disa: Ohhh, you can’t let Elrond down, and so on and so forth. She insisted that I should come. Besides, we need to do what we can to...smooth out relations here, in spite of my father.” He glances pointedly in Gil-galad’s direction. The High King is watching from a distance, regarding the dwarves with a guarded stare.

Elrond’s brow furrows with concern. “What’s the trouble at the mountain?”

Galadriel is standing back to give Elrond and Durin some space, but she listens intently, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she waits for the dwarf’s answer.

“Ach! A bit of a mystery at the moment, I’m afraid,” Durin says, shaking his head. “It all started about three nights ago. We were getting some strange tremors down in the deeper levels – and then we got a real bad one. A whole section of the lower city collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” Elrond’s face goes pale. “Oh, no!”

“It’s all just... gone. Looks like some kind of a sinkhole. It happened in an instant, never seen anything like it. Thank Aulë it wasn’t worse... we’d evacuated the whole area as a precaution when we felt the first shakes. No one was hurt. But I’ve a real bad feeling about this, Elrond. I don’t think it’s over yet.”

Elrond frowns. “You don’t know what might be causing it?”

Durin gives a low, harsh laugh. “Well, you know my father’s convinced we were secretly doing something with the mithril shaft, since it’s round the same side. But we haven’t touched that in weeks! No one’s even been down there, it was still sealed. There’s no way this is anything to do with mining.” He sighs. “We sent down an exploratory party to have a look at the rubble once things settled, to see if they can find anything – but they weren’t back yet when I left. Disa was waiting for their report.”

“I’m so sorry, Durin,” Elrond says. “We would have understood if you couldn’t make it.”

“Nah, Elrond. Disa’s right. This is important,” Durin says, his eyes skirting to Gil-galad again. “The dwarven work on that forge was laying the foundations for centuries of diplomatic relations with the elves. We really should’ve been here for the opening. We came as quickly as we could... alas, all the chaos delayed our setting off by more than a day, so we’re a mite late.”

“Well, you’re right on time for dinner!” Elrond says with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure we can smooth things over with the High King.”

“We’ll be turning around and heading back first thing in the morning, sorry to say.” Durin shakes his head again. “I don’t think I ought to stay away from the mountain too long. I should be there with Disa and the wee’uns. Just in case anything worse happens.”

“Let us sincerely hope it doesn’t,” says Elrond.

“You know, I reckon there’s something real strange afoot, and not just at the mountain,” another dwarf pipes up. “We met a couple of travellers on the road that spoke of odd things in the forests. Creatures stirring, they said. Dark things, like in the olden days. Folks have seen ‘em the last three nights.” He shudders. “I don’t like it one bit. That trouble in the Southlands is too close for comfort.”

“Aye, well... let’s not bring the mood down here,” Durin says, patting his companion’s arm. “It’s a celebration. No more talk of these things tonight. Let’s go meet some elves.”

“Of course,” Elrond says. “Dinner will be starting shortly, but let me quickly introduce you to...” He looks around him for Galadriel, motioning her forward. “Ah! Here is my dear friend Galadriel, daughter of the Golden House of Finarfin, Commander of our Northern Armies.” Galadriel manages a smile and embraces Durin in greeting as Elrond beams. “Galadriel, this is Prince Durin of Khazad-Dûm, of course. You know all about him – another of my very dearest. I’m so happy to have you both in the same place at last!”

“Galadriel! ‘Tis lovely to finally meet you,” the dwarf says. “Elrond has told us so much about you! Disa would’ve loved to meet you, too – pity she couldn’t be here.”

“Ah! And look! Here comes our friend Annatar of Arandor,” Elrond says, reaching behind Galadriel to pull Annatar into their little circle. Of course he was somehow lurking right there, hovering around in the right place for an introduction. “Annatar is a scholar and a fellow of the Hall of Lore in Númenor – he’s visiting us to help Galadriel with some research. Annatar, this is Prince Durin of Khazad-Dûm.”

“Enchanted,” Annatar says with a little bow.

“The Hall of Lore, hmm! That sounds interesting,” Durin says politely. “We have something similar at the mountain. Lorekeepers of our dwarven histories.”

“I would love to see your mountain and your underground city sometime soon,” Annatar says with a charming smile. “As it happens... we were actually hoping we might go back to Khazad-Dûm with you after this party. Galadriel and I urgently need to collect some documents that Elrond left in your care.”

“My research materials,” Galadriel explains, holding back an exasperated sigh. He really cannot wait a single minute before mentioning those scrolls. “Annatar speaks of those three trunks that Elrond left with you a while ago – I think they’re in one of your vaults?”

“Oh, certainly, yes!” Durin says. “I’d gladly take you with us when we head back tomorrow. But... I’m afraid our hospitality and entertainment may be a little lacking at the moment. We’re in a bit of a state of emergency at the mountain... I hope you understand. We’ve had some... structural instability in our lower levels, so I can’t guarantee that it’s perfectly safe to descend to the—”

“Please, don’t worry at all about entertaining us, or about our safety,” Annatar cuts in. “It’ll be one very quick trip into the vault, I promise. We just need to retrieve those scrolls.”

“We don’t even have to stay,” Galadriel says. “But if there’s anything we can do to help with what’s going on at the mountain, please know that we’d be glad to help – or to repay you in any way for your trouble.”

“Ah, no, no, no. Not at all. You needn’t bother yourselves with our problems,” Durin says. “It’ll be sorted out soon, I’m sure. But if you insist on coming, then you must stay with us for at least a night. You’ll not be coming down just to collect some dusty old scrolls and then leaving without dinner, Disa would have my head!” He grins heartily at Galadriel and Annatar. “Tell you what, we can speak of it tomorrow when we’re ready to set off. We won’t leave without you.”

“Thank you so much,” Annatar says with that warm sincerity he conjures so easily. He reaches out and squeezes Durin’s shoulder. “We really do appreciate it.” He’s standing with his other hand brushing against Galadriel’s hand, as he does, perpetually touching her. He’s been lightly stroking his fingers against the edge of her wrist almost this whole time, while she resolutely ignores that he’s doing it. But she doesn’t move away from him, either.

“Yes, thank you, Prince Durin.” Galadriel inclines her head to the dwarf. “You’ve been a great help to us already.”

“Just Durin is fine, really,” Durin says. “We’re all friends here!”

And then, the dwarf motions toward the side of the courtyard, where two stewards are distributing trays of tiny pre-dinner drinks as the guests make their way to their tables. “Well! Come on, then, Elrond,” he says. “What do you say we get some drinks in us before I have to go speak to your High King?”

The banquet is long and drawn-out, as these things always are, and Galadriel tries to keep her spirits up and a believable smile on her face as the night drags on. Gil-galad all but ignores her throughout dinner, which suits her just fine – she’d just as soon the elven-king keep his icy silence as force her to engage in false pleasantries. The High King is clearly annoyed that Celebrimbor pulled the Númenorean elf up to the head table – and he’s surely thought up some way to blame Galadriel for that, too – but everyone else at the table is enthralled with Annatar. As usual. He’s the center of the table’s attention throughout the entire meal, and Celebrimbor doesn’t seem to care one bit – he’s also listening with enraptured attention while Annatar talks on and on about Númenorean architecture.

Lord Celebrimbor has a special place card marking his spot at the table, shiny and gilt-edged, with Ringmaker inscribed on both sides in a fancy script. Late in the meal, as desserts are being served, Galadriel is returning to her seat when she glances over there and sees that the special place card has slid down the table slightly. Sauron has somehow managed to nudge the thing toward himself, probably while reaching over to refill his glass from the carafe, so the Ringmaker title is now sitting directly in front of Annatar. If she had any doubt it was intentional, his smug little smile when he catches her looking at it puts that doubt to rest, and she rolls her eyes at him. He really is impossibly petty.

She sits back down, and he turns away from her again, but they don’t stop glancing down the table at each other after that. Sauron is eating his dessert in Annatar’s fashion, with tiny little measured bites, while he keeps talking to Celebrimbor. He looks nothing like Halbrand right now... but somehow he still looks so frustratingly good. His presence affects her whether he’s a pompous, flawlessly polished elf lord or a scruffy, messy-haired mortal in a smith’s apron or a warrior king fighting by her side in armor. She just wants and wants and wants him, and it doesn’t make any sense at all. And when she walks past him after the plates are cleared and guests are starting to circulate between the tables, she can feel his eyes on her again as she passes, staring at the sheer back of Halbrand’s favourite dress.

Galadriel is standing at the edge of the courtyard, completely alone for a rare moment, when Elrond makes his way over to her. He’s carefully holding two full wine glasses out in front of him as he weaves his way through the crowd, and he offers one to her with a look of contrition, as if he’s making her some kind of peace offering.

“I’m sorry, Galadriel,” he says, lowering his head. “We were interrupted before, but... I still want to say this. I hope you know that it was none of my doing, me becoming a ring-bearer. Truly, I did not know Gil-galad’s mind on the matter before this morning. I would have tried to talk him out of it, but he—”

“Stop, Elrond,” she says gently, taking the glass. “I told you already. Do not trouble yourself about it. I’m sure you’ll make a much more sensible ring-bearer than I did. At least, you’ll cause the High King far fewer headaches.” She forces a smile.

Elrond doesn’t smile back. “I don’t even know if I want this,” he sighs. “Gil-galad hopes to see me as a leader one day, and... I thought I had hoped for that as well. But the more I think about it... I just don’t know if I have what it takes to lead. I’m no Elros... and I’m not my father. I think about what I’ve accomplished, but all I can see are my failures—”

“Elrond, hush. You’ll make an incredible leader one day. You’re doing it already.” She smiles at him, touching his cheek affectionately, and this time her smile comes easily. “Your talent is just about the only thing Gil-galad and I agree on, and that has to mean something.”

Elrond finally cracks a grin. “Well, you agreeing with the High King certainly is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence,” he jokes back. “But don’t despair, Galadriel. Things will work out. I know he’s upset with you right now, but he’ll mellow in time. Honestly, I think all this business with strange creatures has got him on edge more than he’ll admit.”

All the more reason he should listen to me, Galadriel thinks, but she holds her tongue and says nothing. She just gives Elrond a conciliatory nod, and a mutual understanding passes between them that they will move on to talk about something else.

She lets her gaze wander across the courtyard to where Annatar and Celebrimbor are deep in conversation once again. Annatar is standing with his arm around Celebrimbor’s shoulder, a drink in his other hand, animatedly explaining something that the master smith is listening to with great interest. As if he senses Galadriel watching him, he looks up and glances in her direction, pausing for a moment to smile admiringly at her before he turns back to Celebrimbor and keeps on talking.

“Our Númenorean friend seems to enjoy your company,” Elrond observes, following Galadriel’s gaze. “His eyes have hardly left you all night. You must have noticed it.”

“Hmm.” Galadriel drinks, staring into the middle distance. “What are you implying, exactly?”

“Only that Annatar is obviously very fond of you,” Elrond says. “And yet, I’m not sure I’ve been able to discern exactly what your feelings are toward him. At times, I’ve thought you might return his affections, and I’ve seen you look upon him so warmly when he comes to your side. And yet at other moments... you seem angry, almost suspicious of him.”

“I see.” Galadriel sips again. “And what do you make of that, Elrond? Speak plainly.”

He sighs. “I think... you have been so badly betrayed, Galadriel, that you cannot see true. You’re still hurt, and for good reason. You had an unfortunate affinity for... for Halbrand... and you now meet any attempt at closeness or friendship with suspicion. Much as you launched yourself at my neck with a dagger when I pulled you from the Glanduin.”

“That is, as always, achingly perceptive,” she says.

“If you’d seek my advice? Do not let the wounds of the past get in the way of a good friendship,” he says. “And do not push Annatar away from you because of someone else’s misdeeds. Let his actions and his affections stand on their own merit.”

“Hmm,” says Galadriel. She drains her glass and sets it down.

“Now come on. No more melancholy.” Elrond smiles. “The music is starting. Let us go dance.”

Chapter Text

It’s a gorgeous starry night, and the conclusion of the banquet slides smoothly into merriment, singing, drinking and dancing. Lord Celebrimbor’s day has been a resounding success, and everyone is in a jubilant mood. Guests stream from the banquet tables into the torchlit open-air dance floor as musicians begin to perform on the other side of the courtyard, and Elrond and Galadriel join the whirl of dancers.

Galadriel absolutely intends to avoid a certain Númenorean elf for the rest of the evening, but there’s only so long she can realistically dodge him. She’s caught off guard not long into the night, when she and Elrond are about to go back to the tables to have a drink with Durin. She walks alongside Elrond, her arm linked with his. But just as they’re leaving the dance floor and the next song is starting... Annatar steps directly into her path, holding his hand out to her, inclining his head in an elegant little bow.

Elrond smiles, gently nudging Galadriel in his direction. There’s no way to escape without making it completely obvious that she’s avoiding him. So she does the only thing she can do; as Elrond waves happily at them and walks off toward Durin, she takes Sauron’s offered hand and lets him pull her back into the twirling crowd.

They’ve danced together once before, in a manner of speaking – when he joined her in her mind and re-created the send-off party from Armenelos. A beautiful moment she’d believed was a dream; a shared illusion while they travelled to Eregion together the first time. When he was still Halbrand. The two of them were much... closer back then. And as they start to dance together, in the open air under a similarly starry sky, she knows Sauron must be thinking of it, too. Returning to that memory can hardly be helped under these circumstances.

But it’s only one dance, and it won’t end the same way as the last one did. Galadriel holds him at arm’s length, keeping herself at a careful distance from him. Nonetheless, there’s no denying how effortlessly they move together, how easily they match each other’s steps. They’re still as beautifully synchronized as they were before, just as connected as they were on the battlefield. They spin and turn in such flawless harmony that it may as well still be an illusion, and she lets herself relax into the flow of their graceful motion.

When the last notes of the song fade away, she’s almost disappointed to let it end. He releases her, slowly letting go of her hand... but he doesn’t step away. She doesn’t walk away from him either. They just stand there facing each other, waiting, their gazes locked. He smiles at her with such genuine joy – looking at her so adoringly, so benevolently – that she could almost believe he really is a charming elven scholar from Númenor, and not the Dark Lord she has sworn to destroy. He knows exactly how to manipulate her, and at times she still has to remind herself that none of what he does is sincere. Still, when the music starts up again, she holds out her hand to him. And he takes it.

He doesn’t speak out loud, and he has so far kept his promise to stay out of her mind... but he doesn’t have to say anything at all for her to read the intention in his stare. He looks at her exactly the same way he did on that last night Halbrand spent in Eregion, the night she last wore this dress. There’s that same spark of desire in his eyes, like he’s an instant away from giving up all restraint and kissing her. But he wouldn’t dare, surely. Not here. No. He’s just playing games, as usual.

He spins her onward through the next song, and the next one after that, and he draws her ever so slightly closer to him with every revolution they make around the courtyard. Or maybe it’s her who’s slowly been leaning in toward him... Galadriel can’t honestly be sure anymore. But the distance between them continues to diminish, until she finds herself fully ensconced in his arms. She can feel his heart beating fast as she’s pressed against him, and she wonders if he perceives her own accelerated pulse, the way his proximity is affecting her far more than could be attributed to the exertion of dancing.

“This dance does not call for such closeness,” she chastises him as they start their fourth round. “These are not the right steps... this isn’t how it is meant to go.” They’ve broken away from the other dancers now, and they’ve drifted to the very edge of the dance floor in a darker corner of the courtyard, where he spins her in a much slower circle, swaying her against him. He’s moving his hand along her back, lightly tracing her spine through her dress as he gathers her toward him again.

“Well, how should I know how it’s meant to go, Galadriel?” She feels the soft reverberation of his laughter in his chest. “I am an elf of Númenor. My customs are different. And I happen to believe this is exactly how this dance goes.” He’s sliding his hand around to the curve of her waist now, letting his fingers drag over that buttery-soft green fabric, and she catches her breath at his brazen touch. “Do you not think this is better?”

“I think you are insufferable,” she whispers.

“And I think you like me that way.” He lowers his voice even further. “You remembered that this dress was my favourite, didn’t you?”

Her face burns. “It was the only thing I had that fit the dress code – silver and pale colours. I don’t have many gowns here.”

“Didn’t answer the question,” he says with a smirk. He leans down to murmur to her, so close that he’s practically kissing her ear. “Mmm... well done. You’re getting good at clever evasions. Did I teach you that?”

He’s still caressing her waist, his fingers wandering slowly up and down against her dress, and it’s so distracting she can hardly form a thought. All she can focus on is the feel of his hand stroking against her body, his touches pouring desire into her like molten heat as they sway together to the music. And she can’t stop thinking about how this dress belonged on Halbrand’s floor.

“Stop – stop it, you can’t do this here,” she hisses, finally pulling back from him. “We are in public, you are an elf. Have some propriety.” She glances around, grateful for the general state of revelry and noise that has prevented anyone else from paying much attention to them.

Sauron puts on a look of mock surprise as he lifts his hand away from her waist and places it delicately on her arm instead. “Ohhh, I’m sorry. Would you like to go somewhere less public, then? You really needn’t be so subtle, Galadriel—”

“That is enough,” she whispers. “I have to leave.” The song ends and she ducks quickly out of his grasp, glaring back at him before he gets any ideas. “And to be clear, I mean that I am leaving. You are staying here.”

She walks to the flower-covered arches without looking back at him, her steps unhurried, her head held high. But as soon as she’s out of his line of sight, she runs. She needs to exert herself; she wants to punch something, to smash something to pieces, to do anything else to release these pent-up feelings and distract herself from him. She runs much further than she means to – past the empty pavilion where the speeches were made, down the cobbled street, around the corner again. She’s probably scuffing up her delicate velvet shoes, but she doesn’t much care. She just keeps running, all the way down to the city gates.

Near the gates, a small group of guards is gathered around one of the guard posts, tapping their feet to the music that’s floating up from the distant courtyard. Two of them try to hide the bottle of wine they were sharing as she passes, but she pretends not to see it and just waves at them.

As she goes to let herself out the small side door next to the closed gate, one of the younger guards hesitantly raises a hand. “Ah,” he says uncertainly, “excuse me, my lady, but we aren’t meant to let any guests out of the central city until morning. Patrols are still on high alert—”

“I think the Commander of the Northern Armies can probably handle herself,” an older guard laughs. “Commander Galadriel would have you on the ground in a fight inside ten seconds, even in a dress and fancy slippers.”

“Oh!” The young one laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, Commander, I didn’t recognize you!”

“I can take a sword with me, if it will make you feel better,” Galadriel says. She reaches over and snatches the young guard’s sword, grabbing it from his belt before he can react. She spins the blade artfully in her hand as he looks on, wide-eyed. “Hmm! You should probably be paying a little more attention to your weapon, shouldn’t you!” She raises an eyebrow as the others laugh, giving them all a good-natured smile. “As you were. We’ll see if any of you can steal it back from me when I come back in.”

She leaves the group of them chuckling behind her as she walks through the little doorway and makes her way down toward Ost-in-Edhil’s outer wall, still spinning the sword idly in her hand. It’s dead quiet out here. There’s no light except the stars and the moon and the torches from the watchtowers, and she finally feels like she’s far enough away from Sauron to breathe. She looks up at the sky and inhales deeply of the crisp night air, grounding herself.

What is it about him that she can’t seem to shake off? Even after everything that’s happened... there’s still an undeniable kinship between them. He gives her this deep-down sense of being understood that she just hasn’t felt with anyone else. And when they fall into that perfect harmony – on the dance floor, on the battlefield – it feels like they simply belong side by side. No one has ever fit beside her this way. No one has felt so much like her mirror. And she still doesn’t want to contemplate exactly what that implies about her.

Galadriel thinks of what she said back in Armenelos, those words that haunt her, about the two of them being brought together for a shared purpose. Sometimes, she still wonders if it’s true. It feels like a force greater than destiny keeps pulling them together. But she cannot possibly trust him – he is Sauron. He is a creature of darkness, Morgoth’s greatest servant, the monster that she spent centuries hunting. Even if he did betray his master, he did so for selfish reasons – because he wanted to seize control of Middle Earth for himself. Sauron has done unspeakable evil, and he surely will again at the first opportunity. No good could possibly come from feeling kinship with the Dark Lord. Or from feeling... whatever else this is between them.

She’s still deep in thought when she hears a volley of sudden noise in the distance – something is happening over there at the outer wall. At first, it’s just one voice shouting, someone high up on the wall, yelling down to someone else down below. And then there are escalating shouts, multiple voices, their tone now approaching panic. Galadriel tightens her grip on the sword, her posture tense and alert as she peers into the night to see what’s going on. Someone screams.

She sees that Ost-in-Edhil’s outer gates are slowly opening, and a small group of armored elves – the night’s patrol – comes thundering in on horseback through the widening gap. One of the horses is dragging its fallen rider.

“Shut it! Close the gates behind them, now!” the guard on the wall is yelling. “Sound the alarm! Call for reinforcements!”

Behind the horses, a huge troll is squeezing itself through the outer gates, roaring furiously. It wrenches itself inside even as the gates are being closed again. The creature is crushed by the enormous weight of the gate, but its bulk holds the doors open a bit, and three more trolls are climbing in through the gap, crawling over their companion’s fallen body to get inside the wall.

Galadriel raises her sword, battle-readiness flooding her limbs. As the guards on horseback circle around to confront the trolls in front of the gate, she makes her way quickly over to the wall, stepping softly and stealthily, counting on the ring to shield her from the creatures’ attention. She runs to the door that leads up into an empty watch platform, and rushes up the stairs to the top of the small tower. With foreboding in her heart, she looks down into the dark below to see exactly what else that guard patrol was running from.

What she sees down there fills her with dread. Dozens and dozens of creatures are massing right outside the gates, collecting in a large swarm. There are beasts of all kinds – trolls, wargs, serpentine horrors, tiny sharp-toothed lizard-creatures, all snarling and crawling over each other, pouring toward the gap in the gate held open by the fallen troll. There’s an unholy shriek from above, and she looks up to see three winged fellbeasts, their massive forms casting a shadow over the wall as they swoop above the fray. She hasn’t seen more than one in the same place since the end of the war. Oh no, no, no....

As she cranes her neck to see where the fellbeasts have gone, there’s a sudden, crackling boom, and the sky sizzles and ignites with colourful light. Curlicues of gold and silver weave against the stars, exploding into three concentric glowing circles that represent the rings of power. The night’s fireworks display is starting as planned. No one back in the courtyard has any idea what’s going on out here.

Galadriel whirls back to the stairwell, about to run back down to join the city guards in the fight at the gates. But she stops short – there’s a giant black wolf standing down there, blocking her path. It’s much too near for her ring to protect her from its notice; the creature is directly at the bottom of the stairs, and it spots her immediately.

It growls, staring up at her with glowing yellow eyes. Its slavering mouth is gaping open, showing far too many rows of teeth to be natural. And behind the wolf, several small lizard-creatures are scrambling into the stairwell, too. Great. Galadriel grits her teeth.

She adjusts her grip on the sword and steps onto the first stair, embracing the familiar, focused calm of her battle stance as she prepares to be attacked. The enormous wolf snarls at her as it crouches to pounce – it’s clearly about to launch itself up the stairs. But just as she adapts her stance to take it on in midair, the beast jerks back suddenly, like it’s being pulled by an invisible lead. Its large ears flick from side to side, and it cocks its head, as if it’s listening to a command. It looks at Galadriel one more time before rotating in a full circle, looking all around itself.

And then, it turns sharply and tears into the lizard-creatures behind it, throroughly destroying two of them as the others scatter away. The wolf jumps out the door and disappears back out into the night.

“What—” she whispers.

Galadriel! She hears Sauron’s voice, then, calling her name in her mind. Galadriel! I can see where you are. I’m coming. I’ll be right there.

Chapter Text

As the alarm is being sounded, there’s absolute chaos in the vicinity of the gates. The fireworks from the celebration are still going off, cartwheeling across the sky and lighting up the terrifying scene as armored reinforcements start arriving from Ost-in-Edhil’s other guard posts. Archers quickly take up position along the wall to either side of the outer gates, while the guards with swords form a defensive line against the onslaught of creatures.

A few minutes later, word has apparently reached the courtyard at last. The music and the fireworks stop abruptly, and soon some of the guests with military experience begin to stream out from the central city. Many run to join the defense in their party clothes, with whatever weapons and quickly-donned armor pieces they grabbed from the armory.

Galadriel has taken up the rear guard, watching for creatures that slip through the defensive line and slaying them before they get anywhere near the city itself. She usually prefers to be at the front of a battlefield, but she isn’t armored. And, more importantly, she needs to keep eyes on another creature of the dark… the one that arrived from the opposite direction.

He’s out here now, despite surely having been instructed to remain sheltered in the central city with everyone else who isn’t a trained warrior. He probably slipped through with the last group of archers. He has neither a weapon nor armor, and he’s standing well back from the fray, watching the fight from a distance.

Hmm. This is not good, he says in her mind, stating the ridiculously obvious.

What exactly is happening here? Galadriel demands. She turns to spear an escaped lizard-creature on the point of her sword. Why are these beasts attacking the city, all together like this? Is someone leading them?

Quite the opposite, Sauron tells her. They’re swarming. We had this problem with them so often when Morgoth went down. Both times. It happens when they’re summoned but they don’t fully accept the bond to their commander… or, in this case, when they think they were summoned but nobody actually gave them any directions at all. If there are a lot of beasts in the same place, they’ll start to aggregate like this… and then they attack the nearest thing that provokes them. In this case, your night patrol, who dragged the whole swarm right to your gates.

So they’re... waiting for a commander? That’s the only thing that will stop this? She deftly dodges a stray arrow that someone fired from the wall.

These creatures were specifically bred to be controlled, Galadriel. They were made to be weapons. But Morgoth was the only one who could easily harness them in large numbers. When Adar and I tried... we only had partial successes, and often we got exactly this result. Aggressive swarms that couldn’t be directed, that wouldn’t obey us. They’d just turn on us, and we had to destroy them.

Galadriel sees that Annatar has started to walk toward her now, moving forward slowly like he’s nervous but curious – as if he’s an incredibly foolish bystander who just wants a closer look at what’s happening on the battlefield.

This was one of the things that Adar and I always argued over, he goes on. Adar didn’t want me sending the orcs out to fight the swarms, when I summoned the creatures but failed to control them. Unnecessary casualties, he said. But it had to be done, I was trying to learn how to harness the beasts so we could rebuild Morgoth’s armies! Unfortunately, once they fail to accept a command, a swarm won’t break until most of the creatures are down. They’ll just keep attacking. Only Morgoth’s power could stop this.

Galadriel pauses to slice through a hissing serpent over her shoulder, spinning around as it falls away. Then it seems we have no choice but to keep fighting them.

He laughs through their link. Well, there is one other choice, Galadriel, as you know very well... but I presume you still don’t want to try that one. So yes, you will have to keep fighting them.

Annatar is still moving toward her, still approaching the battlefield. He’s looking at the sheer number of creatures in the swarm, and then at the fighters spread out across the field and along the wall. They’re clearly overwhelmed and unprepared.

If you can do anything at all to help us, do it now, she demands. He can’t take up a sword and show his true skills as a warrior – he was just telling his dinner companions tonight that he’s never been in battle – but surely there must be something else he can do. Whether he actually wants to help is another question.

He stops walking for a moment and closes his eyes, then reopens them again and shakes his head. I’ve been trying to use the wolves to corral the swarm away from the gates, but it isn’t working.

The wolves… you can control those, then? Galadriel steps in his direction, turning in a circle, alternating between watching him and watching the defensive line for more approaching creatures.

Yes. I’ve got most of them leashed to me already. These wolves were mine, once – generations ago, but it seems I am still able to harness them. I can see through their eyes, too, if I focus. And what I just saw is more creatures coming down from the hills, Galadriel. They’re still aggregating, and those fellbeasts are attracting more. Every dark crawling thing that can see the sky will be on the way here. We’re going to have a big problem if we don’t stop this soon. We need to break the swarm!

Annatar continues to walk her way; he’s right out on the battlefield now. Several of the other elves in the rear guard scream at him to stand back as he passes them, but he ignores them.

Galadriel looks up to the sky, where the three fellbeasts are still wheeling and screeching high above the wall. Some of the archers have been firing arrows at them, to no avail. Can you do anything about those?

He stares up at them thoughtfully. I could probably control a fellbeast from close up if I focused on one at a time… but bringing all of them down won’t be inconspicuous. There isn’t much I can do here in front of everyone. His gaze turns toward the distant tree-covered hills beyond the wall. What we really need to do is get the whole swarm to move toward the treeline, up there. So I can fight them in the forest, out of sight. Using whatever methods I need to.

How can we get them to move? I thought the swarm won’t obey you? She ducks to pull a dagger out of a fallen warg and uses it to impale another one that’s broken through the defensive line, swinging her sword with her other hand to give the creature a second blow.

They won’t. But I can certainly provoke them. If I can get up there, to the forest edge, I’ll use my powers to get their attention… and then the wolves can help herd them to me. Hopefully, I can get the swarm to come and fight me instead of attacking the city.

One of the city guards runs past as he heads to the inner gates, probably on the way to fetch more arrows. His eyes widen when he sees Annatar standing there on the battlefield with no weapon in his hands, just staring uselessly at the onslaught of beasts. “Get back, you fool! What are you doing out here? Get back inside, come on!” the guard screams, pulling Annatar by the arm as he passes. But the pretty elf wrenches himself free, and the guard abandons the effort and runs on.

Galadriel is still rotating in a circle, watching for creatures while also watching Annatar. When she looks back to him, there’s a disconcerting smile on his face.

I have an idea, Galadriel… but I’m going to need your help. As soon as I’m over the wall, get on a horse and follow me. Come up to the forest edge, and I’ll meet you there. We can break the swarm in the woods.

Over the wall? But how —

Annatar is standing perfectly still, looking straight up, staring intently at the circling fellbeasts. Suddenly, one of them swoops down with an eerie shriek, the spread of its black wings casting a foreboding shadow over the field below.

He starts to run backwards in the direction of the wall, his eyes still on the creature overhead. Anyone watching probably thinks he’s scared witless, suddenly realizing the folly of wandering across a battlefield now that he’s in this monster’s sights. He steps back, back, back… and it keeps coming, circling closer.

Galadriel! Throw me your sword!

Galadriel runs after him as the beast descends. It’s definitely staring back at him, its gaze firmly on him, singling him out.

Your sword, Galadriel! Throw it to me! Now!

Galadriel grits her teeth and tosses her sword toward him. As the weapon spins out of her hand, the hideous winged creature dips lower, and then it stretches down and seizes Annatar by his velvet cape, its long talons tearing into the beautiful fabric. He reaches behind him just in time to catch the sword before the creature lifts him high off the ground and sails toward the wall, carrying him in the direction of the forest.

“Galadriel!” She can hear someone screaming frantically for her from across the field. “It’s got Annatar! It’s taking him! Galadriel!”

“I see it! I’m going after it!” she screams back. “I need a horse!”

She’s now without a sword, and she looks around desperately for a mount. The riderless horse from the night patrol is still careening around the field in wild terror, its injured rider having long ago been helped away.

Galadriel curses under her breath as she spots the panicking horse and starts to run toward it. She needs to move fast and fling herself up onto horseback while the animal is in motion, and she is hardly dressed for it. She looks down in frustration at her soft green gown. The hem is covered in grime; ink-black blood is spattered over her shimmery sleeves, and there’s already a long tear down one side of the skirt. She bunches the delicate material in her fists and tears the other side, too, so her legs can move more freely. And then she sprints directly at the horse, launching herself on an intercept trajectory and swinging herself up onto its back as it passes.

She swiftly turns the horse around, pressing it immediately into a gallop toward the outer gates. She feels the terrified animal resisting as she directs it right into the midst of the furious creature swarm, but she whispers to it with gentle elven words, and doesn’t alter her course. She needs it to jump through that small gap, where the gates are still held slightly open by a fallen troll. One of the armored guards throws her a sheathed sword when her horse thunders by, and she catches it over her head as her mount weaves past several snarling beasts. Then the horse leaps through the gap in the gates, and Galadriel is racing into the dark toward Eregion’s hills.

Half a dozen large black wolves immediately surround the horse as she exits Ost-in-Edhil, the pack circling her protectively and fending off surrounding creatures until she’s well clear of the city wall. She looks behind her, and she sees that some of the creatures at the wall are slowly starting to turn around. As more wolves run near the edges of the mass of beasts, corralling them into a narrow line, the swarm is gradually beginning to peel away from Ost-in-Edhil’s gates and turn toward the forest. They’re all going in the same direction as Galadriel.

When her horse gallops up to the forest edge, it’s clear that a lot of beasts are up here already. Galadriel follows the trail of snapped branches and trampled-down grass, and then the increasing noise of their roars and growls, to a small grove that’s absolutely overrun with monsters. She can see Annatar – Sauron – there in their midst, completely surrounded, his cape a pale blur spinning through the dark as he slices at them with his sword.

He’s holding off several creatures at once while a small pack of wolves is tearing at a troll behind him. The three fellbeasts are all already down, their carcasses smoldering at the grove’s edge, dark shapes lying amid a tangle of broken trees and bushes. She can sense Sauron’s power scorching through the air all around her as he fights. He swings his sword with his right hand while his left hand is raised toward the attacking beasts, probably weaving some kind of dark sorcery.

Galadriel! He looks up, calling out in her mind as his gaze meets hers. Galadriel, help me!

She jumps off the horse and runs toward him. The wolves escort her, clearing a path for her through the chaotic riot of creatures as she pauses to run her sword through other beasts, dodging an onslaught of terrifying claws and unnaturally sharp tails and gnashing teeth.

As she battles her way over to him, she realizes she can feel Sauron there, fighting alongside her. She knows when his sword strikes true, and she can perceive where he is, even when her back is turned and she cannot see him with her eyes. Just like in Tirharad, it’s as if a tether runs between them, and their connection pours strength and resolve into her. Even though she’s completely unarmored, she doesn’t know if she’s ever felt more invincible as she joins him in the heart of the grove.

They swing their swords in magnificent synchronicity, fighting back to back and side by side, spinning and turning together as gracefully as they did on the dance floor. More wolves arrive and fan out in a wide circle around them, slowing down the creature swarm, allowing only a few beasts at a time to cross through their line as a steady stream of new horrors enters the grove.

But Galadriel can see that the vanguard of wolves is shrinking. Many of the wolves have already fallen to fiercer creatures, and there are bigger and bigger gaps in their line. Beasts are still flowing steadily into the grove, climbing over the quickly multiplying carcasses of the ones that have already been slain, and Galadriel begins to wonder how the two of them alone – even with the help of the wolves – can possibly hold on for long enough to prevail.

And yet, they continue fighting. Whenever she feels like her endurance is failing, she reaches for Sauron and anchors herself to that tether between them. It’s a dozen times stronger than it was when they fought together in the Southlands. They’re even more strongly connected now, the link between their minds fully formed this time. She drinks resilience from the connection, and she can feel him doing the same thing – reaching for her, asking her to steady him across their link whenever his strength falters. They are thoroughly overwhelmed, but they do not break. They pull each other back up, over and over and over again.

No elves ride from the city to assist them, and it’s likely no search party will be sent until morning. No one could possibly imagine that Galadriel alone, with the help of one single elven scholar who has never seen battle, could still be fighting these beasts. If she even found Annatar alive. Either the city guards believe that the swarm has left entirely, and they’ve barred the gates thinking it’s over, or else they’re still fighting their own battle back at the wall. But there are so many creatures here in the forest that Galadriel is certain they must have successfully drawn the whole swarm away from Ost-in-Edhil. She hopes the city is safe now, that the gates are finally closed, that the wounded are being tended to. She has to believe it, and she fights on through her exhaustion.

Finally, the very last serpent falls with a blood-curdling shriek, speared on the point of Galadriel’s sword. It collapses into the shrubbery at the edge of the grove, and she hears Sauron’s footsteps running up beside her as she strikes the deadly blow. When the creature rears up one final time as it crumples, he neatly lops off the head for good measure.

His expression is grim, his sword still raised as he stares into the depths of the forest. But as he looks around, peering intently through the jagged shards of snapped trees, his posture gradually relaxes. It’s done, Galadriel. It’s over. We did it.

He flicks his hand, and the remaining wolves turn and run off into the woods.

When the wolves have disappeared, Galadriel scans the trees for any more sign of movement, her hand still clenched around her sword. She sees and hears nothing. Was that really the last of them? Are you certain?

A few were left alive, but they’re moving away. The swarm is broken... they’re scattering now. He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling a deep sigh. Wolves see nothing either. We’re clear.

Galadriel cautiously eases her battle stance, still breathing hard with exertion, and as they stand there facing each other she lets her gaze focus on Sauron properly. In the bright moonlight, she can see that there are leaves and brambles clinging to his long hair, and he’s covered in grime. His lush velvet cape is ripped to shreds; what’s left of it drags behind him in the dirt. His beautiful flowy shirt is torn open, and there are several long, vicious gashes down his chest – wounds that look alarmingly deep if he were actually an elf.

You’re injured. That looks bad... can you heal yourself?

I’ve been worse. I’ll live. He smiles flippantly, the corner of his mouth going up in a strange juxtaposition of Halbrand’s expression on Annatar’s face.

She notices that he didn’t answer the question. The two of them are still lightly tethered, their minds drifting against each other, and she senses the deep exhaustion that weighs on him, the way his power feels faded and depleted. He’s as wiped out as she is.

Sauron throws his sword aside and staggers toward her, and Galadriel lets her own weapon fall from her hand onto the grass.

He steps closer – close enough to reach out and straighten her flower crown, which by some miracle has actually stayed pinned into her tangled hair. Then he gently touches her face, wiping a bit of grime from her forehead with his thumb. He still doesn’t speak out loud, nor drop their telepathic connection, and she doesn’t push him out of her mind.

You’re not injured, are you?

No... I think I’m all right.

Good.

Incredibly, she’s come through all that with just a few surface scratches and scrapes, despite her lack of armor. The ring might have shielded her a little, but it didn’t escape her notice how the wolves had all protected her relentlessly, sometimes leaving him undefended to assist her.

Sauron slides his palms down the sides of her face, then down her shoulders, down her arms, checking her over like he’s trying to convince himself she’s really not hurt. His hands tremble against her as he runs them slowly along her sides until they’re resting on her hips, stroking that soft green fabric. His favourite dress is thoroughly ruined now; long strips of the shimmery skirt are hanging in filthy tatters, and her delicate sleeves are stained and shredded. The silver laces have long ago come untied, leaving the front of her bodice open much lower than it should be. His eyes glow in the dark like his wolves’ eyes, gleaming brightly as his gaze lingers over that loosened lacing, and he chews his lip.

And then the tether between their minds suddenly snaps tight, and she can feel everything he feels in vivid detail. The searing agony down his chest where some creature’s claws have flayed him open. His faint awareness of the wolves moving away through the forest. The bitter after-image of all the power that has surged and shattered through this grove. And under all of it, the barely-contained blaze of his wanting; a desperate desire that howls through his veins singing her name. Galadriel. The intensity of it almost knocks the breath out of her.

She can sense him there in her mind, his presence curling and shifting against her thoughts like smoke, as he does exactly the same thing she’s doing. He’s slowly taking in what she feels right now... and she’s letting him look… and now…. he knows. She can tell the precise moment when his perception skims against that relentless longing that she tries to keep caged, when he discerns exactly how badly she craves him. She does not even attempt to hide the thought from him; it is far from being buried now, she can think of nothing else but how much she wants him pressed against her. She feels his hands clench, his grip tightening on her ripped dress where he holds her. His lips part with a sharp intake of breath as her desire kindles against his own.

“Galadriel—” he gasps hoarsely. He still looks like Annatar, but it’s Halbrand’s voice.

At the broken sound of her name in his throat, something inside her cracks. She reaches up for him, seizing him by the shoulders of his ruined shirt. And she pulls him toward her.

Falling into this feels like freefall, exactly like the moment she jumped from the ship on the Sundering Sea. That heart-stopping descent before she hit the water, knowing it was too late to undo it. Knowing she should probably be terrified, but burning with certainty that this was inevitable. She needs him like she needed to jump. There’s no turning back from this now.

She feels the spike of pain that flares from his wounds as she collides with him – it doesn’t matter, Galadriel, don’t stop, I don’t care, I don’t care – and then their lips crash together fiercely.

Sauron kisses her with feral, unrestrained need, his mouth hot and hungry, and she responds the same way. In an instant, they’re devouring each other with tongues and teeth, their hands sliding all over each other like they can’t possibly get close enough together. Their combined desire combusts into something otherworldly, their minds entangling tightly at the same time as their bodies, and they’re both shaking with the overwhelming power of it. She feels dizzy and unsteady… but all she wants is again and closer and more, more, more. She cannot let go of him.

Sauron lifts her right up off her feet, crushing her against him with a growl that’s equal parts lust and agony – he is definitely more injured than he admitted. He staggers from the pain, immediately loses his balance and drops her back down. She doesn’t regain her footing fast enough to steady him as he collapses to his knees, dragging her with him as he falls… and now, they’re both sprawled out on the grass.

Galadriel is vaguely aware of the unsettling remnants of the creature swarm, dark shapes piled up in the grove all around them. Her bloodied sword is somewhere on the ground behind her, and she’s lying in their trampled-up battlefield, her dress destroyed, mud seeping into her hair… but all she can see is him there beside her, looking at her like she’s the moon and the stars. His eyes glow even brighter than before, shining like two pools of molten rock.

He crawls closer to her and pins her down to the grass, immobilizing one of her hands over her head. There’s no fear in her at all, only desire so all-consuming it feels like light is exploding from her skin. She grabs a fistful of his hair with her other hand to pull him even nearer… and the shiver of pleasure it gives him reverberates deliciously into her as if it were her own sensation. She doesn’t know any more what’s her perception and what’s his, their minds are so entwined. And both of them are ablaze with the same desperate need.

He climbs fully on top of her, kissing her neck, dragging his teeth down her throat as he mumbles something unintelligible in the Black Speech; all she can really understand is her name. But every sound he makes stokes the heat between her thighs until she’s incandescent with it, writhing against him. She arches her hips up into him, cursing the layers of clothing that separate them.

When he pulls back for a moment to look at her with those glowing eyes, he speaks in Halbrand’s voice again. “Here… now?” he says breathlessly. The words sound hoarse and broken, like he can’t form a complete sentence. But he doesn’t need words at all when they’re linked like this.

“Yes. Oh, please, yes, please,” she moans against his mouth, kissing him again. She’s beyond rational thought, half-delirious with the need to feel him inside her, to have him here and now and more.

She can feel his desire consuming him like wildfire; his tightly held control is rapidly unraveling. He’s clawing his hand over the shreds of her dress, trying to pull the fabric aside. But he’s in terrible pain from his injuries, and when she slides her hand down between them to help him ruck up her dress, he slumps against her with an agonized groan.

“No—” he gasps, his lips pressed into the hollow of her throat. “Not... not like this, Galadriel... no. Wait...”

He rolls himself off her, letting himself fall onto his back – and as he does it, he grabs her wrist hard and pulls.

Galadriel blinks, and when she looks down again, her dress is clean and undamaged, the impossibly soft fabric falling in perfect pale green waves to the floor. She’s standing upright, her silver laces are done up flawlessly, and her iridescent sleeves shimmer under warm lamplight in the corridor— the corridor?

She turns her head and looks around. She’s standing outside his room in the smiths’ wing in Ost-in-Edhil, right in front of his door, with her hand raised to knock. Then she whirls all the way around, and he’s standing behind her in the corridor with that amused expression on his face.

He looks like Halbrand again. Her heart leaps.

“Searching for me?” He smiles with Halbrand’s unfettered joy, closing the distance between them in a single step. “You found me, Galadriel. I’m right here.”

“Halbrand!” she gasps. She puts her arms around him, pulling him close, holding him tightly as if he might disappear at any moment. Her pulse is still racing, that unfathomable desire still coursing through her as she presses herself into him. “What are we doing here?” she asks him in a whisper.

“What we should’ve done the first time. What I should have done.” He pushes her up against the door, pinning her with the warm weight of his body. And he leans down to her, murmuring softly in the Southlander’s low voice, in that way he does that makes her knees weak. “You once told me all of the moments when you most wished I’d kissed you… remember that? Well, this one is mine. Let me have this, Galadriel, please… just let me...”

Before she can say anything, he dips his head toward her and kisses her. He holds her there against the door, and he gives her the passionate, glorious, recklessly demanding kiss that she’s wanted from him since Númenor. The exquisite embrace she’s imagined ever since she lay awake wanting him in Armenelos, when she first touched herself to thoughts of Halbrand. She melts into him, pulling him closer, clutching at his tunic with one hand as she rakes her fingers into his hair with the other. And she kisses him back fiercely, her tongue sliding into his eager mouth, her body molding so easily against his. It’s like they’ve done this thousands of times.

In the corridor somewhere behind them, she can hear footsteps approaching, and Celebrimbor’s voice calling for Halbrand. Halbrand lifts his lips from hers and turns around to glance behind him, and she bristles for a moment – why in the world did he put this into the illusion? But then he turns back to Galadriel and flashes her a devious grin. He lifts her up with one arm, swings the door open with his other hand, spins her into the room and slams the door dramatically behind him.

“Mmm… too bad, isn’t it?” he murmurs to her. “The Ringmaker is a little... bit… busy... right now.” He kisses her between words as he picks her up and carries her over to his neatly-made bed. He sets her down on top of the covers and leans over her, pushing one knee between her thighs as he runs his hands over her dress. “I wanted you so much here,” he whispers. “So much. I’ve thought of this so many times, Galadriel… the way you looked at me on this night... how you desired me… how I could have taken this dress off you—”

“Then do it,” she gasps. She takes his hands and presses them against her silver laces. “Cease your talking and do it!”

He smiles salaciously. “Ohhh... I almost forgot how much you like commanding me.” He’s staring at her with that simmering look in his eyes, like he might be about to let go of his self-control again. But he starts undoing the lacing with delicate, careful precision, pausing to trail his lips slowly down her neck while he works it loose. She shivers at the soft, teasing scrape of his beard over her skin as he kisses her, and then he finally starts to slide her dress down. “Is this what you imagined when you came to look for me, Galadriel?” He stops himself again to stroke her bare shoulders as he uncovers them, looking down at her admiringly. “Me undressing you... just like this?”

“Mmm... well… it was not quite like this.” Galadriel sits up, seizes the hem of his tunic and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. He lifts up his arms to let her take it all the way off, his expression a mix of amusement and blazing lust as she runs her hands slowly down his bare chest. He opens his mouth, but before he can start talking, she locks her leg around him, grabs him by the shoulders and flips him onto his back, reversing their positions so she’s straddling him. “It went a little more like this,” she says, settling herself comfortably on top of him. She takes his hands and puts them back on her loosened bodice. “Carry on,” she whispers with a sly smile. “Undress me… Halbrand.”

She feels the sublime thrill that runs through his entire body when she calls him by name, and he reaches for her, dragging her down to him to kiss her hard. He tugs her dress the rest of the way off her shoulders, and she wriggles her arms out of the sleeves as he pulls the unlaced bodice all the way down to her waist. His hands are on her instantly, his hot palms exploring new realms of her, caressing her everywhere; down her chest, over her breasts, along her sides to her waist and back up again, like he needs to touch every single inch of her skin at once. He pushes the dress further down her back, his hands sliding impatiently inside to reach the curve of her bottom. “Oh, I am going to do so much more than just undress you, my little elf,” he growls.

“Don’t call me that,” she gasps. But she’s leaning down to kiss him, and her mouth is on his almost before she finishes speaking. That insatiable need to get closer is building between them once more. She can feel his control slipping again as he slides further into her mind, losing himself in her sensations, delighting in her hunger for him.

“Mmm. As you command, then,” he mumbles against her insistent lips. “My queen.”

Their minds are so entangled now that the delicious surge of gratification he feels as he says it pours straight into her. It lights her up with so much pleasure that she arches back with it. Her knees clamp down against his sides, and he holds her steady as she sits up and lets her head fall all the way back with an ecstatic moan. Her face is tipped toward the ceiling, but she can still sense him looking up at her half-naked body with wild-eyed awe.

She can feel him begging for her in his mind, even as his mortal form begs for her in the bed – he presses himself into her, hot and hard between her legs where they’re almost joined but for a few flimsy layers of fabric. He’s moaning her name, and her thoughts are rapidly losing coherence. She needs everything. She wants him all the way inside her, to feel him in her mind and between her legs at the same time, pushing her to heights that no one else could have.

As she reaches down with frantic, shaking hands to start freeing him from his remaining clothing, Galadriel’s eyes dart to the side of the bed for a brief moment. She glances down at the floor where she dropped his tunic… except...

...except the floor isn’t there.

There’s nothing but a black void around the bed, a completely empty space where the floor should be. She looks up, and the walls, too, are melting away, crumbling slowly. The tapestry above the bed is no longer distinguishable, its edges dissolving into black smoke. Her heart seizes with dread. This is exactly what happened the last time, when he overextended his powers, when he wouldn’t let go of an illusion he was casting while he was was grievously injured. When he nearly—

“Galadriel,” Halbrand pleads, reaching for her. “Look at me.”

She looks at him, and his eyes are vacant and unfocused. She pulls back in alarm. “Halbrand!”

“Come back to me, Galadriel. Come back to me. Please...”

“No! Stop! You have to stop this! You need to let go of it—”

She tears herself away from him, shoving him out of her mind, severing their connection so suddenly that she disorients herself completely. As she crashes out of the illusion, it takes her a moment to realize that she’s actually lying on the muddy grass outside, surrounded by the horrid carcasses of Morgoth’s fallen creatures.

She’s sprawled out in her ruined dress in the forest grove, and Halbrand – Sauron – Annatar the elven scholar – is lying on the ground beside her in his torn-up clothes from the banquet, his long silvery hair splayed around him.

“Why’d you... do... that?” he mumbles. His voice is still Halbrand’s, but he can hardly speak, and he has to pause between words to catch his breath. Annatar’s beautiful flowy shirt is soaked with blood.

Galadriel’s heart is pounding triple time, her head spinning with what just happened. But the stark truth of reality hits her like a bucket of cold water. She looks down at the front of her dress, and it’s stained deep red where she held him. He’s in a bad way. He never should have—

“Come back to… me… Galadriel,” he gasps. He grabs for her wrist, but she jerks her hand away.

“You almost died once before like this!” she shouts at him, her voice breaking with raw emotion. “No more casting illusions! You must stop, you have to pay attention to your injuries!”

“Ah, so... you do care... if I die, now?” He looks like an absolute mess, but there’s a ridiculous grin on his deathly-pale face. “Admit it… you’d miss me… wouldn’t you?”

Galadriel blinks back unexpected tears. “You know I would,” she whispers.

He stretches his hand out to touch her face, but as he moves his arm, he winces in pain and pulls it back. His expression quickly grows serious again, and she notices that his eyes are no longer glowing with that otherworldly shine. His gaze is far away, like he’s looking right through her.

“Galadriel—” he chokes out. “Galadriel?”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” She tries to project calm into her voice as she fights down her dread. She can still sense his mind as if he’s left it laid open to her, but his thoughts are blurry and indistinct. His power feels shockingly faded now. The pain in his chest is excruciating, his breathing shallow and ragged. It hurts him unbearably every time he takes a breath.

Galadriel scrambles up onto her knees and takes hold of him, sliding her arm under his shoulder to lift him against her. She maneuvers him partway out of his shredded shirt, then ties it tightly around his chest to slow the bleeding. “Come on. You have to get up. We need to get you back to the city. Now.”

“I remember this...” he whispers. “You’re taking me to Eregion... to Ost-in-Edhil… good healers.” He smiles faintly. “They’ll fix it. We’re... almost there.”

“Yes,” she says with a tearful smile. “This is Eregion. Ost-in-Edhil is just over there, right through these trees.” She points. “We’re much closer than last time. But you need to focus now. Listen to me.” She drags him up into a sitting position. “You have to stand up, while you still can. Get up!”

“All right, all right,” he croaks. “Fine! I’m... getting up!” He’s still speaking in the common tongue, with Halbrand’s voice.

Lucidity snaps back into his eyes as she hauls him to his feet, and he seems to come back to himself a bit. She steadies him while he braces against her and finds his footing. He’s clutching his chest, one arm wrapped around himself, but thankfully he can keep his balance well enough to stand while she goes to pick up their swords.

“We’ll head for the road – maybe we can find my horse. Or maybe someone is finally on the way to look for us.” She takes hold of his elbow and tugs him forward. “Now, come on. Walk. Go this way. And speak Quenya!”

“You really can’t stop commanding me... can you, my little elf?” he laughs, still sounding like the Southlander. He slides his arm around her and pulls her in close, recovering his grin. Then he leans down to whisper to her in his silky elven voice, switching back into Quenya. “I think... there might be one thing you let yourself enjoy after all.”

Chapter Text

In the bright light of morning, last night’s events feel like fragments of an unrealistic dream. There’s a brief moment as Galadriel first wakes when she recalls nothing yet, when she’s still in that blissful haze of half-sleep. She rolls over in her bed with the vague feeling that she’s been dreaming something about Halbrand – probably something annoyingly pleasant, but only a dream nonetheless.

As she moves, she becomes aware of how bruised and strained her body feels. Though she has rested, she is still far from fully restored after the extreme exertion of yesterday’s battle. But when she stretches her limbs, it’s not the ache in her muscles that draws her attention. No, when she focuses on her body... it’s as if she can still feel his hands sliding deliciously over her, his skin against hers, a soft radiating warmth everywhere he touched her. She sleepily reaches her arm out across the bed next to her, searching as though she might find Halbrand there curled against her.

And then, her full awareness pours in, and she sits up suddenly with cold, dreadful dismay. She remembers it all at once. Morgoth’s creatures rising up; the uncontrollable swarm. The terrible battle at the wall, and then in the forest. And what happened afterwards – oh, no no no no. This cannot be.

For all her careful resolve, for all her best intentions, for all her insistent denials, she ended up in Sauron’s arms again. She was in his mind last night, and he in hers. And what happened between them in the aftermath of the battlefield, and in his bed—

She is horrified by the idea of what she has done. He is horrifying; he is a heartless, corrupted monster who should be reviled, not desired. But try as she might, she cannot immediately twist the memory itself into something regrettable. She does not recoil from it the way that she should. Being joined to him like that... fighting beside him, entwining her mind with his, holding him against her… it had all felt heavenly. She surrendered willingly to him last night, and she had wanted more. She still wants more. And somehow, that makes this a hundred times worse than the disgust she should be feeling.

She has slid so very far this time. So unfathomably far. It’s as if she is slipping down into some terrifying abyss and she can scarcely see a handhold to pull herself back from this.

Light only knows what deceptions and schemes he plans to unleash upon her, now that he has once again pushed that wedge into her shields against him. Now that he knows for certain that her accursed weakness for him remains, and that her desire for him goes far beyond her misguided feelings for Halbrand the mortal smith. And yet… it does seem that he shares the same weakness. Something in her calls to him the same way. For all the falsehoods and half-truths he’s spun, the fact that he desires her is not a lie. She perceived the intensity of it there in his mind, his wanting for her, laid bare to her after the battle. She witnessed the way her very presence sings to him – the same way his presence does to her.

Still, she knows he must be playing some game with her; she is certain of it. He is a deceiver. He tells no truth but that which serves him, or that which is stolen from him in moments when he forgets to hide it. Is that what happened yesterday? Did he show her a truth by mistake? Why did he not end that illusion, despite being in terrible agony, despite knowing how much blood he was losing, if not because his weakness for her is real?

She spoke true when she told him that she would miss him if he perished. It is a truth she hates, but the truth nonetheless. Thankfully, on the way back to Ost-in-Edhil, he had seemed to recover some of his strength. He was clearly drained by the ordeal, and his body was wounded, but he was far from the perilous state he’d been in the last time he overtaxed his powers. He was perfectly lucid when they reached the healers, and words could not describe her relief as she handed Annatar off to them, still conscious, still speaking the correct language.

She’d asked him on the way back to the city why he helped to break the creature swarm. Why he traded his own safety for the safety of Ost-in-Edhil, when he could so easily have stood back and said there was nothing he could do. She posed the question as they staggered down from the hills, when he was racked with pain and exhaustion, his mind still cracked half open to her and his honesty perhaps still at the surface.

I wanted to test my abilities in battle, he answered. I wanted to see if I could harness the wolves as I used to. I wanted to taste that power, the feeling of making something obey me… and I wanted to destroy something that Morgoth made. He said nothing for a long time after that before he added, so very quietly: I wanted to fight at your side again.

But none of it really matters. Not why he did it, not what he thinks, not what she feels for him… it’s all meaningless. What happened between them changes nothing. He may be her temporary ally, but he is still her sworn enemy, and her vow to extinguish him will be fulfilled.

She needs him alive right now because she cannot possibly face the threat of Morgoth’s return without him. But when this is over, Sauron will still die at her hand, whether she misses him afterward or not. He will be neither her king nor her lover, but her victory, over her own darkness and that which threatens Middle Earth.

This changes nothing, she tells herself. This changes nothing.

She dresses. Speaks to Elrond. Speaks to Durin. Walks to the wall, where fallen beasts are still being cleared away. Watches a bonfire being built to consume their cursed remains, watches the groundskeepers struggling to light wood that is too wet after this morning’s torrential rainstorm. She answers the summons that a messenger brings her, and reports to the High King.

She is here in the real world, saying words that feel far away, hollow words with only the faintest echo of truth in them. The lies are coming so much more easily now. She talks, and the High King listens. She is here, but a part of her is still somewhere else. Not at this meeting table lying to Gil-galad. But away in her mind… lying with him.

After the audience, she goes to find him in the healers’ halls. He’s propped up against a pillow in bed, his eyes wide open, watching the door like he’s been expecting her this whole time. He’s dressed in those blue pyjamas the healers always put convalescents in, and his long, pale hair is clean and combed, braided neatly at the temples. The colour is back in his face, and he looks... well-recovered. (She does not allow herself to finish the thought he looks good.)

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” he says. “Too busy to check on me, hmm?”

“The High King had many questions about what occurred with the creatures last night,” she says, avoiding his gaze. “I’ve only just come out of a two-hour audience. Which you were fortunate enough to miss because of your condition.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, getting flayed by a vicious beast does seem marginally less unpleasant.”

Galadriel glances around his room, then back toward the corridor. There’s no one nearby, but the halls are far from empty after last night’s flurry of injuries, and she decides not to risk speaking any more out loud. She reaches out to seek him with her mind instead, and as soon as she does, she’s shocked at how easily the link between them re-forms. It’s as if he was already right there, waiting to open the door for her.

She keeps her thoughts and feelings firmly shuttered, and he thankfully does the same. They join their minds only lightly, just enough to communicate.

It would be better if we talk this way, so no one overhears.

Oooh, secrecy. I like it. Didn’t know if this would break your rules about staying out of your mind unless it’s critically important. He gives her a cheeky grin. I suppose yesterday counted as emergency measures? All of it?

Let us not speak of that. She does not smile. We should put it behind us. What happened yesterday changes nothing between us, do you understand? I have not changed my mind. And the rules remain the same.

Of course. I understand, Galadriel. It was just battle-fever... happens to the best of us. He winks. And the worst.

She brushes off his quipping and sits down in the chair at the side of his bed.

We have problems. A party went up to the forest, and they discovered our battlefield. Gil-galad now thinks that somehow, I alone was able to slay every dead creature in that grove. I said I found you injured at the edge of the woods, and that I fought to defend us.

Hey, come on now. I had a sword, too! You couldn’t have let Annatar kill a couple of the little lizard-things or something?

This is not funny. Do you really think I could believably explain how I took down three fellbeasts and an entire creature swarm on the ground single-handed? I am a very skilled warrior, but that is—

Quite impressive, yes. I suppose Gil-galad will never give you a company now, since you’ve just proven that you can do the work of one all on your own.

She rolls her eyes. We were lucky that there was a burst of rainstorm early this morning. A downpour strong enough that it would surely have cleared our footprints from the battlefield before that party went up there.

Hmm. Convenient, indeed. He smiles coyly. Very lucky someone thought of that.

I told the High King that the wolves attacked the other beasts, and that the creatures then all started fighting each other instead of attacking me. I said that their distraction allowed me to strike at them completely unscathed… that my ring helped me stay undetected, and I easily ambushed them a few at a time.

Ah, good start, yes. Not entirely untrue, either. Like I told you, always best to keep a sprinkling of the truth.

I said I did not know why they turned on one another, but that I would consult with you to see if you’d observed anything else. Or if you had any idea about what might have happened. As you are a scholar of Morgoth’s arcane arts… perhaps you know something about his creatures as well.

You mean you need me to help make up some more convincing lies for you.

Is that not what I just said?

You missed saying the part where you need me.

She ignores that. Listen, I expect that someone from Gil-galad’s entourage will be along to talk to you soon, if not the High King himself. But I won’t be here. So I thought you should be prepared... not that you ever need time to come up with lies. I just wanted to tell you what I’ve already said, so we would be consistent.

Wait, why won’t you be here? He frowns, looking her up and down as if he’s just noticed she’s wearing a travelling cloak. Are you going somewhere?

I’m leaving for Khazad-Dûm with the dwarves, to retrieve those scrolls. They’re setting off soon. Durin thinks it’s best he get back to the mountain as soon as possible, and I can’t say I disagree.

Oh! Sauron sits up. Well, I’ll come with you, too, of course.

No, you will not. You’re still recovering.

I’m fine, Galadriel! I did manage to restore myself a bit on the way back, before the healers saw me – and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked. I think I was mostly just exhausted from overusing my powers last night. I’d already burned them out badly in the battle, and I haven’t harnessed the wolves in centuries... I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice. Rather embarrassing, really. But I conjured that rainstorm quite easily this morning—

Regardless, the healers will want you to rest. You must remain here under their care until they release you.

You’re forgetting that I’m an elf now, and not some fragile mortal man. He grins. They said I should be feeling well enough to walk around today. They told me I could leave if I wanted to.

What? Then why are you still lying here in bed?

Staying in character? He shrugs. I’m a delicate scholar! And maybe Annatar enjoys people fussing over him. Look, they braided my hair.

Galadriel sighs. Khazad-Dûm is close by, but it’s far enough. Elf or not, you should at least pretend you’re still a bit weak, understand? Not like the last time, when you—

Don’t worry. I can be weak for you. He leans over and rests his head against her arm. If I get too tired, you’ll carry me, won’t you?

“Be ready to leave in half an hour if you intend to come with us,” she says out loud. She pulls away from him and stands up from the chair before she thinks too much about his proximity. “We’re taking horses; it sounds like you’re more than recovered enough to ride. Meet us at the stables.” Over their connection, she adds: If we leave swiftly enough, maybe you’ll be spared from reporting to Gil-galad.

As Galadriel steps away from his bed, she has a sudden, brief vision – just a split-second’s flash of an image, really, like a passing thought – of turning around to kiss him. The warm press of her mouth against his with a soft little flick of tongue; his hand against her back, pulling her closer as she leans down to him—

She slams their connection shut instantly, whirls around and glares at him.

Sauron raises an eyebrow and says nothing. He just looks back at her smugly with that Halbrand-like smirk on his lips, watching her as she leaves. He truly is beyond insufferable. The nerve of him, how dare he...

But as she walks back out to the corridor and exits the healers’ halls, Galadriel stops in her tracks on the steps as she realizes something.

She is not actually certain if she received that image from Sauron... or if she accidentally sent it to him.

Chapter Text

When Galadriel arrives at the stables, the dwarven delegation is already there. So is Elrond. And so is Annatar.

In the half-hour since she saw him in the healers’ halls, he has acquired even more new clothing from somewhere; he isn’t wearing his own black travelling clothes, but a beige and brown set in an elven style. He’s also wearing what appears to be a city guard’s cloak, with Eregion’s crest emblazoned on it. At this point, it would hardly surprise her if she found him wearing the High King’s crown.

She holds back an eyeroll, and greets him with a tight-lipped smile before she shifts her attention to Elrond instead.

“So! You’ll accompany us to the mountain after all, then, Elrond?” she asks brightly. “The High King has granted your leave?”

Elrond doesn’t return her smile. “I’m afraid not. I’ve only come to see you all off.” He’s averting his eyes in that way he does when he doesn’t want to talk about something. “And, ah… to…” He clears his throat awkwardly, his eyes skirting toward Galadriel’s hand.

“Oh,” she says. “Right. Of course.”

The High King said nothing about the ring during this morning’s audience. It had clearly still been on her finger when she reported to him about the creature swarm, and she saw his eyes on it several times while they met with the city council and the heads of the guard. She had rather hoped that Gil-galad might have silently changed his mind when he did not reiterate yesterday’s edict. But, she realizes, she didn’t think much about the fact that she was about to take the ring outside of Eregion again. Somehow, that had escaped her list of immediate concerns.

Suddenly, Galadriel notices that an abrupt hush has come over the stables. The stablehands have stopped in their tracks, halfway through saddling the horses, and they’re all staring open-mouthed toward the door. She follows their gaze, and her back stiffens.

Gil-galad is here. And he does not look happy.

Elrond mouths I’m sorry to her as the High King approaches.

“Galadriel,” Gil-galad says. He looks at the half-saddled horses, then at her, then at the rest of the group with a gravely disappointed look on his face. “I take it you are leaving the city? Heading beyond our borders, perhaps? A journey you conveniently neglected to mention when we spoke earlier.”

“High King.” Galadriel inclines her head. “My apologies for the oversight. We ride to Khazad-Dûm, but we intend to be back swiftly—”

Gil-galad steps closer to her, lowering his voice to a harsh near-whisper. “I did not wish to cause a scene by mentioning the ring earlier when we convened with the city council, particularly after your commendable actions last night,” he says. “But you know very well what order I gave you, Galadriel. You were to cede your ring to Elrond this morning, as we agreed. You continue to take advantage of my good will, and now it seems you have resorted to subterfuge to defy me.”

“I had thought that perhaps… given last night’s events, you might have changed your mind,” she says.

“That ring and its bearer are to remain within the borders of Eregion,” Gil-galad says. “I made that abundantly clear yesterday, and it has become more imperative than ever after last night’s events. These are elven rings, made for the protection of elven interests!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Elrond and Durin exchange an inscrutable look. Surely, the High King is not pleased that he must have this conversation in front of the dwarven delegation, with relations already so fraught.

“We cannot take risks when we know not what dark forces are stirring in Middle Earth, or why,” the High King goes on. He lingers on the word why, as if to underline the fact that he has his own suspicions. As far as he’s concerned, that prophecy probably may as well be coming true before his eyes. “And the ring-bearers must be relied upon to take the duties of leadership seriously. Elrond… come.” Gil-galad motions to his herald.

Elrond comes closer, such deep regret on his face that he looks close to tears. He holds his hand out to her for the ring.

And then, Annatar steps toward Gil-galad with a boldness few would show before the High King, laying a hand on his arm. “My good king… excuse me, I know it may not be my place to interject as an outsider, but—”

“It most certainly is not,” Gil-galad says, his voice clipped and cool. He moves his arm out from under Annatar’s hand.

Annatar continues talking, undeterred. “— but Galadriel has just done an incredible service for this city! She defended you all from that creature swarm at great peril, a feat she was only able to accomplish through her skillful use of her ring, and her grasp of its unique protective properties! Now, I don’t mean to question your judgement, but from what I know about the rings of power—”

“You know absolutely nothing about the rings of power!” Gil-galad snaps. “And as I understand it, your entire contribution last night was running into a battlefield unarmed like an utter fool and getting snatched up by a fellbeast, if we are speaking of questionable judgement! So please. Stand down, and stay out of our state business. You are an honored guest in this city, but you are very quickly wearing out your welcome.”

Sauron’s hands are clenched at his sides, his eyes darkening into that murderous stare, and for a second Galadriel’s heart is in her throat. He opens his mouth to say something else, and she reaches for his mind almost unconsciously.

Don’t, she sends to him warningly, pulling him back. Leave it.

He stands there for a moment glowering at the High King, then he whirls around with a dramatic swish of his Eregion-branded cloak and goes back toward his horse. Ugh, this city is so damn ungrateful. I should really just burn this whole place to the ground.

“Galadriel,” Gil-galad commands, motioning her toward Elrond. “The ring. Now.”

She steps forward, takes off the ring and presses it into Elrond’s palm. She and Elrond exchange a somber nod.

“Safe travels home, Lord Durin,” Gil-galad says, inclining his head briefly to the dwarf before he walks away. “I hope the next time we have occasion to meet, it shall be under less… trying circumstances.”

Elrond gives a hasty wave to Durin before he follows the High King and leaves. Then the watching stablehands disperse and quietly go back to readying the horses, and conversation in the stables resumes.

Galadriel sighs. Well… at the very least, Gil-galad seems to have forgotten that he wanted to question Annatar about what happened last night. Maybe the High King just cannot bear to hear him talking anymore. Small mercies.

She takes a few deep breaths as she gently pats her horse, speaking soft and soothing words to the animal that might also be for herself. She feels slightly diminished without the ring, without that subtle hum of power against her finger… but the feeling will pass. She will simply have to rely on her own unamplified skills and talents again, and that isn’t so terrible, is it? Besides, she has never been certain that there isn’t some dark enchantment of his woven into that ring, some snare that was meant for her specifically. That ring felt like it was his, after all, as much as it felt hers. Perhaps it’s not a bad thing to be rid of it. Perhaps it will help to clear her mind of the Ringmaker.

Behind her, Annatar has already snapped right back into his airy, charming demeanour, and he’s talking to Durin. “Honestly, it’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” he’s saying to the dwarf. “Elven rings for elven interests and all that – where does he think the mithril came from?”

“Aye, well, this is no surprise. Don’t concern yourself too much about it,” Durin says. “Maybe elves are different where you’re from, but here in Middle Earth it’s always been the same story. Elves for elves, it’s to be expected by now. Elrond tries, bless him, but… it is what it is.”

“I don’t see why they couldn’t just make more rings of power,” Annatar says. “I mean… why not make some rings for the dwarves? Now that would be a worthy collaboration, wouldn’t it? Should your kingdom not also benefit from the same protection, especially if there are dark forces rising?”

Durin doesn’t say anything, and Annatar is silent for a while too, like he’s thinking, before he carries on.

“You know… I could perhaps try to float the idea to the smiths here, when we get back,” he says. “It may not be as unrealistic as it sounds. I’ve got Lord Celebrimbor’s ear, and I really think he’d be willing to hear me out, if I went about it the right way—”

“Hm,” grunts Durin dismissively. “Good luck with that.”

The journey to the mountain unfolds uneventfully. The early morning rainstorm was an extremely localized event, and the path is easy and dry once the horses are clear of Ost-in-Edhil. They keep a good pace, the group speaking little as their horses spread out over the hills. Everyone is lost in their own thoughts, the mood still very much overshadowed by last night’s drama and compounded by the dwarves’ worry about their own city.

About halfway to Khazad-Dûm, the whole group stops for a brief rest. The dwarves unpack a cold meal and a flagon of ale to share, while Galadriel and Annatar lead the horses down to the nearby riverbank. He doesn’t say anything to her as they go, he just walks along staring thoughtfully into the trees. A small pack of wolves has been shadowing the party from a distance ever since they left Eregion, winding through the trees ahead of them and behind them, watching for any sign of Morgoth’s beasts. But there hasn’t been any indication of danger all day.

As Galadriel ties up all the horses by the water’s edge and leaves them to drink, she sees Sauron closing his eyes, no doubt checking what the wolves see. When he opens them again he gives Galadriel an affirmative nod: still all clear. Most of the monsters in the wider area between Ost-in-Edhil and Khazad-Dûm must have been part of the swarm they defeated yesterday, leaving these woods all but empty of dark creatures.

Sauron continues to walk a little further down the riverbank, and Galadriel follows him, falling into step beside him. He seems uncharacteristically quiet and contemplative today, and for a while she wonders if maybe he actually is a bit tired from overextending his powers last night. But then, as they walk along side by side, he suddenly turns to her and breaks the silence.

“Did you really pleasure yourself to thoughts of me in Armenelos?”

She almost trips over a tree root. “What?” she whispers indignantly. “Why do you ask such a thing?”

“You were remembering it, yesterday,” he says with a grin. “When we were linked.”

“Well, then, you hardly need me to answer the question, do you?”

He shrugs, still smiling to himself. “I was just making conversation, Galadriel, that’s all. I thought it was interesting.”

They walk on in silence for all of about ten paces before he carries on talking.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” he says. “How is it that you’ve stayed alone for all of these centuries, when you burn with such passion? I know you were busy hunting me to the ends of the earth, stubborn as you are... but... did no elf lord or pretty warrior ever turn your head? Not one of your battle companions? Not even another irresistible forbidden mortal...?”

She sighs. “I was married, once,” she says. “But my husband was lost to the war not long afterwards. And it is not the custom of the Eldar to wed a second time.”

“Married!” There’s genuine surprise in his voice. “You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“Nonetheless, in the eyes of our people, I am still bound in marriage. And especially with my rank and station, breaking that custom to take a lover would have been... complicated.”

Sauron laughs out loud.

“What is so funny?” she demands.

“Forgive me, Galadriel, but... you just don’t seem like someone who is terribly concerned about the rules of your people.” His mouth is quirking into a sarcastic smile. “How many elves do you suppose have ever jumped from a ship bound for Valinor? Is that the custom of the Eldar?”

