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Chapter Text

Galadriel is sitting on the edge of her bed, contemplating fate, and destiny, the golden hues of the sunset streaming through the open windows. Her hand is pressed gently against her stomach, knowing that it is too soon to feel anything and yet knowing, with certainty, that her son is there, just beneath her palm. Her appointment with the healer had just ended, and while she intended to seek out her lover, she needed time to reflect and gather her thoughts on how all this had come to pass.

She was ill when she and Halbrand arrived in Eregion, not wounded, but sick as she had not felt since she was a child. Initially, she thought it to be merely another symptom of the stress she had endured in the last few months, not entirely unexpected given the circumstances. But the illness did not fade when the stress alleviated.

Halbrand continued to recover, and even this happy news was not enough to quell the queer feeling she awoke to every morning. Certain smells made her stomach roil, strong perfumes and cooking meat alike, and there was little she could do about it. After weeks of this, she eventually succumbed to Elrond’s insistent nagging and submitted herself to a healer’s care. She demanded the utmost discretion; no word need reach her King, or anyone else, that she was anything but the picture of health.

“Have you lain with anyone, milady?” The healer asked, his tone professionally neutral despite the underlying implication of the question.

Galadriel almost instinctively lied, rejecting the possibility of anything that an affirmative might imply. It seemed unthinkable. She and Halbrand had found relief in each other’s arms, first in Númenor and then, with increasing frequency, as they traveled back to Middle Earth. Yet even with the frequency of their coupling, it should not have been possible. She and Celeborn had tried. Intentionally. With every potion, magic, and aid known to their kind. No life had been kindled between them. It did not seem right that after a few short months with one human man, life should kindle so readily in her womb, and with such poor timing.

“Milady?” The healer addressed her again, catching her attention.

“Yes,” she said, her reply coming out in little more than a hoarse whisper. “Yes I have been intimate recently.”

The healer paused and looked at her, considering, before returning to his examination. “Elf or…?”

Galadriel felt her cheeks heat, shame creeping up her throat. It was not illegal to lay with Men. The story of Beren and Luthien was well-celebrated. It was not, however, common or encouraged. And she was married, though her husband was long dead. This was not the way of things for Elves.

“Man.” She answered curtly, tone daring him to say anything about it. She tried to assuage herself of the shame she felt, rationalizing not only her relationship with Halbrand but their lack of care. Conception was difficult, especially between their kinds. This could not have been expected; it was a miracle, a gift from the One.

Mulishly, she mused that gift-giving was better done at holidays, not in the middle of wars, and if the One had chosen to bless her thus, He could have waited a little longer.

“Please lay back milady,” the healer requested, gesturing to the soft bed behind her.

She sat, having initially refused under the assumption that she had only a minor illness, and swung her legs to the end of the bed. An attendant came forth, rolling up her gown just under her breasts.

“I am going to perform the exam now,” the healer explained, waiting for her permission to continue. “It will feel somewhat invasive to you, Milady, but I ask that you try not to fight me when you feel it.”

Galadriel heard him and gave him a jerky nod, trying to calm the wave of emotions she felt broiling just beneath her skin. This was beyond her comprehension.

The healer placed his warm hands on her stomach, just above her navel, and, with feather light fingers, pressed. She felt his spirit reach out to her, felt her own instinctively rise as a shield, and breathed out, letting him in. Instantly, she relaxed, the healer’s soothing presence settling the worst of her nerves. She began to doze, the calming nature unexpectedly luring her into a quiet space, removed from the room where she was being examined. She wondered how this could have happened.

Her mind traveled, not far, but to recent memories. The forest outside the Southlands, and the feel of Halbrand’s fingers digging into her hips, hoisting her up so that she might wrap her legs around his waist. His lips, sweeter than they had any right to be, pressing soft promises into her neck even as her back was wrenched against the rough bark of a tree. Halbrand, creeping into her tent in the dead of night, climbing into her bedroll and waking her with his fingers stroking her to flame, his mouth on her breast.

Those nights were his pleas for companionship when he felt lonely, she learned, and she always gave it, feeling her own ache of loneliness fade under his efforts. The following mornings were always bittersweet. He lingered in her bed, their limbs tangled, warm and content, until the last possible moment, just before the sun rose. He always kissed her goodbye after he dressed, and snuck away, back to his own tent.

Stolen minutes on their journey to the Southlands, hiding away from the rest of their Númenórean guard, were the most vivid of her memories. Desire burned constantly, it seemed, once they had tasted it. It did not ever leave. It merely waxed, and waned, with time. The less time they had, the more passion they felt, and the hotter the fire in her belly burned. Their encounters on the journey back to Middle Earth were not nearly so frenzied. No, those were exquisitely slow, worshipful moments, pleasure driven not by time but by their lack of privacy, and lack of else to do but argue and fuck.

Her cabin offered some solace, but it was not without interruption. A small writing desk had been provided to her in that space, a luxury certainly, though it made the suffocating room feel even smaller. Yet, to her surprise, Halbrand had very little trouble folding into the space beneath it, putting his mouth to one of its better uses when she was trying to work. She had been on the precipice of madness, she recalled, ready to pull him to his feet and mount him on that desk, when a soldier entered her room unannounced.

Months later, she could not forget. The sailor had apologized, but explained his urgency, and requested her advice on charting their course. He had laid the map of coordinates and star charts on her desk for her review, and stood, waiting, for her to give her approval. Her right hand had sought Halbrand beneath the desk, fingers seeking to push him away; his fingers threaded between them instead, holding her hand firmly to the outside of her thigh, and continued to quietly lap at her center despite their visitor.

It had been filthy, degenerate, grossly inappropriate, and it should have doused any desire she felt burning. It did not. She answered the soldier’s questions, fighting the burgeoning orgasm that was building, and sent him on his way with a tight, uncomfortable smile. He lingered at the door, for a moment, perhaps hoping the elf would impart some further wisdom or advice, before leaving and shutting the door behind him. Her orgasm crested and she could not help the cry that escaped her, her free hand digging into his scalp and tangling in his hair.

“You are wicked!” She scolded him, stuttering and breathless when he finally looked up at her, his face between her thighs and a sinful grin on his face.

She did have him on her desk immediately after that, testing the strength and quality of Númenórean carpentry.

It might have been then.

Still, without knowing how far along she was, there was the possibility that life had been kindled while they were still in Númenor. She did not think this to be likely, but nothing about their circumstances were normal. Those couplings were few but they had been driven by passion. There had been no gentleness between them the first time, certainly. She sought him in the forge late at night. All others were already abed, and yet he remained awake, working to prove himself to these people who did not want him. Her intent had been to once again push the issue of his denied inheritance, the birthright he refused to accept.

She remembered how he looked then, how detached and cold his eyes had been in the firelight. He threw his tools to the side, ripping the gloves from his hands, a thinly-veiled fury storming across his face. Halbrand was tall, but he made himself less in the presence of others, his shoulders hunching inward and shrinking him. He had not done so that night. No, he towered over her, his spine rod straight and his shoulders flexed to the limits of their breadth. Accusations spilled from his lips, daring her to argue; she was using him for her own purposes. Her own reply: that given who arguably had the most to benefit, other assumptions would be made.

This infuriated him further. He crowded her space then, grabbing her and hauling her to sit on top of the work table. She remembered how he had stood between her thighs, his arm curled possessively around her waist, and pulled her closer, her legs straddling his hips. “What’s it worth to you?” He had asked, a fire burning in his eyes, surely a reflection of the flame from the furnace. “For me to go along with your plan, what will you give me ?”

Her breath hitched, his face so close to hers that she could count his eyelashes. Indignation burned hottest in her chest, but it faded quickly, and a fire of a different nature began to simmer. He scoffed, shaking his head as if to break free of his own thoughts, and moved to step back. Without thought, her legs had crossed around his back, preventing him from stepping away. He was surprised. She had caught him off guard by calling his bluff. He took a step forward once more, placing his hands on the table on either side of her hips.

She met his gaze, saying nothing. The fury in his eyes was rapidly giving way to hunger, a desire so blatant that it would have been palpable even had he not been standing between her thighs. She remembered the stand-off, both acknowledging what they wanted and both too stubborn to give in first. Despite her near perfect memory, she could not remember which one of them moved first. She remembered biting his lips hard enough for them to bleed, soothing the wound with her tongue. His own hands had torn through her bodice, the beautiful dyed silk ripping in one hard pull and being tossed to the floor. She remembered how the calluses on his hands felt as they explored whatever skin they could find.

He smelled of sweat and ash, his skin damp and sticky from working for hours without rest in the heat of the forge. While he continued to pull at the layers to her gown, her own eager fingers picked at his belt until it unbuckled, loosening his pants. She greedily pulled his cock free, feeling the size and shape of it in the palm of her hand, squeezing and tugging at a stuttering pace. He left punishing, possessive marks along her neck, sucking until she whimpered before moving on to a new spot, leaving constellations among the bruises.

After the fourth she could feel forming, she felt a reprimand waiting on her tongue when his fingers slid between her folds. Her complaint died as she hunched closer, arms drawing around his neck as he pumped his fingers inside her at a steady pace, his thumb massaging her clit. It was a scant minute later when he took his cock from her grasp and placed it at her entrance, his other hand abandoning her cunt to hoist her leg up higher on his hip. He pushed in quickly, too quickly, and she hissed, her body unaccustomed to the feeling after centuries of abstinence, despite his fingers working her earlier.

There were no gentle words exchanged, no time for acclimation. This was primal, needy, and raw in a way Galadriel had never had sex. He set a punishing pace, the strength in his hands holding her hips where he wanted them, just on the edge of the table. She knew that she could push him away, that her own strength would trump his no matter his profession, and once or twice she considered it. It was too much; centuries of nothing to this level of passion almost overwhelmed her. 

She keened, trying to draw him closer to her, needing to feel the warmth of his skin. He growled, his hand wrapping around her throat and pushing her down, further back on the table, not squeezing but holding her in place. His other hand hooked her knee, forcing her leg back to her chest, and he fucked her there, driving his cock like a battering ram. The new angle meant that his cock brushed against her nub with every thrust, and she could feel her orgasm rapidly approaching. 

“Halbrand,” she breathed his name, jarring him from his intent for a moment, catching his gaze. He slowed the speed of his thrusts, chasing away her orgasm with a cruel smirk, enjoying the way she squirmed, trying to chase the high that had just been within reach.

“Beg me for it,” he had whispered, leaning over her to graze his teeth across her nipples and leaving more bruises on the tops of her breasts.

She was struck by fury, for a moment, and genuine outrage. He still held her firmly by the throat, keeping her from moving and seeking her own release. That feeling was still there, lingering, waiting, but it was beginning to wane. The moment held, Halbrand’s eyes never leaving her own, waiting for her to make her decision. Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. 

“Please, Halbrand,” she pleaded, hating herself for her weakness, for being submissive to her own desire. 

“Good girl,” he praised her, resuming his punishing pace, and placed a flat palm just below her navel, gently pressing down. Her orgasm swelled again in seconds, and he swallowed her cries by covering her mouth with his own, stealing the breath from her lungs. He followed her only a few scant moments after, while she was still riding her high, and buried himself as deep within her as their hips would allow as he came. 

He collapsed on top of her, almost suffocating her with his weight, and pressed soft, loving kisses on her throat while they both recovered. Her legs, she realized, had wrapped around him during her orgasm, holding him fast and firm between her thighs; she had not even remembered doing it. Slowly, she released him, and let her legs fall to the side.

He stayed where he was, hunched over her, resting his head in the crook of her neck, until his cock went soft within her and slipped out. They shared a kiss, then, the first truly intentional thing shared during their coupling. They redressed themselves in haste, as much as they could. She remembered chastising him for the state of her dress, wondering how she was going to explain this to the lady’s maids that the Queen had assigned her. 

He had no advice to offer her, only a wicked grin promising to do it again, if she so desired. The rest of their relationship was history. They did do it again. And again, and again, and again. In such a short manner of time, he quickly became as much a part of her as her own arm. Perhaps that is why Eru had seen fit to bless them as such.

“Milady?” The healer’s voice called her attention back, the memories fading as Galadriel came back to herself, feeling a little sleepy and shaken. “I have completed the examination. Congratulations, milady. You are indeed with child. He is… very strong. His strength of spirit is unusually bright, for barely being formed.” The words were a pleasant surprise, and comfort. Failed pregnancies between races were more common than not.

Galadriel closed her eyes, absorbing the confirmation and all the implications that followed. All the plans that would need to change. A new fear to plague her dreams. “How far along?” She asked, wondering how much time she had. To acclimate. To tell him.

“Difficult to say, with half-elven. Too few records exist to be especially accurate. I would expect the pregnancy to run the course of a Man’s. The child should arrive  in no more than a year’s time.” The healer continued on, something about herbs and certain diets. Galadriel wasn’t listening.

“Forgive me, but I need time to… adjust to this. May I schedule a meeting with you later to discuss these particulars? And, I appreciate your discretion.” Her tone was polite, but she felt that a reminder was still needed; her gaze extended to the attendants in the room, making it clear that this applied to them as well.

“Certainly, Lady Galadriel. I will have my attendants mix you a ginger tonic that may help settle your stomach. As annoying as the symptoms are, take heart; they’re quite normal, and a good sign that the pregnancy is progressing normally.”

She gave him a weak smile and thanked him, leaving the room and wandering back through the streets of Eregion to her quarters. She had been going over it again, and again, and again. Stalling for time. But the facts weren't changing. Weren't going to change. And they certainly weren't going to be dealt with by hiding in her rooms like some waifish damsel. She forced herself to stand, refusing to let her fears rule her.

Her feet carried her to Celebrimbor’s workshop, where she knew she would find him. Her lover. The father of her child. Her suspicions gnawed at her mind, his overeager presence in Celebrimbor’s forge and his too helpful suggestions. The power this crown would hold over flesh. Was that not Sauron’s goal too, once? Her heart warred with her mind. 

She tried to calm herself, resting a hand over her womb. Perhaps she had been paranoid for too long. Too many years chasing shadows made her see them in every corner. She had been right, of course, after a fashion. There had been darkness still, it simply wasn’t Sauron. She would tell him, she decided. He deserved to know. She smoothed the wrinkles from the green gown, wondering how long such fashions would conceal the child within her, and entered the workshop, unable to stop her smile when she saw the animated joy on his face as he worked. 

“Milady?” A servant caught her attention, halting her entrance to the room. She recognized him as the attendant she had sent to the hall of records, to find the proof of lineage for Halbrand. He offered her the scroll. She hesitated, doubt making her wonder if she wanted to even look. She steeled herself and took it from him, thanking him. There was never a choice. No future could exist between them when doubt lingered like a noxious cloud. She cast a wary glance over her shoulder before fleeing the workshop. In the gardens, in solitude, she would find the answers she sought. 

She did not realize they would be precisely the opposite of her hopes.

Nor did she realize that she had not fled the forge unseen. Too quickly, her joy became horror, and no confession sprang from her lips at all. 

For the safety of everyone, he could never know.  She would take this secret to her grave.

Chapter Text

Galadriel sat at the window seat in her chambers, hands wrapped comfortably around her prominent belly. The sweet smell of blooming spring flowers wafted in from the open window, lilac and jasmine and creeping honeysuckle growing right beneath the window pane. The private gardens were unlike any other in Middle Earth, almost a perfect replica of gardens she had seen in Valinor. Gil-Galad’s reaction to her pregnancy was the one she had feared the most. Yet, he had not chastised her or shamed her. Instead, he offered her protection. She was ashamed that she had doubted his friendship.

She winced as she felt her son kick, the strength of his little feet surprising her. She rubbed her belly, hoping to soothe the active baby, and sighed. She should not have been surprised. What child of Galadriel and Sauron would be anything but fierce, even in the womb? She hummed under her breath, singing quiet lullabies from her own childhood, and waited for her son to settle.

Pregnancy had slowed her down. Gil-Galad had quartered her in his own private residence in Lindon, squiring her away from Eregion in the dead of night to keep her location secret. The war in the Southlands, now called Mordor, continued to rage. Ever cautious, she had kept an open ear for word of him, waiting for him to resurface. He did not. Still, it scarcely seemed to matter. Adar and his rapidly-breeding orcs were growing in force and power very quickly — too quickly. They were proving formidable.

Galadriel refused to let her condition inhibit her participation in the war effort, at least at first. She could still advise. She could still help train new troops. For the majority of her pregnancy, she did. Yet, as the war went on, her stress grew, and after a concerning - and mortifying - fainting episode the month before, the healers had unanimously put her on bed rest. 

They banned her from all war meetings and the training grounds. She scoffed aloud at the very memory, sullenly settling into the window seat. Gil-Galad had even moved her to quarters at the ground level of the palace, fearing her questionable balance and the number of stairs leading to her previous quarters. If this was a normal pregnancy, it would have been insulting. But the babe was not normal, and her pregnancy symptoms were more dramatic than typical of Elves. The healers could only guess at the reason, citing the strength of the child’s spirit and power. Her balance wasn’t what it should be.

Still, she hated the idle feeling that came with ordered rest. She was otherwise the picture of health. An abundance of caution was not enough of a reason to warrant her being sidelined from the war being fought for Middle Earth. 

But in this, she had no allies. Even Elrond had refused to agree. So there she sat, alone and removed from the darker realities of the world, worrying in private instead of in the company of her friends. 

Standing, she paced the length of her room, trying to come up with a way to help, even in some small way. The few scraps of information she had managed to intimidate from the servants were essentially useless; they were at a stalemate with the foul creatures of the Southlands. The Elves had the martial strength and better supplies, but the orcs held their territory firm. There simply wasn’t enough information to advance into Mordor safely. 

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped pacing, eyes drifting to the bowl in the corner of her room. Nenya felt warm on her finger, as if merely waiting for her command. Perhaps there was another way she could help. She wouldn’t even need to leave the safety of her room. Moving quickly to the bowl, she filled it half full with clean water and steeled herself. Pulling from the power of her ring, she looked into the waters, thinking of Adar, of the Southlands.

Her mind was pulled instantly to the land of molten rock and ash, looking impossibly more desolate and barren than it had when last she saw it. She walked invisible among the looting monsters as they ravaged the landscape for the little it had left to provide, her stomach revolting at the sight. Growing frustrated, she closed her eyes, trying once again to seek out the dark elf in her mind, picturing his scarred face. 

When she opened them again, she was in a structure she had never seen. To call it a castle would offer a generosity she did not feel. The walls were still being assembled, but she could see the beginnings of a mighty fortress, built right into the bedrock of the volcano. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile; surely this would be helpful information. 

She entered the fortress, taking in the horror and intimidating design of the place, watching the orcs break their backs to move things into place and hurry the construction. Entering through the enormous black doors, the throne was the first thing she saw. No one sat on it, and she could hardly blame them. It did not look especially comfortable. 

Orcs meandered in the throne room, hissing at each other in their abominable black speech. They seemed to be waiting, their eyes occasionally darting to a door just to the left of the throne. Galadriel decided to wait too, patience not being one of her stronger virtues but one of necessity; vision this may be, but she surely felt as if she had been walking for miles.

Her patience was rewarded after a few minutes when the dark elf himself strode through the door, looking altogether too pleased with himself. He addressed the small crowd with affection, though the black speech he spoke in was unknown to her ears. She frowned. This would be little help at all if she could not understand what was being said. Focusing more intently, she called upon Nenya’s power more strongly, trying to expand her understanding of language, to force the black speech to be understood. The power surged within her, leaving her breathless and shaking, and gave her what she asked for. 

“…we will need to do this before we move on to the Elves in Lindon. It is key that we do not lose focus now. Build our walls, and build them well. When we strike Eregion, they must not see it coming. Keep digging.”

Galadriel felt both vindicated and horrified. If she hadn’t done this, would her people have any inkling of what was going on in the Southlands? Would they know that Eregion was to be struck first? She felt herself begin to weaken from the use of the ring, felt the call of its power like a siren’s song. 

Don’t you want more? It asked, whispering. She shuddered, ignoring it, but held fast to the power she had taken. She wasn’t done yet. This was helpful, but Adar was not the true adversary. He was a pawn. She needed to find Sauron. Closing her eyes, she pictured him as she had seen him last, the face of her human lover with heartbreak on his face. 

She felt the overbearing warmth of the volcanic rock fade, and instead felt the comfortable warmth of a fireplace. She opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. Confusion warred with suspicion. The room was warm and well decorated: fine tapestries lined the walls; beautifully embroidered blankets adorned the bed; masterfully crafted furniture sparsely filled the room. 

“Galadriel?” The sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine, and she froze, her back turned to the voice. Panic crept in her throat. He shouldn’t be able to see her, let alone speak to her. She tried to break the connection, her mind rearing wildly away from his presence. Nenya did not obey.

