Archive of Our Own

one. the admirable

He remembers the light of the Lamps.

More often than not, he wishes he didn’t.

There was a time when the Belegaer was but a narrow sea.

Its waves shaped the shores of that cursed land that smelled of flowers and tasted like rot. The mortals sharing his raft would not remember. How could they, being so young, dying so early.

But he does.

He was there when the War laid it to waste. He was there when the scorched earth sank, the sea taking the bodies of Elves, Men, and Orcs.

Now the waves lap at his feet and the salt burns the skin of his mortal form, eroding him like limestone. He looks to the Utter West, the horizon nothing but a flat line, and hesitates. He wonders, sometimes. He wonders how low he must fall before he follows Eönwë’s counsel. Before he jumps overboard, swims to his former masters, and pleads his case like a beggar.

How long before he is forced to take the punishment the Valar see fit to inflict upon him.

Melkor would have seen weakness in him for that. He would have whispered it in his ear, in that nauseatingly sweet voice he used only on him, both a general and a lover. The greatest Vala to ever exist, exiled because his will to destroy was stronger than his duty.

Not that it matters anymore.

Melkor was thrown into the Void, never to whisper anything again.

Beneath him, the raft threatens to founder. The mortals cry in anguish. The Worm gives chase through the waves.

Of all the ends he could have hoped for, and he has never hoped for any, this is an unthinkable travesty. He has treaded Middle-earth since before there were seas. He has shaped mountains and rivers and horrible creatures that creep in the dark. The strongest of the Maiar cannot die at the jaws of a sea serpent, or drown in the coldness of barren seas.

But then again, The One has always been resentful.

He laughs at himself in the mortal shape he has taken, the only fana he was able to conjure as he laid bleeding and betrayed in the Far North. If this is how his story ends, let Ilúvatar strike him down with all his might.

He deserves no less.

What he gets instead is her.

A long time ago, his name incited admiration.

Aulë taught him his craft with gentle hands and an even gentler temper. With hammer and tongs, with fire and water, he helped shape Arda like an artist who sculpts beautiful statues out of marble. He did such wonders he was praised among the Maiar. The strongest. The most gifted.

The Admirable.

Then Melkor talked sweetly to him and he lost that name forever.

He did gain others. Either given or claimed. Gorthaur the Cruel seems appropriate now, as he sacrifices all those mortals to keep the sea serpent away from him.

Away from her.

There is no reason as to why he does it, as to why he pulls her aboard the remains of the pitiful raft. Perhaps his excuse is that she is no ordinary Elf. He sees the resemblance with her brother, the Noldorin blood obvious in her features. Sees her anger and her pain as clearly as the favouritism in Ilúvatar’s eyes the day he sanctified the creation of the Dwarves.

Centuries ago her people gave him a name as formidable as thunder. So it is fitting he should tell her another, one of his own choosing.

Halbrand comes to mind.

Not grand or fear-inducing. A mortal name. Something she will accept, something she will not question. And of course, she doesn’t. When she all but ignores him, her back half-turned in annoyance, he finds it ironic that she would happen upon him here of all places. And that she would not recognise him.

Destiny, what an amusing notion.

There she stands, his enemy. Galadriel of the Noldor, Commander of the Northern Armies. The one Elf who would not believe the War to be over. The one Elf who would chase him from the ruins of Angband to the freezing Forodwaith. The one Elf who would refuse eternal glory in Valinor in favour of completing a painful self-appointed task.

There is no other reason for her to be stranded at sea, after all.

Deserter, he calls her mockingly. He sounds soft and sweet and dangerous, just like Melkor before him. You are running, he says, watching the ire in her blue eyes.

And yet, she pities him.

She says, “I know something of the pain you carry.”

She says, “I grieve for you.”

If only she knew whom she was grieving for, her compassion completely misplaced. If only she knew that he is no mortal Man. That the enemies who pushed him from his lands were doing her people a favour.

The light in her blinds him. Burns him. Tempts him.

He hates it.

Above them, the skies growl wolf-like. There’s a storm coming for them. Ulmo’s punishment, perhaps. To the deserting Elf-maiden and the Dark Lord’s lieutenant.

Halbrand pulls on the ropes that tie their inconsequential vessel together. Ignores the She-elf as she does the same.

Thinks, unleash your judgement, Eru.

Being as old as the Music makes his memory go far.