She doesn’t deign to respond.

“Anyway, it really doesn’t matter to me.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I mean... I am, too.”

She blinks at him. “You are what?”

“Married,” Sauron says. “And not even to someone dead.”

“What?”

“Hey, now!” He laughs. “Don’t sound so affronted. Maybe it didn’t seem relevant to mention it.”

She stares at him, open-mouthed. “Who?” she chokes out.

“I married Bronwyn in Pelargir, when I went back to the Southlands,” he says, as casually as if he were talking about his dinner plans. “Made her the queen, claimed Theo as my own true son and heir. It made perfect sense, really – she was doing a fine job of governing them, all she needed was a bit of royal authority. The Southlanders should have a leader from their own people, Galadriel, come on. And now they’ll get the king they were promised: Theobrand, son of Halbrand! The line was never really broken, see, the records were just incomplete.”

“You... married Bronwyn.”

Sauron sighs dramatically. “Why is it so hard for you to comprehend it whenever I do something helpful?” He shakes his head at her. “I mean, fine, maybe it wasn’t entirely altruistic – do you think I want all the fuss of running some petty human kingdom? I have a lot more important things to do! But I wasn’t about to leave them leaderless and adrift after everything they’ve been through. I told you I wouldn’t just abandon the Southlands, Galadriel, and I meant it. This was the best solution for everyone.” He beams, looking incredibly proud of himself. “She doesn’t know anything of who I really am, of course,” he adds. “She thinks I’m off petitioning for military aid from the elves. Which… I suppose I technically am. One elf, at least.”

Galadriel has completely stopped walking. “I... just don’t know what to say.”

“Awww... you aren’t feeling jealous, are you?” He stops and turns to her with that irreverent smirk. “There’s no need for that, Galadriel. It’s only a business arrangement. A purely platonic ‘be my queen’ deal, understand? That’s it. We’re just helping each other out, in a sort of... administrative sense.”

“I really do not care what you do, you needn’t explain to me—”

“And… wait for this part...” He flings his arms out theatrically. “I asked Arondir if he would serve as Bronwyn’s personal bodyguard! He’s never to leave the queen’s side, day or night. How’s that for me being a benevolent king?” He reaches out and cups Galadriel’s chin in his hand, lowering his voice to a seductive half-whisper. “She has her elf... and I shall have mine.”

Galadriel looks away from him quickly, sidestepping out of his grasp. “Did you even pay attention to what I said to you in the healers’ halls? About how nothing has changed between us, and I have not changed my mind?”

“Mmm-hmm. Yes, yes I did,” he says. “I got the message.” He gives her a devious smile. “I also got an intriguingly contradictory message a few minutes later, when you sent me that delightful little vision of you kissing me… mmm. So, I am choosing to interpret that as… ‘nothing has changed yet.’ I am an ancient being, Galadriel. I’ve waited thousands of years to enact my designs for Middle Earth. I can be patient for a little while.”

She says nothing in response, and he accepts her silence without further comment. He turns away from her and starts walking again, and she follows a few paces behind as they retrace their steps, following the river back to the little glade where they left the horses.

“I did not intend it,” she says quietly as she gathers up their reins. “That thought I sent to you, in the healers’ halls… it was unintentional.”

“Oh, I know. And that made it all the more satisfying,” he says with a wicked grin. “Believe it or not, I do appreciate a little honesty from time to time, Galadriel.”

“Well, you certainly do not demonstrate much affinity for the concept,” she says, a little more sharply than she meant to. She regrets her tone instantly; it’s not worth letting him see how much he’s aggravating her. But she’s committed to it now, so she presses on. “If you appreciate honesty so much, you might try actually telling me something truthful once in a while without having it pried out of you.”

“Fine,” he growls. He walks a little further away, and for a moment she thinks he’s in a mood with her now, that he’s going to storm off without saying anything more. But then he stops and turns to look back at her over his shoulder, and he’s giving her that cheeky look that belongs on Halbrand’s face – that smile at the corner of his mouth. “In Armenelos… me too,” he says.

And then he turns around again and walks off to rejoin the dwarves.

Chapter Text

Durin’s wife, Disa, is waiting for them when they arrive at Khazad-Dûm. As the door to the mountain is opened and the dwarves and their two elven companions are admitted, Disa rushes to embrace her husband, exchanging quick, hushed words with him in Khuzdul before he introduces her to their guests. Galadriel can’t see Durin’s face, but the tense set of his shoulders relaxes as she speaks – it seems that she’s telling him good news. He’s not quite smiling when he turns around again, but some of the worry has eased from his expression. He brings Disa forward with his arm around her, and presents the future queen of Khazad-Dûm to the elves.

The dwarven woman greets the visitors with startlingly effusive warmth, and Galadriel is taken aback after the last two days of staid formalities with the guests in Eregion. Disa joyfully hugs both Galadriel and Annatar, welcoming them as Elrond’s friends, even as she exclaims her disappointment that Elrond hasn’t come along as well. “You two will be having dinner with us tonight, of course,” she tells them. “I figured Elrond might be coming, so I’ve got extra on already. It’ll be ready in an hour or two.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Annatar beams. “In that time, we can go to—”

“Tell you what, I’ll take you two for a little tour of the upper city just now,” Durin cuts in. “And we’ll get you down to that vault tomorrow morning to get your things. I’ll need to check with our structural engineers first, to make sure the access passage is safe.”

Annatar looks dejected for a moment – Sauron was surely hoping they’d go directly to the vault the moment they arrived – but he recovers himself quickly, covering it over with enthusiasm about the city tour.

“I’m sure Durin has told you we’ve had some unusual activity in the caverns lately,” Disa says, laying her hand against the rock wall beside her. “Thankfully there haven’t been any more tremors since that big one… but there’s still something strange going on. The mountain feels… unsettled.”

“The expedition found nothing out of the ordinary at the site of the collapse,” Durin tells Galadriel, no doubt repeating what Disa told him in the dwarven tongue. “But the area is nigh impassable because of all the rubble. We’ll have to dig down into the cavern directly below to investigate further, and that’ll take a while. We have to move carefully down there… could be unstable.”

“Hopefully we’ve seen the end of this, whatever it was,” Disa says, but she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. She heaves a deep sigh. “Well, anyhow! You’d best hurry along if you want to show our guests around,” she says to Durin. “Don’t be late for dinner!”

Durin stops to take reports from a couple of other dwarves who were awaiting his return, and then he sweeps the elves off on a whirlwind tour of the upper city. Annatar and Galadriel follow him as he shows off Khazad-Dûm’s complicated underground architecture, the network of interconnected passages, and the technological marvels of their intricate lift system. They weave along the high walkways while Durin talks at length about the city’s history, leading them between lush gardens and sweeping waterfalls. Galadriel concurs with Annatar’s usual exuberant praise and amazement at everything he sees – the underground city truly is a marvel. Elrond’s descriptions of it did not even begin to do it justice.

Durin speaks, too, about some of the mines that lie far below them, and he goes into much greater detail about the discovery of mithril than he was likely to do for any ordinary outsider. Galadriel supposes that they’ve been brought into Durin’s confidence because they are Elrond’s friends, and she sincerely hopes that his trust is not grievously misplaced. But then again, Sauron probably understands more about the properties and provenance of mithril than any of them; he’s hardly being told anything he doesn’t already know. Still, she watches Annatar closely throughout the tour, observing him to see what he reacts to. At least, that’s why she tells herself she’s looking at him.

When they’ve circled all the way back to the walkway they started on, well over an hour has already passed. Durin leads them onto another lift that brings them to a new level of the mountain, and he takes them to his personal residence for the promised dinner.

“We really should have brought a gift,” Annatar says, shaking his head apologetically as Durin opens the doors.

“Nonsense!” Durin waves his hand dismissively. “It’s our pleasure to have you.”

“Nonetheless.” Annatar gives an enigmatic smile as he ducks into the entryway. “We shall have to make it up to you. You know, I’ve been thinking some more about those rings, and—”

He gets no chance to finish his sentence, because Disa is already at the door ushering them in, trailed by two small, shouting children who can’t contain their excitement.

Durin introduces the children – Gerda and Gamli – and the tiny dwarves greet Galadriel and Annatar with wide-eyed awe, pushing each other out of the way in their rush to say hello to the visitors first. They would certainly have seen elves in their home before – Elrond, and Celebrimbor, and probably a few other elves involved with the forge project have been to visit Durin at Khazad-Dûm – but these are new elves, and the children are fascinated. They immediately start asking Galadriel and Annatar a thousand questions, despite their parents imploring them to settle down.

As the elves come inside, Durin and Disa turn away from their children for just a few moments, to show Galadriel the tree they grew from Elrond’s sapling. But by the time they all turn back around, the little ones are standing quietly side by side, listening with entranced attention as Annatar tells them some tale about the ships of Númenor. He really can’t resist a captive audience.

“All right, come along! Stories later! Dinner will be getting cold,” Disa laughs, motioning everyone to come and sit down.

The table has already been laid, piled high with food and drink, and Galadriel suddenly realizes how very hungry she is – she hasn’t eaten anything at all since the banquet last night. And dinner smells delicious.

“Oh! This is such a lovely table,” Galadriel says as she sits down. “Our High King has one very similar in Lindon.”

“Does he, now?” Durin chortles to himself as if enjoying some private joke. “You should ask Elrond about that.”

The children are whispering to each other, jostling and bickering over who gets to sit next to Annatar until Disa has to separate them. She’s clearly holding back laughter as she scolds them.

When everyone is finally sitting down, Durin pours ale for the elves and for Disa before raising his own cup. “To Elrond,” Durin toasts with a grin, as they all hold their cups aloft. “And his excellent taste in friends.”

Durin and Disa’s home is cozy and comfortable, and Galadriel immediately feels at ease. The dinner conversation is entertaining, the food is wonderful, and to her complete surprise, halfway through the meal she realizes that she’s having a genuinely good time. Despite everything that’s still terribly wrong, this is so much better than sitting through another long, formal dinner in Eregion. She can see exactly why Elrond feels so at home here. His friends are kind and unpretentious, and their company is soothing; it’s as though their welcoming warmth settles something in her spirit that had been sitting askew. It feels like a respite. Here underground, so far from the scrutiny and judgement of the elves, she isn’t Galadriel the wayward ring-bearer or Galadriel the ill-favored commander. She is Galadriel, Elrond’s friend – and now theirs.

Sauron seems to be delighted by the company as well, and for once he’s not taking over the entire conversation. He laughs at Durin’s anecdotes and jokes, and he applauds when the children proudly recite an elvish rhyme that Elrond taught them. He asks Disa about the resonating work that she does, and he listens with an expression of wonder as she tells him about the incredible natural power of the music. Galadriel can’t help but smile to herself at the thought that Disa is talking to one of the Ainur.

Here in the dwarves’ domain, Sauron has abandoned some of Annatar’s elven restraint; his posture is looser, his laughter a bit louder, and he allows Disa to refill his cup generously. He digs into his dinner in the same way that Durin does, and stacks up his plate with food like he used to do the first time he was in Ost-in-Edhil. There’s the slightest hint of a Southlands accent on some words when he speaks in the common tongue with Annatar’s voice, and his mannerisms seem to have landed somewhere between Annatar and Halbrand.

All evening, he’s been doing that thing again where he won’t stop looking over at her… but here in Khazad-Dûm, Galadriel doesn’t feel as compelled to look away. When their gazes cross, she stares right back at him, locking her eyes on him like a challenge. She looks and looks, letting herself relish the sight of him until she’s far too warm, and she’s strangely reminded of how she accidentally finished that entire bottle of sweet wine the other night. Somehow, in but a couple of short hours she has let herself relax to the point that she rests her foot against his leg under the table, and she doesn’t pull it back when she realizes it.

He must be getting warm, too, because he unties the lacing on the high collar of his shirt and folds it slightly open at the throat. She watches his graceful fingers as he does it, and tries very hard not to remember the way he unlaced her dress in that illusion last night. And not to imagine the sound he would make if she pressed her mouth against his bared neck. As it turns out, removing that ring and whatever enchantments were on it did absolutely nothing at all to clear her mind of the Ringmaker.

Thankfully, as soon as dinner is over, he’s promptly pulled away from the table by the children, who want him to play a game with them. Durin admonishes them gently to leave the guests in peace, but Annatar waves it off and patiently lets them drag him to the other side of the room. The next time Galadriel looks over there, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, enthralling the dwarven children with some kind of card trick. They’re all laughing uproariously, and one of the little ones is hanging over his shoulder, trying to see what he’s doing with the cards as he shuffles the deck again.

“All right, it’s past time you got to bed, you wee monsters,” Disa says affectionately as she walks past them. She tugs the clinging child off Annatar’s shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “That’s quite enough, Gerda, come on. Leave him be!”

The little ones beg and plead with their mother to give them just a few minutes longer.

“It’s no trouble,” Annatar says, looking up at Disa with a charming smile. He exchanges a mischievous glance with the children, then turns back to her. “Couldn’t they have five more minutes?”

“Fine. Five minutes, but no more,” Disa says warningly, and the little ones shriek and cheer. Annatar starts to lay out the cards again and Disa walks back to the table, shaking her head and laughing to herself. “Oh, he’s a rare gem, that one, isn’t he,” she grins as she sits back down and tops up Galadriel’s drink.

Durin chuckles, looking fondly over at the giggling children. “Heh. Elrond ought to look out, I think he’s got some competition for favourite elf round here!”

Galadriel picks up her cup and takes a long, bracing drink.

When the children have finally been put to bed – quite a bit more than five minutes later – Disa comes back to the table with some fancy vintage liquor in an ornately decorated bottle, which she pours delicately into four little goblets. “Ahhh, it’s really such a shame Elrond’s not here. He loves this stuff,” she says. “I got this out thinking he might be coming back with Durin.”

“I’m afraid Elrond might find it a little more difficult to visit you, now,” Galadriel says. “The High King has just imparted him with some… additional duties that will demand his presence in Eregion.”

“Ugh, the High King this, the High King that.” Disa makes a face. “Trust me, we’ve got our share of royal problems here, too, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Tch! I’m at my wits’ end with kings, I tell you.”

“Well, surely they’re not all bad,” Annatar says. “Your husband, for instance, should make an excellent king one day.” He flashes Disa that winning smile as he leans across the table, lifting his goblet toward her. “Although… one might argue that’s because he’ll have a fine queen ruling at his side to temper his worst impulses.”

Disa laughs loudly at that as Durin leans over to kiss her. And Sauron stares right at Galadriel, still smiling.

Their minds are not linked – Galadriel has kept her thoughts carefully secured, and Sauron has continued to abide by his promise to stay out of her head – but when their eyes meet, for the briefest moment she’s certain that they’re both remembering the same thing.

A glimmer of light on dark water, a king and queen reflected side by side.

And she still does not look away.

Three more rounds of drinks later, Durin, Disa and Annatar are deep into a conversation about rocks. Durin has just brought out a little box of ore samples that Annatar is examining with great interest, and Galadriel has a feeling that she should probably be paying more attention to whatever it is he’s up to right now. But she’s also relieved that his eyes are momentarily on something else, and she stays at the other end of the room, taking a closer look at the tree which has grown from Elrond’s sapling. It really is quite remarkable how it has thrived, when it’s been planted so far below the earth.

She’s so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice that Disa has gotten up from the table and is walking her way, until the dwarven woman is right beside her. Disa slides up next to Galadriel, then looks furtively back over her shoulder as if to check that Durin and Annatar are still occupied before she elbows Galadriel conspiratorially in the ribs. “My, oh my, does that lad ever have his coals hot for you,” she whispers. “Ooof! No wonder it’s so warm in here, the way he’s looking at you?” She fans herself dramatically.

Galadriel averts her eyes to the floor, clearing her throat. “I… ah… hmm.” She can feel a fierce blush spreading from her face all the way down her neck.

Disa gives a hearty laugh, shaking her head. “Aulë’s beard! It’s obvious how you two are dancing around each other, both of you staring at each other with those moon-eyes...” She fixes Galadriel with a searching gaze. “What’s holding you back, then, hmm? What’s the story there?”

“It’s... complicated.” Galadriel can’t think of a single other thing to say, and she hopes it’ll be enough to deflect the topic.

“Tch, of course it is.” Disa rolls her eyes. “You elves do love to complicate everything.” She glances back at Durin and Annatar one more time – they’re still talking – and lowers her voice again. “Look, your business is your business, and I understand you’ve got your elven rules, and all of that. But you’re in our kingdom now. And the rocks are good at keeping secrets.” She reaches out and pats the wall beside Galadriel. “I’m just saying... there’s a connecting passage between your guest rooms. And these are very thick solid stone walls.” She winks and walks away back to the table.

Galadriel closes her eyes and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose, counting slowly back from ten before she opens them again.

When she looks back toward the table, Sauron is looking directly at her again. But not with anything like desire – no. His eyes are snapped wide with something much more like panic. He looks like he’s just seen something horrifying.

Galadriel! he shouts in her mind, flooding her with sudden alarm. Down below, in the caverns – I think there’s—

He’s pushing himself back from the table, halfway to standing up, when the floor shifts and rumbles. And then the room vibrates with a massive groundshake, strong enough to knock Galadriel off her feet.

Chapter Text

In the moments after that first tremor, there’s an eerie stillness before the ground shakes and rumbles again with a second, stronger tremor. And then, there is mayhem. All of Khazad-Dûm is consumed with activity and frantic noise. Alarms are being sounded up and down the mountain, blaring horns signalling for the inhabitants to move to safer chambers, to gather in the great halls that are reinforced against a disastrous collapse. Disa runs for the children, while Durin makes for his council’s emergency meeting point. And as the dwarves in the mountain rush to higher ground and to their reinforced chambers – a futile effort that surely won’t be enough if the rockfalls in the lower levels get any worse – an elf who is not an elf is running in the opposite direction, looking for a pathway into the depths.

Galadriel follows him, and it takes all her strength to keep up with the speed of Sauron’s strides. The situation is worse than she possibly could have imagined. There is a balrog here, a fiery creature of the deep, the most fearsome of Morgoth’s servants save for Sauron himself. It must have lain dormant under this mountain since the war, slumbering in wait for its master’s return. The very master it believes might now walk through Middle Earth again, thanks to Galadriel’s misadventure with the shadow blade. She feels sick with guilt and numb with despair. This cannot be. And yet, it is undeniably her fault. Perhaps Gil-galad’s prophecy will prove correct after all.

Sauron does not speak to her, telepathically or otherwise, but she can sense the surface of his mind, all the tension and tightly-coiled fury in him, and the waves of panic that he’s trying to hold back. As they race away from Durin’s home, Sauron bolts across the walkways toward one of the closed lift shafts that Durin showed them on the city tour – one that leads straight down to the deepest levels of the mines. He kicks down the barrier that bars entry to the restricted area, tearing aside the flimsy canvas that covers the lift platform, and he pulls Galadriel after him.

He does not board the platform, but instead climbs into the narrow gap behind it, where the deep shaft that leads down into the rock is exposed. He picks up a broken tool handle that someone has discarded on the ground, and uses it to smash one of the chain mechanisms loose with two strategically placed strikes.

“Here! Come!” he gasps. He reaches back and grabs Galadriel with one arm, pressing her against him in a grip so tight that she could not hope to move, much less escape. She realizes with a chill just how much he holds back from showing his true abilities most of the time; he is terrifyingly strong.

He takes hold of the loose chain and lowers himself down into the lift shaft, holding the chain with one hand while the other still clutches Galadriel against him. The chain unspools with alarming speed, dropping them down into the shaft much faster than the lift could go, and they plummet together into the dark.

When they reach the bottom, he leads her onward, running through dark caverns and unlit passageways as if he knows the way by instinct, delving deeper and deeper into the mountain. Every so often he pauses to listen, laying his hand against the rock to get his bearings again, tracking the creature. And then, at last, he comes to a stop.

“It’s here,” he whispers. He nods toward a narrow cave that has been exposed by a recent rockfall. “Right below us. There’s a gap, a way through to the next cavern. If we pass through here, we’ll be almost upon it.”

“Do you intend to fight it?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Can you?”

His eyes are gleaming in the dark with that wolflike sheen, but there’s something hollow and broken in his gaze that strikes fear into her heart. “Honestly? I don’t think I’d stand a chance against it,” he says. “Before Adar killed me, I could have defeated it… but my powers are still coming back to me. Fighting that swarm last night nearly wiped me out, and this… this would be a lot harder. It could have taken me hours to put it down, if not days, even before.”

“And you have no control of it at all? With your mind?”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Absolutely not. Balrogs can’t be controlled that way, they have their own will, and a powerful Maiar spirit. I have no sway over it.”

He presses onward into the cave, and she follows. It leads out to a wide, flat ledge that overlooks a deep chasm, and he peers down into the swirling dust below. There’s another shower of rockfall just then; large boulders dislodging from the walls above and crashing down into the depths. A booming roar echoes from somewhere in the cavern below, and Sauron’s brow furrows with concern.

“Will you speak to it, then?” she ventures hopefully. “You can… communicate with it somehow, can you not?”

“It would not listen to me, Galadriel, nor take my orders. It is loyal to Morgoth, not to me. It knows I’m here already, and… I think it is hunting me. Perhaps it has realized my betrayal, that I have not acted to free Morgoth.” He curses under his breath. “It’s going to bring this whole mountain down to get to me, Galadriel! We were doomed the moment it sensed me. Even if I had run away, it would have risen up and destroyed the entire city on its way to find me. I’ve got to meet it down there, where it is – so it doesn’t come up any higher. It’s the only way.”

“Meet it down there and do what?” she whispers. “If you cannot fight it, and you cannot control it, and you cannot reason with it – then what is it you intend to do?”

He pauses, hesitates, as if he might be considering a lie. He lowers his eyes. And then he says: “I intend to let it believe that Morgoth himself gives it the order to stand down. Using this.” He reaches under his cloak and takes up the black hilt of the shadow blade, holding it out in front of him. Of course, she has known all this time that he still possesses it, but it disturbs her to see it again nonetheless. “With your help… I can convince it that I am Morgoth returned. At least for long enough to order it away from here.”

“No,” Galadriel whispers, reaching for the blade as if she has any hope of disarming him of it. “I will not let you do this! And I certainly will not help you. I have not changed my mind.”

There’s another crash of falling rocks. Sauron grabs her outstretched arm and sweeps her out of the way as part of the ledge they’re standing on collapses. Another roar echoes from below, this one higher and more piercing, like a warning cry.

“Galadriel, there is no time to debate this.” He looks down at the hilt, and she can see that his hand is shaking as he clutches it. “If we do nothing, this entire mountain will collapse. This city and all its inhabitants will perish!”

He either does not care to hide his thoughts from her, or doesn’t realize he’s left his mind so open, because she clearly hears him think, And it’s going to bury my scrolls! She clenches her teeth – of course he isn’t only doing this because he cares about the fate of the city.

“No. It is impossible! Even if I wanted to help you… it would not matter, because we haven’t got the ring anymore!” Galadriel shouts, as if he somehow might have forgotten. “We cannot unlock the blade the way I did before!”

Sauron’s mind is a blaze of fury at Gil-galad, overlaid upon new waves of panic that she can feel him trying desperately to quell.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he says soothingly, as if he's trying to convince himself. “There’s mithril down here, Galadriel, these caverns are full of it. There are traces of the light of the Two Trees all around us, if I can only—”

There’s another tremor, and Sauron almost loses his footing. Galadriel grabs the edge of his cloak and pulls him back as he slides along the ledge. He takes her arm again and draws her closer, holding her to his chest, wrapping one arm around her while the other brandishes that black hilt. “Galadriel, listen to me. When I ignite this blade, you’re going to have to hold me back. I’ll do everything that I can to resist that echo of Morgoth’s will... but I need you to anchor me.”

“No,” she gasps, her voice almost lost in another rumble of rockfall. “I cannot!”

“You can...and you will. You have no choice,” Sauron growls. “If you do not help me now, you condemn every dwarf in this mountain to death!”

“No, Sauron! No!” She screams his name like a curse. “You don’t understand! I— I don’t know that I could hold on to the light myself if I were to feel the pull of that blade again… much less hold you back, too!” she sobs. “There is something you do not know, something that I did not tell you before.” The confession she’s hidden since the night she held the blade spills from her lips. “That vision you saw... the one we shared, while I wielded the blade... we shared all of it. I saw what happened in the tower, too… because I was there with you. It was me who wore Morgoth’s crown and armor. I made you kneel in front of me, and... and it was me who held you by the throat, who made to throw you from the tower. I saw myself in Morgoth’s place!”

She’s afraid to pull back and look at Sauron’s face, to see his reaction after she’s said it. He says nothing at first, but when she finally looks at him, his expression is one of contemplation, not of anger. He doesn’t move away from her. He just holds her against him as the ledge shakes again.

“The influence of Morgoth’s will becomes most powerful when your own interests align with his,” Sauron says. “Your greatest wish has been to destroy me, Galadriel. It is what you have wanted above all else. You have sought it, craved it… even been willing to sacrifice your own life for it. My death has been your obsession for centuries. And if that now happens to suit Morgoth as well... if destroying me is currently in his interests, which it very much is... then it makes perfect sense that his sway over you would be so strong.”

“But then… how can I possibly—”

Sauron reaches for her face, and tips her chin gently up to look at her. He leans down and moves his head ever so slightly closer, his lips parting as if he means to kiss her. But he stops himself, and he moves further back again before he speaks.

“Do not allow Morgoth to put these doubts into your mind, Galadriel,” he says. “I know you are strong enough to hold me back, I am certain of it. There is so much light in you that sometimes it terrifies me.”

“Do you fear it, then?” she whispers. “Us using the blade?”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But to fear something just as much as I want it... that is a feeling that has always been familiar to me.”

She looks away from him. “You feared Morgoth,” she says, understanding. “And yet a part of you wants to serve him, still.”

“I was bound to him, Galadriel – and that bond has endured for thousands of years,” Sauron says. “It held during the whole of his first exile, for all the time we were separated. I do not know for sure if it persists from the Void, but I think that it does. It is still there, drawing me in. Sometimes I can feel him calling me to free him, to return to him. So I ask you again, Galadriel – hold me back, in whatever way you must. Do not let Morgoth claim me.”

He’s looking down further into the cavern again. The dust from the last rockfall has cleared, and Galadriel has a better view now of the silver-flecked walls, the webbed veins of mithril ore glinting all the way down into the depths where the monster waits. She cannot see the balrog, but its heavy, rumbling footsteps draw closer, and she can feel waves of unsettling, ancient power coming off it now. The cavern is filling with dry, scorching heat, and the smell of molten rock.

“I will wield the blade only long enough to give the balrog one order, and then we’ll break the link,” Sauron says. “But you may have to lead me, do you understand?”

“What order do you intend to give it?” she asks breathlessly.

“If I hope to overcome that pull, I think it must be an order that Morgoth would truly give… but one that helps us as well. We must align our goals with Morgoth’s will.” He gives a long, pained sigh, as if he’s thinking over the options but none of them please him entirely. “Morgoth’s army was to gather in the shadow land in the event of his defeat. So... I think I shall have to send the balrog to Orodruin… to Mordor.”

“To the Southlands?” she gasps with alarm. “But your people—“

“I will send it directly to the mountain of fire,” Sauron says. “And tell it to join Adar there. It will be far from Pelargir.”

“Then you will create a formidable adversary for us,” Galadriel says. “Adar will surely turn it against us once more!”

“He might,” Sauron says. “It knows him well. But, more likely, it will refuse his orders as it does mine, and it will wait there for Morgoth. It does not answer to Adar any more than it answers to me. In the meantime, this mountain will be safe. We will have bought some time. And, I hope, we can yet retrieve those scrolls.” He takes a step back from her, wrapping his right hand tightly around the hilt while he runs his left hand reverently over its jagged edge. “I have to do this, and I have to do it now.”

“I thought that mithril alone wouldn’t be enough to unlock the full power of the blade,” Galadriel whispers. “It holds only such a small amount of light! Without the ring, without the alloy to amplify the mithril, how can you—”

“Just hold on to me, Galadriel,” he says. “Trust me.” She feels his mind tether to hers, feels him securing himself to her like a safety line. She hears his voice clearly in her head. Hold me back. Don’t let go.

And then, before she can say or do anything else, he jumps.

He jumps straight over the edge of the chasm, and as he does it, he spins around and swings back the hilt of the shadow blade, smashing its jagged edge directly into the stone wall. It does not quite pierce through the rock, but nor does it break. It gains a shallow hold, biting into the wall like an ice pick, like her dagger held her to the ice shelves at Forodwaith.

The hilt scrapes down, down, down the wall, slowing his fall as it passes over and through the veins of exposed mithril. It sparks furiously the whole way down as it drags over the scintillating ore. That bubble of light around the hilt is starting to form, growing bigger and brighter as he falls toward the cavern floor.

Sauron lands on his feet at the bottom, the hilt glowing with a pulsing light in his hand. He tilts his head back and roars, and his pretty elven face flickers momentarily into that of the creature beneath – his terrifying true form that she once glimpsed when he threatened her on the raft. He glances back up at the ledge for a moment, and Galadriel can see that his pupils have narrowed into serpentine slits, his eyes blazing like two infernal flames.

The balrog steps out of the darkness then – an immense beast of fire and ash and destruction – and it roars back in challenge, staring Sauron down. He seems so very small beside it, standing in its towering shadow.

That bubble of light around the sword hilt flares with searing brightness, quickly gathering strength. There will be nothing shielding Sauron from the deluge of power when it comes, for he wears no ring to protect him. If this works, the blade is about to ignite with a magnitude of power that was meant for a Vala, the same power that Galadriel barely survived… but perhaps his Maiar spirit can withstand it without the ring, the way Galadriel never could have.

Through their link, she can already feel it starting to flow into him, unfettered and overwhelming, that otherworldly music so loud it drowns out all her senses. The hilt of the shadow blade is white-hot against Sauron’s hands, and she visualizes her own hands on the hilt over his, cool and soothing, steadying him. She looks down at him on the cavern floor below her, holding the hilt aloft as he takes a staggering step forward toward the balrog.

And then the shadow blade bursts out of the hilt in a shower of sparks and molten fire. He’s done it it. The weapon is ignited.

Sauron raises it over his head and plunges it downward, slamming the flaming blade against the ground, sending a shockwave of power into the depths of the cavern. As Galadriel’s vision blurs and wavers, she sees the shadows around him deepening. Spectral armor is forming on his shoulders, spikes growing along his arms and clawed gauntlets over his hands. When he turns back once more to look at her, she can no longer see his face, only the bright glow of his eyes in the dark.

And he’s wearing Morgoth’s crown upon his head.

Galadriel is wholly unprepared for the feeling that the shadow blade evokes in her when he wields it. When she held it that night in the forest, the power had all but suffocated her, overwhelming her completely. But now, she feels it as he feels it. He lets it cascade into him, perhaps faster than he should, taking in more and more of it… and he feels complete freedom. Exhilaration. Victory. More than that – he feels control. He holds in his hands a power of the unseen world, the very thing that eluded him so long in Forodwaith, the might that only Morgoth could wield. The key to dominion over Middle Earth. And she holds it with him.

Galadriel, he says. Feel this. This is what we could be. Together, we could strike down Morgoth himself.

She senses the immense potential in it as he does… and she wants it. In his hands, that power sings to her like nothing else, strong and sweet and tempting. The feel of it coursing through her veins is tangled up with her desire for him, that same discordant clash of horribly wrong and perfectly, impossibly right. She looks at him in that black armor and spiked crown, and she knows she should be horrified. But she is not, and she does not fear him at all. He is magnificent. For a moment, she sees herself beside him as she did in that reflection on the water, his powerful queen, his equal... and the longing she feels is almost unbearable. Together, perhaps they really could save Middle Earth and rule it, reshape history to their will. They could become unstoppable. Stronger than the foundations of the earth.

But no – no, this is not why they’re here, this is not what they’re doing. There’s something else, something they should be—

The balrog! she thinks, shoving the thought toward him fiercely. Order it to leave!

The creature surges toward him, a tower of flame and fury, the fiery whip of its tail striking at the walls as more of the cavern crumbles. And as it comes upon him, as it perceives the specter of its master, the first Dark Lord, there before it… it stops.

She can feel Sauron's intentions snare against the pull of Morgoth’s will in the blade, senses the sudden doubt that’s seizing his mind. The power falters briefly, and the balrog’s attention flares on him again as it stomps its feet. It knew that Sauron was here; perhaps it suspects some kind of trickery. Does it know that this is not Morgoth standing at its feet?

Send it away! Send it to Orodruin, as Morgoth would! Do it now!

Sauron raises the sword and brings it down into the ground once more, sending another shockwave of power shattering through the cavern. The balrog jerks back, tilts its head like it’s listening. It considers him carefully and then it lowers its fiery tail, lets out a hot puff of breath. It stares at him for what feels like an eternity. And then, finally, it turns and leaves, shuffling away into the cavern, escaping through some passageway that leads deeper into the mountain before it spills into the world outside.

Rocks are still tumbling from the walls as it goes, and a small boulder narrowly misses Sauron’s shoulder. But he doesn’t react at all to the falling rocks. He stands completely still, as if he has forgotten where he is, as if he has forgotten how to move. The ledge Galadriel is standing on crumbles slowly in the wake of the balrog’s retreat, the large flat rock slipping down to the floor of the cavern as she struggles to keep her footing. When she extricates herself from the rubble and scrambles to her feet at the bottom, she’s standing almost right beside Sauron. And he still hasn’t moved.

Something about this unsettles her. This was too easy. Far too easy.

Let go of it, she implores him. Release the blade now, it’s done.

But Sauron does not release it. He continues to hold it, his hands shaking against the hilt. That music is still resounding through Galadriel’s head, piercingly loud, making it difficult to think. And yet, Sauron’s presence in her mind is soft now, still and calm. Those escalating waves of panic are gone, and his mind feels blissfully serene, but… empty. She senses nothing of him here – it’s as if the shell of him remains, but his spirit is away somewhere else. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he holds tightly to the blazing sword.

Tentatively, Galadriel reaches for his hands to try to pry the hilt loose from his grip. But as soon as she touches him, she feels a sudden, nauseating tug against that tether that binds them. She loses her footing. And... she falls into his mind.

She does not know if he is trapped in an illusion or a memory, but she feels immediately that she is a spectator here, a witness to something she should not be seeing. She is an insubstantial ghost in his head, and she is watching Sauron’s vision unfold from his own perspective.

Before her, Morgoth is seated on a great black throne, all three of his stolen Silmarils still glowing in his crown. And Galadriel – Sauron – kneels in front of him, head inclined toward the Dark Lord. Sauron is wearing his spiked armor – she can feel the weight of it heavy on his shoulders – but he has removed his helmet, and he places it on the stone floor in front of him.

Morgoth reaches out to caress Sauron’s head in praise, those clawed fingers scratching gently through his hair as one would do to a beloved pet. Galadriel feels Sauron’s fondness for Morgoth then, his little shiver at the touch, his delight at having pleased the Dark Lord. She wants to recoil, but she cannot. Sauron leans into Morgoth’s hand, drinking in his cursed affection like poison.

And then she perceives a voice like sibilant wind, like something half-heard that’s more thought than sound. ‘You know what to do,’ says Morgoth. ‘Come back to me. Break the chain. You have no choice, you know you are mine. You have always been mine.’

The scene changes abruptly, and Galadriel cries out silently when Sauron’s body seizes with pain. She sees a flurry of disjointed images layering on top of each other in his mind: That same long, clawed hand closing around Sauron’s throat, drawing blood that runs hot down his neck while he struggles to breathe. His hands bound together in front of him, black rope biting into his wrists. Whips of searing fire against his back. The crack of his fingers being broken slowly, one at a time. And she hears fragments of words piercing his mind, sharp as glass: The price of failure. Disappointment. Not worthy. Betrayal. She wants to cover her eyes, but she cannot, for she has no body in this vision but his. And his eyes remain wide open, taking everything in as he screams and screams.

At last, the scene changes again, and there is silence in his head. Sauron is alone in a small, windowless room, where he lies curled up on the black stone floor, shaking with cold. And then Morgoth is there, standing over him, his figure more shadow than flesh. Morgoth kneels down beside him, and as Sauron turns to look at him, the Dark Lord slowly runs one clawed finger along his face from temple to chin, equal parts tender caress and threat. ‘Come back to me,’ he whispers. ‘Break the chain and free me, and all is forgiven. You are still mine, don’t forget… and you’ll always be my favourite. Come back where you belong.’

And Sauron presses his face up into his master’s palm, seeking his embrace, sighing contentedly at the stroke of the Dark Lord’s hand over his cheek.

Galadriel struggles to tear herself away, to break out of their link, to reach out to him somehow, but Sauron’s mind holds her like a snare, trapped here with him in this awful dream.

This is only an echo. It is the shadow blade! This isn’t real! she howls into the silence. You do not serve him any more! Let go of the blade! Drop it! You must let it go!

And then, finally, a faint response from Sauron. Pull me back, Galadriel. Please.

She pulls, visualizing that tether of light that bound them the last time they shared a vision; the shining rope that he followed to save her as she sank in the Sundering Sea. And then suddenly, somehow… the snare loosens. Galadriel manages to change the vision. She feels it tilt and shift, the edges of it now soft and malleable and hers.

She is back on their raft again, gripping the familiar ropes and boards as storm waves crash around her. She looks frantically around for Sauron, but she cannot see him anywhere – Halbrand is not on the raft with her, and he is nowhere in the water nearby. At the edge of the raft, a coil of rope is unspooling, faster and faster, disappearing with frightening speed under the surface of the sea. Galadriel reaches out to grab it, and it burns against her hands, continuing to unwind.

She dives into the churning water, following the rope hand over hand, swimming down to the depths.

And then, she sees him. This time it is Sauron who is tied to their broken wooden mast, wearing his abhorrent spiked armor and helmet. His wrists are bound together in front of him with that black rope. She looks down, and she sees that her dagger – Finrod’s dagger, which no longer exists – is sharp and shining in her hand.

‘Just kill him,’ Morgoth whispers to her. ‘Show him how weak he is. You know there can be no trust between you. He may have betrayed me, but you know he will never come back to the light. He will betray you, too, in time.’

She looks at the dagger. She can cut the rope, cut Sauron loose. Or she can plunge the dagger into his neck, if she can only remove his helmet. Her lungs ache from lack of air, but she grabs hold of the helmet with her free hand, and she tugs it off him.

Under the helmet, he wears Halbrand’s face. He’s unconscious, his head tilting to one side, his tangled hair floating around him. He looks like her dear friend. Her king, her smith, her mirror. But it suddenly seems so clear what she must do. Yes. This is what she has wanted for so long... isn’t it? She raises the dagger, presses it to his neck, gathers all her rage and fury and hatred. Here and now, she will fulfill her brother’s vow. She has to end him before this fondness for him dooms her.

‘Kill him, that’s it. You know he will do the same to you the moment he can no longer use you. You hate him. Finish this!’

She presses the dagger down harder, breaks the soft skin on Halbrand’s neck. His blood spirals into the water, and her heart seizes to see that it’s not red, but ink-black. He is not Halbrand, he is no mortal Southlander. He is the foe she has pursued for centuries, the dread sorcerer who brings a blight on this land. Sauron. Not her friend, but a friend of Morgoth’s.

But still she hesitates. And she pulls the dagger away.

‘You pitiful little fool,’ Morgoth laughs. ‘Do you actually care for him now? For the one you call The Abhorred, your great enemy? The one who has caused so much of your suffering? The one who slaughtered your kin? Kill him!’

She lifts the dagger again, and with all the strength she can muster, she slices it down through that black rope that binds Halbrand’s hands together, then cuts him free from the mast.

Halbrand’s eyes snap open, his irises glowing orange around those serpentine pupils. Shadowy spikes are re-forming around his head. He’s wearing Morgoth’s crown again, and his freed hands move instantly to close around Galadriel’s neck.

She’s caught in his grasp, and they’re both sinking. She opens her mouth, desperate for breath, and her lungs flood with seawater.

‘Ah! See! Now you see what happens when you bind yourself to a deceiver!’ Morgoth’s mocking laughter echoes in her head.

Down. Up. Which way? Galadriel looks up, or where she thinks is up, struggling against his immovable grip. Her lungs are burning. She’s drowning, like she always drowns, and Halbrand isn’t going to save her.

‘Halbrand!’ she screams in her mind. ‘Halbrand! Help me!’

Halbrand’s glowing eyes are fixed on her, and as their gazes meet, she feels something shift in him. There’s a tiny spark of something... a softness behind his feral stare, a realization… and he releases his grip on her neck.

He gathers her against him, and he’s swimming now, his feet kicking through the water, dragging her upwards with him. She sees that bright tether coiling above her.

But she’s losing consciousness, her awareness wavering… and then, everything fades to black.

Galadriel opens her eyes on the raft, coughing up mouthfuls of seawater as she takes long, ragged breaths. The storm still crashes around them, but Halbrand is lying on the rough boards beside her now, pale and unconscious. His spiked armor and helmet are gone; he wears the same tattered rags he usually wears on the raft, and his wet hair is plastered over his face. She turns him over, lays her head against his chest – he’s breathing shallowly, and his heartbeat is there, faint but steady. Thank the light, he’s alive.

She kneels beside him, cradles him against her. As she props him up, she sees that Halbrand is clutching the hilt of the extinguished shadow blade in one hand, his fingers white-knuckled around that twisted black metal.

She wrenches it away from him, and throws it off the raft into the churning sea.

And then, the visions dissipate at last. She’s lying at the bottom of a cavern in Khazad-Dûm’s closed mithril mine, covered in fine dust and half-buried by rocks. The balrog has departed; its scorching heat and sizzling power have vanished, leaving behind a merciful quiet that’s pierced only by the sound of the occasional falling pebble still skittering down from above.

The shadow blade’s hilt is on the ground beside her, lying in the rubble. And she’s holding Annatar, the beautiful elven scholar in his Eregion-branded cloak, in her arms.

Chapter Text

Galadriel does not know exactly how long it took them to get back to Disa and Durin’s home, but she knows it must be well into the early hours by the time she has spoken to Disa, extricated herself from her dusty clothes, washed up and changed. Now she sits on the edge of the bed in her safe, cozy guest room, slowly brushing through her damp hair in the firelight, trying to keep her mind as blank as possible.

She winds the golden strands into a braid that’s more elaborate than it needs to be, twisting it up with careful concentration, focusing on each turn of her fingers instead of letting her thoughts dwell on the shadow blade visions. Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, she cannot begin to think of sleep. There’s still a prickling tension in her mind, and the feeling of something wild and uncanny under her skin – some remnant of having touched that dark magic. She is relieved to be sitting here at all after what they went through… but it is difficult to see what happened tonight as a victory.

Thankfully, Disa asked very little about what happened to them when Galadriel and Annatar returned to the dwarves’ home. Perhaps she sensed that neither of them was in much of a state to talk, but more likely she just thought that there wasn’t much to tell. She probably assumed they had simply been trapped in a collapsed passage while attempting to evacuate, just like so many others, and Galadriel said nothing to correct her.

After hugging them both with profound relief, Disa told them that some of the rescue efforts were still ongoing, and that Durin would likely be gone until morning coordinating things. But the news was broadly good: the damage to the underground city was minimal. The collapses, while scattered throughout the mountain, were nowhere near as severe as feared. And the tremors once again seemed to have stopped. Of course, Disa couldn’t possibly have imagined that the two elves had descended to the depths of the mountain, never mind what they had done down there. There is really no reasonable way to explain any of this.

Explaining it to anyone else had been the least of Galadriel’s concerns in the moments right after they broke out of the shadow blade vision. When she lifted Sauron out of the rubble unconscious, he was terrifyingly cold – so cold that Galadriel feared he might actually have perished. But the chill of the dead, which she knows all too well, is merely the absence of heat. Sauron’s body felt much colder than that, despite how hot it had been in the cavern. And even though he was clearly breathing, a deep dread sank into her bones.

She carried him in her arms for a while as she moved along the cavern floor, searching for a way to climb back up to a stable ledge. The way forward was softly lit by the glow from the mithril ore in the walls above, and the space was still and silent after the balrog’s departure. It felt strangely reverent to walk through it – probably the closest she’ll ever get to the feeling of walking under the light of the Two Trees again – and despite the situation, a little bit of hope welled in her heart.

Sauron still didn’t seem to get any warmer. But he did finally wake up while she was trying to figure out how to tie his cloak around him in order to carry him on her back and climb. As she set him down next to the rock wall, she noticed that his lips were moving – he was talking, murmuring to himself almost inaudibly. Slurred strings of words in a harsh, grating tongue, spoken with a voice that was neither Annatar’s nor Halbrand’s.

Not the Black Speech. No. Valarin.

Shortly after that, his eyes snapped open. He sat up suddenly, all at once – with a great gasping breath like he was waking up from a nightmare – and the first thing he did was shout out Galadriel’s name. He spoke to her in Quenya, then, switching seamlessly back into Annatar’s voice. And as soon as he’d ascertained that she was present and unharmed, he started asking insistently to see the shadow blade hilt. Grudgingly, Galadriel pulled the hilt from her waistband and showed it to him to prove she had it, and he seemed satisfied with that. He did not ask her to return it to him. It sits on the floor in her guest room now, wrapped up in a cloth so she doesn’t have to look at the hideous thing.

After that, Sauron did not say a single word more to Galadriel. They climbed up from the chasm together, and he managed the climb well enough, if a little slowly. But he stubbornly refused any more help from her, ignoring her outstretched arm at the top to haul himself over the edge on his own. Finally, they’d reached a mostly functioning lift that pulled them the rest of the way up from the depths of the mines. They startled several puzzled dwarves who were checking a half-collapsed cave above, but from there, they carried on unimpeded all the way back to Durin and Disa’s home.

Galadriel has not seen Sauron at all since they returned, when they retreated into their respective guest rooms.

Now, she ties off her needlessly elaborate braid and goes to put her comb away into her bag. She rearranges all her things and repacks them slowly, trying to occupy her mind, trying not to think of anything at all. She briefly considers going out to the kitchen, to see if she can make herself a hot drink. Disa may well still be awake, too, waiting up for Durin, and it might do her good to have some company.

But on second thought… perhaps it would be wiser to avoid any further opportunities to be questioned about the night’s events. It’s probably best if Disa does not see her again tonight. No… she shouldn’t go to the kitchen.

There is really only one other place that Galadriel could go.

The doors to the two guest rooms both open onto the main corridor in the upper level of the dwarves’ home. But, just as Disa told her, there is a second, internal passageway that connects the two rooms directly. Not for the first time, Galadriel looks toward that little doorway that leads into Sauron’s room, and her chest constricts a little. He probably still won’t speak to her… but she really should check on him, shouldn’t she? Just to make sure he’s all right?

She smooths her anxious hands over her braid one last time, then gets up and walks barefoot into that connecting passageway. The exposed rock ceiling is not that far above her head; Sauron would certainly have to duck to get through here. She stands far enough back that she can’t actually see around the corner into his room, and calls out to him – quietly, just in case he’s sleeping.

“Hello...?”

There’s a pause, and then Sauron answers her gruffly. “What do you want?” His voice sounds hoarse and tired.

“May I come in? Are you… decent?”

“Seriously?” he scoffs. “That’s what you’re bothered about? Thought we knew each other a lot better than that now.”

She grits her teeth. “Can I come in or not?”

“I don’t give a damn, elf. Suit yourself.”

She enters his room tentatively, not entirely sure what she’s expecting. Probably that he’ll be lying in bed, if wielding that blade had anything like the same effect on him as it had on her. But the bed is empty, and still made. There are several extra blankets neatly folded up into squares on top of it, just like there are in her room – but he hasn’t so much as touched them. Instead, he’s lying on the ground, on the bare stone floor, curled up in front of the fireplace. Her heart seizes with the memory of his shadow blade vision, of him lying on the floor in that cold black room.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“You mean besides waiting for someone to succeed in killing me?” Sauron says sarcastically. He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking over at her. She sees that he’s wearing a familiar warm house-robe that’s embroidered with elvish script, one that she recognizes as Elrond’s. Elrond must have kept some of his clothes here, in one of Durin and Disa’s guest rooms.

“Come on... get up from there,” Galadriel says gently. “You should get into bed.”

Sauron still doesn’t look at her. He lifts up the flask he’s clutching in his hand, and takes a long drink of whatever is in it. “Pity this stuff doesn’t work like it does for them, hmm?” He holds the flask out to Galadriel, sticking his arm out toward her but still not turning in her direction. “Here. Have a drink with me anyway. To our… great success?” He laughs darkly, and there’s no mirth in it.

Galadriel shakes her head, before she realizes that he isn’t going to look her way and adds aloud: “No, thank you.”

“Fine. Don’t, then.” He shrugs his shoulders with exaggerated indifference, then sits up abruptly and hurls the flask right into the fire. It explodes violently against the stone at the back of the fireplace as the flames spark and sizzle.

“I… I should probably go,” Galadriel says, taking a step backward toward the door. “I simply wanted to see that you were… all right.”

“Ahhh. To make sure nothing does away with me before you do, is that it?” he says with a twisted smile. “Well… don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll get this nasty business over with soon enough. And when I’m done being your ally, you can get right back to cutting my throat.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Why are you still standing there?” he growls. “I thought you said you were going. Have you not seen enough of me suffering for one day, or are you not yet satisfied?”

They both stay silent for a long while after that. She continues to stand there, watching him in the flickering firelight, and her mind drifts to that night she confronted him at the forge in Armenelos. The time they spent together in Númenor seems so incredibly far away that it may as well be a memory from centuries ago. His face is different – elven now, not human. But his eyes are exactly the same as they were that night, wide and haunted, and he stares into the fire like he’s a blink away from crying.

“I am... sorry,” she says softly. “For what must have happened to y—”

“No!” he shouts, whirling around to face her in such a blaze of fury that she jumps back in shock. He scrambles unsteadily to his feet. “Do not do this, elf. I have endured your scorn, your hatred, your insults, your relentless anger, your constant distrust – but I will not abide your pity. Leave me alone. Get out!”

When she doesn’t immediately turn to leave, he takes a threatening step toward her. She still doesn’t move.

He closes the distance between them in two huge steps, and now he’s standing directly in front of her. He draws himself menacingly up to his full height as he glowers down at her, practically baring his teeth. “I said... get… out!”

Galadriel puts one hand protectively out in front of her, laying her palm flat against his chest to stop him from coming any closer. He still feels startlingly cold. That icy chill emanates from his skin, even through the thick fabric of the house-robe – an unnatural coldness, the kind she last felt in the fortress at Forodwaith. The kind that even flaming torches could not hold back.

Sauron goes completely still at her touch. He does nothing else, just stands there and stares down in something like disbelief at her hand resting against him. He’s looking at it as if she’s just plunged a dagger into his heart.

“Don’t,” she finally says, pulling her hand back with a sharp exhalation. “Lashing out at each other like this... it is futile. We must not waste our energies fighting each other when we would do better to focus on our common enemy.”

Sauron gives a sarcastic laugh. “Of course. It’s always this with you, isn’t it? A common goal, a common enemy, unfortunately we shall be forced to work together... ‘Stop fighting me and together let us fight them!’” He echoes her own words back to her in a mocking imitation of her voice. “Anything to avoid admitting the truth, hmm?”

Galadriel bristles at his contempt. “Oh, please. As if your motivations for collaborating with me are so noble! You did a brave thing down there, risking both of our lives to save this mountain – but all you truly cared about was getting your forsaken scrolls back.”

She has still never asked him what exactly is written in those documents he’s so desperate to retrieve. A part of her dreads to discover it. But she supposes it will become plain soon enough, if the dwarves can find them clear passage to the vault tomorrow.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Sauron says. “The scrolls that we need to save Middle Earth? Those scrolls, Galadriel? As a matter of fact, yes, I do care a great deal about those.”

“Save Middle Earth? Surely you mean to say rule, since it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

He breathes a long, weary sigh. “Stop, elf. Just… stop. I really cannot do this tonight, I am exhausted. What was that you were saying about not wasting our energies lashing out at each other?”

Galadriel lowers her eyes. She hates it when he makes his point like this, using her own words against her, eviscerating her embarrassing hypocrisy. “I – I did not mean—”

“If you really must take your aggression out on me right now, I’m sure you can find a sharp knife in the kitchen,” he says wryly. “That might be quicker. And quieter. I have a terrible headache.”

Galadriel steps back, takes a breath. She considers just walking away and returning to her room – truly and deeply considers it. But she simply cannot.

She takes a half-step into the passageway, then immediately turns around again. “What did you mean by it before, when you said… ‘anything to avoid admitting the truth?’” she asks him. “What truth is it that you imagine I’m hiding from you?”

“Oh, Galadriel… really? You really want me to say it?” He laughs bitterly. “Fine. I meant that you refuse to admit how well we work together. That we are… good together, in so many more ways than just on the battlefield. You insist on burying every fond feeling you have for me, lying to yourself in any way you can… reassuring yourself that we’re allied only by necessity against a common enemy, as you did again just now. And yet, you told me once that I understood you better than anyone else.” He raises a finger warningly, as if to interrupt her before she tries to speak. “And don’t you dare try to tell me you only said that to your little mortal friend Halbrand. Because you know damn well that you said it to me. We have things in common besides an enemy, Galadriel. Why can you not just admit that?”

“I am well aware of it… believe me,” she whispers. “But the things I have in common with you are... well… they are mostly not things I am proud of.” She looks away from him as she speaks. “It is as the orc said. There is a darkness in me, too… and a hunger to hold power over others. And I fear that our… our kinship – and that understanding you speak of – stems from it. I simply cannot allow that darkness to take hold in me. I have fought it too long and too hard… and if I were to let myself be drawn to you now... then I…” She trails off, unable to make herself finish the sentence.

“Hmm,” Sauron says after a silence. “May I perhaps offer you… an alternate perspective? Would you hear me out?”

She had expected a sharp response from him, if not a furious one. But his voice is soft, almost gentle.

“I cannot prevent you from speaking,” she says.

“I do recognize that darkness in you, Galadriel. I know it very well. And I do not deny that it calls to its counterpart in me, just as your light sings to whatever is left of the light in me,” he says. “But consider this: I have never once seen darkness take hold of you at a moment when we were in harmony. It has only happened when you fight me, when you’re determined to hate me. Your fondness for me is not what summons it, Galadriel!” He fixes his eyes on her intently. “Listen… think back, think carefully. At the battle in Tirharad, while we were fighting side by side... what you felt between us then… it wasn’t dark, was it?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No.”

“That’s right. The moment you felt that darkness ensnare you was in the barn. It was when you were seething with rage at the very idea of me, when you threatened Adar because you thought he was my servant! Now, think back again… what about when we faced Morgoth’s beasts in the forest? Perfect harmony between us. Perhaps the most aligned we’ve ever been. Did you feel like darkness was overtaking you then? Or… when we were together afterwards?”

“No,” she whispers, her face flushing a little at the memory of what she did feel with him after that battle. “I… I suppose not.”

“And what about at dinner this evening? Enjoying my company, laughing among friends, not a battle in sight? I don’t suppose you kept looking at me like that and rubbing your foot against my leg under the table because you felt so much terrible inescapable darkness, now, did you?”

She is struck silent, as shocked as if he had suddenly run a sword through her chest.

“You see? It isn’t your connection with me that draws you toward the dark, Galadriel. You even thanked me once, for pulling you back. Don’t you remember that? No, you choose to cast all of that aside, because all you ever do is dwell on revenge,” he goes on. “You stay stuck in the shadow of the past, when it was you who told me I could be free of it! But have you ever, even once, felt darkness overtake you because of me... in a moment when you did not despise me?”

She clenches her jaw. Her mind reels, clutching desperately for some counterargument. “Well… I have certainly felt a... an unnaturally strong compulsion for power and control when I am with you,” she says. “In Eregion, for example, when you first asked me to join you, and you said—”

He shakes his finger at her. “Ah, ah. Pretty sure you despised me then, Galadriel, you literally had a dagger to my throat when that happened. When else?”

“Fine, then, tonight! In the cavern… when you lit that cursed sword, when you asked me to feel how strong we could be together. I looked at you there – you, rising as the Dark Lord – and when I felt your power… my heart did greatly desire it.” She holds back the words ‘and you,’ immediately grateful that their minds are not linked at this moment. “You made me want what I should not!”

“No. You are wrong. I am not even capable of making you want anything you do not already desire, Galadriel, as much as you’d love to believe otherwise,” he says. “Your hunger for power does not begin or end with me. Ever have you chafed against authority, against the orders you were given! Against being made to conform, to bow down. Against the rules of your people, fools that they are. Perhaps even against the Valar themselves. I am not responsible for this flaw you see in yourself.”

“You may not be responsible, but you do encourage it!” she shouts. “You make me worse than I already am. And I... I fear I may well have done the same to you. I pushed you to strive for power, to seize a kingdom, to reach for something you were all but ready to turn away from were it not for me. There is nothing good about that!”

“Well, I suppose I see it differently,” he says. “I do not see your ambition as a weakness, nor your desire for power as a corruption. I see it as an expression of your very nature... just as it is mine.” Sauron reaches out to take one of her hands in his, and she shivers at that terrible chill in his skin – he still feels colder than ice. “Galadriel…do you really not see that we desire each other precisely because we are already the same? I have done nothing to change you, and I never would. I simply see your darkness and your light, exactly as they are. I see you... the way no one else ever has.”

Galadriel does not respond. He’s looking at her in that way he does, his eyes full of such heartbreaking sincerity… the look that always has her a split-second away from believing him completely, no matter how foolish she knows it is. Her heart is pounding.

“Does a light not shine the brightest when it is held against the dark?” he says imploringly. “Your light could never be swallowed by the shadows while you are at my side. Because light is only made stronger when it touches the darkness.”

Finally, she manages to collect herself enough to speak. “You weave enticing words, I will grant you that,” she says. “But you have a clever way of twisting the truth to suit your schemes. You may desire me, and find true kinship with me... yet you’d still seek to move me like a piece in the grand game of your ambitions. You still aim to seize power over Middle Earth. I would be a fool to trust you.”

“Well… I can’t say I’m particularly inclined to trust you either,” he says with a harsh laugh, dropping her hand. “You worry that I am using you to further my ambitions... and yet you tell yourself that the only reason you even keep me alive is because you need me to stand with you against Morgoth.” The condescending smile he gives her is more like a grimace. “Tell me, elf… when this is over, and our temporary alliance runs out... what will you do to me, if you get another chance to exact that revenge you so desperately want?”

“I am… not certain,” she answers honestly. “I do not know anymore.”

Sauron doesn’t say anything for a very long time. When he speaks again, his eyes are glimmering with unshed tears.

“I no longer fear that you’ll kill me because you hate me, Galadriel,” he says, his voice quiet. “I fear that you’ll kill me because you can’t stand that you don’t.”

He turns and walks away from her then, and he returns to the fireside to sit down on the stone floor again. He folds his arms over his knees and stares straight ahead into the flames, unmoving, unblinking, as if he’s waiting for her to leave.

But Galadriel does not leave. She just keeps standing there, bitter tears gathering hotly in her own eyes as she stubbornly blinks them away. He certainly knows she hasn’t gone, but he resolutely ignores her presence.

After a while, Galadriel goes and takes one of the folded blankets from on top of the bed, unfurls it, and lays it gently over his shoulders. He’s still so unfathomably cold; she can feel that horrible chill coming off his back even through the thick robe and heavy fleece. She rearranges the blanket carefully, steps away… then comes back to tuck it a little closer around him. He still refuses to look at her.

She only gets halfway to the exit before she turns around again and comes back to him. And this time, she slowly lowers herself to sit down beside him on the stone floor.

Sauron doesn’t acknowledge her at all, and he says nothing more to her. But after a minute, he leans over and silently rests his head on her shoulder.

Then Galadriel reaches out and gathers him into the circle of her arms, pulling him close, pressing her warmth into his freezing body. She feels him relax against her, senses the overwhelming relief in him as he closes his eyes and folds himself into her embrace with a soft little sigh. He curls up into the blanket and allows her to cradle him across her lap, the same way she did through all those terrible nights on their first journey to Eregion. The same way she held the dying mortal smith she would have given anything to save.

She holds him until he finally starts to feel warmer again.

And then she lets herself fall asleep, her arms still clasped tightly around him.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long while, Galadriel thinks she dreamt of Valinor. It was more a series of images than it was a coherent dream, but she remembers the feeling of of unburdened comfort – lightness, contentment, complete freedom. Green hills rolling against blue skies. The sound of waves lapping calmly against the shore. The salt smell of the sea. Soft, pale curtains in a window, lifted by the wind. Someone she could not quite see standing on a balcony, holding their hand out to her.

She did not recognize the building, though there was a familiarity about it, like maybe she has seen it somewhere before. She wonders, afterwards, if perhaps it was actually Númenor she was dreaming of.

It surprises her a little that her mind managed to conjure such a pleasant and restful dream after the horrors she witnessed last night. But she wakes enveloped in softness, cocooned in a pile of blankets with her head nestled into an overstuffed pillow. Above her, a little glass prism embedded in the ceiling is emitting a warm beam of daylight, bathing the windowless room in what is unmistakably the light of morning. Somehow, the light is being mirrored all the way down here from the surface. Durin and Disa’s home truly is a marvel.

She looks around and sees that she’s completely alone in the room. Sauron must have picked her up from the floor at some point during the night, tucked her into bed and put all the extra blankets over her. But the other side of the bed is empty – if he did sleep here beside her, he is gone now. For the briefest moment, Galadriel imagines that she could have awakened to find him sleeping next to her– his head resting against her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her— but she quickly pushes that thought away before she can examine it too closely. She throws off the covers and gets up.

At the edge of her perception, she can hear the high, squealing laughter of children coming from somewhere in a distant room. And, she realizes, she can also hear Disa knocking on the door, calling out her name.

Galadriel steps toward the door that leads out to the corridor, leaning her ear against it to listen. Curiously, even to her keen elven hearing, the knocking sounds distant, like it’s coming from further away than it should be.

“Galadriel?” Disa knocks again. “Breakfast!”

Without thinking, Galadriel pulls the handle and opens the door, expecting to see Disa on the other side.

The heavy door swings wide open, revealing the carved stone corridor. And Disa is there – standing at the next door down. She’s knocking on Galadriel’s guest room door. But Galadriel is in Annatar’s room.

“Oh!” Galadriel gasps at the same time as Disa turns toward her with a little jump of surprise.

Disa’s eyebrows go up. And then a huge smile breaks over her face. “Ah! Well, well! Good morning!” she grins. She pats Galadriel’s arm with a wink as she walks past on her way back to the stairs. “Come down whenever you’re ready. I was just coming to tell you that breakfast is on the table.”

Galadriel goes back into her own guest room to dress, cursing under her breath as she combs out that overly elaborate braid and pins her hair back loosely. Her room looks exactly the same as she left it last night, the bed still crisply made, the extra blankets folded into little squares on top. Her bag and her things are all there, neatly arranged.

Only one thing is different. The shadow blade is gone.

Sauron has taken it back.

Downstairs, the two children are chasing each other round and round the table, shrieking at the top of their lungs, despite their mother’s exasperated demands that they sit down and eat their porridge. They don’t seem to be suffering any from last night’s disturbance, or from the lack of sleep. But their exuberant, joyful noise has covered whatever sound Galadriel’s footsteps made on the stairs, and she pauses at the periphery of the room, watching without announcing herself.

Durin has returned home; he’s sitting down at the far end of the table, talking to Annatar. The dwarven prince must have come back not too long ago. He is still wearing the same clothes he had on last night, and he looks exhausted. Annatar, on the other hand, looks bright-eyed and rested, and he’s wearing a green feathery shirt that she’s pretty sure is Elrond’s.

“It was down in the caverns, all this time?” Durin is saying incredulously. He turns to kiss Disa as she puts a hot drink down in front of him, then looks back to the elf. “Are you sure? Didn’t even think balrogs still existed!”

“Well, dormant things do have an inconvenient habit of awakening,” Annatar says, reaching across the table to stack pancakes onto his plate. “Fear not, the creature has departed now. I have thoroughly banished it from your mountain, by means of an ancient enchantment.”

“Whatever was disturbing the mountain is gone,” Disa says. She sits down beside Durin, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll confirm it with the other resonators, but last night… we all felt something. A change. After that last tremor, the rocks just… settled.”

“An ancient enchantment, hmm?” says Durin. He narrows his eyes at Annatar. “How do you know these things, elf? You secretly some kind of wizard?” The dwarf’s tone is clearly joking, but Galadriel tenses. Why would Sauron even tell them—

“Alas, not a wizard. Only a humble academic who’s spent far too many centuries with his head stuck in old scrolls and books,” Annatar says with a laugh. “And here I always thought my area of study was a bit… obscure. Never thought I’d find any real-world use for it! I suppose this just proves that we mustn’t lose sight of our histories... or we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes. Evil can lie in wait for a very long time.”

“Hrmm. Indeed,” Durin says. He chews his pancakes thoughtfully, taking a drink from his steaming mug. “Well, it looks like we owe you a debt of gratitude for your... assistance. Damn lucky thing you were here when you were, isn’t it?” He looks pointedly over at Disa. “It’s probably best my father doesn’t get any wind of this, though. A balrog from the old war, here… and near the mithril mines, too? Won’t bode well.”

He lowers his voice as he speaks, glancing over toward the children at the other end of the table. But the little ones aren’t paying a jot of attention to the conversation; Gamli is currently trying to replicate Annatar’s card trick from last night while Gerda watches and laughs at him. Their bowls of porridge are definitely getting cold.

Still, no one has noticed Galadriel. She’s pretty sure Sauron must know that she’s standing there, but he hasn’t looked over at her or drawn attention to her.

“Our dear old king firmly believes it was the elves who brought the great war down on Middle Earth all those years ago,” Disa says with a roll of her eyes. “And if he learned of some dark beast awakening right after we formed a partnership with the elves?” She shakes her head grimly. “I’m sure he’d see it as an ill omen. Durin is right, we’d best keep this between us. Nothing that happened last night leaves these walls, understand?”

“Of course,” Annatar says, inclining his head solemnly. “I promise, I shall speak of it to no one. It will be our secret.” He puts another pancake on his plate, making a show of pausing to think before he slowly turns back to Durin. “But… with the way things are going, I do fear you may encounter more creatures of the dark in your realm, sooner rather than later. You’d best be prepared. I would strongly suggest you consider those... additional protective measures we talked about, if you want to ensure the security of the mountain.”

“More rings,” Durin grumbles with a sigh. He rubs at his tired eyes. “Hrmm.”

“You are still not convinced.”

“I do have certain reservations,” the dwarf says. “Not to mention, I very much doubt that you could convince the elves to make—”

“I will contend with the elves,” Annatar interrupts. “But… as I said last night, it would help my case a great deal if I could demonstrate that we already have the materials.”

“Surely we can spare a few more samples of the ore,” Disa says, nudging her husband. “After last night… I’m inclined to think we should let him try, at least. We could give him a bit of mithril. Why not? It’s not as if the elves haven’t seen it already. And we did spend most of last year building them that bloody forge, the least they could do is let us reap some benefit from it!”

Durin takes another drink from his mug, then slams it down decisively. “Fine! All right, then… let’s do it.” He points a warning finger at Annatar. “I will give you some mithril ore. But they’re to use it for dwarven rings only, understand? Nothing else, don’t let them mess me about. That mithril is to be returned to us, one way or another.”

“It’s a deal.” Annatar beams with satisfaction as Durin clasps his arm in agreement. “Leave it with me. I shall take it up with Lord Celebrimbor the very minute we return to Eregion.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Durin says with a laugh. “Best of luck to you. I admire your optimism… but you haven’t tried doing business with these Middle Earth elf lords. They’re something else, you’ll see. Just ask Elrond!”

Their conversation thus concluded, Sauron turns in his chair and looks directly toward Galadriel, feigning surprise to see her. “Oh! Look who’s here! She lives!” he quips in his usual fashion, smiling at her as he pulls out the chair next to him. “Come! Sit down. Here, let me get you a plate. These pancakes are amazing.”

From a distance, Sauron seemed more or less like himself this morning, as if he’d slipped right back into his charming Annatar persona. But when she’s sitting close to him, Galadriel senses the deep unease that’s simmering under the surface. His energy feels off-kilter, and there’s an uncharacteristic thinness to his disguise – a restless tension coiled in him, like something barely restrained is screaming to get out.

After breakfast, Durin announces that he’s heading off for a nap, and that he’ll see about taking the elves down to the vault later, after he gets back up. Galadriel sees Sauron react with a flash of annoyance – more like a spike of blazing fury – before he catches himself and reins it in. He smashes his fist against the table and knocks one of the empty plates onto the floor, shattering it into pieces. Thankfully, no one but Galadriel was looking right at him, and he’s immediately full of earnest, wide-eyed apologies. Just a clumsy accident.

“Why don’t you go for a walk to pass some time?” Disa suggests cheerfully as she helps Annatar pick up the pieces of the broken plate. “There’s a lovely garden not far from here, down that way a bit. It’s a beautiful place to sit for a while. Very romantic.”

“Hmm... we could,” Annatar says. His voice sounds clipped and tense. “A walk would be good. What do you think?”

It takes Galadriel a beat to realize that he’s talking to her, and that Disa meant for the two of them to go together. He’s looking at her expectantly, waiting for her response.

“What do you think, Galadriel?”

“Oh! Ah, right, of… of course,” she says, far too awkwardly. “Yes. Let’s... do that.”

Disa is just looking at them both with a fond, knowing little smile, tilting her head toward the front door. If she does notice anything amiss, she is probably writing it off to some shyness between them after whatever she thinks happened in his room last night.

“Well, go on, then,” she says, waving them away. “Away with you, already! Go, I’ll finish cleaning this up. Have fun!”

Leaving Disa and Durin’s home, they make their way down one of the stone walkways, heading in the vague direction that Disa had indicated. Sauron seems lost in thought, and he’s walking way too fast; Galadriel has to lengthen her strides to keep up with him. As they walk together silently, side by side, Galadriel is oddly reminded of that awful day when she asked for a certain scroll to be brought up from the archives in Eregion. She feels something of the same rising dread in her chest right now, that same ominous foreboding. It hovers there in the periphery of her awareness, yet she is unable to make herself turn and look at it directly.

She cannot bear to ask the unspoken question, for fear of what new piece of her spirit will be carved away by the answer. She does not ask Sauron what it is that he so badly wants to retrieve from the vault. She does not speak of the vault at all. Or the balrog, or Morgoth, or the rings, or the shadow blade.

Instead, she says: “Disa saw me coming out of your room this morning... so I can well imagine what she now thinks about us.”

He slows his stride a little to look at her as he gives a soft laugh. “Well, if it bothered you so much what she thinks, I suppose you’d have crossed back over into your own room and used your own door, no?”

“Indeed, if I had thought of it... that certainly would have been helpful.” Galadriel sighs. “Though I doubt it would have dissuaded her of the notion entirely. She believes that you and I… have an... unresolved affection for one another.”

“And? Do we not?” He laughs again. “Hardly the most difficult thing to perceive, is it? She has eyes. And anyway, why does it matter what Disa believes?” he says. “I’m obviously a delight. No one could possibly blame you for succumbing to Annatar’s eccentric scholarly charms.”

He jokes with his usual glib irreverence, but his heart is clearly not in it. There’s something still off in his voice – something nervous and unsteady that makes the dread curdle in Galadriel’s stomach. And though he smiles and laughs, no spark of amusement ever reaches his eyes. He holds both of his fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms pulled tight, like he’s only just stopping himself from smashing something.

They carry on walking for a long time, past the gardens that Disa surely intended them to visit, and onward along the same route Durin took them on yesterday for the city tour. Throughout the mountain, crews of dwarven workers are clearing the aftermath of yesterday’s groundshakes, and the elves have to make a detour to avoid a fractured portion of the walkway.

After a while they come to another little garden, and this time Sauron stops walking and sits down on a stone bench. He doesn’t speak, just sits there and stares into the middle distance, and Galadriel cannot read his expression. She cannot tell whether he is contemplating something very intently, or if he’s thinking of nothing at all. She suddenly remembers Halbrand standing at the rail of Elendil’s ship, staring out toward the dark sea just like this… and her heart seizes with the ache of loss.

“What?” Sauron snaps when she sits down on the bench next to him. He finally turns to face her. “You’re giving me the oddest look right now, elf. What’s wrong?”

He probably does not expect any truth from her. Neither does she, to be honest. But she decides, for some reason, to give it to him.

“Your eyes,” she says quietly. “Sometimes, your eyes... you just remind me so much of… well.” She clears her throat. “Exactly who you hoped to remind me of.”

“Mmm,” Sauron says, blinking. His expression softens. “I miss him too, you know… Halbrand. Though it is funny that you still think of him as a lie, considering he was… probably more of myself than I’ve shown to anyone in a very long time.” He plucks a little flower off the tree next to the bench, twirling the blossom back and forth between his fingers. “I was more me in that forge in Armenelos than I ever was at Forodwaith, that’s for sure.”

“What was it that you hoped to find there? In Armenelos?” she asks him. “Was it really peace you were searching for, when you asked me to leave you in Númenor?”