“None of that now, Galadriel,” he practically purred, his voice drifting closer still. “You came all this way to see me, even dared use a ring of power that I designed to do it. It would be rude not to even say hello to me. Come now. Face me, Galadriel,” he taunted, raising her ire.

She felt frozen by fear. The shape of her figure was largely unaffected by her pregnancy; if you walked behind her on the street, you might not even know she was with child unless she turned. She tried again to flee the vision. 

“Look at me!” He snarled, reaching out his hand to grab her shoulder, spinning her to face him. His hand felt strange on her shoulder, there and not at the same time. 

She stumbled, almost losing her balance from the force of being turned, only steadied by his other hand grabbing her elbow. Amongst the fear and anxiety, she felt a small glimmer of short lived triumph. Genuine shock flooded his features, mask slipping in the wake of the revelation of her pregnancy. Though she trembled, she did not cower. She met his searching gaze, saying nothing, and glared back at him. 

He swallowed whatever insult was about to spill from his lips, seemingly at a loss for words for the first time. She took advantage of his surprise and shoved him away, pulling more power from Nenya to break the connection between them. It felt like moving through tree sap, using energy to force him away instead of her physical flesh.

“No, Galadriel, wait—” The rest of his sentence was lost to the void as Galadriel came back herself, heart pounding. She stumbled to her bed, shivering and drained, and curled under the warm blankets. 

I am safe. She tried to convince herself. My child is fine. She could feel his spirit connected to her own, still strong.

Galadriel chastised herself for her foolishness. In her arrogance, she had assumed that he would not be able to sense her, or see her. He was the one who had designed the rings, even if he had not personally had a hand in their creation. It was hubris. Hubris, and a dangerous lack of control.

She eyed the ring on her finger with trepidation. If nothing else, this proved that she wasn’t ready to wield it. She settled into her pillows, trying to decide what carefully crafted lie she would offer Gil-Galad to impart the information she had learned. The truth was not an option. She did not particularly enjoy the idea of the deceit, but she was, as ever, on thin-ice with her High King, and he had been so gracious already… Lies of omission worked best, as she had painstakingly learned from Sauron himself. She would tell them that she had used the ring to spy on Adar, and that she had learned that they planned to attack Eregion first, that they mentioned digging. 

She would omit her attempt at spying on Sauron. The use of the ring’s power had exhausted her, so she chose to withdraw before she overdid it. She would be chagrined - she wouldn’t even need to feign that - and hint that she didn’t want to use it again while pregnant, since she had overestimated how tired it made her.

Satisfied with the plan, she called a servant to have her dinner brought to her room, and to request a meeting with the king in the morning. She was already too tired to make her way to dine with the rest of the nobility of Lindon. She ate her supper in bed, enjoying the lack of scrutiny, and considered her newest dilemma. Sauron knew she was with child. True, he didn’t know that it was his. She could lie, say that the child was anothers. But she doubted he would believe her. She was not even sure if she was capable of deceiving him. 

Briefly, she let herself lament her own stubborn pride. Upon learning the nature of her pregnancy, and the truth of her child’s parentage, there had been an extensive discussion on what to say publicly. Her husband was long dead, and she had not remarried; rumors would abound if she did not name a father. Gil-Galad had genuinely surprised her by his graciousness. He had offered to marry her and claim the child as his own, to raise it as his own and offer them the protection of his name and rank. He had no interest in marrying or siring children. He never had. The child promised to be powerful, and raised by them both would undoubtedly grow to be an incredible force for the Light. He would be named heir.

Galadriel could not bring herself to accept. Selfishly, she did not want to be bound to him. To marry him was to bind herself to this place, to swear obeisance and put herself fully in his power. She could not stand the thought, even to a good man. Elrond, too, offered to claim the child. She refused him too, as grateful as she was for his friendship and the depth of his love for her. For all the same reasons she refused Gil-Galad, she refused Elrond. 

Her marriage to Celeborn had begun as one of convenience, and while it had grown into something more, she lost him in the end. She was not prepared to go through that again. So, as was her nature, she chose the hard path. Rumors floated from house to house about the pregnant daughter of Finarfin, but they were whispered in shadowed corners and spoken from closed mouths; no one dared earn her direct ire, nor the ire of Elrond or Gil-Galad himself.

And, to many, she remained beloved. The soldiers she had trained still greeted her as she walked by the barracks, offering her little bouquets of flowers and gifts for her baby. The food vendors in the market grew to know her when she took her daily walks, and began having her favorite snacks ready for her as her pregnancy progressed. Soon, the rumors ceased altogether. The question lingered, but all decided it did not matter as a whole. 

Now, however, with Sauron laying eyes on her so soon after departing, she questioned her refusal of Gil-Galad’s noble offer. She ate her dinner in contemplative silence, trying not to allow the possibilities to overwhelm her. 

Stress wasn’t good for the baby. She would not use the mirror again, or her ring. Sauron clearly had his own plans, away from Mordor if the scenery was any indication. Perhaps he would let it lie. He could do nothing to her now, as well protected as she was. He didn’t even know where she was. The orc had no love for him - had even murdered his past incarnation - so he would find no allies there. He was alone, without friends or power, and both of those things were surely a higher priority to him. 

Her belly full and her child calm, Galadriel felt the exhaustion of the day catch up to her. She drifted into a deep sleep, comforted by the thought that his selfishness would buy her time.

Galadriel was warm. Too warm. Groaning, she shoved the blankets off of her, annoyed at the heat in the room. She had left the windows open to allow for the cool gulf breeze, she was sure, and neither did she light the braziers to warm the room, yet the room was stifling.

“Are you uncomfortable?” 

Her eyes shot open. She sat up abruptly, taking in her surroundings, and her guest. Sauron sat in an overly large armchair. Contrary to where it had been when she had visited this space earlier, the chair had been repositioned away from the fireplace and angled much closer to the bed. She did not answer him and instead tried to call upon the power of her ring to sever the connection between them.

“No, that won’t work this time.” He said, his voice dangerously calm. “There’s no running away now, Galadriel.”

Galadriel, noticing the thin nature of her night gown, pulled the blankets back over her body, resigned to being hot. She clenched her jaw, fixing her eyes on the fireplace across the room. He may keep her here for awhile, but the connection would break eventually. She need not speak to him in the meantime. This was only a dream.

Volatile feelings bubbled just beneath the surface; hurt, and rage, and yearning too. She wanted to cry. Her son kicked  viciously, as if sensing his mother’s upset and warring against it. Her hand went to her belly, as much a way to comfort herself as it was to soothe her child. She wondered if there was a bond between her child and his father; her son was seldom so active at night.

An exhale, much closer than she thought, startled her from her thoughts. Sauron kneeled next to the bed, looking far too vulnerable and handsome in the firelight. His hair was clean and well kept, neatly pulled away from his face in a small bun. His beard had been trimmed, she noticed, no longer scruffy and wild. Her traitorous heart ached, remembering what they had when he was still Halbrand, and not Sauron.A long neglected dream swelled to the forefront of her mind, an image of she and Halbrand and their child, all cloistered together in the gardens of Eregion. She forced the image away, burying it among other painful memories.

“Galadriel, I—”

“Do not speak,” she interrupted coldly, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. “Your words are poison and I have heard them before. There is no need to repeat them. The truth remains the same.”

“The truth has changed, Galadriel,” he argued, eyes fixed on her stomach. “There is more of it now, wouldn’t you agree?“ His eyes pleaded with her to understand, to acknowledge his reason.

She scoffed. “You cannot make something from nothing. No truth may have its origin in deception. You used me to gain access to Eregion— to Celebrimbor and his forges. That is the truth. ”

His eyes narrowed, frustration bleeding through his cautious joy. “You used me , I’ll remind you. You insisted on putting a crown on my head, on dragging me from Numenor, all so that you might be granted another army to pursue your vengeance. I had all but given up, Galadriel. And I never lied to you. I just didn’t correct the assumptions you made.” 

They glared at each other, neither willing to capitulate.

“I will not pretend that I am not opportunistic, Galadriel. I will not lie to your face and tell you that I did not take advantage of the situation you manufactured. You inspired hope in me, gave me leave to be better, again. You made me believe it was possible to feel the light of the One again.” He beseeched her to listen, to understand the part she played in his redemption.

“I mean to heal Middle Earth, Galadriel, to right the wrongs I committed when Morgoth led me astray. I cannot do that as a low-man with no bearing, no resources.” There was a rawness that gave Galadriel pause, his tone altogether too vulnerable to indicate a lie. Still, it did not grant him forgiveness for his actions. Nor was forgiveness within her power to grant.

“Leave me be, Sauron,” she hissed, refusing to acknowledge his plea. “I care little for your reasons. You have committed unspeakable evils here, and given them little thought before now. If it is redemption you seek, then return yourself to Valinor and seek judgment.” She gasped again, her son protesting his mother’s rampant upset , and winced. For a long, drawn out moment the kicking did not stop. A hand rested on top of her belly, just next to her own, and she felt warmth growing from his palm. The babe settled almost immediately, and the brief relief she felt at her internal organs no longer being kicked faded when Sauron did not remove his hand.

Moving far too quickly even for her to prevent, he captured her wrists and held them securely in one hand, keeping them pinned to the bed. An ear replaced his hand, and he rested his head on her belly instead, listening. She struggled for a moment, trying to move away, but he held her fast, his maiar strength too much for her to break from. Furious and resigned, she stopped struggling, waiting for him to be done. A few minutes passed before he lifted his head and nuzzled her stomach, giving it an almost reverent kiss, before retreating and releasing her wrists. 

“This changes things, Galadriel. You must know that.” He said, his tone brooking no argument. 

She did not respond, refusing to give him any sort of reaction. Her heart pounded as her fears floated to the surface of her mind. 

“He is ours, Galadriel,” he continued, tone weary. “Yours and mine. The best of both of us, I hope. I will not be kept from him.” His tone changed abruptly, sharpening like a knife. His eyes pierced her. And she felt as she had months ago, standing in the gardens of Eregion; like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, her heels hanging in the air. 

“You will never know him,” she vowed, spitting the words, annoyed that he had the gall to sound tired.

He rocked back on his heels and stood, giving her a long, considering look. The ire in his eyes abruptly extinguished,  replaced by a calculating sort of certainty. “I will. As I will again know you. Whatever I must do to ensure that will be done.” 

Suddenly made wary by his unexpected calm, she feared what he meant. He approached her slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, making no move to touch her again but staring deeply into her eyes. “Rest, Galadriel. Rest, and take care of our child. I will take care of everything else.” 

Her alarm grew rapidly, a shiver trailing down her spine at the unintentionally ominous promise. “Take care of what?”

He smiled. “Forging a better, safer world for our son. A world where his talents will be celebrated, and he may enjoy peace and prosperity. I was adrift again after Eregion, Galadriel. I’d had no plans that did not include you, and you refused me. I may as well have been back on that raft, stranded and waiting for Ulmo to devour me. But now… Now, I know what to do. ” Fire reflected in his eyes, threatening to warm and burn her in equal measure, if she would but let it. His voice was almost unfamiliar. She had heard hints of it over the course of their journey, in private moments when he spoke of future plans, of desires. This was certainty. This voice would halt the tides of the seas if he so desired it.

Sauron reached out a gentle hand and tucked a strand of her behind her ear, fingertip ever so lightly stroking the point of it. She suppressed a shiver, refusing to acknowledge the affection gesture. “Sleep,” he ordered. “I will see you again soon. Next time, I will bring gifts.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel awoke with a start, cold sweat making the back of her nightgown stick to her skin. The early rays of dawn streamed in through her windows, accompanied by the warm breeze from the Gulf of Lune, a hint of pink reflecting in the mirrors. She felt well rested despite her night-time activities. One small accomplishment to balm the horror of all that Sauron implied. Her previous plan to omit the truth to Gil-Galad and Elrond evaporated, her pride and foolishness no longer mattering in the wake of what she had learned.

She left her bed and changed into a day gown in a hurry, finger combing her hair into something more presentable. Her time in Lindon had an unexpected side effect of falling back into old habits from days long gone. As a young woman, unmarried and still finding her place in the world, she had adorned herself regularly in beautiful gowns and glittering jewels. Servants fixed her hair and helped her dress, selected the best jewelry to match her chosen attire. 

Being pregnant and cast out from the war council as she was, she had slipped back into the skin of that young girl. It had not been a conscious thing. Her priorities had shifted abruptly, and her armor no longer fit as it once had — in more ways than one. She was adrift once more, no longer certain of her role or place in the world. The similarity to the sentiment that Sauron himself had expressed the night before left her mildly nauseous.

She shook her head, feet sliding into the soft woven slippers that cushioned her swollen feet, and left her room, trying not to give him any more of her time than she already had. Her feet carried her to the council meeting chambers ahead of her appointment, doing nothing to ease her anxiety. The servants hesitated at allowing her in, knowing that she had been banned, but the expression on her face was too fierce for them to argue with her. 

They said nothing to her about it, merely offering her refreshments and breakfast as if she were not directly disobeying the King. Again. Her pregnancy had some advantages, she noted. Even when people disagreed with her they seemed to have a much harder time pushing the issue.

She accepted the hospitality that was offered and waited for them to leave to fetch her meal, unable to stop herself from inspecting the maps on the table more closely. So absorbed in her snooping, she did not hear anyone enter the room until they chuckled. Caught red-handed, an excuse on her lips, she stepped back from the table and turned to face her new companion. Elrond stood in front of the open door, an indulgent and slightly exasperated smile on his lips. She swallowed her excuse and shrugged, settling herself into one of the chairs at the table, away from the maps. 

He followed and took a seat beside her. “Why are you here, Galadriel?” He asked, sounding more tired and stressed than she had ever heard him. She could see, just beneath his calm, exhaustion.

“I have done something foolish.” She admitted, forcing her pride aside to admit the truth.

Elrond raised his eyebrows, leaning back into his seat. “Galadriel, how ?” He lamented, lowering his voice as his eyes flickered to the open door. “You are well into your pregnancy, and have been absent from these proceedings for months now.”

Galadriel felt instantly warmed by his conspiratorial behavior, the relief she felt almost bringing tears to her eyes. Steadfast, loyal, Elrond. Even now, without having to pull an admission of guilt from gritted teeth, he stood by her side. Tears did begin to brim then, and, not for the first time, she cursed her pregnancy-enhanced emotions.

Elrond looked at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

She exhaled a watery chuckle. “I think I should wait for his majesty to be present. I do not think I have it in me to do this twice.”

He offered her a comforting smile, and changed the subject to lighter things, asking if she had considered any names for the child. 

She shook her head. “Truthfully, in many ways, it still hasn’t completely sunk in, Elrond. Some mornings I wake expecting it all to have been a terrible dream.”

He hummed consideringly, hesitating with a question on his lips. She inclined her head, giving him leave to ask his query. “Surely, though, it was not all terrible?” 

She held a breath, surprised at the turn of conversation. Even in the wake of the revelation of Halbrand’s true nature, and her pregnancy, he had not asked her about this. Her heart ached, and she swallowed, feeling her throat tighten. She hadn’t really even let herself think of it, pushing the memories to the very back of her consciousness. Her behavior would lead most to believe that it had not been a serious relationship, that it had been solely sustained on passion and the high emotions of battle bonds. But that wasn’t true. At least, not completely.

“No,” she said at last, forcing herself to speak. “No. None of it was terrible, until the end.” She could not bring herself to admit aloud that the connection she had felt with him was so much more than simple passion. That, had he truly been Halbrand, there was a very real possibility that their story may have been an echo of Beren and Luthien. In some alternate existence, where he was just Halbrand, disenfranchised King of the Southlands, they were married, and this child was being brought into the world by both parents, with every measure of joy. 

He clasped her hands in his own, squeezing them gently. She did not need to elaborate further. He had seen with his own eyes the burgeoning bond between them. While Halbrand was recovering from his wounds, Galadriel was half mad, hovering at his bedside and demanding every treatment, every cure. And then, once healed and helping Celebrimbor in his forge, they often met for meal times and small breaks, sneaking away to more private spaces. Elrond had stumbled upon them quite inadvertently, once, though he never told Galadriel he had seen them. 

They were sequestered on a bench in Celebrimbor’s private gardens, Galadriel draped across Halbrand’s lap. They were not locked in a passionate lovers embrace. No, far worse, they were simply holding each other, heads bowed and foreheads touching. The intimacy of the moment had stirred unease in Elrond’s own heart, knowing the tragedy of his own parents, of other coupled immortal and mortal pairs. But in the centuries of their acquaintance, he had never seen his friend look so at peace. Whatever whispers they were sharing together were for their ears alone, and Elrond did not try to perceive them. He did not need to. He knew what declarations of love looked like, even ones that he could not hear.

He had left them in peace that day, keeping his own counsel, and decided to exercise patience. He always meant to discuss it with Galadriel. It just didn’t happen before all was revealed.

Galadriel opened her mouth, struggling to find the words but finally feeling strong enough to talk about it, only to close it a moment later, emotions running too strong. Elrond brushed the tears from her cheeks, offering her his own handkerchief to blow her nose. She lamented feeling so pitiful, for showing so much weakness in this public space. “I love this child.” She confessed, rubbing her stomach. “I did not think I would. I feared I could not.” She licked her lips. “But I do. And every day that he grows, and I feel the strength of this spirit, I am more grateful.”

Elrond cleared his throat as the servants entered and set a tray between them. Peppermint tea and light, mild fare were prepared for her, though he noted a single pickled fish that made his own stomach turn. He waited for the servants to leave. “Do you fear him? Your child?”

It was a reasonable question, given his sire. Early on, Galadriel had asked herself the same kind of query, and had reservations about what kind of nature he might have. “No,” she answered, offering a sad smile. “For all that his father became, he was created in the light of the One just as we were. And, our son was conceived in love, not hate.” She trembled, saying the words aloud for the first time. “He will be a great force for good.”

“Of course he will,” Elrond affirmed. “How could he be anything but, with you for a mother?” He did not address her confirmation of the depth of her relationship with the Deceiver. It was not his business. His own tender heart ached for her just the same, knowing she must be grieving, and doing so alone. They broke their fast together in peaceful silence then, both considering their conversation, and the unspoken ramifications of the situation. 

“Galadriel.” Gil-Galad addressed her, entering the room with a cross expression on his face. “You were banned from these chambers. You know this. I denied your request to meet here; the messenger should have notified you first thing this morning.”

Galadriel offered him an innocent smile. “I apologize, your majesty. I was unaware you had denied my request; I left my chambers very early this morning and have been waiting here for over an hour.” 

Gil-Galad dipped his head in acknowledgement of her reasoning, though the look in his eyes implied that he absolutely believed that she had arranged it intentionally to miss his refusal. 

“I have made a mistake,” Galadriel began, steeling herself for his disappointment.

His face remained passive, giving neither disappointment nor anger. “What have you done?”

Galadriel twisted the ring on her finger, subconsciously seeking comfort from its presence. “I just wanted to help. And I know that barring me from these chambers was in the best interest of my health, and my child’s, but I could not sit idly by while there is a war being raged for my home. Instead of worrying in these chambers, I worried in my own.” She prefaced, trying to explain her reasoning. “I decided that there might be a way I could help without ever leaving the safety of Lindon, without putting myself directly in harm's way. I used my mirror, and Nenya to amplify its power, to spy on the orcs in the Southlands.”

Gil-Galad sighed, the sound barely loud enough to be heard, and his expression grew troubled, knowing there was more to come. “And, what did you learn?”

“The orc leader, the dark elf, has begun construction on a fortress in the Southlands. They are building it quickly, right into the bedrock of the mountain. And they have plans to attack Eregion first. He mentioned something about digging.”

Gil-Galad turned his gaze to Elrond, who had grown pale in the wake of this revelation. “Send a message to Lord Celebrimbor, immediately. And reach out to your friend in Khazad-Dum. See if he or any of his kin have heard whisperings of any orcs within the mountains.” He turned back to Galadriel, ceasing his pacing around the room. “Apart from the foolishness of using a ring of power and your own magic to a dangerous extent while with child, I have yet to hear of another mistake. I do not think that is what you were referring to, Galadriel. What else?”

She almost shrunk beneath his gaze, feeling small even in the wake of her successful mission. “I did not think the orc to be the true mastermind behind this war. The tactical information was helpful, but it is but one piece of a much grander plan, I am certain.” She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. “I sought to spy on Sauron, to try and learn anything else about their end-goals.”

Elrond gasped, incredulousness breaking across his face. Gil-Galad offered nothing in the moments after her confession. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, and his hands, closed into tight fists, rested on top of the table as he leaned into it, eyes fixed on the map on the table.

“And?” He asked curtly.

Galadriel swallowed. “He saw me.” The admission came out barely louder than a whisper, but she swore she could hear it echo. “He spoke to me.”

Gil-Galad moved across the room to sit next to her, his expression morphing from one of frustration to one of concern. “And what did he say?”