He recalls Melkor’s hatred for all creation. He recalls how his Master despised Elvendom the most. No word in all the languages of Arda could encompass his jealousy for the achievements of the Valar, for their blind love towards the first of the Children. Mairon the Maia knew this and still, he followed the Lord of All into the darkness. For love, of course.

And for power.

Because Mairon cared not for mindless annihilation. It was but a means to an end. One has to first heat the metal to forge it into a perfect sword. And what was he if not a smith, if not a purist, striving towards perfection.

(The Children of Ilúvatar proved to be a beautiful but imperfect ore, easily corrupted under his Master’s influence. Pliable to tongs and hammer.)

As Gorthaur, he followed Melkor into battle. He killed Elves and Men, created werewolves and cast dark spells, served in Angband and inhabited Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He traded the light Aulë had given him for the sweet elation in Melkor’s voice, for his dark hands around his neck in a parody of affection.

Not love.

Never love.

Because Mairon knew, even before his fall, that Melkor was incapable of loving anyone but himself.

Immortal beings, it seems, deceive themselves too.

And Mairon did, for a time. He did it so well he lost his identity in the process. He lost his purity. He lost his name. Fortunately, every deception has an end. Every rope tightens until it breaks.

His breaking point was the She-elf.

She was a sight to behold, Melian’s blood running through her veins. Hair as dark as night, eyes as grey as rainy skies, the Nightingale was an absolute wonder. She walked slowly over the bridge at Tol-in-Gaurhoth as she sang, that dreadful wolfhound at her side. She wanted the mortal, the one languishing in the cells.

She and the Hound killed all of his werewolves. And then she and the Hound bested him.

All that power, all that sacrifice—for one mortal.

After that, he ran. He pleaded for his life. He felt guilt where guilt had never bloomed before. He was told to go West and face judgement. He ran again and found treason. Found weakness.

Found himself on a raft with no destination.

Now Halbrand pulls the niece of Fëanor from the Sundering Seas, saving her life with her own dagger. And the only thing he can tell himself as an excuse is that she reminds him of that Nightingale, the one who chose mortality. The one he couldn’t best.

(She reminds him of himself, running from the judgement of her betters.)

The ship is full of mortals, and that alone is enough proof as to their identity.

Feigning unconsciousness, he lets them pull him out of the water and place him on a deck made of solid oak. He lets them come close enough to determine if he is breathing. And when they are close enough, he fakes awakening like the wolf he is. With her dagger in hand, he jumps to his feet, breaking the circle of Men surrounding him and hitting his back against the bulwark. He brandishes the blade at them, trying to make himself look clumsy. Inexperienced. Someone to underestimate, to easily overpower.

They ignore the real harm he could cause.

“Easy there, friend,” says a mortal with sharp blue eyes. There is authority to his voice. The lines that cross his face speak of experience, of worry, of temperance. “Put down your weapon. We are here to help.”

There is something about that Man, something that whispers fate in his ear. Not unlike a long-forgotten memory.

He wishes he had time to listen to it.

Instead, he asks, “Who are you?” his voice breathless and dry.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees two other Men carrying her. She is unconscious, looking fragile in all her Elven glory. Her skin is burned by sunlight and salt, her shift still damp and heavy. It is her hair that catches his eyes. Tangled and wet, it bravely shines with the kiss of Telperion and Laurelin.

He does not quite like how peaceful she looks.

The sailors put her down on the deck, removing the hair from her face. They both freeze when they see her ears.

In front of him, the mortal reaches out his hand. “Hand the dagger over, please,” he says, palm up. “Or I will have you thrown back overboard.”

The thing about deception is one has to weave in a little truth with the lie.

The blade gleams as Halbrand sheathes it back, looking hesitant. “Forgive me, my lord,” he grunts, lifting a hand in surrender as he offers the knife with the other. “We have not crossed paths with many amiable souls.”

The mortal takes the weapon, already frowning at the design. At the sight of true gold and silver from the unattainable Valinor.

“Your name, friend?” he asks, even as his focus is on the scabbard.

One of the sailors approaches him. Whispers, Captain Elendil. Whispers, she’s an Elf, sir. Glances at Halbrand, at his lack of Elven features, and whispers, do we give her back to the sea.

The captain blinks, stares at Galadriel for a moment, looks back at Halbrand. “An unlikely pair,” he comments as worry takes over his features like a mask.