He ruminates on it for a while before he answers her. “I think… I wanted to just be for a while,” he says. “To give myself some time. It had been centuries, Galadriel, since I’d really thought about what I wanted. After Morgoth fell… I was so adrift, so desperate for purpose that I... may have lost sight of things a bit. I had this grand vision for Middle Earth, and I thought Adar was on my side. But then I got caught up with my experiments, and I was so angry about my failures… and I got stuck. I fixated on this one goal, this one obsession, and I just… completely forgot how to think about anything else.” He looks over at her. “Actually, I’d imagine that you know exactly the feeling I’m talking about.”

“Perhaps,” she says, and the ghost of a smile finds its way to her lips. “Strange, isn’t it? That it was Halbrand who reminded me that I used to think about other things besides hunting down evil.”

Sauron pulls another flower from the tree branch. “I think… being mortal… even pretending to be... it does give one a certain perspective,” he says slowly. “Their lives are so incredibly short, it’s hard to imagine how anything they do could have any lasting significance. And yet… they are able to find meaning in just about anything.” He reaches over and plucks a third flower, holding the little pile of blooms out on his palm like he’s contemplating them deeply. “The fact that something will not last does not impede their enjoyment of it. Perhaps this constant awareness of death and futility lends one a sort of… appreciation for fleeting things, one that eludes the immortal spirit. That is what I was searching for, when we were in Númenor.” He lowers the handful of blossoms, resting his hand against his knee. “Just because something is fleeting, that does not make it meaningless.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Have you always been such a philosopher?”

“You know… I can’t actually recall,” he says. “Maybe being banished from your corporeal form for a few centuries will do that. But I’m not sure it matters so much what we have always been, Galadriel.” He smiles sadly. “Some clever little elf once told me that it only matters what we are now. If she could only still believe it herself, hmm?”

Sitting there, looking at her like that, he seems just as wounded and bitter and lost as that exiled Southlander king she once begged to join her cause. And for a moment, she sees Halbrand in him more clearly than ever. When she looks into those familiar green eyes, her heart still betrays her exactly the same way, and she cannot break the gaze. Her need to look at him is magnetic, no matter what form he takes. No matter how little she trusts him.

And in the back of her mind, something gnaws at her. A regret that she has never really allowed herself to confront, because a part of her is too appalled by it. She could never speak it aloud. But even now – even knowing everything she knows – Galadriel still regrets not embracing Halbrand in that courtyard in Ost-in-Edhil, when they spoke about balanced scales and what they had done for one other. She can scarcely bear to admit such a twisted truth to herself, but she regrets not giving in before she knew exactly how bad it was.

She could have reached out and held him there, while he whispered those honeyed words to her and skimmed his hand so temptingly down her shoulder. She could have slid her arms around him, rested her head against his chest. She could have tilted her chin up and kissed him like she wanted to, even as those terrible doubts were already swirling in her mind… because she didn’t know for sure yet. There was still a chance, then, that she had it all wrong. That Halbrand’s name, or his father’s name, or even his grandfather’s name would be there on the scroll. There was still a chance that all those other warnings fizzing at the edges of her mind were nothing but phantoms borne of paranoia.

She would have had Halbrand, if only for one moment. She would have tasted the possibility that a different, better world existed, before she had to close the door on it forever. And if she had it to do over again, as much as it pains her to acknowledge the thought… she knows she would kiss him in that courtyard.

Not because he deserved it. But because she deserved to have said a better goodbye to that version of herself. To that Galadriel who still believed in something, who still thought she knew how to forgive someone. Even herself.

And here, now… in another beautiful place, listening to the same beautiful liar… she just cannot shake the feeling that today is eerily similar. She does not trust him. She knows, deeply and completely, that she should not believe anything Sauron tells her. And yet, at this very moment, there is still a chance that some of what he said last night is true. That it does all mean something – their kinship, their connection, the understanding between them that sometimes soothes her like a balm upon her soul. Perhaps he really does wish to heal Middle Earth, and to repair what he ruined while he served Morgoth.

Of course, there is nothing Sauron could ever do to atone for the evil he has already wrought. And she is all but certain that when she finds out what he’s really looking for in that vault, it will become clear that there is no world where she can find a reason not to kill him. She will soon know beyond a doubt that mercy for Sauron would always mean the doom of Middle Earth.

Once she knows it, there will be no un-knowing it... just like when she unfurled that scroll in her shaking hands by the bank of the Glanduin. But right now—

She leans forward on the bench and kisses him.

At first, he freezes; he almost pulls back in surprise, as if he cannot comprehend the sudden brush of her mouth against his. But a moment later his lips part, and then he’s kissing her back – carefully, delicately, as one might handle a shimmering soap bubble. His mouth is soft and warm over hers, and there is a deep tenderness in the kiss that she would never have thought to ascribe to him after she knew who he was. One of his hands comes up to stroke her cheek as her fingers thread gently into his hair.

It’s nothing at all like their desperate, wanton kisses in the forest. There’s something so incredibly vulnerable in this... something that remains of that fragile truce they shared last night. One last piece of honesty.

She wants to reach for his mind; she wants to press against that jagged fracture in his disguise, to feel all his rage and his hurt, to uncover his intentions – but she doesn’t do it. Sauron slides his palm down her back and draws her a little closer, and instead she just lets herself melt into him, imagining for one fleeting instant that she really could believe him.

And then, she pulls away.

The moment was so unexpected, and it’s over so quickly that after they break apart, Galadriel almost wonders if it really happened. But when she looks over at him, she knows without a doubt that it did. Sauron’s eyes are half closed, and he’s lightly touching his fingers to his mouth, tracing his bottom lip as if he’s mapping out that soft contact and committing it to memory. He has dropped the little flowers he was holding; they’re all on the ground, scattered at his feet.

Just because something is fleeting, that does not make it meaningless.

Galadriel stands up from the bench. “Come. We should go back,” she says. “Perhaps Durin will soon take us down to get your scrolls.”

Chapter Text

It’s mid-afternoon by the time Durin brings Galadriel and Annatar to the upper entrance of the vault. But Durin has been called to an urgent audience with his father, so he cannot escort them down himself. Instead, it is a dwarven lorekeeper who descends with them. At least, Galadriel assumes it must be a lorekeeper. She could scarcely focus on the hurried introductions that were made, and she has regrettably already forgotten the other dwarf’s name by the time Durin walks away from them.

Sauron said nothing after what happened in the garden, and to Galadriel’s great relief, he seems to be completely ignoring the fact that they shared that kiss. But although his mood did soften temporarily as they walked back to the dwarves’ home, he once again feels like a gathering storm as he walks beside her now. She has never been quite so vividly aware of his simple presence before, as if his emotions are crackling over her skin. Their minds are not linked, but somehow the tether connecting them continues to tighten around her, and she is reminded of how she was bound to that sinking mast in the depths of the sea.

The lift that goes to the vault delves straight down into a column of black rock. It’s much smaller and more cramped than all of the other lifts that they’ve taken so far, and the space they must climb inside is a tiny cube that even Galadriel has to duck her head to get into. With the three of them all squeezed into it at once, they have to press close to each other to allow the door to shut.

Galadriel has crawled through many small, claustrophobic spaces over the centuries, and she is unbothered by the lift’s clanking descent into pitch darkness... but she’s totally unprepared for the sudden and inevitable closeness to him. Sauron slides his arm around her reflexively as they get in, pulling her further back into the cube so that the lorekeeper can get in after them. He doesn’t pull his arm away when the doors close and the lift starts to move. Galadriel is not sure if he actually can, considering the way he’s scrunched into the corner.

His chin is resting on top of her head, and his arm stays locked firmly around her waist, but there’s no flirtation in his hold. On the contrary, she can feel the terrible, nauseated anxiety radiating from him – something different from his unrest about retrieving the scrolls – and she understands immediately that he does not like being trapped in this small, enclosed space. She leans comfortingly into him… and without thinking, she reaches back for his other hand and squeezes it.

He clutches her fingers tightly the whole way down. And when they exit the lift, he doesn’t let go of her hand. They walk side by side, following after the lorekeeper, and their fingers remain entwined.

They’re led down a long, exposed rock corridor that’s lined with rows of metal doors, passing by what feels like dozens of doorways before the dwarf finally finds the one he was looking for. He pulls out a huge shiny keyring, and very slowly tries out various keys in the lock before one of them clicks at last.

“Ah! There we are! You should find your things in here,” the lorekeeper tells them. He swings the door open and lights a lantern for them just inside it, illuminating a chamber full of stacked boxes. Then he gestures further down the corridor, toward a larger, more ornate door that’s flanked by two bright torches. “I’ll be working in the archival library right over there – use the knocker on that door and come get me when you’re ready to go back up.”

“Thank you,” Galadriel says. “Thank you very much.”

Sauron doesn’t say anything, but he tips his head gratefully.

The lorekeeper gives the elves one last brisk nod, and then, without further ado, he leaves them there. Not a particularly verbose fellow – thankfully, as neither of them are in a very conversational mood.

As they’re about to step over the threshold into the chamber, Galadriel and Sauron look down in unison at their clasped hands, and they both abruptly let go. Galadriel is almost surprised to discover that she was still holding his hand. She remembers this happening back when he was Halbrand, too – the way their hands would sometimes just find their way to each other, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But it’s not the time to think about that.

“Well?” Sauron is looking at her expectantly. “Are you going to tell me which boxes are yours, or should I just start opening everything and looking?” His eyes are already darting around the room, appraising the stacks of boxes like he’s about to start tearing into them if she doesn’t answer instantly.

“Wait,” she says. “Stop... just… wait a moment.” She steps into the chamber in front of him, blocking his path to the boxes, though she’s not entirely sure what she intends to do if he just shoves past her. “If you think I’m handing all your things back to you without knowing what you’re going to use them for… then you’ve lost your mind.” She folds her arms, stares him down, pushes away the pang of guilt she feels for how much sooner she should have asked about this. “Whatever happened in that fortress was so evil that it still gives me chills just thinking about standing in that room. I need to know. What is it that you were trying to accomplish at Forodwaith?”

“I think we’ve been over it already,” Sauron says, his voice calm and measured.

“Yes, yes, you were searching for a power not of the flesh, but over flesh, thank you,” she says. “I’m going to need a little more than that. Why is it that you were sacrificing all those orcs?”

“Sacrificing?” He gives her an exasperated look. “That’s a bit of an overstatement, isn’t it? Adar does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“I saw it for myself, Sauron,” she says. “I was there! Even the remnants of it looked like a nightmare. Whatever was going on in there was unfathomably evil. You were… you were extinguishing living things, in the name of whatever you were after. Causing their deaths, with no thought to their suffering—”

“Oh, come on now, elf!” His voice goes up in that way it does when he’s trying not to lose his temper. “It probably wasn’t a pretty picture in there, I’ll give you that – but are you even hearing yourself? I seem to recall a certain speech about how you were going to hunt down and destroy every last one of their kind. Something about dragging them all into the sunlight? Their unworthy hearts twisted by Morgoth, remember all of that? But now I caused their suffering?” He shakes his head. “Make up your mind, Galadriel. If a few orcs just happened to die to further my investigations into the unseen world... that should be a good thing by your reckoning, shouldn’t it?”

Galadriel stops, thunderstruck. “I… well… I...”

“Or are you about to admit to being wrong?” He raises an eyebrow. “Couldn’t be. Not my self-righteous, revenge-hungry little elf...”

“There is no need to be cruel about it,” she says, lowering her eyes. “What I said in that barn was… perhaps a mistake. And… I suppose I should not have accused you like that.” The words are bitter in her mouth. “We have all done things we regret.” She notes, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he has not actually said that he regrets any of what happened at Forodwaith.

“Look. Last night was difficult for me,” Sauron says. “It will take me a while to get my head right, after all that, and I… I might be in a strange mood today. But do not forget what we’ve accomplished together, Galadriel. We banished a balrog of Morgoth! We held fast. We escaped with our lives! And we did that because – at least for a moment – we trusted one another. We were truly tested as allies, and we made good on it. So let us not lose sight of that.”

“Yes. And I am grateful for it.” She nods slowly. “But you still have not answered my question, and I’ve the feeling you’re avoiding it,” she says. “What were you doing at Forodwaith? What is this power that you sought, exactly? I am quite certain that you mean to resume your quest for it once you have these scrolls in your hands, and I should like to understand exactly what it is that I am enabling in the name of stopping Morgoth from returning.”

“Ohhh, and what makes you think you should be privy to all of my secrets?” he says with a twisted little smile. “We are only temporary allies, after all.”

“And yet, you hope for an alliance between us that is more than temporary,” she says. “You’d have me believe that you would let me rule Middle Earth as your equal – that I should accept your power and bind you to the light,” she says. “But if you wish to convince me of such a thing… do you not think your future queen would expect a complete accounting of the power that you offer her?”

Galadriel is shocked at the ease with which the smooth and pleasing half-truth flows from her lips. Perhaps it’s all that recent practice at deception that has loosened something between her mind and her tongue, but she is taken aback by the pride that blooms in her chest as she says it.

Sauron’s expression slowly changes then, and he recovers some of the spark that had been missing from his eyes since this morning. “Ah! Well played,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He looks genuinely surprised at her words, too. “I see how you are manipulating me… perhaps I have taught you too well. But you are doing it in a way I find incredibly satisfying.” He locks his gaze on hers. “I doubt very much that your intentions are sincere... but I cannot refuse you. Well done.”

“The power you sought to harness, then…?” she insists, prompting him with a look. “What is it?”

“You will not like the sound of it.”

“And yet it would be mine. If you would have me bind myself to it… then you will explain it to me. Right now.”

He takes a deep breath. “I wished to one day become as powerful as Morgoth was, this you already know. And I want that still. We did such wonders together, Morgoth and I… but if I had only been able to wield his power directly, rather than having to coax and cajole my Dark Lord into doing anything but destroying things, we could have done so much more.” He sighs. “Convincing him of patience, of any view to planning, was a neverending task.”

“You felt he held you back,” Galadriel says.

“Yes. It was the same frustration I felt when I served Aulë. The same endless, empty dissatisfaction that drew me to Morgoth in the first place. But holding the power of the Valar was the one impossible goal I could never reach. Morgoth’s magic was far beyond my reckoning, just as Aulë’s had been… and so much of my craft, my most glorious talents, could only be realized by working with them. By giving them my most precious ideas, to use however they saw fit. I was always to remain a servant to their whims, for the mere chance to see my visions realized.” He lowers his eyes. “And perhaps… at least in part... that is why I stayed at Morgoth’s side for as long as I did, even when it all began to fall apart. Because I could accomplish nothing of the same greatness without him. When he favoured me… when he actually listened to me… we could remake the world. But I needed him. He made it clear to me, and he was right. Because on my own, I was nothing. When he was gone… I had nothing left but failures.”

“I see,” Galadriel says softly. “And so… you wished to convince yourself you had not made a mistake by betraying him.”

“Something like that, yes,” Sauron says. “I have long thought there might be some way to recapture the power that Morgoth so foolishly lost. It is something I had started working on even while he still ruled. Morgoth was, after all, the mightiest among all the Valar in the beginning... in the old days, he could hold off their entire host single-handed with the immensity of his strength. And oh, his power compelled me like nothing else. But at the end, by the time Angband was taken… he had poured far too much of his power into his works. Into shaping the fabric of Arda itself. The magnitude of the power he once possessed was lost to him forever. Unrecoverable.”

Sauron clenches his fist and rests it against the exposed stone ceiling above his head. “And yet, it is still here. All around us. The power that Morgoth sank into Arda alone could equal the might of several lesser Valar. And so... I sought... a way to retrieve it. To harness some of it for myself. If I could somehow confer into myself the strength and magic of a Vala… with such a power, imagine what I could do. I would not squander it on senseless destruction.” He looks at Galadriel, and there’s that same covetous gleam in his eyes that he got when he looked at her ring. “We held but a fraction of that power yesterday, Galadriel. You and I. You remember how it felt, when we wielded the shadow blade? That is what I have sought for so long.”

She does remember it, more than she wants to – that fierce and intoxicating rush in her veins, that power coursing through her whole being. The way it felt to hold it with him. It has occupied a far greater portion of her thoughts today than she would like to admit, and the memory of it makes her shiver.

“I can envision it perfectly,” Sauron whispers, gazing into the middle distance. “Finally, after all this time – I think I actually have an idea of how to do it. I can lift some of Morgoth’s power from Arda and harness it for myself. And then… at last, I would be as a Vala. Not even Morgoth returned could stand in my way. I would control everything. This is how I’ll protect Middle Earth.”

“By controlling everything, by becoming its new tyrant?” Her heart sinks. “It is exactly as I feared, then. Your ambitions have not changed.”

“If that is what it takes to keep Morgoth from destroying it all in his rage... I will do what I must,” he says. “If Morgoth breaks free, he will leave nothing standing, Galadriel. But… of course, it doesn’t have to go that way. My offer still stands; we could try something else. You and I could try to summon his army, and—”

“I cannot,” she whispers. “You know that I cannot. And after yesterday, how can you possibly think that would work, even if we were to bind ourselves to one another? We held that shadow blade for all of a moment, to give one single command to a balrog, and we were nearly consumed by it! How could we hope to resist Morgoth’s will long enough to summon an entire army?”

“You’re right,” Sauron says quietly. “You always are. Which is precisely why I must finish my original project. Become powerful enough somehow that I could face him directly. If I cannot resist him by will, then I will subdue him with strength. I will defeat him, one way or another, using his own power against him. And I will cast him out of my mind.” He looks at Galadriel. “But I cannot keep going back and forth with you, Galadriel. You must decide, here and now, on whose side you stand. Mine... or Morgoth’s? If you refuse to help me, then you aid him. So which is it?”

She looks away from Sauron. “Come, we should find these scrolls,” she says without answering. “And you are to remove absolutely nothing from this vault that I did not see first, understand? I will look at them with you.”

Galadriel’s three trunks of research materials are stacked near the front of the chamber right next to the door; they were likely the most recent items to be put in here. And Sauron’s things from the Forodwaith fortress are on the very top of the first box they look in. He kneels beside the trunk and shovels the items out onto the floor, throwing notes and books into a heap until he pulls out the bundle of old scrolls. They’re in a decaying, faded black cloth bag – about a dozen of them – tied together with a strip of leather that he breaks easily.

She can sense his impatience to unroll them; his hands are shaking as he lifts them out. But he hands the bundle over to her.

“Go ahead, then,” he says. “Look. Open them.”

As she unrolls the first scroll and lays it out across the lid of another box, she cannot mistake the particular loops and whirls of Sauron’s penmanship on the parchment. For as ugly as it is to read the Black Speech, his handwriting is perhaps the most beautiful she has ever seen. It is something that annoys her still about her failure to realize that it was not Sauron who summoned her to the Southlands to negotiate, when she got the message from Adar. She should have known immediately that it was not Sauron who wrote that note. It had crossed her mind that the handwriting looked wrong; neat and pretty as it was, it did not look anything like his. She had convinced herself that maybe in a new body, a millennium later, the slant of his hand might have changed.

“You wrote this,” she says, unfurling a second scroll and then a third one. At a glance, these all seem to be catalogues of weapons and instructions for their creation. “And you wrote these, as well. I would recognize your penmanship anywhere. The way you angle your loops… and sometimes you do this little flourish at the end of a line—” She taps a fingernail against one of the headings.

“Wow.” He arches an eyebrow. “You are perceptive. Or just incredibly obsessed with me.”

“I’ve spent centuries scouring the continent for your records,” she says drily. “I’ve looked at a lot of your handwriting. It’s nothing personal. But... you said these were Morgoth’s scrolls. So why are they all written in your hand?”

“Have you ever actually seen anything written by Morgoth?” he scoffs.

“I… think so? There were a few parchments where we suspected so,” Galadriel says. “Unfortunately, they were mostly illegible. That is why I thought I’d need your help to decipher and interpret the scrolls, when you said they were his.”

Sauron laughs bitterly. “Well, Morgoth was not much for keeping records. He thought it was too boring. On the administrative side, it was all me. I made templates for him to fill in, so I’d have any idea at all what he was doing… look, here.” He points about three quarters of the way down one of the open scrolls, where there are a few lines of text written in a sharper, more jagged hand. The writing implement has been pressed down harder, and the letters are haphazardly angled compared to the rest of it. “That’s Morgoth’s writing, right here. They are Morgoth’s scrolls... in that they record his own part in our collaborative craft. Mostly, he would just narrate things to me.”

Sauron runs his fingers over the jagged text almost lovingly as he speaks. There’s a wistful fondness, an obvious longing in his voice that unsettles her, but Galadriel cannot tell if it is a longing for Morgoth or for his power. Perhaps both.

“I see,” she says, swallowing past the tightness in her throat.

“May I?” Sauron asks, reaching for another unopened scroll that’s still in the bag. “There’s something I need to show you.”

Galadriel nods her agreement, and he immediately snatches up all the rest of the scrolls. She watches as he lifts up each remaining tube without opening it and tips it back and forth in his hand, as if he’s listening for something inside. When he finds one whose sound pleases him, he slumps back for a moment in relief, clutching the scroll to his chest before he opens it up.

There is something rolled up inside the parchment in the tube; some small, heavy object that’s wrapped in crumpled, yellowed paper. It falls out into his hand with a metallic clink. He closes his eyes with an ecstatic smile as his fingers clench around it.

Galadriel’s heart lurches with something between hope and horror at the reverent look on his face. He drops the scroll itself without looking at it, as if the writing upon the parchment is of little import. It’s obvious that this, whatever the thing was inside, is what matters to him. Perhaps this is what he has been after so keenly among the scrolls.

Sauron flattens out the yellowed envelope on his palm, then slides his finger under the crumbling black wax seal. He tips the contents onto the lid of the nearest box as Galadriel leans forward with apprehension to see what it is.

What falls out looks like two halves of a broken chain link, made of a strange, glowing metal. It shines in a colour that seems to shift from green to red, reflecting the low light in odd, warped lines. When Sauron pushes them together, the two halves fit to form a perfect link, slightly smaller than the palm of Galadriel’s hand. She can feel a shockingly strong energy radiating from the metal, something that feels a little bit like her ring... but not. Whatever it’s made of, this is an artifact of incredible power.

“What is that?” she whispers.

“It’s a link from the great chain Angainor.” He looks up at her with that slightly unhinged gleam in his eyes. “You surely know of it?”

“Yes, of course. The chain that holds Morgoth.” Galadriel reaches out and picks up the broken pieces in trembling hands. “The unbreakable chain, forged by Aulë. I… I don’t understand. How can this be? How is it—”

“You may recall that the very same chain that binds Morgoth in the Void now has held him once before,” Sauron says. “He was bound with Angainor during his first confinement in Mandos.”

“Yes,” she nods. “I know.”

“Well… after he was freed and pardoned, he asked the Valar if he might keep a single link from the chain. He said he wished to wear it on a cord around his neck, to remind him of his penance. And, fools that they are... they actually gave one to him.”

“Oh, no…” she whispers. She doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to say next, but a cold, sick dread is sinking into her bones as he speaks.

“Oh, yes. You see, we had to be certain that if Morgoth were ever to be chained again, we could find some way to break it. And here the Valar handed Morgoth a link to test our methods against!” He touches the sharp, severed edge of the metal sitting on her palm. “Angainor was made using an alloy whose formula was Aulë’s most closely-guarded secret. Tilkal, the unbreakable metal.” The glow from the link reflects eerily in Sauron’s eyes as he leans close to it. “It was forged using Vala magic... impossible to replicate...” He smiles, wicked and calculating. “But. Unbeknownst to Aulë, his most talented servant had learned far more from him than he ever knew.”

“You,” Galadriel gasps softly. “You knew the secret formula?”

“I knew enough,” he says. “It took me many attempts to get it right, but I was able to reproduce it, eventually. And with the help of Morgoth’s Vala magic... we made our own tilkal, and I forged an axe out of it. Not long after Morgoth and Ungoliant destroyed the Two Trees, we tested it. And it actually worked. I dare say my version of the alloy might even be slightly stronger than Aulë’s.” He gestures proudly toward the pieces she still holds. “Angainor, the unbreakable chain, was broken by Mâchan, my unbreakable axe. You hold the evidence right there in your hands.”

“Mâchan,” she whispers. The Valarin word tastes like ash in her mouth. “This was the plan, then? To free Morgoth?”

He nods. “The Orodruin mechanism did not only awaken a mountain of fire. It also unlocked an underground compartment, hidden deep beneath one of the drained riverbeds. A failsafe, to be accessed in the event of Morgoth’s defeat. That is where we buried Mâchan.”

“And this compartment… you went to it, then? After Orodruin…?”

“Not fast enough.” He gives a weary sigh. “Considering I was stabbed on the day Orodruin blew up, I didn’t exactly get to checking it. I would never have risked going there immediately anyway, in case I was followed. Not many knew of its location, or knew it existed at all. But after that… well, I suppose it was a mistake, in the end, to have lingered so long in Eregion. If only I’d gone back a little sooner… but…” He spits what might be a string of expletives in the Black Speech.

“It was gone,” she whispers.

He nods solemnly. “By the time I got to Mordor, I found the compartment empty. Someone has taken that axe. And I fear it is only a matter of time before they attempt to use it, now that Morgoth’s creatures are rising restlessly and there is no one else who can harness them.” He looks at her. “If Morgoth escapes the Void, he will summon his awakened army to him and lay waste to Middle Earth with more fury than he has ever wrought. You must choose a side, Galadriel.” He looks at her imploringly. “And if you will not join me… then at the very least, swear to me that whatever happens, you will not stand in my way.”

Chapter Text

Sauron neatly rolls up the opened scrolls, returns them all to their bag and brings them up from the vault with him, along with the broken chain link. He also carries a stack of his other notes and papers – a pile of things that Galadriel reluctantly let him take, despite not having examined them all. He had handed them to her to look over as she’d instructed, and she flipped through what she could... but there was far too much for her to read it properly in a hurry. Her command of written Black Speech is decent, but longer translations still take time. It would be the work of weeks or months for her to look at all of his notes.

She supposes, in the end, that his willingness to let her see them, and his promise to show her anything she wants to read later, is enough. This is almost certainly a mistake, but given the circumstances, she is not sure what other choice she has. She needs to let this play out. To see what he does, to help him end the threat of Morgoth’s return, and to honor their temporary alliance, whatever that means. He has exacted an uneasy promise from her in turn: that so long as she believes he is working against Morgoth, she will not hinder him. She just has to hope that there will still be a way to defeat Sauron when this is over, to stop him before he follows in Morgoth's footsteps and closes his fist around Middle Earth.

It is late by the time they return to the dwarves’ home, late enough that Disa has already started making enough food for all of them. She has assumed that the elves will stay for dinner, and Annatar takes very little convincing to agree. He starts talking to Disa about singing to the rocks again, and when Disa goes to finish preparing the food, he sits down with Durin to look over a selection of mithril samples. The dwarven prince was clearly frustrated by the meeting he had with his father, but it seems to have left him with a new enthusiasm to discuss Annatar’s ringmaking plan. This has deeply pleased Sauron, and Galadriel feels at last that Sauron’s fractious mood is lifting. For the first time since they banished the balrog, he feels stable again and… almost contented.

Galadriel’s heightened awareness of Sauron’s state of mind, however, has not subsided; it’s as if their thoughts accidentally brush together sometimes, just like their hands. She is certain that their minds are not actually connected right now, and yet at times she senses indistinct little flickers of feelings from him when they’re close together. Sauron either just doesn’t care if she happens to get the occasional surface glimpse into his head, or he’s letting it happen intentionally to distract her from whatever he is keeping hidden. Galadriel, for her part, continues to guard her mind and her feelings carefully, remembering all too well that little vision she inadvertently sent him in the healers’ halls back in Ost-in-Edhil.

They plan to leave the mountain right after dinner, intending to travel through the night to return to the elves. But the dwarves, hearing this plan, implore them to remain until morning. Do they really want to be riding into the woods by night? Surely it would be better to stay in Khazad-Dûm until daybreak. Galadriel is torn between wanting to get back to the elven city as quickly as they can ride, and wanting to delay returning there for as long as possible.

Gil-galad is leaving Eregion and heading back to Lindon tomorrow morning, she knows. And while she may once have wanted to get back to Ost-in-Edhil before then, just to prove the brevity of their absence to the High King... it now seems far wiser to avoid him entirely. Just in case Gil-galad suddenly remembers that he still had unanswered questions about what happened with the creature swarm.

The matter of the elves’ departure from Khazad-Dûm is finally settled by the dwarven children. When Annatar mentions the possibility that he and Galadriel might leave tonight, the children pout and plead and cling to him, while he laughs and pretends that he’s unable to shake them off. He throws his hands up and looks at Galadriel, dramatically struggling to take a single step with two tiny dwarves hanging on to his legs. He sighs and smiles and says that he can clearly do nothing about this, so they’ll just have to stay here till morning.

Disa is shaking her head at the children in mock exasperation, but she’s obviously charmed to bits by everyone’s favourite elven scholar. Again. Galadriel wants so badly to be annoyed with Sauron, but she cannot; she is just so very relieved to feel those unnerving cracks in his disguise disappearing. He no longer seems like he’s a second away from falling apart. That watchful, jittery feeling in her own chest settles again, and she can finally breathe.

For as deeply worried as she is about what she learned in the vault, and as certain as she is that the worst is yet to come, a catastrophe no longer feels quite as imminent as it did a couple of hours ago. Her foolish heart wants to hold off the inevitable, to make believe that everything is somehow going to turn out fine… at least for one more night. And so, they spend another pleasant evening with the dwarves, eating a delicious meal and talking and laughing, enjoying these moments of peace as if there is nothing wrong in the world. She thinks back to when Halbrand asked her to let him keep his peace in Armenelos, and for the first time, she thinks she’s starting to understand what he meant.

After dinner, Durin and Disa both go out to make the rounds of the repair works and greet the night crews. The children stubbornly refuse to go to bed until their parents return – insisting that they have to keep the guests company – and they proceed to set up an elaborately carved board game on the table. They talk over each other in their excitement to explain the game to the elves, rattling the stone dice in their little hands with earnest joy.

It is a game of strategy as well as chance, with intricate rules that the children have obviously mastered through frequent play. Gerda and Gamli prove to be surprisingly competitive opponents, and there is much giggling and good-natured taunting as their pieces battle across the board. Traps are sprung, strongholds captured and lost, dice rolls cheered and grumbled at in equal measure.

The game is hard-fought between all four of them, but it’s Gerda who wins out in the end, claiming the victory just as her parents walk back in the front door. She jubilantly trounces Annatar, who made an extraordinarily terrible move during his previous turn. He accepts the defeat and concedes to her with a smile and a theatrical bow, much to Gerda’s delight.

And then, Disa and Durin bundle the children off to sleep, each of them swiftly picking up one of the little ones before they can wiggle away. The children are still laughing and shrieking all the way to their rooms as their parents carry them to bed.

Sauron stays sitting next to Galadriel at the table. She watches him gathering up the game pieces, returning them to the little box they came in. He places each piece methodically, stacking them in perfect order inside the box.

“You lost on purpose, to further endear yourself to them,” she says, rolling her eyes at him. “Astonishing. I doubt that you have ever conceded a defeat so graciously in your life.”

He laughs. “I was actually doing my best to win that, believe it or not. I really didn’t see it coming.”

“You moved your piece directly into peril!” Galadriel’s lips are twitching up into a smile. “The immortal master of schemes and strategy could not outplay a child? Surely some bard should write a song about this.”

“Well, I suppose I was a little preoccupied,” he says. “My mind was on... other things.”

She picks up the last loose game piece and places it in his hand, and the tips of her fingers graze against his palm just a little longer than they should.

“Rings, I know,” she sighs. “Perhaps scrolls?”

Sauron closes his hand around the piece, but does not move it away. For a second they just leave their hands there, lightly touching each other in midair.

“Yes.” He leans forward slightly, closing the small distance between them before he murmurs against her ear: “And infuriating little elves who kiss their sworn enemies in gardens.”

He swiftly draws back again, and places the final piece into the box. He shuts the lid just as Disa and Durin return to the room.

“Aulë’s beard! What a week!” Durin sighs with a wry chuckle, slouching into one of the chairs. “A moment’s peace, hmm? No earth-shattering interruptions tonight, please.” He taps his knuckles against the stone table as if in invocation.

“And never again, let us hope,” Disa says, mirroring his action. She pours them all a round of drinks – the very last of the bottle they didn’t finish last night. There’s just enough left for four half-measures.

“Indeed.” Annatar raises his glass. “To the future we hope for.”

“Aye, I’ll toast to that!” Disa grins. The dwarves both lift their glasses and hold them out toward Annatar. “To the future we hope for.”

Galadriel silently raises her own glass to join theirs. And she warms at the feel of Sauron’s gaze on her, appraising the curve of her throat as she tips her head back and drinks.

Hours later, Galadriel lies awake in her guest room, staring at the stone ceiling in the flickering firelight. There is too much to think about… but at the same time, she finds it frighteningly easy not to think.

As they sat talking with the dwarves late into the night, it was as if some intangible ward kept all her doubts and worries at bay. Even with the little pile of mithril samples right there on the table. Even with those cursed scrolls sitting in his room. Even with everything looming ahead. She has faced more horrors this week than she saw in some decades… and yet there is an ease to her mind right now, that feeling of temporary safety that she does not trust. A feeling she knows will fade as soon as they leave the mountain and return to the elves, to that nebulous future. She has done nothing but delay it by not heading back to Ost-in-Edhil tonight.

Maybe it was a bad idea to stay here one more night, Galadriel thinks, with him just on the other side of the wall. In Ost-in-Edhil, at least, there are a great many floors and hallways separating his room from hers, instead of this single stone passageway that she can see from her bed. She would really prefer him to be much further away at this particular moment.

She cannot possibly put enough distance between the two of them when she feels like this. She feels so good... so lulled by hours of his easy laughter and charming smiles and subtle flirtations… and so irrationally complacent, when the danger he poses is perhaps greater than it has ever been. He claims that there is no sorcery in his seduction, that he cannot use his powers to manipulate what she feels for him. And yet, she is so consumed with thoughts of him that she doubts he could have enthralled her any more if he had used dark magic.

Perhaps this is just a habit that’s so deeply ingrained in her now that it is impossible to break. After all, Sauron has been her first thought on waking and her last thought at night for centuries. In truth, he probably occupies about the same amount of space in her head as he always has. It’s only the thoughts themselves that have changed.

In that significantly fewer of them are about destroying him now… and far too many of them are not.

Galadriel turns over restlessly in bed, letting her head sink into the overstuffed pillows, not looking at that doorway that leads into his room. But she wonders what he’s doing right now on the other side of that wall, and she can’t keep her mind from returning to the question. Maybe he’s looking at those scrolls again, or reading some of his old notes from Forodwaith. He’s probably lying awake scheming about taking over the world, obsessing about how to control Middle Earth and lift Morgoth’s power from Arda… or else he’s thinking about how he will persuade Celebrimbor to forge more rings...

She closes her eyes and lets an image of him form in her imagination. He’s sitting at the little table in his guest room, perched somewhat uncomfortably on one of the low chairs. His elf form is much too tall for this compact dwarven furniture; his knees barely fit under the table, but he has folded himself into the available space anyway. He hasn’t dressed for bed – he’s still wearing Elrond’s feathery green shirt – and it looks like he has no intention of sleeping. He’s busy drawing something on a piece of parchment: a circular pattern, overlaid with dizzying fractals and recursive loops, with radiating lines that bounce between them.

She has seen him drawing a pattern like this before, when Halbrand was assisting in Celebrimbor’s workshop. Resonance theory. He’s working on the next iteration of the rings of power. She pictures his eyes gleaming in the firelight, that look of intense concentration on his face as his hand moves fluidly over the page, whirls of ink filling the parchment. He’s envisioning the flow of the energy, the balance of light and dark in the mithril… he’s lost in the details and calculations of it. He’s thinking about how much he wants to forge the rings with his own hands this time, and how he’ll feel that power amplifying as they take shape. He is, after all, the Ringmaker.

She imagines him adding a few small annotations when he’s finished, smiling to himself, obviously pleased with his work. Draft One, he writes in the upper corner in Quenya, with that fancy little flourish at the end. He sets his quill back into the pot of ink as he casts one more satisfied look over the drawing, and he pushes the parchment aside to dry.

Then she pictures him leaning back in that too-small chair with a slow stretch, crossing his arms behind his head, and... oh. Her cheeks flush at the thought of it. The worst creature in Arda has no business at all looking as good as he did today. Annatar is slightly broader in the chest than Elrond, so that feathery shirt is just a little too tight on him, and the fabric hugs every line of his body in a way that makes her ache to run her hands over him. She has thought about touching him far too many times today. At breakfast this morning, when he was so tense and wound up that he smashed that plate… a part of her just wanted so much to sit him down and knead her fingers into his shoulders, to rub the back of his neck, to soothe all that sharp-edged tension out of him until he mellowed under her hands. She’s still thinking about it, all these hours later.

She imagines that he’d delight to feel her hands on him like that right now… and that he’s reaching up to detach the ornamental feathery capelet from the collar of the shirt to better expose his shoulders. He takes off the capelet and hangs it over the back of the other chair, then tips his head back with a sigh and rolls his shoulders. She thinks of standing there behind him, her fingers working so deliciously into his shoulder muscles, unwinding him… He arches back with a soft “mmm,” and there's a gratified little smile on his lips...

She should probably stop thinking about this soon. As in, immediately. She’s burning with pent-up desire, so awfully tempted to let her hand slip under her nightdress and indulge herself with some fantasy of him that she’ll only feel guilty about in the morning. But she doesn’t give in. She hasn’t lifted her self-imposed interdiction on that – not to thoughts of him in any form. Never again.

It is so deeply unfair that he unbalances her this way, and she can only hope that he’s suffering just as much from this maddening attraction between them. She supposes that Sauron might be thinking about her on the other side of the wall, too. He could be. He did say he was driven to distraction tonight by thoughts of that kiss in the garden, didn’t he?

Yes, Galadriel decides, he must be thinking about her. Surely he’s longing miserably for her right now, aching for what he will never have. Maybe he’s remembering how she looked in his favourite green dress, or reminiscing about what he wanted to do with her in the forge in Armenelos…

She closes her eyes again and returns to her imagined version of him. There. Now he’s thinking about her. He shifts in the chair with a sharp little intake of breath, closes his eyes, bites down softly on his lower lip... yes, this is exactly how he looks when he remembers her wearing that dress. He’s thinking about her pinning him down to the bed... her straddling him like she did in that illusion they shared... He’s letting himself sink into the feeling, letting his desire for his infuriating little elf overtake him.

He’s resting his hand against his thigh, and now he slowly slides it up higher. Galadriel imagines her fingers closing over his, guiding his hand to where he needs it. He strokes himself over his trousers, just a little bit… and he’s so hard already, fantasizing about her hand there in his lap. He can’t help but want to touch himself. Sauron delights so much in everything that his physical form can feel, he would never deny himself pleasure. No, Galadriel thinks, he would definitely give in to this impulse.

She imagines that she’s guiding him again; she gently takes hold of his wrists and moves both his hands toward the laces on his trousers. She pictures him with his head tipped back, his silvery-blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, eyes closed, face flushed. She drinks it all in, the way that green shirt stretches over his chest, the way he’s biting his lip again as he’s untying the laces at his waist, the way the outline of his arousal presses against the fabric of his trousers… She almost moans out loud, her own desire pulsing hot between her legs at the thought of it.

She’s writhing under the covers, still steadfastly refusing to touch herself, but she doesn’t abandon the fantasy. She imagines he’s reaching into the waistband of his loosened trousers now, slowly taking himself in hand. She feels his little shiver of pleasure at the first slide of his fingers… oh, yes. It feels so unbelievably good, he needs this so much. His lips form the syllables of her name, so very softly: “Galadriel…”

She answers him with a breathy sigh, squirming in her bed as she presses her thighs against each other. She thinks of being there beside him, her hand clasped over his hand as he strokes himself. And she lets herself whisper those words that she would never truly say to him, her treacherous mouth brushing his ear: “Mmm… my king…”

Sauron’s eyes snap wide open in shock. He almost falls out of the chair, and he pulls his hand back so fast that he smashes into that too-low table and knocks the ink bottle onto the floor.

Galadriel sits bolt upright in bed. There’s a loud crash, and a noise like glass shattering from the adjoining room.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Galadriel pulls the covers tightly around herself, her heart pounding triple time. She’s torn between feigning sleep and just running right out of the room in her panic. But it’s too late for either, because she can hear Sauron’s footsteps approaching quickly through that little passageway that connects their rooms. He’s already nearly here.

He doesn’t knock or otherwise announce himself, but he bashes his head on the top of that low doorway as he ducks into her room, and he growls under his breath in the Black Speech.

And then he steps out into the firelight. He’s wearing the green shirt, but without the feathered capelet. The laces on his trousers are undone. If there was any doubt in her mind—

His face is half bewilderment and half fury, and Galadriel can’t tell if he wants to jump into bed with her or strangle her. Maybe both, if he feels anything like she does. “Galadriel,” he says indignantly. “Did you – what did you just – how—”

She doesn’t say anything, but she’s sure that the mortified look on her face is answer enough. He sees that it was unintentional. And he clearly wasn’t reaching for her mind on purpose, either.

“Right,” he says with a long sigh. “Well… this is certainly going to be an interesting problem.”

Chapter Text

The moment she gets her bearings, Galadriel throws off her blankets and jumps out of bed. She shoves Sauron out of her way as she storms past him into the little passageway that leads into the adjoining guest room.

“Hey!” he shouts after her. “Galadriel! Where are you—”

She pays him no mind and carries on through to his room. She looks over the scene inside, her heart still thundering against her ribs.

The chair he was sitting on is tipped over. The feathery capelet from the green shirt is hanging on the other chair, exactly as she saw it. The ink bottle is smashed over the stone floor, shards of glass scattered beside the table – thankfully, it was nearly empty, so there isn’t much spilled ink. But on the table—

She runs forward and snatches up the parchment with his drawing on it.

“What are you doing?” Sauron has caught up with her, and he pulls her back by the arm. “Give me that!” He grabs the drawing out of her hand, nearly tearing it in the process.

“I saw you drawing this, in my head!” she gasps. “All of it… exactly like this.” She takes hold of a corner of the parchment and pulls it toward her so she can see it, and he lets her, because the alternative is allowing it to rip it in half. She points to where he’s done that little flick with his quill on the last letter of Draft One. “Every detail was there in my mind, right down to this little flourish! I could see it all clearly… but I... I didn’t even mean to—” She looks up at him, suddenly seized with dread, and her voice shakes. “Have the two of us... become bound to each other in some way?”

“Not in the way that you fear, no. I don’t think so,” Sauron says. He lays the parchment tentatively back on the table, watching her warily, as though she might be about to grab it again. “But we have been spending a lot of time sharing our minds these past few days, Galadriel. It seems we may have become more attuned than we realized.” He picks up the tipped-over chair, sets it right, and sits down on it. “I confess that I have not been very focused on blocking you out. I… I had thought it would be a show of trust, letting you perceive some of my feelings earlier this evening.” He sighs. “I really did not anticipate that you would exploit my good will to spy on me. Or to do… that.”

“I did not intend to spy on you, I swear it!” she says. “I thought I was just imagining all of that, what you were doing… I was only thinking! To myself!”

“Hmm. Well, those were some very compelling thoughts, elf.” He smirks, and she avoids his gaze. “I probably should have noticed what was happening sooner… but I suppose I did not perceive your presence in my mind as an intrusion,” he says. “It felt… rather soothing, actually. I was sitting right here, going over what I was going to say to Celebrimbor, when I suddenly had the most gorgeous thought of you rubbing my shoulders…mmm.” He leans back slowly in the chair. “I started imagining it, the feeling of your hands there on me... and then, you—”

“Must we really go over all of it?” Galadriel snaps, much more sharply than she meant to. “I… I know very well what I did. I was there. You do not need to repeat it all.” Her face and neck are burning, and she is certain she must be flushed bright red.

But there’s no annoyance in his expression, no anger at her harsh tone. He’s just looking at her with a smug grin on his face, and that’s somehow far worse. “I only thought it might be helpful to compare notes,” he says. “To see how precisely we shared it.”

She taps the little flourish on his parchment. “We shared it very precisely. I think we’ve already established that.” She forces herself to meet his eyes unflinchingly – it won’t do to let him mock her, and there is no reason to behave like some foolish, blushing elven maiden. They’ve already shared far more than this, anyway – what does it really matter? ”I’d rather discuss how we can avoid this in the future,” she says. “Clearly, you do not wish for this connection to form between us unbidden... and nor do I. So how do we stop this from happening?”

“Not thinking about each other constantly would be the obvious path,” he says. “Shall we try that?”

She gives him a withering glare.

“Right, didn’t think so,” he says, that smirk still on his face. “I will just have to be more diligent about blocking you. Although… I admit I’m not entirely sure that I want to, now. It might be quite nice to learn more of your thoughts.”

Galadriel ignores that, and goes to sit down in the other chair, stepping carefully around the broken glass in her bare feet. She must end this discussion immediately, she thinks, before either of them dwell too long on what happened. She will deflect his attention swiftly onto another topic... something of far graver importance. Some focus will certainly do her good as well. 

“Now that I’m here, as we are both awake… perhaps we ought to occupy our thoughts with more practical matters,” she says, folding her hands on the table. “I should like to speak with you. There are other things besides you that I cannot seem to get out of my mind.”

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow. “For instance?”

“For instance, I do not think you’ve told me the whole story about your unbreakable axe, and what exactly you fear will happen if someone wields it,” she says. “To break the chain that binds Morgoth, someone would first have to reach him in the Void. And who could possibly dare to storm the Door of Night? Such a thing would not be inconspicuous, and I do not know who could even attempt it, save maybe for you yourself. But surely that would...”

She trails off as Sauron shakes his head grimly. Any trace of amusement has vanished from his eyes as his stare darkens. “If that were the only way, believe me, my worries would be greatly eased,” he says. “But there are other paths into the Void, Galadriel. Ways Morgoth used when he sought the Flame all those centuries.” He exhales a long sigh. “With Beleriand underwater, I thought we’d be safe for a long while before another gateway was found. But there are those who have never stopped seeking... and it’s them I fear.”

“What are you talking about?” Galadriel whispers, her skin suddenly chilled. “What’s the sinking of Beleriand got to do with this?”

“There was a gateway there, in Nan Dungortheb. One of Ungoliant’s old lairs. A place where she’d pierced a hole from Arda to the Void,” he says. “Her tunnels all stayed open after she left them – and they are out there still, if you know how to look for them.”

As he speaks, Sauron starts scraping the broken glass into a pile with the toe of his boot. He needs to be putting something back into order, right now, to feel the slightest sense of control. It does not immediately occur to Galadriel how clearly she perceived why he was doing it, but the thought comes into her head as if it were her own. Perhaps he hasn’t blocked her out yet after all. Or maybe she has come to understand him more deeply than she thought.

“There were two such lairs whose locations we knew well,” Sauron goes on. “The first one – the one where Morgoth first discovered Ungoliant – was in Aman. That one was obviously out of the question… but there were more. I saw one of the Void-tunnels in Nan Dungortheb for myself, centuries ago. There it remained, until the valley was drowned with the rest of Beleriand… and then that way was closed forever.”

There’s one of those wistful expressions forming on Sauron’s face again, that look he gets when he’s reminiscing. His boot crunches over smaller pieces of glass as he drags them over the rough stone, and he looks down at the floor as he talks.

“But there was hope, yet, for Morgoth’s loyal lieutenants,” he says. “Some believed they could find Ungoliant’s final lair. The great spider herself had long ago disappeared from our sight, and some rumors had it that she went south… but others said she travelled eastward in the end. Toward Rhûn. Some of Morgoth’s other servants went that way after he fell, hunting for that last gateway.”

“To Rhûn?” Galadriel gasps. Her hand goes to her hip as it sometimes does by instinct, seeking the ghost of Finrod’s dagger. She clenches her fist in frustration. Her company had never travelled that way in all her years of searching – she’d been so consumed with following Sauron’s trail that she had hardly contemplated the possibility that more of Morgoth’s lieutenants still lurked in Arda. If any were still around, she’d always assumed they would have followed Sauron.

“They established a cult somewhere in the east,” Sauron says, "intent on building up loyal legions for Morgoth, keeping things ready for his return… exactly like I did for him the first time he was chained.” He laughs bitterly. “Meanwhile, I was slowly losing control of the Southlands, losing control of the creatures, losing control of things with Adar... everything I tried to build slipped from my grip. It all crumbled from under me. Mâchan was still sealed away underground, and no one could get to it, because we lost track of the damned key after I killed that Southlander king. In the end, none of us really accomplished anything. Morgoth stayed chained, I moved up north… then Adar came up there and killed me in pursuit of his own goals. The rest of them stayed out east as far as I know, always hunting for that gateway and waiting for Morgoth’s return. But now...”

“You fear one of them may actually have found Ungoliant’s last lair in Rhûn,” Galadriel finishes for him. “And that Mâchan could fall into their hands.”

“Exactly,” he says with a visible shudder. “That is the nightmare scenario. If that happens, it’s all over. Someone loyal to Morgoth holding Mâchan would spell doom for Middle Earth, if they have a way into the Void. I am convinced that one of them will try to free him, hoping to be back in his good graces when he’s restored.” He shakes his head slowly. “Morgoth was furious with us at the end… for our failures, for letting him down when we lost the war. I was told that his last words were a curse upon all of us when he was dragged away. But whoever frees him now will surely be forgiven… and it seems there is a vacancy in the role of the Dark Lord’s favourite.” He gives a twisted smile.

Galadriel says nothing, but she nods solemnly.

“Well? Interrogation over now?” Sauron asks after a moment’s silence, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “Have I answered to your satisfaction?”

She drums her nails against the table, contemplating.

“Morgoth used to do that,” Sauron says, tipping his chin toward her restless hand. “Meant the answer was no.”

Galadriel jerks her hand back toward her chest, staring down at her fingers. Has she always done that? Yes, of course she has. Probably. But the pall of yesterday’s business with the shadow blade still hangs over her, and a chill crawls down her spine.

“Adar,” she says at last, uttering that mockery of a name like a growl. It is such an insult, an orc calling himself father in an elven tongue, and she hates speaking it aloud. “Tell me why the moriondor is involved in all of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was him who kept searching for the shadow blade in the Southlands… and it was his servant who turned that key to set off Orodruin,” Galadriel says. “But I do not understand why he would want to help free Morgoth. He betrayed his master, just like you did. His goal was the freedom and safety of his… children...” She winces at the word. “And surely Morgoth’s return would not lead to much freedom for any of them. It would be their ruin.”

“Adar thought I was dead. And the others were long ago gone from the Southlands,” Sauron says. “I don’t think he could see past his desire to create the shadow land. He had his own motivations – always has – and I’d wager his actions had absolutely nothing to do with freeing Morgoth.” Sauron’s brow furrows. “I don’t believe Adar even knew that we’d hidden Mâchan in the shadow of Orodruin. For all he knew, I’d taken it with me up north. The only portion of the plan that was widely known to everyone was the Orodruin mechanism itself… as that part was not exactly kept quiet. It took years to build, and a significant workforce.” He looks at Galadriel pointedly. “You may recall that the first part of the plan – the creation of the shadow land – was very much leaked to your side. It took you what, all of an hour to find mention of it in the Hall of Lore on another continent?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m shocked it took you as long as it did to come across it.”

“But if not Adar… then who?” Galadriel presses. “If Adar didn’t take Mâchan, who did?”

“I don’t know. And none of the possibilities are appealing,” says Sauron. “A few others knew it existed, and that it was buried in the Southlands. But only Morgoth and I knew the exact location – he’d become so paranoid by that point that he trusted only me. We placed it there together, and the compartment was not included in any of the architectural plans. We even killed the entire excavation crew and everyone who was nearby on the day it was dug and sealed, that’s how secret it was. No one else who had seen the way to that compartment was left alive.”

Galadriel grimaces. “Of course. What’s a Dark Lord’s construction project without a little senseless slaughter?”

“Anyway, I really did not imagine that anyone else would disturb it before I got back to the Southlands.” Sauron rubs his temple, sighing. “I am beginning to think that none of us were actually very good at hiding secret compartments.”

On another day, Galadriel might have laughed, but there is not a scrap of mirth in her today. She buries her face in her hands.

“Right. Have we dwelled enough on all that for tonight?” Sauron asks when she lifts her head again. “Let us focus on the future. We must get back to Eregion tomorrow, and I shall go to speak with Celebrimbor immediately… our plans await.” He pats the parchment with his ring schematic on it.

“Our plans?”

“You are a part of this, Galadriel. You’ve made your choice.”

“Well, it seems clear to me that we should set our sights on returning to the Southlands. I must speak to Adar,” she says. The idea does not please her, but the orc seems the most likely to have answers. “He wanted to form an alliance with me against you. Surely he would do the same against Morgoth! He must see that this is a threat to him, too. I may be able to convince him to join our... temporary truce, so at the very least he will not move against us. And if he doesn’t have Mâchan, he may well know who does! We need to get that axe back, not play around in the forge—”

“No,” Sauron says. “This is bigger than Adar now. And he will not be inclined to hear you out when he learns you have not killed me. Galadriel, there may well be a large force massing against us in the east, preparing to march in Morgoth’s name. We can’t be caught unaware. We need an army we can control.” He gives her a sharp look. “Do tell, has Gil-galad changed his mind and granted you a couple thousand elven soldiers while I wasn’t looking? Because last I checked, the Southlanders are a rabble of farmers and peasants, not warriors. And the Númenorean company is weak – you’ve seen them, Galadriel. They are earnest, but they’ve scarcely seen battle, and they number far fewer than before. There are barely a hundred soldiers at Pelargir right now! We need to be strategic about this.”

“So… making more rings with Celebrimbor, waiting around in Eregion… that’s your idea of strategic?” Galadriel’s voice rises. “How does that bring us any closer to raising an army?” She frowns, sensing for any emotion from him, but it seems he has closed the door on her now.

“Remember your promise, elf,” he says warningly.

“Not to stand in your way,” she says, letting out her breath. “So long as I believe that you are working against Morgoth. Yes. I will honor it.” She stands up from her chair with as much regal poise as she can manage in a nightdress. But a lack of armor or finery has never cowed her. “I promised not to hinder you, but I did not promise you my help. Understand? I intend to go to the Southlands, with or without you.”

“You’ve picked your side, Galadriel... so it’s time to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I think I shall take my leave now.” She gives him a curt nod, stepping over the little pile of glass as she moves away from the table. “And I will be the judge of how far to trust you.”

“Of course,” he says placidly. He gets up and walks with her to the doorway that leads back to her room. “I do so love to be judged.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Good night,” she says without rising to his bait. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

As she turns to enter the passageway, Sauron stretches an arm across her path, leaning on the doorway to block her from leaving. Galadriel huffs in annoyance and starts to duck past him anyway.

But then he reaches out with his free hand and touches her – the barest little brush of his hand as he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, his thumb skimming against her cheek – and everything else just... stops.

When he’s so close, something inside her surges in his direction, aligning her with him, pulling at her like gravity. Sometimes, it feels as if they’re being drawn together like magnets, and she knows he feels it too. She does not want to resist it. She just wants this, whatever it is. Him, whatever he is.

She lets her resentment dissolve in her veins, and the tension drops from her limbs. Sauron leans slowly down toward her, and she is vividly aware of the hitch in her breath. She doesn’t tip her head up to kiss him, but nor does she turn away to prevent his mouth from finding hers. It’s him who changes course at the last moment; he veers to the side and softly kisses the point of her ear instead, letting his lips linger there as he whispers softly, “Good night… my queen.”

And then he straightens up and turns around without looking at her, and walks back toward the table.

Galadriel does not pause long enough to let any more reckless thoughts take hold of her; she whirls on her heels and hurries back to her own room, her bare feet padding swiftly over cool stone, her heart aflame in her chest as she pulls down every shield and curtain around her mind.

But just before she steps back into her room, something pulls her back again. She hesitates, standing there by the doorway, warring briefly with herself before she turns and silently retraces her steps. She tiptoes around the corner until she can just see into his room again, not entirely sure what she thinks she’s doing.

Sauron is there beside the table, his silky pale hair shining in the firelight as he crouches down to pick up the little pile of broken glass. He’s carefully collecting it all into his bare hands, piece by piece, every movement so intentional and graceful and deliberate. He is mesmerizing.

And then, his beautiful elven face twists into a pained wince as he suddenly lifts up both of his hands and clenches the glass shards in his fists. His eyes squeeze shut in agony. Blood drips between his knuckles; she can see the small muscles in his jaw twitching as he tightens his grip.

He’s mumbling something barely intelligible under his breath – maybe in the Black Speech, maybe in Valarin – but she can only understand one repeated word. Melkor. Morgoth.

Her mouth falls open in a silent gasp, and she doesn't move. Sauron stays still for a long time before he finally lets his arms drop, slamming his bloodied fists down hard against the floor. Then, at last, he lifts his head and opens his eyes again.

And as she ducks away breathlessly behind the curve of the wall, Galadriel glimpses a sliver of his irises. Glowing red.

At first light, the elves depart from Khazad-Dûm. Disa and Durin bid them farewell, sending them off with a bag of precious ore and enough food for six people. As Disa hugs Galadriel goodbye, Annatar is smiling and patting Durin’s shoulder with promises to send word about the dwarven rings as soon as his plans are under way. And then, they make ready to ride.

Sauron speaks little to Galadriel as they saddle and load their horses, but the silence between them doesn’t feel uneasy. It… doesn’t feel like anything. Galadriel can sense nothing at all from him now; he has firmly battened down whatever window she had into his thoughts and feelings. He has healed all the wounds that he inflicted on his hands last night – there isn’t a single scratch on him. He seems a little quiet, but otherwise very much himself.

Galadriel tries to keep her focus on the future, like he said. As they turn their horses in the direction of Eregion, she turns her own thoughts to things she can control, viciously banishing everything that happened yesterday from her mind. She cannot contemplate that right now, cannot let her thoughts spiral into the abyss of the unknown. Instead, she thinks about whether she really intends to ride to the Southlands to seek a further parlay with Adar, and whether she should bring Elrond into her confidence now that Gil-galad has gone back to Lindon...

But it does not take until they reach Ost-in-Edhil for whatever is left of their temporary safety to evaporate. It’s not long after they leave the mountain that they come upon a large furred creature, lying dead in the middle of their path.

One of Sauron’s black wolves. Freshly killed, by the look of it.

Her heart pounds as she dismounts her horse. Sauron is already on the ground, examining the wolf from close up, and his posture stiffens when he nudges the carcass to one side with his foot. She doesn’t need to sense his mind to perceive the tense alertness that seizes him. He glances around, scanning the surrounding woods.

“Hunters?” Galadriel ventures, hoping against hope to wave it away with some mundane explanation. “Killed by another creature, perhaps?”

She comes to his side, her dread growing as she looks down at the slain wolf. And she sees immediately what has alarmed him. The beast has been speared with an orcish lance, high in the left flank. The same wound that was dealt to Halbrand in the Southlands.

There’s a chill in Sauron’s voice. “No,” he says. “This is a warning.”

Chapter Text

Back in Ost-in-Edhil, Galadriel sits on Elrond’s balcony, looking out at the city as the afternoon sun slowly dips lower in the sky. Gil-galad’s blue-and-silver flags no longer fly from the towers, and the decorations from Celebrimbor’s banquet day have been taken down from the streets. There is no more trace of the dark creatures that were slain between the walls, save for a few charred patches of grass where the remnants of the bonfires have been raked away. The city looks exactly as Galadriel left it when she first rode for the Southlands to answer that fateful summons. And from here, as she sits sharing a meal with her dear friend while sunlight warms their faces, she could almost imagine that none of it really happened.

As they eat, Elrond updates her on what’s gone on since she left for the mountain, and she gives him the news and greetings from the dwarves. The familiar comfort of Elrond’s friendship is a lifeline that she clings to gratefully, pushing aside the shadow of all the secrets that remain unspoken. Neither of them mentions Sauron, nor Adar, nor the nightmare creatures that swarmed at Ost-in-Edhil’s walls. Their conversation remains surprisingly light and normal, as if both of them desperately want to ignore the dread that hangs over them.

With the High King gone, Galadriel arrived at Elrond’s door fully intending to tell him the whole truth – well, at least some portion of it. But she very quickly realized that there was no logical place to begin. There is no version of the truth that does not make her look an absolute fool, or worse, a knowing accomplice to evil. No version that would convince Elrond that she has not fallen under Sauron’s spell, that she does not pose a danger to the city herself. And Elrond – now a trusted ring-bearer – surely will not conspire to hide any more of Galadriel’s treason from the High King.

She cannot even ask this of him, and as she sits here in front of him, she wonders how she ever believed that she could. It would break Elrond’s heart to go back on his promise to her, but he could not reasonably do otherwise if she confided in him. He has been appointed as Eregion’s protector, a loyal guardian of this realm. He would have to raise the alarm, and have Annatar thrown out of the city – ripping away whatever tenuous control Galadriel still has over this unravelling situation.

And so, despite her best intentions, Galadriel does not reveal any more of her secrets to Elrond. There is no other choice. She must continue to deceive her closest friend.

She is careful not to lie to Elrond outright; in that regard she is fastidious. She answers only what he asks, and even then, she simply leaves things out. She tells him about the groundshakes at the mountain, but not about the balrog, or what happened with the shadow blade. She reports on their successful retrieval of the scrolls, but not what was inside them. She talks about the journey home, but omits the dead wolf and its sinister warning.

Elrond nods and listens to her with his usual kind attentiveness, but she can tell that his mind is elsewhere. He keeps twisting the ring around and around on his finger the whole time she’s speaking – the same beautiful, glowing ring that she once wore – and she sees that it is wearing a raw, red groove into his skin.

“What is it, Elrond?” she asks him, resting her hand against his wrist. “Something troubles you. Tell me.”

His gaze flits down to his ring-bearing hand, where he still fidgets with the jewel. “Did this… did the ring feel like a burden to you, sometimes? When you wore it?”

Galadriel pauses, reflecting on her answer. “Not exactly. A burden of responsibility, perhaps. But the feeling the ring gave me was rather pleasant, most of the time,” she says. “It was… steadying. As if it amplified my own instincts and energies, honing them to a greater sharpness and clarity.” She exhales slowly, remembering it with a pang of longing as she looks at the ring there on Elrond’s finger. “I had only begun to understand the depth of its power. I always felt… like it was capable of things that I did not yet comprehend.”

Elrond’s brow is furrowed. “Indeed,” he says. “And that is what worries me. We do not understand them fully, these rings. Not their powers, nor what they do. That has lain heavy on my shoulders, knowing what I know of their maker.”

“Their maker is Celebrimbor,” Galadriel says sharply. “Sauron never touched the rings. He was not even present at their forging. Surely you trust the judgement of our best elven smith when it comes to his own craft.”

Elrond shakes his head gravely. “Lord Celebrimbor is susceptible to the influence of others. He is easily led by grandiose ideas, and by the promise of greatness. You cannot deny that you saw him under Sauron’s thrall when those rings were being designed, Galadriel. That was the very thing that led you to uncover the truth of it all!” He sighs mournfully. “I have always admired Celebrimbor, and I remain impressed by his commitment to the craft. But the High King has asked me to keep my eyes on him… and the implication in that task has made me uneasy.”

“Keep your eyes on him?” Galadriel nearly knocks over her glass as she throws down her napkin, her heart suddenly beating faster. “Gil-galad has clearly grown paranoid. He accuses me of chasing phantoms in the Southlands, yet he would rather turn his suspicions on his own kin than raise an army and prepare for the war that is coming! Has he considered that the enemy is out there, and not within our walls?”

“You know very well that it is sometimes the danger closest to us that we fail to identify,” Elrond says gently, giving her a pointed look. “Lord Celebrimbor is driven by his desire to make a mark on history. He wishes to create works that will echo through the ages, as Fëanor’s do. But we cannot forget that Fëanor himself was ensnared by Morgoth’s lies, and was thus manipulated. And the Silmarils, wondrous as they were, became the cause of much darkness. With the new forge now opened and the celebrations over, Celebrimbor will no doubt be looking to his next great endeavour… and so, we must be vigilant. That is all.”

“Listening to you, it’s almost as if Gil-galad himself were still right here,” Galadriel says cuttingly. She regrets it immediately at the hurt look on Elrond’s face, his eyes going wide at her sarcastic rebuke. She stops herself before she adds, Has the High King asked you to watch over me with suspicion as well?

Elrond hides his reaction quickly, clearing his throat and laughing it off. “Well… thankfully, Lord Celebrimbor’s biggest influence at this moment seems to be our Númenorean friend,” he says. “I saw the two of them walking together in the gardens not long ago. No doubt they are discussing Annatar’s research – he wanted to consult Celebrimbor about something, did he not? That should keep our great smith occupied for a while!” Elrond smiles brightly. “Speaking of Annatar, you really must invite him to dine with us again. I should like the pleasure of his company, and to hear more tales of Númenor. A little diversion from all this dark business would be nice. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Galadriel nods, relieved at the abrupt change of topic. “Certainly. I will ask him when I speak to him next.”

“There is… ah… just one more thing I must say on the previous matter.” Elrond looks apologetic as he twists the ring around on his finger again. “I had hoped to ask for your help. Celebrimbor holds you in high esteem, and it seems he has quickly grown close to Annatar as well. He may tell the two of you things he withholds from me... especially if there is anything he hopes to conceal from the High King.” The expression on Elrond’s face is terribly pained, as if he truly hates to ask her this. “So… if anything Celebrimbor says should arouse your suspicions again – or if Annatar should tell you that he noticed something peculiar about him, anything at all—”

“Then I shall do what is best for the safety of the elven realms, regardless of how I feel about Gil-galad,” Galadriel says, managing a stiff smile that nonetheless comes easier than she thought it would. “Of course. On that you have my word.”

“Thank you,” Elrond says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Believe me, Galadriel... it does not please me at all to spy on Lord Celebrimbor this way, after everything he has done for us. But it is a weight off my mind that you’ll share the burden with me.” He glances down at the ring again. “I only wish that you could help me carry this one as well.”

When she gets back to her rooms, Galadriel stands next to the open window and stares out at the city in silent contemplation, breathing deeply of the evening air, trying to feel something like stillness again. Ost-in-Edhil is truly beautiful at sunset, and looking out at this view has always done her spirit good. It is another perfect night, clear and warm, and soon bright stars will be peppering the sky.

But now that she’s alone again, Galadriel can’t escape the chill that has lingered at the edges of her mind since last night. She can’t forget the image of Sauron there in the firelight, crushing that broken glass in his hands, speaking Morgoth’s name. Now, a new coil of guilt twists uncomfortably in her chest after her conversation with Elrond, and the knowledge of Gil-galad’s suspicions rests heavily on her mind.

She believes that Sauron is working against Morgoth, or at least that he truly intends to – in that, she does not doubt him. But after sharing his visions while Sauron wielded the shadow blade, she is equally terrified of the hold that the first Dark Lord might yet have over his former servant. Maybe something of Morgoth’s bond still holds Sauron in its grip, still shackles him to his old loyalties, even against his will. And there is no question that Sauron has his sights set on returning to Celebrimbor’s workshop. The deceit she has helped him weave as Annatar feels frayed and delicate, like they’re always one misstep away from catastrophe. And now, Elrond – and by extension, Gil-galad – will be watching more closely than ever.

She has so many questions swirling in her mind, and the stillness she seeks is nowhere to be found. What compelled Sauron to inflict those wounds on himself last night? Why was that wolf in their path this morning, slain by an orcish weapon? Who left that warning, and what exactly did they intend by it? Why is Sauron so fixated on making rings with Celebrimbor at all, when he says that what they need most is to raise an army? Is he still hoping to manipulate her into attempting to summon a legion of dark beasts, or is there some piece of this she is missing? And what of his plans to draw Morgoth’s lost power from Arda?

A part of her wants to confront him in anger, to demand all the answers to the unknowns that gnaw at her mind. But if Sauron is hiding something from her – which he clearly is – then perhaps it’s better to pretend she knows nothing of it. Perhaps it’s best to keep him as close as possible and see if he reveals anything more, rather than driving a wedge of hostility between them again. He does keep imploring her to trust him more fully. If she feigns that trust, and allows him to believe that she is ready to align with all his endeavours… then maybe he will release his secrets more freely. She can keep watch on Sauron and on Celebrimbor at the same time.

She sees, now, that she cannot possibly ride to the Southlands and leave Sauron here alone to put his plans into motion. No. She needs to stay with him. And… more than that, she does not want to be separated from him again. Even now, she feels his absence like an ache after a few days of his constant company, and she misses having him directly at her side. There is an empty, quiet space in her mind where that crackling awareness of him should be. It is strangely similar to how it felt to take off the ring, and she longs to feel their connection again.

Whenever her thoughts stray to Sauron, Galadriel is careful to keep them abstract, and in no way focused on his whereabouts in the present moment. And yet, the temptation to test that link again, just to see if she can reach him, pulls constantly at her. Could she see where he is right now if she tried? Could she see if he’s with Celebrimbor, or writing something in secret, or drawing more plans? She might have learned more of what he was working on last night if she had not accidentally captured his attention with her own… distractions.

She ignores the little rush of warmth that memory kindles in her, allowing herself only the briefest recollection of him leaning back in that chair before she quickly puts it out of her head. She turns her thoughts back to the problem at hand: how to reach out for him in the here and now, if she dared to attempt such a thing on purpose.

Galadriel has sought out his mind and initiated their link before – but only when she could see Sauron right there in front of her, when she was easily able to envision casting her thoughts toward him. She has never reached for him intentionally at a distance. She’s not even certain how much their physical proximity factors into it; yesterday, when she slipped into their connection by mistake, he was only on the other side of the wall. She knew exactly where he was, and she could imagine what the room around him looked like. But now, he could be anywhere in the city.

Sauron has definitely called to her at a distance before. He found her mind when the creatures attacked the city, when she was way out at the wall and he was still back in the courtyard – so clearly such a thing is possible. But how to begin?

Galadriel starts by visualizing their connection forming. She imagines a tether unspooling between them, and him there on the other side of it… not his physical body, but the way he feels when their minds are entwined. She recalls the familiar hum of his power, the warmth of his presence surrounding her. She thinks of the way she could sense his direction when they were in battle together – first at Tirharad, and again in the forest when they broke the creature swarm. She always knew exactly where he was, even when he was hidden from her view, and she concentrates on that feeling.

For a long while, nothing happens at all.

And then... she feels something, faintly. A soft pull. It’s turning her in the direction of the river.

She keeps her thoughts blank, forcing nothing, allowing that barely-perceptible sensation to guide her. She closes her eyes and lets herself be pulled, like a paper boat caught by the gentlest current. Her perception is being drawn toward a point on the bank of the Glanduin below… down, down... and suddenly, a clear image comes into her mind. It’s the riverside platform where Halbrand’s deception was shattered, the spot where she nearly drowned. Where Annatar sat on the stone bench and made her flower crown on the day of the banquet.

And he’s there, perched on the same bench.

Sauron is sitting the same way she found him on Celebrimbor’s banquet day, staring down at the river. His attention is fixed on the pink-and-orange light of the sunset reflecting across the water, and he does not seem to be aware of Galadriel’s presence – or if he is, he makes no outward sign of it. She is careful not to press into his thoughts, not to imagine touching him or interfering with him in any way. She just lets her mind float there formlessly, and she stays beside him as the sun begins to slip behind the treetops.

All the while, she is still aware of her own body, back in her rooms. She is leaning on her windowsill, turned in the direction of the river, her eyes closed, feeling the same warm night air caressing her face and the same soft breeze lifting her hair. And she’s aware of the way she’s slowly synchronizing to him – or him to her – as their minds drift against one another. Each of his calm, even breaths matches one of her own, and she’s certain that the steady beat of her heart has settled to keep exact rhythm with his. At last, she feels stillness.

The sky over the city gradually turns to deep, brilliant orange, and then to rich purple. Dusk is falling, and still Sauron doesn’t move. He doesn’t look anywhere else, he just continues staring at that spot where Elrond pulled her from the water.

It’s only when the first stars emerge that he finally looks up. He stands from the bench and draws himself up to his full height, tips his head back, and gazes into the glittering night sky. And then... he turns, very slowly, as if he’s finding his bearings. He scans the skyline like he’s seeking something, searching among the lights that glow from the city buildings... until he’s staring directly toward Galadriel’s window.

She doesn’t quite startle away, but she feels his gaze following her as she instinctively pulls her mind back into her own body.

She returns to herself, and as she does, she feels Sauron’s unmistakable presence there in the room with her. It’s as if he’s standing right beside her at the window, both of them looking down toward the river – their hearts still beating together, both of their breaths held.

He waits there for a moment, his mind brushing against hers. And then, their connection softly dissolves.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Galadriel finds Sauron in the open-air market near the city center. He’s exactly where she thought he would be at this hour, and she feels a surge of self-satisfied pride at having guessed his whereabouts so easily, even without using their connection to locate him. Sometimes, he’s more predictable than he thinks he is. This had been a favourite morning walk of Halbrand’s – the only half-hour the Southlander spent away from the forge each day while he stayed in the city. And Sauron has not yet had a chance to revisit it, since the market hadn’t been open during the preparations for Celebrimbor’s banquet day. Of course Annatar is here now.