“The first time,” she winced, already knowing how it sounded. “I was able to sever the connection before he could discern too much from me. He saw me, however, and he learned of my child.” The panic was beginning to swell in her chest again, remembering the near-desperation he had expressed.

“The use of the ring exhausted me, and I sent for a servant to request this meeting, and went to bed. Yet my dreams were not my own. He had pulled my sleeping mind to him, and even with Nenya I could not free myself. He blocked the power of the ring, somehow. He is not currently involved with the war in the Southlands. Wherever he was, it was not in the Southlands. I smelled neither ash nor brimstone. It looked like some noble’s keep, though I did not recognize any heraldry. I did not get much of a chance to explore.”

“What did he say to you, Galadriel?” Gil-Galad pressed her, his tone gentling as he discerned her growing distress.

“He said that my child changed his plans. That he had lacked clarity before, but no longer. He expressed his renewed interest in cleansing Middle Earth, and healing it. He said that he would take care of everything. That he would not be kept from his child.” Galadriel fought back tears, frightened by his determination, and angry at her own stupidity. “He will not leave me be.”

The silence weighed heavily between the three, Elrond attempting to comfort his friend by gently squeezing her hand. Gil-Galad kept his peace, and she could feel his own exhaustion seeping into the room. It was he who had pulled the Elves up from the tatters of war in the age before, he who had wrought hard-won peace. And in less than a year, she had put it all in jeopardy.

Self-doubt plagued her mind, and self-hatred surged within her, making her wish, not for the first time, that she had drowned in that storm.

“You don’t mean that, do you?” A familiar voice asked, and she could not help but rise to her feet, stumbling from her chair. She saw him as she turned, leaning against the wall in the back of the room. He was dressed differently than what she had seen him in the night before, a dark cloak and cowl around his shoulders.

“He’s here.” She warned aloud, answering the question Elrond had yet to pose. “Remove the maps.” Elrond obeyed, hurrying across the room to sweep them into his arms and move them away from view. Gil-Galad stood at her side, hand coming to rest on her lower back, offering support and strength. 

“Fair’s fair, my lady,” Halbrand said, appearing unhurried and unbothered by her announcement. “But I have little care for the plans of your armies, though we are on the same side.”

“We are not on the same side,” she hissed, refusing the very idea. "And stay out of my mind."

“The enemy of my enemy, Galadriel…” He trailed off, inspecting the room with a critical eye. “Where are we? I do not recall seeing this room in Eregion, and Celebrimbor was most accommodating in showing me around.” He smirked a little, a secret tucked in the corner of his mouth.

Gil-Galad held her arm, though she couldn’t tell if he was holding her up or holding her back. “Do not listen to him, Galadriel. He is goading you for information, I have no doubt. You must resist.”

Halbrand scoffed at this, eyes narrowing at the Elven King. “Well, well. The ineffectual king himself. So blinded by his own pride at raising your people up, he tried to banish you when dared suggest the work wasn’t done. And what’s this?” He asked, his voice dropping to a low, simmering anger. His eyes were drawn to where Gil-Galad had laid his arm, the hand resting on Galadriel’s back. “Do you mean to replace me, Galadriel?” He taunted, his lips twisting in a cruel smirk. “Tell me. Has the King been welcomed to your bed, too? Have you finally acknowledged your taste for power?”

She seethed, her fear shrinking in the wake of her anger. “You are vile!” She could not stop the words from coming out, some part of her revolting at how he had twisted Gil-Galad’s genuine graciousness and friendship.

He grinned, his green eyes alighting with mischief and satisfaction. “Is that a no?” He asked again, stepping closer, ignoring Elrond and Gil-Galad’s presence altogether. 

“Galadriel, what do you need?” Elrond tried to catch her attention, wanting to help but unsure how. “How can I help you?”

“Did he offer?” He asked, knowing he was under her skin now. “To claim my bastard and raise him as his own? If you had accepted, would you have welcomed him to your bed? If wagging tongues concern you, my offer still stands.” 

Galadriel felt a chill travel down her spine. “I don’t know,” she replied to Elrond, tearing her gaze away from her adversary to meet Elrond’s own panic stricken eyes. “I don’t know how to break it.” She whispered, trying to use Nenya to banish him. He paused only for a moment, giving her a dry, disappointed look.

“What do you want, Sauron?” Gil-Galad asked aloud, directing his question at the unseen spirit taunting his friend.

Halbrand’s gaze never left Galadriel’s face, waiting for her to answer his own question. When she did not reply, his gaze wandered to where Gil-Galad stood. “Are you going to tell him what I want, Galadriel?”

Galadriel shook her head, murmuring. “It does not bear repeating.” 

He laughed at that, an almost boyish grin on his face. “Doesn’t it? Wasn’t that the whole point of you spying on me in the first place? Come, Galadriel. Tell him the whole truth. I plan to take control of the Southlands once more, and put that traitorous dark elf out of his long begotten misery, along with every vile orc he has bred to do his bidding. Go on. Tell them.”

Galadriel narrowed her eyes. “I will not speak of your ‘plans’ as they are undoubtedly lies, crafted only to confuse and put us at a disadvantage.”

He shook his head, the soft brown curls bouncing at the nape of his neck. “I do not lie to you Galadriel. These are my plans. I am going to save Middle Earth, and reforge it into a paradise. Valinor will be nothing in comparison to what this place will become.”

Gil-Galad applied pressure to her elbow, catching her gaze. “Do not face him alone, Galadriel. Tell us what he says. We will help you keep your course.”

Galadriel hesitated before offering a stuttering echo of his plans. 

Elrond scoffed, a dark look twisting his features into an unrecognizable expression on his face. “He means to subjugate the people of Middle-Earth and call it healing.”

Halbrand walked closer to the group, inspecting Elrond carefully, standing far too close for Galadriel’s comfort. “Step back,” she ordered, hissing at him, even knowing that he should not be able to harm her friends with only his spirit present. Still, he had managed to have some manner of physical presence, even though he was not here. She would take no chances. He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised by her vitriol, and held his hands up, stepping back as commanded.

“Motherhood is making you fiercer,” he commented, gaze warming in an all too familiar way. “You’re very protective of the boy.”

Galadriel knew that he had not seen anything that was not common knowledge, nothing that he himself had not seen in Eregion, but she felt as though he had uncovered yet one more chink in her armor. Her friendship with Elrond was well known. The kinship she felt with him was not. He was a grown man, and she never disrespected him by forgetting that, even for a moment. But Sauron had seen her defensiveness and knew that it was not the same as expressed for a friend. His attention was restored solely to her once more, and she felt heat creep along her neck.

“Can you not see the benefit to my plans? I mean to destroy our enemies, Galadriel, yours and mine, to keep our son safe.” He sighed, seeming tired of repeating himself. “You’ll see. When all is settled, and the Southlands are restored, and peace extends to every corner of this land, you’ll see. You fear my darker tendencies, and what they might mean for my ruling of Middle Earth, but you neglect the effect of your own rule. You continue to deny your own greatness, your own capabilities.”

“I will have no part of this,” she argued, refusing to be party to his designs. 

“You will,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Together, we will find balance with one another. And Middle Earth will flourish because of it. Our son is a promise to the land itself, Galadriel, and the beginning of a legacy that will one day reach the stars themselves. As will any other of our children you may bear.”

She scoffed, almost at a loss for words at his presumption. “You are mad if you even think—”

“Have you decided on a name yet?” He cut her off, not allowing her to finish her rejection. He hummed, thoughtfully stroking his beard. His sly eyes caught her own once more, mischief dancing in green. “How about… Fëanor?”

She lost her temper and pulled herself from Gil-Galad’s grasp, grabbing a cheese knife from the tray and lunging for Sauron with an angry cry. His ghostly hand caught her arm as it had done in Eregion months ago, preventing her from striking him. “I’ll take that as a no. We’ll work on it later,” he promised, and pushed her arm down and to the side, sweeping in to steal a kiss from her lips that had parted in outrage. He vanished moments later, too soon for her to even chastise him. She stumbled back, the sudden loss of support jarring her equilibrium. Elrond and Gil-Galad caught her arms, helping her to sit. 

She tossed the knife carelessly onto the tray, anger boiling beneath her skin. Elrond and Gil-Galad remained silent, contemplative in the wake of all that had transpired. Abruptly, she pushed herself to her feet.

“I need to leave.” She was resolved, determined not to endanger her friends or their plans any further. “Evidently this connection works both ways. We cannot afford for him to see our plans.”

“Well, I agree you should probably stay out of the war councils,” Elrond reiterated, reminding her that she was never supposed to be here anyway.

“I meant Lindon,” she replied in kind, certain now that his visits would become more regular as he searched for both information and her location. “After the child is born, he will come. It will be too dangerous to stay where he knows I have friends.”

“Where will you go?” Gil-Galad asked, not arguing with her. He understood, in a way that Elrond did not, what her fears were. That Sauron would eventually come for her, would be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. That she would fight, and lose, and her friends would be the collateral.

“Lórien,” She said after a moment, considering her options. It was smaller than Eregion and Lindon, and well hidden, if closer to the Southlands than was perhaps wise. If she had any chance at all, it would be there. “I will go to Lórien.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel gasped, back arching off the bed, toes curling into the sheets. She writhed, fingers clutching the mattress sheets for lack of purchase anywhere else. She could feel her orgasm building, a slow, coiling serpent in her gut, rising higher, and higher. Just as she felt it begin to crest, she awoke, and the feeling faded. She snarled, throwing a pillow across the room, and bit her lip to prevent a louder scream from escaping.

 Her thighs were tense from the almost-orgasm, a stark reminder that she had not met her delightful end. Her heart was still racing, still beating as if she were in the throes of passion. It was infuriating. This was the fourth night this week she had awoken in such a state. Every time, she woke before she came. Every time,  the feeling slipped through her fingers like sand.

She was months along in her pregnancy now, and while the healers continued to tell her that she should be due any day, ‘any day’ had now extended into over a month. She was fourteen months into her pregnancy, and her belly had continued to grow. In quiet discourse during one of her visits, a healer had suggested that there might be more than one child.

The thought had not occurred to her; she had only felt the presence of one spirit within her. But the possibility remained, a lingering question in everyone’s minds. She had delayed her departure to Lórien until the child was born, at her healer's insistence. The roads were too dangerous for her, and a large retinue to accompany her would attract too much attention. 

Her heartbeat returning to a normal pace, she carefully and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, scooting to the edge of the bed. Perhaps the most inconvenient aspect of this pregnancy was her decreasing ability to satisfy her own lust. The truth was, she simply could not reach without straining herself. Healers told her such desires were normal, that it was to be expected at this stage of her pregnancy.

Galadriel did not think they truly understood. More nights than not, her sleep was interrupted and she was left wanting. The strength of the desire was not normal. But to describe such things, even to a healer, was distasteful. 

It had been two months since Sauron had seen fit to visit her. Two months since he had appeared in the council chambers and promised her Valinor on Middle Earth. His silence was driving her mad. She had expected him to visit her daily, his obsession and desire to be with her seeming to be his driving motivation. Yet, he did not. She had spent the last two months waiting for him to show himself, worrying each evening before she slept that he would choose that night to make himself known. It was concerning. 

Elrond had made a point to spend more time with her, some part of his keen intuition telling him that leaving her to her own devices was unwise. Or, perhaps, it was the fallout from her last impulsive decision. Regardless, she would not complain. He escorted her to lunch every day.

Often, they sat by the Gulf, in the sand, and ate in perfect peace and tranquility. Sometimes they spent an hour or two walking the shoreline, collecting shells and beautiful rocks, talking about some hopeful, amorphous future for their people. He had become like a rock to her, strong and stable, and unmoving regardless of the direction of the breeze. 

He made a point to give her news of the war effort, despite Gil-Galad maintaining his ban of Galadriel from any contribution, and she was grateful for it. The Southlands had gone silent. It was eerie, and unexpected. One day, the lands were crawling with orcs, and the next they were gone.

Gil-Galad was exercising an abundance of caution and had thus far refused to send a full expedition in to explore, not until they could learn more from the scouts they sent. 

The problem was, of course, that the scouts weren’t coming back. At Celebrimbor’s insistence, a contingent of soldiers from Eregion had joined the army at Lindon to bolster their forces if the orcs should reappear, including a handful of weapon smiths and healers. He seemed disturbingly unconcerned with the orcs' plans to attack Eregion first, but Galadriel could only guess as to why.

She supposed that Sauron was behind it, that he was making good on his promise to cleanse Middle Earth. But caution had been impressed upon her after what happened last time she dared to spy on him, however, and she was intentionally trying not to attract his attention. She could not verify her suspicions.

Something about the circumstance, while it inspired hope that the Southlands could be reclaimed, was too suspicious for Galadriel to feel comfortable. The fires of that mountain still spit and burned the landscape; occasionally another part of the forest would catch aflame and spread. But of the monsters that wandered the landscape? Not a sign.

She slowly brought herself to stand, bracing herself against the bedpost as she did so. The longer this pregnancy went on, the more tired she became. Her child was strong. His fëa was strong, and she could feel it as keenly as she felt her own. But she feared that as he grew stronger, she grew weaker. So few records remained from the time of Lúthien Tinúviel; they did not know what to expect.

There were no details of the pregnancy, no hints of how the labor had gone, and every day that passed, Galadriel’s anxiety grew. The only thing her healers had determined was that her pregnancy would not run the course of a normal elfs. Maia were strong, and strong willed, and apparently would come when they were ready, and not a day before. 

She felt the damp between her thighs and grimaced, rolling her eyes to the heavens. There was none that she could ask for relief. None that she would ask, at least. Not wanting to return to her bed in such a manner, and yet unwilling to disturb even a servant to draw her a bath, she decided to visit the fresh springs in one of the city’s smaller bath houses.

It was a public space, but it would likely be abandoned at this time of the evening. She carefully collected her few personal things and slowly made her way from the palace into the quiet streets of Lindon.

The moon was high in the sky, offering a beautifully lit path through the streets. She felt altogether fortunate for her circumstances. Gil-Galad had not restricted her in any other way but to ban her from the war meetings, even despite her grave mistake. She had free run of the city, and never feared any dark corner. There were still incidents, of course. Not all elves were good and pure. But none dared bother her, if they thought of it.

The bathhouse was empty, as expected. She was grateful. The large pool was still and clear as Galadriel entered. Hot springs typically fed into it to keep it piping hot, but that was during the day. At night, they closed it off, and the pool instead maintained a warm, but average temperature. This particular bath house was something of a well-kept secret. It was small and had few attendants, making it somewhat unpopular, but that was why Galadriel liked it best. 

That, and the large platform and lounge that rested in the center of the pool. It was slightly under the water, perhaps only an inch or two, but offered a reprieve for those partaking in the pool to sit, or lay in the water, and enjoy the sunlight from the glass ceiling. Or moonlight, as Galadriel preferred.

She disrobed and entered the pool slowly, almost groaning at the relief the weightlessness offered her. She swam to the platform in the center of the pool, not pulling herself onto it but simply clinging to its edge, anchoring herself. She lay her head on her arms, body floating and head supported.

Her back no longer ached, which was a mercy in and of itself, and she could feel the tension in her muscles fading. She floated for a long while, almost dozing in the water. Her sleep had been so interrupted the last few days. A quiet chiding noise roused her from her sleepy state as a firm hand snaked around her back and pulled her upright.

She thrashed, startled by her sudden companion, but found herself held firm, arms locked in the embrace from her companion. Hazel eyes met her own, appraising her. Her heart pounded. She was taken aback at his sudden appearance, and suddenly, keenly, aware of her nakedness. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, displeasure evident in his tone. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She hissed, narrowing her eyes, and refused to let herself be cowed.

“It looks like you’re falling asleep in a large body of water, unattended by others who could keep you safe from any accidents.”

“I was fine.” She argued stiffly, all too aware of how she had not been held thusly since the last time he had held her. The feeling of his skin against hers like this was still familiar, though it had been over a year since she had felt it.

Her nipples pebbled under the water, the tops of her breast covered in gooseflesh. She was aware of it all, her body’s traitorous reaction to this intimacy, how it had been craving this for weeks, and attempted to bury the feeling.

“I beg to differ,” he replied, his right hand drifting to her stomach and resting there. “Your friends should take better care of you. Why are you here at this time of night?”

She did not want to answer him. At the very least, she did not want him to know the truth. “Sleep does not come to me easily these days. My body aches; the springs help.” She kept her tone clipped, refusing to give him any more than that. She had not lied, technically. Lies of omission were his weapon of choice; they could be hers, too. 

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a very slight grin. “I could help.” His left hand trailed further south, from her lower back down to the back of her thigh, just underneath her ass.

She slapped his chest with her hands, digging her nails into the skin above his chest, lip curling in anger. “You haven’t the right. Not anymore. Release me!”

He let go of her, startling her with his sudden obedience. She bobbed ungracefully in the water for a moment, glaring at him, before moving to swim away. His hands grabbed her from behind and hauled her through the water until she faced the platform in the water, hands grasping it to find some purchase. Quickly, strong hands set to work on her back, kneading the muscles and working them until they loosened. She could not help the moan that escaped her lips. 

She loosened her vice-like grip on the edge of the platform and leaned on it instead, bracing herself with her elbows, as he massaged her back in the water. It was the most physical relief she had felt in over a year, having resigned herself to the uncomfortable reality of pregnancy. Deft, strong fingers worked the knots from her neck and shoulders, the rough heels of his palms alternating to sweeping motions to force the muscles to stretch out. 

She all but melted onto the platform as time passed, eventually crawling onto it to lay on her side when her arms protested working at all. His hands worked her tired muscles over and over until she felt boneless, almost more relaxed and on the verge of sleep than she had been when entered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to give credit to the vile creature responsible for her relief. Privately, in the back of her mind, she mollified herself by musing that if his hands were occupied thus, they could not be committing evil elsewhere.

After several minutes, he gently turned her over, so she lay on her back on the platform, only submerged an inch in the water. His hands found her calves next, working them from the top of her ankles all the way up to her knees.

She had not realized even those muscles were strained. He massaged her biceps, fingers loving and firm as he worked each muscle tenderly. Smith’s hands, she mused, were far more dexterous than she had ever given them credit for being.

By the time his fingers reached her thighs, ready to knead them into soft compliance, her will had melted along with her body. Her mind and tortured morals were both silent for the first time in months.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” He asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “But I think there’s more I could do yet that would bring you relief.”

Her mind buzzed, trying to make sense of what he was implying. She felt dazed, her mind fuzzy and distanced from reality. The gentle heat from the water and his tender ministrations had relaxed her to the point of being insensate. Her head rested on the platform, her gaze turned upwards to the moon glowing down on her, feeling boneless and comfortable. 

It took her too long to realize he had gone quiet. She raised her head a little only to realize that she could not even see the crown of his head. He pulled her legs over his shoulders in a smooth motion and buried his face between her legs, clasping the tops of her thighs to keep her from moving.

Her back arched at the first warm lick, desire resurfacing as an ember amidst dry kindling. She could not see him over the swell of her belly, as far along as she was, nor could she reach any part of him but the fingertips digging into her thighs. 

He flattened his tongue against her and alternated his movements, kissing and sucking in a technique that he had perfected on her months before. Pleasure came quickly and intensely, building and building until she was right at the precipice, a shuddering cry stuck in her throat. He stopped, withdrawing his wicked tongue a half second too soon.

She cried out in frustration, tears swelling in the corner of her eyes, as her orgasm was denied to her a fifth time this week. He took the next step up from the waters onto the platform and leaned over her, careful of bearing too much of his weight down on her. It had been so long since she had experienced a semblance of this kind of intimacy, or pleasure. And night, after night, after night she had been denied completion. 

She could not help surging upwards, just a little, arching her back so that she met his hovering form, skin-to-skin. The smile he offered her was a gentle one, so reminiscent of the human man she had almost bound herself to, but his eyes were anything but gentle. Brimstone burned the hazel in the eyes boring into her, cruel satisfaction and desire reflecting back at her.

He leaned closer still, brushing his nose against her cheeks and touching his forehead to hers. “Ask me, Galadriel. Just ask. I would give you anything, if you would but ask.”

She could have killed him. She would, as soon as she was not with child and tripping over her own swollen feet. Unsatisfied lust cried out within her, demanding her to submit. She could feel him between her legs, could feel his cock dragging ever so lightly across her slit. Staring into his eyes, she swallowed and jutted out her chin, memories of another night dancing in her mind.

The first night they had shared, when he had taken her in the forge. He had made her beg then too. She was touch starved and wanting after months of having him, and more months of not having him. The intimacy they shared had been addicting, a union of more than bodies. She had been desperate for connection then. 

She was desperate for it now. 

She was also angrier.