More than you would know, Halbrand thinks, but holds his tongue. Instead, he huffs out a breath, feigning disbelief. He knows with certainty that this Man won’t throw her overboard. Elendil is his name—another one of Ilúvatar’s impertinent interventions, surely.

In the end, they are placed with the cargo. The sailors refuse to look at Galadriel, even if they are curious about her. They do have the courtesy of laying her on soft bales and sacks, right below the grating. They leave food and fresh water before returning to their posts.

Halbrand drinks, and eats, and stares at her.

Then he does the unthinkable.

He steals a coverlet the colour of the sky from one of the nearest hammocks and spreads it over her shoulders. Pushes a lock of golden hair from her face, making it gleam in the sunlight that filters through the grating. He may have lived in the darkness for millennia, but he can still enjoy beautiful things.

And she is by far the most beautiful complication he has ever come across.

“You should wake up soon, Elf,” he whispers to her.

An unlikely pair indeed.

If there’s one thing he learned from Melkor, that was trickery.

His master-lover-downfall hated being overshadowed. He was vain that way. So Gorthaur learned to play the loyal fool. To read others and act according to their tells, manipulating them into fulfilling his own desires. Time has proven it an excellent skill.

(And he was the Excellent one, once.)

Now, he uses it on her.

The ship navigates through giant sculptures of mortal kings, and he already suspects this to be the grand Númenor. The island that was gifted to those Men who fought against Melkor, who stood proudly side by side with the Elves. The kin of the mortal Man Gorthaur the Cruel once held captive in his dungeons.

Galadriel is short with her words, but answers his questions nonetheless. He soon understands she is wary of what Númenor has become. Of their self-imposed silence. They used to be allies to her people, she explains. Now they have ceased all contact.

Her words teach him a few things.

One, she distrusts these mortals. Sees herself and her quest as better, her pride igniting her cheeks in a lovely rosy colour that has him intrigued.

Two, for whatever reason, she has chosen to trust him. And he would never ignore such a gift. He is an opportunist, after all.

And three, and maybe the most important—the Noldor commander and the fallen Maia are far too much alike.

Morgoth.

That is the name Fëanor gave his Master. The Dark Tyrant. The thief of the accursed Silmarili.

To him, however, he always was and will forever remain Melkor. The most beautiful and powerful of all the Valar. The one who chose to make his own Music. The one who Rebelled.

Morgoth was the Dark Lord who destroyed the Lamps and poisoned the Trees, the Dark Lord who mercilessly tortured Elves into Orcs, the Dark Lord who feasted on the corruption of Men. Morgoth was the shadow that moved behind slanted walls and intricate towers, the wicked whispers in the ears of the Children of Ilúvatar.

But Melkor—Melkor was the one who praised Mairon’s craftsmanship. Who inspired his pursuit of perfection. Who smiled, and listened, and promised the impossible. The one Mairon kissed before there were stars, the one Mairon pleasured before there was a sun.

Even with the lies and the corruption, Melkor was the one Mairon loved. Back when love was a friend, and not a twisted emotion that melded with torture. Back when he willingly let himself be corrupted, when he lied, and deceived, and abandoned Valinor to inhabit the imperfect Middle-earth in the name of love and naïve ideas of power.

And even in the darkness, even with his hands and teeth stained with blood, he would look up at Melkor and draw his power from the Maia he once was, loving a Vala so much he chose exile over paradise.

Now, in the halls of the Númenórean Queen, he steals back Galadriel’s dagger, presses it into her hand, and breathes in her scent. She is indeed beautiful in the light. Her blue eyes stare back at him in surprise, and he reads an emotion in them he has not seen in years, an emotion he would sooner forget.

Her beauty irks him, calling out to the Ainu in him. Reminding him of a being that is no more, of a duty he has forsaken.

A part of him wishes to destroy her for it. Sink his teeth on her flesh, scratch her beautiful eyes out.

Instead, he gets lost on this island, choosing to never resurface again. To never dissuade her from her fruitless chase either, letting her run around in circles when her Enemy is right before her.

Yet, when he sets his eyes on Númenórean forges, and recalls Aulë’s teachings, and feels his hands itch with the need to create something beautiful, it’s her he sees.

It’s her he blames.

I have been searching for my peace for longer than you know.

Those are the words he speaks.