Galadriel follows him at a distance, watching him as he weaves his way between the golden-roofed stalls. He moves unhurriedly, pausing to greet several friends that he’s apparently made, despite having been in Ost-in-Edhil for all of two days. It seems Annatar has already ingratiated himself to half of the city. The heartstopping tale of his misadventure with the fellbeast has surely made the rounds, the gossips all keen to recount his survival against the odds and his rescue after Galadriel’s solitary stand against the beasts. Galadriel doesn’t make any particular effort to hide herself, but she does keep the hood of her cloak up, covering her distinctive hair – she’d just as soon not be noticed by anybody she knows if she can avoid it. She does not want to talk about any of that.

She remains behind Annatar and continues to trail him, keeping her head tilted down. A little further, he stops to peruse at a stall filled with colourful fabrics. He looks intently at several different swatches of pale green, holding each of them up to the light to compare them before he finally moves on. He turns left into a street that’s mostly lined with food stalls, and he crosses from one side of the street to the other wherever there’s someone holding out a tray of samples. Galadriel can’t help but smile to herself, remembering a morning when she followed Halbrand down this exact route.

Annatar stops again at a bakery stall toward the very end of the street, and she hangs back and waits until he resumes walking to avoid overtaking him. He never looks behind him, continuing at a steady pace until he turns the corner once more and walks to the very edge of a tree-lined courtyard. There, he chooses a shaded spot and sits down on the low wall, and he sets the small bakery package he just acquired beside him.

Galadriel hesitates for a moment as she steps toward him, deliberating over how to pretend she’s only just noticed him and that she ran into him by chance. But before she can make up her mind to speak, he unwraps the crinkly paper to reveal two identical fancy swirls of sugared bread. He looks up – directly at her– with a smirking smile. “Breakfast?”

Sauron does not remark any further on the fact that she’s been following him. And, thankfully, he makes absolutely no mention of that connection between them last night, when she sought him out with her mind and found him by the riverside. She sits down next to him on the wall and takes the warm bread he offers her, and as they eat side by side, he chatters away about a string of irrelevant topics. He speaks of the design on a particularly pretty balcony across the street, of the song a musician is playing somewhere nearby, of the beautiful weather, of whether the food in the market in Armenelos was better than here – on and on until she finally interrupts him.

“You are clearly trying to distract me from something,” she says, smiling and nudging him to soften the accusation into something more like gentle teasing. “You have said nothing of your plans for the day. What is it that you intend on doing after this?”

“You know fine well what I intend on doing, my little elf,” he says, returning her smile the same way – half teasing, half guarded. “I am to meet with Celebrimbor at his workshop, of course. We have much to discuss.”

She sighs. “Indeed. And I suspect I am not privy to half of it,” she says. “I know you will care little for my counsel… but you would be wise to tread carefully. It seems that Gil-galad’s ever-growing suspicions have landed on our great smith… and Elrond told me last night that he has been tasked with watching over Lord Celebrimbor.”

“Oh?” Sauron arches an eyebrow.

“The High King sees in him the specter of Fëanor… and perhaps some of the same faults,” Galadriel says.

“Can’t imagine what could have given him that idea.” Sauron gives a sarcastic laugh. “Celebrimbor has certainly talked enough about his hopes of following in Fëanor’s footsteps – he said it right in the middle of his big speech the other day. Is the High King of the Noldor really so concerned about a little bit of ambition?”

“You know exactly what it is that he’s concerned about,” Galadriel says, lowering her voice. “Just… please. Be cautious. We are deep in this deception now, and one wrong step—”

“Galadriel. Don’t worry. I will have it all under control.” Sauron slides a placating hand onto her shoulder, and she doesn’t let her thoughts snag on his choice of words.

“I believe you.” The declaration comes out with far more conviction than she feels. “And… I will support you in your endeavours, in as much as it is within my power to do so. I have spoken nothing of our secrets to Elrond, and I will conceal what I must from the others. But if I’m to do so… then I need to understand what is really going on. We should have no more mistrust between the two of us. I want to know exactly what you are doing—”

“Patience, Galadriel,” Sauron says. “Grant me three weeks to sort out a plan. And then, I will give you all the answers you want. I’ll tell you everything.” He fixes her with a pleading look, his voice soft and soothing. “Three weeks, that is all I ask. Even Gil-galad deigned to give us that long when we first sought the mithril alloy.”

She pauses, considering. “And what am I to do in that time?” she asks at last. “Surely you do not intend for me to sit idly by for three entire weeks, doing nothing at all, while dark forces could be gathering their strength! If you do not want me to ride back to the Southlands—”

“Let me ask you something, Galadriel,” Sauron cuts in. “If you were given back your command, and you had all the authority that you seek, right now… if Gil-galad had backed you, and you had been told to prepare the elves for battle... then what would you be doing at this very moment?”

“Well… I would be strategizing, I suppose,” she says. “I would be assessing our position, taking stock of our forces, their strengths and weaknesses…. and if I had to recruit my own company from this city, I suppose I would need to train them properly, with great haste.” She sighs. “Many of the elves here are so very young, born in centuries of peace. They have not known the horrors of the great war. You saw what happened when the creatures attacked the wall. Ost-in-Edhil is well-fortified, but the soldiers are inexperienced. You must have noticed that most of the kills on the battlefield that night came from the guests! All the old warriors, the ones who have seen this before – they knew what to do. The young did not.”

Sauron smiles slowly. “Exactly,” he says, leaning close to her. “So? Isn’t it clear? Training the new guard is precisely what you should be doing while you let me take care of the rest.”

“Right.” She stares at him dubiously. “I should be training a company of warriors I’m not authorized to lead, for a war no one believes we should even be fighting? That would get back to Gil-galad in a minute—”

“Forget about Gil-galad,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “He’s gone back to Lindon, we needn’t concern ourselves with him. Who makes the decisions in Eregion in his absence, Galadriel? Who’s actually in charge here? Think about it: there’s Celebrimbor, who holds sway in all matters of the guild and the administration… and in the High King’s name, it is Elrond’s word that stands. With a little effort, we will soon have both of them in our pockets. If we have their loyalty… then we make the decisions. Us.” Sauron leans closer to her again, his hand tracing an invisible line in the air connecting himself to her. That gleam of excitement sparks brightly in his eyes. “Galadriel, the city guard respects you already, and they’re all in awe of you after the banquet night. If the order comes from Elrond, and he tells you to take charge and train this city’s soldiers for battle... then it may as well have come from Gil-galad himself. No one else will question it.”

“No. It will not play out that way.” Galadriel shakes her head. “Elrond loves me dearly, but he is loyal to the High King above all. He is a ring-bearer now, besides, and the lies he has told for me already weigh on him. He would never give such an order, knowing that Gil-galad has forbidden it.”

“Elrond is buckling under the pressures of duty,” Sauron says. “Look at him, Galadriel! Did you not see the doubt in him when he took that ring? He is completely adrift, lacking conviction in his own leadership. And what is it that Elrond most fears? Hmm?”

At once, Galadriel is vividly reminded of their conversation back in the Númenorean dungeon, when Halbrand first explained his manipulation tactics to her. She didn’t see it back then, the dark truth that lurked in those machinations of his— and yet, she’d been deeply impressed, even as the Southlander’s brash arrogance grated at her. Halbrand had so effortlessly navigated a situation whose subtleties had eluded her. And she’d wanted him all the more for it, even then. She couldn’t help but sense how much stronger they could become if their wills were aligned, if she could only sway that stubborn, infuriating mortal king to her side. Together, she felt like they could attempt anything… and despite her gnawing guilt at the thought of such conniving methods, that same feeling blooms in her chest now. A feeling that the two of them are aligning again.

“Elrond fears... something dark befalling the elves on his watch,” Galadriel says. “He fears something terrible happening to Eregion because he failed to see the threat, while he was supposed to be responsible for the safety of the realm.”

“Precisely,” Sauron says. “Gil-galad has him leaping at threats he cannot see, and so he chases his tail, unsure what to do. But here is a threat he can see. The city wall was swarmed by Morgoth’s creatures, we all witnessed it – and the city guard’s inexperience left us far too vulnerable. There is no disputing that it happened, and it could happen again. Should those soldiers not be better prepared? Should you, the esteemed Commander of the Northern Armies, not put your skills to good use here? You’re hardly taking them out to war, now, are you? You’re simply obeying the duty Gil-galad gave you: to stay here and protect this city, and to hold safe the elven realm. Elrond will give you the order... if he thinks he came up with it himself.”

She blinks slowly as she takes in his words, her mouth slowly forming a silent oh.

“When I see Elrond next,” Sauron goes on, “I will suggest to him that someone should train up and rally Eregion’s military forces. For the safety of Ost-in-Edhil and the realm at large, it is an absolute necessity.” He picks up the crinkly paper that their sweet bread had been wrapped in and folds it neatly, smoothing it in out his hands, shaping it into a small square like he’s sealing up a message to be delivered. “It is a stroke of brilliance, for which Elrond can take full credit before the High King,” he says. “Here is a perfect, elegant act of internal diplomacy for our fledgling politician. He gives duty and purpose back to his dearest friend, who he feels he has unfairly robbed of her position as ring-bearer – and in doing so, he gives her an opportunity to earn back Gil-galad’s good graces. Trust me... Elrond will ask you. And, after the appropriate amount of demurring and deliberation, you will graciously agree. Look, how the implacable daughter of the Golden House of Finarfin bends the knee to authority at last! Everyone wins.”

Galadriel’s heart is beating faster, something like battle-readiness racing in her blood as he speaks. It does make sense. And she wants this, she does – she wants it more than she’d even realized. Her spirit is already soaring with the possibility. She will train them well, and inspire in them the loyalty that she failed to command from her exhausted and mutinous companions at Forodwaith. This time, they will follow her unquestioningly, and they will pledge their swords to her before all others. When the time comes and the elves are called to battle, she will have a fierce and dedicated company, ready to follow her to the ends of the earth. The beginnings of an elven army that will stand against Morgoth, just as they did before. And it scarcely even requires any more deceit. Finally… a half-truth that can do some good.

“Elrond has invited you to have dinner with us tonight,” she says, almost breathlessly. “He expressed much desire to see you.”

A triumphant grin is creeping onto Sauron’s face as he takes in her evident delight. “Oh? Well, how fortuitous!” he says. “Of course, this humble scholar would be honored. Just tell me the time and place, and I’ll be there. With great pleasure.”

He reaches out and brushes his hand along Galadriel’s face in that way he does – stroking his thumb lightly over her cheek – and it does not even occur to her to pull away from him, despite their exposed public location. Her eyes flutter closed at his touch, and she senses his little rush of gratification when she doesn’t dodge his affection.

“Mmm… you’ll see, my little elf,” he whispers. “Just a bit of patience, and you will have everything that you want. Give me three weeks, and then all the answers you seek will be yours. And this city… will be ours.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks. It’s the blink of an eye for an elf, an absolutely insignificant amount of time. But the last time Sauron spent three weeks in Eregion, the fate of every elf in Middle Earth was altered. It is more than long enough.

Sauron’s plan for Galadriel unfolds more quickly and more easily than she even thought possible. Two days after their dinner with Elrond, she stands before a gathering of the entire city guard as Elrond unveils her new mission, and gives her the charge of training Ost-in-Edhil’s military forces. She can hardly believe it has actually happened. And yet here they are in front of her, awaiting her orders.

Training them all properly would be the work of months, if not years, but Galadriel begins what she can in earnest: first, taking account of all the soldiers in the city, then dividing them into groups according to experience and weapon proficiency, identifying those who can help her instruct the others. There are new cadets, too; young elves who wish to be added to the ranks, their willingness to learn to fight spurred by the recent battle against the creatures.

The immensity of the task before her immediately fills nearly all of her waking hours, and Galadriel throws herself headlong into the work. Her mornings are taken up with administration and planning, followed by afternoons of training sessions, weapon drills and fighting demonstrations. But every day that elapses in Ost-in-Edhil feels like a held breath – like the wait for Míriel’s decision in Númenor, like the wait for news from a distant warfront. Galadriel wakes as tense and alert as if she were camped by a battlefield. And each day, she is almost surprised to find everything so unchanged.

No attacks come from beyond the wall. No more of Morgoth’s creatures appear in her path, dead or alive. And Morgoth himself, it seems, remains securely chained in the Void. It is easy to see how the elves might have believed that the threat of a new darkness was imagined. And yet, Galadriel cannot shake the feeling that a catastrophe looms, and that the time they have left is far shorter than she might hope.

While she busies herself with training the city guard, Sauron is occupied with his own affairs. He spends long hours in the workshop with Celebrimbor, and the rest of his time locked in the small office that Elrond has given Annatar in the city’s library – a little room of his own in which to keep all his parchments and scrolls and books. He speaks to no one when he’s wrapped up in his research, whatever that entails. Galadriel has tried more than once to seek out Sauron’s mind while he’s in the library, but it’s as if an impassable wall stands between them. She can find no trace of their connection when he’s in there; he’s evidently blocking her from witnessing whatever it is that he’s doing.

They barely speak to each other on most days, if they see each other at all, and Galadriel is painfully reminded of the way Halbrand had shut her out while he worked with Celebrimbor on the mithril alloy. Whatever Sauron is working on in the library is clearly consuming him, and though he plays Annatar with his usual charm and wit when he’s with the smiths, she senses a guarded watchfulness in him, like a shadow that flickers at his edges.

But every evening, Sauron and Galadriel repeat the same unspoken ritual. When the sun starts to go down, Sauron walks to the platform by the Glanduin river, and he sits down on his usual bench. And there, he leaves himself open to her, the door to his mind cracked ajar. At sunset, Galadriel stands in her rooms and reaches out for him, and they rest together in quiet reflection, looking at the water. When her mind entwines lightly with his, she feels none of that anxious unease in him – so long as he rests here with her, he feels steady and calm.

They remain by the riverside until darkness falls, and then Galadriel pulls her mind back to herself, back to her window or her balcony where she stands in the night air. Sometimes, Sauron’s presence accompanies her back to her rooms, and she feels him stay with her for a few moments before their minds drift apart again. But most of the time, he simply allows their connection to dissolve when she pulls away, and she leaves him at the river.

He never outwardly acknowledges their nightly companionship, and he never speaks to her across their link, nor makes any mention of it when they meet in person. It feels as if acknowledging those delicate shared moments in the real world might somehow cause it all to shatter. And so, neither of them breathes a word of it after they part ways. The next morning, she’ll be back at the training ground, and he’ll be in the workshop with Celebrimbor, or else ensconced in the library. And they will all but ignore each other until the sun goes down again.

Galadriel goes to Annatar’s office in the library just once, halfway through the second week, to convey another dinner invitation from Elrond. She knocks several times before Sauron finally comes to the door, opening it just enough for her to see that he has some of the scrolls from the vault unrolled on his desk. He thanks her politely and says that he will come to dinner, of course he will, but then he practically slams the door in her face in his haste to get back to work. It is clear that he doesn’t want any visitors here, and especially not her.

It’s at Elrond’s dinner that Galadriel first senses something odd between Elrond and Annatar – they are definitely concealing something from her. Once or twice, a knowing look passes between them, and she sees them share a secretive smile right after she mentions Durin and Disa. She wonders if it’s something to do with the mithril, or the dwarven rings. And yet, she cannot imagine that Elrond would have taken kindly to the idea of Celebrimbor making more rings. Not given his suspicions about Sauron’s involvement with the elven three, and the High King’s mistrust of the master smith. If Elrond were aware of the plan to make rings for the dwarves, he would surely have said something to Galadriel about it.

But whatever this new secret might be, it doesn’t seem to be worrying Elrond at all. Instead, he seems in unusually good spirits. He no longer fidgets nervously with the ring on his finger, and he carries himself with something like the same sureness he had as Gil-galad’s herald in Lindon. He seems almost happy, and seeing her old friend thus restored lifts a weight from Galadriel’s heart.

Despite her misgivings, she’s grateful for whatever Sauron has done to ease Elrond’s burden – even if it is a deception that will not last. And after spending a couple of hours in Annatar’s charming company at dinner, removed from any reminder of the darkness that surrounds him, it feels so easy to bury the ever-multiplying secrets between them. When Sauron sits close to her and pours her wine and smiles at her in that admiring way, all of her familiar warm feelings toward him come flooding back. And when the dinner is over and they bid Elrond a good evening, it feels much too soon – she doesn’t want it to end.

As they part ways on the footpath, she sees Sauron turn in the direction of the Glanduin, and she rushes back to her rooms to join him in their nightly rendezvous. She finds him on the bench by the riverside as always, his mind already open to her, and the pull between them feels much stronger than normal. It’s as if their earlier physical proximity has kindled their connection into sharper focus, drawing them into a vivid awareness of one another. He’s clearly been affected by her nearness at dinner, too. And while he does not allow her to see into his thoughts, she senses enough to know they are full of her.

When the sun disappears and Galadriel retracts her mind from the river, Sauron’s presence follows her back to her rooms. He remains with her longer than usual, his mind still drifting there, like he can’t bring himself to leave her quite yet. She sits down at her dressing table and unwinds her braid, and she can sense just how tempted he is to think about touching her... but he holds himself back. Still, his invisible gaze remains on her, drinking up the sight of her reflection as she brushes out her hair.

And then, in a moment of boldness, Galadriel continues to ready herself for bed, without breaking their link to dismiss him. She slowly undoes her dress and slips it off, and when she lets it fall away from her, she feels the desire that flares from him like a leaping flame. He’s almost imagining his hands skimming down her shoulders, tracing the neckline of her thin shift. He’s almost thinking of wrapping himself around her from behind, of pressing his mouth against her neck ... or perhaps it’s her who’s almost-thinking it. She cannot truly be sure where their shared imaginings originate. Nonetheless, they both draw back at the same time, snapping their connection, catching themselves just before they slide deeper into their link. And Galadriel is left on her own, sitting alone at her dressing table and looking at her flushed, wide-eyed reflection.

The following day, she doesn’t see Annatar at all. She doesn’t cross paths with him in the courtyard. He isn’t with Celebrimbor when she looks in on the workshop. He isn’t sitting outside with the smiths at lunch. And when she casts her thoughts toward the river to seek out Sauron’s mind at sunset, he’s not in his usual place by the Glanduin. She searches for him again and again, but she does not sense him at all; his mind remains completely closed to her.

A flash of anger overtakes her, and she seethes at his disregard for their nightly meeting. She tries once more to reach out to him, but finds only that unbreachable wall, the shield that he puts up when he’s in his office. Of course that’s where he is – in the library, working on the thing that he hides from her.

Going after him is a mistake, and Galadriel knows it even as she pulls on her cloak and puts her shoes back on. Still, as the last light bleeds from the sky, she ignores that feeling of foreboding and sets off for the library, walking quickly through Ost-in-Edhil’s darkening streets. She has to see what he’s doing.

The heavy doors to the building are all shut, and no lanterns are lit inside. But the latch at the main entrance is wedged up – someone is still here – and she climbs up the spiral staircase in shadow, following the curve of the bannister. Sure enough, there is a sliver of light glowing under Annatar’s closed office door. He’s here, still working.

Galadriel steps toward his office, and after a moment’s indecision, she presses her ear to the thick wooden door. She can faintly hear Sauron speaking to someone on the other side of it. At least, she thinks it must be him speaking, that single voice rising angrily, like some impassioned, escalating argument is being made. In the pauses when he stops talking, she strains to discern who else is there with him, but she’s unable to detect any other voice. And – she shudders slightly – it is no elven tongue being spoken. Perhaps it isn’t a conversation after all, but some dark sorcery, or some kind of spell he’s doing? She’s reminded of whatever it was she witnessed on their last night in Khazad-Dûm, the chilling sight of his eyes glowing red in the firelight.

Sauron does not answer her light tap on the door. And when she knocks for the second time, she hears a loud crash inside, as if he’s just thrown something heavy against the wall. The light that had been shining under the door flickers out. Galadriel jumps back, her heart pounding, her hand instinctively reaching to the place where she kept Finrod’s dagger at her side for all those centuries. But the dagger isn’t there, of course, and her hand closes on empty air.

No further sound comes from the darkened office. She crouches at the top of the staircase in silence for a few moments, and then she slips swiftly away before Sauron opens the door and discovers her.

Galadriel doesn’t try to reach for his mind again that night. When she returns to her rooms, she cannot find the comfort of sleep, nor any peace in her spirit. She lies in bed going over everything he’s ever said about the scrolls, about the shadow blade, about Mâchan, about lifting Morgoth’s lost power from Arda... She moves the pieces around and around, wishing to make sense of it, trying to calm her anxious mind. But she’s still lying there with her eyes wide open, her problems all unsolved, when the first glimmers of daylight appear at the window.

The next day, Annatar is back in the workshop with Celebrimbor and the smiths. And when sunset comes, Sauron is waiting for Galadriel at the riverside platform as usual. They resume their nightly ritual as though nothing ever happened, resting together by the water in quiet companionship. But his presence does not follow her back to her rooms for several nights after that.

A few days later, Galadriel is leading an afternoon training session with the newest members of the guard. Most of these elves have had some basic training with the blade, and some have a degree of practical skill, but none of them have any experience in real combat. In these sessions, she’s often reminded of her practice duels with the young Númenorean cohort, and some of the same lightness always finds its way to her heart. There’s something deeply satisfying in the onlookers’ excited attention, in the awed gasps and laughter that the fight inspires whenever she takes on several cadets at once and dodges through their simultaneous attacks.

As she duels the elven cadets in small groups, spinning up and down the training ground, she’s aware that a little group of spectators is gathering around to watch the lesson. Some passers-by always pause to enjoy the display, and today is no exception. But this time, one of them is him.

It’s the first time he has come to one of her combat demonstrations in Ost-in-Edhil – at least, it’s the first time she has noticed him here. He stands at the very back of the little crowd, watching her with the same intense, appraising stare that Halbrand gave her when she duelled the cadets in Armenelos. She makes a point not to look over at him, pretending that she hasn’t seen him, but she knows exactly where he’s standing. She can’t help adding a little extra theatrical flair to her swordwork to ensure he’ll be thoroughly impressed – he does so love watching her fight.

He stays there through the entire lesson, never taking his eyes off her. It’s only when the training session is concluded, and Galadriel’s cadets are preparing to disperse, that Annatar steps forward.

“May I try it once?” he asks her, ever so sweetly. “I’ve never had a sword-fighting lesson before.”

She smiles indulgently. “Perhaps you should try over there first, with them. With something less sharp.” She points over to the edge of the yard, where a trio of small elven children are playing with wooden swords, and the children giggle.

“Oh, come on, now, Commander.” He smiles back. “Surely a warrior of your accomplishment and skill could teach the blade to anyone. Even me.”

Galadriel rolls her eyes, but she still warms at his flattery. Her other cadets and the rest of the spectators are already circling back around to watch. She sees that some of the assistant smiths from Celebrimbor’s workshop are standing at the edge of the yard, too, cheering and calling out: ‘Go on! Do it! Fight him!’

“Very well,” she says, exaggerating her sigh even though she can’t keep the smile from her face. “Someone give Annatar a sword, please.”

She has crossed swords with Halbrand before, in a mock duel they performed for the Númenorean company on the ship to Middle Earth. She’d known that the Southlander would be skilled with a blade as soon as she saw him do that sword flip back in the Armenelos square, but he was a fiercer and more elegant warrior than she’d imagined, and he had much faster reflexes than she expected. Though she bested him in the end, Halbrand had nearly disarmed her, his prowess with the sword leaving her stunned – and she knows now that he was probably still holding back, even with his diminished powers. It was only when they rode into battle in Tirharad that he allowed himself to reveal his battle skills more fully, and she’d been too preoccupied with her own opponents then to notice the strange extent of them.

As Annatar, though, Sauron needs to hide much more of his talent. It must be an enormous effort for him to restrain himself so completely, but he remains ever the dedicated actor, and he plays it just right. He shows precisely the amount of grace and natural aptitude for movement that she’d expect from someone who can dance like Annatar does, but zero fighting instincts. When he accepts the sword he’s offered and takes a few experimental swings, he carries himself all wrong – his moves are beautiful, but utterly ineffective.

He stands there and listens obediently in front of their little audience while she corrects his stance, and shows him how to properly step into his swing. She sees the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as she slides her hands over his arms and shoulders to reposition him, and when she places her hand over his to adjust his grip on the weapon, she can sense how he’s revelling in it. But he focuses on the lesson, and he does emulate her carefully, following her tutorial with an earnestness that looks nothing short of sincere.

She invites him to try to strike at her, then, just like she’d done with the Númenorean soldiers back in Armenelos. The first few times, she disarms him easily; he loses his sword almost as soon as their blades clash. She knocks it out of his hand five, six, seven times before at last he manages to keep hold of it, and she gently parries his blows. Then he lands one gorgeous, arcing swing right against the middle of her blade, and although she blocks him effortlessly, the spectators all whistle and cheer and shout for him as though he has performed some near-impossible feat. She lets him get a few more attempts in, ducking deftly left and right as he swings at her some more.

And then, she disarms him once again, and their duel comes to an end. His sword spins away out of his hand, applause rippling through the small crowd as she rests her victorious blade across his chest.

“Well? How did I do?” he asks, looking down at her with that infuriating smirk. It’s exactly the same thing Halbrand said after their duel on the ship.

“Better than I expected,” she laughs, echoing her reply.

There’s a flicker of real joy in her then, that bright spark of something hopeful. Perhaps it’s the thrill of having a company to train again, and the renewed determination that it has given her. Or perhaps it’s just him, and whatever it is he does to her when she doesn’t think about it, when she just lets herself enjoy him. When she lets herself see something of Halbrand in him.

Afterwards, she watches him move instinctively toward his fallen sword, and she sees him suddenly turn mid-step, stopping himself just as he was about to kick the weapon up into his hand. Instead, he leaves it there and takes one more dramatic bow for his audience.

Galadriel walks over and flips the sword onto her foot, kicking it neatly up for him to catch.

“Very impressive,” he says, snatching it out of the air.

She smiles glibly. “I could try to teach you.”

“Mmm. Perhaps.” He leans close to her ear. “Have you ever known a lore archivist who could do that?”

“No,” she whispers back. “But you are no ordinary scholar.”

He hangs back and waits for her while she collects the swords from the departing cadets, and then the two of them walk together back to the armory to put the weapons away. Galadriel goes to shut and latch the cabinet, and when she turns around, she finds him standing directly behind her, incredibly close.

“Thank you for the lesson. Very kind of you to indulge me.” He smiles as he leans against the closed cabinet with one arm, boxing her in. His breathing is still a little ragged, as though any of that would actually have exerted him. “I enjoyed that far too much.”

“As did I,” Galadriel admits. “I don’t think I have ever seen anyone wield a sword with such... elegant incompetence.” She feels overexerted, too, her pulse speeding, her breaths still coming too fast. She is burning for him after their little skirmish, and there’s no doubt he knows it. But she’s far too caught up to be embarrassed by the way she leans closer to him instead of moving away.

The expression on his face would look smug, if not for the same desperate yearning she sees mirrored in his eyes. He’s just as caught up as she is. His gaze skims down to her lips and lingers there, like he’s seriously considering kissing her right now… and a part of her wants him to break. Oh, how she wants him to do it. She wants him to push her up against the wall right here, his greedy mouth all over her, his desire coiling into her mind. She wants to let this fire between them consume her, to let it fill her head until she forgets everything, until there isn’t room for a single question or doubt or rational thought.

But she cannot do this. No. Not with Sauron, her great enemy. Not when his grasping claws seek to ensnare her into handing him Middle Earth. This thing between them simply cannot be. She doesn’t even know what he really plans to—

“You should go,” she says hurriedly. “I have work to do yet. There is tomorrow’s roster to plan.”

“Indeed. And I’m very late to meet Celebrimbor.” He steps away from her, and the fragile moment between them shatters. “But I do hope I will have the pleasure of your company later?”

At the river remains unspoken. Or perhaps he means afterwards, in your rooms.

“Yes… of course,” she says.

His eyes stay fixed on her for just a little too long, but when Galadriel says nothing more, he finally turns around and leaves the armory.

That night, when she pulls her mind back to her rooms after their meeting by the river, he follows her with great swiftness. She senses something like impatience from him, a chaotic sort of restlessness that flows into her through their link. She has been feeling similarly all evening – caged, like when she paced back and forth in that Númenorean dungeon cell, waiting for the next thing to happen. Ever since their duel, it’s as if a fire simmers under her skin.

Sauron’s presence doesn’t leave her when she starts to unwind her braid, and he doesn’t depart when she finishes brushing out her hair. She is still wearing her clothes from the afternoon’s combat practice, the military tunic and trousers that she wore to the training ground. It is not clothing that she can drop as gracefully as she removed the dress she was wearing the last time. So when she senses that he still hasn’t left after she sets down her comb, she doesn’t slip out of her clothes. Instead, she twists her loose hair up with one hand, lifting it up off her neck, and then she tilts her head languidly to one side. She lets her gaze settle on the pale, luminous curve of her throat in the mirror, skimming her fingers over the smooth skin there – a subtle invitation that he will not resist.

She doesn’t quite know why she does it. Perhaps she just needs to free something of what she’s been holding back, to release some of the tension between them. But Sauron asks for no explanation. He just lets his mind slip further into hers, and he does not hesitate to oblige her. She closes her eyes while he reaches out to caress her, pressing a trail of spectral kisses down her neck, dragging his mouth slowly along her throat with that teasing graze of tongue and teeth.

He’s kissing her only in her mind, but the desire he unfurls in her feels exquisite. She sighs with the aching pleasure of it as she runs her own hands over her body, picturing his hands there touching her, pulling her closer. In her imagination, she has given him Halbrand’s form again; her memory supplies the feel of the Southlander’s big human hands wrapped around hers, warm and slightly rough from his work in the forge. He embraces her from behind, and she moans at the delicious scrape of his beard against her face as he slowly sucks the pointed tip of her ear into his mouth. He’s guiding her hands down to her waist, slipping them under the edge of her tunic to stroke her sides and the planes of her stomach… and she pushes the fabric up, exposing more of her skin, letting him touch more and more of her.

She can scarcely believe that they’ve managed to entangle themselves like this at such a distance. They’re in the same state of shared imagining that they slid into by accident in Khazad-Dûm, their minds joined the same way – not exactly in an illusion, just the two of them melded together in this strange amalgam of each other’s perception. And it feels so good. Her resolve not to give in had felt strong before, but now... when she’s being held by him like this... it is infinitely harder to make herself turn away.

Would it really be so terrible if she didn’t stop now? After all the questionable things she’s done, all the deceptions she has woven, all the shadowy power she has touched with him... perhaps it hardly matters anymore if she imagines herself entwined with him like this, gasping at the thought of pushing her Dark Lord’s wicked hand between her legs. It would hardly be the worst decision she’s made. This isn’t real, after all. And they will never speak of it in the real world.

But somehow, she pulls herself back, clutching at her last shreds of reason. She unwinds her mind from his, slipping out of his grasp, and Sauron does not try to keep hold of her. She feels him releasing her, reluctantly relinquishing their link – though he presses a final, lingering kiss just below her ear before he draws his mind back to himself. And then, Sauron’s presence vanishes from her rooms, as if he’d never been here at all.

Alone again, Galadriel leans dizzily against her dressing table. She catches her breath, running her fingers over the place on her neck where she last felt the heat of his mouth. What was she thinking, doing this? Sauron is playing some game with her, of that she is certain – a game in which she can only see half of the moves.

And she cannot possibly let him win.

The following day, Elrond accosts Galadriel just as she’s wrapping up an evaluation of the archers. He’s absolutely beaming, and there’s a confidence in the set of his shoulders that she hasn’t seen since before Gil-galad ordered him to take the ring. He practically runs across the courtyard to meet her. There’s an open envelope in his hand, and Galadriel glimpses the edge of the gold seal – it’s Durin’s royal emblem. A letter from Khazad-Dûm.

“Galadriel! It’s happening!” Elrond exclaims with an overjoyed smile. “And Disa will soon be with us! Isn’t this wonderful?”

“What? What’s happening with Disa?” Galadriel stares at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh!” Elrond claps a hand to his mouth, a sheepish look in his eyes. “I… thought Annatar would have told you about it already. Agh, I’m sorry! He probably wanted to preserve the surprise for you.”

“Tell me,” she insists. “What is it? Disa is coming here, to Eregion?”

“Indeed! To work with Lord Celebrimbor on a new project—” He cuts himself off, still smiling widely. “I shouldn’t say any more, I should really let them tell you for themselves. You’ll see very soon!” He looks down at the letter in his hand. “But I dare say this might actually please the High King. I truly cannot believe how well it has all turned out.”

“An idea of Annatar’s, was it?” she ventures.

Elrond nods. “It was! He takes none of the credit for it, of course – says he did nothing but suggest what was already obvious – but this never would have come together so quickly if it weren’t for him.” Elrond glances behind him and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Speaking of surprises… we’ve got one for Annatar, too. Celebrimbor is going to induct him into the guild of the elven-smiths next week! He’s done so much for us in such an incredibly short time… it only seems fitting.”

“Oh, he will be absolutely delighted at that,” Galadriel says, holding back the urge to roll her eyes.

“You must both come for dinner again soon,” says Elrond. “Perhaps when Disa arrives. We’ll have much to celebrate.”

“Of course.” Galadriel manages a stiff smile. “I... will look forward to it.”

Elrond embraces her quickly, and then he hurries off in the direction of Celebrimbor’s workshop, still clutching the letter. Galadriel watches him go with a bounce in his step, wishing she could shake off the feeling of terrible foreboding that seizes her in his wake.

After the day’s last training session, she goes to find Annatar at the library. The door to his office is standing open today – an unusual sight – and he’s sitting at his desk reading. When he glances up from his book and sees her, he looks irritatingly smug and pleased with himself. She doesn’t know if he’s smirking about Celebrimbor’s project or about what happened last night. Maybe it’s both.

“Come, come in!” He waves her inside. “And shut the door behind you. I left it open just for you. Had a feeling you’d be here today.”

“Dare I ask what everyone is so happy about? I’ve just seen Elrond, and he’s over the moon about some project of Celebrimbor’s. He said that Disa is coming?” Galadriel narrows her eyes at him as she pulls the door closed. “I thought you were convincing Celebrimbor to make more rings. But I doubt that idea would get such a warm reception from Elrond.”

“Oh, we are making more rings, don’t you worry,” Sauron says with a wink. “Quite a few more, in fact. But you didn’t want everyone to know about that, now, did you? You asked me to be cautious, and I have been. I told you I’d have it under control.”

“What have you done?” she whispers.

He laughs. “What I’ve done, Galadriel, is ensured that no one else is even going to be thinking about rings. Because the new project that Celebrimbor is about to announce is... this.” He reaches across his desk and drops a folded parchment in front of her. “Do you remember this?”

Galadriel unfolds it with trepidation, and she immediately recognizes the drawing upon it. It isn’t one of his. It’s a sketch of Disa’s, a draft of a project idea she’d been showing him on the first night they were in Khazad-Dûm.

“I remember it, of course. Disa’s design for their new gate.” Galadriel scowls down at the page. “I don’t understand how this has anything to do with—”

“It’s the next grand collaboration between the elves and the dwarves!” he interrupts, sweeping his hands apart with great drama. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Galadriel stares. “It’s… a very pretty door.”

“A magnificent door, Galadriel. A gate which will be imbued with unique magical properties never before seen, and inlaid with one of Celebrimbor’s new mithril alloys. A symbol of the enduring alliance between your two great peoples.” He looks down at the parchment as proudly as if it were his own design. When Galadriel last saw it on Disa’s drafting table, it had been an elaborate but monochrome charcoal sketch. Now, Disa’s careful outline is painted over with Celebrimbor’s additions, the stone carvings interwoven with a spiderwork of spiralling, silver-blue lines.

“Durin has long dreamt of opening a western gateway to the mountain, to facilitate trade with Eregion,” Sauron goes on. “It won’t be immediate, of course… but designing this gate is laying the groundwork. It’s showing faith in the future! We’ve invited Disa to come up here and work on a new version of the design with Celebrimbor. The project itself will be carried out at Khazad-Dûm, eventually… but for now, they’ll create a miniature prototype right here in Ost-in-Edhil, to show what can be accomplished. We’ll do a grand unveiling of the plans, with as much fanfare as possible.” He mimes unrolling an imaginary scroll, and his smile is triumphant. “Lord Celebrimbor, Master Smith of Eregion, and Khazad-Dûm’s crown princess, Disa Narvi, in a wondrous artistic collaboration. Incredible! Officially… this is Celebrimbor’s next big project. Who could object to this? There’s nothing dark or deceptive to see here. It’s a door.”

“It is a lovely distraction, I’ll grant you that,” Galadriel says. “Everyone talks about the pretty door, and Elrond looks away while you and Celebrimbor are forging rings. Is that your intention?”

“It is not only a distraction,” Sauron protests, a look of disappointment on his face. “This will do a lot of good! Another collaboration with the dwarves means another diplomatic success for Elrond, and more public confidence in his leadership. For Celebrimbor, it will be an enduring and unique achievement, a great show of his talents. His fondest wish is that the praises of his craft be sung everywhere… not only in the elven realms. How else can he hope to eclipse Fëanor?” Sauron runs his hand admiringly over the drawing, his fingertip tracing those silver-blue lines. “And think of the promise of this western gateway! For Disa and Durin, a new gate to the mountain could represent their first big accomplishment as future rulers of Khazad-Dûm. It’s a triumph all around! Show me the flaw you see in this, Galadriel. You can’t, because it is perfect. Just once, could you actually try to appreciate the efforts I make for Middle Earth?”

She sighs deeply, leaning against his desk as she locks eyes with him. He’s staring at her so earnestly, with such genuine excitement, that she has to remind herself how little he has actually told her of what he’s been doing all this time. His machinations about this artistic collaboration do not represent but a sliver of it.

“Fine,” she says. “I will try to show excitement about the door. Disa and Durin will be happy… and it is an interesting idea.”

“Disa’s letter said she looks forward to seeing us again very much,” Sauron says, folding his arms. “And, as it turns out, I do rather need her assistance in… some other matters. So it will be good to have her here for a little while.”

Galadriel’s skin prickles with apprehension at his words. What could Sauron possibly need Disa’s help with? Whatever it is, it’s undoubtedly the true reason he has orchestrated this visit from the dwarven princess. It’s why he came up with this collaboration that required Disa’s presence in the elven realm. Many new questions are swirling in Galadriel’s head, but she asks nothing further. He still has a few days left of his promised three weeks, before he’ll have to make good on all the answers she wants.

“It is nice to collaborate with friends, isn’t it?” Sauron smiles in that sly, enigmatic way that makes Galadriel feel at once suspicious and a little too warm in inconvenient places.

“Indeed,” she says. “If only these collaborations did not involve so much lying to one’s friends.”

“Galadriel,” he sighs. “There are only so many ways to get what you want. Have I not handed you a path to regaining the command Gil-galad wouldn’t give you? Have I not offered to share my power with you at every turn? I am trying. I’m doing everything I possibly can to please you.”

“Are you? Well… perhaps you should try a little harder, then.”

Sauron arches an eyebrow at that. “Mmm. Perhaps I should.” He takes the parchment with Disa’s design on it and folds it back up. “I will think on it.”

He sets the parchment aside, picks up the book he was reading and opens it again without looking at her. After he has thus ignored her for a few moments, Galadriel turns and leaves with a huff, closing his office door again behind her.

That night, when Galadriel goes to her window, it takes her a long time to find the mental focus she needs to reach for him. A part of her wonders if it’s wise to seek him out at all right now, feeling as unmoored as she has since yesterday. He has thrown her completely off-balance, and she suspects that he wants it that way.

But as annoyed as she is with him, she still cannot bring herself to abandon their nightly ritual. And she does not think about why it is that she has already removed her combat uniform, washed up, and changed into a soft, beautiful nightdress before she tries to seek him out.

The sun is almost down when she casts for him in her usual way, blanking her mind, focusing on the feeling of him until she can sense his direction. She already knows where he should be – on the platform by the Glanduin, of course – so she tries impatiently to tilt her mind’s eye in that direction.

But no... something is different tonight. She senses his presence, but the pull keeps directing her someplace else, as if he isn’t by the river at all. And she can feel him much more clearly than usual; where she normally senses only a soft flicker of his mind, tonight he feels like a bright flame, almost incandescent in her perception.

She rotates in place, tilting her head, seeking his direction. She feels herself being pulled to a point behind her... in the opposite direction to the window. An indistinct image gradually resolves in her mind: he’s somewhere indoors, walking fast, taking hurried but stealthy steps.

Where is he running off to? The library again, perhaps?

The flashes she gets of the scene around him become gradually sharper as he moves. She sees a glimpse of a wide stone staircase aglow with lantern-light, the polished stairs carved in the style of Ost-in-Edhil’s largest residence halls. Now he’s walking under an ornate archway that leads out into a great corridor – up a smaller staircase, to a landing with a very familiar gold-and-green rug on the floor— then onward, into another beautifully decorated area of the—

Galadriel’s heart leaps as she recognizes his surroundings. Sauron is here. He’s in the corridor just outside her rooms.

Well, hello, Galadriel, he says in her mind. There’s laughter in his words, a teasing note of feigned surprise. Looking for me?

Galadriel rushes to her door, her pulse racing, half disbelief and half fury at his sheer audacity. How dare he come up here unannounced, what does he think he’s—

As she flings the door open, prepared to admonish him, she sees Annatar out there in the corridor. He’s standing in the shadows just outside the nearest circle of lamplight, with the hood of his dark cloak pulled up over his head. He averts his gaze when he sees her, turning his face away toward the wall, and for a moment she doesn’t understand what he’s doing.

And then, she feels that strange, humming shockwave of power as it rolls off him, that oscillation in the air that lifts up her hair with a soft, sweeping breeze as he changes.

He throws off the hood of his cloak with a devious grin, stepping toward her… and whatever she was about to say dissolves from her lips.

He’s Halbrand.

Chapter Text

For a second, Galadriel just stands there in open-mouthed shock, staring at him. And then, she steps one foot out into the corridor and reaches out to seize him, dragging him unceremoniously through her front door. She turns and glances up and down the corridor to reassure herself that there was no one in sight before she pushes the door swiftly shut with her foot.

“Have you lost your mind?” she hisses, gripping the front of his cloak. “What are you thinking? If someone had seen you...”

He lets his gaze skim slowly over her before he speaks, looking her up and down with a slight raise of his eyebrows as he takes in her short nightdress. It’s an exceptionally pretty garment, but she is clearly dressed for bed – no elven fashion would thus reveal her knees.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with mock contrition. “Are you saying... it’s too late for a visitor?” She’d spoken to him in Quenya, but he replies in the common tongue, in Halbrand’s voice, tilting his head as if he hasn’t quite understood her.

She has come to realize that the form he takes matters little when it comes to Sauron’s effect on her; after all, she has been consumed with longing for him in his elven guise for weeks now. But the sight of Halbrand in front of her threatens to crumble her resolve entirely. Seeing him in this body, wearing the form he first seduced her in—

“What is it you’re doing here?” She glares up at him, at Halbrand’s familiar human face and smug smile. His hair is slightly dishevelled, curling at the temples like it used to do when he’d been working in the heat of the forge in Armenelos. Exactly as it was when she pictured him kissing her last night. Despite her fury, her breath hitches at the memory.

“Oh, come on, now, Galadriel.” Halbrand takes a step closer, crowding her up against the wall just beside the door. “Do you think I couldn’t perceive what was in that mind of yours yesterday, my little elf? How much you wanted my hand between your legs?” he murmurs. “If it’s your Southlander you’ve been waiting for, you could have just said so. Seems you need your favourite low man to indulge you, is that it? No elven scholar can satisfy you?”

“How dare you,” she gasps indignantly. But her whole being is ablaze with desire at the sound of that voice. She’s still holding the front of his black cloak, and her hands bunch into the fabric as she clenches it in her fists, pulling him down to her eye level. “You are so— so—”

“I’m so what?” He lowers his head until their foreheads rest together, his lips almost brushing against hers. “So what, Galadriel, hmm? Tell me what I am.”

She answers only with the press of her open, hungry mouth over his, her hands raking up into his hair as she captures him in a searing kiss. She pulls herself onto her toes to get closer to him, and he gathers her into his arms, giving in to her demand without the slightest surprise or hesitation – like he’s getting exactly what he expected. He returns her kiss instantly with the same impatient need, his tongue sliding eagerly into her mouth.

Of course, she’ll stop this in a minute, Galadriel tells herself. She will end this folly before it goes too far. But she can’t quite make herself pull away from him just yet. Not when she’s putting her hands on Halbrand like this, holding his flesh-and-blood body, feeling him respond to her touches in this perfectly imperfect mortal form that somehow makes her lose all reason. This is the first time she’s ever kissed him as Halbrand in the real world, outside of his illusions, and she can hardly believe that she finally has her Southlander here in her embrace.

Galadriel undoes the clasp on his black cloak — he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the floor without breaking their kiss — and her hands are already stroking the soft elven tunic he’s wearing beneath it. Halbrand has always looked a little out of place in elven clothing, but there’s no denying it still looks good on him. Everything looks irritatingly good on him.

His arms now unhindered by the cloak, he lifts her effortlessly up against the wall, and the thrill of it draws a broken moan from her throat. How many times has she pictured herself with Halbrand this way, him holding her against a wall in some secluded little alley in Armenelos? How many times has she imagined the soft scratch of his beard over her cheek, and down her neck, and all over her—

But then, like a splash of cold water, she suddenly perceives the bitter truth of it all too clearly. Sauron is mocking her.

He hasn’t said anything aloud, he hasn’t done anything outwardly – he’s still kissing her, still pressing her against the wall like he can’t keep his mouth or his hands off her. But it seems they have opened that channel between their minds again, because she can sense the surface of his emotions, a faint jumble of his thoughts. She can feel his mind there, drifting against hers... and his feelings are all self-congratulatory triumph and diabolical glee. In his head, he’s laughing at the swiftness of her capitulation, at how lost she is, as if this is the most amusing thing in the world to him.

“Stop!” She shoves him away from her, and he lets her feet drop back to the floor as he stumbles backwards.

Halbrand raises both of his palms defensively in front of him, like she might be about to pull out a dagger. He looks terribly confused. “Galadriel! What? What did I do—”

“Don’t play games with me, Sauron,” she snarls. “You were mocking me.”

“What! No, I was not! What are you—”

“You opened your mind to me, you fool! I perceived your feelings!” She wraps her arms around herself like a shield. “What is it that you found so terribly funny, just now? Why did I sense such amusement in your mind?”

He’s laughing in the real world now, too. But there’s no malice in his expression, he’s just looking at her with Halbrand’s teasing grin, his eyes shining with mirth. “Oh, my silly little elf,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry if you cannot see the humor in this, but it will never cease to delight me. I was only thinking of how I could take any fair form in the world, how I could wear any magnificent body or beautiful face for you... and yet, none of them would ever stir your passions quite as quickly as your beloved Southlander. It does amuse me that my indomitable queen will always desire me most in the shape of a scruffy mortal man.”

“Mind your tongue. I am not your queen.”

“I did use the future tense,” he smiles.

She does not smile back, and she keeps her distance from him. If she doesn’t look directly at him, she might yet hope to recover her dignity, and manage some semblance of composure. “Enough,” she says through gritted teeth. “You would have me believe that this is all just a funny little diversion to you. That it simply amuses you, the fact that we… desire one another this way.” She sighs. “I admit that I have enjoyed some of what has passed between us… and that I have enjoyed you, perhaps more than I should. But I do see through you. I have not forgotten what you are. And I know what it is that you truly seek.”

“And what is that, then, Galadriel?” He folds his arms and draws himself up to his full height, looking down at her as if in challenge. “Do tell. What is it that I truly seek?”

“My compliance,” she bites out. “You think of nothing but your ambitions to conquer Middle Earth… and you’d make of me another conquest. You do not want a queen, but a powerful servant to do your bidding – someone to bow endlessly to your will, as you once did for Morgoth. I am but another creature you hope to control and manipulate, by whatever means necessary.”

He shakes his head, looking at her with something like disappointment in his eyes. “You don’t really believe that.”

“Do not tell me what I believe, Sauron.”

“Galadriel… don’t do this. Please. Don’t turn away from me.” He steps closer again, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I will not deny that I want many things from you, and that I have grand designs for our future – I’ve made no secret of that. I want to see you leading my armies, to watch them rise under your brilliant and terrifying command. I want you on a throne at my side, wearing the most gorgeous crown that I’ve ever forged. I want us to save and rule Middle Earth together. I want you to bind yourself to me for all the ages of this world… as I would bind myself to you.” He leans closer. “But those things can wait. I told you already, I can be very patient. I seek none of that here, tonight.”

“Then what is it?” Her voice shakes. “What is it that you seek here… tonight?”

“Only you, Galadriel,” he whispers. “I wish to forget everything else, and shut the world out. I need to see you senseless with pleasure, like you were that night in the forest… I need to feel that again.” One of his hands still rests on her shoulder, while he raises the other to cup her chin the way he once did on their raft. “Is that not what you want as well? To see your Dark Lord in your thrall... at your mercy, drowning himself in your light? To show your great enemy just how weak you can make him? To... have him beg for you?”

She senses a shift in him then, something eager and hopeful. He can feel how very close she is to giving in when he speaks with Halbrand’s voice and looks at her like that. He knows how much she wants to grasp at any possible rationalization, even if she doesn’t really believe him. But he—

“Do you need to hold a blade to my throat so you can justify yourself, Galadriel?” He sinks slowly to his knees in front of her. And then he wraps his arms around her legs, and lays his head against her nightdress at the join of her thighs, right where her body pleads for him. “Make me your servant, if that is what you wish. I am kneeling at your feet... look at me. Let me give you what you want, Galadriel. Please.”

“You mean… what you want,” she gasps. But her hands are already tangling into his hair, dragging him back up to her, her words half lost under his lips as she kisses him.

“We,” he says when they break apart. “What we want. Say it.”

Another kiss, their mouths colliding impatiently before he pulls back again.

“Unless... perhaps you’d like me to leave instead?” he murmurs. “Would you banish your shipwrecked Southlander, cast him back into the sea?” He remains with his head inclined to her, his lips right next to hers, awaiting her response.

“No,” she whispers breathlessly. “Don’t leave.”

What is she saying? Of course he should leave. He shouldn’t even be here in the first place. And yet… perhaps it would be better if he stayed, long enough to quench this terrible need in her. Just this one time, and then she might let these deranged fantasies be done with.

“Don’t leave, because...?” he prompts her. This time, he moves his head slightly out of reach when she goes to kiss him. “Because we…?”

“Because... we want this. I want you. Light help me, I do.” She lets the treacherous words spill out quickly, before she can think too much about them, and he practically glows with victory. “But I have not changed my mind about anything else, do you understand?” she adds. “Just because I let you walk into my bedchamber once, do not presume that I’ll ever—”

He silences her with his hot, greedy mouth, smothering the rest of her words. And then he picks Galadriel up and swings her into his arms, and she lets him carry her over to her bed.

Everything about this feels startlingly strange with him. Not only because of the long centuries that have passed since she last shared her bed, but because she has never felt quite so unbalanced by another person’s closeness. In Númenor, the sheer intensity of her longing for Halbrand had shocked and fascinated her in equal measure. Of course, she’d felt the battle-fever many times in the past, those heated moments of foolishness after facing peril with a companion. And more than once, she’d found herself seized with the kind of attraction that the ways of the Eldar denied to her after she’d lost her husband. But to want someone else this much – and a mortal man, no less – seemed completely ridiculous. She remembers how she lay awake at night burning with desire in Armenelos, and how she could not sleep until she had soothed that relentless ache between her thighs, imagining that Halbrand was there in her bed.

“Mmm. Maybe you should have come to me in Armenelos... to do something other than shout at me,” he murmurs as he lays her down on the bed. She realizes that he has once again perceived what she was thinking. “When I was working after hours at the forge all alone… all I could ever think of was you. You... and how absolutely infuriating you were... and how very badly I wanted to lay you down on that workbench… and just… mmm...”

She is overwhelmed by the realness of him in this moment, the feel of Halbrand’s rough fingers wandering over her exposed skin, the way he’s pressing small, sucking kisses against her collarbone as he speaks. He lies next to her on the bed, his hands migrating down her body as he starts gathering up the hem of her short nightdress. He lets his fingers skim teasingly up her legs, caressing her thighs, and she’s aching with want.

When he finally pushes his hand up higher, she feels his conceited little thrill as he discovers that she isn’t wearing any undergarments. Thankfully, he has the good sense not to comment on it. He just finds his way right to the needful, molten heat of her, and despite how many times she’s imagined him touching her like this, she still gasps at the brazen intimacy of it.

“Like this?” he murmurs. “Did you think of my hand like this, when you wanted me last night?” He strokes and circles her with maddeningly light touches before he starts sliding his fingers slowly inside her.

Galadriel refuses to answer him out loud, but her hips are already arching against that delicious pressure, imploring him for more. She can’t hold back a little whimper of pleasure. And then, just as he pushes his fingers deeper, he slips himself further into her mind. She senses his intoxicating, smoky presence coiling into all the spaces between her thoughts, and everything she feels suddenly amplifies.

He is not gentle with her, but nor is he too forceful. When they’re connected like this, he can feel what she feels, and he easily maps his route to unravel her. As he strokes into her, he kisses her with the same rhythm, drawing soft little moans from her, flicking his tongue into her mouth like he’s tasting every sound she makes. He coaxes her higher and higher, her blossoming delight reverberating into him before it echoes back to her. It returns to her tangled up with fragments of his own lust and longing and gratitude – an emotion that wholly surprises her when she recognizes it. It is precisely as he said; he is drowning himself in the glow of her pleasure, revelling in it, grasping covetously for it, as if he can hardly believe that she’s letting him feel this.

It doesn’t take him long at all to bring her to the brink of sweet oblivion. He’s got her right on the edge, desperate for just a little bit more as she writhes against his hand. He brings her so very, very close before he eases his fingers away – she mumbles a gasping plea – and then he swiftly drops to his knees next to the bed and tugs her toward him. He shoves her nightdress up the rest of the way to her waist as he bites a quick line of kisses up her inner thigh, nudging her legs apart to make more room for himself. He kisses higher still, up and up until his hot mouth is pressed right between her legs. And then he licks one long, slow stripe into her and she’s shattering under his tongue, keening with the force of her release. He continues to lick and suck at her as she shudders through that rising wave, wringing every last glimmer of pleasure out of her.

Galadriel has never been so thoroughly undone, nor felt a release anywhere near so intense. As she comes down from her peak, still gasping for breath, she knows he definitely witnessed that thought, because she feels all the triumph and pride and gratification that beams from him after he perceives it. And he thinks: Wait... I can give you more. For an instant, she glimpses his mind laid open to her even more clearly than before. She feels the way he craves power and weakness at the same time; he wants her begging for him and he wants to bow down at her feet; he wants to command her just as much as he wants to be leashed to her will. Let me show you, Galadriel. Let me show you what your king and your servant can do.

He lifts her knees up over his shoulders, resuming his ministrations with both his fingers and tongue, and he entangles his mind more tightly around hers. He pours his own blazing desire into her through their link, and the fierce heat of it sends her straight back over the edge, harder than before. She’s delirious with the knowledge of just how badly he wants her, and her legs clamp around his shoulders as she arches back in ecstasy. He does not even let her come down this time; he immediately coaxes her higher again until she’s almost sobbing with pleasure, pleading for more and for mercy at once while his tongue draws that incandescent release from her for a third time.

She cries out his name – Halbrand – and he finally lets her go. She collapses onto the bed, and he falls against her, still kneeling on the floor, his face pressed into her bare thigh.

Her body feels languidly satisfied; she’s basking in the soft aftershocks of that overwhelming delight. But as she lies there flushed and spent, Galadriel realizes that she is in the strangest state of duality. Because at the same time, she’s somehow still burning with pent-up desire. She’s feeling that unslaked need in him that’s been stoked to a fever pitch, begging to be relieved. It’s as if she has not just been deliciously undone moments ago – because his hunger is still flooding her through their link.

She pulls him up from the floor by his shoulders and drags him back up to her on the bed, gathering him into her arms with a demanding kiss. He obliges her indulgently, and his tongue tastes like her, and she’s dizzy with wanting more of him. His disjointed thoughts are already supplying her with extremely vivid promises of more pleasure; he’s imagining of the two of them entwined in so many different ways. He will give her anything she wants, if only she will let him.

His hands rake up into her hair, tangling it around his fingers as he kisses her again and again. He’s lying halfway on top of her now, pressing himself into her thigh – he’s still fully dressed in his fine elven clothing, but the thin, loose trousers he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to conceal his shape or how very hard he is against her. He’s in an utterly indecent state.

Galadriel rolls him onto his back and swings her leg over him, pinning him to the bed, just like she did in that illusion. Her hand slides down to stroke the length of him over the straining fabric of his trousers… and the desperate sound he makes beneath her almost undoes her then and there. His mind is a chaos of want. He’s so hungry for her; he is thinking of nothing at all except being inside her, on top of her, under her, surrounded by her, oh, how he needs her—

As Galadriel’s impatient hands rush to undress him, as she lets him tug her pretty nightdress over her head and kiss her everywhere, she cannot pause to contemplate what she’s doing. The truth of it is inescapable: she’s breaking every remaining vow that she has still clung to, and abandoning everything she believed she was. She’d already been willing to turn her back on the elven customs for Halbrand; she had come so close to it before. But this, oh, this… to do this with Sauron, how can she ever—

She had thought that her fierce Noldor pride would never recover if she allowed herself to fall to the Dark Lord’s seduction. After everything she knows of his lies and deception and treachery, after all the unspeakable evil he’s wrought, after how terribly long she has hunted him… surely she could fall no lower than this. Surely there could be no greater proof of her weakness than letting him claim her in her own bedchamber, leaving her resolve in ruin. But seeing him like this, caged between her bare thighs... she has never felt more powerful.

He’s staring up at her with wide-eyed wonder, his lips half parted, gazing upon her as if she contains all the light of the Two Trees. This terrifying, ancient being – this creature who once sang the world into existence, who can wield the power meant for a Vala – would make her his equal. Would beg her to be his queen. She kneels over him and looks down at her great enemy, lying under her in the naked body of a mortal man, trembling with desire for her... and she feels radiant.

“Galadriel,” he whispers hoarsely, his hands reaching up to caress her. “Galadriel...”

Perhaps she has known all along, deep down, that she was never going to stop. Perhaps there never was any turning back from this.

She takes a deep breath and lowers her hips, reaching her hand between them to guide him as she lines herself up to him. She slides down slowly, slowly, letting him fill her until he’s sheathed all the way inside her. His hands clench over her thighs, and he tips his head back with an obscene growl of pleasure as she settles herself on top of him. And then they start to move together, joined in that same astonishing synchronicity that they find in everything, their bodies and minds blurring into one another.

She’s immediately flooded with all their combined sensations, and she can no longer form a rational thought. All she knows is the shape of Halbrand’s warm body molded to hers – the sublime way he stretches her, the flex of his muscled shoulders under her hands, his hips rolling to meet hers as she rides him. She feels the delicious sting of her own nails raking into him; she perceives how much he enjoys it when the waterfall of her golden hair brushes over his chest. She discovers the exact little squeeze of her thighs that brings him to the brink of his control, because when he groans with the exquisite torture of it, she feels it too. He’s devouring her with rough, greedy kisses, his mouth roaming every last inch of her that he can reach while he fucks her… and she feels everything.

They crash over each other like storm waves, colliding like a force of nature, driving into one another with that insatiable need that’s been building between them since Númenor. She feels the wild tendrils of his power unfurling as he surges against her harder and harder, and she can no longer hold back the cascade of pleasure that’s overwhelming her. They demolish one another, chasing their entangled release until he’s moaning incoherently, until she forgets every word except more and yes and please, until they break against each other in gasping unison – their minds so entwined that they could do nothing else.

Afterwards, he lies wrapped around her, holding her tightly against him as she curls up in his arms. He clutches her to his chest with a possessiveness that might have unsettled her if she were not so thoroughly mollified. But she doesn’t want him to loosen his hold; she doesn’t want him to let go of her at all. He rests his chin on her shoulder and buries his scruffy face in the crook of her neck, where she feels his soft breaths steadying against her skin.

He barely needs to sleep anymore, he has told her – but she knows that he can sleep, and he relaxes like this when he needs to restore his power or when he wants to calm himself. She can feel him slipping into a dreamlike state now, his mind a soft blur that remains very much open to her, as if he’s inviting her to slide into a dream with him. This is so wrong, of course it is wrong – he shouldn’t be here, this should never have happened – and yet all Galadriel can feel is good. There’s nowhere she wants to be more than here, drifting in this languid haze with the Dark Lord she swore to destroy.

His surface thoughts and feelings float in her mind alongside her own, and she sifts gently through them as she’s falling asleep with him. She can perceive precisely the kind of smug satisfaction that she’d expect from him after what happened between them – that glow of proud self-congratulation – and she senses the flame of his future ambitions burning brightly. An image of two thrones shines vividly in his head. But there’s also something new there, something fleeting that hides at the very edges of his awareness. A feeling he’s almost afraid to look at – a fragile glimmer of happiness.

Galadriel doesn’t intend to pry deeper into his mind. It is only that little flicker of happiness she’s trying to see; her mind’s eye can’t help following the golden thread of it, pursuing its faint shimmer. She observes it delicately, without disturbing it, the same way she follows the pull of their connection when she searches for him. And then, she discovers where he keeps this small, secret feeling. The slender thread of it disappears, and she’s facing a smooth, featureless black wall – the same barrier that he puts up when he’s in the library; the wall that surrounds all the things he doesn’t want anyone to see.

She looks up, and from here she can see that the wall belongs to an imposing black tower, a structure of sharp angles and thick stone foundations. A fortress that Sauron has built inside his mind. Without thinking, Galadriel imagines reaching out and laying her hands flat against that cold, dark surface. And there, under her fingers, she is shocked to find the edge of a small crack.

She looks closer, examining the polished black stone. Here, when she is so very near to it, she can see that the smooth, impenetrable wall is not actually unbroken at all. In fact, there are many cracks in it. It’s covered in dark webs of damage, like wounds in the stone that run up and down one whole side of the tower. And when she skims her hand over the fractures, an understanding comes to her at once – this damage was caused when Sauron wielded the shadow blade.

When the shadow blade vision trapped him, that echo of Morgoth’s will ripped open Sauron’s mind, leaving all these deep cracks in his defenses. She can see, too, how hard he’s been working to patch up this wall. She can sense the low hum of Sauron’s power here, and she perceives just how much of his focus and his willpower has been devoted to covering over these cracks, to maintaining the shield that’s guarding the breaches.

In some places, the damaged wall is reinforced with bright filaments of light, and a silvery glow fills some of the cracks, like the veins of mithril that webbed through the walls in Khazad-Dûm. Galadriel recognizes something of her own power here – this must be what they did together in the chasm, when she pulled him out of the vision and they pushed Morgoth’s echo out of his head.

Fascinated as she is, Galadriel is about to pull back from Sauron’s mind before he detects her accidental intrusion. But just before she retreats, she suddenly perceives something else. Something that sends a horrified chill up her spine.

She can feel another presence here.

A dark and creeping thing, ephemeral but insistent, is scratching at that black stone wall, seeking entry. It’s probing the damage, clawing and groping at the cracks, searching for a breach to climb into this fortress that Sauron keeps in his mind.

In the real world, she feels Halbrand shift against her in bed. His arms tighten around her until she can barely breathe, his body tensing, and he makes a pained, whimpering sound like he’s having a nightmare. He starts mumbling something under his breath, words she can’t understand. And in his mind, Galadriel feels the shield around his tower intensifying, reinforcing his protections, pushing away that shadowy intrusion. She cannot see the thing, yet she can still feel it here clearly: it has not departed. It draws away only briefly, and a moment later it’s back to scratching again, clawing at those cracks in the tower with the same persistent malevolence.

Galadriel reacts with a warrior’s instinct. From her own mind, she quickly summons an image of light, and she envisions pushing it toward the tower, pouring it into the shield in the place where Sauron was reinforcing it. As her light strikes it, the shield pulses and amplifies again, and then there’s another reverberating surge of Sauron’s power blazing forth from the tower.

This time, the scratching thing swiftly recoils from the wall. It scrabbles for a short time against the onslaught of his power, and then its sharp claws lose their grip completely.

As the presence falls away from his mind, Galadriel senses a tumultuous burst of feelings and impressions from it. Surprise. Fury. And... recognition. Just before it disappears, its invisible eye turns on her, spearing her with its icy gaze as it sees her there.

And then, it is gone.

Chapter Text

Galadriel wakes with the sunrise, surfacing from a soft, comforting dream of the seaside. She found herself in the same oddly familiar building she first saw in her dream in Khazad-Dûm, stepping barefoot onto the same wide balcony, with those wispy curtains being lifted by the sea-breeze. And there was that same feeling of perfect, deep-down contentment in her heart – the kind of harmonious calm that reminds her of being in Valinor while the Trees still shone.

She doesn’t want to wake up from it. But the training sessions start early when she holds one in the morning. She should really be out of bed not long after that sunbeam starts streaming over her pillows.

As Galadriel starts to stir grudgingly back into consciousness, something tugs insistently at her memory. There was something else about her dreams that she had wanted to remember, wasn’t there? Something important, she thinks, something she told herself she must not forget. She has a vague, unsettling recollection of a black tower, its walls cleaved with deep cracks… and a feeling that something was clawing for a way inside, something that slithered and lurked at the very edge of her perception. It’s as if her mind can’t quite hold on to the image for long enough to make any sense of it. Instead, she’s being drawn back toward that windswept balcony, lulled by the salt breeze over her face and the sun-warmed stone under her feet and the blissful absence of worry.

But no, no – she has to get up. Up. Must get up now.

Galadriel rolls over, willing herself fully awake. And then, her eyes snap wide open with the strangest realization: the sunbeam from her window is falling across her rumpled covers at a slightly different angle than usual. The window in her room is somehow in… a different place?

She throws the covers off and sits bolt upright in bed… and she sees what has happened. Her bed has slid partway across the floor, and is now turned askew from the wall. On the rug beside the bed, there’s a scattering of books and trinkets that have all fallen out of the adjoining bookcase, shaken loose from their shelves.

And there’s her inside-out nightdress, also on the floor. Her heart somersaults into her throat.

Oh.

She may not be able to recall the whole of her fragmented dreams, but she immediately remembers every second of what happened in this room last night. This time, it had been no illusion, no accidental shared fantasy. No. It really happened. And any lines she might yet have thought to draw between them have well and truly been crossed.

Sauron – her greatest enemy, her temporary ally, her most terrible temptation – came to her here, in the stronghold of her bedchamber. Her hands clutch at her tangled sheets as the vivid recollections of it fill her head. Him kissing her hard against the wall by the door, kneeling in front of her, pleading to please her. Him carrying her to the bed, lifting her legs over his shoulders, unravelling her with the swirl of his unholy tongue. Him naked in her bed, in the body of her Southlander smith, moaning her name with Halbrand’s voice while she rocked on top of him.

He was here, and she did not refuse him.

The other side of Galadriel’s bed is empty now; Sauron must have collected his clothes and left before the sun came up. She lets out a long breath of relief – his powers of concealment might be great, but there is no way a bystander could overlook the implications if anyone were seen leaving her rooms at daybreak. These halls are far too full of prying eyes, and the wayward commander of the Northern Armies is already too prone to attracting rumours. She knows very well that the city gossips would love something new to whisper about her. It’s all for the best that he departed under cover of darkness – and that she does not have to face him now.

As Galadriel stands up from the bed and stretches, she feels how her entire body aches in various delicious ways, as if she could possibly forget the source of her exertion. And when she goes to her dressing table and looks in the mirror, she startles a little at her own nude reflection. Her hair is a mess of tangles and snarls where he wound his fingers so tightly into it. Her cheeks are pink, flushed hot with her recollections – and she can feel a matching heat blooming between her thighs, where that sweet soreness reminds her how unfathomably good he felt inside her. She is covered in the marks of his kisses, the aftermath of Halbrand’s insatiable mouth trailing down her neck to her collarbone, over her breasts and all the way across her chest. She skims her fingers over her tender skin, all the places where he licked and sucked her, dragging his scruff and his teeth over her while she demanded more and more.

She looks… utterly debauched. There was a time when she might have flinched under her own scrutinizing gaze, when she might have wanted to pick up a dagger and smash that mirror before she crumpled under the weight of her bad decisions. She might have wondered if she’d finally lost her footing one too many times, having strayed so very far from the ways of the Eldar… having broken all her long-held vows. But Galadriel stares unflinchingly at her reflection, looking directly into her own ice-blue eyes with the same defiance she showed to Gil-galad when he dared to question her. She feels the same unbroken pride that kept her shoulders straight and her chin up when she confronted Míriel in that throne room. She stares herself down, and she refuses to blink. She is of the Noldor; defiance has always come to her more easily than it should.

Here and now... she feels anything but diminished by what she has done. She feels stronger. Determination runs fierce and hot in her veins, a battle-readiness that has her hands flexing unconsciously, ready to lift her sword. She is the same as she has always been – she remains Galadriel – and perhaps she is more. After all, she, too, is a great adversary to be feared. She, too, could become a terrifying creature, a queen with claws and teeth who dares to touch the darkness.

Before she knew him for what he truly was, she’d asked Halbrand once if he would work on her the same way he crafted his weapons. In a moment of foolish flirtation, she’d asked him if he would forge her into a shield or a sword, when he lifted her onto his workbench in a dream. Back then, she’d still thought him a smith from the Southlands, and she had imagined that this mortal man could somehow remake her – that the feeling between them might repair whatever it was that had broken inside her long ago. But she wonders, now, if it is she who will make of him a fearsome sword to wield.

Make me your servant, if that is what you wish.

Fingolfin once stood bravely alone against Morgoth, and wounded him at the cost of his own life. But Galadriel would brandish a far deadlier weapon: Morgoth’s most formidable and ruthless servant… now become hers. Sauron the Abhorred, reforged into something new and even more powerful under her hands. Her pulse quickens at the thought of it. No elf has ever wielded such a monstrous weapon, nor held such an admirable shield.

Galadriel thinks of it while she dresses quickly and efficiently for the morning’s combat training, pulling on a high-necked white shirt that mostly hides the evidence of her Dark Lord’s ravenous affections. She thinks of it as she reaches for her comb and works out all the tangles he left in her hair. She thinks of it while her fingers nimbly weave a long braid that she coils around her head, pinning it into place.

She fixes the last loose strands, admiring herself in the mirror, holding her head even straighter.

And for just a moment, she pictures a glowing crown sitting upon her brow.

Chapter Text

Before she leaves, Galadriel quickly puts the room right. She gathers up all the books and trinkets from the floor, shoving them back into their shelves. She straightens the bed and pushes it back to its proper place. By now she is dangerously close to actually being late for training, so she swiftly laces up her boots and runs down the stairs, heading out toward the armory.

After sprinting most of the way to the training ground, she still feels energized and alive with purpose. But as she starts to take out the equipment in the armory, the memory of Morgoth’s beasts swarming at the city wall suddenly seizes her with a cold chill. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears like drums, and she has to grab hold of the cabinet door to steady herself.

Something dark and strange is still pulling at her thoughts, and she cannot shake the sense that there’s something she’s forgotten – something she should really know. No time, no time, no time. That vague memory presses uncomfortably at the back of her mind, like a fragment of another dream that spoke of dread and disaster. Of Morgoth returned, of darkness spreading over Middle Earth. Of a gathering storm.

She knows with deep certainty that this simply cannot be allowed to happen; it must not come to pass. Morgoth must not be unleashed to destroy the world that she has fought so hard to protect. She cannot stand by while he reignites the war that cost her so much. And nor can she let him take back his unwilling servant. She will fight. She has never been able to stop fighting, and she is not about to back down now.

Sauron is hers; whether she means to kill him or make him her weapon or claim him as her king, his fate is hers to decide.

Before she realizes what she’s doing, Galadriel punches the front of the nearest cabinet. She hits it again and again with a feral scream, smashing it hard enough to splinter the wood with her fist, bloodying her knuckles before she catches herself and reins it back in.

Shit. Trembling, she leans against the cabinets and catches her breath, looking at the door behind her to check that no one witnessed her outburst. Thankfully, the armory is completely empty. She waits a minute more to calm herself, closing her eyes tightly as she clenches and unclenches her fist, wincing against the pain. And then, she finally heads for the training ground, where her company awaits her orders.

Galadriel pushes the morning’s cohort hard, putting them through only the most difficult parts of their drills. She makes them repeat their battle exercises without pause until it’s almost midday, when she finally pairs them off and has them duel each other in single combat. She takes on the strongest of the soldiers herself, one to one, and she gives them no slack whatsoever. She disarms them relentlessly, knocks them into the dirt, pins them down with brutal efficiency, demonstrating just how unpracticed and unprepared they truly are.

It’s an exceptionally hot day – probably one of the last scorching days of late summer – but no one dares to ask for a break or reach for water as she screams at them: “Again! Again! Not good enough, come on, let’s see it again!” No sooner have they scrambled back to their feet than she orders them to pick up their swords and get back to it, over and over, until some of them are staggering to stand up.