Meeting his gaze instead, she let her hand come up to cup his face, thumbing the soft flesh of his lower lip. She pressed her thumb into his mouth, just slightly, dampening the pad with his tongue, before withdrawing it. Carefully, she used the wet digit to trace a path down her clavicle, eventually resting on top of her own breast. She groped her own breast, using her thumb to fondle her stiffened peak, never breaking his gaze. She let out a pleased little moan, her voice hitching a half an octave up.

A spark of uncertainty followed by anger broke across his face. A smile graced her own lips. Her other hand, idle till now, she brought up, pressing two fingers into her own mouth, and sucked, watching his own mouth drop open slightly, throat bobbing. She let the saliva gather in her mouth.

Each time she sucked, it got a little louder, a little more lewd. His breathing was ragged now, and she could feel the bruises forming on the outside of her thighs where his fingers dug deeper into the flesh. The moment held, both staring at the other, waiting for each other to break first. Galadriel was determined; this time, it would not be her.

She pulled her fingers from her mouth with a soft pop, a trail of saliva dripping from her mouth. He was hardly breathing now, seeming frozen and uncomprehending. She stopped fondling her breast and placed her hand back on the platform, using it to push herself up into a half seated position. This was not very comfortable, not for what she was trying to do, but that wasn’t the point just now. This was a gamble as much as a test of wills. 

Though she had moved, he did not. 

Kneeling between her thighs, he remained hovering over her, but they were so much closer now. She tilted her head up to him, lips a breath away from his own, breasts pressed against his chest. Her hand snaked around her belly, just brushing against the curls at his navel, before finding her clit. Her mouth parted open, and ecstasy began to build again, never having really left.

She panted, his face no more than an inch away from her own, and rubbed her clit, occasionally bumping into the heavy cock swinging between her thighs. Every rock of her hips against her hand brought her mouth closer to his, never quite touching.

She could not reach quite far enough to insert her fingers into herself, the awkward position and size of her belly making that impossible, but she made do. Her climax began to climb again, and she almost laughed at the fury on his face.

It was he that broke this time.

He snarled and jerked her hand from her clit and pushed it above her head, pinning it to the platform. He sheathed himself inside her in the next breath, hand gliding from her thigh up to her hip, his cock sliding inside her silken cunt until he was buried to the hilt.

She came as soon as she felt the head of his cock scrape the inside of her walls, her hips canting up from the platform, head thrown back and blinded. A strangled moan escaped his mouth, feeling her tighten around him as she came, and he set a punishing pace, seeking his own release.

His arm curled under her back and pulled her up as he rocked back on his heels, her legs naturally bracketing his hips as he positioned her to mount his lap. His mouth attached to her breast, lavishing attention on each, as he thrust up into her more slowly but at a deeper angle. 

Galadriel could feel another orgasm swelling. Her arms draped across his shoulders; she buried her fingers in the soft tendrils of his hair at the base of his scalp and yanked his head sharply back. He released her breast and met her gaze once more, her fingers threaded in his hair, and used his own free hand to pull her face down for a searing kiss.

He plundered her mouth, as much seeking to devour her as he was to taste her. Galadriel responded in kind, biting his tongue and lips when he got too rough; reason cried out somewhere in the back of her mind, and was ignored. 

Her orgasm crested and Galadriel could not swallow the cry of pleasure this time, her keening cry echoing in the empty bathhouse. He came only a moment later, the feeling of her tightening around him again too much for him to withstand, buried to the hilt inside her. He reclined back, feet slipping out in front of him, and Galadriel followed, resting on his chest for the moment, sated and exhausted.  

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying and failing to reconcile what she had just done.

A soft kiss was pressed to her temple, fingers carding through her wet hair. “I don’t think you understand, Galadriel, the extent of the effect you have on me.” Callused fingers lightly stroked her back in soothing circular patterns.

“I crave your light like a moth to a flame; I think you’d burn me, if I let you.” His voice almost implied that he would not mind if she tried. “I’d meant to stay away for a while longer. But you cried out for me, every night in your dreams, so wanting, so sweet,” soft lips whispered kisses in the column of her throat. He slipped his arm around her back and gently pulled her off of him, supporting her belly as they turned. 

They lay facing each other in her bed, the sheets twisted and tangled around their waists. Confusion clouded her mind, trying to make sense of what had happened. The drying seed between her thighs could not be ignored, nor could the dampness of her hair, both confirming their lewd act in the bathhouse, and yet she was returned to her bed though she had no recollection of walking herself back.

“You must get some proper rest, my love. Tomorrow the first few of my gifts will arrive. I hope you will be pleased by them.” A soft kiss silenced any protestation or exclamation of confusion, and he was gone in the next moment.

Immediately, exhaustion struck her, her body sore from the massage and the intense love-making, and she could not fight the wave of sleep that came over her.

The next morning, a series of strong knocks aroused her from sleep. She noted, with some annoyance, the amount of light in her room and perceived that she had indeed slept very late. She donned a robe, only pausing a moment to inspect the finger shaped bruises on her hips, and tied it shut around her belly, and answered the door with the sleep still in her eyes.

Elrond stood in front of the door, a look of surprise crossing his face at her state of undress. “Finally got some sleep, did you?” He asked jokingly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“What is it?” She cut to the chase, knowing her friend well enough to know that he would not be coming to her before their lunch appointment unless something had happened.

“A company has arrived from the Southlands, bearing the banner of the King of the Southlands, Halbrand,” Elrond let this sink in, licking his lips nervously.

“They claim to be sent by him to bear good news, and gifts.” He breathed, hesitating. “They say their orders will only let them speak to you.”

Galadriel nodded, a chill crawling up her spine. “I will dress and be out momentarily.” Elrond nodded and turned his back to the door, waiting to escort her.

She discarded her robe and exchanged it for a loose, light gown of turquoise blue and a pair of silk-woven sandals. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a moment of serenity, to steel herself against whatever lay waiting for her.

She opened the door and gratefully accepted Elrond’s arm, and made her way to the main hall where their visitors waited. She did not recognize any of the men that waited, ever carefully scanning their faces, but she did recognize the symbol on their banner. 

They kneeled immediately as she entered, bowing their heads to her in reverence and deference to her rank, and did not move. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Rise,” she ordered, and the men obeyed immediately, confirming her fears. Sauron was proclaiming to more than just her what his intentions towards her were. “I was told you would speak only with me. What is it you have to say?”

One of the men stepped forward, the decorative clasps on his cape indicating some rank. “We have come to express the goodwill of our Lord and King, Halbrand Maironiôn, Lord of the Southlands, Savior of Men. In this regard, we bring gifts. First, for the child,” He waved an arm and two men of his company stepped forward, bearing a large chest. 

They opened the lid, and Galadriel felt her breath catch in her throat. The chest was filled with brilliant jewels and stones, not one of them with a single visible impurity, some uncut and others set in exquisitely crafted necklace settings and bracelets. A small, incredibly detailed coronet rested on top of the pile. Galadriel peered closer at it and confirmed, with no small amount of trepidation, the interwoven heraldry of her own house and the Southlands inlaid in the gold and silver.

A few finely crafted toys also lay in the chest. Two, in particular, caught her eye.

The first was a delicately carved and painted horse, whose mane and legs seemed mechanically inclined to move when turned a certain way.

The second, an toy Elven soldier that bore a disturbing resemblance to her deceased husband, right down to the style of braids in his hair, the shape of his nose, and the color of his cloak. This was a poppet made in Celeborn’s likeness.

Blood drained from Galadriel’s face, a shaking hand coming to rest on her stomach as a dreaded possibility brought itself to light in her mind.

“And for you, your Grace,” the man addressed her directly, and gestured for yet another chest to be brought forth. “And you, your Grace,” he said, turning to face Gil-Galad. “Proof of our goodwill, and our intent.” Gil-Galad moved to stand next to Galadriel, offering her a grim look and his quiet support. The man waved his hand as he had done before, and his men complied with the unspoken order, and opened the lid on the chest.

The severed head of the Moriondor, the Orc who called himself Adar, rested in the chest, an iron wrought crown of thorns nailed into his skull. 

The captain cleared his throat, breaking the horrified silence shared between the Elves. Galadriel raised her eyes to meet his gaze, uncertain what her own expression might be conveying. Once certain he had her attention, he and his men all bowed to her again.

“My King invites you to join him, my lady, at your earliest convenience. He declares the salvation of Middle-Earth underway, and wishes for you to be by his side as he completes his work.” The Captain stands tall again, pride and zealotry echoing in his voice. 

“Will you join him?” He asks, ignoring the quiet uproar of the Elven guards and Gil-Galad’s own quiet refusal, gaze never leaving Galadriel’s face.

”Will you, my lady?”

Chapter Text

She did not go with them that day, nor any day after, though his emissaries came often to ask her again. Elrond had extended her polite refusal of all gifts, for her or her child, and did not allow them to see her again for the duration of their visit. This was but a beginning, she knew, and like dominoes, other things quickly began to fall in place.

Over the course of the next two months, Sauron, as King Halbrand, would manage to unite the Kingdoms of Men under one banner. He allowed them to retain their independence, but only if they recognized him as High King. Elrond was often gone now, always traveling between the few remaining Elvish strongholds, trying to keep their own people united.

Gil-Galad was beginning to lose favor. Rumblings of discontent began to sweep the kingdom, whispers of how prosperous the new Kingdom of Men was, and how Elves were being left behind. Elves were prideful beings by nature. Their immortality often reinforced their feelings of superiority, as did their long memories, and while it felt unbelievable that the Men of Middle Earth were achieving greater things than they, it was hard to ignore. Elves began to leave the cities of Eregion and Lindon both to seek brighter futures in Halbrand’s kingdom.

He had not yet entirely repaired the landscape, but scouts reported that the healing of the land was well in progress. The fires were put out. One acre at a time, the land was being cleaned up. Gil-Galad was resolved not to be swayed by the measures Sauron was taking to win the hearts of the people of Middle Earth. He did not trust that this perceived goodness was genuine or long-lasting.

Galadriel shared his concerns. Much in the way that the Orc-father’s severed head had been sent as a gift, other disturbing gifts soon followed. Bodies of long-fallen Elves began to make their way to Lindon and Eregion. Sons, brothers, and husbands that had been missing for over an age were returning to their families for proper burials. It was a gift that had not been granted to her. Each day she expected to be called to identify her husband, or friend, who had never been returned to her. Thus far, she remained disappointed.

It was no small irony, that as the fires of the Southlands were put out, the Kingdoms of the Elves were set ablaze. Day after day, mass funerals were held for their long lost dead. The gratitude they felt at having their loved ones returned to them wore thin as the constant stream of funeral processions reminded everyone of what they had lost.

The question of blame began to dance in the minds of the people as old grudges were dredged up. Some hated Men and blamed them for falling to Morgoth’s persuasion. Others blamed their leaders, dead and living, for failing to protect their families and drawing them into unnecessary wars. Unrest was growing in the city.

And the name Sauron was no longer synonymous with evil. Halbrand had publicly and formally discarded the name, titling it the name of the slave Morgoth had kept under his boot. He claimed the name Halbrand, and only Halbrand, as his true name, the name of a freed man who sought only to heal what had been hurt. As far as campaigns went, none had ever had such success.

With Elrond often gone, Galadriel’s days were spent alone, or in the company of her attendant, Ealieon. He had proven to be steadfast and kind in the absence of her truest friend, and took up the duties of keeping her company without complaint. He had come with Celebrimbor’s people months ago, initially serving as an attendant to her healer, Othorion.

As time progressed, she found Ealieon to be a kindred spirit, and was generally a much better patient with him around, lonely as she was. Othorion gave him leave to remain with Galadriel as her pregnancy dragged on, unable to spend as much time with Galadriel himself, and she did not complain. He came to her in the morning and often stayed until dusk, playing games of chance with her and singing old songs that reminded her of home.

Today, however, she was not so fortunate. Some of Othorion’s people had left the city with other ex-patriots, leaving the old healer with too much work and too few hands. It was the first time in over a month that Galadriel had been alone. She summoned a maid to help her dress and bring her food to break her fast, and invited the girl to eat with her. The young Sindarin she-elf tentatively accepted the invitation, and told Galadriel stories of her travels. She had recently relocated to Lindon in search of work, and needed a fresh start after experiencing some manner of heartbreak. She was not as good company as Ealieon, but time passed more quickly with some company than none. It was almost time for lunch when a knock was heard at her door.

The maid answered it for her, and Elrond let himself into the room, offering the girl a hasty greeting. Galadriel could not surge to her feet to embrace him as she wished, but did open her arms and beckon him forward to her. He went, bending over at the waist to embrace her even though she remained sitting on the couch. “Good grief,” he teased gently, wiping the budding tears in the corners of her eyes away. “I was hardly gone.”

“Too long,” Galadriel scolded, having worried about him given the state of the unrest in the kingdom.

“Not long enough,” He countered, straightening, and gestured to her belly. “Is your son waiting for something in particular to happen before gracing us with his presence, or does he just want to make a dramatic entrance?”

Galadriel laughed. “If I knew, Elrond, I would see it done that he might be born and I could be wholly myself again.”

Elrond joined her on the couch and they chatted for a while, exchanging pleasantries. The maid brought lunch after a time and excused herself, bashful in Elrond’s presence. After a while, Galadriel knew that her friend was stalling, avoiding telling her the important news that had brought him home, and called him on it.

“Will you sing me more bawdy dwarven songs that you’ve learned, or will you tell me what terrible occasion has brought you home?”

The smile in the corners of his mouth dimmed, and he fell silent for a moment.

“Goodness, it must be troubling indeed if you are having a hard time finding words,” she teased, trying to draw him out of his melancholy.

“The world is changing, Galadriel, faster than we are prepared to deal with, I’m afraid. King Halbrand… he has forged an alliance with the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, and… Lord Celebrimbor.”

Galadriel’s mouth parted in shock. “Lord Celebrimbor? Surely not. He has always been a steadfast friend of Lindon and our High King.”

“He swears that he is still, and yet… He has given Halbrand his oath of fealty. He has sent smiths and materials alike to Halbrand’s capital, in preparation…” He trailed off and swallowed a lump in his throat, looking pained.

“In preparation of what, Elrond?” She asked, hesitant and unsure if she even wanted to know.

“The forging of more rings, Galadriel.” Her blood ran cold. “Halbrand has convinced him that he means to share his power, the power of the Unseen world, and that it should be shared among men and dwarves too.”

“This cannot be.” She declared, and rose to pace the room. “Dwarves - they may have a chance, being Aule’s children. But Men? Men are corruptible, even the best of them. This will bind their hearts to darkness forever.”

“I raised these concerns to Celebrimbor, and he is certain that it will not happen; he has been wholly taken in by Halbrand.” Elrond replied, disheartened; he had already had this conversation thrice over with the famed smith.

“He is a fool,” she hissed, fists clenched at her sides.

“He’s a fool with a majority. Gil-Galad is on the backfoot, Galadriel. He’s losing the allegiance of our people, our allies, every day that he does not side with Halbrand.”

“Why does he not? He could at least pretend and buy time. What prevents him from playing Sauron’s game long enough for him to show his true self?”

Elrond said nothing, merely looked at her for a long moment.

“This has already been discussed.” Galadriel interpreted his silence, hurt and anger rising up within her. “And no one saw fit to include me in the discussions of it. I might have had some insight, you know,” she chided, continuing to pace.

Still, he kept his silence, staring at her and waiting. Eventually, his gaze dropped to her stomach and lingered there for a moment, before he inclined his head and spoke. “Halbrand will not bargain with Gil-Galad, not so long as Gil-Galad keeps you here. He has expressed as much through his emissaries during their last few visits.”

“Gil-Galad is not holding me hostage,” she scoffed, gritting her teeth. “He has given me sanctuary.”

“Yes,” Elrond agreed, nodding. “Gil-Galad told him that he would not — could not — give you up… even when Halbrand bade him to do so.”

“Halbrand bade him to, what, force me to go to him?” She asked, tone sharpening.

“King Halbrand… encouraged Gil-Galad to… stop allowing you to run from your destiny — his words,” Elrond interjected hastily, seeing the fury growing on her face. “And if he did not agree to help you come to reason, he would neither barter nor trade with Gil-Galad’s kingdom. He has cut off all supplies, and the trade from his allies, to Lindon and the surrounding cities.”

Galadriel leaned heavily against the window, gazing into the gardens. “And… what of your other investigation?” She was almost afraid to ask.

Elrond remained silent. Too silent. She turned back to face him, to try and pull some information from the expression on his face. It was troubled, which belied nothing good, and also pained.

“Tell me,” she ordered, returning to her seat on the couch next to him. “You have learned something. I can tell. What have you learned of Celeborn?”

He swallowed heavily and took a long drink of his cold tea. “He is dead, Galadriel. Officially.”

Galadriel bore the news better than she herself expected; he had already been dead to her for so many years, and even the miniscule hope that had been raised when seeing his likeness in a poppet was not enough to soften her heart. “And?” She asked, waiting for the rest to come forth.

“He was… found in a compound that had been the Moriondor’s stronghold. He was not himself, Galadriel. Not anymore. When they rescued him from the darkness and brought him into the light, he went mad. The Moriondor had been experimenting on him. As soon as the light touched his face, he went into a violent rage. He had not been bound; no one was expecting him to attack his rescuers. He killed seven men before two managed to subdue him. In the struggle he fell a great distance down the mountainside, and his body broke in the fall.”

Fresh grief surged in her heart. The very thought that Celeborn might become such a wretched creature and meet such an untimely fate made her sick; he had not deserved such a fate. No one did. The brief hope that Celeborn might still be alive, might come back to her and stand beside her again, was gone. She felt numb, knowing, somehow, that this was a punishment.

Elrond grasped her hand and squeezed it, trying to impart some measure of comfort to her. He did not give her the rest of the details they had discerned from his body; the obvious signs of severe and prolonged torture, the cruel modifications that had been made to his appendages, or the extreme malnourishment he had experienced.

Nor did he tell her that that specific compound had already been searched twice. Celeborn had most certainly not been there the first two times it was searched.

There was little he could do for now but be as kind as he could despite the grave nature of the situation.

Galadriel pulled herself together, setting her grief aside. “What does Gil-Galad wish to do? Does he… wish me to go?” She would, if he asked. He had already done more for her than she ever could have expected, and she would not fault him for casting her out now to save what remained of their people, those who were holding fast to the light of the Valar.

“He wishes us all to go, Galadriel,” He replied, and steeled himself for her reaction. “He has ordered more ships to take any who wish to go to Valinor.”

“He’s abandoning Middle Earth.” Galadriel surmised, growing pale.

“We are hopelessly outnumbered, Galadriel. Even our own people are being swayed to Sauron’s side. The time of the Elves is over. The time of Men is now — it must be them who see the Deceiver for who he is, and take back their kingdoms. We are depleted from the last war, Galadriel, and tired. It is time for them to step up and do their part. We have fought long and hard enough.”

Galadriel considered his words, frowning. It was the antithesis of everything she felt, of everything her brothers had died for, and she could not fathom letting it go. Fighting was who she was, all she had been for centuries. And the people of Middle-Earth deserved to be fought for, didn’t they? The smallest child and the oldest crone, those who could not fight or flee; why should they be abandoned to the capricious rule of a being who could not discern the difference between love and obsession?

Elrond could see the struggle in her face, knowing all too well how his friend would recoil at the thought of abandoning this place. “I urge you to think of your child, Galadriel.”

Her head snapped to meet his gaze, the mention of her son breaking her reverie.

“Will you fight with him strapped to your back, Galadriel?” Elrond asked her gently, no judgment in his tone, only grim honesty. “Will you allow him to be raised by Sauron himself, whatever that may entail? Your allies are few, Galadriel, and we are leaving. If you decide to take this fight, you will be alone.”

“We?” She asked, searching his gaze and hoping that she had misheard him.

“We.” Elrond echoed, nodding.

She fell silent, thinking hard about her circumstances and the truth of Elrond’s counsel. Independent though she may be, she was not prepared to raise this child alone, or attempt to do so while on the run from Sauron himself. Their allies were turning against them at a rapid pace. Her heart squeezed painfully, the hopes and dreams she had shared with her brothers dying as the last flare of hope within her began to flicker. So much had been lost in pursuit of Middle Earth, of pulling it from the brink of destruction in the wake of Morgoth’s defeat. And it was all for naught.

“I am afraid, Elrond, that Valinor will not have me. Not after I have rejected it so callously, and not after I have unintentionally reinvigorated one of the greatest evils to walk this earth. And my child…” She trailed off, already bracing herself for the judgment her child would face simply for being sired by him.

“Your child is innocent,” Elrond argued, cutting her off. “We have agreed on that already. Valinor would not deny him entrance. Nor would they deny you, I believe. When the role you play in the world is small, the mistakes you make are small. Your role is not small. Everyone makes mistakes, Galadriel. I urge you to cast aside your pride and cease debasing yourself for not upholding yourself to the standards of Gods. It is enough to know what is right and try to live by it.”