They are the reason he endures the humiliation when he is denied work. They are the reason he endures the humiliation when the Númenóreans imply he is of lesser breeding. They are the reason he endures the humiliation of pleading with them, asking them not to harm him.

But even if he is a shape-shifter, even if he is running from his deeds and has resolved to hide his existence from watchful eyes, he is still him—proud and unrelenting.

He is a Maia, not a low man.

The taste of blood on his tongue is all it takes.

Rage consumes him, and before he knows it, the Númenórean guildsmen lie on the paved street, red staining the cobblestones. Their broken bodies are a distant echo of a battle fought long, long ago. Mind blank, he stands there for a few moments admiring his work before the citadel guards come for him.

Númenor finds his misdemeanour a grave fault.

They would never understand he was showing restraint.

Cells are not foreign to him.

He has seen his fair share, beautifully crafted as well as crude and rotting. He has built some and has inhabited many. He remembers them all.

He has dwelled in prisons for longer than he has been free. From Aulë’s unmovable rules to Melkor’s demands of servitude. From the shackles of shadow to the bounds of self-appointed duty. He has changed one cell for another for as long as he can remember, only freed momentarily and inadvertently by suffering. Valinor. Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

Forodwaith.

(Melkor asked him once, what is it better, my beloved? Asked, to serve the Light? Asked, or to rule the Darkness?)

When he was betrayed by the filthy Moriondor and his worthless Orcs, blood melting the snow under his body, he imprisoned himself one last time. He took a mortal form, diminishing himself between bouts of pain. Hiding who he once was out of fear, avoiding the judgement that was sure to come.

Now here he is. Halbrand, held behind bars again.

(The sweet voice that has never truly left him laughs in his ear. Who are you fooling, it says, poisonous, but true. You cannot run from yourself, beloved.)

He hears the steps and knows it is her before the torches catch a glimpse of her pale skin. She moves lightly, like a fallen leaf from a mallorn. Not that any actual Southlander could ever tell. Mellyrn do not grow in Harad.

She rounds Uinen’s statue, a blue dress hugging her frame in quite the inviting manner. There is no hesitation in her eyes as she approaches, her blue eyes solely on him. There is pleasure in watching her move and he indulges in it, forearms hanging from the iron bars of his cage.

When she parts her lips to speak, she does something surprising—she mocks him.

Not to offend, but to chastise. She mentions his failed quest for peace with a dry humour he thought impossible of her. Almost friendly. Almost intimate.

(One amused whisper of his name and there is no helping himself when he follows her game. When he gives back banter when she expects excuses. And he has to remind himself that her words hide no second meaning. That she is no fallen Vala hoping to corrupt him.

There is no one else left to corrupt him any further—except himself.)

Galadriel’s eyes hold a mischievous glint. And he feels drawn to it as he was to the Númenórean forges. When she speaks again, he learns one thing about her that in another life would have pushed him to violence.

She is insatiable.

Her quest for answers has taken her to an old sigil in an even older piece of parchment. A sigil that matches the one he carries around his neck. The one she saw on the raft and changed her perception of him. An ancient trophy taken from a dead Man’s corpse, his rotting meat a feast for crows.

He tells her as much. But the good in her—that incorruptible good he has barely seen in centuries—blinds her to reality, making her see that which she desires. And what Galadriel of the Noldor desires is for him to be a leader, for him to be a king.

For him to fight her war.

(Mairon the Maia once wished for something. Something Time coaxed him to forsake.)

When she mistakes him for a lost heir, a king without a crown, he feels a pull deep inside that almost cuts through his deceiving flesh. Because suddenly here, a prisoner in a Númenórean cell, he finds his way back to Middle-earth. Here he sees a clear path, should he wish to take it. A path to freedom.

A path to power.

She knows not what she is offering.

(Or to whom.)

He may wonder later if that is what gives him pause, or if it is the eagerness in her eyes. Either way, he warns her. He says, “Be careful, Elf.” Says, “The heir to this mark is heir to more than just nobility.” Says, “For it was his ancestor who swore a blood oath to Morgoth.”

It is true for the real Man who wore the sigil. But it is also true for him.

“I am not the hero you seek,” he whispers to her, daring Fëanor’s kin to discover him.

And there it is. The gift of the Children of Ilúvatar. Staring back at him through her eyes. Compassion for the torment of another living being. She is determined to ease his guilt, her stubbornness blinding her. So she speaks of the Elves starting the war, her family the one who tore her kin apart. She speaks of forces far beyond mortal understanding, of an alliance between them, a chance to fight all that is evil and banish it to the Void.