It’s only when Elrond arrives and interrupts the training session that she finally looks away from her charges. He shouts her name and waves her over to the side of the yard, and as soon as her attention is elsewhere for a moment, the others all lower their swords and rush gratefully for their water-skins.

“Galadriel?” Elrond is looking at her with something between consternation and dismay as she approaches him. He's carrying his cloak folded under his arm, and his fancy sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in the midday heat. “Should you not be breaking up for lunch by now? What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps. “I am training this city’s only line of defense... if you can even call it that. Our forces are a shambles. What do you think will happen if Morgoth strikes us?”

“Morgoth?” Elrond frowns, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder and holding it there. He looks at her like she might be suffering from heatstroke. “You mean... Sauron, do you not? Surely you don’t think that Morgoth—”

“What difference does it make?” she growls. “One Dark Lord is like another, does it even matter? These soldiers are unprepared, Elrond! We could come under attack at any moment! Do you not remember what happened at the wall, how the city was nearly overrun with those foul beasts?”

“Galadriel. I remember, of course I do, but… please. Just breathe. Here, have some water.” Elrond speaks softly, with such worry and kindness in his eyes that she finally throws her sword down and grudgingly takes the water-skin he’s offering her.

His concerned gaze lingers on her as he notices the dried blood caked over her shredded knuckles – she hasn’t bothered to bandage her hand after she punched the cabinet. She’s covered in dirt from the training field, and she can feel several loose strands of her hair sticking to her forehead, having escaped from the circle of her braid. Sweat is pouring down her face, stinging her eyes under the blistering midday sun. As she drinks, Galadriel unconsciously reaches up and loosens her cloyingly tight collar, pouring water over her tipped-back head, letting it run down her face and throat. And when she opens her eyes and looks back to him, Elrond is clearly staring at the bruises on her neck.

“Galadriel, I… I think... you need to calm down,” he says, glancing back over at her company. “You’re exhausting them, and yourself. It’s far too hot out for this.”

“Too hot out for this?” She shoves the empty water skin back into his hands, then reaches up and tightens the laces on her collar, closing it back up so harshly that she almost chokes herself. “Do you believe the forces of darkness care about the temperature? Do you suppose it was too cold when we crossed the treacherous ice? You have tasked me with this training, Elrond, so trust that I know what is needed here! When I tell you that you have not seen what I have seen—”

He takes a step back defensively. “All right... all right,” he says, his voice strangely nervous. “Just… whenever you’re finished here, please come to see me in the council hall. I must speak to you in private, about a matter of some urgency.” He lowers his voice. “It is about Lord Celebrimbor.”

When Galadriel has dismissed the tired soldiers from the training session, she walks briskly to the city council hall where Elrond spends his days. A part of her fears that some impromptu meeting has been called, and she wonders vaguely if she should have changed out of her filthy combat clothes before facing the city representatives. But when she arrives, she finds that Elrond is sitting alone in his office, and there isn’t anyone else waiting for a meeting. He’s been installed in the lavish study that used to be reserved for the High King’s use, and he sits behind the same wide gilded desk where Gil-galad always works when he’s in Ost-in-Edhil. It could not be more clear, now, that Elrond speaks for the elven-king in his absence – even the wax seal that he uses to seal his letters bears Gil-galad’s crest.

Galadriel sits down in the chair in front of the desk, disconcerted by how strong the High King’s presence feels in this space. It’s almost as if Gil-galad’s frosty stare is still upon her.

“What’s happened, then, Elrond?” she asks, a little too curtly. “Yesterday, you were thrilled with the plans for Celebrimbor’s new project. Yet today, you come to my training ground with an air of all the same suspicions that Gil-galad would have you harbour.”

“I will speak plainly,” Elrond says, “and I trust you will keep this between us. There is something strange going on with Lord Celebrimbor.”

“Oh?” She grits her teeth, carefully keeping any emotion from her face. “What kind of strange?”

“I’ve learned that for at least two days now, Celebrimbor has allowed none of the other smiths into his workshop. And when I went to see him yesterday to tell him that Disa will be on her way, even I wasn’t admitted.” Elrond is twisting the ring of power around and around on his finger again. “And now, today... I’ve been told that Celebrimbor has turned out all of the assistants for the remainder of the week. He told them they aren’t needed. It seems he is working on something alone.”

“Alone?” Her heartbeat skips. “Is… is no one else with him at all?”

“Only Annatar has seen him. Celebrimbor seems willing to talk to him, but no one else.”

“And?” she presses. “So, what did Annatar say on the matter? You’ve spoken to him, I’m sure?”

“Yes, I spoke to him this morning. He has seen nothing of concern, only that Celebrimbor is hard at work on perfecting the new mithril alloy – the one he plans to use for the dwarven door. Apparently, he wishes to work on it in peace ahead of Disa’s arrival. He is working on nothing else, so he has found a little time to help Annatar with his study of that artifact you brought back from the Southlands.”

“Hmm,” Galadriel says neutrally. “That sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

“But, Galadriel… I… I don’t think that is the whole of it.” Elrond’s eyes skirt downward, avoiding hers. “I’m afraid that I must take the High King’s order seriously. I need confirmation of exactly what Celebrimbor is doing in the workshop. And I do not want to risk any further disruption to our diplomatic overtures with the dwarves – it has been too fraught already. Disa will be here soon.”

“And you want me to—”

“It would make me feel better, yes. If you could try to find out for yourself.” He sighs. “I’m sure it’s nothing sinister, and I know I may well be overreacting, but… you know what we spoke about a few weeks ago. With everything that has happened... I simply cannot rest until I know it without a doubt. I hope Celebrimbor will confide in you. You supported him in the making of the rings, even in the face of Gil-galad’s reluctance.”

“So did you,” Galadriel points out.

“Nonetheless. As I told you, I fear our great smith would no longer bring me into his confidence with anything he does not wish to reach the High King’s ears. You are perhaps the only one he would tell what he’s really working on. And... if Celebrimbor is doing anything untoward with that dark artifact without Annatar’s knowledge...” Elrond lowers his head, his fingers toying with the ring as he speaks. “To Annatar, this interest in Morgoth’s arts is purely an academic pursuit. He is not from Middle Earth, and when it comes to war, he has seen even less than I. Perhaps he does not fully understand how dangerous this knowledge could be in the wrong hands. The best of us can so easily be deceived when our own intentions are good... surely you know this all too well, Galadriel.”

Galadriel nods, her throat suddenly much too dry. “All right. I… I shall see what I can find out.”

“Time is of the essence,” Elrond says, and that sense of foreboding stirs in the back of Galadriel’s mind again. That memory, like a dark, scratching claw. That storm, brewing. Time is running out.

“Understood.”

“I must write to Gil-galad tomorrow with an update,” Elrond says. “I intend to tell him that Celebrimbor will be working with Disa on designing that door… and that we have made promising diplomatic progress with the dwarves, regarding a future new gateway to the mountain. But… I need to set my mind at rest about this business with him closing the workshop before I can send that letter away. And I need assurance that the project with Disa will go ahead.”  He looks across the desk at her with that wide-eyed, hopeful look. “I can trust you with this, Galadriel, can’t I? I know there are still secrets between us, and it continues to pain me that it must be so. But this—”

“I have kept no secret from you that endangers the elven realms,” Galadriel says confidently. “Whatever I have done, and whatever decisions I have made... from the moment I told Celebrimbor to continue with the rings after I learned the truth about Halbrand... I have never acted against the interests of the elves. And I never would. You know that, Elrond. You know me.”

“Of course,” Elrond says, and she tells herself that he does not look doubtful.

She tells herself that it’s all true. Because it is… it is. She has only ever done what was best for the future of the elves. Sometimes the perilous path is the only path, and she has made the alliances that she must in order to save Middle Earth.

Save, or rule? Perhaps they really aren’t so different. After all, how can you repair something without the control you need to steer it to safety? How can you save it when you are made powerless to guide it? She is reminded, strangely, of her panicked mount on the night she first wielded the shadow blade, the way her terrified horse ran headlong down that rocky slope in the rain, oblivious to the risk of breaking its legs. It was only by pulling hard on the reins, by forcing its path back to level ground, that she managed to avert catastrophe. Is that what Sauron meant, on the raft? Perhaps the only way to save Middle Earth from Morgoth is to bend it to their will, whatever it takes. It seems so clear, suddenly. How did she miss it before?

“I shall see what I can learn about Celebrimbor. I will speak with him tonight,” she says. “I promise it.”

“Thank you.” Elrond reaches over the desk and tightly clasps her uninjured hand. “And… Galadriel?”

“Yes?”

“The other thing you have kept hidden from me... about Annatar?” He gives her a warm, gentle smile. “I know. And I... I do understand. I’ve known it since I saw you two dancing on the night of Celebrimbor’s banquet. I’ve known it every time I hear him speak of you in your absence… and every time I’ve seen you together since.”

“You’ve – what?” Her voice comes out a half-whisper.

“I am fond of him, too. We all are – though surely none more than you. It’s why I’ve encouraged Celebrimbor to induct him into the guild. To make it clear to him that he is welcome to stay here in Eregion... indefinitely.” There are tears glimmering in Elrond’s eyes when he squeezes her hand again. “Galadriel, I know this past year has been dreadfully difficult for you. You did not wish to return to Valinor, and the elven traditions have not always sat right with you. But... I hope that perhaps you can still find some lasting peace here. With all of us.”

Chapter Text

In the evening, as the sun starts to sink toward the distant treetops, Galadriel takes a long walk around the perimeter of the city wall. She walks from one gate to another, looking up at the guard towers, remembering the way Morgoth’s creatures too easily breached Ost-in-Edhil’s defenses. She’s still strung tight with nervous energy, a commander poised and waiting for the call to battle. She has calmed herself a little since she spoke to Elrond at midday, but that crackling unrest still simmers there under her skin.

And she has yet to contend with seeing him.

Her heart races at the idea of facing Sauron again, with the memory of all that passed between them last night still vivid in her mind. But she will not wait to see if he will go to the riverside as usual, nor will she allow him to surprise her so boldly again at her door. No, she will have control of the time and place of their next meeting.

She does not reach for his mind; she will give him no warning that she seeks him, as he gave her none yesterday. She checks first at the library, but he isn’t there. So she will have to intercept him at the workshop, where he’ll surely be with Celebrimbor. She did promise Elrond that she would look in on the master smith, and she intends to keep her word.

Galadriel walks slowly to Celebrimbor’s workshop, to the old forge where the elven rings were made and where the smiths still spend so much of their time. The door that leads to the staircase is unlocked, but when she reaches the top and looks inside, she finds it utterly and completely deserted. There isn’t a single thing on any of the work surfaces. The tools are all hung up and put away, there are clean white sheets covering some of the workstations and equipment – everything is in order, as if no one has been here all day.

She slips through the inner door, going straight to the small desk where Annatar usually sits when he’s here with the smiths. There’s a stack of parchments sitting on top of the desk, neatly piled on one corner, and she quickly leafs through them. But there’s nothing here of the dwarven rings, none of his spiralling circular diagrams of resonance. Nor is there evidence of any project unfamiliar to her. There’s only a half-dozen different schematics of Disa’s door, and a sheaf of dense notes about using a mithril alloy in combination with an enchantment as a locking mechanism for the gate. Most of the writing is Celebrimbor’s, but the annotations in the margins are clearly Sauron’s – gorgeous loops of Quenya text, in that beautiful handwriting of his that could make even the Black Speech look pleasing.

Galadriel sets the parchments back down, realizing with a shock that she’s smiling to herself at the thought of his face, at the way he always looks so perfectly focused when he’s working, no matter what form he’s in. That glow of fondness wells in her heart – something clear and bright and untroubled by the present circumstance. Something that she hasn’t felt since back when she still thought him a mortal smith from the Southlands. It is the same feeling that burned in her while she rushed to Eregion with him mortally wounded… and on that night here in Ost-in-Edhil when she went to him in the smiths’ wing, when she decided that she would endure any consequence and break any custom if only she could have Halbrand—

She refocuses her attention quickly on the task at hand, searching around the rest of the workshop for anything else unusual or out of place. But there is nothing here at all. The storage areas are all locked, the windows latched, the floor swept. The air is cool and still; no fire has been lit here recently. No, she is more and more convinced that no smith has been working today at all. Not here, at least.

But then… The new forge.

Of course that’s where they’ll be. She should have thought of it in the first instance. She hurries out of the empty workshop and sprints through the city, making her way to the new tower that stretches high over Ost-in-Edhil. Lord Celebrimbor’s pride and joy, a marvel of elven and dwarven architecture. It has all the aesthetic pageantry of an elven palace and all the rock-solid efficiency of dwarven engineering. And at the top of the tower, bright lamplight is shining from the ornate windows, spilling into the lengthening shadows of the evening.The lights are unmistakably on.

The doors at street level are all locked up tight, but that has never kept Galadriel out of a tower she needed access to. She circles around the building until she finds the best place to climb, a side of the tower that’s out of view of the nearby street. She is silently grateful that she decided not to wear a dress when she changed out of her filthy combat clothes earlier – though a dress certainly never stopped her either, it is so much easier to climb when she can move freely like this. She wears a clean uniform with the colours and insignia of the city guard, the same ensemble worn by Ost-in-Edhil’s guard captains. Tonight, she needed to remind herself that she is their leader; that she is no longer powerless to command in Eregion. And command she will.

Galadriel easily finds her footholds in the stonework and climbs two stories up before she finds a window that’s standing slightly open. She shimmies through, and from there she drops into the spiral stairwell that takes her the rest of the way up to the forge. Only at the top does she hesitate, pausing on the beautifully tiled landing before the entrance, gathering herself a moment to decide what to say.

Celebrimbor is there inside, just within her view in the grandiose new workshop. He’s leaning on one of the long tables, making a note on a piece of parchment. “Come in,” the master smith says distractedly, lifting his head just enough to catch a glimpse of her in the doorway. “No need to lurk there, Galadriel. I can see you!”

“Oh! I – I’m sorry. I did not wish to interrupt your work,” she says.

Celebrimbor is dressed a bit more informally than usual, and he’s donned one of the plain leather smiths’ aprons that hang by the door instead of his fancy one – perhaps he hadn’t planned to come to the forge tonight, and did so unexpectedly. He looks a little harried, like he was doing something in a hurry before she got there. Nonetheless, he sets down his quill and motions her closer.

“What can I do for you, Galadriel?” He doesn’t question how she managed to get in here when the doors were locked. He barely seems interested in her at all; he’s clearly preoccupied with whatever he was doing.

“I was looking for Annatar, actually,” she says cautiously. “Elrond said you two were working late. I thought I’d check here.”

“Ah. Apologies, I haven’t seen Annatar in a little while,” Celebrimbor says with that kindly smile. He looks back down at his parchment, retrieves his quill and swiftly pens another few lines. But when Galadriel doesn’t leave, he lifts his head again and looks back up at her. “Was there something else you needed from me?”

“I…” She studies him, weighing up how directly she dares to ask about his projects without appearing as if she’s fishing for information. “Are things still going well… with Annatar?” she asks him at last. “He does not tell me much of what you two have been working on of late. Has he been of help to you still?”

“Hmm. Yes, very much so! I think things are going quite well… and I’ve been helping him with some of his research in return.” Celebrimbor pauses, his brow furrowing. “But… I suppose I was a little concerned about him today.”

“Concerned?” Her pulse accelerates. “How do you mean?”

“He just seemed... terribly distracted, ever since I first saw him this morning. It was as if his mind were elsewhere all day, like he couldn’t get his thoughts right.” Celebrimbor pushes the parchment aside, giving her a strange look. “Did something happen yesterday? Last night?”

“No… well, nothing that I’m aware of.” It startles her, the ease with which the lies come to her now. “I suppose it could be that he’s feeling homesick,” she says. “He is so very far from the isle, here… and he is an outsider among us. It must be difficult for him sometimes. Perhaps it is loneliness that consumed his thoughts today.”

“Hmm, I doubt that.” Celebrimbor smiles at her knowingly. “He has made many friends here. I think we have all done what we can to make him feel welcome... and you especially. It has not escaped any of us how highly he thinks of you.”

“He has certainly become... a treasured friend to me,” Galadriel says guardedly. She needs to steer Celebrimbor back to talking about his projects. Will he tell her about the dwarven rings, she wonders? She steps closer to the table he’s working at, then closer still, trying to get a glimpse of the parchment he was writing on without making it obvious that she’s looking. “Annatar has become dear to you as well, I’m sure,” she says. “He is… helping you with a new project here in the forge, is that right? The two of you are working on something else together?”

“Mmm.” Celebrimbor toys with his quill, skimming it around the edge of the ink bottle. “I do so love working with him. He has a most extraordinary mind, doesn’t he? And... he is strikingly attractive.”

Galadriel frowns, trying to decipher that inscrutable expression on Celebrimbor’s face. She bites back a flash of annoyance. “I— well, yes. I suppose so,” she concedes. “A little bit.”

“Ahhh. But you liked the low man better, didn’t you?” Celebrimbor laughs, almost mockingly, and shakes his head. “Oh, I know. I much preferred him, too, if I’m honest. It was nice to see Halbrand back last night, wasn’t it?”

“What?” She nearly chokes on the word.

In the shock of the moment, she doesn’t even register the absurdity of Celebrimbor saying these words so calmly, or the fact that he’s still smiling with utter nonchalance as he says them. She takes a shaky step forward and reaches out to steady herself on the edge of the table. And as she does it, she looks straight down at the parchment Celebrimbor had been writing on.

A page of equations and annotations, full of those gorgeous flourishes and loops, that unmistakable handwriting—

The air inside the workshop shimmers in that now-familiar way, and she feels that strange, tingling oscillation against her skin as the power rolls off him. All the parchments on the table scatter into the air. And when she blinks, Annatar is standing where Celebrimbor was. He leans down and calmly starts picking up the parchments, piling them neatly back onto the desk.

“Sorry,” he smirks as he straightens up. “The look on your face! I really couldn’t resist.”

Galadriel’s heart leaps into her throat at the sight of him, relief mixed with fury and all the other feelings she refuses to name. She shoves him hard, pushing him back so forcefully that he almost falls over. He’s still laughing at her as he catches himself.

“What is the matter with you?” she hisses, looking back over her shoulder. “What if the real Celebrimbor should walk in here? You can’t do this—”

“Oh, not to worry. He’s been right here the whole time, supervising me.” Sauron tips his head toward Celebrimbor’s adjoining study, the little room that branches off the forge. “He’s in there, having a nap.”

“He’s… what?”

Sauron sighs at the aghast look on her face, and he reaches out to brush his hand over her cheek. “Calm down, Galadriel. I did it very gently. We’ve been working way too hard, and he needed to lie down for a little while, so I put him to sleep. He’s having a lovely dream.”

“Why?” she demands, looking around the forge. “What is it you’re up to?” She casts her gaze around the workshop. A chill seizes her when she sees what’s sitting on the nearby work station, right next to all the neatly laid out little piles of ores. The shadow blade hilt, held up inside some kind of spherical contraption. “What is that? What are you doing with that?” she hisses.

He still has one whole day left of his promised three weeks. One more day until he promised to tell her everything. But she can't hold back the question.

“Listen… I just needed to test a couple of things, and I needed to work uninterrupted,” Sauron says.

“And it was necessary to do so as Celebrimbor?”

Sauron shrugs. “I’m not a guild member, and technically Annatar shouldn’t be here alone – he wouldn’t know how to use all of this specialized equipment, anyway. So I thought it better if Celebrimbor were doing it, just in case someone did come in. Despite the fact that the doors downstairs were locked.” He smiles smugly. “A precaution that apparently wasn’t unwarranted, now, was it?”

She shakes her head. “I— I don’t even know what to say.”

“Perhaps you could try ‘thank you.’ I’m being careful, see? I’m being good.”

“Being good?” She gapes at him incredulously. “By knocking Celebrimbor unconscious and shapeshifting into his likeness?”

“As always, I am doing my very best, Galadriel, and you know it.” He continues to smile at her glibly, his mood undampened. She stands there and watches him as he finishes tidying up the table and straightens the chairs. He takes up the shadow blade, wraps it up and tucks it away into the back of a cabinet, then places the spherical bracket it was sitting in up on a shelf. He locks the cabinet door, muttering some kind of incantation under his breath as he turns the key. Then he takes off the plain leather apron and hangs it up neatly on the empty hook next to the others.

“Right, I think I’m done,” he says, dramatically dusting off his hands.“Your timing was impeccable.” As he speaks, he walks over to Celebrimbor’s study door and nudges it open. He snaps the fingers of his left hand as he knocks lightly on the door with his right. “Lord Celebrimbor? Hello?”

“W...what? Annatar? What is it?” comes Celebrimbor’s groggy voice from beyond the door. A moment later the master smith appears in the doorway, leaning unsteadily on the door frame as he stares out into the workshop. His gaze is bleary and slightly confused. “Oh! Galadriel, hello! I… I must’ve fallen asleep! What time is it?”

“Not to worry,” Annatar says cheerily. “I didn’t want to disturb you, so I just finished up on my own. I’ve cleaned up already... and I have those calculations ready for you to check over. I left them on the table, just over there.” He points to the pile of parchments. “I’m heading off now, if that’s all right?”

Celebrimbor looks around, that expression of slight confusion still on his face, but he reaches out to squeeze Annatar’s shoulder. “Right… yes, of course! Thank you, Annatar.” He goes over to the table, picks up the top parchment and glances over it with amazement. “Oh, this is brilliant. So fast! You truly are unbelievable.”

“Nonsense, you flatter me too much. It’s all your work, Lord Celebrimbor, and but a few notes of mine.” Annatar smiles, all teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes... tomorrow, we shall work some more on the…” Celebrimbor glances at Galadriel, as if catching himself, before he looks back at Annatar. “The schematics.”

“Of course. I’ll be here first thing in the morning. Good night,” Annatar says.

“Good night, Lord Celebrimbor,” says Galadriel.

Annatar waves over his shoulder, then shepherds Galadriel toward the stairs, his hand at her back, pressing her forward.

“I cannot believe your nerve,” she growls under her breath as they abscond down the stairwell.

“Sorry. Should’ve told you I was running late, completely my fault.” He winds his arm around her waist and keeps it there. “But there might be a bit of the sunset left. Shall we walk to the river, then?”

They walk in silence to the bank of the Glanduin, side by side. The sun is sinking low already; they’ve missed all but the last vestiges of sunset, and the stars are already coming out by the time they reach their usual meeting-place on the platform. Galadriel hasn’t been here in person since the day of Celebrimbor’s banquet, the day that Annatar made her flower crown.

“If it’s rings that you’re making—” she begins as they go to sit down on the stone bench.

“Shhh.” Sauron silences her with a finger pressed firmly over her lips. “No questions… not here, Galadriel. Let it be,” he whispers.

She opens her mouth to speak again, but he shakes his head. And this time, she does stop.

He is right. Not here. She doesn’t let her thoughts dwell too long on the last time she asked him such a question right here on this platform.

“Just… sit with me, Galadriel, please. Can you do that?” His Quenya words flow into her ears like music. He speaks her name in that smooth elven voice that’s so unlike Halbrand’s, yet it disarms her all the same. “We will speak of it tomorrow, I promise. But now… I need to just... be here. Let’s look at the stars for a while. Look at them.”

He inhales deeply of the warm night air as he reaches over and gently tips her chin up toward the starlit sky. Then he settles himself unapologetically close to her, his thigh resting against hers, and she does not move away. She is still every bit as enraged with him... but at the same time, she feels herself steadying as she always does when they rest here, feeling a calm the likes of which she hasn’t been able to find in her spirit all day.

She still feels that terrible weight on her shoulders, that desperate, gnawing feeling that time is running out – this won’t last, it can’t last, no time no time no time – but here at the water, somehow, she lets it fall away. Her body reacts to his closeness with that undeniable longing, as her mind reaches almost unconsciously to entwine lightly with his.

And he lets her in, like nothing has changed, and he wraps his mind and his arms around her.

They sit in silent companionship, as they always do. She leans against him and lets him quietly unbraid her hair, relishing the gentle tug of his fingers through it as he loosens her golden waves little by little. For all the fierce, untamed passion she’s seen in him, it’s always his tenderness that surprises her the most. That incongruous softness in him that she can’t quite reconcile with the monster she has always known him to be.

When she turns to face him again, she sees that he’s undone the front lacing on his shirt against the evening’s lingering heat. She can’t help but let her eyes wander appraisingly over him, drinking in that elegant elven form that she has come to appreciate far more than she ever intended to.

And she can’t miss the marks she left on him with her own fingernails, red lines running down to his chest from his shoulder, where they disappear under the soft fabric. Her heart skips. Annatar wears the marks that she left last night... on Halbrand.

“Seriously? You’ve changed your form how many times today and you still didn’t bother to heal yourself?” She rolls her eyes at him, even as she presses her thighs together with the heat of that memory.

“Mmm.” He smirks as he reaches up to skim his fingers over the marks. “I rather like the look of it. Thought I might keep it,” he says flippantly.

Galadriel says nothing, but lets a little smile sneak onto her face.

She realizes, then, that she’s playing with his silky elven hair, her fingers threading through the pale length of it, combing through it just like he’d been doing to hers. When they sit this close together, they can no longer keep their hands away from each other.

He leans over and kisses the top of her head, and he leaves his lips there, pressed into her hair. “You are getting very good at lying, my little elf,” he murmurs, lowering his voice. “But I think you like me in this form a lot more than just a little bit. Don't you?”

“Shhh.” She turns her head with a smile. “No questions. Not here. Just... sit with me.” She lets him pull her ever so slightly closer to him on the bench again, and she lays her head against his shoulder as she stares up into the starry sky.

She feels the hum of his power so clearly now when he’s close, as if she could reach out for it and seize it. As if she could wear it, the way she once wore her ring, amplifying her own innate abilities until they sharpened into something beautiful and deadly.

And as Sauron’s thoughts drift softly with hers, she only vaguely remembers that unsettling feeling… like something is scratching, ever scraping and digging and clawing, looking for cracks in that black wall somewhere in his mind.

Chapter Text

When they leave the riverside, Sauron walks with her all the way to the wide front steps of the residence halls, and Galadriel wonders for one breathless moment if he actually intends to follow her up to her rooms. Surely he wouldn’t dare suggest it; she couldn’t possibly walk in through the main doors with Annatar on her arm. Not at this hour, not in plain view of the courtyard. For all that they have avoided each other in public these past weeks, it seems that some in the city have still noticed the affinity she shares with the Númenorean scholar – as Elrond certainly has. And she does not want to give them any more cause to think about it.

But it seems that Sauron intends nothing improper. He stops there, right at the bottom of the stairs, inclining his head to her in a respectable little bow as he bids her good night. He raises her hand to his lips and presses a teasingly chaste kiss to her knuckles, all the while fixing his eyes on her with a gaze that is anything but. Thankfully, whatever shred of common sense kept her from kissing him at the river bench prevails, and she steps slightly away from him when he releases her hand.

“Good night, Commander,” he whispers, giving her that smug little smile as they part. “Sweet dreams.”

And then he turns abruptly in the direction of the smiths’ wing, and strides away without looking back.

When she returns to her rooms, Galadriel quickly dresses for bed, all too conscious of the flush in her cheeks and the desire in her veins that his proximity never fails to ignite. She slips into the sheets where she lay so luxuriously entangled with Halbrand the night before, lies back against the pillows and sighs deeply. If she had still thought that last night’s satisfaction might have quenched some of her need for him... she has clearly been mistaken. She burns for him every bit as fiercely, yearning for the exquisite feeling of his mind joining hers, his power settling around her, his body pressed so close...

She wants him as much as ever, if not more. And she doubts, now, that her desire for Sauron will ever truly be quenched, in any of his forms. There will be no end to this for so long as he walks Arda. Perhaps even banishing him from the earth itself wouldn’t quell this.

Will she ache with this longing for him through all the remaining ages of the world, long after their alliance ends and she has riven him from existence with the shadow blade?

She pushes the thought away. No matter – he is here now, and they must stand strong side by side against Morgoth’s return. They were brought together for a purpose; she has never been more sure that some greater force placed her long-sought foe in her path. Destiny may have brought them together… but it is Galadriel of the Noldor who can grant or deny him the power he craves. This is hers to decide, and she will stand for no further judgement but her own.

She leans back, closes her eyes and slides her hand down under the sheets, seeking that insistent heat between her thighs. And for the first time since she almost drowned in the Glanduin, she gives in without a single thought of regret or remorse, letting thoughts of him fill her head as easily as when she first thought of Halbrand in Armenelos.

Tonight, it’s his elven form she finds herself imagining; his murmured Quenya words in her ear, his soft silken hair between her fingers at the riverside. Annatar leaning back in that chair in Khazad-Dûm. Annatar pinning her against the cabinets in the armoury. Annatar licking his fingers in that darkened dining hall on the night of the High King’s welcome dinner… oh, how many times she has desired him.

She is gentle with herself at first, stroking soft little circles against her most sensitive places, still tender from last night’s indulgences. But that longing he’s stoked into her demands more, and she doesn’t hold back. She gives herself what she needs, again and again until she’s bucking against her hand, pushing her fingers deeper, her thighs clenching as she moans out loud. She undoes herself completely, relishing every obscene thought of him, the way she’s wanted to for far too long.

It’s only at the end that she casts her mind searchingly toward him. She does it almost unconsciously, reaching for their connection as that delicious pleasure is flooding into her. But it doesn’t surprise her in the least to find that his mind is readily open to her... nor to discover that he’s sitting in his room in the smiths’ wing and thinking about her quite indecently, too.

As their chaotic, spiralling thoughts collide, an image of those two magnificent thrones flashes into her head.

One of them is empty.

And he’s sprawled on the other one, his head tipped back in ecstasy, with his resplendent, naked elven queen writhing in his lap.

The next morning, Galadriel reports to Elrond that she is certain of this: Lord Celebrimbor is doing no dark deeds with Morgoth’s artifact unbeknownst to Annatar. In fact, Celebrimbor had not been doing anything at all when she came to the forge to check on him. He was asleep.

Elrond embraces her, the relief plain on his face – perhaps Celebrimbor closed the workshop for the week to rest before Disa’s arrival, he says. Yes, that makes perfect sense. After all, true creation requires sacrifice, and he is preparing to pour so much of himself into a grand project again. Elrond feels terribly guilty for allowing Gil-galad’s suspicions to trouble him so.

Galadriel nods along with vague reassurances, then excuses herself back to the training ground before she can dwell too long on what she has done. She must put it out of her mind. Today, Sauron will answer her questions, and she is sure that he will keep his word. She simply needs to formulate her queries in the right way.

And prepare herself for the answers.

She finds Sauron in Annatar’s office in the library, late in the afternoon. He opens the door for her before she even has a chance to knock – it swings open at the very moment she arrives on the landing, as if he had eyes on her already. As if his eyes have never left her.

With a silent smile, he beckons her in. She slips inside as he quickly closes and locks the door behind her, and she sees that he has not bothered to hide any of his work from her this time. The surface of his desk is absolutely covered with parchments. Dozens of diagrams of resonance are laid out there, all those circular forms full of interwoven fractals that spiral over the page. Rings of power.

“You’ve been busy,” she says by way of greeting, making a show of eyeing the things on his desk.

“Ah. Yes! We’re making some rings tonight!” There’s a genuine excitement glittering in his eyes, that chirpy cheerfulness to his voice that he only gets when he’s talking about the forge. He smirks. “If you’d like to come watch, you need only tell me. I’m sure Lord Celebrimbor won’t object. And a formal invitation is surely more discreet than climbing in through the window again.”

As he moves past her to go back to his desk, Sauron pauses deliberately in front of her, snaking his arm around her waist as he kisses her temple. It’s a presumptuous gesture, and a possessive one – he digs his fingers hard into her hip when he tugs her toward him – but she allows it without comment. She needs him in a mood to answer her questions. And he has the good sense to bow his head when he releases her, at least feigning contrition.

He goes and sits down behind his desk, sprawling back in the chair with his knees apart and his hands on the armrests, his eyes still on her. Galadriel is vividly reminded of what she glimpsed in his mind last night, him splayed back on that throne, and she darts her gaze away, looking back to the parchments on the desk. She picks up the nearest one and pretends to examine it closely.

“You’ve come for answers, I know,” he says. “I am true to my word, Galadriel, and you have been dutifully patient. So? What is it you wish so badly to know?”

“I do not like this.” She drops the parchment back to the desk. “We have woven far too many deceptions here.”

“That isn’t a question.” Sauron folds his hands in front of him, his expression something between curiosity and amusement. “Would you like to try again?”  

“These rings you are making...for the dwarves...” Galadriel begins at last. “Tell me. What benefit is there to the elves, to undertake such an endeavour? How have you convinced Celebrimbor?”

“Besides the diplomatic appearances, you mean? Beyond the benefit of friendship, the joy of offering this humble gift in thanks for their help with saving elvenkind?”

“Yes. Beyond that,” she says, fixing him with a warning look.

“Well, that’s easy. Having more rings of power out there can only strengthen the power and reach of the elven three,” Sauron says. “They can be made to amplify one another. And as far as Celebrimbor is concerned... it will give him a chance to experiment further with the capabilities of this new forge, to see how far we can push the mithril fusion. Between that and the preparations for the door project, we’ve been learning much of interest about the mithril’s properties and its—”

“So that is your goal, then? Learning more about mithril?” she interrupts. She knows all too well his tendency to cover his lack of a real answer with a lot of empty words, and he will not get away with it.

“One of them,” he says. “Of course, these new rings won’t be quite as strong as the elven three, since our precious metals will be stretched thinner – but with what Durin gave us, our mithril ore is in good supply. We shall use the same concentration of mithril in each ring as we did with the elven rings. Only the alloy will be different this time, as we’ll be cutting our Valinor metal at fifty-five percent with high-quality Middle Earth silver.” He taps one of the parchments on his desk, a proud look on his face. “My calculations suggest that such a mix should still achieve what we need, with highly reliable results.”

“Wait.” Galadriel stares at him in disbelief. “Stop. Where did you even...? You are telling me that someone has given you more metal from Valinor to use for this? To make rings for the dwarves? ”

“Mmm… well, it was not exactly given. But I did acquire it.” Sauron smiles. He reaches down and pulls something out of his boot, placing it dramatically on top of the parchments on his desk. A long, ornate dagger, similar in design to the dagger she once carried of Finrod’s. “Here we have it. Look at that. Silver and gold from Valinor.”

Galadriel blinks in shock for a few seconds before she speaks through gritted teeth. “Where did you get that?”

“Lifted it from your High King’s bodyguard, actually. On the very first day we got here, at that welcome dinner.” He winks. “Sorry, I mean… Annatar brought it with him from Númenor, obviously.”

“Gil-galad’s guard had this?”

“Indeed. All of them do. And I’m quite certain there are many more where this came from, given how little attention they all seem to pay to them. Your people surely could have let you keep your brother’s precious dagger after all.” He gives a sarcastic smile. “I hope you won’t let this diminish your good opinion of your High King.”

She folds her arms, looking from him to the dagger and back again. Her heart feels at once heavy and hollowed out, and there is a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“I have never trusted those rings... nor their powers,” she says. “Celebrimbor did not understand everything they were capable of. None of us did. And we still don’t.”

“And yet, remarkably, for all your supposed suspicions, you allowed the elven three to be forged. Despite knowing who I was, despite knowing the hand I had in their creation. You even wore one of them yourself.” He puts his elbows on the desk, regarding her accusingly. “You were happy enough to wield its power until you were forced to give it up by your short-sighted fool of a king. Funny, that.”

“You know very well why I allowed the elven rings to be forged. I had no choice,” she growls. She fights to keep from raising her voice; on the other side of that thick door, the library is very much still open. She could speak silently through their connection, but she is keeping her mind resolutely shuttered from him, so she softens her voice to a furious whisper instead. “If the elves had left these shores, darkness would have spread unchecked over this land! Whatever I’ve done, I have always acted in the best interests of Middle Earth.”

“Mmm-hmm, so you say. And yet… one might easily assume you acted in your own interests. So very desperate to stay in Middle Earth... because you couldn’t let go of your obsession with hunting me.” He stands up from the chair and moves toward her, brushing his hand lightly down her cheek with a mocking smile. “So. You either never believed the rings were such a peril in the first place... or else you were willing to risk the safety of all the elven realms and let these dangerous rings be forged, just so you could continue your personal revenge quest. Curious, isn’t it, how it’s your intentions that are always supposedly so pure and good?”

Galadriel balls her fists at her sides, scathing rage surging through her as she dodges away from his touch. “Just tell me what they really do,” she says. “A full accounting of your power, remember? Do not obscure the facts of it. Is the power these rings contain truly benevolent? They serve no evil purpose?”

“Power is not purely good or evil, Galadriel,” Sauron says with a sigh. “You should know this by now. Power is power. It’s how it is used that ultimately determines—”

Enough semantics! Just answer the question plainly, please! She cannot refrain from shouting anymore, so she shoves her angry words into his mind instead. Answer me! Can you use the rings of power for some nefarious purpose? To control the ring-bearers? To influence them in any way?

A long pause. When he doesn’t reply, she slams their connection shut.

“A simple yes or no, Sauron,” she hisses. “Can you?”

And then he says: “No.”

She stares at him, searching his eyes, as if she might discern something in their green depths. His gaze is steady and open, and she is flooded with certainty that he has still never outright lied to her. His answer is true.

And yet... she is absolutely sure that he’s hiding something. There’s that familiar dread squeezing at her heart again, like before they descended to the vault in Khazad-Dûm, like before she unrolled that scroll and read the names of the Southlander kings. An impending precipice. A freefall from which there’s no returning.

Her simmering fury flares hot in her chest when she thinks back on all his manipulations, those clever evasions he’s made so many times, the way he once deceived her in this very city as he played the King of the Southlands. He deceives her, still – he will always find a way to lie. But she will not stand for this. She will not be weak, she will not be fed falsehoods wrapped in the thinnest veneer of truth.

“I know there is something you are omitting,” Galadriel says, reaching up to seize him by the collar. “Explain it to me. Make me understand why I should let you proceed. Why I should help you conceal this again.”

Sauron thinks for a long time again before he speaks.

“When Gil-galad sent you away,” he finally says, “when you were exiled to Valinor… you would have done anything to avert it, wouldn’t you? If there had been some way to alter the High King’s course? You would have given anything at all to change his mind. You nearly sacrificed your very life leaping from that ship.”

“Yes.” She lowers her eyes. “I did what was necessary. You may think what you like, but I did it for Middle Earth. My brother fought for this land, and died for it... as did countless others. And I fight for Middle Earth still.”

“As do I,” Sauron says, his voice soft. “Gil-galad is a fool, Galadriel. And yet, if you did have some way to sway his mind, to make him grant you an elven army strong enough to stand against Morgoth… If you could change all of their minds, all those misguided half-wits who think you unfit to lead...” He’s scrutinizing her as he speaks, watching for her reaction. “It would be in the interests of the elves… and of Middle Earth to do so, would it not? To use any means necessary? If…?”

“If,” she whispers, meeting his gaze.

She remembers, again, her careening horse stumbling down that rocky hill, her desperate hands on the reins, pulling her mount toward safety. And she can feel Sauron probing at the surface of her mind, skimming her thoughts – he’s not even trying to be secretive about it, so she doesn’t attempt to stop him. He’s looking for… what? Confirmation? Understanding?

She knows it the very moment he discovers what he wants. She feels him delicately gathering up the memory, looking upon it with something like gleeful delight. The horse, slipping on that rain-soaked hill, hooves catching on falling rocks. Her hands on the reins, pulling hard as the horse reared and struggled, as it resisted her efforts to contain its free will. But it had to be done. To save it. To stop the inevitable calamity.

Sauron’s eyes snap open, his pupils blown wide as he tilts his face closer to hers. “Ask me your question again, Galadriel.”

She reaches for his mind one more time, trembling with nervous apprehension. The whole truth, Sauron. Answer me. Can you use the rings of power to influence the minds of the ring-bearers?

A slow, devious grin slithers onto his face. No, my queen... Not yet.

For a moment, her heart soars with the awestruck possibility. He must see it in her eyes, in that brief moment, because he lights up with diabolical triumph. She understands him at last, and his intentions, and his vision for Middle Earth—

And then she scrambles back, recoiling from him, throwing herself backwards so suddenly that she almost hits her head on the wall. “I knew it. I knew!” she gasps. “You are a monster.”

“Galadriel—”

“No. Get away from me. You have always intended to manipulate our minds with those rings – and I – and I wore one of them—” Disgust is rising in her throat, the horror of what she has long feared lodging like a spear of ice into her heart. “Is that why you wished that I did not have to relinquish it? Because you hoped one day to control me?”

Sauron does not reach out again to touch her, but he towers over her with a calm, condescending smile. “Ahhh. So it’s the fact that you bore a ring that troubles you, then?” he says. “Interesting. And yet, the thought of swaying Gil-galad’s mind did not disturb you a moment ago. I see how it is. It is perfectly necessary, so long as you hold the reins, Galadriel?”

“Eat your tongue, deceiver.”

He gives a long, pained sigh. “Please. Set your mind at ease, Galadriel. This is not what I intended when the elven rings were first made. The ring you wore has no such enchantment on it, it never did– I was not even present at its forging! The idea didn’t come to me until much later, when I beheld the shadow blade once more.” His eyes have that covetous shine as he stares into the middle distance while he speaks. “I have wanted to understand more fully how that echo of Morgoth’s will was woven into the weapons we forged together. I desired to learn how such an object could pull at the wielder’s mind in this way, how it could bend the wielder toward Morgoth’s interests. Celebrimbor and I have been studying it together, looking at how the enchantments are embedded within the metalwork... and I think I finally understand it enough to try to replicate it for myself.”

“And you intend to put such an evil enchantment on these new rings, then, in secret? The rings Celebrimbor would gift to our friends? To Durin, and Disa…? If such a dark gift were discovered, it would be the elves who’d be suspected of—”

“Shhh. It is only an experiment, Galadriel, to see if it can be done. We have more than enough mithril to make several extra rings. And I would never wish to cause harm to our dwarven friends – do you really believe I would?” He looks disappointed, almost hurt by the accusation. “Have you not seen how I’ve tried at every turn to assist them? What about banishing the balrog from their mountain? What about all the work I’ve done on the door project? All my diplomatic endeavours to facilitate this new trade route between Eregion and Khazad-Dûm—”

“All for your own interests.”

“My own, and theirs, elf, please. Give me some credit! Besides, you have just admitted that if you could have made Gil-galad summon a proper army, you would have done so by any means necessary. It would have been in your interests, and also in that of the elven realms. What is the difference?”

“There is plenty of difference!” she bites out in that hoarse, angry whisper that she substitutes for a shout. “You have deceived me, Sauron, again and again! You let me believe that you were a mortal man, that you were a lost king in exile! You took advantage of my affection for you – for Halbrand – to come among my people and deceive them in turn, and that still lies heavy on my heart! Of course I am not quick to believe you now, even as we are allied – and I have not forgotten how you nearly drowned me when I no longer served your purposes.”

“I will not apologize to you again, Galadriel, for anything that came before,” he says bitterly, his eyes blazing anger. “I’ve told you I’m sorry a thousand times over for what happened at the river. I think I have debased myself quite enough. And I will not have you hold me to judgement – I have already served more penance for you than I ever will for the Valar themselves.”

She bristles – what penance does he think he has served? – but before she can form any words, he is pressing the dagger he stole from Gil-galad’s guard into her hand. He delivers it to her with swiftness and stealth, just as he returned Finrod’s weapon to her on the stairs in that Númenorean throne room.

As her hand closes around the dagger, he snatches her wrist up roughly, levelling the blade so it rests against his pale elven throat. His eyes – Halbrand’s eyes, that he kept the same in Annatar’s face – shine with something between sorrow and menace.

“Galadriel. I have never lied to you. And from now on, I will obscure no truth from you when you question me. But if there is any part of you that doubts it... if you still cannot trust me, if you intend to betray our alliance… then just do it now.”

“What are you—” she whispers.

“I have dropped my defenses,” he says quietly. “If you still wish to cut my throat with Valinor’s blade... then strike me down. Now, right here. I’d rather it be you than him. So either do it… or stop fighting me.”

She looks at Sauron, her heart pounding. The sharp blade glints perilously against his throat, but her hand stays steady, holding it in place, just short of breaking his skin. He can’t possibly be telling the truth. Surely he hasn’t really lowered all his defenses, he wouldn’t really allow her to—

“I will only make this offer once, Galadriel,” he says warningly. “You will not get a chance like this again.” He stands with his arms at his sides, shoulders straight, regarding her with that haughty pride that looks all too fitting on him whether he wears a man’s face or an elf’s. “But you can’t do it, can you? Here is Sauron, your abhorred monster, your hated enemy... right here within your grasp after all your centuries of searching… and still you can’t do it. Because you know that what I told you on the raft is true: you need me. Poor little elf, how you wish it weren’t so… but you’d be lost without me. And so empty of purpose without your petty little dreams of revenge...”

He’s taunting her now, as if he needs to provoke her to the very last, to see if she’ll draw that blade across his throat.

“Cease these provocations, deceiver,” she hisses. “You speak a lot of cunning words, but it is plain enough to see that it is you who needs me.” She locks eyes with him in defiant challenge, baring her teeth. “Without my help, you would already have been consumed by that shadow blade. Morgoth would have claimed you back into his service and turned you back into his grovelling little underling. There is no path for you to rule Middle Earth, as you so arrogantly aspire to... no path but that which places you at my side. So let us not pretend that this need in us does not go both ways.”

“Mmm,” he says. He arches an eyebrow, recovering some of his insufferable conceit as he darts his tongue over his lips. “You’re right. It did certainly seem that way last night... and the night before, didn’t it? I think I quite enjoy it when our need goes both ways.”

She presses the blade down a little harder against his throat, pulling herself up onto her toes. A snarl curls her lip. She could do it. She’s perfectly capable of running this dagger through him. If she did not need him to fight Morgoth, she could drive it straight into his heart. For all his deceptions and lies, for all his unfathomable temptations, for the terrible deeds he still plans to do—

Galadriel pulls the dagger abruptly away from his neck, drawing her arm back and turning the point toward him as if to strike. In that moment Sauron unmistakably flinches, and it gives her great satisfaction to see the flicker of doubt and fear that flashes through his eyes, just before she throws the weapon aside and lets it clatter away to the floor.

She looks down at her empty hand before she reaches up and slaps him hard in the face, searing his cheek with her open palm.

Sauron takes a stumbling step backwards, colliding with the edge of his desk. And then, Galadriel’s hands are in his hair, roughly dragging his mouth down to hers. She kisses him viciously, biting down on his lip, and a strangled sound of half pleasure and half pain escapes his throat as his eyes snap wide with shock.

“How dare you,” she growls as she breaks the kiss.

“How… how dare I what?” he says breathlessly. “I can think of a number of things that—”

“All of it.” She seals her lips back to his, revelling in the feel of his hot, needy mouth responding instantly to her demand. He can be smug all he wants, but he cannot resist this either.

He’s still leaning on the desk, his hands moving to take hold of her as she climbs him, her weight pushing him back. He leans back further and further until he’s lying on top of all his careful diagrams of rings and resonance. The parchments are scattering off the desk, all his formulas and equations and spells fluttering to the floor. She feels his spike of annoyance when she crumples one under her knee as she crawls over him, and she delights in it, because he can’t tear himself away to tidy them up. No, he’s too caught up in kissing her, his hands too wholly occupied with the curve of her hips and thighs to save his precious drawings. He is hers.

“We need each other,” she whispers against his mouth. “But make no mistake, you are still insufferable – and despicable – and reprehensible – and awful – ” She’s kissing him between words while her hands slip under the hem of his tunic, working it upwards as she caresses the smooth planes of his chest.

“Anything else?” That irreverent smirk is back on his lips, and his voice purrs into her mind: If I’d known it would have this effect, I would have handed you a dagger long ago, my little elf.

“Mock me all you want, yet you are mine,” she whispers, rolling her hips against him for emphasis. “I will keep your secrets, and I will trust you. But you will bow to me. You are to be my shield and my weapon. You will serve and defend me in battle above all others. Do you understand?”

“Certainly. All that, I would do most willingly... and more still,” he murmurs in Annatar’s soft, melodious Quenya. “That is… for my queen.”

He claims her mouth in another wild kiss before Galadriel can respond, and his hands slide down her back and into the waistband of her trousers, following her contours. His wicked tongue tangles with hers, lapping into her mouth in a deliberate reminder of what else he can do with it. She barely holds back a moan when he moves his attention to her neck, sinking his teeth softly into the side of her throat as he swirls his tongue over her skin.

She’s rocking her body against him as he kisses her, back and forth just like they did in her bed, and the teasing friction of it has her ablaze with want. She can feel how unrelentingly hard he is beneath her, his desire for her crackling hot and urgent at the edges of her mind. Oh, he would take her right here, right now, wouldn’t he? The thrill of even considering it courses through her like wildfire. If they stayed very quiet, if they undressed each other just enough—

“Mmmhhh, don’t you tempt me,” he groans against her ear. “The things I would do to you at this very minute, if I—”

And then, there’s a sharp knock on the office door. Galadriel shushes Sauron, shoving her hand over his mouth. She strains to hear the muffled voice on the other side.

“Annatar? Are you here?” Lord Celebrimbor.

The two of them quickly disentangle themselves, as Sauron growls under his breath: “Seriously, one day I am actually going to kill him.”

Another knock on the door, louder and more insistent. “Annatar! Hello? Are we going now, or should I get us some dinner?”

Galadriel scrambles off him and hops down to the floor, hastily bending to pick up the nearest parchments from the floor and piling them up into a messy stack.

Sauron gets up, still swearing to himself in a harsh whisper. He smooths down his tangled hair and tries to rearrange his clothes before he goes to the door, but it’s a frankly futile effort to hide his obviously undignified state. And he hasn’t quite caught his breath.

He opens the door just a crack, angling his body to block Celebrimbor’s view into the room – “I need five more minutes, sorry. Just go ahead. Right behind you. I’m on my way now!” – and quickly slams it shut again in the master smith’s face.

Sauron leans against the closed door for a few seconds, composing himself. Then he steps back toward Galadriel, and he reaches out to seize her chin firmly between his fingers. It’s a touch both tender and demanding as he tips her head up toward him. He leans in and kisses her deeply on the mouth, very slow and intentional, like he’s sealing a promise.

When they break apart, his eyes are aglow with that otherworldly sheen. He releases Galadriel, collects the last few parchments from the floor, straightens up the stack and rolls them all up. She picks up the shining dagger and wordlessly holds it out to him.

“How about you hold on to that,” he says. “Come. It’s time to watch your Ringmaker making some rings.”

Chapter Text

In that beautiful new workshop at the top of the tower, Celebrimbor is waiting impatiently when they arrive. He seems only slightly surprised at Galadriel’s unexpected presence, and makes no direct comment upon it. It’s as if an unspoken understanding has passed between Annatar and Celebrimbor, that Galadriel will be made privy to their work, and that the existence of the ring project will no longer be withheld from her. Perhaps Elrond is right; Lord Celebrimbor has always had a deep respect for her. And he has always trusted far too easily.

Annatar neatly lays out all his circular diagrams on one of the tables, while Celebrimbor continues to select tools and prepare the equipment they need. And then, through an increasingly complex discussion about resonance waveforms that Galadriel doesn’t quite follow, they start narrowing the potential ring designs down to seven, debating at great length the merits of one design over another.

Galadriel climbs up and perches sideways on a high windowsill to watch the proceedings, her knees pulled up in front of her. It’s not the most comfortable place to sit, but it gives her a good vantage point on the workshop, and she cracks open the window to let in some cooler evening air.

Her blood is still heated from their… altercation in the library, and when Annatar puts on that smithing apron and casually rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, it certainly doesn’t make that situation any better. It’s absolutely infuriating how good he looks right now. He ties his hair back, up and away from his face, and it is nigh impossible to look directly at him and not think about licking his bared neck. She sits and watches him quietly, lulled by the soft discussion of formulas and calculations that she’s only half-listening to.

At every step, she can’t help but notice how Annatar carefully defers to Celebrimbor and his expertise, even as he subtly directs the conversation. He speaks of the project as though these designs were all of the master smith’s own creation. As if he had simply drawn out the ideas Celebrimbor gave him, and had barely contributed anything original. She sees, now, exactly how Sauron has ingratiated himself to Celebrimbor. Annatar has positioned himself as a sort of dutiful draftsman, applying his keen artistic eye to rendering Celebrimbor’s vision on parchment. Celebrimbor talks and Annatar draws, and thus Sauron has surely been weaving his own ideas into each draft, gradually twisting the rings toward his own designs with each successive iteration. In three weeks, he has effectively taken over the project.

“This is absolutely incredible work,” Celebrimbor is saying, pinning the first of the selected designs above their workstation. “I haven’t seen anything like this since – ah, well, since—” He glances up toward Galadriel for a split-second before he sharply clears his throat. “Well. I’ve only had an assistant once before who could render my ideas so beautifully. I’ve never known anyone else who could free-draw a resonance waveform like that… until you came to us.”

Annatar demurs, shaking his head. “It’s nothing,” he says, reaching over to straighten one creased edge of the parchment. “Just a steady hand, is all. And it doesn’t hurt that your ideas are always so elegantly described, my lord. It’s very easy when the designs already hold such magnificence.”

Galadriel sees how Celebrimbor’s chin goes up then, how his shoulders straighten, how his eyes brighten at the praise. In that moment she sees something of his long-departed grandfather in his countenance – a glimmer of Fëanor’s blazing pride and commanding self-assurance.

And she suddenly remembers her own fierce reflection in her mirror, how invincible she always feels in the wake of Sauron’s attention. The way he seems to be able to confer strength and confidence into others with a word, with a thought—

You bind me to the light, and I bind you to power. Her skin warms at the memory of the proposal he made to her in that vision at the riverside, an offer he has repeated so many times since. I would make you a queen.

How strong could she become if he were actually bound to her?

She has always considered the exchange Sauron offered as some kind of trick, as merely another dark deception. He would promise whatever was necessary to get her to agree. And as much as he may truly desire her, she has been certain that he mostly sees in her a means of seizing dominion over Middle Earth. Surely he would swiftly drain her of her light, leaving her empty and broken, just as his cursed master drained the light of the Two Trees. Or else, he would hoard her gifts like a treasure, keeping her trapped – revered, perhaps, but still just as inescapably caged as the glow within the Silmarils.

And yet. She knows the true immensity of Sauron’s power now, and the terrifying potential he holds when they entwine their abilities. She cannot forget how it felt in those first moments when they wielded the shadow blade together, when they held full control of it. She knows how it tasted to hold that power with him; she cannot deny that she wants to feel it in her grasp again. And she craves the way it feels when he bends to her command. When Sauron, her eternal enemy, bows to her will, when he says he would do whatever she asks of him. When he says he would beg.

Galadriel has managed to pull Sauron back before; she has tempered and directed him, and she could do it again. She could corral his power, use it to raise a stronghold that would outshine Doriath in its prime. With him at her side, she could shield all of these lands from their doom, even if Morgoth were to break free. Maybe they truly could save Middle Earth and rule it together.

Has she not, in her deepest most secret dreams, always wanted a realm of her own? Has she not needed someone to understand those hidden desires in her heart, the way only he seems to? Has she not yearned for a companion who would not flinch from her ambition, who does not want to quell her pride, who doesn’t cower from that darkness that lies within her? And you, my king—

The Dark Lord.

She startles, her heartbeat leaping uncomfortably when she realizes exactly what she’s been considering. No. Not that, never that. For all that he has allied with her and rejected Morgoth, Sauron is still an enemy of Middle Earth. He remains a creature of the dark, consumed with his need to control and conquer. She will never join him in the way he imagines, nor help him rise as a tyrant over these lands. She will only do as much as she must to ensure that he fights on the correct side, that he fights at her side, until Morgoth’s return has been thwarted.

This has always been about protecting Middle Earth. And has she not proven that she will do whatever it takes to fulfil her brother’s vow? It was peace that Finrod sought, peace and freedom for all from the thrall of darkness. That was Finrod’s goal, and she has honored it with every action. Her entanglement with the would-be new Dark Lord is an inconvenience, certainly, but it’s not necessarily a mistake if it provides her the means to—

“Galadriel?”

At once, she realizes that Annatar is looking up at her and waving his hand to get her attention. It’s quite evident from the look on his face that he must have called out her name several times already while she was lost in her thoughts.

“Sorry! Yes?” She sits up straight.

An amused smile is playing on his lips. “Galadriel... I believe you have something we need. May I have it now?”

“Oh. Right, of course.” She scrambles quickly down from the windowsill and walks over to him before she reaches to her belt and withdraws the dagger.

Her heart aches dreadfully when she remembers the last such weapon she handed over in Celebrimbor’s old workshop. The only thing of Finrod’s that she had left in this world. Letting her brother’s dagger go had felt like relinquishing the last intact piece of her soul, at the very moment when the rest of it lay in desperate, bleeding tatters. After the riverside, after Halbrand—

Galadriel hands Annatar the dagger, laying it solemnly across his open palm, and he passes it over to Celebrimbor.

The master smith lifts it up to the light, examining the ornate metalwork with care, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, brilliant, yes!” he exclaims. “This will be perfect. But… are you quite certain that you wish to part with this, Annatar?”

“I think that is for Galadriel to decide,” Annatar says softly. His face has grown serious. “I carried this dagger from Númenor, but I have entrusted it to her for safekeeping. I understand that Galadriel’s contribution to the elven rings was essential, and the wonders that saved elvenkind would not exist without her... so it seems only fitting to leave the decision in her hands. This project would mean nothing if not for her belief in it.” He locks eyes with her, the rest of the implication unspoken: And her belief in me.

Celebrimbor turns, looking at her expectantly. “Galadriel?”

She takes a deep breath, fighting back tears. When she relinquished Finrod’s dagger, it had felt agonizingly like dissolving her promise to her brother. But this time, she will dissolve her doubt. For centuries she has searched for the means to ensure peace for Middle Earth – by hunting down Sauron. And here, now, she has found exactly and precisely what she sought. She does not need a dagger to fulfil Finrod’s vow anymore. For she is more certain than ever that the weapon she needs to save Middle Earth is Sauron himself.

She nods her head, almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she whispers. “Take it. It is yours. For the good of Middle Earth.”

By the time their work on the new alloy is properly under way, night has fallen. The stolen dagger has been melted down and mixed with half of the Middle Earth silver; they’ve yet to add the mithril and the rest of the silver after a long, intense debate about temperature ranges and what order to proceed in. Galadriel is sitting drowsily back on the windowsill, leaning against the cool brickwork. She turns her face toward the window and rests her forehead against the glass, staring into the middle distance, unfocusing her eyes as she gazes out toward the distant city wall.

And then, she’s pulled abruptly from the haze of her thoughts when she sees something that definitely shouldn’t be there. First at one watchtower – then at another, and another, all the way along the wall – a bright orange flame flares sudden and bright from the highest point.

The beacons. Warning. Emergency.

Galadriel’s heartbeat thunders in her ears as she sits up, instantly alert, her body engaging all her warrior’s reflexes. “The beacons are lit!” she shouts, startling the smiths from their discussion. “There is something happening down there at the wall. I need to go, now!”

She doesn’t look back at them; before either of them can respond, she’s already scrambled off the windowsill and she’s on her way out the door, running down the spiral staircase as fast as she can, taking the stairs three at a time.

And she’s running out to the street, toward the edge of the city, where Ost-in-Edhil’s beacons flare with warning of an unknown peril.

“Commander Galadriel!” As she exits the inner gates at a sprint, she can see that two soldiers from the night watch are already running toward her in the opposite direction, heading back from the wall. “Commander! We’ve been looking for you, no one could find you—”

“What’s happened?” she interrupts them. “What is it, what’s going on out here?”

“Orcs sighted!” the nearest one gasps out, pointing in the direction of the gate where the creature swarm had gathered. “There, right at the wall, right over there—”

“Orcs?” Her heart lurches into her throat. “At the wall? How is that possible? Did all our extra patrols miss their approach?”

“I don’t know, Commander, we don’t know how—”

“How many? Have we engaged them? What weapons do they have? Under what banner did they march?”

The soldiers look at each other uncertainly, as if unsure which question to answer first. “I, ah— I’m afraid I don’t know, Commander, I—”

“I need a sword,” she orders. Both guards dutifully unsheath their weapons and hold them out to her, and she seizes the nearest one. “Go, now. Wake all the guard captains. Tell them to gather our forces, and cover all the gates,” she says. “Prepare to enact Defense Plan Three, and double the archers up on this wall. Tell them I want soldiers ready to march out immediately if I give the order, do you understand?”

“Yes, Commander!” They nod briskly and hurry away through the inner gate, into the courtyard beyond.

Galadriel keeps running then, crossing the same field where they’d fought Morgoth’s creatures on the night of the banquet, until she reaches the main gate. A disorganized crowd of city guards is massing there, milling around in small, agitated groups. There are archers in position along the wall at either side of the gate, and many of the soldiers on the ground have their swords drawn and at the ready. But they are in no particular formation. There’s no guard captain in sight, no defensive line, no clear directive. Galadriel bites back her scathing rage.

“Who is in charge here?” she shouts, and they all immediately snap to attention. “Where is the captain on duty?” At that, the soldiers just stare at her, strangely blank-eyed and frozen, saying nothing. “Does anyone have any information about what we’re dealing with? Step forward!”

“There were orcs,” someone calls out. A young soldier standing at the very back of the group seems to have come to his senses. Galadriel recognizes him as one of the newest recruits to the guard; quite a promising swordsman, if dreadfully inexperienced. “They were right there, right at the wall, so very close,” he goes on. “The lookouts saw them, and so we lit up the beacons—”

“But now there’s... nothing there,” an archer yells down from above. “We can’t see anything down there at all!”

“Nothing down this way either!” another archer calls from further down the wall. “They’ve gone! Vanished!”

Galadriel frowns. “What do you mean, vanished? Slain? Fled? Which way did they go?”

Most of the soldiers around her are still shuffling around in confusion, blinking slowly. Some of them look like they don’t even know exactly how they got here. “I… don’t know, Commander,” they mumble. “Can’t… can’t really recall for certain...”

Galadriel is reminded, suddenly, of the way Celebrimbor looked when Sauron roused him from whatever dream or illusion he’d placed him under in the forge last night. There was that same confusion on his face, that same vapid disorientation—

She whirls back to look in the direction of Celebrimbor’s forge, the elegant new tower soaring over the cityscape. The lights are still on in the workshop at the very top.

Sauron. She clenches her fists, the cold certainty of it hitting her like an agonizing punch in the chest. An illusion.

There were never any orcs here. This was a distraction.

Nausea rises in her throat, her breath coming too fast. This can’t be happening, no, no, it just doesn’t make any sense! Surely he wouldn’t have— he couldn’t have— what reason could he possibly have to—

Leaving the confused soldiers behind, Galadriel turns around and runs for the nearest watch platform, the same small tower that she climbed on the night of the creature attack. She hurls herself up the stairs, up, up, until she stumbles into the empty observation room at the top, rushing to look out over the wall into the dark below. But she already knows exactly what she’ll find when she gazes down.

Nothing. There is absolutely nothing down there.

She can see a small elven patrol on horseback, fanning out in the vicinity of the wall, searching the area more carefully by torchlight. But it’s a clear, moonlight night, and her keen eyes can see far and wide around the wall, the same thing all the others see. There isn’t a single orc in sight.

Galadriel leans against the cold stone, sweat dripping down her face as she clutches the hilt of her sword. The floor spins under her feet; she is going to be sick. Furious tears are prickling at her eyes, but she wills them away, instead letting out a feral scream of rage.

What has Sauron done? What is it that he has hidden from her? Why why why why—

She swings the sword over and over, letting it clang uselessly against the tower wall. He has deceived her again – betrayed her again – and she has let him – and oh, how monumentally foolish she has been. How did she ever think that such a twisted, corrupted, hideous, heartless servant of the dark could be trusted, even for a single moment—

Suddenly, she freezes mid-swing at a strange rustling noise somewhere behind her. There’s an odd sound, soft and unsettling, like a thousand faint whispers coming from the door to the stairwell. She can’t see anyone there, but she’s certain that someone has just come up those stairs, moving so quietly that she didn’t so much as perceive their footsteps until they were nearly upon her.

Catching her breath, Galadriel turns in a slow circle, looking all around the tiny room – a space that was most definitely empty when she first climbed up here. And to her shock, she sees that an elf in a night watch uniform is up here with her now, and has somehow managed to get past her into the room.

“Guard! What is your name and rank?” Galadriel demands, her heart racing.

The unfamiliar elf takes a menacing step forward without replying, moving toward Galadriel with alarming speed. Moving faster than it should have been possible for anyone to move. In an instant, she’s pinned to the wall with a firm hand around her neck. The sword flies out of her grip and spins away across the wooden floorboards.

“Where is he?” the guard demands in a harsh, guttural growl.

“W-where is who? What— are you—doing—” Galadriel chokes out. She struggles to form words as the guard’s hold tightens, pressing her harder into the wall until she can barely breathe. She tries to manoeuver herself free, but try as she might, her usual tactics for slipping an enemy’s hold seem to be completely ineffective. This elf – this creature she’s now quite sure is not actually an elf – is unbelievably strong.

“Where… is… he?” her captor repeats slowly through gritted teeth. “Your guest. The smith. Show me where he is. He cannot hide from us forever, we know he’s somewhere within these walls.”

Galadriel realizes that she can’t move her limbs anymore. It’s as if she’s shackled to the wall by some dark sorcery, tendrils of shadow coiling around her arms and legs. The energy surrounding her feels something like Sauron’s Maiar power, but… different. Nothing about it calls to her the way Sauron’s power does; all it evokes in her is a mixture of horror and revulsion. And when she refuses to give any reply to the question, she can feel the intruder digging sharply into her mind, pressing for the information she’s withholding.

She carefully blanks her thoughts, imagines shielding herself with a fierce veil of light, holding that intrusion at bay with all the practice she’s gained while warding herself against Sauron. A burst of self-satisfied pride floods her when her captor actually recoils, drawing away from her with a pained shriek.

And then, suddenly, Galadriel knows exactly where she has sensed this presence before. In Sauron’s mind, clawing and scratching at the walls of his obsidian fortress. Her half-remembered dream floods back to her: the crumbling tower, his attempts to patch up those terrible cracks, the way she and Sauron had worked together to repel this very intruder—

You! It’s you again! the creature hisses into Galadriel’s mind, that whispery voice rasping at her with chilling recognition. You have made the wrong ally, foolish elf. Do you really believe you can protect him from us?

The air in the tower sizzles with gathering power, and Galadriel feels that oscillating pulse of transformation that always accompanies Sauron’s shapeshifting. In front of her eyes, her captor’s elven guise melts away, replaced by a gaunt, pale face with glowing eyes and close-shorn white hair. The night watch uniform disintegrates, revealing a mage in long, flowing white robes, brandishing an elaborate staff.

His time is up. Our patience runs thin. The mage’s voice rustles into Galadriel’s mind like dry leaves. We have given him far too many warnings. Now, he must face the consequences. That expressionless, pallid face contorts with a cruel approximation of a smile. And... as a price for his continued insolence… he will lose something much dearer to him than just one of his wolves. A little elf commander, perhaps?

Galadriel feels the bonds on her hands and feet grow stronger then, those strands of snaking shadow tightening around her limbs like strangling vines. The mage spins the staff and points it at her, and she’s hurled painfully down to the floor. She struggles uselessly, writhing against her bonds, but it’s as if an enormous invisible weight pins her to the floor.

The mage cups one hand and blows a shower of sparks into the air. Each sizzling spark bursts into a fast-moving flame where it lands, setting the entire watchtower on fire. The room around Galadriel bursts into a terrifying blaze; the wooden floorboards catch instantly, and even the solid stone walls are flickering with traces of otherworldly flames. She struggles to breathe, choking on the noxious black smoke that’s rapidly filling the room. Her lungs constrict; she can no longer inhale, and shadow is encroaching on the edges of her vision.

The mage throws her a disdainful look, sweeping out the door in a burst of wind and flame. And the wooden stairs that lead out of the tower erupt into a fiery inferno, as Galadriel makes a last attempt to take a gasping breath.

She manages to form one final thought, curling her mind around a tiny, shining fragment of blessed relief: He didn’t do this.

It wasn’t his doing, Sauron has not deceived her after all—

A teardrop slips onto her cheek, almost instantly seared away by the heat in the burning room. Then her eyes roll back, and she’s plummeting into unconsciousness, falling endlessly into the dark.

Chapter Text

Galadriel.

She’s spinning through the dark, no longer able to tell up from down. Tumbling through that thick, all-encompassing, impenetrable blackness that lacks all direction. She doesn’t feel anything anymore, all she knows is nothingness.

Except—

Galadriel!

From the depths of this bottomless void, she perceives... something. Syllables? Sounds? A pressing, desperate thought that might approximate a name being called out… but she cannot connect that name to herself. She is unable to remember why she’s here, or where she was before. Does she have a name?

She falls and falls in the dark.

GALADRIEL!

And then, with a sudden shock that jars her back into sharp alertness, her fall is broken. She crashes into deep, ice-cold water.

Something almost like a wry laugh escapes her then, the water rushing into her lungs as she takes an inadvertent breath. She remembers now. Of course. She’s suffocating, choking on smoke; the watchtower is burning all around her – and yet here, in her mind, she’s still drowning. Drowning the way she always does, sinking helplessly into the depths. And she cannot break her bonds to escape.

Galadriel, listen to me! Please. Stay with me. I need a moment to think—

She gathers what remains of her strength as she flounders in the water, struggling against the ropes that are holding her – are they ropes? shadows? spells? – but the bonds are as unyielding as iron. And the next instant, her mind fills with a chaos of sound and sensation, flashes of incongruous images overlapping in her perception.

It’s as if she’s in three places at the same time. She hears the crackling flames in the burning watchtower, and the shouts of the city guards below. There’s also the loud rush of churning water, the roar of thunder and lightning; a storm on the Sundering Sea.

And a third place— where is this? She’s holding something small in her hands. It feels rough, like an unpolished rock, but it’s shining like a jewel, glowing so brightly that she can see the shape of it even through her closed eyelids. Mithril ore. She perceives a flash of molten liquid, hot metal being stirred, a spiral of silver and gold – a lever being turned – a feeling of crackling power, gathering heat – what is this—

These are not her hands. She’s not holding that ore. Her own hands are still bound tightly behind her, held by those immovable shadows.

Not her hands. His.

It’s Sauron holding that impossibly bright shard of ore over the liquid, his other hand in a tight grip on the lever. He’s mixing the mithril alloy, back in Celebrimbor’s forge. What Galadriel sees probably amounts to about two seconds in real-time, but it seems interminably slowed down in her perception, as if she’s watching everything happen in slow motion.

Sauron’s panicked, disjointed thoughts are screaming into her head. Wrong. Need to get this completely wrong. A serious mistake. Temperature turned down. Pressure way too high. Too fast – more silver, too much silver, all of it, all at once – and now, more mithril, now! – quickly, close this – and it should —

The shining ore is gone from his hand. And then Galadriel hears the explosion ripping through the forge, a sound that’s both up close and far away at the same time. She feels Sauron get thrown back, his body colliding with the stone wall. Smoke is filling the workshop. There’s a cascade of falling bricks from the ceiling. Is this her burning tower, or his?

She can feel Sauron’s power gathering around him with frightening speed. There are dark tendrils of shadow streaming from his outstretched hands, blending with the smoke that’s billowing from the shattered forge. The walls of the tower rumble and shake as his power amplifies, and all the lamps in the workshop have gone out.

In the background, Celebrimbor’s horrified voice calls out: “Annatar? Are you all right? What happened? Annatar! Annatar!”

The workshop is absolutely full of smoke. It’s impossible to see anything – and Galadriel understands at once what Sauron has done, hiding the effects of his power surge behind a catastrophic mithril explosion in the forge.

Sauron is on his feet now, climbing to the same window where Galadriel had sat to watch the smiths. The frame is empty; there’s no glass in it anymore, it’s all blown out. He looks down at the burning watchtower, at the city wall in the distance below, those fierce blazing flames rising against the night sky.

Galadriel. I’m here, I've got you. Galadriel! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!

In the Sundering Sea, Galadriel turns her head, opens her eyes, looks up… and he’s there.

He looks like Halbrand, because he’s always Halbrand when they share this vision, always her courageous Southlander, following that rope into the depths of the sea to find her. She feels his comforting hands taking hold of her — he’s got her, he’s here — and he starts trying to undo her bonds.

He’s trying, but he can’t do it.

He can’t free her, because—

There’s no dagger this time.

No dagger, Galadriel. I can’t undo this. I can’t cut the ropes – you’ll have to – you’ll have to break free –

She screams silently, water and smoke pouring into her lungs at the same time. She’s in absolute agony. How much time is really passing in the watchtower? Seconds? A minute? Two? She has to breathe.

At once, she remembers who did this, remembers who laid these dark bonds on her. She recalls the white-robed mage’s ominous warning – he cannot hide from us forever – and that awful, clawing presence that had been scratching at Sauron’s mind. The warning she desperately needs to give him.

It’s you they’re after! she screams into Sauron’s head. They’re coming for you, they’re here, they’re already here, you’re in danger—

I know. I know, Galadriel. But please, we don’t have much time. You have to break free.