She wished she believed him, that her faith in his wisdom was stronger than her doubt of herself; his words humbled her and offered her repentance. She had more than herself to consider now, and her hubris and self-importance could no longer be the driving force of her character.

“We,” Elrond said again, catching her attention and looking at her intently, “will go to Valinor together. All of us, Galadriel. And he will not dare follow us. You and your son would both be safe there. And the darkness of this world would never touch you again. Come with us to Valinor, Galadriel.”

Galadriel hesitated a moment longer, her soul clinging to some amorphous desire to continue her quest for justice, before nodding her consent. Elrond embraced her, relief evident in the slump of his shoulders, and kissed her forehead, offering approval of what he knew to be a hard decision.

She held her silence and accepted his comfort, unable to shake the quiet thought that whispered from the dark corners of her mind: Simply going to Valinor alone would not prevent the darkness from touching her, because the darkness had never stopped touching her. It had crept in a corner of her heart when her brothers died, when Celeborn disappeared, and it had never left. She tried to smother it in her pursuit of justice, hoping that if she succeeded she would know peace again; instead it had brought her to the one who caused it, and rather than banishing it once and for all, she had willingly fallen prey to him.

“I will inform the king of your decision. The ships are due to arrive in a fortnight,” Elrond said, and left her to go impart his only happy news to the King.

Two weeks. Galadriel pondered, with some small feeling of betrayal, that the King had been planning this much longer than that. There was so little time left for her here, to walk the gardens and bury her toes in the sand. Her heart ached for the loss of it. Tears, unbidden, streamed down her cheeks in small rivers.

A gentle thumb brushed them away, and she opened her eyes to see the object of her troubles standing in front of her. He looked like the King he claimed to be, dressed in a rich dark blue velvet tunic with fine silver thread embroidering his heraldry in the seams. No crown rested on his dark curls, but she could see the shape of it regardless.

“What troubles you, my love? I could feel your pain from across the world.” Halbrand asked, concern etched into his features, and he knelt in front of her.

“Do not call me that. You do not know what love is.” She argued, voice trembling from withholding the full weight of her emotions. She cursed whatever bond they shared that brought him to her now.

“I do,” he insisted, peering up at her. “I have known it for over a year now — you showed me. Though I wager I would know it better, with you at my side.”

“Lust is what you know,” She argued, shame creeping up her neck as she remembered her own weakness. “No doubt a side effect of the form you have taken. I have little doubt that if freed from it, you would be yourself again.”

He hummed and looked at her, considering her. “It was not lust that I felt when we fought together against the Orcs. It was not lust I felt, when you convinced me that I could be better than my past mistakes would imply. I will not say that I do not feel lust, Galadriel — I have never lied to you, and I do not intend to start now — but it did not come first. I am a Man, but I am a Maia, too. We are not predisposed to such mortal constraints and bindings as love, or even lust. I would feel neither if it were not for you.”

Galadriel took in the earnestness of his words and felt them reflected in her own heart. She had felt neither until meeting him, either. Not for centuries.

Briefly, she considered the possibility — the absolute, barest chance — that he did love her. That he was sincere, and his attempts to repair Middle-Earth were genuine. That he had never before felt such strong emotions and didn’t know what to do with them.

What all of those things would mean, for her and Middle Earth, if she considered them. If she had the strength to show him, and how maybe, just maybe, she could still save Middle Earth from a dark fate. She squeezed her eyes shut as more tears fell, unable to stop them in the wake of the impossible decision she had to make. She knew what her heart wanted to believe.

“Melin le Galadriel. Will you not come to me?” He pressed soft, chaste kisses on her eyelids and her cheeks, rubbing the tip of her nose with his own. “I am ready now. Come, and see the kingdom I have built for our family; I will show you.” He stood and pulled her swiftly to her feet. Galadriel felt him press into her mind and did not have the strength to resist; she went, steadied only by his strong hands around her waist, and opened her eyes to see a new place.

The halls of this new castle were almost opalescent, gleaming from fresh wax, made from newly carved precious stone. It was busy, dozens of dwarven workers and craftsmen were plying their trades to carve detailed inlays in the stone, and Elvish artists were present too, working with their dwarven counterparts. She marveled at the beauty of the place, not having seen its like since Valinor. Two thrones carved of gleaming white marble, adorned with gems that glittered like starlight, sat at the end of the hall, empty and waiting.

“Come, there is more.” Halbrand took her by her hand, barely contained excitement creeping onto his face, and led her down the long hall to a small set of doors that opened to the outside. The sun was shining bright and high in the sky, and from here Galadriel could see far beyond the castle walls, to the low green fields and meadows that surrounded them. The city, visible from this balcony, was radiant. She could see some damage in the distance, a bare remnant of the burned foliage and fields from the eruption of the mountain, but even there she could discern a return to life, some greenery creeping back up from the Earth.

“This is the Southlands?” She asked, not trusting the vision before her.

“Not anymore. Now, it is called Cilmeles.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice, hard to ignore or argue. “This is home, Galadriel. The finest artists, the best craftsmen - they will flock to this place, once it is completed. I have forged alliances among Men, Dwarves, and Elves, and all are welcome to call this place home. Never again will there be war on Middle-Earth.” The zealotry in his voice gave her pause, a lingering doubt of his supposed transformation.

“You cannot guarantee there will be no war, Halbrand. People will do as they like, and people covet too often for there not to be disputes. It is the nature of the world.” She disagreed, watching him carefully.

His cheek twitched, and she caught just the barest hint of annoyance from him before it vanished. “We hold all the cards, Galadriel. With the alliances I have made, and the oaths that have been sworn, none will dare move against us, lest they face all of us.”

“And what was the price for forging these alliances?” She asked, knowing he was once again omitting truths to her. 

He looked at her sharply, appraising her. A quiet look of displeasure flashed across his face, and remained. He stepped away from her and sighed, leaning against the balcony. “Your friend has good ears, and a quick tongue, if Celebrimbor is to be believed.” He replied instead of answering her question, dropping the Elven lord’s name to lure her attention away.

She did not take his bait. “What did you offer the lords of Men and Dwarves, to Celebrimbor, to tempt them to your side?”

“Not the same methods I have used to tempt you, I assure you,” he teased her, dodging her question again.

Her temper flared; she turned away from him to stare at the vista, refusing to play his game any further.

“There is no need to be jealous, nin mel. My heart is yours and yours alone.” His tone grew plaintive, and she heard him shuffle away from his place against the balcony.

She felt him stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her from behind in a warm embrace. Placing her own hands over his, moving them to the place on her belly where he could feel their son kick, she held him there and asked him again. “What have you done to tempt them, Halbrand?”

She felt him tense behind her and almost step away, but their son kicked, and he stayed still. He sighed into her hair. “I have offered them power, Galadriel. To protect their kingdoms and their people.”

“How?” She asked, already knowing the answer and fearing it all the same.

“Rings of power, not unlike the three that Celebrimbor forged for you and Gil-Galad but far less powerful. Admittedly, acquiring binding metals the same quality as anything from Valinor was impossible. I could have made them better, but…”

“But they would have been too powerful.” Galadriel finished his thought, a different kind of ache taking up residence in her heart. “And what is to stop them then, from taking this power and using it against you? Power corrupts, Halbrand, as you well know.”

“Absolute power corrupts,” he corrected her, burying his face in her neck and leaving a gentle kiss beneath her ear. “But the rings know who their master is, even if their bearers do not; my commands will always be obeyed first.”

Galadriel inhaled sharply and pushed his hands aside, turning to face him. “You have enslaved them.”

“Do not speak to me of slavery, Galadriel,” he warned, ire burning in his eyes at her thoughtless reproach. “I have been the slave of two different masters. This is not the same. This was an exchange, and it had conditions. It was agreed upon.”

“Their will is not their own! You think it is different because they wear rings instead of collars?” She argued, shaking her head. 

“It is a safeguard, Galadriel. Nothing more. Their will is their own, so long as they do not turn against us. If nothing ever comes to pass, they will never know the difference. Nor would any heirs of their lines that would inherit the rings upon their deaths.”

Galadriel let out an incredulous laugh. “And you mean this to be generational, no less.” She felt such despair for a moment she could not breathe. At every turn, just when she began to question herself, to believe in the love he professed to her, he proved her right. “All the beauty in the world would still be ugly if built on the backs of slaves. No friendship, or love, can be formed in the bonds of servitude. The balance of power is the scale of peace, Sauron.”

“I have denounced that name,” He seethed, making no comment on her lecture. “It is not who I am.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Your actions have proved that you are Sauron still.”

Even as she grieved the loss of her potential future, she felt relief. There was no question in her mind now, the decision that she would make. She could acknowledge her own desires and still do what was right. He had left her no choice; she would leave Middle-Earth, and raise their child in the light of the Valar, far away from the corruption of his father. She accepted the possibility that she might have some positive effect on him, holding it close to her heart and  enjoying the hope in it, and let it go. She knew that path was not an option for her now. Not with her son to consider.

“Do not, Galadriel,” he warned, catching her attention with his stern tone. “Can you not see that I am trying?” He pleaded, moving to embrace her again. 

She held up her hand, stopping him short. “You would make a slave of me too, in the end,” she said, committing his face to her memory. “My love for you is not enough to curb your darker appetites. And eventually, I too would fall prey to your corruption. This is not something I could bear.” 

“This sounds more than your usual denial. Are you saying goodbye?” He asked, brow furrowed into a deep, deep frown. 

Galadriel supposed it was, but she shook her head, denying it. “No,” she lied, meeting his eyes. “But I cannot stand at your side and preside over a kingdom of slaves. People must be free to make their own choices - for good or for ill - because without choice, they can be neither. You have your freedom for the first time ever, Sauron. There is no master holding your leash now. It is up to you and you alone to decide what to do with it.”

He considered her words, tilting his head to the side. “I have not had an example of goodness, my lady, in ages. How can I know it when I see it, if I do not have someone to help me see it?” 

His honeyed words warmed her heart. But not enough. “I cannot be your sole source of light, Sauron. You would smother me, I fear, for daring to burn too brightly. And I will not allow our son to know darkness as we have. I want better for him than what we have known.”

She could see his continued irritation at using his old name, but he was far too invested in her words to continue belaboring that particular point.

“You mean to keep my son from me,” he said, voice growing quiet. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes,” she hedged, finding firm ground in her morals once more. “The very day you overcome the darkness in your heart, you will be a father, and a husband. I will make it so.” 

If that day should come, he could find them in Valinor, having redeemed himself in the eyes of the Valar. She would welcome him in her arms, there.

“And, if I said that I did not want to wait until then? That I could not wait?” He asked, eyes glittering dangerously. The vision began to break, and the city noises faded into hollow silence.

Galadriel drew herself up, jutting out her chin. “That is not your decision to make.”

“Now who is the master, and who is the slave?” He sneered, jaw clenched. “You would make my decisions for me, and leave me no choice at all.”

“I make decisions only for myself, and for the child I mean to protect from all harm, from every dark shadow — including you, ” she snapped, refusing to let him turn this on her. “You have every opportunity to do the right thing.” 

“I don’t know what it is!” He roared, power bleeding from his skin in angry red hues. “You tell me I am doing wrong, but I can see no evil in what I have done here - tell me, Galadriel. Make me understand! The kingdoms of Elves, Men, and Dwarves are all at peace for the first time in centuries. The low-men of this world have food in their bellies and shelter over their heads. Tell me, what have I done that is so deplorable that you would continue to forsake me!”

“Those things mean nothing if you do not mean them sincerely! It is well that your people would have food and shelter, but would that change for those who would disagree with you?” She challenged him, shouting back. Nenya glowed fiercely from her finger, answering her mistress’s silent call for power. “If you must rule through sorcery and enslavement, then it is not really paradise. Can you not recall anything from Valinor? Do you remember nothing of how it was, of how society worked there?”

“My place in that society was vastly different from yours, Princess,” he reminded her and turned away, beginning to pace. He fell silent for a time, wrestling with his own anger and new problems that Galadriel had laid at his feet. 

“What would it take, to call you to my side?” He asked after a long silence. “Just tell me, Galadriel, honestly. What would it take?”

Galadriel did not have an immediate answer for him. Her gut reaction said that nothing would suffice, in the wake of his resolve to rule through subjugation. But even this she knew was not wholly true. She loved him, even as Sauron, as this broken creature of darkness. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew there was a price she would accept for staying by his side. She refused to consider it, knowing all too well the dangerous path that would lead her down. 

Slowly, she shook her head. She would repay his honesty with her own. “There is nothing you could give me that would tempt me to your side as I am now. If it is me that you love, you know this.” She hoped against hope that he would understand her meaning, that he would not push and press as his own pride would doubtless demand. 

He knelt at her feet, saying nothing, and pressed his forehead against her belly, hands gently stroking her sides. After an imperceptible number of minutes, he stood and cupped her face, searching her eyes for some sign of hope. He pressed a light kiss to her lips, and brushed a loose curl from her face. “I hear you, Galadriel. But I do not think you hear me. I do not think you truly see. And before you reject me, I insist you see it. If you were here - really here, with me - you would understand. I’m certain of it.”

“I —” Galadriel began to speak and stopped, shaking her head. Arguing was fruitless. He did not understand, though he claimed to, and she would not waste further breath explaining. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way. 

“Prepare yourself Galadriel. Pack your things - anything you wish to bring - and prepare for travel.” His boyish charm had returned, once again excited. “Whatever you leave behind, I will have new ones made for you.”

“I did not agree to come,” she reminded him through gritted teeth, alarmed at his sudden change in mood.

“No, you did not.” His smile was all teeth, almost more of a snarl. “And yet, I insist. I am coming for you Galadriel, and you will come back with me. Whether I walk into Lindon with trumpets or battering rams heralding my arrival is up to you.”

“You claim to love me, and you threaten me in the next breath. What reason should I have to go to you? Do you even hear yourself?” Galadriel hissed, and grunted as her son kicked fiercely. The pain passed after a few seconds, and she rubbed her belly to try and soothe her son.

“You are not being fair, Galadriel. Not to me, or to our son. You claimed that I would enslave you given the opportunity. I aim to defy your expectations of me. Go ahead, Galadriel. Choose. How shall I enter Lindon?”

“This is not a choice, and I am more certain now than I was before that you know that. I will not come.” She declared, keeping her temper in check by the skin of her teeth. He did not know they had ordered ships to ferry them to Valinor. He must not.

“As you wish,” he said, eerily calm. “If a villain is what you perceive me to be, and nothing more, than a villain I shall be. Battering rams it is! Tell Gil-Galad, won’t you? I want him ready. When I slay the last High King of Elves, I do not want it said that it was easy.”

Galadriel summoned power from Nenya, forcing the connection to break, and returned to consciousness in her rooms. Heart pounding, she did not give herself time to weep, instead summoning her maid. 

The young she-elf hurried into the room, her eager smile dropping as she took in Galadriel’s panicked face. “Lady?”

“Bring me Elrond, and the High King,” Galadriel ordered, face pale. “We are at war.”

Chapter Text

Gil-Galad took the threat seriously when Galadriel had informed him of Sauron’s intentions. He called the army — those few, loyal souls that were left — back to Lindon proper and bolstered their defenses. He was certain that, despite Sauron’s threat, they would still be successful in their bid to escape Middle-Earth.

Mobilizing an army of the size and magnitude necessary to march across Middle-Earth and make it all the way to Lindon would take more time than the two weeks that remained before the ships for Valinor were ready.

Círdan, the famous shipwright, had himself come to oversee the process, and was doubling down on their crafting. Elrond did not leave the city again. Galadriel could tell he was grieved to leave Middle-Earth, especially without being able to see Durin again, but he remained steadfast in his decision to stay in Lindon. He did not divulge all that had happened with the dwarf, how he had found his friend enraptured by the honeyed words of King Halbrand and the great desire for progress they found common ground over. Durin did not want to heed his warning. And then, the King died. The circumstances were not suspicious; Elrond questioned them regardless. And Halbrand, suddenly, had a trade agreement for more mithril.

It was well that they were leaving Middle-Earth, Elrond said. Too much power was being bandied about and dangled like bait on a hook. Galadriel did not ask him if he was trying to convince himself as well as her. All the while, she felt the growing tension rise across the continent. She could taste it in the air. 

And, perhaps as she should have expected, so could her child. For days after her confrontation with Sauron, she had been bed-ridden. Otharion told her it was common, these false labor pains, and that she had nothing to be concerned about. They were likely brought on by the stress of the situation, and did not bode ill for her child. Galadriel was not assured.

Ealieon continued to keep her company, though noticeably less often now that Elrond had returned, and continued to monitor her at her every request. Still, her son was restless. Galadriel had continued to draw on Nenya after her confrontation with Sauron, deciding the risk of overuse of the power was worth shutting him out. 

It was draining, maintaining the use of it, and required much of her focus, but she did not waver, not for a second. Otharion advised against it, unsure how it would affect the child, but assured her that she was far enough along now that the child should be born hale and whole.

Gil-Galad said nothing to her about the use of the ring. He said very little to her at all, in fact. Though he did not waver in his support of her, she could not help but feel the guilt at the part she had unwittingly played in his departure from Middle-Earth. He was losing a Kingdom because of her. Yet, he did not let this diminish him. His Kingly countenance did not falter. He bore all terrible news with the same wisdom and strength he always displayed. 

As the days passed, Galadriel found herself more and more ashamed. She questioned her decision to leave Middle-Earth and bring the wrath of Sauron down on Lindon. Eventually, she could not help but request a private audience, and get her reassurances, or she would not go at all.

Gil-Galad invited her to his quarters, to break her fast in his solar away from prying eyes and ears that might judge them. He dismissed all servants and poured her tea, served her himself, and then prepared his own. Taking a seat across from her, he waited until she was ready to speak.

“I need to know that I am making the right decision,” Galadriel began, the words feeling thick in her mouth. “I despise that you are giving up your Kingdom, and all that we have fought for over the centuries. Are we certain that this is the correct course?”

“What would be the alternative?” He asked, eyes more full of kindness than she had ever seen.

She licked her lips and looked down at her tea. “I could go to him. He swears he will leave Lindon if I go to him willingly.”

“And what kind of life would you have, if you did so?” He asked her, taking a sip of his own tea.

“A fine one, if he is to be believed,” she said, tone implying that she did not believe him. “He would make me Queen of all Middle-Earth, and have me rule at his side and temper him.”

“You came to Middle-Earth seeking your own kingdom to rule, did you not? One of many, if I recall. Is that no longer your desire?”

Galadriel looked at him sharply, frowning, and wondered what he was implying. “Much has changed since then. And… while I would not begrudge a chance to rule, to become a safe harbor for my people — as you yourself have — I do not know that I can be that for the continent. It is too much. And now there is my child to consider…”

“He would be a Prince of great fortune here,” Gil-Galad said, posing the possibility and laying it at her feet. “And he could be the driving force of love and light for this place, greater than his father.”

Galadriel shook her head. “Such pressure is not what I want for my son. I have borne that pressure before. He will be exceptional, and I would make him the exception. I would not force my son to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders as I have done.”

“And what of the love you bear for his father?” He asked, meeting her gaze with no judgment in his eyes, only gentle wisdom. “We are a delicate people, Galadriel, despite our immortality. Your child could not have been conceived if not conceived in love. And while I know that you did not know his true nature when you bound yourself to him, it does not signify. He knew. And his love for you helped in the creation of your son. Are you prepared to give that up?”

Galadriel shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unused to having such discussions with Gil-Galad. She was silent for a moment, considering her response, before carefully replying. “I do love him, even knowing who he is. As you say, our child could not have been conceived if I did not. But my love for him does not erase what he has done — what he will do. And my love for my son is greater still. If there should ever come a time when he submits himself to the judgment of the Valar, and they find him redeemed, I will welcome him to my arms. I will never be free of this love, I’m afraid. I feel it as though it is carved in my bones, now.”

Gil-Galad nodded, and there was a comfortable silence between them for a while before he replied. “If you cannot convince yourself, Galadriel, that what you are doing is right, I am surely incapable. But I think you have reasons enough, don’t you?”

“At the cost of a kingdom?” She asked, wondering how much of her own selfishness was worth against the lives of thousands.

He shook his head. “The weight of my kingdom is my burden to shoulder. I could have cast you out, returned you to him, at any time. But I knew it would not be right. It is not who we are. This departure from Middle-earth was inevitable, Galadriel, much as we wish it were not. It has simply been expedited now. Even if you had gone to him, I doubt that the peace would have lasted very long. He seeks to rule all. An independent kingdom such as ours would always have been viewed as a threat.”

“Still, I do not think I could bear the thought of bringing devastation down on this place.” Galadriel mused, remnants of her nightmares of the barren and burnt Southlands hovering in her mind’s eye.

