Chapter Text
The glade lay untouched by battle. Morning mist curled between silver trunks, the air still and heavy with light. Not a leaf was scorched. It was as though the forest itself had refused the war.
At its heart stood a great fallen tree, its bark pale as bone. Morgoth’s iron crown lay upon it, black and gleaming, a remnant of a darkness that refused to die.
Kneeling beside it, Adar rested both palms against the wood, fingers tracing its age-worn grain. The light through the canopy spilled across his face — and for the first time in countless years, he looked whole.
The scars were gone. The twisted flesh and shadow had lifted. His long, dark hair caught silver in the dawn. His eyes, deep and sorrowful, shone like the northern stars of his youth.
Behind him, Galadriel approached, blade drawn but trembling in her grasp. The sight of him stopped her mid-step. She had seen ruin, madness, and terror in this age — but never beauty like this.
The ring on his hand — her ring — blazed softly. Its light bathed him, and through it, she glimpsed the Elf he once was: proud, gentle, carved of moonlight and mourning.
He turned at last, eyes meeting hers. “It hurts,” he murmured, voice roughened by ages. “To remember what I was.”
Slowly, he slipped the ring from his finger. Its radiance dimmed, and the shadow began to return, curling along his veins like smoke. He held it out to her, hand unsteady.
Galadriel hesitated before taking it. Their fingers brushed — a fleeting echo of all the ages between them, of light long lost.
She searched his face. “What is your name?” she asked softly.
He lowered his gaze. “My name is unimportant,” he said. “The name that I earned — the name that I was given — is Adar.”
“Then so be it,” she whispered.
He turned from her, shoulders straightening as if some ancient burden had lifted. His eyes fell upon the crown resting on the tree. For a long moment, he stared — not with hunger, but weariness. Then he stepped away from it. He wanted no more thrones, no more wars, no more gods.
Beyond the glade, shadows moved. His children — the twisted ones he had once loved — emerged from the treeline. They hesitated, blades drawn, grief in their faces. He could feel it in them: the call, the compulsion, the doom Sauron had woven into their blood.
He knew what was coming. And still, he walked toward them.
Behind Galadriel, unseen, a darker presence stirred. The sound of soft footsteps on moss. A gloved hand reached for the crown.
Sauron.
He smiled as he lifted Morgoth’s diadem from the tree, its black iron spires catching the light like fangs. He said nothing — only watched as Adar approached his children.
They struck almost together. Steel flashed, blood bloomed like shadow in water. Adar gasped once, but did not fall at first. He placed a hand on the nearest child’s cheek — gentle, forgiving.
Galadriel could not move. Horror rooted her to the earth.
Adar turned his face to the sky. The light through the leaves shimmered, gold and green. In it, he saw her — Pinc-tywyll — standing beneath the trees of Lithadorel, smiling that quiet, wry smile.
“You took too long,” she whispered.
He smiled through the blood. “At last…”
And as his children struck again, he fell — slowly, gracefully — his hand brushing the earth he had once sworn to heal.
Sauron stepped past Galadriel, the crown in his grasp gleaming like a dark sun. He paused beside the dying Elf, tilting his head in something like respect.
Then he walked on.
Galadriel stood alone in the glade, trembling, her sword forgotten.
The forest was silent, perfect once more. But beneath its roots, something ancient sighed — the faint breath of a love that had never truly died.