She can feel Sauron sustaining her, pouring will into her through their connection just like he did when they fought in the forest. Just like he did when they pulled each other back up through their exhaustion in battle, again and again. He’s shaking with the effort of casting his power toward her at such a distance.

Everything is on fire. The stairs are collapsing, she sobs, looking around the burning watchtower. There’s still no way out of here! Even if I could—

Look at me, Galadriel! Here, not there. Look at me here!

Galadriel blinks, and she opens her eyes again in the water. Halbrand is still with her, clutching her tightly, holding her hands. Still sinking with her. He rests his forehead against hers, his eyes alight with that otherworldly glow.

And she feels Sauron’s power flooding toward her, then... stronger than she has ever felt it. It’s surrounding her, shielding her. But more than that. His power is bending to her.

Somehow, he’s pouring it directly into her hands. As if she could seize it, command it, pull it into herself.

As if she could wield it, like the ring—

I bind you to power! I bind you to power, Galadriel! Take it! Take it now!

It’s half of the exchange he offered her on the raft. Half of the bargain he had wanted to strike. But he’s taking nothing in return, asking for nothing. He’s giving it to her freely.

She closes her hands around his, accepting what he offers, drawing power from him. And then... she tugs her wrists sharply apart, and she feels her shadowy bindings snap away like twine.

In the sea, Halbrand seizes her immediately, his arms wrapping around her. He’s pulling her up fast, pulling her to the surface, getting her above water. She takes a long, grateful breath as she grabs hold of the edge of their raft.

Inside the blazing watchtower, Galadriel coughs and gasps for air as she rolls herself up to a sitting position. She’s free from the mage’s bonds. There’s a shimmering veil of darkness blanketing her, and she can feel Sauron’s presence here with her, sustaining that faltering shield. He’s only just managing to hold the flames at bay, the veil flickering uncertainly as he hits the limits of his effort. Through their link, she can feel his exhaustion, the toll it’s taking for him to do this. And now he’s poured some of his power into her –

Galadriel scrambles to her knees and slams her palms down hard against the burning floor, and a terrifying shockwave bursts forth from her hands. A gale of icy, supernatural wind surges through the watchtower, stealing all the air from the room. Instantly snuffing the flames.

The damage to the tower was already extensive, the boards and beams burned completely through at the periphery of the room. The floor creaks and tilts dangerously under the force of her strike.

But the structure shudders, settles… and holds.

The fire is out.

The dark shield around her vanishes as Sauron’s immense relief washes over her, mixing with her own. He chokes out a sob of gratitude, slumping against the windowsill in the forge.

And then—

Ohhh...well done! You just had to save your little Noldor pet, hmm? Knew you couldn’t resist showing your hand. Galadriel’s skin crawls at that mocking, whispering voice that slithers into Sauron’s head. Found you now... you fool.

Through the last glimmer of their connection, Galadriel senses that dark claw closing around his mind, tearing through his defenses. He has no strength left in him to fight it off. She hears Celebrimbor calling out once more for Annatar, feels Sauron falling backwards into the workshop, his body hitting stone as he collapses.

Their connection dissolves, his mind slipping away from hers.

Galadriel falls against the icy cold floor in the burnt-out shell of the watchtower... and everything goes black again.

Chapter Text

Galadriel wakes to the soft hum of a healer’s song, with the sensation of a cool cloth being laid upon her head. It smells like sweet grass and wildflowers, mixing with the tangy scent of healing salve that hangs heavy in the room.

She sits up in the bed, all at once – so suddenly that the attendant at her bedside stops humming and startles with a gasp. Galadriel’s hand immediately goes to her hip, seeking the ghost of Finrod’s dagger like she always does when she wakes in potential peril. But of course there’s no weapon at her side, and her hand closes on the soft fabric of those blue pyjamas they’ve dressed her in.

There’s no danger in the room, either. No terrifying white-robed mage, no orcs, just a single wide-eyed elf staring at her, clutching the damp cloth.

She’s in Ost-in-Edhil’s halls of healing.

Her body has been slathered in salve; she can feel the warm energy from it radiating all over her skin. Both of her hands are wrapped up in soft gauze all the way to her wrists. She can tell she’s been kept in restorative repose by that familiar tingle above her eyes; she’s been prevented from waking up by a gentle enchantment, to force her to rest.

Galadriel’s teeth immediately clench in indignation. It’s been a very long while since she’s needed attention from a healer. She’s taken her share of injuries in battle over the centuries, some of them critical, but she has always chosen to mend her own wounds if she possibly can. Even if it would have eased her suffering to have someone else attend to her. And she has always despised being put under any kind of restorative enchantments – she much prefers getting back to battle faster over resting longer to recuperate.

“I’m fine! You can stop that now, thank you,” she chokes out, pushing away the shocked healer’s hand. “I have to go. Must get back— get back to—”

Back to where? To what?

Her thoughts are still foggy for a moment, but it doesn’t take Galadriel long to get her bearings. She remembers the watchtower burning. The mage dressed in white. The orcs at the wall, the orcs that weren’t really there— and Sauron.

Is Sauron still at the forge? What happened in Celebrimbor’s tower? She needs to get to him— they were coming for him— surely it must be too late by now, if they’ve—

“Lie back, please, Commander,” the healer says, laying a firm hand on Galadriel’s shoulder. “Come, now. You must stay here just a little while longer. You inhaled a lot of smoke, and you need to rest.”

“No, no. I need to leave. I need to go, right now.” Galadriel turns to look toward the room’s small stained-glass window. It’s still dark outside, so she can’t have been in here all that long. She swings her bare feet out of the bed, looking around for her combat uniform. “What did you do with my clothes? Where are my boots?”

“Commander Galadriel, please. Lie down. It’s not a good idea to get up too quickly—”

Galadriel sighs. “Never mind. Listen, thanks for—” She gestures at the cloth, and holds up her bandaged hands. “For all of this. But there are things I urgently need to attend to.”

She pushes herself off the bed and hops to her feet, testing her balance. She’s a little unsteady, but on the whole, she feels surprisingly unscathed. With one last nod at the stunned healer, she stalks out the door pyjama-clad and barefoot, and turns sharply around the corner.

And runs straight into Elrond.

“Galadriel! Oh! You’re all right, thank the light!” He catches her in his arms, clutching her to his chest with obvious relief. “I was just on my way back to check on you. You know, when they first told me you were here, I thought you might’ve been up in the forge with Celebrimbor, too. But then I heard all about the fire in the watchtower, and the incident at the wall—” He lets out a long breath. “I can’t believe this. What an awful, awful night this has been.”

“What has happened at Celebrimbor’s forge?” Galadriel’s heart is pounding. She keeps her cheek pressed into the shoulder of Elrond’s tunic, to keep him from seeing the truth of what she already knows in her eyes.

“There was... an accident. A huge explosion,” Elrond says. “Took out half of the new workshop, blew part of the tower roof off. It seems Celebrimbor was working with mithril again, and… well... you know very well how delicate that can be.” His arms tense around her. “Two different misfortunes at the same time. And here I thought things were actually starting to go our way.”

“Is everyone all right?” Galadriel pulls back, and when she sees Elrond’s worried expression, a shiver of dread crawls down her spine.

“There were no other injuries at the wall, thankfully, and there’s absolutely no sign of enemy forces. Though we will need to regroup first thing tomorrow to address the… peculiarities of what befell the night watch out there. And to investigate the cause of that strange fire.” He gives her a searching look before his gaze falters, his lips pursing into a thin, pained line. “As for the forge… well, that is is another matter. Celebrimbor walked away with just a few scrapes. But… Annatar was there with him… and…”

“And...?” Her heart leaps into her throat. “And what, Elrond? Speak it.”

“Well… he hasn’t come out of it as luckily.” Elrond averts his eyes. “The Seven were called, and they came swiftly. I’m sure they will find some way to help him… but at the moment, none of the healers seem to know what’s wrong with him.”

“What do you mean they don’t know what’s wrong with him?” Her voice rises. “Where is he? I want to see him. Take me to him!”

“Shhhh!” Another healer approaches them, coming down the hall carrying a tall jug of water. “Quiet in the halls, please,” he hisses. “This is a place of soothing rest. If you must shout, step outside.”

Galadriel bristles, biting back her anger and panic as she lowers her voice. “Sorry. I… I was just looking for my friend,” she says. “Annatar of Arandor. Do you happen to know where he is?”

The healer’s face immediately softens into an expression of affection tinged with pity. “Oh. Annatar, yes. Of course. He is… being attended to.”

“I would like to see him. And I would very much like to speak to the Seven.”

“I don’t think now is the best time. The Seven are still conferring over him. They’ve been in there with him for nearly two hours already, and it’s hard to say when they’ll be ready to—” His head snaps up as a group of robed healers comes around the corner from another corridor. “Oh! Wait, look, here they are.”

The healers are murmuring to each other in low, concerned voices as they walk, huddling with their heads close together. Galadriel knows them all by sight, those intense, serious faces she’ll never forget. Their unparalleled skill is responsible for Eregion’s wide renown in elvish medicine. They are the ones known collectively as the Seven – a group of the most powerful, talented elven healers in the city.

The ones who were summoned with great urgency on the day she arrived here with a dying Southlander king.

The ones who saved Halbrand’s life.

She has watched them before, searching their grim expressions, studying them for the smallest signs of hope in their perfectly focused, calm demeanours. And every last one of them looks less hopeful right now than they did when they first gathered around Halbrand.

Galadriel immediately rushes toward them. “Annatar of Arandor. Where is he? Can you help him?”

“Commander Galadriel, good evening,” one of them says, inclining his head to her. His brow furrows. “We have been in deep counsel over his case, and I’m afraid none of us can discern quite what’s the matter. I… I am not entirely sure that we can help him. Physically, we can find absolutely nothing wrong with him, save for some surface wounds that had already been seen to by the healers on duty.”

“When we were first called in, we assumed he had sustained some critical bodily injury in the forge accident,” says another of the Seven, shaking her head. “But there is no evidence that he was badly hurt by the explosion... nor that he hit his head. His body is indeed mostly unharmed. This seems to be entirely a matter of the spirit.”

The first healer looks from Galadriel to Elrond and back again. “To me, all the signs point toward some kind of spiritual exhaustion. It looks like the late stages of fading. A loss of will to continue. Of course, he is a foreigner in this land… and it’s not unheard of for such things to be brought on by a terrible longing for home. But I can’t see how that could have escalated so suddenly. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you would miss noticing.”

“It should have been very evident if that were the case,” the other healer concurs. “His strength and vitality would have been ebbing over a matter of weeks, and there would have been something like a deep, inconsolable melancholy in him, like a despair that could not be lifted—”

“No, there was definitely nothing like that,” Elrond says. “As I said, it was quite the opposite with him.” He glances toward Galadriel. “Annatar was in great spirits, he seemed very happy here. When I saw him earlier today... he was so excited to speak to me about the future.”

“We considered the possibility that some foul enchantment may have struck him. Perhaps something particularly difficult to detect,” says another of the Seven. Galadriel remembers that her specialty is in dark enchantments and poisons; it was she who worked on countering the toxins from the orcish blade when they saved Halbrand. “But Lord Celebrimbor was insistent that nothing like that befell Annatar, that nothing else had hurt him beyond this explosion in the forge. He said Annatar seemed perfectly fine until he was thrown back by the blast. I just don’t understand what could have happened in that short time.”

“The explosion in the forge did involve mithril,” Elrond says slowly. “A substance we admittedly still know very little about, with many strange properties. Could it… could that have injured him somehow, in a way you cannot see?”

The Seven are nodding to themselves. “Indeed, we are almost certain that the crucial element here will be something that travelled in the unseen world. There must be something we have overlooked, something we haven’t managed to identify or counter with any of our restorative spells. None of us have seen anything quite like this before.”

“For now, we’ve applied some strong general healing enchantments to fortify him. We’ll leave him to rest for a few hours, and see if perhaps he starts to fight this off. We’ll return in the morning to reassess... and do not worry, the healers on duty will send word to us if anything changes during the night.”

“May I see him?” Galadriel insists. “Please. I’d really like to see him.”

The Seven confer briefly amongst themselves, as if contemplating the wisdom of granting her request. Then, at last, she’s given a perfunctory nod. “I suppose so. It shouldn’t do any harm.”

“Perhaps the sound of Galadriel’s voice could help to bring him out of it,” Elrond says, a fragile hope in his eyes. “Annatar cares for her a great deal.”

“Come, we will take you to him. This way.”

Two of the Seven lead Galadriel and Elrond down the hallway they just came from, bringing them to the small room where Annatar is lying in bed. It may as well be the same room he was in when he was here after the creature attack – these rooms all look more or less identical. But unlike the last time, when he was sitting up and quipping impertinently at Galadriel from the moment she arrived, he lies there unresponsive and unmoving.

The healers excuse themselves then, and Elrond waits by the door while Galadriel approaches the bed.

A deep-seated dread sinks into her bones as she looks down at him. His beautiful elven form looks as still and uncanny as a statue – lovely, but completely lifeless. It reminds her of the carvings of the dead in the memorial garden in Lindon, and she immediately wishes she had not thought of that particular image. His silvery hair fans out around him over the pillow. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is so shallow that for a moment she wonders if he’s actually breathing at all. But he is; on a closer look she can see that his chest is rising and falling, almost imperceptibly.

“I need to go take Celebrimbor home,” Elrond says softly. “He’s still sitting out at the entrance, waiting for news. He’s very shaken by what happened, understandably so, and he feels responsible.”

She turns. “Elrond… wait. After that... could you please go and speak to the guard captains for me?” 

“Certainly. I suppose I should tell them that the defensive line can stand down, if there is no present danger at the wall?” 

“No,” she says. “The defensive line should remain in place. Tell them to stay vigilant. There may well be a true and present danger to this city from the forces of darkness, Elrond. What those soldiers saw at the wall, whether it was real or not, it’s—” She takes a long, ragged breath. “Look... we’ll speak more of it in the morning. Just tell them to keep Defense Plan Three active, and ensure everyone remains on high alert. Put an extra patrol on the city center, and have them search within our walls as well, for any sign of intruders – including among the members of the night watch. I think it is very possible that the night watch was infiltrated and compromised by one of the Enemy’s spies.”

Elrond squeezes her shoulder, and the look he gives her when she mentions the Enemy says the unspoken name he’s thinking: Sauron.

“Of course. I’ll see to it,” he says. He pauses, and after a moment he reaches out and pulls her tightly against him again. “Galadriel,” he whispers to her anxiously. “You know I do not wish to mistrust Lord Celebrimbor, and I hate to keep returning to this subject, but… there is a part of me that fears we do not know the whole of what happened to Annatar tonight. What if these two incidents are related? The Seven did mention the possibility of a dark enchantment… do you think Celebrimbor could have been doing something with that artifact of Morgoth’s in the forge? Something dark, that could have caused—”

“No,” Galadriel says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“I just think it’s a little odd that Celebrimbor walked away completely unharmed, and yet Annatar—”

“No, Elrond. Stop it. Celebrimbor would never do anything to hurt Annatar. You know he wouldn’t.” She lays one bandaged hand on his arm. “He spoke the truth, I am sure of it. He’s been working on several new alloys, including the one he’s going to be using for the door project. A mithril explosion can happen so easily. We have both seen it... it’s a dangerous endeavour, that’s all. One tiny mistake in temperature, in pressure... and it becomes unstable.”

“You’re right. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Annatar was standing closer to the blast,” Elrond says, forcing conviction into his words that he clearly doesn’t feel. “Celebrimbor said he was giving the instructions from across the room while he let Annatar handle the materials. Of course, he shouldn’t even have let him do that since he’s not a guild member yet. But it was Celebrimbor’s calculation error that caused this… and Annatar paid the price. No wonder he feels so responsible.”

“Tell Celebrimbor to try to get some rest,” Galadriel says. “He’ll be called upon in the morning, and we can question him further if you’d like. I expect there will be a council meeting first thing to discuss all these matters.”

Elrond nods slowly. “Yes. There will be questions for you, too… and for everyone who was present at the wall when that... hallucination struck. There are just so many unknowns here.” He’s looking down at the soft gauze wrapping Galadriel’s hands before he blinks and looks away. He tilts his head toward Annatar. “You should go to him now. Stay here. I’ll take care of Celebrimbor, and then I’ll go speak to the guard captains.”

“Thank you, Elrond,” she whispers. “Thank you so much.”

“Be at ease, Galadriel. Annatar is going to recover. He will be all right. I… I believe it.” Elrond doesn’t sound in the least like he actually believes it, but she is grateful for the lie nonetheless.

He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly one last time and starts to leave, and he’s already taken several hurried steps down the corridor when she calls out to him.

“Elrond...wait.”

He stops, turning back to her, a quizzical look on his face. “Galadriel? What is it?”

“The Seven said… it’s possible that he’s suffering from something similar to fading, didn’t they?” Her voice shakes. “I... I don’t know if it would help… but if there’s any chance it might... maybe I could...” She lets her gaze flick pointedly down to the ring of power that rests on Elrond’s hand, then back to his face again.

Elrond swallows hard, considering. He looks at the ring, twisting it around his finger.

Galadriel is carefully unwinding the gauze that was wrapped around her tender hands. Beneath it, her skin still looks raw and pink, coated with the glossy sheen of the salve the healers applied. She can discern a faint pattern like pale lightning bolts, zigazagging up from her fingertips to just past her wrists. But it doesn’t hurt when she flexes her fingers, and she holds one hand out in front of her, extended toward Elrond in supplication.

“Elrond. Please. Give it to me.”

He stares at her trembling, outstretched hand. And then finally he sighs, slips the ring off his finger, and very slowly reaches out to slide it onto hers. “Just until morning,” he whispers. “Tell absolutely no one about this, Galadriel. And remain here – stay in this building.”

“Of course. I’ll be right here with him.” She feels the ring’s familiar, soothing hum enveloping her hand, its protective magic immediately calming her.

Elrond embraces her once more, looks over her shoulder at Annatar for a long moment, then turns and hurries away.

Galadriel steps back toward the bed and sits down at the edge. When she reaches out and touches Annatar’s cheek, she shivers to find him just as eerily cold as the night they wielded the shadow blade, frozen with that terrible otherworldly chill. She lays her hand over his forehead, letting the ring rest against his skin, but he makes no reaction to it at all. With her other hand, she strokes his hair, exactly the same way she always did to Halbrand when she held him half-conscious by their campfires. Tears are gathering in her eyes.

She cannot sense any trace of Sauron’s presence here, even sitting so very close to him. Just like when he held the shadow blade, it’s as if the shell of him remains, but nothing at all of his mind or spirit is here. Perhaps he is trapped somewhere else, locked away somewhere in the unseen world. And what of those who came here hunting him? Did they find him already, and this is how they’ve left him? She shudders to think of it.

Galadriel peels back the covers to get into the bed next to Annatar. She sees that they’ve dressed him in the bottom half of the blue pyjamas, but his chest is bare. They’ve painted him with silvery lines of restorative spells, and he’s wearing a necklace woven of herbs. A layer of dried healing salve covers those deep scratch marks that he’d insisted on keeping, and the red gouges her fingernails left on him have now knit together into nearly invisible pale lines.

A pang of sorrow wracks her as she blinks and lets her gathering tears roll down her cheeks. She slips under the covers, squeezing into the remaining space at the edge of the narrow cot. She presses her body tight against his, wrapping herself around him, willing her warmth into him. And she lays her ring-bearing hand on his chest, right against his heart.

His heartbeat seems unusually strong for one in such repose. It beats hard and fast, almost as if he were in the midst of some battle or tense pursuit, not lying unmoving and lifeless here in the healers’ halls. She remembers curling up next to Halbrand like this on those nights while they journeyed to Eregion, holding back the same deep dread that she might lose him. She recalls how she slept with her palm against his fevered chest, feeling his heartbeat, reassuring herself that it was still there.

But he survived that journey. And he survived when he fought off the effects of the shadow blade. He will pull through again this time, he must. Sauron will come back to her.

She thinks of lying next to him in bed at that little inn, and how he had managed to reach her in her mind, back then. Their connection was nowhere near as strong as it is now… and yet they’d been able to join minds so vividly, even while his injured body could hardly respond. In Khazad-Dûm, too, she’d been able to reach him while he was trapped in that dark vision with the echo of Morgoth. So there must be a way, there must be some way to—

She continues to hold her ring-bearing hand flat against his chest, and with her other hand she takes hold of his wrist, locking her fingers tightly around it. She focuses on the ring again, on that warm thrum of protection, and imagines that it’s surrounding both of them. She visualizes the ring’s power flowing into him, and a glowing tether linking them together. She opens her mind to their connection, searching for him, just like she has done night after night at her window. Attuning herself to locate him, wherever he is.

She reaches out for his mind with all the will she can summon.

Until she feels it at last, that gentle pull back on the tether. An acknowledgement. A feeling at the very edge of her perception, like the tiniest little squeeze of a hand.

And then, she falls. Out of the bed, out of reality... and into Sauron’s mind.

Chapter Text

Galadriel is looking up at an ominously dark sky that roils with gathering stormclouds. And directly before her, silhouetted against it, is the towering black fortress that stands in Sauron’s mind. The cracks in that damaged wall are much deeper and more pronounced now, but the silvery veins that patch the damage seem to have expanded too – it’s as if the light were molten liquid that has spread to fill in all the spaces.

And Sauron is standing there, his arms held out flat against the black stone, his back pressed to the cracked and crumbling wall as if he’s the only thing still holding it up.

Sauron appears here in a form she hasn’t seen before, yet Galadriel recognizes him immediately. He’s still mostly elf-like in shape, with pointed ears, high cheekbones, and long red hair that falls halfway down his back. But he is clearly no elf – his limbs are long and sharp-clawed, and his pale skin radiates a shimmering, otherworldly glow. His eyes, too, shine brightly in the dim light, their gold-hued irises slashed by thin, serpentine pupils. He seems taller than usual, partly encased in his spiked black armour, though no helmet hides that beautiful but terrifying face.

In front of him stands the mage with the close-shorn white hair, her robes flapping in the wind. She’s holding her staff out in front of her, resting it threateningly against Sauron’s dark breastplate.

Carefully, Galadriel moves toward them – or rather, she draws her perspective in closer. She doesn’t seem to be physically present in this mindscape, nor is she hindered from moving and looking around. Unlike in the shadow blade vision, her perspective here remains her own.

The white-robed mage doesn’t appear to perceive Galadriel’s approach at all – perhaps the ring of power is shielding her from notice – and Sauron does nothing that would outwardly betray her presence. But she feels him acknowledging her again in his mind; that soft tug, as thought his fingers are closing around hers. He knows Galadriel is here, but he’s warning her not to make herself known.

“You are seriously trying my patience,” the mage is saying. “I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt for so long... and this is how you repay me, Mayrušurzel?” She spits the unfamiliar name at him through her teeth, her face a snarl as she jabs the staff sharply into Sauron’s chest. “A mistake I will not repeat again, believe me.”

Galadriel is aware that the mage is speaking to him in a language she shouldn’t understand – a mixture of Valarin and Black Speech, she thinks. But as the scene draws closer and sharpens in her mind, the harsh, garbled sentences resolve into meanings, and Galadriel is able to understand everything that’s being said just as clearly as Sauron does.

“I’d actually convinced myself that you might have lost your memories when you retook a mortal form, and that’s why you were blocking us out,” the mage goes on. “I thought if only we could get to you… if we could say the right words, we may yet be able to pull you back to us. I was even willing to bend the knee to you... to call you master again, if that was what it took. You see, unlike you, I’ve always been willing to make sacrifices for the greater cause.” She laughs bitterly. “But it was too much to hope for, wasn’t it? That you’d actually do the slightest thing to help us? Of course you only want the glory for yourself… as usual.”

Sauron says nothing in response. For a moment, he lowers his head almost deferentially, but his furious glower does not leave his captor’s face. And Galadriel feels the apocalyptic rage that kindles within him at these words. He’s livid.

Then the mage’s wrist flexes on the staff, and she sends a little surge of power down it with almost playful glee. Pale flames erupt from the weapon, the magic throwing sharp needles of pain into Sauron when it strikes him – a sudden, startling agony that Galadriel perceives in vivid detail, even without a physical body to feel it with. It’s as if Sauron’s very spirit wrenches back with the shock of it, and his ethereal, not-quite-elven body shudders against the wall.

A fall of black dust scatters down on him as another new crack forms, high above his head. But Sauron never moves from the spot where he stands. It’s as if his feet are rooted in place, and Galadriel is not entirely sure that he can move. Perhaps he’s under some spell that immobilizes him here, the same way she was trapped in the watchtower.

The mage is looking at him expectantly as if she thinks he’s going to say something. But when the magic subsides and he’s relieved of the pain, Sauron remains silent.

“Not even going to try to defend yourself this time, hmm? To see our dread sorcerer so weak… sometimes I almost feel sorry for you.” She sneers at him. “Honestly, I still can’t believe Oren actually managed to slay you. Didn’t think that fool of an Uruk had it in him! He was always so damn enamoured of you, no matter how much we tried to warn him against you… though it seems like he’s finally changed his tune now.”

“You talked to Oren?” Sauron speaks for the first time, then, spitting out the words as if he can simply no longer contain his fury. “No doubt he’s filled your head with lies, told you his own deluded version of things. Do you really think you can trust him?”

It’s not Annatar’s voice, nor Halbrand’s. It’s the voice Galadriel heard him speak with that night in Khazad-Dûm, while he crushed broken glass into his hands. Low and hissed and half-whispered, the words hot with rage.

“Trust him? Hardly,” the mage says. “I was prepared to kill him as soon as we finished questioning him, traitor that he is. But then… I realized that he may yet be useful. He is the one who finally found the Orodruin key, after your frankly unbelievable failure in the Southlands.”

She jabs Sauron again with the staff, sending another sharp surge of magic into him, and he recoils. Again, an echo of what he feels reverberates into Galadriel through their link, though she isn’t truly here. She winces in pain.

Where is her body? She’s faintly aware that she’s still holding Annatar in that bed back in the halls of healing. Her hand is entwined in his, her other palm still resting against his ice-cold chest. She reminds herself of the ring’s protection, focusing on the glowing adamant on her finger, drawing its power closer around them like a blanket. Hoping its protection really does extend this far.

I’m here, she sends to Sauron, pressing something like warm reassurance into his thoughts. I’m right here. And he squeezes her hand.

“Oren will be of no help to you,” Sauron growls at the mage. “He has his own plans. He cares about nothing except the Uruk.”

“Yes… and his little army of abominations is truly loyal to him. Quite remarkable.” The mage sighs. “He should really have come with us when he had the chance, instead of following you. He would have been a great asset to us at Rhûndael all these years. But no matter. Water under the bridge, we have him now… and he is proving to be a very helpful ally.”

“I doubt that very much,” Sauron scoffs. “You’re lying. Oren would never work with you.”

The words are tossed out with casual disdain, but Galadriel feels the cold fear that coils inside him then, even as he tries to hide it. And she feels the sharp lick of another kind of pain in him– one she knows all too well. The stinging hurt of betrayal.

“Ohhh, you’d be surprised.” The mage smiles slowly. “You’ve truly managed to infuriate him this time. His hatred of you is a strong motivator. And his weaknesses have not changed… he’ll do just about anything with the right incentive.”

Sauron narrows those serpentine eyes. “My death, then, is it? You promised him another shot at killing me?”

“If only. No.” The mage brays a laugh. “No… he wants us to free our army.”

Sauron furrows his brow, and lets the tiniest flicker of concern show on that otherwordly face before he suppresses it. “Your army?”

“What, you think we haven’t got Uruk of our own?” Her expression drips with disdain. “We have accomplished far more than you ever did, in that regard. We’ve raised an army fit for the Dark Lord, a vast and powerful host, all of them bound in service to us. And so… I made a bargain with Oren. He pledges his allegiance to us until we defeat you… and in return, we’ll unbind our Uruk when the fight is won. They can join him and his band of free warriors… if they so choose.”

“Are you serious? You told him you’ll free your entire Uruk army?”

“Of course! And I will honor it. Oren made me swear an oath in blood.” Her mouth curls into a cruel grimace. “But if our Great Master should overrule our bargain when he rises from the Void? There isn’t much I can do, is there? I will unbind the Uruk, and my oath will be fulfilled. They will be free to follow Oren if they wish it. But if the Dark Lord should immediately sweep them back under his control, and Oren’s children too?” She shrugs. “That is outside my purview.”

“No. No way, Oren’s far too smart for that. He would’ve seen through you, he would never have fallen for it. He’ll—”

“Oh, Mayrušurzel.” She smiles toothily, shaking her head at him with a look of mocking pity. “You know very well just how oblivious Oren can be when he makes decisions with his feelings. The last place that led him was to your side.” She spins the staff dramatically. “Right… I think that’s quite enough pointless chatter. Are you ready to give me what I need now, or would you like some more pain?”

She gives him no chance to respond before a devastatingly powerful wave of energy surges out of the staff. She aims it at him, but redirects it at the last moment, instead unleashing the spell into the black wall just above Sauron’s head.

The wall trembles and shifts, raining more black dust and bits of rubble down onto Sauron’s glowing face.

“Well?” the mage demands. “Changed your mind yet? I’ll ask you one more time: Where is Mâchan?”

“And I’ll tell you the same damn thing I told you already: I haven’t seen that cursed axe since we buried it in the Southlands,” he growls. “And if I had taken it, I assure you that I would’ve unmade it a dozen times over by now.”

The mage smiles with that mocking grin. “As if you even could.”

“You have absolutely no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Hmm. What you’re capable of never ceases to surprise me, I’ll grant you that.” She spins the staff again, twirling it almost nonchalantly in her hand. “Seems you’re capable of getting hopelessly entangled with one of the Noldor, for one thing, hmm? The Dark Lord won’t like that. Honestly... what is it with you and elves?”

“This is between you and me, Lungorthin,” he snarls. “Leave the elves out of this!”

“Hah, if the elves had stayed out of it, we’d all be in a very different place right now wouldn’t we?” the mage – Lungorthin – says. “But they’ll pay for it soon, don’t you worry. The Dark Lord will be restored, and the world will be ours to remake. You know, you could have just come back to us willingly, and saved us all this nonsense. But no. Perhaps you secretly enjoy being a failure, hmm? Sometimes I just sit and think about you... and all the chances you managed to throw away...”

It’s Sauron’s turn to laugh. “Funny, that. I never think about you at all.”

“Awww. Keep pretending you’re not afraid of me, lordling. Keep lying, it’s adorable. Is it your little Noldor pet who’s going to protect you now? Oh, it’s going to be so much fun to watch the Dark Lord crush her, just like the rest of her pathetic kin. Or… wait... perhaps we should just find her right now and kill her! Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we did, after you went to so much trouble to save her life? What if we made you watch?”

For the first time, Sauron deigns to lunge forward and try to break free of whatever spell is holding him in place. But Lungorthin immediately brings the staff down on him again, and this time, the blow brings him to his knees. Behind him, the wall shakes again. Large shards of black stone are now falling out of the ever-deepening cracks, and in the ominous sky, thunder rumbles.

Galadriel feels Sauron reaching out for her then – an urgent, insistent pull in her mind. He’s calling on her to sustain his will, the same way they restored each other when they fought in the forest the night Morgoth’s creatures attacked. The same way he lifted her while she struggled to free herself in the watchtower. She opens herself up to him without hesitation, letting him take whatever he needs. And she feels that link between them intensifying as he pulls strength from their connection.

“Enough!” Lungorthin shouts at him. “No more games. Just give me the axe. Come on... you know you owe me at least this much.”

Sauron laughs derisively, the manic look in his bright eyes hiding his mounting fear. “I owe you nothing, Lungorthin, besides maybe a shadow blade to the back. Just like the kill you ordered on me,” he says. “You think I didn’t guess who gave Oren that blade he split me open with? And as for the axe... maybe you should take that up with him! Ask Oren where it is!”

“Oren didn’t know where that hidden passage was. You did,” Lungorthin hisses. “You happen to show back up in the Southlands just as Orodruin blows, and when we finally find the right passage, the compartment’s mysteriously empty? Surprising, isn’t it?” She levels her staff at Sauron’s neck, glancing up at that rapidly disintegrating wall. “Give me what I want, lordling. You can either give in now, and tell me where it is… or I’ll take all your secrets by force. Your choice.”

Power gathers in Lungorthin’s hands once more, poised to flow into her weapon. She throws the full force of her magic at him, and when she lifts the staff away again, Sauron is leaning hard on the wall to camouflage just how much he’s struggling to stand. Galadriel presses more strength toward him, imagines holding him up, but his will is fracturing with every vicious blow.

“Wait… are you saying… you actually believe that Oren didn’t take Mâchan?” he chokes out.

“Of course he didn’t! Because you have it!” Lungorthin’s face contorts with rage. “I know what you’re planning! You want to be the one do it; you want to free the Great Master yourself! After you’ve done nothing but waste time for centuries, chasing your own ridiculous ambitions!”

She strikes him hard across the face with another surge of power from the staff, and Sauron’s head snaps painfully to the side, his other cheek colliding with the wall. Through the connection, Galadriel feels his terror, sickeningly real. He’s too weak right now to absorb many more of these attacks. His tether to his elven body is too fragile to endure it. If his enemy miscalculates exactly how much power she can hit him with—

“Where were you while we built the Dark Lord’s fortress, when we delved and dug the deep pits of Rhûndael?” Lungorthin shrieks. “Where were you when we raised our new army of Uruk? When we tamed the monsters? When we learned again to breed dragons? When we hunted for Ungoliant’s lost lair? You did absolutely nothing! And now… now after we’ve done all the work, when you’ve finally realized how worthless you are without his power… now you want back in! You’ll come back to steal the glory like the slithering coward that you are—”

This time, she shoves the staff into Sauron's chest with enough force to shake the dark structure behind him, hitting him with a horribly strong surge of magic that slams his whole body back against the stone. His mouth opens in silent agony, but he refuses to scream. Galadriel feels his hand tearing into hers, as if she can feel those clawed fingers digging into her palm, and she squeezes back tightly. Sauron’s mind is a blaze of torment.

In the healers’ halls, Galadriel knows they’re curled against each other, and she feels Annatar’s body shudder beside her. His spirit’s hold on this elven form is alarmingly weak now. When she reaches for him, she can perceive it only as a pale, fraying thread, ever dwindling… and her heart drops. He’s slipping from her grasp. Annatar is fading, just like the Seven said.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why I haven’t killed you yet?” Lungorthin grins cruelly, baring fanged white teeth. “Why I haven’t sliced that pretty head from your body again, like Oren so badly wants me to?”

“Enlighten me,” Sauron gasps. “You’ve had ample opportunity. I know you’ve... been tracking me since Khazad-Dûm... I’d half thought you were going… to ambush me in the woods… and yet here I am, still living and breathing. Almost like you were afraid to face me.” Ink-black blood is streaming from his mouth, and he turns his head and spits on the ground. He’s all overconfidence and bravado, but Galadriel senses the raw panic that’s rising in his throat. She feels how hard he struggles to keep it from showing in his voice.

Lungorthin tips her head back and laughs. “Oh, believe me, I am the furthest thing from afraid. Nothing would please me more than to cut your treacherous throat and be rid of you, if I only knew where you’ve hidden that axe! Truth be told, I might’ve done it by now anyway, you’ve certainly undermined us enough… It is only my promise to the Dark Lord that has stayed my hand this long. Our Great Master forbade me from ever killing you, no matter what you did. Why do you think I had to get Oren to do it, when we needed to teach you a lesson?”

“Wait… Melkor told you not to kill me?” There’s a hitch in Sauron’s voice, some small, hopeful emotion unfurling in the corner of his mind before he brutally stomps it down. “Why?”

“Why do you think, little precious?” Lungorthin says. She reaches out and ruffles his red hair, in cruel mockery of the way Morgoth had touched him in that vision. “Because you need to finish your project for him! Oh, yes, we know. You’re still working on it now, aren’t you? Such a perfect, dutiful lieutenant... deep down, you’re still dying to be called his favourite, so desperate to please him… oh, yes, you’re still the same pitiful little dog you’ve always been, begging for a scrap of praise—”

Sauron throws himself forward again, and this time he almost breaks free. Galadriel feels his magic building back up as he reaches out for more strength from her. She draws on the ring to steady herself, and she lets him take what he needs. His power is gathering, wild and dangerous, and the fire in his eyes flares from golden yellow to piercing red.

Lungorthin just cackles again, tipping her head back with that unhinged look on her face. “The Great Master believes you really can find a way to pull his lost power back out of Arda. And when we free him from the Void... you’re going to restore it to him.” She raises the staff at him threateningly. “Is that not enough glory for you? Isn’t that enough? You will give me the axe! I should be the one to break the chain! Give me Mâchan!”

“Never!” Sauron roars back. “I will give you nothing!”

His face flickers and changes as the fury overtakes him – he is becoming that terrifying nightmare of a creature that Galadriel once saw screaming at her on the raft, his teeth lengthening into sharp fangs, his eyes widening. Dark magic surges around him, strong and heady, shrouding him in shadows.

But it’s still not enough to deter Lungorthin. She swings at Sauron again with the staff, lifting his entire body into the air as she unleashes a mind-shattering volley of power into him.

It is in this moment, watching this mage attack him with unfettered, terrifying force, that Galadriel knows without a doubt what she has already strongly suspected. This creature has to be Maiar. Like Sauron, like the balrog, unfathomably ancient and powerful. This is one of the other dark Maiar who served Morgoth.

“You’ve lost, Mayrušurzel!” Lungorthin shouts. “Give up! Give me the axe!”

She hurls him against the black wall, and he falls to the ground, his sea of red hair covering his face. The wall is collapsing now – whole boulders tumble down; entire sections are falling from between the glowing cracks, faster than the light can fill them. He crawls to his knees, still fighting back, but Lungorthin is breaking into the deepest strongholds of his mind.

And Galadriel remembers what Sauron said about the balrog. He did not have the strength to fight it off. And he is even weaker now than he was that night.

In the halls of healing, Annatar’s body convulses in Galadriel’s arms. His fingers clench hard against her palm.

Desperately, Galadriel summons the image of light pooling in her hands. She visualizes pouring it directly into Sauron, covering him with it, pulling more from the ring. Protecting him.

I bind you to the light, she whispers into his mind. I bind you to the light! — take it — take it now — please—

And he does.

She can feel him opening up to her, letting that light flow into him, drawing it in fast. It swirls into his shadows, streaming into the cracks inside him, filling them like it filled the cracks in that black wall.

In front of the fortress wall, blazing bright light is searing from Sauron’s palms as he drags himself back up to his feet. His black armor is bent and broken, but it, too, glows now with filaments of light. A vicious wind is whipping around him, his long hair rising about his face like a wild flame.

And then he throws his hands apart and unleashes an unholy maelstrom of power, flinging Lungorthin back with the shock of the onslaught.

Lungorthin screams, her voice nearly swallowed by the howling wind. “Nooo! How— what—”

She tumbles away over the blackened earth, and her staff slips from her hand, spinning out of her reach. Sauron lunges forward then and grabs hold of her before she can get to her feet again, grappling her to the ground, holding her at bay with those pale, clawed hands as she raises her own scythelike fingers toward his face.

But now the mage is changing shape, her outline shifting and growing. Horns bright as adamant are curling out of her head, her hands changing to sharp-edged hooves. She is shapeshifting, transforming herself into a balrog form, Galadriel realizes. Fierce and beastly and wreathed in scorching pale fire.

Lungorthin’s power surges up once more to meet his, and she lashes at Sauron with her whiplike tail. Unbearable pain lances into him as they struggle against each other, their magic clashing violently. Light is still streaming from his hands, scorching through her in return, and the other Maia is staring at him with something between awe and horror – but she still doesn’t release him.

“Give up!” Lungorthin screams, more roar now than voice. “Give up, you fool! You are too weak to win this, Mayrušurzel!”

“Keep— that name— out of your mouth. And get out of my head!”

He’s burning through her, tearing her apart as another black boulder falls from the tower.

His fortress is collapsing. It’s too late. Not enough, not enough—

Galadriel holds him, but Sauron is losing control of this. The earth shakes as he pushes back against Lungorthin’s ruthless storm of magic, and that slender thread that holds him to the world is unravelling much too fast. As he draws every last reserve of his power into his mind, strengthening himself here and ripping into the balrog, Sauron is letting go of his flesh-and-blood body.

In the healers’ halls, Annatar is dying. His elven form has stopped breathing.

No, no, no, NO— please, no—

Galadriel draws harder from the ring, intensifying the shield that she’s made around him. She’s never been able to wield the ring quite like this before, or felt the weight of its presence quite so keenly. Maybe it’s the effect of the power that Sauron sent into her earlier, or maybe it’s him telling her something through their connection— but she feels like— maybe— somehow— there must be a way—

The two Maiar are still locked in combat, their entangled magic flaring into a fierce inferno, neither of them willing to let go.

And then, Sauron breaks away. He rolls to the ground and seizes Lungorthin’s fallen staff. In an instant, he breaks it between his hands, and he skewers her, impaling her massive form with both sharp halves of it.

The two stakes pass through Lungorthin’s balrog body as easily as if she were made of smoke. She gives a blood-curdling shriek as she writhes and folds in on herself like crumpling paper. And then, the beast dissipates into a burst of flapping moths’ wings before disappearing from his mind altogether. The broken staff disintegrates in Sauron’s hands.

But there’s no strength left in him to react to his victory. He slumps back, his long limbs going slack. Dark blood is trickling from his mouth and nose, black tears running from the corners of those golden eyes.

In the halls of healing, Galadriel presses her hand to Annatar’s chest – no heartbeat, there’s no heartbeat, no no no—

Panic is flooding her veins as she turns all of her focus and concentration onto the ring on her hand, and onto that tiny, nearly-invisible thread that still holds Sauron to the real world. He’s still holding on to his dying elven body, somehow, clinging to it by the smallest frayed tether.

Galadriel is desperately unfurling ribbons of light out of the ring, braiding them quickly into a strong and glowing cord. She envisions winding that cord all around him – both here and there – anchoring him, securing him. She threads it back through the ring and ties it tightly.

And she pulls.

In the mindscape, Sauron’s battered and broken fortress still stands... but his tall, pale body crumples slowly to the ground. A chaos of wind-whipped red hair frames his face as she looks down at him. Blood is pooling behind his head, black rivulets seeping into the scorched earth. His glowing, serpentine eyes are still open, but they stare wide and empty at the storm-filled sky, his gaze unseeing and vacant—

—and Galadriel is back in the halls of healing in Ost-in-Edhil, holding Annatar of Arandor in the narrow bed.

She’s curled up next to him, clutching his lifeless body against her chest. But he’s no longer ice cold; no, he blazes with heat now, his skin so hot that it’s nearly burning her.

And then, Annatar shudders in her arms, taking in a long, gasping breath.

He’s alive.

His eyelids flutter open as he raises his head, and she’s staring into his familiar, beautiful eyes. Green and gold-flecked, dancing with just the slightest flicker of bright flame. Halbrand’s eyes, in Annatar’s elven face.

“Ga...Galadri—” he begins in a hoarse, broken voice, half whisper and half sob. But her mouth is already pressed hard over his, kissing him again and again as tears of relief run down her cheeks.

He’s alive, alive, alive—

And on her hand, the ring of power glows with an odd, ethereal light.

Chapter Text

When the first light of dawn appears at the crescent window, Galadriel is keeping watch over Annatar, holding his hand while he sleeps. That dry string of herbs is still tied around his neck, and new rows of glimmering spells have been applied to his chest, but he is very clearly recovering – a healthy colour is back in his face, and his skin no longer feels feverishly hot nor freezing cold.

The healers on duty have come in to check on him several times, marvelling at his steady improvement as they whisper to each other with beaming smiles. He was joking with them and charming them with mumbled quips while they attended him earlier, and they were clearly overjoyed to see him rallying. He hardly knows them, but somehow, even here, Annatar has made friends.

Galadriel has not left his side all night. She still cannot stop looking at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest to reassure herself that he’s still breathing. But he is. He is. When she seeks his heartbeat, it’s strong and steady under her palm. She holds her hand there, eyes closed, and she’s certain that she can once again feel his pulse synchronizing with her own.

He’s alive. The very thought that marred her peace for so many centuries is now the source of her comfort. Whatever strange and inexorable path their destinies have put them on, it seems they haven’t reached the end of it yet. Sauron is still here, still hers.

She knows she needs to speak to him about everything that happened last night. They need to discuss what they’re going to tell the council, figure out what they’re going to do next. She has so many questions about the binding between them, about the power they shared and what it all means— but here, now, she can think of nothing but how relieved she is that they survived to see another sunrise.

She leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead, brushing his pale hair back behind the point of his ear.

“Mmm… hello again,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering open a little. “Is this some elvish medicine? Kissing me better?”

When he smiles, Galadriel’s heart flips with the same aching blend of joy and longing that she first felt in Númenor, so foolishly besotted with a mortal smith.

“Maybe.” She returns his smile and dips her head lower, letting her lips ghost ever so briefly over his. But even that tiny spark of contact lights her up from inside, and the thrill of it startles her. The force of their connection, her awareness of him when he’s near, feels stronger than ever.

Before she can pull back, he catches her lower lip softly between his teeth, preventing her retreat. And then he’s winding his arms around her, gathering her toward him, and her mind becomes a blur of warm pleasure. He kisses her long and slow and deep, running his hands over her with nothing short of adoration. Like he needs to drink her in, savouring every second of it.

Mine, he whispers into her head. Mine, all mine, all mine, all mine... As Galadriel leans over him on the bed, he pulls her down to him, drawing her even closer. His tongue curls into her mouth, laced with a taste of his unfiltered thoughts slipping into her head… and... oh. Suddenly, she’s one irrational moment away from letting herself fall on top of him, dangerously close to ignoring the fact that they’re still in the halls of healing with a wide-open door behind them.

Galadriel breaks the kiss with a gasp. When she pulls away, he’s lying back smugly on his pillows, looking at her and smirking at the obvious flush in her cheeks.

“I... should go fetch some water for you,” she says, getting up quickly. “It is time to drink some more.” The carafe and glass at his bedside are both empty, and the healers said he was to drink water at least every hour.

“Thank you,” he says, that Halbrand-like smile still playing across Annatar’s smooth face. “You know... I think you secretly enjoy it when I need taking care of... don’t you, my little elf?”

“Hmm. Perhaps I just enjoy seeing you at a disadvantage,” she says with a smirk of her own. “Nonetheless, I do need you alive. So you must drink your water.”

“Ahhh, so you admit that you do need me? Hmm? What was that you said?” He stretches his arms up behind his head, giving her that look that makes her need to avert her gaze before she does anything reckless.

“Nothing. I said nothing, you must have misheard me,” she says, unable to hide her laughter.

Part of her can’t believe she’s just standing here smiling and teasing with him, when there are so many serious things she needs to say. There is so much they urgently need to do, so many problems still waiting, and Morgoth—

“I’ll be right back,” she tells him. “And when I return, I have some things to discuss with you. If you’re well-rested enough... then we should talk.”

“Of course,” he says. But before she can take a step away, he takes hold of her hand and tugs her back to him. She doesn’t resist, letting him pull her down to the bed until he can reach her again. He buries his face in the crook of her neck for a moment, pressing one last teasing kiss just below her ear. “I think I’m more than well-rested enough to... talk when you get back,” he murmurs.

And then he releases her, and he lets her get up to collect the empty water carafe.

When she looks back to him again a moment later, his eyes are closed, his head turned against the pillow like he’s pretending to sleep. But he’s still smiling. And she can tell he’s still watching her, all the way out to the corridor.

Galadriel is completely lost in her thoughts as she makes her way to fetch the water, and she nearly drops the carafe when she’s startled by someone taking hold of her arm. She turns to see the eldest of the Seven there beside her in the corridor – a tall elf who usually carries herself with the serene confidence and wisdom of the many centuries she has seen. But today she looks flustered, like she’s just run the whole way here.

“Commander Galadriel!” the healer says breathlessly, still holding Galadriel’s arm. “Oh! I’m so glad to find you still here!”

Galadriel had almost forgotten that the Seven might be back so early – it’s barely daybreak, and it seems at least one of them has already returned. She tries to hide any hint of annoyance from her face, replacing it with the gentle concern and gratitude that should be expected. “Good morning, friend!” she says. “You have come to check on Annatar, I presume?”

“Indeed,” the healer says. “I would have come back sooner, but I was searching for something in our archive.” There’s a small, worn book clutched in her hands, alongside a sheaf of loose parchments. “Commander... I must speak with you about my findings.”

Galadriel tilts her head, trying to read the title on the volume – it’s in Sindarin, but the lettering on the front cover is faded, and she can’t make out anything except the word magic. “Certainly. We can speak now.”

“We must speak in private,” the healer clarifies, lowering her voice to a sharp whisper. She takes Galadriel’s arm and leads her back down the main corridor. “Come, this way. Let’s step in here.”

She pulls Galadriel into one of the unoccupied healing rooms, and there, she quickly lays down the book and the sheaf of papers on the table at the side. There’s that unsettling agitation in her manner, and her nervousness sets Galadriel on edge.

“I’ve heard that you once lived in Doriath,” the healer says, turning abruptly to Galadriel. “Is that right?”

“Yes... I did, for a time.” The question is surprising. It has been a long time since anyone has asked her about her time in Doriath.

“Were you there, perchance, when Melian first created the Girdle? When her magic veiled the entire kingdom with those impenetrable wards?”

“No. I hadn’t arrived yet when the wards were raised,” Galadriel says. “The veil around Doriath was already in place when I came. Why are you asking me this?”

“Ahhh. That explains why we never crossed paths back then,” the healer says, nodding. “I lived there, too, back in the early days. But not long after the veil was raised to hide Doriath, I finished my apprenticeship and I left for Hithlum. There was so much more need of my healing skills in the north, you see, what with all the conflict…” She trails off. “Nonetheless. Sorry! I’m rambling! Back to the point, then… so…” She takes a long, deep breath. “Tell me, did you ever hear about the great calamity that befell the Lady Melian when she created Doriath’s veil?”

“What?” Galadriel feels her heartbeat accelerating anxiously. She has no idea where this conversation is going, but she feels deeply certain that it’s nowhere good. “No. What sort of calamity?”

“Hmm, I suppose it wouldn’t have been spoken of much, would it? It did so upset King Thingol to recall it.” The healer takes another breath, as if she’s bracing herself against whatever memory she’s about to recount. “The Lady Melian was incredibly powerful, as you well know. But in creating the Veil… she was attempting something that had never been done before. The magic she used was unprecedented in Middle Earth. And there was no real way for her to know its limits, since there had never been another in her situation – a Maiar spirit wearing an elven body, trying to wield such unfathomably complex spells. It was a very difficult business. Extraordinarily taxing, as you can imagine. And yet the project was of utmost urgency… and so Melian worked as hard as she could to accomplish it. She expended every last bit of the magic that her elven form could harness, pushing to the very edges of those limits… and it proved a dangerous endeavour, in the end. It nearly ended in tragedy.”

Galadriel says nothing, just stares at the empty carafe in her shaking hands, her ears ringing. No, no, this cannot be, surely she does not suspect—

“To the best of our understanding, Melian suffered a magical exhaustion of some kind,” the healer goes on. “Something that was peculiar to her unique being, which we had no idea how to treat. I was still an apprentice, then – learning as a healer, working with my mentor. And he was writing a treatise at the time – a sort of meditation on magic, and on the bonds of the mind to the body. When he was called to care for Melian after her collapse, I was the one assisting him. I was tasked with writing up all his notes on the case.” The healer reaches for the small, worn book on the table. “It was centuries ago, but the memory of it has stayed with me. I had never seen my mentor so distraught as he was then, when Melian would not wake. King Thingol was going half mad with grief, convinced we were losing her, asking us why we couldn’t do something more...” The healer is paging through the old book, flipping to a section she’s marked close to the back, and she turns it around toward Galadriel. “Here is the full account of it all.”

Galadriel does not look at the book. “I...don’t know why you’re telling me this. I don’t understand—”

The healer reaches for her arm. “Commander… please. You must hear me out to the end. Look here.”

She turns Galadriel toward the table, and gestures to the small stack of loose parchments. They bear the crest of Ost-in-Edhil’s halls of healing, and they’re filled with small text scrawled in a rushed hand. In the top corner is written Annatar of Arandor, alongside yesterday’s date. Galadriel scans over the notes, a careful documentation of the details of Annatar’s condition from the moment he was brought into the halls of healing.

“Now, I’m well aware that this will sound outlandish at first,” the healer says, smoothing out the top parchment. “But last night after we left your friend... I kept thinking there was something familiar in all of this. I knew I hadn’t seen anything like it in all my years treating elves... and yet there was something tugging at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite shake off. Until it finally came to me. Melian, after the Veil went up.” She taps a fingernail against the weathered pages of her mentor’s book. “Look at this. Extreme, sudden fluctuations in body temperature. Severely elevated heart rate. Unresponsive, unconscious. Overall symptoms similar to advanced stages of elven fading, but greatly accelerated. It was such a strange affliction.”

Galadriel is frozen in place, staring numbly at the healer. She swallows hard, panic steadily rising in her throat as she sets the water carafe down on the table.

“And then… I noticed this passage right here,” the healer says. “When fresh herbs were placed upon Melian’s brow, they dried with unnatural speed. It was as though she were taking in every last remnant of life force in her vicinity,” she reads out. She reaches for Galadriel’s arm again, and squeezes gently. “Last night, just before you came to look in on your friend… I checked the necklace of herbs we had placed on him. And I saw the most peculiar thing. Some of those herbs seemed as brittle and dried out as if they had been in place for a week, when they’d been fresh not an hour earlier.”

“Right,” Galadriel whispers, slowly letting out her breath. The room is swimming around her. Still, somehow, she straightens her head, lifts her chin and summons her authoritative commander’s voice. “But I’m afraid I fail to see the relevance of this story to your treatment of an elven affliction,” she says. “Melian was not an elf.”

“No. She wasn’t,” the healer says cautiously. “That’s exactly it, Commander. And so... I must ask the question in all seriousness, unlikely as it seems. Your friend… do you think there is any possibility that he might be… something else? Something... more than an elf?”

“Annatar? What? No, certainly not!” Galadriel says with a nervous laugh. “I mean, he is unusual, I’ll grant you that. A foreigner to these shores, yes, with his own curious ways and customs. But he is nothing other than an elf.”

“Are you quite sure of it? I— I don’t mean to pry, only to say that— we must explore every option if we want to save his life,” the healer says. “If there’s a chance we could find something in this book that could help him— I could review everything the healers tried when they treated Melian, and see if there’s anything—”

“There is no need,” Galadriel interrupts. She reaches out and picks up the sheaf of parchments with Annatar’s records on them as she meets the healer’s gaze with steely determination. “Annatar will require no further treatment, and his life is no longer in danger. Thank you for your hard work, but… he is already recovered.”

“What?” The healer’s brow furrows. “What do you mean he is already recovered?”

“I mean that he is fine. The healers on duty here looked him over earlier, and he is very much restored. Whatever afflicted him last night has passed. He was able to stand up and walk around, he’s drinking water, he’s fully conscious and regaining his strength.” She smiles brightly. “They will keep him here for observation a little longer, but we will have no more need for the watch of the Seven.”

“No… that is impossible,” the healer whispers. “We all saw him last night. His situation was dire just a few hours ago! With the best luck in the world, his recovery from that fragile state shouldn’t have happened so quickly. It was days before Melian was restored—”

“Well, that proves conclusively, then, that these cases have no relation to each other, doesn’t it?” Galadriel snaps. “Whatever happened to Melian has no bearing here.” She slams the old book shut, scooping it up. “I shall hold on to this, though. It sounds fascinating. I would love to read it later.”

“Be gentle with that, it is a rare volume!” the healer huffs, reaching out to take hold of the book. “I cannot leave it with you, I shouldn’t even have removed it from the archive. This is the only surviving copy of my mentor’s treatise!”

But Galadriel doesn’t let go of it. “I will return it when I’m finished, do not worry,” she says. “Now… go, you may take your leave. And tell the others that we will not need any further assistance from the Seven today. You are dismissed.”

“What!” The healer’s mouth drops open indignantly, her cheeks reddening. “No! I am not going anywhere without attending to Annatar! I must check his condition myself.”

“You are dismissed,” Galadriel insists, as if by repeating the order with more conviction she can somehow find a way to end this. But she knows very well that she has no authority in the halls of healing. This situation is already out of her control. Light, she is probably making it worse by the minute, but she can’t think right now, can’t even fathom how to get out of this. Someone else is going to come in here, someone else is going to get involved, and then—

“I must see him,” the healer says. She still hasn’t let go of the book, and she’s tugging it from Galadriel’s hand. “Give me my things, Commander, please, and let me go attend to him.”

“No. You really don’t need to see him,” Galadriel says, making one last desperate bid to get the healer to leave. If only she would somehow just listen. “He is fine, I told you that everything is fine! You are dismissed!”

The healer opens her mouth as if to say something else in retort... and suddenly stops. Breathes in. Pauses again. Then she withdraws her hands, slowly releasing her grip on the old book.

“I… I am dismissed. Yes, that’s right,” she says, blinking. Her glazed eyes remain fixed on Galadriel. “I … I don’t need to see him. Everything is... fine.”

Galadriel draws back in shock, pulling the book and the sheaf of notes to her chest. Her heart is in her throat; she can hardly breathe. What did she just do?

The healer is still looking at Galadriel expectantly, as if awaiting some further command.

Galadriel cannot quite comprehend what she is seeing in front of her. It is unfathomable, unbelievable that she could be capable of this. And yet... if it happened once, then perhaps... she could try—

“Annatar of Arandor does not need any further attention from the Seven,” she says, enunciating the words carefully, keeping her focus locked on the healer. “You have checked on his condition, and he is recovering normally. You saw... nothing unusual.” She tucks the book and the notes under her arm. “And there is no need to speak any further of what happened in Doriath. Forget that. Mention it to no one else.”

“No need… to speak of…” The healer blinks again, looking around in confusion. “Doriath? I... I’m sorry, what were we talking about?”

“Annatar of Arandor,” Galadriel prompts her.

“Oh! Yes, of course, Annatar! Yes, I checked his condition. He seems well. He’s recovering normally. Very good news!” the healer says with a bright smile, patting Galadriel’s shoulder. “Well... I… suppose I’d best be going then, hadn’t I? Namárië, Commander.”

“Namárië,” Galadriel whispers.

She stands there stunned as the healer disappears off down the corridor, heading back to the main entrance. She waits there a long time, watching until she’s absolutely certain that the healer isn’t going to turn back. And then, she slips back into the heart of the halls, and goes through the arch that leads into the central courtyard, where the roof is wide open to the sky.

At this early hour, there is no one else out here. Galadriel’s heart is still racing wildly, her pulse pounding in her ears, her mind spinning with the simultaneous dark thrill and horror of what she has done. But she forces herself to be still, taking deep lungfuls of the crisp morning air. She remembers how she once paced out here, hoping desperately for news while the Seven worked their healing enchantments to save the King of the Southlands. It seems so very long ago now, that desperate journey from the battlefield to Eregion with Halbrand.

She turns to the middle of the courtyard, looking toward the brazier that’s kept burning here day and night. A bright eternal flame, representing Eru’s Secret Fire. It sits on a tall pedestal inside a circle of stones that are all adorned with gold-painted Quenya words like resilience and fortitude and vitality.

Galadriel does what she has to do quickly, and without regret. But it does not escape her that she steps on the word truth to get her foothold, as she reaches up and tips the book and the parchments into the brazier. The fire flares up as it devours its new fuel, and she watches until the papers have all been completely consumed.

Above her, the sunrise is blazing pink and orange, the sky brightening swiftly over Ost-in-Edhil. A new day. The sun is rising higher in the sky, and Galadriel tips her face up to it gratefully as if feeling it for the first time, wrapping herself in the warm relief of it. She feels the presence of the ring of power pulsing gently on her finger, soothing her with the soft hum of its protective magic.

All will be well, she tells herself. He's alive. Halbrand... Sauron... Annatar... Mayrušurzel... He’s alive.

And then she turns, and she goes to fetch some water before she hurries back to his side.

Chapter Text

When Galadriel gets back to Annatar’s room, he’s sitting up in bed, looking at the door like he’s been waiting for her impatiently.

“Colt in full gallop again, I see?” he says with a wry smile. “This is a new and surprising development.”

Whatever calm she had found out in the courtyard, it evaporates before she even sets down the full water carafe, and the weight of what happened comes crashing back down on her. “You saw all of that... didn’t you? You were watching me that entire time.”

He sighs. “I wasn’t, actually. But you did grab my attention when I suddenly felt you reaching out to seek my power. I was awfully curious what you were doing with it, since you told me you were only getting water.”

“I was getting water, but she cornered me! I couldn’t get away from her!” Galadriel glances nervously at the door, then back at him before she continues. Understanding her wariness at being overheard, Sauron swiftly opens his mind to her, and Galadriel pours her flustered thoughts directly into his head. She wouldn’t let up! She kept showing me that book, and she was talking about Melian, and asking whether I’m certain that you’re really an elf... I had no idea what to say to get out of it!

Right. And your first thought was to draw on my power and try to compel her into obeying you? The look on Sauron’s face is annoyingly close to smug satisfaction.

I didn’t know I was drawing on your power. I was simply trying to get her to stop questioning me, to get her to leave... and I thought... if only there were some way I could make her do exactly as I say... But I didn’t mean to do that! I didn’t mean to compel her—

You certainly meant to do it the second time, he observes, that half-smile still on his face. I thought we were being honest with one another now, Galadriel.

She bristles indignantly, even as she knows he speaks the truth. The thrill of doing what she has done hasn’t left her, but her horror at wielding this kind of dark influence gnaws at her already-floundering conscience. And if it’s his power she used to control that healer... then, has Sauron been doing this? She shudders with the possibility.

Explain it to me, she demands. Tell me exactly what just happened. What did I do to her? I’ve... altered her memory? Erased what she believed?

Sauron laughs softly, shaking his head. Ohhh, Galadriel. Your overestimation of my powers of persuasion never ceases to amuse me. No, at best you’ve baffled her temporarily. You got her to repeat a few words after you, and you gave her the compulsion to leave. It’s the same thing I did to the innkeeper that night when I had to carry you in without being seen. It is only a brief confusion, which will shortly fade.

Galadriel gasps. Then... she will still remember everything that happened?

Her memory of your conversation will probably be blurry. But whatever else was in her mind before she got here will remain. You’ve changed nothing of what she believes. You’ve bought some time, that’s all. At some point in the next couple of hours, she’ll suddenly remember that she meant to come back to the halls of healing and wonder why she hasn’t set off yet.

Oh. Galadriel feels at once deeply relieved and terribly disappointed.

If it were truly that easy to persuade the elves of something, the last age would have played out much differently, don’t you think? Sauron sighs. The manipulation of minds is a subtle and delicate thing, not an act of force, Galadriel. And it takes time. He looks at her with something between affection and gentle reproach. It is not like hitting something with a sword.

Well, forgive me if I haven’t been in the business of manipulating people for thousands of years, she shoots back. I am not the expert you are in such arts.

Fair enough, he says. I suppose I shall have to instruct you. I do owe you for that wonderful sword-fighting lesson, after all.

Be serious, please. Galadriel’s earlier panic is creeping back in at the edges of her mind. We have so many problems already, and now this? The book may be gone, but her memory of what happened to Melian isn’t! The rest of the Seven will return, and she will too, and she’ll talk to the others—

Then I’ll just have to make sure I get out of here before she comes back, won’t I? Sauron reaches reassuringly for Galadriel’s arm. You’ve done well for us, Galadriel. I can take care of it from here.

And what of the rest of it? The council will want answers about what happened at the wall, and why Celebrimbor’s new forge is in ruins! We do not know who really has Mâchan, Morgoth’s creatures are still stirring. We have too many powerful enemies, and there may be a dark army marching on us from Rhûn! And Lungorthin said—

Shhhhh. Shhh, we’re all right, Galadriel, he says. Breathe. We will deal with it, one thing at a time... But let’s give ourselves a moment to think.

He drags his hand slowly down from her elbow to her wrist, caressing the silky fabric of those convalescent pyjamas she’s still wearing. Suddenly, she’s all too aware of how thin this blue fabric is, and of the fact she’s not wearing anything underneath it. And of how very little he’s wearing at all. She stares at him without meaning to; at his bare chest still shimmering with the remnants of painted spells, at the lean muscles in his shoulders, at the way that one beam of sunlight from the window is reflecting in his eyes. And even as his soft voice in her mind soothes the worry out of her, her heart is racing for another reason entirely.

Sauron skims his fingers over the tender planes of her hand, tracing those pale zigazagging lines where his power seared through her skin in the burning watchtower. He strokes over her knuckles, lingering over the ring of power, slowly circling its glowing adamant setting with his thumb.

We will only become stronger now, you and I, he says. You’ll see. This is only the beginning of what we can do... together.

And then he turns his head and gives her that look, and he’s running his tongue over his lips, and if she doesn’t give him something else to do with that mouth—

She turns quickly back to his bedside table, and pours water from the carafe into his glass with shaking hands. As terribly tempted as she is to plant her lips on him just one more time before anyone else comes in, she doesn’t entirely trust either of them to stop at a single kiss. And it’s well past daybreak now; she can already hear the soft background noise of renewed activity in the halls of healing.

“Here’s your water,” she says aloud. “Drink.”

She shoves it into his hands as she pointedly leans away, but her true intentions do not escape him.

Sauron is still looking at her with a knowing smirk, and he doesn’t take his eyes off her as he gulps down all the water at once and sets the empty glass down. “Keep your distance if you must,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But please, do continue thinking those thoughts, Galadriel. Carry on, I’m enjoying myself.”

Damn it. She wants him so much that she feels dizzy with the desire to touch him, to feel him real and alive in her arms. Who knows when they’ll next be alone again. She needs him, she needs this, just one quick kiss before anyone comes in—

The very second she gives in and starts to lean in toward him, he reaches out with both hands to pull her the rest of the way to him, his fingers raking into her hair. He presses his mouth to hers with a soft groan, relief and longing combined.

Mmmhhh, that’s better. I wasn’t finished with you before, he purrs into her mind.

He pulls her closer still, and she indulges herself with a long, glorious, greedy kiss that leaves her trembling for more. But when their lips break apart, he doesn’t let her go. He keeps her there and slowly brings his mouth back to hers again, running his warm palms down her back, slipping his hands just inside the loose waistband of those blue pyjamas. Surely he wouldn’t dare—

We shouldn’t… not here, she protests. But she’s still kissing him back, and she’s practically on top of him now, her arms bracketed to either side of him, one knee up on the bed.

“Ohhh, we definitely shouldn’t,” he murmurs aloud against her lips. “But when has that ever stopped us before?”

He keeps gathering her toward him, pulling her further and further onto the bed, until he eases her down to lie right against him. The blanket that separates them is doing very little to hide his arousal, and there’s no ignoring the way that firm heat is so perfectly lined up with the sweet ache between her legs. It feels so unbelievably good to be pressed against him like this again, it’s all she can do to hold back a moan as he continues to kiss her.

We have to stop, she tells him. This is insane. The door is open!

Part of her wonders if he wants them to get caught at this, if he’d love to let somebody walk in here and see exactly what they already suspected. The scene looks unmistakably indecent. But even if someone were to witness this right now, they wouldn’t understand the whole terrible truth of it. They might see Galadriel, their wayward war commander, in a compromising position – but it’s Annatar, their beloved charming Númenorean scholar, that they’d see in her arms. Not Sauron the Abhorred, the dread sorcerer, the true Ringmaker. Not the would-be next Dark Lord of Middle Earth with his wicked tongue in her mouth.

I’m paying attention, don’t worry. Nobody’s coming back yet, Sauron laughs. There’s no one in the corridor. And in any case, you’re the one pinning me down. So go on, then. Stop kissing me.

He lifts his hands away from her, and she does stop, for a moment. She catches her breath, releases him and sits up.

Then she glances down at him, and he’s looking at her with that devious little smile... and she can’t help herself, her mouth is straight back over his. Mmm-hmm. Didn’t think so. He laughs again and swiftly wraps his arms back around her, returning her to his delicious embrace.

And she intends to keep kissing him, here and now, for as long as she possibly can.

It’s Elrond who arrives first, before any more of the Seven return. When he appears in the doorway, Galadriel is sitting primly at Annatar’s bedside with her hands folded in her lap, and Annatar is propped up against his pillows, drinking down another glass of water.

“Good morning!” Elrond exclaims. Galadriel knows her dear friend well enough to tell that he’s tired and stressed. But there’s unmistakable joy on his face when he beholds for himself that Annatar is sitting up and awake. “I just heard the good news! Oh! I am so relieved... I cannot tell you how worried I was when I left you two last night.”

“Seems I’ve been lucky. The elves of Númenor are blessed with strong constitutions,” Annatar says with a smile. “And of course, I had the care of your magnificent Commander. How could I help but recover?” He lays his hand lightly on Galadriel’s arm with a little bow in her direction.

Elrond is clasping both his hands to his chest as if he still can’t quite believe it. “We’ll have to send word to Lord Celebrimbor straight away,” he says. “It was all I could do to get him to go home instead of waiting here all night. In fact, he’ll probably be back before long.”

“I am very sorry to have worried him,” Annatar says. “And so glad to hear that he escaped the explosion unscathed... although I suspect that the new forge did not fare so well. A most unfortunate accident.”

Elrond looks like he’s about to ask something else, then thinks it over and stops himself before the words leave his mouth. “I saw that some of the Seven are back,” he says instead. “They were speaking to the other healers when I came in, so I expect they’ll be along to see you shortly.”

“No doubt they’ll be equally relieved to see Annatar recovering,” Galadriel says. She looks over at Annatar, but he doesn’t react to the impending arrival of the Seven at all. He’s just looking back at her with that serene, admiring smile that he often affects when they’re among the other elves – a uniquely Annatar expression that has become familiar to her.

“Right... if all is well here, then I’d like to borrow Galadriel for a few moments,” Elrond says to Annatar. “I need to speak to her alone. But I shall return her to your side before too long.”

“I should survive a little while without her, I think,” says Annatar, all charm. “Much as it pains me.”

Galadriel pats Annatar’s hand, then gets to her feet and follows Elrond out into the corridor. She can sense Sauron’s eyes are still on her as they go, the appraising skim of his gaze brushing over her like a caress. He sends her the feeling of a comforting squeeze at the back of her neck, and then the soft, sensuous drag of his fingers threading upward into her hair, and she almost misses a step.

Elrond steadies her with a concerned look. “Galadriel? You all right?”

“Yes, yes. Fine,” she manages. “I... haven’t slept.”

“That makes two of us,” he sighs. “Let’s go out to the courtyard. We should probably get some air.”

They go out through the archway and sit down side by side on one of the stone benches. Galadriel stares into that perpetually flickering brazier as Elrond speaks in an anxious whisper.

“Galadriel...listen. I talked to the guard captains last night, and there are some things you’ll need to hear,” he says. There’s a hitch in his voice, as if he desperately doesn’t want to speak of this, but has to force himself to continue. “I think... there is good reason to believe that what happened at the wall is connected to the unrest in the Southlands. It is just as you’ve always suspected. Perhaps the Enemy does intend to move against us at last.”

She sits up straighter. “The Southlands,” she repeats. “You mean Mordor.”

“Yes. Sauron’s sigils were scorched into several of our walls last night,” Elrond says quietly. “I’ve seen it for myself.”

Sauron’s sigils. The Southlands glyph, surely, the symbol of Mordor now adopted by Adar. Galadriel lets out her breath slowly. It seems that Adar – Oren – truly is involved in all of this, just as Lungorthin said.

“The shadow is spreading. I warned Gil-galad,” Galadriel says without meeting Elrond’s eyes. “The Dark Lord returns.”

Elrond rests a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve let the captains know you’ll regroup with them this morning, just as soon as the healers have released you,” he says. “We’ll have to send a messenger to Lindon after we’ve met with the council. The High King must be informed of everything that has happened.”

“Of course.” She nods, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Even if Gil-galad were now convinced that Eregion should move against Mordor, he will surely send someone from Lindon to take command of Eregion’s forces. He has made it clear enough that he does not intend to restore Galadriel to military command. “But an answer from Lindon will not come swiftly,” she says. “We should send a company to scout ahead, right away. We ought to make contact with Númenor’s forces in Pelargir and see what they know of this.”

Elrond’s brow is furrowed with worry, and he glances around the empty courtyard before lowering his voice even further. “Galadriel... as far as we know, Númenor’s forces in Pelargir are still allied with the King of the Southlands,” he says. “And you and I know very well who truly sits on that throne. This could prove much more complicated than we think. We have no idea what’s really going on over there.”

“Then it is all the more imperative that we find out,” Galadriel says. “I will ride alone to the Southlands, if I must, to discover the truth of it.”

“To him?” Elrond whispers, horror in his voice. “You still intend to seek some kind of negotiation with Hal—Sauron... don’t you?” He stumbles over the name.

“Perhaps. But there are other options. The moriondor proposed an alliance when last I was there, and he may still honor it. There is a divide in the Dark Lord’s forces,” she says. “They do not all follow the same master. I hope we can take advantage of their discord to gain the upper hand.”

Elrond presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose with a wince, like he has a headache. “Galadriel, we are in so far over our heads. And I know that you haven’t told me all of it. This could become more dangerous than any of us can imagine.”