“All will be well, in the end.” He assured her, and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Sauron knows nothing of our plans to leave Middle-earth. It will take him time — too much time — to mobilize his forces to move on us. And even then, it is a sixteen-day journey from there to here. Slower, with an army marching. We will be on the seas by then, well on our way to Valinor. Breathe easy, Mellon , and think only of the bright future ahead.”

Galadriel nodded, assuaged by his reasons. Far from Elrond’s preferred method of blind optimism, Gil-Galad supported his opinions with facts and logic. He held no fear, that she could discern, of any major confrontation. 

Still, there was something in his manner that felt off, some kind of resignation that didn’t quite match his words. She let it go, and their conversation drifted to lighter things. Though doubts lingered in her heart, there was hope again too. 

“Have you chosen a name for the child?” He asked, startling her from her self pity.

She smiled, eyes twinkling. “I have. I need to see his face to confirm it, and ensure that it suits him.” The name had come to her in a dream, as she had seen herself playing with the child in a nursery and calling out to him in laughter. It was one of the few pleasant dreams she’d had of late, and when she woke she knew with certainty her son’s name. 

Upon further reflection of the dream in the minutes after waking, she almost felt certain that he had chosen it himself. Still, it was not customary to confirm a name until after the child was born, for their fëa was still developing even up until birth.

She finished her meal with the king and found herself with more peace in her heart. It felt like an end, in some ways, but it no longer felt like defeat. All of her sorrows and troubles would be behind her now, and her son would never need to fear the fading of the light of the Eldar. 

So, she meandered through the city instead of returning to her chambers. She spent her time visiting with the few merchants that remained, and committing to memory the place she had called home for so long. Other hours were spent walking along the soft beach and observing the beautiful waters of the Gulf, collecting beautiful shells and interesting pieces of driftwood to bring back with her.

It was almost a week before they got word of the encroaching army marching upon Lindon at a breakneck pace. The ships would still be ready in time, Círdan assured them, but it was concerning regardless. Sauron had wasted no time in martialing his forces, indeed seemed to have had them at the ready long before their encounter. 

Still, Gil-Galad remained resolved and unconcerned, and his confidence bolstered Galadriel, who did not let her spirits wane. She told herself that it was expected. So many legions and kingdoms had joined in his alliance, it was logical that they would be ready to march on short notice. In the end, it would not matter. No army could march quickly enough to bridge the distance from the Southlands to Lindon before their ships left port.

If men and dwarves and elves were all that Sauron had at his disposal, this would have been true. 

Alas, it was not.

Galadriel awoke to the sound of a roar: an inescapably loud, monstrous bellow that she had never heard before. It set the hair on the back of her neck on end, and her nerves lit aflame with the promise of battle.

This was a familiar feeling. She slid from her bed and hastily threw on a robe as she exited her room. Her maid, Nestrien, met her in the hall, face drawn and pale, and they exited the palace together, walking out the main steps of the great hall.

In the near distance, perched on one of the gates of the city walls, was a dragon, silvery white scales gleaming under the moonlight. It roared again, stirring the city to life and panic, and Galadriel felt frozen. In all her battles, in all her travels, she had never faced a drake. Stories and songs did not do justice to the terrifying enormity of the creature, nor the sound and scale of its roar. 

And, in the darkness, she spied a rider on its back. The unmistakable spiked armor and iron wrought crown provided a familiar silhouette. She did not feel her knees give out. She barely heard Nestrian cry out, startled by her mistress’ sudden weakness, or felt the girl try and break her fall. The women went down together in an ungainly heap, the maid bearing the brunt of Galadriel’s fall.

Other noble elves came to the steps of the hall, seeking their King and his counsel, but few went inside; all were caught in the terror of the drake, and the threat it imposed on every living thing within the city.

Gil-Galad and Elrond both came from the hall to view the creature, and its rider, and to rally their people. Elrond helped Galadriel to her feet, and she could not help but notice the look on his face, drawn and grim. 

Gil-Galad came to stand next to them, his face impossibly resolute in the dawn of the impending cataclysm. “Galadriel,” he called her name softly, pulling her attention away from the horrifying creature. “Go with Elrond to a ship. Now. Do not look back, and do not stop. Use the power of your ring to conceal your ship until you are at Valinor. Do not let it drop, not for a second, until you are at Valinor’s gates. Do you understand?”

Galadriel turned fully to face her nephew, looking older and wiser than she by a thousand years, at a loss for words. The truth pieced itself together in her mind, striking her like a bolt of lightning, and not for the first time Galadriel wanted to curse the gifts of her bloodline. 

“You knew,” she accused him, the lump in her throat only growing. “You knew that he would attack before we left.”

Gil-Galad looked at her and offered her an unusual crooked smile, suddenly looking so much like her long-dead brother that it stole her breath from her lungs. “I was granted a vision a long, long time ago of my fate. It is as it should be. Go, Galadriel. I will meet you again in the halls of Mandos, and we will rejoice together.”

He turned to Elrond, clasping him on the shoulder. “You still have a bright future ahead of you. Galadriel and her son will need you fiercely in the coming years. Protect them.” He ordered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Your majesty, this is madness. We have ships enough to get us all to safety, and the power of the rings to conceal us. Come with us!” Elrond pleaded, tongue almost tripping over his words in his haste to speak them. 

Gil-Galad released him and stepped back, looking stronger and more bright than Elrond had ever seen him. “This has been my fate for longer than you have walked this earth, Elrond. I took no wife and sired no child because I did not know when it would come; I accepted this long ago.” He explained, and contrary to the horror of the situation, smiled again.

“You will bear the hope of our people, Elrond, and they will need you to guide them and keep them safe. Go with Galadriel, and go now. I will keep our visitor occupied for a time — long enough, I think.”

He called for his guards, those trusted few who would remain with their king until the end, and left them standing on the steps, calling for his armor and spear to be brought.

Elrond and Galadriel remained for a few moments more, staring after their King who had all but just proclaimed his own death, before the dragon roared again. It breathed a wall of blue flame directly into the air, warning and terrifying the populace below, before taking flight.

Galadriel recovered first, her long tenure as a Commander and soldier driving her to action. “Come, we must go.” She swallowed her pride and anger, the loudest part of her that demanded she take up her sword once more and face the creature with her nephew, and tugged at Elrond’s sleeve. 

Elrond hesitated, torn between leaving his King and protecting his friend, but eventually relented, going with Galadriel and her maid to her chambers to gather her necessities. He left them there with a promise to return, desiring to retrieve some of his few personal effects that he did not want to leave behind.

Galadriel gathered the few things that were not already packed and stuffed them into a satchel with Nestrian’s aid. Her maid left only briefly to retrieve her own things, and they were ready to go by the time that Elrond returned to them. 

Ealieon appeared with him, a grim look on his face. “Otharion has chosen to remain behind to treat the wounded. I am to go with you, Lady,” he said, face pinched.

Galadriel nodded and, with her people gathered around her, led them out of the palace. The city was in great disarray as the remaining populace scrambled to find a way out. In the distance, beyond the city gates, the sounds of battle were unmistakable. 

“He should not have been able to martial his forces so quickly,” Galadriel complained, holding fast to Elrond and Ealieon as they helped her down a path of winding steps. “Marching speed alone should have put his arrival several days away.”

Elrond stepped ahead and took over leading the group, diverting them down alleys and hidden paths that led away from the panicked crowds swarming the docks. “I have an inkling that he has been martialing his forces for far longer than your last confrontation with him. I am afraid… some of the things I saw in Eregion when I was last there…” He huffed, unable to render the hideous thought.

Celebrimbor had more than just allied with Halbrand’s vision. He had given him an army to use at his disposal, one that was poised to strike at Lindon with far less difficulty and distance. 

Galadriel struggled to keep pace as they weaved through the streets of Lindon, every set of stairs another obstacle that slowed her further. A roar, too close for comfort, too loud, brought them all to their knees at the base of the stairs.

The drake flew low overhead, circling the city at different altitudes and angles, almost dipping close enough to buildings to brush them with its wings. Galadriel shrunk against the wall of the building, pulling more strongly from Nenya, and concealing their party well. Halbrand was more visible now, seated on dragon back but craning over the side of the creature, peering into the city streets.

An ear-splitting crack whipped through the air, and the drake’s head snapped to attention, gazing at the outside of the walls. Loud, rumbling, earth-shakes reverberated throughout the city, and the sounds of screams echoed beyond Lindon’s walls. Galadriel looked to Elrond, confused and horrified by the sound. Elrond met her gaze, a look of grim recognition on his face. 

“What was that, Elrond?” She hissed, stepping away from the wall as the drake flew back to investigate the sound.

“Gil-Galad had a plan, if an army should reach Lindon. I never expected that he would use it. He’s been working on it since he learned of your pregnancy.” He licked his lips nervously, motioning the party to continue descending the next set of stairs. “Tunnels underneath the lands in front of the gates… capable of collapsing at a moment’s notice.”

Galadriel stared at him.

“If the orcs could use it with such success in the Southlands…” He trailed off, shrugging, and helped Galadriel down the last flight of stairs, watching the placement of her feet to ensure she didn’t slip.

Some order had been restored on the docks, guards visibly directing people to the respective ships. The party hailed the guards and were immediately encircled, cutting through the swaths of crowds to be led up the boardwalk. The ship they boarded was noticeably occupied by people who were more vulnerable; children, pregnant women, and elderly had already been settled below deck.

Galadriel refused to go below, eyes enraptured by the horror she could see descending upon the city. Elrond remained beside her, holding her hand in a firm grip, and watched the devastation with her in silence.

“Haul the anchor! Release the sails!” The captain commanded, the crew bustling to life around them, moving as a cohesive unit. The ship left the harbor with more speed than Galadriel recalled the vessel being capable of as favorable winds caught the sails and the currents of the sea carried them off.

The drake roared again, sounding wrathful and pained, and became visible against the moonlight as it took flight once more. She could see something clutched in its claws, a body limp and devoid of life. The beast arced high in the sky, and dove at the heart of the city, its mouth opened wide, and set the entire city ablaze in a furious wall of flame. 

Screams rose from the city as the inhabitants burned under dragon fire, and the cries of the people at the docks grew louder, trying to hasten their departure. The dragon made several passes throughout the city, almost methodically setting every building, bush, and barrel ablaze. She forced herself to watch, refusing to look away from the carnage that she felt responsible for, and sent a quiet prayer to the Valar to watch over the innocent souls.

The city quickly fell silent, and as the ship sailed further and further from the devastation, Galadriel found herself struggling to breathe. She watched until the city was barely visible in the distance, a speck of red and orange against a beautiful blue sky. 

Only once the city was gone from view did she turn fully into Elrond’s arms, and let herself cry, mourning Gil-Galad and all the souls entering the halls of Mandos. The other ships that had made their escape were visible in the distance, all sailing parallel to one another but following different routes to prevent overcrowding in the sea lanes.

“Galadriel,” Elrond rubbed soothing circles on her back and gently detangled some of her curls. “Are you still using Nenya? ” He asked, voice scarcely above a whisper.

She nodded into his neck.

“Can you extend its power over the ship as a whole?”

Galadriel considered the question seriously, taking stock of her own reserves of power and how drained she felt. “I think so, yes.” She closed her eyes and focused wholly on the feeling of the pulsing ring of power on her finger, thumb grazing over the cut of the stone, and feeling it reach out to her. Conceal us. She bid it, ordering it to obey her.

The ring complied, and a thick mist beset the ship, shrouding it from view, above or otherwise. She could dimly hear the complaints of the navigator but did not release the power. Concentrating further, she pulled more power still, and felt the ship gain in speed along the waves of the sea.

“That’s enough, Galadriel,” Elrond warned, tone sharp, and squeezed her elbow gently. “Do not overstrain yourself now.”

She focused on her breathing, holding the power in her mind and keeping it under thumb, pressing on it when it occasionally writhed and threatened to break free. The ring obeyed her, but only so long as she made it.

Like the water it embodied, it was tumultuous and dangerous, with depths deeper than eyes could see. She stepped away from her friend but held his arm, feeling the strain of the day begin to wear in her heart and on her mind.

“I think I’d like to go below, now.” She said, and allowed Elrond to escort her below deck with the other passengers. Ealieon and Nestrian had already found work for themselves, checking up on a few of the other passengers and distributing rations. All had boarded the ship unharmed, a blessing by Eru himself, but some were vulnerable; pregnant, or recovering from illness. 

Galadriel found herself a seat in a dark corner of the bay. It was certainly the quietest, though it was lacking in any blankets or supplies, and that was all Galadriel cared about at this juncture. Elrond sat next to her, draping his cloak over her shoulders as the cold seeped in from the sea, and kept her company as she decompressed.

It was a struggle to keep the power of the ring up and keep herself grounded. It required so much of her focus and attention, that she did not notice the passing of time. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days.

She ate when Elrond or Ealieon bid her to, and took small moments to doze into a restless sleep when she was able. But her sleep was poor, and short besides; every time her attention waned, the ring rebelled. She meditated instead, trying to find her rest in peace instead of sleep, but that did not come easily either.

 Images of the burning city were engraved in her eyelids, visible and vivid every time she shut her eyes. 

Nestrian had taken to embroidering, and often asked Galadriel to tell her stories of her childhood and family. The distraction was pleasant, if bittersweet, but sweeter still was the gift her maid was giving her.

After days of telling stories, Galadriel’s attention was drawn to the maid’s project, and she realized that Nestrian had been embroidering her stories onto a small silk blanket. A baby blanket, embroidered with the tales of his ancestors and woven from the fine wool of sheep from Lindon’s fields.

Galadriel did not weep, but her heart was warmed for the first time in days at the kindness and care of her friends. Ealieon was busy as the only healer to board the ship, but he made time for her, sitting with her whenever he was able and teasing her about not disclosing her child’s name. Hope grew among the passengers the further they got from Lindon, even amongst the sorrow. 

And then the bells sounded, and Galadriel hardened her heart once more, bracing herself for the worst.

The party ventured above deck, Galadriel trailing slowly behind, and came to stand beside the Captain at the wheel. “What is it?” Galadriel murmured, thumb brushing the ring on her finger.

The Captain looked at her grimly, chewing on his bottom lip. “Our man in the crow’s nest heard something. Something that wasn’t a bird. A strong gust of wind almost blew us clear off course, too.”

“And?” She asked, seeing the reason for concern but not understanding why the bells were rung.

“The lights of our sister ship Celrimar have gone out.”

The captain did not turn to face her, his own countenance fixed in the inky black distance where a dim light should be visible. Galadriel felt herself pale and doubled down on her control of the ring on her finger, gripping it more tightly than before, and pulled the mists tighter around their ship like a heavy cloak.

She waited beside him for a time, waiting for the ship to reappear, hoping against hope that the light had been extinguished from the spray of the sea. Minutes passed, and silence reigned. 

“How far are we from Valinor now?” She asked softly, trying to gauge how much longer she would need to pull from the power of the ring.

“If the weather is fair? One day, maybe two.” He sucked his bottom lip into his teeth. “I wish to hail them again  but…” He trailed off, and looked at Galadriel with unspoken concern.

“The concealment I have placed on the ship will hold, but the sound may give away our position even if we can’t be seen. I fear, if our sister ship is in trouble, hailing them again may only bring danger to ourselves.” Galadriel explained, pained by the decision.

Her heart desired to ring out the bells and go to their aid at once, demanding that she do what is right above all else, but a more practical voice stayed her hand. She would endanger not only herself and her child, but every other passenger on this ship. It could not be done.

A cry rose up in the darkness, alone at first and then growing in strength. One voice turned into two, into four, into too many to count. In the darkness, amongst the waves, a cascade of blue-flame appeared from the mist and set the ship ablaze, the passengers crying out for mercy even as the dragon flame descended. 

The ship blazed in the darkness, and the cries of its passengers seemed to be carried on the wind. Galadriel could only watch in abject horror as people jumped from the side of the ship into the sea below, trying to save themselves.

Instead of burning to death in the flames, they boiled in the sea; dragon fire burned hotter than any known fire on Middle-earth. The stench of death and ash carried in the winds, and the well-made ship succumbed to the flames far more slowly than such horror warranted. 

Galadriel could only stare at the sinking ship, blood pounding in her ears and fury nesting in her heart.

“My lady!” The captain caught her attention, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her; she had not realized he was calling her.

She looked at him askance, confused.

“Sailor,” He snatched the arm of a sailor passing by and passed Galadriel’s arm to him. “Escort her to my cabin, send for the healer.” The sailor obeyed, and gingerly took Galadriel’s hands in his own, moving to lead her to the Captain’s quarters.

She remained confused, her mind still fixated on the horror of the burning ship, until she tried to walk, and felt her slippers slide along the wet deck. She looked down, eyes barely comprehending in the inky darkness, and saw the wet hem of her gown. 

Her water had broken, and in her horror she had not noticed. She accepted the sailor’s help and went without complaint, gratefully taking up residence in the larger bed instead of the pile of blankets she had been sleeping on.

The sailor left her briefly to fetch Ealieon, and Elrond at her request, and the full weight of the situation struck her. She was in active labor now, the stress undoubtedly having pushed her over the edge.

Ealieon arrived first, immediately setting up his meager quantity of supplies, and rearranging the room to his liking. He grumbled about her son’s poor timing, trying to break the severity of the situation with some levity, and the lack of adequate light.

Elrond sought to assist but was eventually sent to pace outside, the captain’s quarters too small to accommodate so many people. He waited outside in the hall, murmuring quiet prayers under his breath. 

Galadriel’s labor began without much pain; indeed, it started with small, consistent pangs, several minutes apart. Ealieon assured her that this was normal, and told her to appreciate the break while she had it.

Nestrian and Elrond took turns spending time with her, playing cards and keeping her calm as her contractions grew closer together. At one point, Elrond was called above by the Captain, and Galadriel was left to worry. 

For a long time, he did not return and as her anxiety grew, her labor advanced. When he did return at last, face lily-white and teeth clenched, she did not have to ask him what occurred.

Sauron searched for her still, and had undoubtedly attacked one of the other ships. Elrond confirmed as much, after a little pressing, but he reminded her how close they were to Valinor and to not lose hope.

Eventually, the pain began to grow, and Galadriel found that every time her contractions came, her control over the ring slipped, just a little. In between the next set of contractions, she demanded that Ealieon and her maid both leave the room so she might speak to Elrond in private.

He came at once, concern engraving his brow into a permanent frown, and gently wiped the sweat from her brow.

“ Mellon ,” she called him, glad that he was with her now and that he had not stayed in the forsaken city to die alongside Gil-Galad.  “If something should happen to me, and this child is left alone—”

“Galadriel—” Elrond tried to interrupt, denying the worst possibility.

She pinched his arm, shushing him. “I want you to raise him, Elrond. In Valinor, or Middle-earth, I would have you foster him. No other. Do you understand me?”

Elrond bowed his head, resting his forehead against her own. “This will not come to pass, Galadriel. It will not. But if there comes a time when your son would be alone in this world, I promise that I will care for him and love him as you did me”

She choked back a scream as the next wave of contractions fell upon her, squeezing his arm hard enough to leave bruises. Elrond bore it with dignity, offering his own simple words of comfort through clenched teeth, despising the circumstances of the situation.

“Whatever you’re doing, finish it! That baby is not going to wait for you!” Ealieon barked from the other side of the door, impatience sharpening his tone.

Galadriel breathed through the pain, mind swimming; she was exhausted. The lack of sleep, the constant use of the ring for the last several weeks, the stress… all had weakened her, and were making this more difficult still.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, satisfied with his promise, and released him at last. “Alright. Send Ealieon back in. My son is impatient, it would seem.”

Elrond left, and Galadriel returned her attention to her labor, and followed Ealieon’s advisements. Her contractions grew closer together, and her pain swelled. She had no way to measure the passing of time. It might’ve been hours, or days, or seconds, for all that she could comprehend.

But as the labor drew on, she became aware of her own fading strength, felt not only how much she was drawing from Nenya but how much it was drawing from her . She expressed this to the healer, who examined her fëa more closely.

“You have to let it go,” he said, shaking his head. “You cannot bear the strength of the ring and bring this child into the world at the same time. We will be in Valinor soon enough.”

“If I let go of the power of the ring, we may not make it to Valinor,” Galadriel argued, a pained scream escaping through clenched teeth. She tried to breathe through the pain, finding it all encompassing with the pain in her head from controlling the ring. 

“If you don’t, you risk your child. You must let it go.” He ordered urgently, eyes drifting to the ring; Galadriel felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, an unnatural possessiveness.

After a long moment of consideration, another wave of excruciating contractions struck her and when she felt her control slip once more, she relented and let it go altogether. At once, the pain in her head began to fade, leaving her with only the pain of her labor to contend with. 

As she felt Nenya’s presence fade from her mind, unwinding itself from her spirit, she felt herself begin to drift. The exhaustion from using so much power for so long weighed on her too much, and the sudden absence of it almost made her faint from the relief.

“No, Galadriel, you cannot sleep!” The healer cried out, shaking her shoulder. “My lord! I need help!” He called out, attention divided between helping the child forth and keeping Galadriel conscious.

She could feel herself fading, the light of the Eldar stuttering within her. Dimly, she felt the side of the bed dip next to her, and two strong hands propped her up so they might climb behind her. They leaned her back and she felt the strong chest at her back, too familiar, and threaded their fingers through hers to grip her hands. Some softly whispered words in her ear brought the world almost sharply back into focus; she could see Ealieon, pale faced, at the end of the bed between her legs, focused on the child.

“Bear down, Galadriel,” a familiar voice ordered her, and she obeyed, squeezing the hands holding hers hard enough to break bones. She did not withhold her scream, the sound coming out more of a warrior’s cry than one of abject pain. She felt his fëa reach out to hers through their connected hands, offering her strength; she accepted it unthinkingly, mind solely focused on bringing her child into the world, and immediately drew power from it. 

Her own fëa sang in reaction to the binding with his own, and with their combined power brought their son into the world. She sagged into his arms, sweat dripping from her forehead and down her neck, and struggled to keep her consciousness, waiting to greet her son. 

Soft lips pressed softer kisses against her temple, whispering refrains of joy and praise. She did not turn her face to look at him, not able to even begin to acknowledge what his presence here meant. She could feel his fëa nestled in her heart, intertwined with her own as an ouroboros.

“Come on, Ealieon, let us see the boy,” Halbrand ordered, voice low and impatient. “He is clean enough.”

Ealieon hesitated only a moment, meeting Galadriel’s surprised gaze with his own guilty expression. “Yes, my Lord,” He brought the baby to Galadriel’s waiting arms.

She warred with herself for only a moment, wanting to confront the healer about how Halbrand knew his name, but found her gaze drawn to her son instead. He was the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld. Her own ocean blue eyes looked up at her, alert and intelligent, and deep enough to drown in. Dark, curly hair covered the infant’s head in a light layer, downy and full. Any anger at the healer faded in the wake of seeing her son, reduced to embers in the corners of her mind. She would not lash out at him now, but she would not forget.

“He’s perfect, Galadriel,” Halbrand breathed, gently brushing the curls on the infant's forehead. The boy let out a quiet squawk, scrunching his nose and puckering his mouth in discontent. Galadriel brought him to her breast and felt bone-aching relief when he latched after only a few attempts. “What shall we call him?”

“His name is Órestel,” she said, voice brooking no argument. It was the name that had come to her in the dream, and now more than ever it seemed fitting. What else could her son be, but the spirit of hope?

Halbrand was quiet as he considered this, but did not debate it with her. “Hello, Órestel,” he said, greeting his son with all due warmth and love. There was reverence in his voice, and an unexpected fragility too, as if he feared the child. 

Galadriel reclined in his arms, too tired to process all that had happened and all that was yet to come. There would be no retreat to Valinor now. That much was certain. There was only one path forward, a harder, more dangerous path. After a few moments of precious silence, she spoke, her voice a little hoarse. “I’m going to be your downfall,” she promised. “I will see you defeated and on your knees before the end. There will be justice for Lindon, and for Gil-Galad.”  

A quiet chuckle escaped the soft kiss pressed between her shoulder blades, and strong fingers ran through her hair to detangle it without pause. “I do not doubt you, my Queen. But if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.”

Galadriel did not reply to that, instead choosing to focus on the suckling babe in her arms, feeling the strength of his fëa, as bright and light as her own. “I will not let you corrupt him.” 

“I have no desire to,” Halbrand countered, tucking his chin in the hollow of her neck to observe his son. He turned his attention to Ealieon, who had been quietly packing up his supplies and not staring at the new parents. “Go and inform the Captain to turn around. We will return to the city, and make for Cilmeles immediately.”

He pressed another kiss to her temple, and gently stroked his son’s cheek. 

“It’s time to go home.”

Chapter Text

Galadriel recalled little of the trip back to Lindon, even less of the journey from Lindon to Celmiles. Recovering from labor as she was, and under constant guard now from Halbrand, she saw little of the devastation that had been enacted in retrieving her. She suspected this was by design, to prevent her from falling into further despair. Out of the seven ships that left Lindon for Valinor, only three successfully made the voyage. 

Halbrand, on dragonback, had gone ship to ship in search of her. He had destroyed three by the time her control of the ring slipped and concealment of their ship dissipated; he cared nothing of the others once he had found her. More strongly than before, her emotions were further conflicted and entangled. The dichotomy of Halbrand, of Sauron, continued to confuse her. He was a doting father and husband; any request she might make was met immediately, with no complaint or denial, no matter how ridiculous. He spent every waking moment possible with them, singing to their son in the language of the Gods, ancient songs older than the dawn. 

Yet, she came to learn, when he wasn’t with them, further atrocities continued to carry on. Attempts were made to rescue her. Small bands from Gil-Galad’s army that had not perished under dragon fire attempted to waylay their caravan on the way to Celmiles. They never made it to her side. Executions were held no more than a day after the attempt, and the bodies were left hanging in the breeze as a warning to others who would attempt the same. 

After the third such attempt, Galadriel persuaded Halbrand to let her speak to them instead of executing them. She went to the prisoners, baby in her arms, and made a plaintive request that they return to their friends and tell them to stop any further attempts. She reminded them of all the sorrow they had experienced, everything they had lost in the last few weeks, and that time to recover was needed. When the time was right, she would summon them to her side.

They seemed to take her words to heart, and they returned to their friends with her message unhindered; at least, she assumed so. Halbrand had given her full authority over them and said he would respect her decision whatever it was. No further rescue attempts were made. The birth of his son had put the Dark Lord in a buoyant mood, which seemed to keep throughout the course of their journey. He harmed no companions on the ship as they journeyed back to Lindon. She feared for Elrond, for a time, when they were separated after Halbrand’s arrival, but he remained unharmed. Indeed, contrary to expectations, he had been named King in the wake of Gil-Galad’s death. 

Galadriel did not doubt her friend, knowing that whatever decisions he made were undoubtedly made with a practical mind and heavy heart. He also bore Vilya , she noted. Whatever bargain had been struck between them was theirs and theirs alone; Halbrand would not tell her, and she had not been permitted to speak with Elrond alone. Still, it had kindled some hope among her people, and the survivors of Lindon. Elrond was left behind in Lindon to begin to rebuild, with an accompaniment of Halbrand’s own soldiers to help with the process. Such would be the nature of every kingdom in Middle-earth, she feared.

All the while, her son stayed healthy and happy, loved and adored by both of his parents. She had not spoken to Halbrand freely since the birth of their child. He tried. He coaxed, with honeyed words and vows, but she remained resolute. She would not speak with him until she could identify how she herself felt, and how she would reconcile her new life. It barely phased him. He took her anger in stride, accepting it and acknowledging that he deserved it, but never stopped attempting to rekindle what had once been second nature between them. 

Ealieon remained with them, as her primary healer. She could barely stand to look at him now, a dark and violent feeling clenching her throat every time he spoke; his betrayal had stung horribly, and would likely never fade. Over the course of their journey, Halbrand began to divulge small secrets to her without prompting, unable to not crow about his own cleverness. He had regained some of his old powers during her pregnancy, recalled some powers of the Unseen world and used them to change his form into one unrecognized.

Their conversation in the council chambers, when Galadriel had divulged her mistake to Elrond and Gil-Galad, had pushed him to action. He feared that she would run from him to parts unknown, and altered his plans with a calculated risk so that he might be physically present during her pregnancy, at least some of the time. 

He had come with Otharion disguised as an attendant so that he could be present during her checkups, and traveled to and from Eregion undetected, sometimes in Elrond’s own party. Through Celebrimbor, he had issued his orders and ruled from afar. After a time, he swayed Ealieon to his side, and persuaded him to borrow his form. Only seeing Galadriel during her healer’s checkups had not been enough. 

This confession was perhaps the most bitterly received. The kinship she thought she had with Ealieon was entirely false. It had not been with him that she had bonded. At least, not half of the time. This was another black mark against Halbrand for his deception, despite knowing that the friendship between them was entirely organic. She chastised herself for not realizing sooner how familiar he felt to her. Her gut had told her something was off, but she had ignored it, chalking it up to the stress of the situation as a whole.

Only when they neared Celmiles proper, a few mere miles away, did he bring her out from the covered wagon. She could not prevent the gasp that escaped her, the beauty of the lands far surpassing any hope or expectation. It was unthinkable that these were the same lands that had been nothing more than fire and brimstone only two years prior. She could still remember the smell of the smoke and ash, the screams of the Southlanders that had perished in the wake of the eruption. 

It did not reconcile with the land now. 

Vast and verdant green fields stretched as far as the eye could see, all the way to the base of the mountain. Farms could be seen, too, from their position on the road. Acres and acres of golden wheat and spring greens ripe for harvest dotted the landscape. She could sense his pride, his mind now permanently and snuggly nested against her own as it was, and could not deny him for it; the land was almost entirely restored, perhaps even better than before.

The forest, too, was growing back. Few of the older trees remained from the onslaught of flame, but new growth was coming in quickly, and she knew that in a few short years it would begin to look like itself again. The people of the Southlands, though his kingdom expanded well beyond now, came far and wide to greet their king, cheering his safe return and welcoming him home. They cheered for her too, when they spied her at his side, her own white mare attached to his own and a baby in her arms. 

She was received with as much joy as he, the people crying out her name in tandem with his: “All hail King Halbrand! All hail Queen Galadriel!” 

He had evidently wasted no time in the last two years telling the people who their Queen was. How he explained her absence was another matter, but one that didn’t seem to matter. The city itself was a fortress of marble and precious hewn stone; dwarven craftsmanship was present in the shape of every wall, every arch, every gate. Elvish artistry was present, too, in curling, nature-like homages carved into doors and in-laid paths. Parks and gardens were present every few blocks within the city, artfully designed and peaceful. Men, too, were clearly present, and worked in tandem with their neighbors. The market was as diverse a place as she had ever seen, port cities included. The city as a whole was, in fact, an enormous melting pot of culture and peoples. And it thrummed with joy . 

As their procession circuited through the streets, she could see no dark corner where evil might lurk, no signs of any dirty underbelly that major cities were known for having. It was incomprehensible. Few guards roamed the streets, only a handful to be seen on patrol; the populace kept the peace themselves, it seemed. Nestrian remained by her side, pressed close against the mare as she walked, but quickly became overburdened; when the people could not pass their gifts to Galadriel herself, they gave them to her maid. 

Her arms were overflowing with an abundance of silk scarves and swaddling clothes, beautifully braided leather bracelets and woven bands, and bouquet after bouquet of flowers. Eventually, their own guard had to step in to assist, clearing the gifts and storing them away for later, but the shower of gifts did not stop until they reached the palace.

Halbrand took their son and passed him to Nestrian before helping Galadriel down from her horse and gently setting her on her feet. She was still recovering from the childbirth, but with the constant care of the healers she was healing rapidly. Halbrand took their son back from her maid almost immediately, cradling him securely in his arm, before sliding his other arm around her waist. She stiffened, wanting to shrug it off, but relented, determining that now was not the time or place to stage her battle. 

At the top of the steps of the palace, they turned to face the city and the adoring crowds below. Halbrand made no speech, offered no precise words of victory or homecoming, but merely released Galadriel and raised his arm in greeting. After a moment's prompting, Galadriel did the same, hesitant to give him the satisfaction of even appearing to be pleased, and the scream of the crowds once again rose in joy. 

He escorted her to her quarters himself, then, and showed Nestrian to the adjoining chamber where she would reside. Still, Galadriel remained silent. Eventually, resigned to her continued refusal to speak with him, he left her in peace, informing her that he expected her presence at dinner. 

It was the first time in weeks that he had not been at her side.

Her room was exquisitely decorated and designed, an echo of Valinor itself in its design. No dwarven craftsman had done this. Every single detail betrayed Mairon’s own handiwork, not a single flaw to be found. A nursery had been assembled in the attached solar, and she could have wept for the beauty found there too. 

Beautiful stained glass windows encircled the room, casting bright rainbows and patterns across the floor. The cradle itself was forged from delicate gold and silver, panel after panel depicting iconography of famous Elvish heroes, and of Aulë himself. A tiny silver mobile was suspended above it, cleverly crafted and depicting the stars from the night sky; she suspected that if a light were to strike it at just the right angle, constellations would appear in the room.

It was overwhelming. She settled her son in his cradle, watched him giggle and grasp for the arcs of multi-colored lights that danced over his head, and retired to her bed. She dismissed Nestrian, encouraging her maid to go and explore their new home, to see what she could learn. The maid hesitated, unwilling to leave her mistress so readily in this new place, but eventually relented, discerning Galadriel’s desire for solitude. 

In the silence, Galadriel allowed herself to unravel the tangled knot of her emotions and desires, her fears and concerns. What he had done to Lindon was inexcusable, as were many of his crimes. Yet she could not deny what she saw with her own eyes, the unity of Celmiles and the happiness of its people. It was everything he had promised, and more.

She had not missed the beautiful thrones, seen only briefly once before, that rested side by side, at equal heights on the dais. Nor did she discount the respect and reverence she was offered from every person she met, man, dwarf, or elf. Though she had not been physically present for the city’s founding or raising, he had made all aware of her place here. The power of a waiting crown was hers for the taking. Indeed, it had already been handed to her. It merely awaited her acceptance. 

All the horror aside, she could not deny the opportunity. Halbrand had upheld his word at every turn, for ill or good, and there was a question of who he would become now that he had everything he wanted in his grasp. Who would he be, with nothing left to work towards? Would her love be enough? This was a question Galadriel feared to answer. In her heart, she knew that without her love, there was a very real possibility he would defer to the darkness once more. He needed desires and goals, specifically ones bent towards goodness and light, in order to keep on this path. And there was only one person who could offer those things.

She rifled through her feelings, trying to separate them from the situations that caused them; was she still capable of loving him, and giving him what he needed to bend towards the light? The more righteous, angry part of her mind wanted to deny it. How could she love such a monster, having seen firsthand over and over again the evil that he wrought? Yet, this voice was alone. Other voices arose in her mind, louder and more insistent, asking her to look at the face of her child, and asking how she couldn’t love him? How, after seeing for herself the miracle that Celmiles promised, she could deny that there was good in him still?

Galadriel couldn’t ignore them anymore than she could the first voice. Ironically, in coming to Celmiles, she now had more options in how she wanted to handle him. In her heart, there was also a certain relief that came from the circumstance; she had not really wanted to leave Middle-earth, though she had agreed to and prepared to, and now she could not. She loved him still, she decided, acknowledging the guilt that came with the admission, but she could not turn a blind eye to his actions, past or future. There was a long road he would need to travel to even begin to repair the damage between them. 

He had his Queen, his kingdom, his child. His motivations for maintaining this idyllic paradise, and not using cruel means to do so, undoubtedly hinged entirely on Galadriel’s favor. She could not withhold her affection, their child, or any positive consequence and still hope that he would not surrender to the darkness once more. 

What’s more, she did not like this whole business of forging more rings of power and what it meant for Middle-earth, regardless of what he said his intentions were. Something would need to be done about them.

These plans would take time, however, and allies. She sighed, head aching from the many possibilities she would need to address. Elrond, she knew without a doubt, could be relied upon. Whatever bargain he had struck with Halbrand would last only so long Halbrand’s boot was on his neck, and Galadriel would see him freed sooner rather than later. Her son was another consideration altogether. Halbrand seemed genuine in his desire to keep their son protected and untarnished by evil, and Galadriel did not doubt his intent… his execution, however, had proven to be questionable.

There was an answer to all of this, somewhere, but it did present itself as a comprehensible plan. She would need to bide her time and ruminate on it further. The joy of having a child would keep him occupied, at least for a time. She could manage his darker impulses in the times between until she was restored to her former strength, until her mind was cleared of such confusion and the conflicting voices found equilibrium. 

Until she was ready, she could play his game, never fully embracing him or accepting his cause, and he would have to be content.

Elrond carefully oversaw the reconstruction of Lindon over the course of ten long years, ensuring that no sabotage should occur and no area be neglected. 

Halbrand had sent people, as promised in their agreement, to repair all the damage he had wrought. Some things could not be repaired, however. The damage caused by dragon fire was extensive, and much of the city had to be completely rebuilt. The memorial gardens dedicated to their fallen comrades were gone, burned to ash. No remnants remained of Finrod’s statue, or any others; he knew Galadriel’s heart would break, if she heard. He still had not been permitted to see her. 

Halbrand had ordered him - ordered , Elrond seethed - to remain in Lindon until summoned. He had crowned him High King of the Elves and spun a truly wonderful tale of subterfuge, disparaging Gil-Galad’s memory in the process. Everyone now believed that Gil-Galad had truly kept Galadriel captive against her will, and had forced her on that ship when she was most  vulnerable. Elrond, meanwhile, had been cast in a magnanimous role, that of a white knight who had stayed by Galadriel’s side to protect her and Órestel from Gil-Galad, biding his time until he could assist Halbrand in ousting the old King. 

Elrond had no choice but to remain silent and let people believe it, knowing that he could not afford to jeopardize his power or bargain. He’d had no contact with Galadriel but the exchange of a few letters, and he was sure those were carefully monitored. The small amount of information he could glean from them only told him that she was well, and that Halbrand had been excessively kind. She spoke positively of her quarters, of Cilemeles itself, and of how fast her son was growing. 

Almost ten years passed after assuming his throne before Durin reached out to him to rekindle their friendship. Elrond had avoided his friend till now, unsure of how to treat him after knowing that he was considered to be among the strongest of Halbrand’s supporters. Still, the request was innocuous enough, an honest invitation back to Khazad-dûm to dine with his family and meet his youngest child. So, he accepted, curiosity and loneliness prompting him to accept the hand extended in friendship once more.

Disa was as lovely as he recalled her, stately now that she was Queen, but as honest and of the earth as she had ever been. Durin’s children were a little less wild now, the burden of their heritage and family name weighing heavily on their little shoulders. But love and light were still abundant in their home, and Elrond was glad to have gone, even despite the undercurrent of tension that still existed between him and his old friend. 

Their relationship would never be what it once was, but it could be passably friendly, at least. 

Durin obligingly took him on a tour of their expanding kingdom, dictating some of the more exciting expeditions and discoveries. A Balrog had, at one point, threatened their entire mithril mining operation, but Halbrand had come to their aid, using sorcery to put the creature back into a deep slumber. Elrond was deeply disturbed not only by its existence, but its proximity, and was not reassured by Durin as to the strength of the spell to keep the corrupted Maia asleep. He reluctantly continued with the tour, following Durin deeper, and deeper into the mines. At last, when Elrond began to wonder if he ought to be concerned with how far from anyone else they were traveling, Durin brought him into an abandoned mine. There were no other workers nearby, no guards posted anywhere that might come to his aid.

He wondered, bitterly, if their friendship had broken so far as to be murdered in the dark. He considered the possibility a moment; would he even stop him, if he tried? He wasn’t sure.

Durin eventually cleared his throat, eyes shifting suspiciously to the mine entrance, before speaking. “Elrond,” he began, struggling to speak. “I owe you an apology, and I do not know where to begin with it.”

Elrond said nothing, untrusting of the repentant dwarf.

Durin blustered for a moment, unused to the stony silence from his oldest friend. “I was proud of our discovery of the mithril, too proud, and when my father refused to allow us to continue digging, I resented him for it. He cast me out, Elrond. Threatened to disown me. And your people were still in danger, you were still in danger. I was angry at my father’s callousness, his lack of compassion, and it ate at me.” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and Elrond recognized genuine regret in them.

“When King Halbrand came to us to introduce himself and his vision, I was taken in; surely, now, my father would see the merit in the mithril, that it was worth the risk. Still, he refused. Halbrand sought me out, after. You were here, or thereabouts, when that happened. He convinced me that I was right, that my father was an old fool who was beyond his years. I was proud, and felt validated by his charm; but I knew it didn’t matter. It would never matter, so long as my father reigned as king, and I was about to be disinherited. Then…” 

He licked his lips and brushed his tears away with his sleeve. “He got sick, suddenly. It happened overnight, Elrond, in the blink of an eye. One day he was hale and ornery as ever, and the next he was gone. I had every healer in our kingdom look at him!” He swore, desperation edging into his tone, pleading to be believed. “They all swore it was natural causes. He was old, and it was not impossible that he had some condition that went unrecognized, of the lung or heart. The next thing I know, I’ve got a crown on my head, with the backing of none other than King Halbrand himself, who promised supplies and extra aid to assist in the excavation of the mithril.”