“What happened last night was a warning,” Galadriel says. “No orc attack has actually come against our walls – not yet. You know as well as I do that a vague skirmish like this, in which not a single real orc was sighted, won’t be enough to spur the High King into action – he’ll likely tell us to hold until we see evidence of a significant offensive from the Southlands.” She turns and stares into the brazier again, unfocusing her eyes until the flames are just a bright blur. “A few glyphs burned onto a wall will not convince Gil-galad that the Dark Lord’s shadows lengthen once more...and I certainly cannot tell him how I know otherwise. But we are being sent a message by the forces of darkness. One that I think we should answer before too long.”

Elrond sighs. “You could take it up with the council,” he says. “Any decision Ost-in-Edhil could make independently of the High King can only come from them. The emergency meeting has been scheduled for lunchtime.”

“I will be there.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “I will gather my thoughts, and decide if I intend to speak further on it then.” Decide if she actually intends to seek permission, that is.

“In the meantime, I think it’s best that we all carry on as normal,” Elrond says. “I’m scheduled to ride to Gelebren this afternoon – there’s a promotion ceremony for their new stewards tonight, and I’m meant to speak on behalf of the High King. I’m expected to be staying for the dinner afterwards, and I’ll probably have to remain overnight if we don’t want to travel back in the dark.”

“You’re still going to that?” Galadriel doesn’t hide her surprise – she remembers him telling her yesterday that he had an upcoming overnight engagement, but she’d half-expected him to cancel it after last night’s misadventures.

Elrond frowns. “Ordinarily, I’d just call it off, and send word to them that something came up. But given the state of things... I fear the rumours of a potential attack from the Southlands will have travelled quickly. My absence, or the delay of the ceremony, might cause undue panic in the other settlements.” He shakes his head. “We were harshly criticized for Ost-in-Edhil’s poor response to the attack on the night of the banquet, and more so for our lack of communication to the other cities. It’s critical that I attend this event, to head off the rumours this time. I can reassure them that we have things in hand—”

“Excuse me, Herald Elrond? Commander Galadriel?” An attendant calls to them from the archway. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but some of the healers wish to speak with you inside. It’s about Annatar.”

When Galadriel and Elrond return to Annatar’s room, three of the Seven are already gathered inside at his bedside. Much to Galadriel’s relief, the healer from Doriath is not among them. She averts her gaze nonetheless, studiously avoiding eye contact with any of the healers.

But Annatar doesn’t look worried in the least – in fact, she’d say Sauron has a look of triumph about him. Galadriel distinctly feels excitement rolling off him – a sense of simmering anticipation, as if he’s just set some great plan into motion and awaits the next move. The corner of his mouth lifts in a subtle, secretive smile as his gaze meets hers.

“There you are!” one of the Seven exclaims. It’s the specialist in dark enchantments and poisons, the one who had taken the lead back when they cured Halbrand of the toxins from that orcish blade. “Thank goodness! Exactly who we need. We were hoping you were still here.”

Elrond glances over at Galadriel, uncertain if the healer was speaking to her or to him. “Oh? Which one of us?”

“I suppose I should have said what we need. Which of you has the ring of power?” the healer asks.

“I have it.” Galadriel lifts her ring-bearing hand, pretending she doesn’t notice the aghast look on Elrond’s face. She’s sure he was about to remind her to give it back to him, and that he would have taken it from her before they left the courtyard if they hadn’t been interrupted.

“Temporarily,” Elrond clarifies.

“Ah! Well, we really must commend you for your resourceful thinking last night,” the healer says. “To the best of our understanding, now that we’ve been able to speak with Annatar... it seems you were absolutely right yesterday, Herald Elrond. What afflicted Annatar almost certainly had something to do with his exposure to the pressurized mithril at the moment of the explosion. Of course, that’s something none of us really know anything about... as none of us have had any opportunity yet to study unrefined mithril ore. But the effect that the ring of power had on redressing the damage is very clear. Annatar’s turnaround has been faster than anything we could have hoped for.”

“Lord Celebrimbor has explained much about the rings of power to me,” Annatar says, “some of which I shared with the healers just now. Although no doubt the master smith could explain it much better than I can.” He gestures toward the ring that glows on Galadriel’s hand. “The enchantments on that ring, combined with the mithril alloy, bridge the divide between the world around us and the world of the unseen. The mithril explosion in the forge most likely did some damage to my spirit in the unseen world, but we theorize that the proximity of the ring allowed the healing enchantments that the healers laid on my body to flow through that divide and take effect.” He touches his hand reverently to his chest, where those dried remnants of silvery paint still shimmer on his skin. “Truly remarkable. Those rings are a wonder.”

Elrond’s eyebrows go up. “I must credit Galadriel with the idea,” he says to the healers. “It was her who thought of laying the ring close to him. And she remained with him through the night.”

“He does seem much stronger now, and we have every reason to believe he’ll be fine,” the healer says. “But as always when we’re dealing with the unseen world... there are many unknowns in the process of recovery. I would not consider the danger to have passed until we have monitored him for a little longer.” Her gaze flicks from Annatar over to Elrond. “We would strongly suggest that the ring remain with Annatar for a day or two. If a ring-bearer cannot remain at his side, then perhaps he could wear it himself—”

“Oh, no, no, no. I couldn’t possibly wear it,” Annatar says, his eyes going wide. “Bearing a ring of power is a sacred duty! I am but a foreigner here. I would never expect to be entrusted with such a thing.”

“He’s right. I’m sorry, but... I’m afraid I can’t relinquish the ring of power to anyone else,” Elrond says. “The High King has named me the ring-bearer. Last night was an exception.”

“Well, then, Herald Elrond... you will need to stay with Annatar, at the very least until tomorrow,” the healer says with a perfunctory nod that brokers no argument. “Remaining in the same room should suffice, but keeping the ring as close as possible to him would be ideal. Exactly as was done last night. We must ensure that he is truly out of the woods before we remove it from his proximity for too long.”

“Uh.” Elrond looks from the healers to Annatar to Galadriel and back again. “Excuse me. Could you... give the Commander and I just a moment please?”

He motions Galadriel back out to the corridor, and she follows quickly.

“Look... I can’t possibly take Annatar to Gelebren with me,” Elrond whispers to her. “He surely should not travel, and he needs to stay at close range to the healers in case anything happens.” He looks over his shoulder at the door. “The only other candidate who could wear the ring in my absence would be Lord Celebrimbor. And he would gladly stay with Annatar, I have no doubt about it. But...” Elrond lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry. My worries about Celebrimbor are not so assuaged yet as for me to entrust the ring of power to him. I think even the High King would agree that under these circumstances... it can only be you, Galadriel.”

Galadriel blinks, looking down at her hand. “You’ll leave the ring with me, then?”

“Yes. That seems the most reasonable course of action,” Elrond says. “Annatar will need to stay near you at all times. You can take him with you to the briefing with the guards this morning, and then bring him to the council meeting...” Elrond pauses thoughtfully. “Actually, having Annatar in the council meeting might be a good idea anyhow. He is our expert on Morgoth’s arcane arts, after all, and... perhaps he might pick up on something relevant in this whole matter with the illusions at the wall.” He shudders. “Whatever Sauron is doing, he has surely learned much of his dark craft from Morgoth.”

“Yes, of course,” Galadriel nods, fighting to keep her expression completely neutral. “I’m sure Annatar would be glad to help in whatever way he can. I’ll bring him to both of my meetings.”

“And obviously, you’ll need to stay close to him all day after that, and remain with him through the night again...” Elrond looks at her with a soft smile, then reaches out to squeeze her arm. “But I don’t suppose you will mind that much, will you? Keeping vigil by his side?”

She feels her cheeks flush. “It is a duty I will gladly carry out,” she says, allowing herself a small smile in return.

“Fear had darkened my heart this morning, after yesterday’s catastrophes,” Elrond says. “And yet a ray of bright hope has now been restored. It does not please me to see our great forge so destroyed, nor to consider the possibility that the shadow moves against us once more. But I cannot tell you, Galadriel, how grateful I am that we’ve been spared the terrible heartbreak of losing our friend.”

“There is none more grateful for it than I,” Galadriel says, and the truth of her words summons unexpected tears to her eyes. She takes Elrond’s hand in hers, and the ring sparkles on her finger. “Thank you, Elrond. For trusting in me... now and always.”

When they come back into Annatar’s room, Annatar is standing up, and the healers are standing around him, watching him turn in a slow circle as they check his balance.

“Ah! More great news,” Annatar announces when he sees Galadriel. “I’ve been cleared to leave the halls of healing, so long as I remain near the ring of power!”

“Galadriel will keep the ring until tomorrow,” Elrond says. “I trust you won’t mind accompanying her to her briefing this morning, and to the council meeting later? Your voice at that meeting would be valuable, in any case.”

“No trouble at all,” Annatar says. “And spending time with our illustrious Commander is never any imposition.”

The healers are still conferring quietly amongst each other, but all three of them look pleased enough when they turn to Galadriel. “He may leave, but if there is any negative change to his condition, however slight, you are to bring him back here immediately and send word for us. Do you understand?”

“I promise,” Galadriel says. “I will keep a careful watch on him.”

“She won’t take her eyes off me for a moment,” says Annatar, and Galadriel does not even bother to throw him an admonishing look.

When the others have finally gone, Galadriel and Annatar sit side by side at the edge of the narrow bed. He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. She feels the warmth of their connection humming between them; that magnetic pull drawing them together; Sauron’s unmistakable presence enveloping her. And it is as he said – when he’s close to her, she does feel stronger than ever.

You see? What did I tell you? Sauron smiles at her. Last night was a trial, Galadriel. But today... I’ve a feeling that today will be a very good day. All of this chaos might even improve things for us if we play this right.

How? She looks at him incredulously. What are we going to do?

He turns her ring-bearing hand over, then leans down and softly kisses the inside of her wrist, pressing his lips to the pulse point. The same thing we always do when we’re on the same side, he says. We’re going to win.

Chapter Text

The news from the captains of the guard is more or less as Galadriel expected. The searches of the city environs, inside and out, continued all through the night and yielded no sign of orcs or any other intruders. There are no unusual findings in the ruined watchtower; the burnt-out floor of the observation platform collapsed not long after a ladder was put up to rescue Galadriel, and there is nothing distinguishable in the rubble. But the witnesses are consistent in their descriptions: that the fire started very suddenly, that a wreath of pale flame unlike a normal fire was seen rising from the watchtower, and that some kind of dark shockwave emitted from it just before the flames were extinguished.

All around the city walls, two sigils have been found scorched into the stone side by side. The pitchfork-like shape representing the map of the Southlands – that glyph of Mordor that Galadriel had once mistaken for Sauron’s own symbol – and another, less ambiguous sign. The lidless eye, a mark used by Sauron when he commanded at Angband.

As the group stands looking at the brands that now scar the stone, Annatar steps closer and brushes his palm over one of the symbols, leaning in to inspect the markings. “This was not done by any ordinary means, nor any simple enchantment,” he tells them. “Look how it’s melted right into the stone! And the precision in these edges, the way there’s a pattern etched into each stroke? No elven or mortal hand, no moriondor nor orc could have cast this.”

“It’s Sauron,” one of the guards dares from the ranks, his voice shaking. “He must have come here himself. Sauron’s touch was upon our walls! He whose very hand is flame unquenched!”

Annatar turns, his palm still resting against the stone, and only Galadriel sees the flicker of dark amusement that dances in his eyes. “I did not want to presume... but certainly, such magic would take a Maiar hand,” he says. “Sauron would be capable of casting the illusions that caused your mass hallucination of orcs at the wall. And of performing whatever dark sorcery occurred at the watchtower.” He arches an eyebrow, turning to Galadriel. “One can surmise that Sauron did not want to see you dead, Commander, or you would almost certainly have perished.”

“It’s a warning,” Galadriel says. “Plain and simple. A threat that the shadow intends to spread from the Southlands, that we are not so safe here behind our gilded walls as we have been these past centuries. And it is my firm belief that we should show them, sooner rather than later, that we intend to fight.”

After they leave the soldiers at the outer wall, Galadriel and Sauron walk together back toward the city. Annatar quite convincingly affects a delicate air of convalescence, stopping every so often to lean on her shoulder, and taking smaller, slower steps. Always his hand is brushing against hers, his fingers skimming against her knuckles – to touch the ring, of course, as the healers had instructed.

“Why would they use both Mordor’s sigil and Sauron’s?” Galadriel asks him. “Do they intended to imply that Sauron now leads Mordor? Why, when they know you are here? Do they want the elves to believe there is an alliance between Sauron and the moriondor?” The questions spill out of her as they walk across the field back to the inner wall, and she’s practically interrupting herself with the next one before Sauron has any chance to respond. “Do you think Adar – Oren – told Lungorthin that he armed me with the shadow blade to kill you? Does she even know me for the same elf that made an alliance with Oren? Wait… do you think the lidless eye is a part of the warning somehow, and it was meant for you?”

“Calm, my little elf, calm!” Sauron says with a frustratingly aloof smile. “I don’t know the answers any more than you do. But there is something I want you to remember – the same thing that led you astray twice when you followed what you thought were my sigils and met Oren instead. The same thing that led the Southlanders to follow Oren in the first place, believing him to be me. Sometimes, a symbol – or a name – is more important than who wields it. Sauron is an idea. He’s the dread sorcerer, the terrifying commander in spiked armor who directs the forces of darkness. The heir of Morgoth, whose face you do not see. But none of those are necessarily me.”

Galadriel lets out her breath with the shock of comprehension. “You believe Lungorthin intends to take on the mantle of Sauron,” she gasps. “And that she intends to lead the army of Mordor, and the great host of Rhûn, under your banner.”

“I do believe that, yes. Certainly, there is no name nor sigil more feared than Sauron’s in Middle Earth. There is nothing that would sow terror more quickly than the rise of Sauron, save the return of Morgoth himself. You should know, you hunted my very specter for centuries! Now think, how the appearance of Sauron at the head of the orc host in Mordor would strike fear into every elf and mortal in Pelargir. And it might yet tear more of the Southlanders away from the allegiance of the King of the Southlands, believing that the only safety lies in loyalty to the Dark Lord.”

“The King of the Southlands has been absent from his stronghold in Pelargir for over a month now,” she points out. “Halbrand had only a weak claim on the crown, which may well be threatened even among those who reject the path into darkness.”

Sauron shrugs. “I think the people are more loyal to Bronwyn than they’ll ever be to Halbrand, quite rightly, especially now that she has been given the authority of a crown. The Queen of the Southlands holds the throne just as safe as I could, under the protection of Númenor and the watch of Arondir. I should hope that Halbrand inspired them enough to believe what he told them – that he has gone to secure an alliance with the elves, that he intends to bring them an elven army to crush the orcs of Mordor. And he will. He’s working on it, isn’t he?”

Galadriel nods, quickly shoving away the hot spike of jealousy that spears through her at the thought of Halbrand’s queen – of any queen at his side who is not her. But it’s not fast enough to escape Sauron’s notice. He turns immediately with that knowingly cocked eyebrow, and she senses the smug satisfaction in him when he feels her possessiveness over him. He smirks to himself, but he brushes his hand against hers once more, and he nudges a hazy image into her head.

A king and queen side by side, reflected on water. And herself in a sparkling gown of starlight, magnificent enough to rival any of the Valar. Standing with a beautiful dark crown on her head, and his powerful arms encircling her tightly from behind.

There is a lot of time yet before the lunchtime council meeting, and Sauron wants to return to Celebrimbor’s tower to collect what things he can salvage from the workshop. The shadow blade is safe, he tells Galadriel; his enchantment on the cabinet where it was secured has not been broken nor disturbed. Galadriel hopes the doors to the tower are not locked – although she doesn’t doubt that Sauron could undo the lock with some sorcery, she would much rather he didn’t. His exhaustion may be mostly feigned, but he did come close to death, and she fears yet to see him expend any of his powers unnecessarily.

But the matter of the lock does not impede them, for when they make their way to Celebrimbor’s ruined tower, they find the master smith himself sitting on the steps outside the front doors, his head in his hands. As they approach, Galadriel realizes that she has never actually seen Celebrimbor look dishevelled before. He’s changed his clothes since yesterday, but he isn’t wearing any of his customary adornments or his beautiful robes. He wears plain hunting trousers under a baggy beige tunic that might well be the shirt that he slept in. If he slept. When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, and his grey hair is sticking up on both sides, like he’s been tearing his hands through it. The last time she saw him look anywhere near this distraught was in the dark days of the first ring-forging, when nothing was going right and time drew swiftly shorter.

But the sight of his approaching companion revives him immediately, and Celebrimbor jumps to his feet as soon as he sees them.

“Annatar!” he shouts, a smile breaking onto his tired face. He runs forward and flings his arms around Annatar’s neck, nearly knocking him over. “Oh! I cannot believe it! I truly thought – last night – I thought that you—”

“Come on, now. All is well,” Annatar says, patting the master smith on the back. “Be assured, my lord, look. I am well.”

“I went back to the halls of healing this morning, and when they said you weren’t there any longer, at first I thought the worst,” Celebrimbor says. “But then they told me you’d been released, and they didn’t know for certain where you’d gone, except that you were with Galadriel—”

“Ah, my lord, you won’t be rid of me quite so easily,” Annatar smiles jovially. “We’ve got work to do together, yet!”

Celebrimbor’s face falls. “I don’t think we’ll be back to work here in any hurry,” he says, glancing up at the tower. “Our beautiful new forge… it’s… well, I haven’t had the heart to go back up and look. It was bad enough in the dark last night, when I was trying to get you out of there. What a disaster.”

“Let us go see now, shall we? We may salvage something yet,” Annatar says.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right to get up there?” Celebrimbor says, looking Annatar up and down with concern. “Should you be walking up so many stairs?”

In truth, despite his convalescent act, Annatar still looks in much better condition than the master smith himself.

“I can probably manage it. Don’t worry about me,” he says.

The three of them go up together, Celebrimbor in the lead, walking slowly up the spiral staircase. Annatar reaches for Galadriel as they start to ascend, clutching her shoulder as if he needs to be steadied. She smiles indulgently and winds her arm around his waist, and they press close as they climb up.

The marbled stairwell still smells heavily of smoke and metal, and that strange, sharp sweetness of half-melted mithril. She has only smelled it once before, when the alloy for the elven rings was being poured. Celebrimbor stops at the top of the staircase, hesitating when they reach the tiled landing, turning his head to the side as though he can hardly bear to look through the door. But then he gathers his composure, carries on ahead and goes first into the ruined workshop.

Nothing remains of the forge itself, nor of that entire side of the workshop; there is only a deep crater of shattered stone and bent metal, whole pieces of the floor fallen away. The three of them pick their way through the wreckage, looking around in silence. Galadriel watches Sauron as he goes right to his charmed cabinet at the undamaged end of the workshop, unlocks it, and scoops out the shadow blade hilt, spiriting it away under his cloak. He then continues to look around, circling carefully through the rubble, gingerly picking out a salvageable tool here and there as he pokes through the debris with his foot.

Galadriel immediately senses his true purpose: to ensure that nothing remains that would betray their intended creation of the dwarven rings. The parchments with his diagrams of resonance have all been thoroughly incinerated; the molten metal from that last ill-fated project is scattered and lost beyond recognition. It hits her, then, that the gold and silver from Valinor is gone, and with it, any hope of forging more rings of power for the moment. Sauron sacrificed the entire ring project last night in his bid to save her, surely knowing there would be nothing left. Her heart clenches with some aching emotion that she does not try to identify.

All the while, Celebrimbor has been kneeling on the floor next to the crater where the forge once stood, and when Galadriel looks back to him now, there are tears streaming down his face. He’s picking up handfuls of the grey dust from the floor, letting it sift through his fingers with an expression of utter anguish.

Annatar steps closer to him and places a comforting hand against his shoulder. “It will be rebuilt, my lord, do not despair,” he says. “You will have many glories yet. This is but a passing shadow.”

“You could have been killed,” Celebrimbor says, his voice breaking. “This was my fault. Perhaps the doom of the Noldor is yet upon me.”

Annatar crouches down next to him, leaning down to meet the master smith’s heartbroken eyes. “I will hear none of that,” he says. “Lord Celebrimbor, it is your work that saved all of elvenkind in Middle Earth, is it not? It is the ring you made that is restoring me to health at this very moment! You have said it yourself, true creation requires sacrifice. I accepted the risks to work by your side, and I regret nothing.” He takes hold of Celebrimbor’s wrist and pulls him up to his feet.

The master smith, however, will not be consoled, and he turns away from Annatar, wiping his eyes into his sleeve. “My calculations were faulty,” he says, shaking his head. “Oh, Annatar. We should not have attempted it so quickly, we should have taken longer to prepare. This was such a preventable catastrophe… I knew I was reaching beyond my abilities.”

“My lord, you cannot take all of the blame,” Annatar persists. “There is none more skilled than you at this work. Consider that your calculations were perfect, and perhaps it is I who made an error in carrying out your instructions. After all, the elven rings are proof enough that you can count yourself as Fëanor’s peer—”

“No! No, there are things you do not understand, Annatar!” Celebrimbor says sharply, whirling to face him. “In my heart… I know the true reason why this attempt to make more rings has failed. And I know why the shadow has come down upon Eregion. I… I made an oath once, to a friend. A friend to whom I owe an enormous debt. And I have not upheld that promise.” He glances over at Galadriel, hesitating a moment, but then he looks away from her and continues anyway. “When the elven rings were first considered… there was another smith at my side. Working with me at every step, almost to the very end. More than an assistant. He was a co-creator, really. It was his calculations I used when we made the successful alloy. And my big breakthrough with resonance… we did that together.”

“Hm.” Annatar’s brow furrows, ever so slightly. “There was no mention of that in your speech on the banquet day. I thought you were solely responsible for resonance theory.”

“It is… a complicated matter,” Celebrimbor says, casting another nervous glance at Galadriel. “He was a foreigner here… a mortal man, no less. His name is Halbrand. And he is now the King of the Southlands.”

“Oh!” Annatar’s face brightens, as if hearing news of an old friend. “Halbrand, yes! I met him briefly when our ship made landfall in Pelargir. Seemed a lovely fellow. But… how is it that a Southlander came to work with you here in Ost-in-Edhil? And on such an important project?”

“It’s… look, that doesn’t matter anymore,” Celebrimbor says, waving his hand dismissively. “What matters is the promise I made him. In our last conversation before I began to forge the rings, when he handed me the final calculations… I swore to him that if it were ever in my power to render any aid to the Southlands in return, I would do so. And now? Now the Southlands lie in ruins, overrun by orcs! And I have done nothing to change the High King’s mind about deploying our forces to Mordor. I have none but myself to blame for this doom. We must set this right.”

He lifts his chin, and turns to Galadriel with something fierce and defiant in his glare, that look that reminds her of his grandfather. “Galadriel – at the council meeting today, we must raise the matter of sending military aid to the Southlands. If not for our own sake, then for theirs, we must strike against Mordor. Whatever quarrel you and the High King have with Lord Halbrand—”

“Is irrelevant, and always has been,” Galadriel interrupts. “Long have I argued that we should move against Mordor, regardless of our relations with the Southlands! It is the High King who has blocked my every attempt to raise even a small company against the moriondor. Believe me, it is only by Gil-galad’s folly that I am still here, and not on the battlefield slaying orcs!” She folds her arms. “I intend to inform the council today that I will ride to the Southlands myself to assess the situation. If you will speak in support, Lord Celebrimbor, it would strengthen my case that a full company should be sent after me, and that we cannot wait for the High King’s approval.” Her heart swells with unexpected hope. “Elrond will surely oppose it… but if the majority of the council is in favour, then together, we may yet convince him. Elrond can act with the authority of the High King, to deploy Eregion’s forces immediately.”

Celebrimbor looks over at Annatar. “And you? Your voice will be heard at that meeting, no doubt – you have been extraordinarily persuasive here. You have made friends in the council, and you know much about the dark arts of our adversary. Will you speak up in our favour?”

Annatar lowers his head in Galadriel’s direction. “I defer to our Commander,” he says. “She speaks with great wisdom. And I should gladly ride ahead with her to the Southlands. I was brought to these shores as an advisor by the Númenoreans, for my expertise with Morgoth’s artifacts… and I fear I have already been away too long, caught up with my research here. I, too, should return to assist my companions in the Southlands.”

“Then it is decided,” Celebrimbor says. “We will stand together at council, and we will make the case.” He looks down at his clothes, as if suddenly realizing his unkempt state. “Goodness, I’d best go and get dressed for it!” he exclaims, brushing away the dust that’s clinging to his sleeves. “Come, let us leave this place. We have seen enough here. It is time to look to the future.”

In the time that remains before they are due at council, Sauron and Galadriel walk to their spot on the bank of the Glanduin. They start heading there without discussing it, both turning in unison toward the river when they reach the path that leads to their bench. They walk most of the way there in silence, but all the while Galadriel catches small flickers of Sauron’s thoughts bleeding into her own, dancing into her mind and vanishing again like brief flames.

A great host of orcs gathered in a field, surrounded by a seething swarm of Morgoth’s creatures.

Adar, dressed in shining black battle armor, shouting furiously.

A dark fortress – Forodwaith, she thinks – and a glimpse of Sauron’s workshop there.

Lungorthin, fighting with him last night, her immense balrog form grappling with him, the white-hot whip of her tail biting into him.

The aftermath of the battlefield in the Southlands, and that barn, and Adar in chains –

And then, a clear, vivid image of Galadriel sitting in her armor in a bright clearing in the forest. That’s her own face, dirty and battle-worn, but somehow so ethereally beautiful in his perspective. As if all the sunlight around them shines from her, gathering in the soft loose strands of hair that have escaped her braid. His hand extends toward her, curving gently around the back of her neck. And he’s pulling her toward him, leaning forward and kissing her on the mouth—

Galadriel’s sharp intake of breath betrays her, and Sauron turns his head with a coy smile. “Mmm. I can sense you doing that, you know, riffling through my thoughts,” he says. “Figured I’d give you something better to look at.”

She sighs. “Once again, I wasn’t doing it on purpose.”

“And once again, I wasn’t stopping you.” He brushes his hand against hers. “I was doing it too, by the way. You’ve spent the entire walk from the tower thinking about that council meeting. Not very entertaining, I must say.”

They reach the stairs that lead down to the platform by the Glanduin, and here, out of view of the street, he lets his fingers entwine fully with hers as they descend toward their bench. She leads the way, and he sits down close beside her, pulling their joined hands toward him to rest on his thigh.

They sit in silence looking at the water for a while, and she can’t sense his thoughts anymore. Whatever Sauron is thinking about now, it seems he has deliberately pulled the curtain, and she does not probe against it.

It’s her who finally speaks first, asking the question she has been holding back all day. “This… this link between us...this binding...” She swallows hard. “Is it… do you suppose it will... remain? That it will be...”

“Lasting?” He lifts his shoulders, and there’s a genuine question in his eyes. “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t even understand exactly what it is that we’ve done. And you know as well as I do that this connection between us started long before yesterday.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I know.”

“Our thoughts were entangled already in Khazad-Dûm. And we have been drawn together, sharing pieces of ourselves, for so much longer than that. Perhaps as far back as that battle in the Southlands. Fighting at your side… I meant every word I said. Even then, we already had some hold on each other that I could not explain to myself.” He takes a deep breath, staring down at the water. “But whatever it was you did to me last night…it’s different now. Because... I think it has severed whatever remained of my bond with Morgoth.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “What?”

“When Morgoth was cast into the Void, I’d hoped I might be unbound from him at last… and I was, mostly. My will was all my own again. I refused to go to Rhûn with the others, and I did none of what I was supposed to do to restore Morgoth to power. But I could still feel his grip on me sometimes, like... a sort of heaviness, a weight that was constantly dragging me down. Making me doubt myself, whenever I did something that would’ve defied him.” He rubs his free hand over his eyes. “And… I think that Lungorthin was using Morgoth’s bond to me like a bridge. Like a relay to get to me. That’s how she kept attacking my mind once she found me, after I used the shadow blade in Khazad-Dûm.”

Galadriel gives a solemn nod. “The night after we ignited the blade, I thought I saw you casting some kind of spell in your room,” she says, her voice unsteady. “You invoked Morgoth’s name, and you spoke in what sounded like Valarin. You crushed that broken glass in your hands. And then I heard something similar again, one night at the library when we came back here to Ost-in-Edhil—”

“Yes. I was fighting her off. I kept trying to lay a ward on myself to shut Lungorthin out, and break free of Morgoth’s bond,” Sauron says hoarsely. “I think I was weakening their collective grip, bit by bit, but… every time Lungorthin attacked my mind, I had to fight back, and every time she returned with more cunning, with a better knowledge of my defenses. Always groping to see my thoughts.” He raises his chin with a stubborn determination. “I wasn’t completely successful at keeping her out. But I did manage to feed her a slightly altered version of the truth, to create a twisted memory in my mind that misdirected her. She believes I am working secretly to free Morgoth, because I want the glory. That I intend to return his lost power to him. And she has not seen my true aim, nor anything of what I have really been doing here. She did not even know about you, not until that night you confronted her from inside my mind.”

“Do you fear she will return, to try your defenses once again?” Galadriel whispers.

“No. That’s just the thing. I don’t think she’s been able to perceive my mind at all since we cast her out yesterday. Because Morgoth’s hold on me is broken, and her bridge is gone.” Sauron turns and looks directly at Galadriel, something like wonder shining in his eyes. “I can’t feel anything of that old bond any more, Galadriel. Where that constant shadow of dark doubt used to be… I can only feel you now, and our connection,” he says. “It’s… so much brighter than it was.”

Galadriel probes at that same strange sensation in her mind, the shining tether of their connection, stronger than it’s ever been outside of battle. “I feel it, too,” she says quietly. “Last night, something did change. I think we have bound ourselves together, truly bound ourselves, just as you always planned.”

He shakes his head. “What I said to you on the raft… You bind me to the light, and I bind you to power… that was only a wild hope, Galadriel. Not a lie, but… I did not know if it was really possible. I only knew that I needed you at my side, that we would be so much stronger together. That I was not only willing to share my power with you, but I wanted to.”

“Could you have stopped me… this morning?” she asks after a long pause, half curiosity and half concern. “When you felt me drawing on your power… could you still have blocked it?”

“Yes, I’m sure I could have– the same way I could stop you from taking some food off my plate if I knocked your hand away. But I had no reason to stop you. Galadriel, this bond is a gift. It is to our mutual benefit.”

She’s silent for a long time again, absorbing his words. “Does it harm you?” she asks at last. “When power is drawn from you, through the bond?”

He contemplates for a moment. “It did when Morgoth did it. My bond to the Dark Lord gave me access to a sliver of his Vala power, if he allowed it. But more often, he put my own power to his use, and that drained me, bit by bit. He gave back less than he took from me each time, until I was hollowed out. Until there was more of his will in me than there was of myself. Until my own ambitions lived only in a tiny corner of my mind that I had to keep hidden from him.”

“And… when I draw your power... it does not feel that way?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. My will is still my own… although you are definitely tapped into my power somehow, even when you aren’t using it. I can feel some of it threading away into you, even now. Ever since last night, it’s been flowing toward you like blood. But what comes back… the light you’re returning to me… it restores my strength. It is as if the power that was taken is already being refilled, amplified somehow by your nearness. We do not drain one another. When we are together... we both become stronger. Can’t you feel it?”

“Yes,” she says softly, and a shadowy thrill flutters in her heart – that small, pleasant shudder, the same feeling she had when she turned Sauron’s power on the healer. The delight she always feels when she has control, that impulse toward darkness that she constantly tries to crush down. “I do feel… quite... powerful.”

“As you should.” Sauron’s other hand slips over hers, trapping her ring-bearing hand between his warm palms. “I will make you my queen, Galadriel. Fair as the sea and the sun, I told you.”

“Stronger than the foundations of the earth,” she whispers, almost inaudibly. “Then... your ambitions and your plans to conquer Middle Earth have not changed, even in the absence of Morgoth’s bond?”

He looks shocked that she even asked the question. “Certainly not! If anything, I do not think I was ambitious enough before. Always Morgoth’s shadow remained upon me, suffocating me with doubt. There was always that creeping fear at the back of my mind... that I would never be good enough. That no matter how hard I worked or how cleverly I schemed, I could never become as strong as he was.”

He lifts one hand away from hers to tip her chin up, and his eyes have that otherworldly sheen as his gaze burns into hers. “But now, I know for certain that I will. I can become so much stronger than Morgoth could possibly have imagined, Galadriel. I’ve never been so sure of myself. Not when I led the Dark Lord’s armies... not when I served Aulë in Almaren... not even while I sang with the choir of the Ainur.”

He leans forward then and kisses her deeply, almost reverently, his mouth moving slowly over hers as if in worship. And she leans into him, allowing him in, awash in his desire and his triumph and his glorious certainty. Her breath catches with a soft gasp when he pulls away.

“You truly have raised me to heights that no one else could have,” he whispers. “And for that, my queen… I will give you the entire world.”

Chapter Text

The emergency meeting of Ost-in-Edhil’s council proceeds slowly, as these things always do. It begins with a long discussion of the unfortunate accident at the forge, detouring into the dangers of Lord Celebrimbor continuing to work with mithril and whether the dwarves’ opinion should be sought on the structural repairs. Galadriel sits impatiently in her seat at the round table while last night’s events are rehashed in excruciating detail, until at last they move on to the more concerning matter of what happened at the city wall.

Two of the guard captains stand before the council and describe the illusory orcs and the odd fire in the watchtower, before Galadriel is finally called upon to recount her own version of the story. What she tells them is mostly true, minus her encounter with Lungorthin in the tower. The strange injuries to her hands, she writes up to having touched those ethereal flames that burned even on stone. Annatar supplies his professional opinion that Maiar magic was afoot, and a parchment is passed around showing the two symbols that have been found etched on the outer walls. Then another lengthy discussion ensues about what this warning might mean, and the likelihood that it heralds Sauron’s return.

And then, Lord Celebrimbor stands for the second time. He gives an impassioned speech about the necessity of a renewed alliance between elves and mortals in the Southlands, and stresses Eregion’s duty to support that alliance. He does not mention Lord Halbrand by name, though he reminds them of the bravery that the Southlanders displayed in fighting back the moriondor’s forces in Tirharad. The council members look to Galadriel while the master smith speaks, knowing that this account of the battle came from her.

But it is when Celebrimbor mentions the possibility of rebuilding the elven connection to Númenor that the council members really begin to listen, Galadriel thinks, and his recounting of the end of the war stirs their emotions. He invokes Eärendil’s sacrifice, and the alliance that led to victory, and then moves on to the legacy of Elros on the isle. Most of these council members are old enough to remember the war, and a few of them fought in it. There may even be one or two among them who knew Eärendil, as Celebrimbor did. When Celebrimbor sits back down, the council looks deeply moved. He may not be the speechwriter that Elrond is, but he has poured his heart into this plea.

Afterwards, Galadriel stands, and she gives her direct recommendation: that she and Annatar should ride ahead to scout the situation in the Southlands and make contact with the Númenoreans at Pelargir, that a full elven company should be sent behind them and placed under her command, that there is no time to wait for the High King’s approval given the recent events. Elrond, after all, has the power to order Eregion’s forces into battle in the High King’s name, so long as it is a defensive action. It is the issue of whether this could be considered defensive that remains a sticking point.

There is another nerve-wracking round of impassioned debate, and more questions, and the council hears an additional persuasive speech from Annatar. Despite him having absolutely no authority at all to speak on this matter, they all pay rapt attention, and when he sits back down Galadriel sees them turning to one another and conversing in low whispers. Still, much of the afternoon has passed before the council finally decides to put the recommendation to a vote.

Finally! These things certainly never move quickly, Galadriel sends to Sauron, shoving the exasperation into his mind that she’s hiding from her face.

He sends back a flicker of amusement. This has absolutely nothing on the Valar Council. At least it’s probably going to be over sometime this year.

And then… one by one, the council members all cast their votes in support of Lord Celebrimbor and Galadriel’s suggestion. A scroll is passed around for the council to sign the motion, and the elves dip their quills into the ornate inkwell and apply their signatures in bright gold ink under Eregion’s holly-adorned letterhead. We, the undersigned, support the motion to send a company from Eregion to the Southlands as soon as possible, and to consider this as a defensive action against the shadow in Mordor.

Elrond looks stunned as the scroll returns to him with a unanimous vote. And Galadriel, for all her fervent hope that they might bring about this outcome, is no less shocked. Only Sauron seems unsurprised by their triumph; when she glances at Annatar, he’s wearing that serene half-smile that says he got exactly what he expected.

Has Sauron done something to affect their minds? She glances around at the council members, searching them for signs of that glassy-eyed confusion, but they all look alert and determined.

Not Elrond, Galadriel sends to Sauron, a firm warning in her words. If you’ve been doing something to the others… don’t influence Elrond. He has to choose this on his own.

I haven’t influenced any of them, Galadriel, beyond making a good speech, Sauron says, his soft laughter humming into her head. I have done nothing else to their minds. Have you considered that we’re simply making an excellent case, and that they’ve all been waiting for a reason to speak up against Gil-galad’s foolishness? That they do not wish to delay until dark creatures are swarming the walls again before any action is taken? This is quite delightful, really. I’m enjoying myself.

Elrond is staring across the table at Galadriel, something inscrutable in his gaze. He lowers his eyes to the scroll again, scanning the list of glimmering names, the thick gold ink not yet dried. Slowly, he picks up the quill, dips it into the inkwell and adds his own name in witness.

“The council has spoken, and your voices have been heard,” Elrond says. “Of course, a matter like this should really have been taken up at a meeting of all of Eregion’s representatives, not only of Ost-in-Edhil’s council.” He takes a deep breath. “However... Gelebren’s council members will be in attendance at the promotion ceremony I am attending tonight, and there will likely be representatives of a few of the outer settlements there as well. I shall convene an emergency meeting in Gelebren tonight, and take the question up again there. Were I to make this choice… it could send all of Eregion down the path of war – not only Ost-in-Edhil – and we cannot risk further divisions among Eregion’s settlements. This must be done with unity, if not with the High King’s blessing.”

The council members whisper among themselves again, murmuring their agreement – yes, the support of Gelebren and the outer settlements should be sought.

“I will render a decision when I return from Gelebren tomorrow.” Elrond looks directly at Galadriel again. “If I am met with the same sentiment there tonight, then I think we shall have the case to consider this a defensive action and send out a company immediately, without waiting for a reply from the High King. But in the meantime, I will send our fastest rider to Lindon with the newest tidings, and seek the High King’s approval, following our standard protocol.”

It is not a complete victory, but a unanimous vote in the council is far more than Galadriel had hoped for. Sauron, too, seems more than satisfied, strengthening her with his conviction that the final decision will go their way. Lord Celebrimbor is the picture of relief – he has done his part, he is fulfilling his neglected promise, doing all he can to set things right with the King of the Southlands. Things, at last, are in motion.

After the meeting concludes, Elrond gestures for Galadriel to remain seated and stay behind when the council members depart. She gives Annatar a look, asking him to excuse them a moment, and he inclines his head respectfully before he heads off toward the stairs.

“Galadriel,” Elrond says when they’re alone. There’s deep concern etching his face. “I fear this is unbelievably foolish. No one at this table actually comprehends what it is that we’re doing, and I’m not sure I do either. We know nothing about where loyalties truly lie among all the parties in the Southlands. If Númenor is still allied with Lord Halbrand, no one could possibly understand that the true danger lies with him. Whatever you intend to say to the Númenoreans— ”

“You trust me to do what is best,” Galadriel interrupts. “You know I can give us the advantage in the Southlands, Elrond. You know better than anyone that I’m the only one who can navigate this situation.”

Elrond looks sceptical. “I know better than anyone that Sauron nearly killed you. That his treachery nearly broke your spirit and your heart. ”

“But he did not, and it did not,” she says, raising her chin. “I spent centuries learning the resilience that saved me, and I am even stronger now than I was last year. But, Elrond... there is so much more at play here than just Sauron’s rise. Believe me when I say that there are forces at work that would see Morgoth himself returned to power, that would seek to free him from the Void. And that if we do not act swiftly, we may have missed our chance to strike before we’re expected! Long did I try to warn you all that the shadow waited, and I was not believed until it was too late. You swore to me not to make the same mistake again… did you not?”

“I did.” Elrond sighs. “And I will continue to stand by that promise. But it grows more and more difficult, Galadriel, to keep your many secrets from the High King.”

“They are your secrets now, too,” she says. “I don’t suppose you can ever tell Gil-galad precisely how long you’ve known that Sauron worked in Celebrimbor’s forge, wearing the face of a Southlander king? The truth would be my ruin here, Elrond... but it would be yours as well.”

“I care not for my reputation so much as I care for the safety of the elven realms,” he says. “Perhaps it has been another dreadful mistake, keeping this from Gil-galad. I know I will never live up to my father’s legacy, nor to the memory of Elros… but I would never let my own pride be the downfall of this kingdom. It is not for my own sake that I keep my silence, Galadriel.”

“Nor is it for mine,” she says. “You keep your silence because you believe that I am right. And you know that everything I have done, all the secrets I have kept, all the lies I have told… I’ve done it for the good of Middle Earth, to ensure our triumph over the forces of darkness.”

“And yet… suppose that Gil-galad’s foresight was correct?” Elrond’s voice grows quiet. “If your actions have inadvertently fanned the flames of our enemy… if it is you who has brought darkness back to our lands—”

“Then it is all the more my duty to set that error right,” Galadriel says. “And I will, Elrond. I will. If you let me lead, we can win this.”

“Can we?” He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “How does it end, Galadriel? With you following in your brother’s footsteps all the way to your demise? With me standing at your memorial carving in Lindon’s gardens? You were meant to have sailed to Valinor—”

“My place is here,” she says sharply. “And if I perish in service of my brother’s vow, then I shall be proud of it. Finrod sought peace in Middle Earth, and so do I. That is how it ends. With peace, or with my death, Elrond. I cannot lay down my sword. I cannot let this lie. The Dark Lord’s threat must be extinguished, and I have not devoted my life to that pursuit only to drop it now.”

Elrond lowers his eyes. He sits that way for a while, staring at the flattened scroll with the signatures of the council members swirling down the page. Then he slowly rolls up the scroll and gets to his feet. “A messenger will be dispatched to Lindon immediately, and in the meantime, I shall bring this matter to the representatives in Gelebren tonight,” he says. “But you will wait for me to return before you take any action, Galadriel, do you understand?” He glances down at the ring of power that glimmers on her finger. “I think you’d best go now. Take that ring back to Annatar’s side, it should not be long parted from him. I will need to ride swiftly now for Gelebren if I’m to make it on time for the ceremony.” He reaches out to embrace her. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Namárië, Elrond. Safe travels.”

“Namárië, Galadriel.”

When she exits the council chamber, Galadriel finds Celebrimbor and Annatar standing together just outside the doors, deep in conversation. They both look up when she approaches.

“Ah! Galadriel!” Celebrimbor exclaims. “A rousing success in that meeting, don’t you think? That went remarkably well!”

“It is more than I expected,” Galadriel says. “Now, let us hope that the representatives in Gelebren will see reason and agree with us.”

“Indeed. We have done all that we could.” Celebrimbor tips his head toward her. “Thank you, Galadriel. Truly. I owe you my gratitude.”

“There is nothing to thank me for. Thank me when the battle against the shadow has been won.”

The three of them stand in silent contemplation for a moment before Annatar briskly recovers his smile and says: “Did you know that Lord Celebrimbor has just invited me to dine with the smiths tonight at the guild hall? A spontaneous dinner party!”

“Yes. And you must come along, too, of course,” Celebrimbor tells Galadriel. “It will be an informal affair, quickly assembled, but I thought we should all get together... to try to lift our spirits after last night. We’re all devastated about the forge. Some cheer might do us good.”

“I would be glad to,” she says. “I must stay at Annatar’s side with the ring, nonetheless, so where he goes, I go.” She lifts her ring-bearing hand, flashing the ring of power before she lays her palm on Annatar’s arm. He leans against her with a contented little sigh.

“Excellent,” Celebrimbor says. “Right, I’d best be going, too… there are a couple of preparations I still need to make… for tonight.” He shoots Galadriel a sidelong look, as if he expects her to be in on some secret. “I shall see both of you there, then? Come along to the guild hall in two hours or so,” he says, and he hurries off.

When she turns back to him, Sauron is looking at her with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “What was that secretive look all about?”

“No idea.” Galadriel shrugs, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. “Really. I don’t know. I suppose we will see when we get there.”

Sauron gives her shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. “Look… we should just try to enjoy ourselves this evening, Galadriel,” he murmurs to her, leaning his head close. “There is hard work ahead, but we have much to celebrate. Do try to relax.”

“We’ll see about that later. Right now I need to go over to the training ground,” she says, no enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ve been putting off work on my training rosters for the week, and our current schedule runs out tomorrow. You’ll have to sit there and wait while I do my paperwork, sorry. I shall try to be quick about it.”

“I have noticed that you do not like administration very much. Nor meetings,” he observes as they start walking together in the direction of the training ground. “There is certainly a lot of that, running a kingdom.”

“Well, thankfully I am not running a kingdom.”

“But if you were,” he points out, “you could concern yourself solely with the matters of the battlefield... if you had a king at your side with an excellent sense for the administrative aspects of—”

“Please.” She sighs again, but fails to hide her slightly exasperated smile. “Please, just walk. Quietly. A moment’s peace.”

“As you wish,” he smirks.

They walk in companionable silence the rest of the way to the training ground. She senses very little of his thoughts – he has drawn that curtain again, veiling most of his mind from her – but a feeling of deep contentment radiates around him, and something like anticipation flickers into her mind whenever their hands touch. He is having a great day, everything is going the way he wants it to, and he very much expects it to get better. She supposes that his sudden freedom from Morgoth’s bond plays no small part in his triumphant mood.

Galadriel lets herself into the armory building and drags out the work that she needs to attend to, setting herself up on the desk that has become hers in the corner of the armory. She dips her quill and starts the insufferably boring task of working out next week’s schedule, her own mind very much elsewhere. She won’t even be here next week to oversee any of this training, if the meeting in Gelebren goes their way.

Meanwhile, Sauron goes over to one of the cabinets and takes out a sword. He holds it up, checking the balance and examining the craft in the elven blade before he spins it around artfully in his hand. “Hm! These blades aren’t bad,” he says. “Celebrimbor’s smiths have talent, I’ll give them that. I’m genuinely impressed. Look at this!”

When Galadriel doesn’t respond to him and keeps writing, he twirls the sword again. He pauses, looks at her – still writing. And then, he steps fluidly into a flawless execution of the practice forms that she gives her beginners, affecting the whole routine with a grace and mastery that would stun her in one of her students. She watches him doing it out of the corner of her eye, but she keeps her head down, facing her parchment, dipping her quill again and continuing her task.

She senses a little pang of disappointment from Sauron when she still doesn’t look over, but he isn’t deterred. He unfastens his cloak and goes to hang it up near the door, then removes his embroidered jerkin before he rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt and takes the sword up again. This time, he moves up to the intermediate and advanced forms. He links one flourish to the next with effortless precision, somehow managing not to knock anything over in the small space as he spins and lunges. He swings the sword so close to her desk that it rustles the corners of the parchment.

“Do you mind—” she starts.

But then he suddenly turns around and stumbles, and he does knock into the desk, nearly tipping over her ink bottle as he drops the sword onto the floor with a clang.

“Whoops! Sorry,” he laughs. “Almost got that one, didn’t I? I’m getting better!”

Galadriel looks up from her work in bewilderment, and sees that there’s somebody standing at the door. A messenger in city livery, holding a wrapped parcel.

“Ah… sorry to intrude! I’ve a delivery here for you, Commander,” the messenger says. “I was meant to take it over to your residence, but I thought I’d check if you were here on the way past.”

She looks at the parcel he’s holding. It’s wrapped up in forest green paper, tied with a gold cord. There’s a red-and-green tag attached, and she recognizes the insignia of one of Ost-in-Edhil’s best tailors. She has had dresses made there before, but she hasn’t ordered anything recently. In fact, this reminds her once again that she has completely failed to acquire any new clothes for her meager wardrobe in Eregion, as she really should have done – since she doubts she’ll be going back to Lindon anytime soon to retrieve her large collection of dresses.

“That’s for me? Are you certain?”

“I’m quite sure it’s for you,” the messenger says, smiling. “Deliver to Commander Galadriel, that’s what it says here.” He comes inside and sets the package down on the corner of her desk as Annatar sheepishly scrambles to pick up his sword.

She turns over the tag, and sure enough, there’s her name on it. “Right. Well… thank you very much.”

When the messenger has departed again, Galadriel moves her parchments aside and curiously pulls the parcel toward her. She glances at Sauron, and he’s just standing there looking at her with a delighted smile on his face.

“You know something about this, don’t you?”

“I might,” he says, his smile broadening into a grin. “Ahhh, this really could not have been timed more fortuitiously. Open it!”

“A gift from you?” She blinks at him suspiciously. Why must he look so good with that sword in his hand and his sleeves rolled up? “What is the occasion?”

“Can a king not simply give a beautiful gift to his future queen?”

Galadriel does not bother to correct him. Instead, she looks back at the parcel, unties the gold cord, and slowly folds the paper open.

And she gasps aloud when she lifts out a replica of his favourite pale green dress, in the very same buttery-soft fabric that was torn to shreds on the battlefield the night of Celebrimbor’s banquet. It looks indistinguishable from her original gown, right down to the delicate embroidery on the neckline and bodice, and the silver laces up the front.

She plucks out the folded piece of parchment that was tucked into the lacing. Inside, there’s a detailed sketch of the front and back of the dress, with her measurements written on it in that familiar looping hand. It shouldn’t surprise her at all that they’re precisely correct – he did make her that perfectly fitted suit of armor back when he had only looked at the shape of her.

Her hand is shaking as she sets the drawing down on the desk. “You drew this? From memory?”

“Mmm-hm. My artistic talents do extend beyond the forge,” he says with a soft laugh. “The execution, however, I left to the capable hands of the elven tailors.”

Galadriel runs her fingers over the soft fabric. “I… don’t know what to say.”

Sauron sets down the sword, then walks around the desk and wraps his arms around her from behind, pressing his lips into her hair. “I did tell you I intend to mend everything that Morgoth ruined, didn’t I?” he whispers. “Maybe one day, you’ll even believe me.”

Galadriel doesn’t push him away, tilting her head back against the comforting, solid warmth of his chest. It has always felt far too good to be held by him. He cradles her like that for a few glorious moments, his chin resting on top of her head, before he releases her and steps away.

“Finish what you were doing. I’ll not disturb you any more, I can wait outside.” He returns the sword he borrowed to its cabinet, pauses to retrieve his cloak and his fancy jerkin by the door, and goes out into the training ground.

Galadriel has only a few lines left to complete the final page of the schedule, and she finishes her work up quickly without his ridiculous distractions. She puts away her things, preparing to leave, and she looks again at the pale green dress folded there in its wrappings. It makes her heart beat faster, remembering the intensity of Sauron’s gaze on her when she last wore it.

It is to be an informal affair tonight, Celebrimbor had said – but she’ll not turn up to a dinner at the guild hall in what she’s wearing now. She really should change into a dress, shouldn’t she? Her face heats at the truth of it – that as powerful as she feels in a military uniform, she wants to feel regal at his side tonight. She wants to sit beside Sauron in a dress he will ache to look at, with her hair loose and shining. This dress.

“We shall go by way of the residence halls,” she announces when she walks outside to join him. “I am going up to my rooms to change for dinner.” She shoots him a warning look. “And you will wait for me in the corridor.”

“Oh?” Mischief dances in his eyes as he looks down at the parcel she carries, then back to her face. He skims his hand down her arm and leans toward her. “I’m to remain banished to the corridor, hmm?” he says in a low half-whisper. “Are you afraid we’d not make it to the guild hall if you let me in, my little elf?”

The brief contact of his fingertips sends a flurry of sparks into her, and – intentional or not – a whisper of his desire spills into her mind in the wake of his touch. He clearly hopes to take his pleasure with her tonight; the flicker of his thought that brushes against hers is full of his delicious certainty that he will soon have her again. And with a single look at him, she knows she does not have any intention at all of refusing him.

Not a shred of shame nor guilt remains in her when she considers his affections now; it seems she left those feelings well behind her on the night she first took him to her bed. She answers to no one. She has lost nothing, she has given up nothing. Is it not her Dark Lord who was willing to go to his knees for her? Her greatest enemy and fiercest ally will kneel at her feet again, she is sure of it.

When he steps closer, she can sense the pull of his wanting, incandescent under his skin, as if his very spirit burns for her. Beneath all of his overconfident posturing, Sauron’s mind is a blur of soft, needy desperation. Everything he wants is within his reach, so close he can practically taste it, and she knows that it frustrates him. He wants his victory now. For all his proclamations of patience, a part of him is quietly seething that she has not yet actually agreed to become his queen – a part of him that wants to possess her, to pin her down, to order her to join him through sheer force of will. They are terribly alike, him and her, after all.

But he’s much smarter than to press his advantage. He knows she is more than strong enough to withstand his petulant demands, to reject his insistence, to cast him out of her mind, even, if he pushes her too hard. No, he has intuited the truth that shakes the carefully constructed walls of her composure: she is thoroughly unable to resist the thought of his surrender. When he bows his head to her, when he sinks to his knees before her, when he says he would beg – she is already undone. At the very memory of it, that wave of molten heat is pooling between her thighs.

“Actually… you will wait for me outside the building,” she tells him when they ascend the grand steps of the halls where she resides. “Stay right here. I’ll only be a moment.”

She leaves him there at the top of the steps and dashes inside, clutching that soft parcel against her chest, and she half-runs all the way up to her rooms. Her heart is pounding as she hastily strips off her uniform, washes up, and changes into that impossibly soft dress. She slides into it easily, delighting in the familiar feel of it whispering over her skin as it flows onto her body.

It fits her perfectly, and he really did find the exact same fabric. She carefully tightens the bodice, shifting it into place, and does up the silver lacing. Then she tugs out her military braid and combs through her unruly hair, fluffing it into a soft golden cloud around her shoulders. There is no time to do anything more but slip a narrow silver circlet over it – that will just have to do.

But she does look good. In her mirror, she sees the bright blush that sits high in her cheeks, and a wild sparkle lights up her eyes. The swooping neckline of the dress exposes a tempting expanse of creamy skin, and she skims her fingers over the curve of her neck. The marks he left on her when she took him to bed as Halbrand have faded, but the memory of his touch is indelibly seared into her skin. Soon she will have him again, his elven body pressed against her this time, Annatar’s mouth trailing all over her—

For a moment she does consider abandoning Celebrimbor’s dinner party, despite the fact that they missed lunch for the council meeting, and she’s had nothing at all to eat since yesterday.

But no. She, too, can make a show of patience. And oh, how she will enjoy the way he’ll look at her in this dress, with the added memory of what happened between them the last time she wore it. By the end of this dinner, Sauron will be more than ready to beg for her.

When she steps back outside the building, he’s right where she left him, standing at the top of the steps waiting for her. He turns around, and as his eyes travel hungrily over the dress, she sees him swallow hard, his mouth falling open with a soft intake of breath. She feels his heartbeat accelerate through their bond, perceives the hot rush of desire that’s flooding through him before he quickly snaps that curtain around his thoughts again. But she’s almost certain he perceived something of her flustered mind as well; when he comes closer, there is a glimmer of smug amusement mixing with the blaze of lust in his eyes.

Sauron and Galadriel exchange a long, heated stare before they look away from each other and start wordlessly down the stairs. Their faces remain the picture of feigned serenity to any onlookers in the courtyard, and he reaches to take a delicate hold of her as they descend. But it’s not the steadying grip of an exhausted convalescent – no, he affects an almost courtly handhold, raising their joined hands elegantly between them with self-satisfied pageantry. He walks her down those steps as though he escorts his queen.

And for a moment, she imagines that he does. She imagines herself stepping gracefully in that floor-length starlit gown from the vision he sent her, her shining hair loose beneath her beautiful crown. And him, walking in dark armor beside her, a matching crown on his head, his intoxicating power humming in her veins.

And you… my king.

She lifts her chin defiantly, and she does not pull her hand away from his until they reach the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter Text

Galadriel and Annatar walk together through the beautiful gardens and linked courtyards, circling until they arrive at the guild hall and stand before the great door of the Mírdain – where Lord Celebrimbor is greeting the arriving guild members.

The master smith lights up with a beaming smile as soon as he sees them approaching, and he rushes halfway down the steps to embrace Annatar. He hugs him tightly, like he’s just realizing that Annatar is really alive all over again. Then Celebrimbor turns and greets Galadriel with warm excitement, and there’s that same secretive, conspiratorial smile on his face again as he tells them to go on inside.

They’ve barely crossed the threshold into the hall when Sauron suddenly stops walking and closes his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side the way he does when he’s checking in on his dark wolves. It’s only a brief pause in his step, one that would probably have gone unnoticed by anyone but Galadriel. But when he opens his eyes again and carries on walking, there’s a new, pleased look on his face.

What is it? Galadriel presses the question into his mind. What did you just see?

Ah. I’m afraid that Elrond’s messenger to Lindon has been waylaid by the Dark Lord’s wolves, he says. Very unfortunate, don’t you think? He didn’t get far.

No! she gasps. Tell me you didn’t—

No harm will come to him, do not fear. Sauron reaches out with a soothing little stroke of his hand against hers. His horse threw him and was frightened off. It will return home soon, ominous and riderless. And the messenger will be back by morning, a bit bedraggled but no worse for the wear. With a tale of how he was pursued through the forest, narrowly escaping with his life. Further proof that dark creatures are massing once more in these woods, and that we can no longer wait for word from Lindon. Nor, perhaps, can we safely get word to the High King at all.

He smiles, and the sight of that slow, devious grin makes Galadriel’s heartbeat accelerate.

I will get us our elven army, Galadriel, he says. He motions her forward again with a gallant wave of his arm. Now, come. Best enjoy Eregion’s luxurious hospitality while you can. You will not find such finely laid tables and good wine in Pelargir. Not even alongside the charming King of the Southlands.

The tables, indeed, are finely laid with food and drink, and just about every smith in Ost-in-Edhil is here, all of them greeting Annatar’s arrival with great relief. It seems that many of them have now gone up to see the ruins of the forge, and they understand just how fortunate his narrow escape really was.

They seat Annatar at the very center of the room, and the back of his chair has been decorated with the banner of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the guild of the elven smiths. He demurs at the special treatment, waving it off with false modesty, but Galadriel can sense that smirking satisfaction in him – he revels in being adored like this. He takes his seat and plays the part of the charismatic scholar, laughing and joking with the smiths, delighting them all in the way only Annatar can.

Celebrimbor, thankfully, seems much recovered since his heartbreak at the workshop this morning, his spirits and his hope restored. Partway through the meal, he stands up and raises a dramatic toast to Annatar, and he presents him with a small, gilded box. This was meant to happen at a formal guild event, Celebrimbor says, but he felt compelled to present it to Annatar today, in thanks for everything and in light of what happened last night—

Annatar opens the box, and it’s a guild crest, because of course it is. A symbol of his perpetual welcome to return to Eregion and to remain here permanently after all this dark business in the Southlands is settled. This surprise dinner party is his induction to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. The smiths all stand and cheer and applaud as Annatar accepts the honor with an overwhelmed look on his face, pinning the shining crest to his collar with an enormous smile.

When everyone finally sits back down again, Sauron brushes his hand against Galadriel’s, and she can feel the elation radiating from him. Not only smug triumph – though she feels that, too – but genuine joy. He is deeply pleased with himself.

“You see?” he whispers to her. “I told you that today would be a good day.”

He allows himself an extra glass of wine in celebration, although she sees that he’s eating the last mouthfuls of his meal with his usual elven restraint, taking small bites, refraining from refilling his plate more than once even as he looks longingly at what’s still left in the beautiful serving dishes. It’s Galadriel who decides she’ll have mercy on him, picks up his empty plate and refills it. She stacks up another helping, piling up the plate with every bit of food that will fit on it, the same way that Halbrand would have done.

“Here,” she says loudly, setting it in front of Annatar like a command. “The healers said you need to restore your strength. You must try to have some more. Please.”

He turns to her with such unbridled delight on his face that for a moment she wonders if he’s actually going to lean over and kiss her right in front of everyone. But he reins it in, and he turns back to look at his heaping plate. “Oh, all right,” he sighs with Annatar’s soft, indulgent smile. “For you? I will try.”

Later, when she slides a second dessert over to him, he looks at her like he might be about to throw her down on the table and devour her. And he does send her an extremely vivid image of him doing exactly that, forcing her to avert her eyes and look away from his impertinent smile before anyone notices how furiously she’s blushing. She cannot believe the nerve of him, or the way he still manages to shock her sometimes.

She manages to shock herself, too, with how very seriously she’s considering dragging him out into the corridor to kiss him senseless against a wall somewhere—

Only kiss me? His amusement hums into her mind. Don’t deny yourself, my queen. Demand everything you want, and you shall have it. The entire world, remember?

Galadriel knows very well that she has always wanted a little too much, has always burned too brightly for the elven sensibilities of one in her position: too much want for power, for an independent path, for the fight, for validation, for gratification. And his close proximity stokes all of her desires, throwing endless kindling on those flames. She wonders if she does the very same thing to him.

She thinks back to what he said earlier: I do not think I was ambitious enough before. And she fears what it means. She does. She fears what she has unleashed by breaking Sauron’s bond to the first Dark Lord, and what he might now become if she cannot stop him. But his newfound freedom stirs something else in her, too. The same feeling that flooded her when they held the shadow blade together. She thinks of that Vala power in his hands, singing to her, shared with her... and her at his side, his powerful queen—

Impossibly wrong and impossibly right all at the same time, just like her desire for him. It should not be. And yet, it cannot wholly be denied.

She wants to be joined with him in every way she can… more than she ever thought it possible to want something. At every moment she is aware of him, her body and mind attuned to him, even more drawn to him than before. And Sauron feels the same pull toward her, if not worse. She can feel flickers of his thoughts right now, and he is a yearning, desperate thing, craving her attention and her nearness. He touches her constantly, his hands searching for every little opportunity to brush her skin, his lips half-parted hungrily when he looks at her.

He sends her flashes of disjointed images and sensations: his hand tangling in her hair, wrapping her golden tresses around his wrist; his tongue tracing the shell of her ear as he sucks the point of it into his mouth; him pulling her hand into his lap under the table to stroke the hard length of him over his fine elven clothes.

Galadriel looks over at him and he’s biting his lip, holding his folded cloak over his lap, his dark pupils blown wide. Daring her to be the first to say it’s time for them to leave. She scoops another bite of her dessert into her mouth, sweetness blooming on her tongue while she squeezes her thighs together at the sight of him slowly licking his spoon. He can feel precisely what he’s doing to her, and he has no intention of stopping.

Nor, for that matter, does she. She is suffering, but she’s enjoying watching him squirm too much to let it end yet. They don’t exactly encourage restraint in each other, for all their talk of pulling each other back.

She reaches over and pours him another drink, then sends him a flash of her sitting astride him on his bed. Her soft green dress is mostly still on, but the laces are peeled open; she leans forward over him so he can mouth at her breasts while her hair drapes over his bare shoulders. He almost chokes on the wine, but he regains his composure and drains his glass all at once before he reaches to refill it.

She sees him stop himself just before he lifts the carafe, as if he’s suddenly remembering his pretense at moderation, and he draws his hand back. It’s unlikely that anyone here would be very concerned with Annatar’s uncharacteristic behaviour this evening– after all, he nearly died last night, the festivities are becoming increasingly jubilant, and he is the celebrated guest. But he remains, as ever, committed to the role he plays here. The guild crest glitters from his collar, and the other smiths have been rallying around him one by one all night, congratulating him excitedly, praising and admiring him. They want him to stay here; they see him as one of them. He seems less of an outsider here than she is.

He could stay if he wanted to, Galadriel thinks. He might even have truly considered it, the same way he’d considered seeking his peace in a forge in Númenor. He could surely do many years of fine work here with Celebrimbor, creating more wonders with mithril, carving pretty enchanted doors with the dwarves. But she knows that he would chafe against the constraints of the elven realms, exactly the same way she does. He may manipulate the elves easily enough with his honeyed words and his obfuscations, hiding his displeasure at their unbending customs the way she has never quite been able to. But he couldn’t possibly remain contained by these elven walls any more than she can.

There was a time when Galadriel had believed that the tempest in her would be quelled with time – that when centuries had passed, when she was older and wiser, she might yet become the calm, serene, even-tempered daughter that the house of Finarfin had wanted. That her desires would be tempered into a cool, sharp blade, her mind as clear as still water. Finrod had told her as much all those times he reassured her, instilling the wisdom of his many more years, giving her patient lessons about touching the darkness and fighting through fire to find her eventual peace and light. But she is older than Finrod ever was now, and she has found none of his inner serenity. She still burns too hot, still hungers for more than has been granted to her. And with time, she has constrained it less, not more. Always pushing boundaries, always treading lines.

Not that she has ever had much opportunity to express her desires where a lover was concerned. There was a short-lived haze of newlywed bliss with her husband, all those centuries ago – now just a soft, faded memory. And the occasional small indiscretion in the throes of battle-fever: a few forbidden kisses, a few tempting bodies pressed to hers for heat, lying close together in some uncomfortable bedroll, dreaming impossible dreams of what could have been. She has skirted the very edge of the elven customs more than once... but she has always held that particular fire back. Mostly, she has resigned herself to her own explorations, learning exactly how to please herself with her own ministrations and a vivid imagination.

But in all her long years of life, she has never experienced desire that felt anything like this. Not until Númenor. Not until Halbrand. From the moment she realized just how drawn she was to that strange, stubborn mortal man in a dungeon in Armenelos, it has felt different with him. Her need for him has always set a blaze in her very spirit. And Sauron sees the truth of her the way no one else ever has. He wants her like no one else ever has.

When she turns around to look at Annatar again, he’s slumped slightly forward in his chair, his chin resting on his hands. She nudges him, and he leans back to let his head fall against her shoulder. “I’m getting very tired, Galadriel,” he says, his fierce gaze burning into her from under half-closed lids. He sends her the sensation of his hand squeezing her bare thigh, as though he’s somehow reaching right through that soft green dress. “I’m meant to be resting... do you think I ought to go to bed now?”

And she smiles. Surrender.

When they have made their excuses, said their goodbyes and left the party, he takes her to the room that has always been his here; the same familiar, humble lodging in the smiths’ wing that he was given when he came here as Halbrand. The entire wing is empty right now; all the smiths are still back at the guild hall, and there is no one here to see them pass. No one to notice their hands so brazenly entwined. No one to see the way they stop to kiss all the way down the corridor, pushing each other up against the walls, until Annatar finally opens his door and pulls Galadriel into his room.

Inside, he pins her against the door, her back to the smooth wood, and she’s breathless with anticipation. She’s tilting her head up, stretched onto her toes, her keen mouth already open to meet his next kiss. She had half-expected him to pick her up and fling her onto his bed as soon as he closed the door behind him… but he doesn’t move at all from where he stands. He just stays there like that, leaning against her, framing her face with both of his hands as he traces one thumb along her bottom lip. She can feel the soft tremble in his limbs, the need in him reverberating into their bond as he stares at her.

And then, at last, he leans down and kisses her again, long and deep, pressing his whole body against hers as he wraps her in the heat of his presence. She kisses him back the same way: melting into him, folding herself into his embrace like a homecoming. It feels so unbelievably good to have him this near.

The last time they fell into bed together, they collided with the force of a breaking storm. She still burns with the memory, the way her bed was left askew, all the contents of the adjoining bookcase flung onto the floor with the passionate ferocity of it. And there is that same smoldering impatience in both of them now, perhaps more so – but tonight, he is different with her. She can feel his mind just like the last time, his thoughts and his pleasure entangled with hers. And there’s the pull of their connection, stronger than ever. But he is unhurried and deliberate with her, like he’s paying perfect attention to every little touch, luxuriating in every tiny movement and sound she makes.

He kisses her for a very long time, there against the door. His mouth wanders from her lips to her neck to her collarbone and downward, exploring as much of her skin as he can reach without undoing her dress. His hands are slowly mapping the topography of her body, caressing her over that buttery-soft green fabric, delighting in every sigh of pleasure that he draws from her.

Galadriel touches him, too; she disrobes him of his cloak and jerkin to slide her hands over his flowy white shirt, relishing the elegant contours of him. Remembering how gracefully he moved, how he looked with that sword in his hand at the armory. She kisses the hollow of his throat, and runs her tongue along the smooth column of his neck the way she’s imagined doing so many times.

Then she slips one hand into the space between them, trailing her fingers down over his chest and belly, and lower still, to where that firm bulge strains against his trousers. He groans when she strokes over him there – exactly the way he had her touch him in that flippant little vision he sent her. And then finally, finally, he leads her to the edge of his bed.

He lifts her circlet from her hair so he can thread his hands freely through her golden tresses, and he sets it carefully on his little beside table. He unpins his new guild crest from his collar and places it there, too, next to her circlet. And then he turns back to her and he starts to untie those familiar silver laces, loosening her bodice bit by bit until he can slide that beautiful green dress off her. Her heart is racing when he pulls it downward – the same dress she had once imagined Halbrand removing right in this very room. He caresses her bared skin in its wake, kissing his way down her newly exposed body until that shimmery fabric is pooled on the floor, and he’s kneeling at her feet.

“Well? What would you have me do, my queen?” he asks her. His low, murmured words send an ecstatic shiver through her that he certainly could not miss even if their minds weren’t enmeshed. “Is it your Southlander you want between your thighs? Hmm?” He slips his hand under the edge of the silky undergarments she’s still wearing, and Galadriel gasps as his fingers slide against the warm, wet heat of her. “Say it. You need Halbrand’s tongue… here?”

She slowly shakes her head. Sauron may seem perfectly recovered from last night’s ordeal, but neither of them know the true effects of magical exhaustion, or whatever it was that afflicted him yesterday. That healer said Melian had taken days to recover completely after raising the veil around Doriath, and the image of Annatar lying unconscious in that bed haunts Galadriel still. She has forbidden Sauron from expending too much of his power unnecessarily today, just in case he really does need more time to rest. And while it’s not as if she could actually do anything to stop him, he has obeyed her thus far.

“I could try to change form,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll be completely fine—”

“Don’t change.” Her words are soft, barely a whisper. “And... no taking us into illusions.” She lowers herself to the edge of the bed and slips out of her shoes, then lifts up her feet to let him tug her undergarments the rest of the way off. “I just want you to... stay as you are. Right here.”

“You sure? You’d let such a dreadfully pretty elf take you to bed?” He laughs and looks up at her, laying his head teasingly against her bare leg, his soft pale hair spilling over her thigh. “If you can’t have your favourite scruffy low man, I suppose you’ll simply have to make do with—”

Galadriel grabs hold of his shirt, pulls him toward her and claims his mouth with a searing kiss. She feels his thrill at her insistence, at the eager press of her tongue between his teeth as she hauls him up to sit on the bed next to her.

Whether it’s the pull of their newly-strengthened bond, or that new power rushing through her veins, or just more of that same maddening, unrelenting desire for him that hasn’t subsided since their first days in Númenor, she can’t say for certain. Perhaps it’s all of it. But everything in her seeks him; she needs to feel the heat of his skin against hers, his mouth all over her, the shadowy tendrils of his mind coiling into her own. There was never any chance she would refuse the pleasure of his bed tonight, no matter what shape he wears.

“I want you,” she whispers when they break apart. She pushes his shirt up his back, tugging it up over his head, and he lifts his arms to help her free him from it. “In any form you take… I just... always... I... I can’t ever seem to stop wanting you—”

“Then don’t, Galadriel,” he says. “Don’t ever stop.” He’s swiftly divesting himself of his shoes and the rest of his clothing, unbuttoning and disrobing himself until he’s every bit as naked as she is. And then he turns and catches her chin with his hand, tilting her face toward him. “Look at me. Stay at my side, Galadriel. Say you’ll be my queen, and we can accomplish so many incredible things together. Things you can’t even—”

“Shhh. No, please, no, no,” she mumbles against his mouth, silencing him with another kiss as she lets herself fall back onto the bed, dragging him with her. “Please, no speeches about ruling Middle Earth tonight. Just... be as you are.” She leans back into the pillows, spreading her legs in invitation, and she pulls him on top of her. “Stop talking. Be with me here, right now.”

He lets his warm weight settle over her, pressing her down into the bed. And he does stop talking, and he obeys.

When at last he slides inside her, Galadriel moans with the sheer relief of it, gasping at that delicious stretch as he sinks his whole thick, perfect length into her. For a long moment they stay like that, their foreheads pressed together, their heartbeats and breaths aligning, their minds entwining. And then their bodies start to rise and fall with that glorious synchronicity, him thrusting into her slow and deep while she rolls her hips up to meet him.

It’s not the maelstrom of frenzied lust they unleashed in her bedchamber, not a chaos of teeth and claws. No, this is an unhurried, decadent indulgence, long and luscious and heavenly. He skims the surface of her mind, making a study of her pleasure, and she can sense him drinking it all in: the soft sounds she makes beneath him; the way she shivers with delight when he mouths at that one spot just below her ear; the exact angle that makes her catch her breath when he lifts her legs and pushes himself deeper. And she, too, can feel what he feels, discerning all the delicious touches and squeezes and flicks of her tongue that are slowly unraveling his control.