Elrond sighed, feeling tired and worn and old . It was as he expected, had feared; Durin too saw something strange in the king’s death. It was a light balm to the bitterness he felt for his friend who had not listened to him. “I tried, Durin,” he said softly, trying not to sound judgmental. 

“I know, friend,” Durin replied, guilt and shame bleeding into his voice. “I wish that I had listened. When we discovered that cursed Balrog, I thought for sure that we were done for, that Aulë himself was punishing me for my greed. Halbrand put it to sleep and assured us that it would not waken again, not in our lifetimes. But it scared me, Elrond. I cannot explain it more than that. The bone-striking fear broke whatever hold he had on me. I started to think, to wonder, what might happen if we should lose our High King’s favor. That Balrog might become a weapon, instead.”

Elrond felt a cautious surge of hope well up within him, seeing for the first time a glimmer of his old friend in the lines on his face. “And, what is to come of it?” He asked, tone carefully neutral. “We are diminished, Durin. Gil-Galad is dead, and the whole of Middle-earth is in his thrall. We are bent over a barrel. Defeating him will be exceptionally difficult now.”

Durin grunted. “Almost makes you wish it were as simple as outright war, doesn’t it? Oh, I don’t miss the brutalities, the loss, but that sort of enemy is much easier to fight. Still, I have a plan.” He whispered, a ghost of a smile stretching across his lips.

Elrond raised his eyebrows. “What?” It was unfathomable, almost, to believe that Durin had already taken such measures. That anything he could conceive without aid would work. Durin led him down a carefully constructed passage, hidden behind several overflowing carts of rock and coal. In the depths of this chamber, Elrond quickly identified markings of dwarven iconography meant for tombs. 

“We found this place when we were searching for mithril. It’s old, Elrond. Older than our records. Being so old, it is sacrilege to disturb it; I knew no others would come down here. And, I hope Aulë can forgive my blasphemy. I believe it is necessary.” 

Hope, and excitement, reared up within him, clawing their way back into his heart after almost ten years of despair. He struggled with it, trying to push it down where it would not cause him trouble. He followed Durin into the chamber, bowing his head for a moment in respect to the dead that lay there, and was startled by his find.

Two large coffins lay side by side, freshly constructed, from pure mithril . The stone gleamed in the dim torchlight, disturbingly beautiful. The precious metal was dangerously difficult to obtain, and more difficult still to forge. Yet, here these were, perfect in the craftsmanship and whole, without a single flaw or crack.

“Durin… this quantity of mithril… does Halbrand not wonder where it went?” Halbrand, Elrond knew, kept very close eyes on the mining of the precious stone.

“Only from the group-mined shafts,” Durin countered, a note of sly pride in his tone. “I mined it myself, crafted these myself… I didn’t trust anyone else with it. I’ve slept very little these last ten years.” 

Elrond looked at his friend for the first time, really looked, and took in the weathered lines of his face, and the deep sunken set to his eyes. The last ten years had aged him beyond the par. The laughter lines in the corners of his eyes were fewer than they ought to be, considering his wonderful family. Such was the price to pay for supporting a tyrant. Mistakes had to be lived with.

“You intend to trap him here?” Elrond asked, mulling over the possibilities. Halbrand was hardly vulnerable now. He had a whole kingdom at his back to protect him now. Wounding him to a point of vulnerability to trap him here would be no small feat.

“We’ve been experimenting with the mithril — not just at Halbrand’s behest — and it has many properties that interact well with enchantments. Every discovery that Lord Celebrimbor makes, we receive copies of; share and share alike, per the order of the High King. It has enabled us to expand our own horizons. I believe that even if we cannot kill him, this will be enough to contain him, even as he regains his Maiar strength.”

Elrond listened intently, eyes fixed to the mithril tombs in front of him; the idea had merit. A great deal of merit. It would be difficult to arrange, nigh impossible, perhaps. But the mere fact that there was an end in sight, a goal to achieve, was enough to rekindle a hope in his heart that would not be beaten down. 

“Durin, these are a marvel, truly,” Elrond praised the tombs, excitement beginning to grow. “But why have you fashioned two?”

Durin fell silent at the question, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A long moment passed before he met Elrond’s eyes and sighed. “We are friends, Elrond. Best friends. Through thick and thin, and decades apart, we have been bonded in friendship. You are as a brother to me,” he said, throat hoarse and dry.

“And yet, I feel as though you are about to say something that will hurt me,” Elrond murmured, sitting on a crate in the corner.

“The High Queen — the Lady Galadriel—”

“What of her?” Elrond snapped, a wave of protectiveness surging to the surface.

Durin looked at him aghast, a certain dark despair clouding his normally bright countenance. “Have you seen her since Lindon? Since she… accepted her position?

He had not seen her since the birth of her child, since Halbrand had barely let them say goodbye the day they departed Lindon. His ‘good behavior’ these last ten years had largely been spurred by the promise that he would see her again, if he could prove himself to be worthy. 

“No,” he answered at last, anger already growing at what Durin had yet to say.

“Elrond,” he pleaded, hands open in supplication. “Please, listen. I have seen her. And she is not who she was before. True, I did not spend a great deal of time in her presence. Yet, for as often as you spoke of her I thought I would know her heart as I know yours. She is bonded to him, Elrond, in every way. The way they walk together, and speak… it is how I feel with Disa,” he tried to explain, wringing his hands. “I fear, Elrond, what she will do if we bring him down. I fear that she will not let it happen.”

Elrond knew of his friend’s conflicting emotions concerning the Maia; they shared a child together, after all. But he knew her, better than anyone else that walked this earth. She was so much stronger than any ever gave her credit for being - himself included, once upon a time.

“I doubted her once, Durin, and it was an abominable mistake. I will never doubt her again.” He said at last, eyes fixed to the pair of matching mithril tombs. “Galadriel would never forsake us. She knows who our enemy is, despite what image she presents to the public eye. I promise, she is as committed to his demise as we are.”

Soft, strained grunts echoed in the bedchamber, frustration apparent and yet muted by the leather bit placed between his teeth. Halbrand’s eyes burned with barely kept fury, green eyes bordered in flame, affixed to the apex of his thighs, where Galadriel lay, her head resting on his thigh, pointedly not touching him where he wanted her most. The bed in their chambers had already been replaced once, neither large enough nor sturdy enough of frame; this one had yet to be broken in, but was thus far proving itself.

Galadriel admired her handiwork, eyes carefully looking over the intricate knots in the leather straps around her King’s wrists, ensuring that they had neither tightened nor loosened beyond their purpose. She sighed, letting a puff of breath skate across his bare thigh, and made a show of dragging her head just a little as she lifted it. Another quiet, strangled moan escaped the gag in his mouth. She propped herself up on her elbows and met his heavy gaze, enjoying the power she had over him. He could break free at any time of course; his full Maiar strength had returned years ago. But if he did, before she was ready, she would leave, and this would be over. Instead, he suffered, and waited.

At last, after several moments, Galadriel moved, trailing soft kisses on the inside of his thighs and the soft skin of his navel. Her hands worked with her in tandem, one snaking underneath to gently cup his balls, and the other loosely gripping the base of his cock. He squirmed in her hands, chest heaving. He was well ready to move beyond this stage of their coupling, she knew; they’d already been at this for hours. She could feel him through their bond, the base desire to break the bonds that held him and ravish her until they were both senseless. Not now. Not yet.

“I told you not to move,” she chided softly, pausing in her slow ministrations. He stopped, entire body tense and stiff with the effort of staying still. She did not praise him; he had not earned it, yet. After several moments of perfect stillness, she resumed her gentle motions, hand sliding up and down his cock with a feather light touch. She could just barely see him from this angle; his head was thrown back, eyes fixed to the ceiling, shoulders trembling. He was trying to obey. That was worth something, she supposed.

She brought the slow pumping to a halt, watching him carefully for any sign of disobedience, before lowering her mouth to the head of his cock. Her tongue darted out for a gentle lick, testing his patience; the muscles of his thighs strained, fighting the urge to keep his hips still, but he remained still, if trembling.

“Good,” she praised him, giving him an unfairly mischievous smile, before taking the whole of his cock in her mouth. She could just make out the syllables of her name through the gag, more so the desperation in his tone. Pleased, she set to work, taking him as deeply as she could in her throat, hollowing out her cheeks as she sucked. 

She set a pleasant pace for herself, enjoying his desperation as much as the act itself, and knew that he wouldn’t last long, not with the hours of teasing he’d already endured. Still, he hadn’t learned his lesson nearly well enough, so when she heard the pitch of his groans deepen, their quantity quicken, she waited until the last possible moment to drop his cock from her mouth.

He roared through the gag, voice strained and broken between anger and unmet desire. She rocked back on her knees and reclined, waiting for him to calm himself, before letting her own hand drift and dip between her folds. She shuddered, the heady feeling of holding this power over him making her wet without hardly any effort. A sharp inhale brought her attention back to him; he was watching her intently, eyes drawn to the apex of her thighs, and was still once more.

She had brought him to the edge and left him there twice already. Penance, though he remained unrepentant. Smiling, Galadriel spread her legs a little wider, nudging his own legs further apart, and leaned back to give him a better view. She let her delicate fingers spread her folds open, the glistening pink of her cunt just visible at this angle, and began to work her clit with her middle finger, never breaking his gaze. His desire surged through their bond, threatening to drown her.

‘ Please, my love,’ she heard his voice in her mind, circumventing the gag in his mouth entirely. ‘I’ll make it worth your while, Galadriel.’ Images were pushed to her mind, unbidden; her thighs bracketing his head on the edge of the bed, his clever tongue buried inside her; her, bent over her writing desk, filled to the hilt as he slammed into her behind; him, holding her up against a wall with his strong arms, thrusting up at a deliciously wicked angle. She shuddered, feeling the desire pooling low in her womb, almost having an orgasm just from the fantasy of what could be. His satisfaction trickled through the bond, pleased at her reaction.

She tsked aloud, raising an eyebrow at his clever workaround for her command not to speak. It was yet another command broken. He wasn’t nearly sorry enough, she decided. If this was the game he wanted to play, then she would acquiesce, if only to watch him lose. Her fingers continued to tease herself, though at a slower pace, as she pushed her own images into his mind. Her, naked in a beautiful field of wildflowers, the sun shining upon the she-elf and her lover, another elf with golden hair. Her fantasy counterpart had a firm grip in the elf’s long hair, thumb gently brushing his ears, as he slowly fucked her into the ground.

Halbrand’s smug satisfaction quickly turned to rage, burning and bursting at the seams of his mind. Galadriel did not stop, her fingers stroking herself faster, as she imagined her golden haired lover making her come around his cock. She could feel an orgasm building - a real one - and let Halbrand feel that too, and pulled her fingers away to let the feeling settle for a moment. Wickedly, she changed the scene, and brought him more completely into her mind, under her control.

Now, he was bound and chained to a gleaming floor in the Greenwood, only a few feet away from the throne. Here, he was Halbrand the survivor once more, garbed in the rags and torn tunic he’d worn when they met on the Sundering Sea. The dream Galadriel was wanton; mounted on her lover, Prince Thranduil, and facing the almost empty hall save for its chained occupant, tits bouncing, writhing on her lover’s cock. Halbrand could do nothing but watch, restrained as he was, and human, in this dream. His eyes were affixed to the image of his Queen and the Prince of the Greenwood as they bastardized Oropher’s throne. 

Galadriel met Halbrand’s eyes and bared herself further, spreading her legs wider so that he might watch her lover’s cock impale her, hips thrusting up into her until he was buried. She let out a high pitched keen, throwing her head back into the crook of her lover’s shoulder, trailing wet kisses along the side of his jaw. Thrandruil’s other hand crept around the front of her belly, pressing a firm hand just above her womb.

“Enough!” Halbrand snarled, straining against his bonds in her mind, chains rattling in the open chamber.

The dream Thranduil looked at him then, a wicked, possessive smirk gracing his lips, and turned Galadriel’s face toward his own, fingers gripping her chin, and claimed her mouth in a hard kiss. His other hand left Galadriel’s cunt to grip her throat, squeezing hard enough to bruise, leaving his lover panting and gasping in equal turns, thrusting into her faster. Galadriel felt her orgasm revive, the feeling of her imaginary lover’s attention and her husband’s jealous desire pushing her right back to the brink. One final squeeze of her throat was all it took. She came with a strangled cry, her dream lover cumming inside her as she squeezed him dry.

The dream shattered instantly, and faster than she had time to consider, Galadriel found herself back in her own chambers, pinned on her back, her lover suddenly free from his restraints. Halbrand did not speak but speared her with his cock, angling his hips to slam into her at a brutal pace, stretching out the last few waves of her orgasm. 

Abruptly, he pulled out of her and flipped her over, pulling her to the edge of the bed to take her from behind. He nudged her knees apart and pushed himself back into her, bucking wildly. She struggled to find some purchase, fingers grasping at the sheets, eventually trying to push herself up on her elbows.

“No,” he snarled, grabbing one of her arms and pinning it to her back, the other hand grabbing her by the back of her neck and pushing her face into the mattress. “You made your point, and took it too far, wife ,” He breathed in her ear, slowing his thrusts and adjusting his stance to drive more deeply into her. “Now you just get to take it.” His hand slid from the back of her neck to the front of her throat, holding it firmly in his hand, careful not to grasp too hard.

Galadriel moaned as he pounded into her, feeling another orgasm building. The wildness of his thrusts, the quiet rage in his voice, all kindled the fire in her belly. Her free hand slid underneath her and back up to her throat, resting on top of the hand he had placed there. Without warning, he released her arm and throat both, leaving her without anchor, and grabbed the rounded muscles of her ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and yanked her back towards him as he thrust forward.

She hissed even as the pleasure mounted, feeling a twinge of pain as his cockhead pressed a little too far inside her. A firm, flat hand came down on her ass, the sound echoing in the bedroom. She grit her teeth and bit back the yelp, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Thrice more his hand came down, hard enough to turn the lily white flesh into a pretty blushing pink, and only when she couldn’t contain her yelp did he stop.

He rode her rough again, fingers gripping into the flesh around her hips, picking up the pace to drive into her at a punishing pace. She keened, lost to the feeling and the pleasure. As she reached her peak, he pulled out, cock still stiff, and flipped her over onto her back, pushing her further back onto the bed. She didn’t have time to chastise him - he was sheathed inside her again in half a second - but was denied relief when she realized he wasn’t moving. 

He remained poised above her, cock buried to the hilt in her warm cunt, still as stone. She writhed, chasing the friction - any friction - that might reignite her stolen orgasm. He pressed his hips more firmly into hers, pinning her to the bed, using his Maiar strength to prevent her movement. She glared at him, hand darting between their bodies to finish herself off.

He smacked her hand away, lips beginning to twist into a playful grin, and brought her hand to his lips, sucking in two of her fingers and curling his tongue around them. Her breath hitched and she froze as he lavished attention on her fingers, his other hand snaking up to palm one of her breasts, rolling a hard nipple between his fingers. The velvet of his tongue traced the pads of her fingers, flicking back and forth, and cradling them in his mouth. Galadriel could hear very little but the beating of her own heart, and the lewd wet noises coming from her husband’s mouth.

He released her fingers from his mouth as he pulled his hips back, using his free hand to spread her legs wider, and began a slow, persistent rhythm of his thrusts. She almost cried with relief at feeling him move within her again, arms coming up to cradle his shoulders and pull his face down for a kiss. 

He went, obedient once more, and kissed her deeply as he made love to her, pace now worshipful instead of punishing. Galadriel clung to him, legs crossing around his back to keep him close to her, fingers trailing over the nape of his neck and broad shoulders.

The orgasm building now was more intense than the ones before, building at an excruciatingly slow pace and yet stronger than the ones previous.

“Halbrand,” she breathed in between kisses, head tilted back to expose her throat. His lips traveled the length of her jaw, and the lines of her neck, teeth grazing her pulse. She keened, pulling him closer still, unable to articulate the desire for there to be no space between them, only skin to skin. 

“I know,” he replied to her unspoken statement, hips beginning to stutter as his own orgasm began to crest. “I feel it too.” 

Minds bound, he felt their orgasms rising together, and picked her up, rocking back on his heels to sit, pulling her with him to straddle his lap and ride him. Her arms wound around his neck, and she met him thrust for thrust, pushing her hips down as he pressed up. Entangled together thus, mouths gasping too often to properly kiss, their orgasms came, expounded by the shared bond. They continued to ride their orgasms out, thrusting into each other as long as their attention would allow, before falling into a heap on the bed next to each other, hearts pounding. 

Halbrand pulled her loosely into his arms, lavishing sweet kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and her lips. Soft, generous affection curled between them; they exchanged no words, but could feel the boneless satisfaction and love within their bond. 

“That was cruel of you.” He said after several moments of silence, running his fingers through the hair at her scalp.

“You were cruel,” she replied, sleepy and spent after their hours-long escapade, and idly began pulling apart the knots from the broken leather bands around his wrists. “You had no reason to treat the emissaries from the Greenwood - Prince Thranduil included - the way that you did. We are old friends. You cannot be jealous and wrathful every time I dance with another man.”

“You expect me to be nice after this?” He snorted, peeking at her through lidded hazel eyes.

“I do,” she said firmly, hand drifting over his shoulder and down his arm, quietly admiring the strength in his form. “Have you not just mastered your fear?”

Silence lingered for a moment before a bark of laughter escaped him, illuminating his face and reflecting a sense of peaceful, smug joy. The chuckle carried for a while, reverberating in his chest, and ended with a light hearted grin affixing to his face. 

“Yes, I suppose I have,” he replied, his smile fading somewhat, eyes growing serious. “But you have yet to master yours.” They had never had this conversation. Not in ten years.

Galadriel met his gaze, old feelings of sorrow and disappointment rising. “No,” she said after a while, stroking his arm. “No, my fear is still with me. Every day.”

His countenance grew troubled, some measure of distress leaking through their bond. He swallowed, and she could feel a great reluctance, like a barricade, through their bond. 

“I… am sorry, Galadriel,” he whispered, struggling to speak.

She tilted her head, apprehensive and confused; in the decade they had been together, they had found ways to make their relationship work without agonizing over tender subjects. He had never apologized to her for anything.

“For Lindon. For Gil-Galad.” The words came tumbling out, his voice raw and quivering. “I would take it back if I could.” He swallowed, throat bobbing, and she could see tears welling in the corners of his eyes; the sincerity almost burned her through their bond. “I didn’t conceive of true loss, I think. I didn’t know what it was. Now, fear of it is my constant companion. I fear losing you - to others, to death, even - and our son. I cannot fathom living in this world without you. And… I am ashamed that I have caused that pain for others.” 

Galadriel said nothing for a time, feeling his pain through the bond; true compassion, perhaps for the first time ever. Eventually, she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and wiped away his tears. “We cannot go back and undo what has already been done. We can only move forward, and forge a brighter future for Middle-earth. Some day, when we are finished here and Middle-earth is the paradise we always knew it could be, when it is our son’s time to rule, I will return to Valinor.” She said, and rubbed soothing circles on the back of his neck as she felt him tense. 

“I want you to be with me when I do," she continued gently. "Because I cannot fathom living without you either. I will face judgment right alongside you, and I dare them to discount all the wonders we will have achieved here.” Her tone grew defiant towards the end of her speech, protective and proud at once.

A tender smile bloomed across his face, but he remained silent.

“Would you have me face their judgment alone?” She asked, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, betraying her own fear of Valinor’s rejection, of the role she had played in his conquest over Middle-earth.

“Never,” he said immediately, pulling her closer to lay on his chest, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. And she felt the honesty in his words through their bond, resolute and eternal. “Where you lead, I will follow. Till judgment day, and every day thereafter.”

“We must begin at once, then,” she said, sighing. “It will take us ages to repent properly before we’re ready to face the Valar.”

“An eternity, I should think,” he said slyly, chuckling. “Órestel could use a sibling or two to keep him company when we’re gone. Eru may not bless us so quickly next time.”

Galadriel hummed noncommittally and, taking a chance on his good mood, pulled his hand into her own, thumbing the ring of power on his finger, the one-ring that exerted its will over others. “I think this must be our first step, my love.” She had been unable to stop the forging of the other rings, still floundering in her relationship and unaware of the power she wielded over him at the time. The forging of this ring had nearly been the doom of them, as a family, once already. 

He flexed his fingers, looking carefully at the ring, and back to his wife, uncertainty clouding his features. “What peace may remain without it? I have never used it - as you well know - it has only served as a powerful deterrent.”

“An honest peace,” Galadriel replied, snuggling further into his arms. “Everyone deserves the chance to make their own mistakes, and right their own wrongs - as you are doing now. So long as that ring exists, evil may be done and blamed on it. We must bolster the justice of Middle-earth with free will, Halbrand, or there will be no justice at all. For Middle-earth, or us, when the time comes.”

He held her tighter, eyes fixed to the ring for a few moments longer, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

“As my queen commands.”