Their entangled sensations are drawn out and savoured, echoing between them, building and building until one or the other of them succumbs to their bliss. Galadriel truly cannot tell which one of them breaks first – only that in the same moment they’re falling apart together, their bodies writhing in unison, tipping over the edge of a long-awaited release.

And they both send each other the same breathless, grasping thought: Mine.

“Mmm… I’ve been well and truly spoiled tonight, haven’t I?” he sighs when they’re lying together afterwards, their naked bodies still entwined in his bed. “A surprise party all for me… an amazing meal… extra desserts…”

At this, he runs his hand appreciatively over Galadriel’s hip, and she feels a similar thrill from him as when she put that heaping plate of food in front of him in the guild hall.

“Are you comparing me to your dinner?” She laughs into the smooth curve of his neck.

He shifts her over a little and captures the point of her ear gently between his teeth. “Hmm… am I?” he murmurs as he bites down, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

Then he slowly slides his fingers down between her legs and strokes her there, and that simmering heat inside her reawakens easily at his touch. She exhales a soft, needy breath, squeezing his hand between her sticky thighs. And when she reaches to touch him in turn, she finds him already hard again, pushing himself up against her.

“More? Hmm?” he whispers into her ear, pulling her closer. “Come here, then, my queen… you know how much I like a second helping.”

They claim their second helping, and another one after that, indulging themselves thoroughly… but the collision of their minds and bodies always brings them back to the same place: satisfied, but still greedy for just a little bit more, still craving each other. And it feels far too good to resist the temptation to continue. He doesn’t seem to tire of it, and somehow, neither does she.

The next time, she takes him into her mouth, and she learns a new way to make him gasp and beg; a new wild pleasure that echoes into her with every stroke of her fingers and and swirl of her tongue. She licks and teases him until she’s trembling with their entangled desire, until she’s pressing her other hand against herself, desperate for relief.

When he feels what she’s doing he reaches down for her and pulls her up to him. He flips her easily onto her back, splaying her out on the bed in front of him, flushed and wanting. For a moment she feels him pause as he looks at her – he considers making her plead now – but he can’t help himself, he’s giving in before he can even find the words. They’re both so far gone that as soon as he pushes himself inside her they’re already shattering; it doesn’t take more than a half-dozen thrusts of his hips to send them both into that glorious oblivion.

Afterwards, he lifts her knees over his shoulders and gives her his tongue, lapping up the divine mess of their combined pleasure between her thighs, licking her clean. He undoes her twice more that way before he crawls back up to her and collapses against her, and they lie like that for a while, breathless and stunned.

“How am I not completely exhausted already?” she mumbles into his neck. “After everything that happened… I didn’t really rest at all last night, I don’t understand how I’m even—” She turns her head toward him, suddenly comprehending. “Wait. It’s because you’ve been lending me your power again… isn’t it?”

“You have certainly been availing yourself of some of it, yes. Perhaps you have less need for rest than you used to. But you will wear yourself out, my little elf.” His laugh rumbles softly in his chest. “Or me. We’ll see. You may have to fetch the healers tomorrow and tell them that I can’t stand up.” He wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight against him, his mouth hot against her ear. “Hmm... is this your new plan to destroy me? Because I’m not sure I’d mind it.”

She laughs, too, and she stretches out, arching her small body against his larger frame, extending herself to every possible point of contact. He’s right, maybe she is slowly tiring – she’s conscious now of the slight tenderness in her muscles, and the sweet, sensitive ache where he’s filled her again and again. But when she rolls herself over, her hand meets that velvety hardness, and an answering heat blooms inside her. She strokes him with her fingers, letting hazy pleasure wash over her like a balm.

“Mmm. Maybe just once more?” he murmurs with a smile. How do you want me? Show me.

She turns around in his arms and rearranges herself, bringing her forehead to rest against his, bracketing his body between her knees. The same way she had him that very first time in her bedchamber. Her looking down at him, her Dark Lord caged by her bare thighs.

Like this.

He nods, his kiss-swollen lips parting as he runs his tongue over them, and his hungry gaze stokes those embers of desire low in her belly. She has had so much of him already, maybe too much, but he feels so good she can’t help but want more—

Take everything you want , my queen, he whispers into her mind. Anything. The whole world, don’t forget it. He reaches both hands up to her, palms up as if in surrender. I will give it all to you with both hands. And I mean it.

Galadriel takes hold of his open hands and places them against her hips. And then he slowly, slowly guides her down on top of him until every last inch of him is buried inside her again.

She settles herself and starts to rock against him, gently at first, until that aching fullness starts to build into soft sparks of pleasure. She has been blissfully wrung out so many times tonight that it scarcely feels possible that she has any more left in her – but just like in battle, they seem to sustain each other, to raise each other up again and again.

She finds her rhythm with him and increases her pace, and he braces her hips to help her. He moves her up and down over him, his grip growing tighter as he skims her mind for what she needs. She wants this so much; she wants to be undone just once more with him connected to her like this, to feel the sublime rush of his release joined with her own.

One more time, he purrs into her mind. One more time for me, come on. He wants it as much as she does; he wants to hear her cry out in his ear and in his mind when she comes apart for him.

And he does bring her close to the edge again – almost. Almost. But she can’t— she can’t—

He holds her against him and she bites down on his shoulder, clutching at him with pleading little whimpers. Please… I just... need...

She feels him slipping a devious little tendril into her mind, and he sends her the sensation of his hand skimming along the nape of her neck, his fingers slowly raking up to take hold of her hair. She gasps at the exquisite strangeness of it, at having both of his hands anchored firmly at her hips while she can distinctly feel a third hand caressing her neck from behind. She closes her eyes and rocks herself harder, leaning her head back into that spectral touch, those invisible fingers carding through her hair as she rolls her hips into him.

It’s nearly enough. But then—

“Oh, yes, my queen… mmmhhh, yes, that’s it,” he murmurs to her aloud. Not in Quenya, but in the common tongue, affecting that unmistakable Southlands drawl as he coaxes her. “That’s it...come on… do it for me...”

At the sound of Halbrand’s voice, a moan wrenches from her throat, and at once those soft sparks are igniting into a fierce blaze of delight. She clamps her thighs hard against him. He moves his hands up her back, drawing her closer again to capture her lips, and he kisses her with Annatar’s soft elven mouth, swallowing her moans as he fucks her through her cresting pleasure. Devouring her, like he can never get enough.

And as Annatar continues to kiss her, his tongue curling against hers, that sly tendril slips into her mind again… and Sauron sends her one more little sensation. The feel of a scruffy jaw nuzzling her neck, and the warm, wet press of Halbrand’s mouth on her at the same time, sucking at that perfect spot just below her ear.

Galadriel loses every last shred of control, her mind whiting out with such an intense wave of ecstasy that only his unyielding grip on her hips keeps her anchored to her body. She surges against him as he arches up into her with a growl, and the hot spill of his release inside her sends her hard over the edge again. He keeps hold of her while she writhes over him, and they clutch each other until the throes of their joined pleasure finally subside to a soft echo.

She rolls off him and falls onto her back next to him, trembling and breathless. He’s shaking too, sprawled out with his head tipped all the way back against the pillows and a dazed look on his face.

“You and that scruffy Southlander, I swear,” he sighs with a low, groaning laugh. “You are a strange little elf, my queen… and it will never stop delighting me.”

Afterwards, Sauron lies against her chest, his arms locked tightly around her, his silky hair draped over her breasts. Galadriel looks down at him; he’s got his eyes closed and a blissed-out smile on his face. She dips her head to claim one more lingering kiss from his lips, and he obliges her with a contented sigh.

His mind is open to her, but his thoughts are all soft-edged and unfocused, blurred with pleasure. There’s that glimmer of happiness in him again – the feeling that she glimpsed the last time they lay together like this, which he once kept small and secret. But in the absence of Morgoth’s bond, it seems he no longer cages it away, afraid to look at it. No, he’s basking in it, glowing with it.

And, at least in this one fragile moment, he does not seem to be thinking about his conquest, or his throne, or her crown. There is no thought of the future in him right now. His mind is only here, in this bed with her, where his deliciously satisfied body is wrapped around hers.

“Galadriel,” he mumbles as she strokes his hair. “Mmm… Galadriel.” He pronounces her name properly, with that melodious roll of the ‘r’ when he speaks in Annatar’s elven voice.

She wants to reciprocate, to say something back to him, but she rarely speaks any of his names aloud. None of his monstrous epithets would suit such a moment of tenderness. Sometimes, she does still think of him as Halbrand... but he has never truly been a smith from the Southlands. And Annatar, too, is a fiction. Annatar is a character he plays, and less like his true self than Halbrand was.

“Mayrušurzel,” she says quietly. She can’t quite get it right; the harsh Valarin syllables sound too gentle, too rounded in her mouth.

He startles in her arms, his breath caught with a quiet gasp.

“Is… was that your name, before?”

“One of them.” His voice sounds distant, like he’s remembering something very far away. “Mayrušurzel is what Aulë called me, when I served him in Almaren. But the… the others in Morgoth’s service only ever spoke that name to me in mockery. The Dark Lord had given me new names, new titles to wear in his court.”

“Elves also have many names,” Galadriel says. “I was named Artanis… and Nerwen, by my parents.” Her hand resumes its trajectory, sliding over the pale silk of his hair, and he relaxes again.

“Hmm. And... what about Galadriel?”

“Galadriel is the epessë my brother chose for me. Alatáriel, in Telerin. I’ve used none of the others since he died,” she whispers. “It was Finrod who always saw the truest parts of me, so… it seemed right, to use the after-name he gave me. It’s the one that feels most fitting.”

Sauron is silent for a long while then, as if he’s contemplating her words. “I... don’t think any of mine feel quite right anymore,” he says at last. There’s a waver in his voice, and she perceives a note of melancholy in the warm haze of his mind. “I’ve had so many names, but… sometimes... I feel I am nameless, now.”

He does not ask her for anything, but she can sense the comfort he craves as clearly as if the thought were her own. A flicker of what he’s imagining unfolds into her mind: he’s thinking about the way she held him that night in Khazad-Dûm, the night she put that blanket over him and warmed him. And the way she held Halbrand on the way to Eregion.

Galadriel gathers him even closer into her arms. She tugs the edge of the thin blanket up over both of them, and she rubs slow circles against his back until that melancholy starts to fade from his mind again. He closes his eyes and makes soft little noises of contentment, curling up into her embrace. She focuses on the cool, soothing hum of the ring on her hand, its protective shield surrounding them.

She is quite certain that the weight of the world will crash back down on them tomorrow, but here in this moment they float outside of time, outside of reality. Far from the indisputable fact that she’s cradling the would-be tyrant she probably still needs to destroy, holding him naked against her chest and rubbing his back while she buries her face in his hair.

Despite the infusion of Sauron’s power, the need for sleep is finally overtaking her, and he’s truly tired, too; she can feel him drifting into that dream-state, pulling her along with him.

But then Sauron shifts in her arms, lifts his head and asks: “Among the elves… who can give someone else an epessë?”

“The gift of a name can come from anyone who cares for another,” Galadriel says quietly. “It can be given by a sibling… by a spouse… by a close friend…”

By a queen to her king, she thinks, but does not send to him. There is a strange ache in her heart.

Sauron says nothing more, just lays his head back down against her with a little smile. Then he wraps his mind around hers, and he pulls her with him into the blissful abyss of sleep.

Chapter Text

Out on the training field, Galadriel walks in circles around her groups as they make their way through the morning’s practice. The day has dawned bright and clear; the sky above Ost-in-Edhil is brilliantly blue and completely cloudless. If the weather is a portent, then it must be a good one. The combination of a cool breeze and sunlight on her face calms Galadriel’s unquiet mind, and she applies herself to the task at hand with knife-sharp focus.

When the trainees resume their demonstration from the top, Galadriel unsheaths her own sword and completes one of the long chains of practice forms alongside her students. And as the movements flow instinctively through her body, she lets the comforting arc of her polished blade steady her thoughts. She is a warrior first and foremost, she reminds herself – a leader and commander, relentless and intimidating and unfaltering in her goal. This ends with peace, or with her death – that is what she told Elrond. And she meant it. Here and now, she is certain that she upholds her brother’s vow. She will lead the elves into battle once more against the servants of Morgoth, and she will be victorious. She will make all of the sacrifices count.

She may have woken in a dreamy haze of pleasure in Sauron's arms, but she has not forgotten what all of this is really for. And she will think of the work ahead of her now, not of him. Not of the soft kisses he pressed to her bare shoulders, imploring her to stay with him a few minutes more. Not of how good it felt to wake with the warm weight of him still in the bed beside her, his body pressed against hers exactly the way she’d imagined for so long when she slept alone.

Not of how her most hated enemy has become her lover, and would name himself her king.

No. She will put all of that out of her mind. Today, she is watching her trainees even more closely than usual, taking mental notes on the intermediate and advanced cohorts, picking out the members of her company. She has already made her selections dozens of times over in her imagination, but it has become so much more real now. This time, the hour draws near when she will actually hold a list of names in her hands and call them to their destiny.

Elrond’s ill-fated messenger to Lindon staggered back to the city gates just after dawn, and word of what he saw in the woods has already spread. The Dark Lord’s wolves, dozens of them, surrounding and hounding him. And yet, they left him alive, surely by design. The Dark Lord meant for him to deliver another warning to the elves, the city whispers. Just like the illusions of orcs at the gates. Just like those sigils burned into Ost-in-Edhil’s strong stone walls, reminding them how easily those walls could fall if Sauron’s full power rose against them.

There is nervousness in the ranks of the trainees this morning, but an undercurrent of excitement too. A sense of possibility. Galadriel is reminded once more of those young Númenoreans she trained in Armenelos, of their earnest faces and their eager practice as they felt the call to battle draw near. She pictures a sea of elves in glittering armor, their swords in graceful motion, their arrows flying true. Her own company, shining and swift and fearsome on the battlefield, flying the colours of Eregion’s city guard. It is not the army she thought she would lead, but it will be hers nonetheless. And it will be glorious.

She has decided already who she will choose if she is granted only two hundred… or only a hundred, or only fifty. Some with great speed and resilience, some with impressive skill or keen instincts. Some with the kind of courage that will carry them further than their strength should allow. The ones whose eyes grow brighter with determination whenever they get back up after a failure. The ones who have asked her questions about the battles she has seen, who have been insightful and curious about the old war and the lessons to be learned from it.

And then there are those she’ll keep closest to her side: the headstrong ones who sharpen their anger like a blade, whose fury will fuel them even in the face of terrible odds. The ones who remind her the most of herself. She knows exactly who she would take if she were given only a tiny vanguard of twelve, and she tries not to overlay their faces with those of the last stubborn few who marched with her to Forodwaith... before they finally betrayed her.

No. No more thoughts of the past, now she must move forward. She will be free of it, the way she never believed she could be.

“Once more from the start, let’s see that again!” she shouts out over the training field. “And then we’ll move on to reviewing battle formations! Let’s go!”

She steps back to watch the groups resume their practice, their stances and swings closely monitored by the three experienced soldiers who usually assist her in the mornings. Then Galadriel climbs the shallow steps at one side of the training ground to get a higher vantage point on the field from the adjoining terrace.

And as she ascends the steps, her eyes still fixed on the field, she's startled to discover that there’s someone standing up there already, leaning casually against the rail.

It’s not unusual for spectators to gather around the grounds here to watch the proceedings. But they’re usually far more interested in the excitement of one-to-one duels than in the repetition of practice forms or battle formations. There is seldom any audience for this morning’s group.

This particular spectator, however, is not here to watch the training. He’s looking directly at her, and as she gets closer, Sauron suddenly drops the veil that had been obscuring his proximity from her mind. At once the familiar hum of his presence surrounds and envelops her, and her breath catches.

He’s dressed in rich crimson and gold today, his beautiful elven tunic covered by a new fancy smithing apron like Celebrimbor’s, with his guild crest shining in the middle of his chest. His pale hair is tied back, caught up in a little gold cord except for a few silvery wisps that have escaped to frame his face. He is gorgeous, and he smiles at her like he knows it very well.

“Good morning, Commander,” he purrs, straightening up to his full height.

“What are you doing here? I... thought you were busy setting things back up in the old workshop before the dwarves arrive.” She composes herself quickly, although it seems futile to hide her reaction from her face when he can almost certainly sense her thoughts. “Aren’t you meant to be helping Celebrimbor this morning?”

“Yes, of course. We are simply taking a short break. Are you not glad to see me?” He steps closer and takes hold of Galadriel’s hand, bringing her palm up to his face, and his mouth twitches into that familiar little smirk. “I was feeling a little bit… weak, so Lord Celebrimbor thought perhaps I should go spend a few minutes with the ring. What do you think?”

Galadriel starts to say something, but the words don't make it to her lips. Instead, she can’t help but smile in return. She lets her hand rest there where he placed it, her palm against his face, the ring of power casting a warm glow over his cheek. And he looks down at her adoringly, those green eyes aglow with with unspoken memories of last night. She knows he must be able to feel her pulse accelerating. Light, how she wants to gather him close to her and kiss him like she did this morning...

It was difficult enough to make herself leave his bed at daybreak while he plied her with his sweet, sleepy embrace, his warm hands sliding over her as he pulled her closer and wrapped himself around her. She had not anticipated just how much the memory of waking up naked with him would occupy her mind. Or how much she would wish that duty did not call her away so soon, when all she wanted was to roll over on top of him and—

“I said, what does the illustrious Commander think?” Sauron prompts her out of her daydream, laughter dancing in his voice. “Does she have a few moments to restore her favourite scholar and smith?”

No doubt he has perceived exactly what is in her mind; she is making no real effort to hide any of her thoughts from him.

“She thinks,” Galadriel says carefully, “that he can stand here for five minutes to restore himself... and then he will kindly take his leave. The Commander has much to do this morning.”

“Oh, but he does so love watching her command her soldiers,” Sauron murmurs, leaning down to her. “It reminds him of the way she looks on the battlefield… and... how she looks in his bed… mmm...”

Galadriel slowly tilts her head up, half-tempted by his impetuous teasing. But when he slips his arm around her and actually pulls her up against him, she tenses and glances down to the training ground.

“Stop. No,” she hisses. “You can’t do this here.”

“Oh?” He tightens his hold on the back of her military tunic, twisting the fabric into his hand as he tugs her closer still. “And why not?”

Galadriel has no doubt he’d release her if she tried to wrench herself free, but the sudden motion might attract more attention than just staying still. She glances back toward the training ground again, and she does not try to escape his grip.

“Let me go,” she demands under her breath.

“I can feel how badly you’re aching to kiss me, Galadriel. So go on. Do it,” he says. “What is it that you’re so afraid of? Have you really not grown beyond your fear of their judgement?”

“It is... inappropriate. This is unbecoming behaviour for a military commander.”

“Perhaps. If one cares for the insignificant opinions of elves.”

“I am an elf,” she bites out. “Do not forget it.”

“You are my future queen. You wield my power, and one day you will wear my crown.” He lowers his voice as he leans even closer. “The commander of my armies bows to the judgement of no one, do you understand? She does exactly as she wants, and others do as she says.”

“Then you will do as she says,” Galadriel snaps. “Let...me…go.”

And Sauron does release her, then, unwinding his fingers from the fabric of her tunic and stepping back swiftly. He gives her a deferential nod as he moves away from her that nonetheless feels like a mockery. “As you wish. Commander.”

“Do not disrespect me,” she says. “And do not think you can overstep however you please just because of what we have shared.”

“It is not I who disrespects you, Galadriel,” he says, his head still lowered. “And it truly hurts me that you would say so. Why is it that you still allow the elven realms to confine you this way? Why do you still bend to those who would have banished you to Valinor, who stripped you of your rightful command, who have kept you from your heart’s desires? Do you still want their approval more than you want to step into your own authority?” He looks at her again, his burning gaze meeting hers. “Every day you allow them to make you small. To diminish you. To fold you into a box in which you do not fit, Galadriel. After all that has happened, you still obey what they would demand from you, even in a matter so meaningless as this—”

“Silence!” she snaps. “How I do or do not choose to adhere to the elven customs is not your concern. I think I have trampled over them quite enough, thank you.” She looks back down to the training ground, at the three more senior soldiers walking among the trainees, correcting a stance here and there, shouting out praise and advice. No one is looking up at the terrace.

“But it is my concern, can’t you see?” Sauron says, softening his voice. “Galadriel… it is you who broke me out of Morgoth’s bond, the weight of which chained me for millennia. You freed me. And what have I done for you? Even at this very moment I can feel my power flowing through you… but have I really not given you enough to break even the feeble chains of the elves?”

His eyes glitter with emotion, with that tearful shine that always brings her guard down, and her heart beats faster. If only he would stop talking—

“I want to raise you to glory, Galadriel, to all the heights that you deserve!” he continues. “I want to deliver everything you have ever dreamed of into your grasp, to see you claim what your heart has desired. You could seize all of Arda at my side! And yet you still lack the courage to claim a kiss, for fear of the imagined disapproval of a few pathetic city guards—”

In a flash, Galadriel draws her sword from her belt and whips it up to his throat. So much for not attracting attention if anyone happens to be looking. But she can no longer contain herself, and fury has always been the weak point in her self-control. She is of the Noldor; defiance and recklessness run hot in her blood.

“I do not lack the courage to do anything,” she growls, backing him against the wrought-iron rail of the terrace. She presses the point of the sword to his chin. “You will dare no such insolence again. Do you understand?”

“Mmm-hm.” His lower lip is trembling as he nods, and she can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s barely holding back his desire for her. The whirlpool of emotions that he lets spill into her mind just then strongly suggests it could be either. Or both.

Galadriel stares him down for a few more seconds before she withdraws her sword and swiftly sheaths it at her hip again.

And then she grabs the front of that fancy apron and tugs him down to her, her mouth colliding fiercely with his.

It is no chaste greeting nor friendly affection between colleagues. No bystander at any distance could possibly mistake this for anything but what it is… or at least, what it seems to be. A hot-headed commander with too little regard for the rules, and a foreign scholar with too little awareness of them. Two elves locked in a passionate embrace, shamelessly entwined like they’re standing in their bedchamber and not here in plain view of the training ground.

He kisses her like he’s been waiting for ages, like he’s starved for her touch. Like it wasn’t just a couple of hours ago that she slipped out the door of his room in the smiths’ wing, wearing one of his cloaks over last night’s dress.

You are so unbelievably gorgeous when you’re angry, do you know that? His laughing voice hums into her mind as his mouth moves hungrily over hers. There is no malice in it; he is right back to his irreverent teasing. Mmm. Forgive me, Galadriel, but I do enjoy what ensues every time you pull a blade on me. Please... never stop.

When they pull apart, Sauron is beaming with triumph. His eyes dart away to the side, and Galadriel can’t miss his slight flicker of disappointment when he glances at the training field and sees that absolutely no one was paying attention; not a single soldier was looking over at them. But as he steps away from her, he’s unmistakably standing even taller than usual, his shoulders back, holding himself with all the haughty pride of an elven-king. The guild crest of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain glitters on his chest.

“Thank you. I’m feeling much better now,” he says with a self-satisfied smile. “It seems Celebrimbor was right. Just a few minutes in the proximity of the ring was all I needed. Well… I shall see you later, then... you have work to get back to. As do I.”

He casts one more glance at the field, bowing his head to her briefly with a whispered “my queen.” And then he skips back down the steps and he strides away along the edge of the training ground, back in the direction of Celebrimbor’s old workshop.

She watches him go, still catching her breath as she grips the rail to steady herself.

This is going to be a problem. He is going to be a problem – not as if she has not known it from the start. But it has become dangerously clear now that she no longer thinks of giving him up. She does not think of slaying him, nor of relinquishing his power, nor of banishing him to the depths of the Void. And she no longer corrects him when he addresses her as his future queen.

No, she imagines it without meaning to, that impossible future he wants. Him kissing her like that at the head of a terrifying army, strengthening their connection before they get on their horses and ride together into battle. Him kissing her like that afterwards, the blood of their enemies still hot on their blades when he sweeps her into his arms in victory.

She remembers the way they fell into one another in the forest after they vanquished Morgoth’s creature swarm, their desire kindled to an unstoppable blaze by the battle-fever. And she remembers, too, how he held her yesterday against the door in his room: how softly he caressed her, how he slid to his knees in awed, silent worship. And she wants that again, and again and again. All of it. She wants to be cradled by him in reverent tenderness and she wants to clash with him in a fury of teeth and claws. She wants his understanding, and that uncanny harmony between them, and his belief that she could be more. She wants the impertinent smith and the clever scholar and the ruthless Dark Lord.

She wants him... and now she is sure that she will never be free of this.

She had no choice but to turn her desire for him – and his for her – into a strength rather than a weakness. And she has done that most admirably, has she not? It is still in the interests of the elves, and of Middle Earth, to keep him on her side. To wield Sauron as the weapon and the shield she needs against Morgoth’s return. What better way to ensure that Sauron will save Middle Earth than by having him deliver it all into her hands?

Not that she would want that... to seize it all, to rule beside him. No. It is completely impossible. Unfathomable, and terrible... no matter how right the thought of it sometimes feels. It will never happen.

Galadriel is so lost in the tumult of her thoughts that she barely registers the passing hours, the trainees filing away, their spots and their swords taken up by the next group and the one after that. She watches them, still carefully placing them in the imagined ranks of her shining company, adding more and more names to her list. Perhaps she will be granted three hundred soldiers, or five hundred. Perhaps she will be granted every single soldier Eregion has, every sword and bow and spear from here to the outer settlements. The Númenoreans in Pelargir, too, and the Southlanders... those mortal men will surely follow her under the orders of the Southlander king. It will be her who leads them all, when she rides into battle with Halbrand at her side.

Even the remnants of Morgoth’s horde of beasts might yet be leashed to defend her. With the right command, all would bend to the combined power of Sauron and his queen. It would be as if the horrors of Nan Dungortheb had been turned to protect Doriath. How unassailable that kingdom would have been, surrounded by a shroud of darkness and a veil of light—

It is mid-afternoon by the time Galadriel stops for water between training sessions and suddenly notices the time.

And realizes that Elrond and his party have still not returned from Gelebren.

Chapter Text

Galadriel leaves her deputies in charge of the next training and heads to the wall in search of news. But it is precisely as she expected; there is little to be discovered when she speaks to the guards stationed at the gates.

Elrond’s small delegation hasn’t returned yet. Six patrols were sent out this morning after the messenger to Lindon returned, all of them scouting the environs outside the city again for any signs of orcs or dark creatures. Most of the patrols have returned already without any unusual reports; the two furthest-ranging parties are still out.

These tidings are not exactly concerning; if anything she should feel reassured. But Elrond’s absence still worries her. She thinks he would have left Gelebren not long after daybreak, and he should have been back by now. Perhaps he wasn’t able to convene the council members until this morning, or maybe some other matter arose that delayed his departure from the city. Galadriel runs through a dozen benign scenarios in her mind, a dozen reasons with no darkness at their root, a dozen situations that would find the delegation safely returned before long.

But there are too many other possibilities. As always, there are far too many unknowns for her liking. And the machinations of Morgoth’s servants are still too unclear for comfort.

As much as it it frustrates her, she feels drawn to seek Sauron’s counsel before evening falls – although she has barely recovered her bearings after seeing him unexpectedly at the training field, and her blood heats with both annoyance and desire when she allows herself to think of him. Somehow, it has become startlingly easy to imagine herself at his side. So easy to let herself want what he has already given her, and to crave all the power he has yet to claim. But it is inconceivable that she should ever become Sauron’s queen. She continues to push that thought away even as it refuses to leave her mind.

She needs to rein him in, that much is plain to see. Sauron must not become too confident in his influence over her, nor too certain that he can tempt her with that future she should not want. But at the same time, she does need him to believe that there is a possibility she will join him if he bends enough to her will. She needs to retain his loyalty, or all the potential they hold together will go to waste.

Whatever happens, they both need to focus on the crisis at hand. She must make that clear to him. There is more than enough to deal with right now; she does not need to fill her mind with guesswork about what has yet to come to pass. Nor should they allow themselves to become too distracted by their… other forms of connection. Not while there is important business to attend to.

Galadriel makes her way to Celebrimbor’s old workshop, where Celebrimbor and Annatar have been busy making preparations since this morning. Disa and a few dwarven craftsfolk are expected sometime soon to discuss the initial phase of that door project, a fact that had almost entirely slipped Galadriel’s mind in the midst of all the other chaos that has befallen Ost-in-Edhil. There had, of course, been talk of calling it all off yesterday in the wake of the accident at the forge; surely it would be awkward to start a new collaboration with the dwarves just now, especially one involving mithril. Perhaps the repairs to the forge should be completed before any groundbreaking new work is considered, some of the smiths had said.

But over the course of the guild dinner last night, Annatar had firmly convinced Celebrimbor that the only way through this setback is to carry on, to place their attention on their next triumph and to completely outshine this small failure with more glory. What better way to sweep aside the calamity and prove that this is but a passing shadow? To show that the accident will do nothing to tarnish the glowing future of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain? Of course they must continue as planned, and announce the collaboration on the new gate for Khazad-Dûm. Celebrimbor and Disa can still work together on the planning of the project – even if work on the enchanted mithril alloy must be temporarily suspended. Surely the pretty door will put the destroyed forge out of everyone’s minds, just as Sauron had once planned to use it to distract from their continued work on the rings.

Galadriel fully expects to find Annatar still at the workshop when she arrives. But when she looks in at the old forge, he isn’t there. Celebrimbor and a couple of his assistants are having a meeting, sitting around a table with the schematics of Disa’s door spread out between them. But their beautiful new guild member is nowhere to be seen.

Annatar has gone to his office in the library, Celebrimbor tells her, to pack up some research materials that he intends to take back to the Southlands with him. Of course he has been talking as if their upcoming excursion to the Southlands is a done deal – and she supposes that it probably is. For Galadriel does intend to ride to Pelargir with Sauron to discover the truth of all this, whether Elrond grants her a company or not, whether Gelebren’s council voted in their favour or not. She does not intend to seek any further permission for her own departure, the High King’s approval be damned.

Galadriel bids the smiths a good afternoon and rushes over to Annatar’s office. As she hurries up the staircase in the library, she can’t help but feel like ages have passed since she last accosted Sauron here. It is difficult to believe that it has only been a couple of days since he pressed that dagger into her hand and asked her to trust him. Since he promised that he would no longer obscure any truths from her. It is time now, perhaps, to put that promise to the test.

She does not knock, just flings the unlocked door open and lets herself in, slamming it behind her. Sauron is sitting at the desk and writing intently on a parchment, but he raises his head and smiles placidly when she arrives, completely unperturbed. He obviously sensed her coming; no doubt he got up and unlocked the door for her. She grits her teeth. At least he had the decency not to feign surprise.

“Ah! Repaying me for my unexpected visit earlier?” he says, setting down his quill. There’s that sarcastic little lilt to his voice that somehow sounds even more pronounced when he does it in Quenya. “You know, you could simply have reached out with your mind to discover where I was. It should be so easy for you now, Galadriel. You really don’t need to run all over the city looking for me.” He arches an eyebrow as he goes to stand up. “Although, I suppose you’ve always enjoyed the pleasure of hunting me down—”

“No more games today, please,” she says, sharply cutting him off before he starts charming his way through her common sense again. “Sit down. Just... stay where you are.”

She does not step any closer to his desk, and Sauron says nothing in response. He just sits obediently back down in his chair, and they stare at each other from across the small room. It’s not as if he needs words to make his retort; no, he just leans back in that self-assured way he does, hands on the armrests of his chair, his knees apart, looking more enticing than he has any right to. Waiting calmly for her to say more.

“Elrond hasn’t returned yet from Gelebren,” she bites out. “Do you know where he is?”

“You think I have spies in every corner of this realm?” Sauron laughs. “That I know the comings and goings of every single elf? I have no idea where Elrond is.”

“Enough mockery,” she says. “This is important to you, too. If you don’t know, then find out. I need eyes and ears on the road between here and Gelebren. Surely there are at least a couple of wolves in the forest between here and there. Command them to seek out our elven party, and tell me what they see.”

He clears his throat. “Galadriel. It’s not that simple to—”

“You had no trouble setting your wolves upon Elrond’s messenger as he rode for Lindon,” she interrupts, folding her arms across her chest. “So do the same now. Send your beasts to find Elrond and his stewards. Search the road from here to Gelebren. I need to know he is safe.”

“Right. As I was just about to explain to you... it is not so simple.” Sauron shakes his head, not hiding his exasperation. “The wolves I sent after that messenger are the same ones that have been guarding me since that night they fought for us in the forest. I bound them to me that night, and they have served me well; I can see through their eyes now almost as easily as I open my own. Those few I can bend directly to my command, and I can instruct them to a specific purpose. But their number is small, and most of them have remained here, near the city.”

“So bind more of them! There are more dark wolves out there somewhere, are there not? All the descendants of your old cursed packs?”

“Yes, of course. There are many more in Middle Earth that carry some of the blood of my original werewolves.” He sighs. “But the ones I have not harnessed yet are much more difficult to reach at a distance. The further they are, the more effort it takes.”

“We will have need of more than a few wolves soon enough,” Galadriel says. “We need more spies, and more defenders if we are to face Morgoth’s allies. We need all of them, especially those that roam near the Southlands, so we can see what is ahead.” She studies him, watching his reaction. “You must try to leash more wolves. Do it.”

“What… you mean right now?” His eyes widen a little in surprise before he recovers his arrogant smirk. “Am I finally allowed to expend more power, then? Is it that you trust that I have recovered now? Or do you simply care less if I exhaust myself than you did last night, when you needed me to conserve all my strength to pleasure you in the bedchamber?”

“I said I did not want you to expend your power unnecessarily,” she says, ignoring his bait. “The wolves are a matter of military importance. And perhaps it will not be so difficult as you think to harness more of them. You did say you have become more powerful since we bound ourselves more tightly, did you not? That your abilities are amplified when we are together? So... let us test it. Show me.”

“Fine... we can try.” Sauron gives her that slow, calculating smile as and his gaze drops to her hand. “You know, I think my reach should be amplified even further if I use your ring of power—”

“You will do no such thing. This ring is not leaving my hand,” Galadriel says.

“Of course it isn’t. And if I have my way... it never will.” He gestures her closer with a little crook of his finger. Come here, my queen. You bear the ring... but we can use it together. I will do exactly as you command. And you... you will help me.

Galadriel steps cautiously toward the desk, closing the small distance between them. There’s something strange about the words he used when he spoke into her mind just then, she realizes. He used the Black Speech, but she understood everything he said with perfect clarity. The back of her neck prickles.

Then Sauron stands up from his chair again. And as he rises, he allows some of the power that he usually holds back to spill forth, setting it free the way he seldom does while he wears this disguise. The way that leaves no doubt that the creature who wears Annatar’s elven skin is something very different from an elf. At this moment, his very presence would feel like a terrifying threat... to anyone but her.

This is no elf before her; this is one of the Ainur, and Galadriel would do well to remember it. But he is bound to her, willing to make all of this power hers. Some of it already runs through her veins, and she needs more of it.

A shiver runs down her spine as she reaches across the desk and places her ring-bearing hand on Sauron’s outstretched palm. She feels suddenly dizzy and unsteady when she touches him, as if the floor is no longer quite as solid as it should be.

He takes a firm hold on Galadriel’s wrist and tugs her sharply toward him, almost like he’s about to pull them into an illusion. She collides with the front of his wide desk, and he does not release her; he only pulls harder, almost lifting her off the ground until she braces her knees on the desk and climbs up onto it. And he drags her closer still, pushing his parchment and ink aside with his other hand to make room, until she’s kneeling directly in front of him on the polished wooden surface.

Galadriel’s heart is pounding wildly against her ribs, but she is not afraid. Has she not left herself at his mercy in every way possible already? Has she not laid herself bare before him, body and mind? Has she not trusted him with her life? They are tethered together, and whatever dangerous darkness lies within him, she has already let him bind her to his very being. There is no choice but to trust him again now.

Now, she must wield his power, and allow him to touch hers once more. She must prove to herself that this alliance between them will truly remain an advantage.

Sauron’s gaze remains fixed intensely on her, and they remain unmoving like that for a few breathless moments. He still has Halbrand’s gold-flecked green eyes in Annatar’s face, but she sees his irises flash briefly with bright flame when he finally raises her ring to his lips. He lowers his head, and ever so softly kisses over the top of Galadriel’s hand, skimming each of her knuckles with feather-light gentleness, even as his grip on her wrist remains relentlessly strong.

And then, he takes her finger and extends it, and he sucks it slowly into his mouth, all the way down to the ring.

A soft groan catches in Galadriel’s throat as he circles his tongue over the adamant jewel, never taking his eyes off her as he does it, an indecent delight dancing across his face. She feels the ring growing hot against her hand, the hum of its power surging to life like a flame that’s been fed. And she feels that familiar hunger spark inside her, inextricably entangled with her need for him. Not just that heat that coils low in her belly and pulses between her legs, but a different kind of desire: the same intoxicating pull she felt toward him when she saw him wield the shadow blade in the Dark Lord’s spectral armor.

Unfettered power. Unyielding control. Invincibility.

Then Sauron slowly lets her finger slide back out of his mouth, and the ring is glowing brightly. At last he eases his hold on her and takes both of her hands loosely in his, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. She feels him exhale as he unfolds and stretches the tendrils of his power, and that dark, smoky energy unspools from him and fills every space around her and inside her.

She’s aware that he’s still cautiously containing the edges of it, warding his office against the perception of others, careful not to allow any trace of what’s happening to slip free of this room. But even in this restrained form, his power once again feels noticeably stronger than before, and the immensity of it almost steals the breath from her lungs.

The others have barely begun exploring the capabilities of the elven rings, he says. But you, Galadriel… you are different. You alone have seen some of the true power your ring holds, and you did not fear it. I have watched you use it to amplify your abilities, to intensify your own strength… even to save my life. And now we will use it together. We will draw on the ring, and on each other at the same time. With light, with darkness, we will create an endless circle. Resonance. Do you understand?

She nods slowly. Yes.

Now, come… let me in, my queen. Give me everything, as I have done for you.

There is no threat in it, no coercion in his request – no, when he opens his eyes and meets her gaze again, the look on his face is one of supplication. He wants her to give herself to him fully, to allow him to drink down some of her light, to let it burn him even as it strengthens him. For the first time, they will wield their power together entirely by design, with purpose and intention, to see what they can accomplish.

Galadriel lays the well of light inside her open to him now, with the same certainty as she spread her legs for him last night. And he pushes his power into her just as eagerly, their minds slipping together as they always do with instinctive ease. They are completely entwined, her perception inseparable from his.

The wolves, she tells him. Show me the wolves now.

Sauron draws her attention to the correct sensation with a little tug on the tether between them, just as he would if he gently moved her hand in the real world. And in his mind, he shows her how he communicates with his wolves.

She has sensed Sauron’s awareness of the wolves before, on that night when they fought together in the forest. But now, she witnesses how he seeks them out. When he first reaches for them, he perceives them as tiny sparks floating in a greyish fog, each one unique and alive. There are about two dozen of them that burn sharp and bright in his mind, and countless others in the background, less distinct. Like stars scattered across the sky.

Sauron picks out one of the nearest sparks and pulls Galadriel toward it – or perhaps he pulls it toward her – and when he has it secured in his mind’s grasp, he whispers to her: Open your eyes. Not here... but there.

And she does.

She knows she is still in the office in the library; she remains aware of the shallow breath in her chest, of Sauron’s hands holding hers, of her galloping heartbeat slowly steadying to sync with his. But she is also somewhere in a forest, her head tipped down, drinking water from a stream. She is low to the ground, as if she’s crouched down, and she watches the dappled sunlight that sparkles on the surface of the water. She hears the stream rushing softly over the rocks, and a bird is screeching somewhere in the canopy above her—

Galadriel looks up, following the sound... and the sudden movement startles her back into her own body. When she blinks, she’s once again staring at Annatar’s face in front of her. His eyes are closed, his head leaning slightly to the side like it always does when he reaches for the wolves.

I saw it, she says. For a moment, I saw what you saw. What that wolf saw.

Good, Sauron murmurs to her. Good, good. That one is very near us – that’s a stream not far outside the city wall, just here. Now... let us reach further. Find more.

She closes her eyes again, returns to that grey fog. She thinks of the roads running away from Ost-in-Edhil, turns herself in what she thinks is the direction of Gelebren. The same road that leads to Khazad-Dûm, before the two paths diverge. Placing her attention on that crossroads, she focuses on a spark that’s moving quickly. A wolf that’s running.

When she opens her eyes again, she’s in motion, darting through another forest swiftly but stealthily, hidden in the underbrush. As if she is tracking something. Her heart races as she runs on silent, sure feet.

I think this one is following something, she tells Sauron. What does it track? Could it be Elrond’s party, maybe?

Ask the wolf, Sauron says. Ask the wolf to show you.

Galadriel is not entirely sure how, but somehow she understands what she needs to do. She presses her question into the connection. Not the words exactly, but the idea.

Show me what you follow, she instructs the wolf.

And the beast responds, as surely as it would to its master. As if Galadriel and Sauron’s commands are one and the same. The answer comes through first as impressions and shapes, then resolves into a clearer picture. It is indeed a travelling party that the wolf is following, a small group moving through the forest on foot.

Not Elrond; no, he and his stewards should be on horses. And these shapes are… shorter than elves.

Dwarves, about a dozen of them, making their way steadily through a clearing! Galadriel recognizes Durin and Disa among them, glimpsing their faces briefly before the wolf ducks its head back behind the foliage again, continuing to observe them from a distance.

She feels Sauron’s little thrill of excitement, and his whispered Oh!

The dwarves! On their way from Khazad-Dûm! Galadriel marvels. Disa is coming… and it seems Durin is with her too. They must be very close already.

Ah, isn’t that wonderful, says Sauron. It will be good to see our friends soon.

She pauses, her blood chilling with sudden concern. The wolves… they won’t... harm the dwarves, will they?

Certainly not. Not the ones that are bound to me, in any case, Sauron says. They will harm no one unless they are attacked first, except if I have given the order. They are sentries only. Until I summon them to war.

The wolves we have reached so far are bound to you already, Galadriel says. But how do we harness more of them? Those further away? She delves back into that grey fog again, looking beyond the brightest sparks to the fainter ones, to the scattered starfield of more distant beasts. We must have them all. Seize them, she demands. Leash them now.

Patience, Galadriel, he murmurs. I could seize them suddenly, of course, if I needed to – one by one, as I had to do on the night of the banquet. But it will probably be easier if we reach out for them slowly, and bring them in together. Like a gathering. We will pull their awareness toward us... and then, when we have their attention… I will try to harness them all at once.

Galadriel feels his mind pull more tightly around hers. He’s drawing power from the ring again, as he draws light and strength from her. And then, almost at the same moment, his dark power floods back into her, overwhelmingly strong. Her whole body trembles with it, but she grips his hands and presses onward, helping him seek out those distant wolves.

Reach out and feel them, he says. Bring them to us gently. As if you are running your palm over scattered beads on a tabletop, do you understand? We will sweep their attention toward us. Call them. Come… let us try together.

She concentrates carefully, reaching out through the fog for those scattered little sparks. Gathering them, as Sauron instructed. The palm of your hand over scattered beads. In her mind, her power and Sauron’s form a circle, collecting and containing all the tiny lights. It takes a very long time, but they remain focused and perfectly still, their hands joined in the real world, their powers entwined as one. Gathering, gathering...

And then, suddenly, Galadriel senses them. The wolves, so many of them, all lifting their heads in unison. Their ears twitching, noses quivering, turning to seek the source of the call. She feels Sauron speaking to them, the dark press of his will entering their minds, a compulsion and a comfort.

Your master has returned. You are mine. Remember me. Remember what you are. Do as I command. Look at me.

And though the werewolves he raised at Tol-in-Gaurhoth are long gone from this world, the memory of their master’s magic still sings in the blood of their descendants. They all turn toward Sauron and obey him, spellbound by his soundless voice, just as the wolves of old once were.

They answer him, not in words but in thoughts: Yes. We remember. We are yours. We are summoned… we will follow your command.

Galadriel remains motionless, her hands still linked with Sauron’s, long after he has completed the delicate summons. She can feel him communing with the new wolves that have been leashed, strengthening the connection, soothing them softly as if he strokes them with his mind.

Galadriel’s perception remains lightly entangled with his, but at the same time, she can now allow her conscious thoughts to wander. She thinks of the Southlands, then – of the green hills, the villages as they were before darkness and destruction poisoned them. She remembers that clearing where she sat so close to Halbrand, where she longed so terribly to kiss him while he spoke of fighting at her side.

She thinks of what wreckage and ruin lies there now, that blackened land in the shadow of Orodruin, where she ventured to meet with Adar. And if one could look far enough to the east… one could almost imagine the dreadful feeling of an approaching darkness that is greater still... the possibility of the threat that spreads from a deep fortress somewhere in Rhûn...

Galadriel opens her eyes.

And when she realizes what she’s just done, a chill runs through her.

It is not her own perspective, but a wolf’s that fills her vision. A new vantage point has opened to her from among the newly leashed beasts, somewhere in the expanse between the Southlands and Rhûn. She feels Sauron freeze, too, the same chill taking hold of him, his hands tightening over hers. She feels the horror that chokes him when he sees what this wolf beholds, here on this hillside that is not nearly far enough away.

An encampment of orcs on the march, covering one whole side of a jagged hill. It is a much, much larger army than had ever followed Adar, larger than any enemy company Galadriel has seen since the darkest days of the war.

Burning torches. Sharp spears and serrated swords and sheaves of poisoned arrows. The noise of low, growling chants. There are other beasts here, too – trolls, and wargs, and a glimpse of some fanged thing she cannot identify. An ominous flap of wings from above.

It is still long before sunset, but it is far darker here than it should be, for a thin black mist hovers directly overhead. An enchantment conjured by magic to blot out the sun above, allowing the orcs to move more easily in daylight. Maiar magic.

And in the midst of that terrifying horde, a large banner is snapping ominously in the wind: red lines curving over a field of black. The lidless eye.

Lungorthin’s eastern army is moving to join the forces of Mordor.

And they march under Sauron’s banner.

Chapter Text

Their view of the orc army gradually intensifies – as if Sauron is drawing it all into sharp focus, every detail burning vividly into their collective senses. It feels like Galadriel is standing right there, looking out at this growling, seething horde, and she fights the urge to reach for the sword she doesn’t have at her belt. She stays still, reminding herself that in reality she is in Annatar’s office, miles and miles away from this scene. But her heart hammers wildly in her chest nonetheless, her limbs tense with readiness for battle. The wolf whose eyes they look through slowly turns its head, and Galadriel sees again just how far that monstrous host stretches, how many orcs and creatures cover that cursed hillside.

And then, Sauron pulls his hands abruptly away from hers in the library office, and he slams their connection shut.

Galadriel opens her eyes with a startled gasp, still kneeling on Sauron’s desk. Sauron flings himself back, away from her, and he crashes into the chair, seizing the armrests and putting his head down as he lands on it. He’s curling himself up toward his knees, an anguished sound wrenching from his throat.

For a brief moment, ice spikes into Galadriel’s heart. She’s not sure what’s happening, and she fears for him. She remembers all too well how he succumbed to the echo of Morgoth’s influence when he held the shadow blade, how Lungorthin attacked his mind time after time, how that tower crumbled as he defended himself. He should be safe now, shouldn’t he? Because that dark bond is broken?

His shoulders are heaving, as if he’s crying, as if something is hurting him terribly. But when Sauron raises his head again and his eyes meet hers, she sees that he isn’t in pain or in distress. No – he’s shaking with rage. She can’t sense his thoughts at all anymore, not through the barrier he’s thrown up between them, but she can feel the power that’s pouring forth from him, waves and waves of roiling fury. An unholy tempest that he’s barely holding back.

The elven mask he wears is slipping, revealing glimpses of the terrifying, furious creature beneath Annatar’s pretty face. He bends the metal arms of the chair down with his supernatural strength, nearly snapping them clean off. Galadriel can feel the wards he laid around this room stretching, bowing dangerously under the onslaught of his building power. The furniture and lamps and bookcases are all rattling, and even the huge, heavy desk trembles under her knees.

There’s something between shock and horror on Sauron’s face, and she sees the exact moment when the realization hits him: he’s losing control of his power. In the wake of the outburst of anger he felt, it’s unfolding too fast for him to contain it, and those wards are only a hair’s breadth from breaking.

Galadriel scrambles instantly down over to his side of the desk, and she grabs hold of his wrists where his hands are still locked onto the armrests. Some instinct takes over, some flash of inspiration – and she shoves an image into Sauron’s mind as she collides with him. She sends him a fierce thought of escape.

Sauron’s eyes roll back; he’s sliding out of the chair, and Galadriel goes down with him, both of them falling to the floor. The world seems to tilt and turn over, far too slowly, as if time itself is stretched out – and then, at last, Sauron does what she implored him to. He pulls them into an illusion.

When Galadriel blinks again, Sauron is slumped on his back and she’s lying half on top of him, exactly like they were in the office – except now, they’re on their raft. Floating in the middle of the Sundering Sea, miles from anything at all.

He looks like Halbrand, the way he always does in this place – clad in his familiar tattered clothes, with his wet hair plastered all over his forehead – but his now wide-open serpentine eyes are still glowing with searing Maiar power. Power that continues to surge from him with frightening strength, burning to be released. He opens his eyes even wider and screams to the sky, unleashing an ear-splitting roar as he brings his fists down against the raft, striking the boards at his sides.

The force of his power tears large pieces off the raft, sending the splintering wood hurtling away into the water. And above them, the sky explodes with sudden lightning, just as it did when he lost his temper and shoved Galadriel into the water on that fateful day by the Glanduin.

But Galadriel doesn’t draw back from him. She throws her body over his and holds him down, pressing his shoulders against the shattering timbers, laying her head against his chest. She lies over him protectively, holding him like that, bracing him until he finally stops screaming. His power subsides, and his trembling body goes still again.

And then, his gasping breaths slowly quiet, and the sky above the raft becomes clear again. The illusory sea is calm.

Sauron’s arms close around Galadriel and he clutches her tightly, one hand at her back and one at the nape of her neck, buried in her hair.

“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m not... exactly sure... what you did just there, but… thank you.”

“You needed not to unleash all that power in the library, so I… I drew us here instead,” Galadriel chokes out. “I’m not entirely certain how I did it either, but I was thinking... we have to get out of here. And I was picturing a wide open space with nothing around us, and then the image of the raft and the sea flashed into my mind. I threw it into your mind. And then we… fell. You pulled us into the illusion.”

“Damn.” He lets his head drop back hard against the boards with a thump. “Sorry about that. I... really didn’t expect that to happen,” he says with a ragged sigh. “That caught me by surprise. Without that terrible doubt that Morgoth’s bond imposed on me, and with you amplifying my power… it seems I have suddenly become a lot stronger. It’s been a long time, and I’m… I’m not used to trying to constrain that much of it. Not when I feel like I should be throwing it across a battlefield and destroying everything. Not when all I want is to unleash it.”

“You were angered by what we saw,” she says. “And you lost control. Understandably.”

“Yes.” He grits his teeth, and she can feel his hand tensing at her back, his fingers twisting into the fabric of her wet shift. She, too, is back in her raft clothing. “This is so much worse than we thought, Galadriel. The orc army of Rhûndael marches on the Southlands already! And Fankil leads them toward us, under my sigil. They march as Sauron’s army, just as I suspected they would.”

Fankil. That name is vaguely familiar to her. Another of Morgoth’s dark Maiar, she recalls. He was a lesser lieutenant than Sauron was, also thought to have vanished when the Dark Lord was defeated. “Fankil lives, too, then?” she whispers. “And he stayed loyal to Morgoth...not to you?”

“Certainly not to me.” Sauron laughs wryly. “Fankil served Morgoth just as long as I did, and we were rivals of a sort, he and I. He always had ambitions to command at Angband, but he was assigned to one of our lesser strongholds instead, because Morgoth favoured me. I’m sure Fankil was delighted when I parted ways with the others... because now he could finally command the entire army.” Sauron turns his head and spits disdainfully over the side of the raft. “Did you see that fanged creature near the front of the host – like a very tall orc with a dragon’s face? That’s him. Fankil has long preferred that shape.”

“So then... Fankil and Lungorthin remain allies,” Galadriel says. “They must have been together all this time, at Rhûndael.”

“Yes.” Sauron nods. “There are four of the Dark Lord’s inner circle who remained in Middle Earth, besides myself. Four who survived the War of Wrath. They all banded together, all except for me. Whatever animosity there is between them, they will set it aside until they’ve assured Morgoth’s return... and then they’ll start tearing each other apart for scraps again, I’m sure. But they all went east together after the war to search for Ungoliant’s last lair, like I told you. Lungorthin and Fankil went first, and then two others followed: Langon is with them, who you might know as Morgoth’s old herald, and Thuringwethil, who used to serve as my second-in-command—”

Galadriel sighs deeply, pressing a hand to her temple.

“What is it?” Sauron asks. The hard glint of fury in his eyes has softened to concern. “What? Galadriel?”

“Nothing. It’s just that… I spent so many years hunting for you... and all the while, I imagined that if I ever found you, I’d find all of the Dark Lord’s other servants who remained. I thought any ally of Morgoth’s who yet lived would have rallied to your banner… but I was so wrong. I had no idea there was such discord among you! I suppose the conflict among your own kind should have been obvious, and only to be expected, given—”

“Given what? Our dark and evil natures? So prone to conflict and chaos?” Sauron chuckles softly. “That’s certainly an interesting observation, coming from one of the Noldor.” He moves his hand from her neck to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and there is such gentleness in it that she cannot take offense at his words. It’s not as if he doesn’t have a point.

It’s not as if she hasn’t acknowledged, over and over again, how similar she is to him… even if it pains her.

He still has his arm around her, his other hand still caught up in the back of her shift, and she does not move further away from him even when he scrambles to sit up. She closes her eyes and rests against him instead, concentrating on the soothing movement of the water below them. Remembering how this went the first time, and the time after that, and the time after that.

How many times have they returned to this raft now? This place, this sea, this flimsy pile of boards and rope has become a language of its own between them. She can’t help but remember what he asked of her here, when he pleaded with her to rule with him, to help him set the ruin of Middle Earth right again. She replays his words in her mind, letting herself linger over his declarations, over that brazen proposal she could never have accepted.

And she realizes, too late, that she has not been careful enough to guard her thoughts from him right now. Perhaps somewhere inside, she wanted him to witness this, to let him see right into her mind... to let him understand where her thoughts dwell. To have him know she still thinks of it, just as he does. To allow him to believe it is possible, even if she cannot allow herself the same.

The ghost of a smile flits across Halbrand’s face as he perceives it, but there’s a wince behind it. “You know… I was so very certain that you would come to me that day,” he says to her. “For all the hesitation I sensed in you, for all your anger… I did not think that you would really turn away from me. I thought you would realize that you belong at my side. That you fit here. With me.” He draws her a little nearer as he speaks, pulling her tighter against him.

“I do not know where I belong,” Galadriel says quietly. “I did not know it then, and I still do not. And I could not trust you, no matter how badly some foolish part of me might have wanted to believe you. How could I possibly have given you any other answer, when you had just revealed such a dreadful deception?”

“Well... I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “The past is the past. It has never been more clear that we are free of it. But more importantly, Galadriel… what about now? Do you... trust me now?”

She does not answer him for a long time, and when she speaks again, she counters his question with one of her own. “Why did you rescue me? Why put yourself in danger to save my life?”

“Which time?”

“The very first,” she decides. “In the sea… here. Why did you jump after me when I fell from the raft? I was nothing to you, then.”

“Ahhh. That troubled you afterwards, didn’t it,” he says. “The idea that Sauron could have done something unselfish? That your abhorred enemy was the one to rescue you? It challenged something you held onto so deeply that you simply could not allow it to be true. Perhaps it even kept you from seeing what I truly was, back then.” He breathes a long sigh. “Well, I suppose you were right after all. It was selfish. I did it for myself.”

“Saving me?” Her voice goes up, breaking on the words, and she wipes at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. Light only knows why she’s crying.

“Yes,” he says. “I promised no more deceptions between us, Galadriel. I saved you because… in that moment, when I saw you weren’t beside me on the raft anymore... I realized that I did not want to die all alone again. Not like the last time.”

“You... thought you might die? On the raft?”

“It seemed a distinct possibility,” he says. “I had barely recovered my strength enough to finally remake myself a body, at great expense of my energies, after so many long years of trying. My powers had never been weaker. I did not really know how long such a mortal form would endure if I didn’t sustain it properly – without any food, without fresh water, exposed to the elements... I was so very fragile, then. And I wanted...” He stops, as if carefully choosing the right words, checking them over for truth. “If I was to perish again... I wanted someone there to comfort me. To mourn my loss... even if only as a brief companion.”

Galadriel nods slowly, a wordless acknowledgement.

“When we rode to Eregion, too, I sometimes doubted if this mortal body could survive it. I was so broken, so full of poison and fever. But... I did not fear it quite so much, then. Because you were with me. Holding me, night after night, whispering to me that you were there. I was never alone.”

“Then your injury was real, as you claimed,” she says quietly. She has never pressed him very much for more answers about that journey. There was a long while when she wouldn’t have believed anything he said anyway, so it was easier just to bury it away, and never to ask him about it again. Perhaps he is right, and the past simply doesn’t matter anymore. And yet, a part of her still longs to know the truth of it. “You really couldn’t heal yourself? That wound… it was truly killing you?”

“I could have healed the wound if I’d tried,” he says. “By the time we came to battle in the Southlands, I was already much stronger than I’d been on the raft, or in Númenor. I could have restored myself, and brought myself back to full health… if only I’d been left alone, out of sight. It wouldn’t have taken me but a short while to heal, had I done it before it got worse. Alas, I was found on that road... and I was removed to the infirmary tent before I could heal myself. And after that, I had no choice but to bear it, for I could do almost nothing about it without revealing my powers. It was a delicate balancing act – restoring myself a tiny bit, just enough to ensure I didn’t perish, but not so much that you’d grow suspicious. And deep down, I knew I was one miscalculation away from catastrophe. That poison was eating me alive.” He grimaces. “Have I mentioned how painful that was to go through in a mortal body? Because it was absolute agony. I’ve had torture that hurt less.”

“Why not just heal yourself, then, instead of enduring such horrible suffering?” She studies him. “Why did you not just show your true face, and dispense with the cover? You were already in the Southlands, in reach of Mordor. We’d struck a heavy blow against Adar, and half the Southlanders awaited you as Sauron. They would have bowed to you as their king one way or another. You could have tried to seize Adar’s forces—”

“No,” he says. “No, I… I wanted something else, by then. Something greater... and I hadn’t yet achieved it.”

There’s that long pause again, like he’s saying his next words to himself, rehearsing them before he says them aloud. As if he fears to say the wrong thing, or to make some grievous mistake that might cause her to cast him from the raft. He keeps his mind walled from her; she can perceive nothing besides the words he speaks.

“Galadriel, you know the truth of it already,” he finally says. “I wanted you. That’s why I endured the pain. I could not explain it to myself, this connection we had… but I knew that I needed you at my side. I needed what I felt with you, how strong and sure you made me feel. The way you believed in me.” He lowers his eyes. “I will not deny that such a desire was mostly selfish, again. But without you, I would have been lesser. And I… I would have been lonely again. I thought we… understood each other, and I wanted to keep that feeling with me always.”

“I felt it too,” she whispers. “You know I did.”

“After that battle… it was too soon to reveal the whole truth of it and still hope to keep you beside me. I needed to show you something more, first, to prove myself somehow. But I felt the right time was coming. And so... I had no choice but to carry on, and to hope I survived the journey.”

Galadriel is quiet for a long time after that, staring out at the water and very deliberately not looking at Halbrand’s face. Not looking at his no-longer-serpentine green eyes, and that too-sincere expression on his face that strips her of all rational thought. She has more questions to ask him, but they drift formless in her mind, refusing to solidify into words or thoughts.

The raft bobs slowly over the waves, on and on, the horizon stretching infinitely away. She wonders in what direction Valinor now lies. But perhaps there is no Valinor at all in this false world, not in this particular illusion of their collective making. Why would they need it, these two beings who have done everything possible not to return there? Two beings who will probably never again see its light?

Perhaps there is only an empty sea here, endlessly wide and deep. Just them and this raft, and so many things that will never happen. A king and queen, reflected in the water.

“Your intentions,” Galadriel says at last. She’s not sure what question she’s asking, and she’s stopped wiping away the tears that are streaming down her face, but she looks at him and knows he will intuit the rest of it. “What you… what you claim you want from me... when you say...”

“I do want you to rule beside me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Yes. Every day, I still desire it terribly… much more than seemed reasonable at first, if I’m honest. But I have always been weak for you, Galadriel, even as you make me stronger. You know this. And as our power has grown, as I have learned how alike we truly are... I have only wanted you more and more. You have seen it for yourself. You’ve felt what I feel, in my mind… and on the battlefield… and in our bed. I have not hidden it.” He takes another long breath. “I do admit that my… sentiments toward you have sometimes confused even me. I have wanted at once to control you completely and to lie down at your feet to do your bidding. But I have never intended to cause you any pain, Galadriel. I have wanted only to delight and impress you. To make you mine. Whatever it takes.”

He reaches out slowly and cups her chin, in that way he does when he’s trying to persuade her of something. But knowing exactly what he’s doing doesn’t stop her heart from leaping the way it always has, or her body from turning toward him.

“Galadriel. Please. Do you trust me?” His hand is shaking. “I need to know that you do. For what’s coming. For what I will need you to do.”

She sits perfectly still for a long time, looking into his eyes as if she searches for something she can’t even articulate.

And then, she finally nods her head, just once, almost imperceptibly. And above the raft, the few scattered clouds give way to bright, brilliant sun.

Sauron pulls her closer again and he cradles her against Halbrand’s familiar shoulder, and she feels the scratch of his scruffy cheek against her temple. He smells like sea salt and fire. Like the forge in Armenelos, where the Halbrand on the raft had never yet been. Like past and future colliding.

“We should go,” she says. “Release the illusion. We need to check the wards on your office, and prepare for the arrival of the dwarves, and see if the wolves can find any sign of Elrond’s party—”

“The wards are holding. I can feel them from here, strong and stable,” Sauron says. “No one can enter the office, nor perceive anything happening inside.” He presses his face into her hair, and kisses the crown of her head. “Stay a little while yet, Galadriel. It will change nothing if we remain just a couple minutes more. And if things really are as dire as they seem... then it’s all the more important that we enjoy these moments while we have them.”

She does want to stay. There is nothing she wants more whenever she has him so close than to stay, and stay, and stay. Her heart aches.

“I remember when you told me that,” Galadriel whispers. “About enjoying the pauses. When you teased me about not appreciating the roasted potatoes enough in the tavern.” A small laugh escapes her, and she lets her shoulders relax. “Though I think I might have gone a bit too far on the night of Gil-galad’s welcome dinner. I drank so much wine that night that I overslept my meeting the next day.”

“Mmm. That was a good night,” Sauron says. “I enjoyed myself. Such elven events are certainly tedious, I’ll give you that… but the fun is there to be found if you look for it. I hope we will weather many more of them together. We do know how to entertain ourselves, hmm?” He shifts her against him, and warmth rushes into her blood when he lowers his voice to that half-whisper and brushes his lips over her ear. “Listen… I’ll drop the illusion in a moment, I promise. We have much to do. But... there is a forlorn and shipwrecked Southlander here who is dying to kiss you. And would you really deny him that small mercy, adrift on the sea?”

“Hmm. I am nothing if not merciful,” Galadriel says, her mouth twitching into a coy little smile as she tilts her face toward Halbrand. “One kiss. Just one.”

“Merciful and ruthless,” he murmurs. “Always in balance, in an admirable queen...”

She presses her mouth to his. And this – kissing Sauron in the guise of a man, in an illusion, on a raft that isn’t there – is as real and solid and true as anything she has felt this age.

Chapter Text

When Sauron dismisses the illusion, Galadriel opens her eyes to find them both still on the floor in the library office... but they’re no longer unceremoniously crumpled at the foot of his chair. No, now he’s sitting up with his back propped against the wall, and he’s holding her across his lap, cradling her in his arms. She startles, still disconcerted by the way he can move around in the real world while simultaneously sustaining his illusory mindscapes. But the memory of that day at the riverside only fleetingly crosses her mind now. Today, he has done nothing except lift her off the floor and rearrange her more comfortably, his arm curled behind her head to hold her against his shoulder. And as her eyelids flutter open, she sees Annatar’s face where Halbrand was just a moment ago, his unchanged green eyes looking down at her with the same adoration.

Sauron brushes a soft real-world kiss against her forehead before he springs to his feet and swings her up with him in one swift motion, setting her down beside him. He looks at the state of his bent chair with a wry laugh, then he grabs hold of it and wrenches the arms more or less back into place. She knows very well how strong he must be now – his raw strength was already terrifying back at Khazad-Dûm, and he is exponentially more powerful now – but seeing him unleash it this way still sends that dark thrill into her.

“There. Doubt anyone will notice the difference,” he says, tipping the chair back and forth to check it over. “Might even look better than before, no?”

He smacks his hands together with satisfaction and reaches over to straighten the inkwell on his desk, sweeping up the parchments he was working on into a neat pile. Then he pauses and closes his eyes, tilting his head to the side for a moment before he looks back at Galadriel with a small, secretive smile.

“Hmm! I think you’d best run down to the gates,” he says. “While we were occupied… it appears that your wayward herald has returned.”

Galadriel rushes to the city’s inner gate just in time to see Elrond’s party dismounting from their horses. For all her worry, Elrond has arrived back at Ost-in-Edhil before the dwarves, and he certainly seems to be unharmed. But her relief at seeing him safe and sound is short-lived. When he has passed his horse’s reins to a waiting stablehand and crosses the courtyard toward her, the look on his face is one of utter dismay.

“Galadriel,” he gasps as she embraces him. “I am so relieved to see you. Is everything well here? Where is Celebrimbor?”

“Celebrimbor?” Galadriel draws back, confused. “I… think he’s probably at his old workshop. Why? The dwarves are expected soon, so he’s been preparing for—” She trails off; that pained expression on Elrond’s face has not lifted. “What? Elrond, what is it?”

Elrond exhales. “Oh, Galadriel. You cannot imagine the time I’ve just had. I’m afraid I do not bear good news from Gelebren.”

“Their council refused our request for support, then?” Her heart sinks.

“You could say that. But… strictly speaking, the council did not get to vote on the proposal. The moment I announced my intention to call a special meeting in the matter of sending a company to the Southlands... I was promptly escorted to their dungeon, where I remained in a cell overnight with my stewards. Thankfully, the master of the city eventually approved my departure, and we were grudgingly released today – with orders to leave the city swiftly.”

“The dungeon?” Galadriel’s mouth drops open. “Elrond! Why?”

“It’s…” He lets out a long, ragged breath. “I shall tell you everything, but first I must get to my rooms to change out of these travelling clothes. Let’s just say that Ost-in-Edhil’s relations with the outer settlements have certainly not improved.” He glances around, giving her a look that says there are too many ears here. “Will you join me in a half-hour? Come alone, and be discreet. And... please, do not let Celebrimbor know that I’ve returned just yet. Speak to no one, come directly to me.”

He gives her hands a squeeze, then turns and hurries off, flanked by the two harried-looking stewards who’d accompanied him to Gelebren.

The moment Elrond is out of sight, Galadriel reaches out to Sauron.

Something is wrong, she says. Something happened in Gelebren. I don’t know what it is yet, but... be wary. Stay away from the workshop, and do not go back to Celebrimbor until I know more.

When Elrond answers his front door, he has changed into less formal attire, and the front of his hair is wet as though he’s just been splashing water over his face. He looks exhausted and drawn.

“Galadriel,” he says, taking her arm to hurry her inside. “Come, come in. I’ve poured us some wine on the balcony.”

Galadriel takes her usual seat across from Elrond at his little open-air table, carefully schooling her face into something approximating calm concern. Serenity, that’s what she needs. The ring of power pulses on her finger, as if in response to her worry, and she keeps her ring-bearing hand on her knee under the table. As if she can prevent Elrond from asking her to relinquish it... as if he might somehow just forget about it if it’s out of sight.

“Out with it, Elrond,” she says. “What happened in Gelebren?” She takes up her glass, forcing down a swallow of the sweet wine. “I think you’d best start at the beginning.”

Elrond sits still for a long moment. He takes a sip of his own wine, looking as if he’s sorting through his thoughts. “Right,” he says at last. “Well… it is as I told you before I left. We’ve heard that the outer settlements were unsatisfied with our response to the creature attack on the night of the banquet. There were, of course, a few guests from Gelebren in attendance that night who witnessed what happened… and they were disappointed by the lack of communication from Ost-in-Edhil to Eregion’s subjects in the aftermath,” he says. “Their trust in us has faltered, and we knew it. It’s why I made sure to attend that ceremony last night to speak on the High King’s behalf. I had hoped I might head off more rumours. But we did not anticipate how deep their distrust of Ost-in-Edhil’s leadership now runs. This is serious.”

“Serious enough to throw you in the dungeon?”

He sighs. “It seems gossip has been spreading that the curse of the Noldor still plagues us. They believe that Morgoth’s beasts resurfaced because the High King has allowed a grandson of Fëanor to hold too much influence in Ost-in-Edhil. And they have blamed it specifically on… on Celebrimbor’s forging of three precious objects… which was followed within the year by the appearance of a host of dark creatures.” Elrond presses a hand to his head. “I suppose some of that should have been expected. But I have learned more. Because there is also... this.” He takes a folded piece of parchment out of his pocket and pushes it toward her across the table.

Galadriel looks at it there – a simple document, nothing official, a note written on a scrap – and that familiar foreboding twists in her stomach. Like when she unfurled the scroll with the Southlands lineage on it; like when she and Sauron retrieved the materials from Forodwaith in the vaults of Khazad-Dûm. There will be no un-seeing this.

She unfolds it with one hand, keeping her ring-bearing hand clasped tight around her knee.

There are five lines written on the page.

Morgoth’s heir sows deceit in Ost-in-Edhil.

Darkness rises to collect its due;

the Ringmaker works in secret.

If the Noldor come to battle in the shadow land,

the Deceiver will be victorious.

Galadriel’s heart is pounding. “What is this?” she whispers.

“Foretellings,” Elrond says, “from a seeress in Gelebren. Apparently, these were brought to the High King when he was here for Celebrimbor’s banquet.” A bitter look crosses his face. “It seems that after all this time, Gil-galad has still not taken me into his confidence completely. I knew nothing of these whisperings.”

“The Ringmaker works in secret… that explains why Gil-galad wanted you to watch Celebrimbor so closely,” she breathes.

“Well… when I arrived in Gelebren yesterday with our proposal to send a company to the Southlands… unsurprisingly, they were much more concerned with the final portion,” Elrond says, tapping the parchment with a wince. “Think of it from their perspective! They warned Gil-galad that to bring a war to the shadow land would play right into the Dark Lord’s hands, and Gil-galad agreed that no such thing would be done. And now, here I was, asking them to support Ost-in-Edhil’s intentions... to march so close to Mordor without Lindon’s blessing. I would have escorted myself to the dungeon, too! They thought me a traitor to the realm – or at best, a victim of the enemy’s deceit.”

“Some would put far too much faith in prophecy, and too little in common sense,” Galadriel says coolly, “our High King among them. Foretellings do not always come to pass.”

“And yet, the first of these has already come to pass, though Gil-galad does not know it. The heir of Morgoth sows deceit in Ost-in-Edhil? It must refer to… to the Deceiver having walked among us as Halbrand.” Elrond averts his gaze from hers when he speaks Halbrand’s name. “I must admit, it sent chills into me when I read these words. I keep coming back to the same worry, Galadriel – what if there is some dark magic laid upon the rings? Some way of spying on us?”

Galadriel keeps her hand under the table, almost certain that the adamant stone now flares brightly on her hand, as if the ring’s magic itself is indignant at his words. “You know that I once feared the same thing myself,” she says, “but we must be reasonable. Why would Sauron cast dark magic on us with enchanted trinkets, when he could easily just have waited a little longer and the elves would have departed these shores, never to trouble his plans for Middle Earth? Halbrand may have given counsel to the smiths, but he never laid hands on the alloy. And all this time, the rings of power have done nothing but help us!”

“Surely you don’t now think that Hal– that Sauron was here to do good, and that the counsel he rendered to the elves will not eventually have some insidious cost?” Elrond looks at her incredulously. “Galadriel, he must have had some motive! Why help us at all? There’s so much to this that we do not understand, that we have never understood! We do not have the measure of him, not at all. And while they worked on the design for those rings, there is no doubt that Sauron held Celebrimbor under his thrall.” Elrond’s frown deepens. “I cannot stop thinking the worst since I learned of this foretelling. The Ringmaker works in secret. What does it mean? Why did Celebrimbor speak so passionately yesterday, imploring us to send soldiers toward Mordor when he has never spoken of it before? If the darkness whispers to him, if Sauron’s influence is still in his mind… then we must swiftly discard all his persuasion.”

“Elrond—”