She speaks of redemption. And while she does, her eyes are full of wonders.

(Perhaps he was wrong.

Perhaps she is one of the Ainur, here to seduce him into one more cage.)

He does not require sleep.

When he inhabited the City of Many Bells, he used to indulge in it anyway. To close his eyes and enjoy unadulterated creation. Something that comes from within, like a mysterious source of magic Ilúvatar placed secretly inside his progeny to be discovered by mere chance.

To what purpose, it is impossible to guess, for Ilúvatar offers no answers. Yet, it is clear to him now that dreams are both a wonder and an evil.

Because Mairon dared to dream once—and those dreams brought about his downfall.

No, he does not require sleep. Yet mortals expect him to rest, so Halbrand acquiesces. Closes his eyes in his cell, lies on his pallet, and names the stars from memory. But he no longer indulges in sleep.

For he no longer dreams.

A curse, he believes. A curse for all the pain he has inflicted, all the dark magic he has cast, all the lives he has taken. Now, if he dares to sleep, he slips into nightmares. He hears the voices of the Valar, scathing words raining down on him like arrows. He sees the faces of his victims, ghosts of the Unseen with veiled eyes staring right into him. He feels the fire that razed Beleriand, consuming what weak spells he can conjure to shield himself.

In his nightmares, they all come for him.

In his nightmares, he cannot fight back.

In his nightmares, he is torn to pieces to the song of screams.

Loneliness has always been a companion.

It’s etched in the corners of his soul—if he still has one. First with Aulë, when his own designs were denied again and again, leaving him to question his rebellious thoughts in his mighty forge. Then with Melkor, when he was sent away on bloody errands while the Dark Lord stayed on his throne, lost in contemplation of the treacherous Silmarili.

He has been and will always be alone. To hope for something different would be foolish. In time, he has come to understand loneliness as the markings of greatness.

Those who bear true power are alone.

It is due to his cherished loneliness that, when Númenor throws her two cells over, he helps her. A small, strategic piece of advice from the Deceiver she so wishes to find. For he may not know the words to those tragic songs that are chanted in green forests. But he has mastered which words to sing in enchanted ears to bring about their tragedy.

In return, he asks for one thing.

She is to leave him be. To cease her endless whispers of hope and atonement. To let him roam this island freely. Perhaps until he tires of the passing of Time and begs Mandos to cast him into the Void.

She won’t uphold her part, of course. It’s clear in the proud line of her shoulders, in the way her gaze burns when she looks at him. In her pitiable will to fight until she is consumed. And the picture she paints is irresistible to him, the mighty fury of his own kin in her features—

He loved, once.

He won’t go through it again.

He sells her secrets to Pharazôn for a low price—freedom and a gold guild crest. Far more than he could have hoped for as he fought for survival on a miserable raft. He becomes a smith’s aide, and she is captured. He can’t help but watch as she’s rowed to a Númenórean ship, exiled once more.

Unwanted, unneeded.

Ah, what an end that would have been.

But Ilúvatar is a wicked old creature. So Nimloth cries, Númenor trembles in fear, and she is brought back.

A harbinger of his fate.

His world has always been metal and fire, even before he ignited the forges at Angband. Glowing steel in one hand, a hammer in the other, he has always been a creator. There is power in shaping raw material into something with purpose.

Even if that purpose is death.

Yet he is a smith. Fire is what runs through his veins.

Númenor wants swords, so he will give them the best they have ever seen. Balanced, sharp, and deadly as werewolves’ jaws. In this mortal form, he sweats from the heat of the furnace. He hurts from the burns on his fingers. He chokes on the ashes from too-green logs.

The sun rises and sets, and he still hammers away, fascinated by how much he missed his own skill. How complete he felt at creating something.

Of course, Galadriel does not care for it.

She summons him like one would a dog. She makes plans for him, makes decisions for him, takes his life into her hands and expects him to be grateful. Such is the blind pride of the Eldar.

She ignores he could end her.

He could grab her long hair, quick as lightning, pull it back to bare her throat, nose along the curve of her neck and bite down where the blood flows, like the wild and unrelenting beast he is. He could drag her by that blue sash she wears tight around her waist, holding her where she stands as she fights him, gasping and struggling and trying to break free from the sharp teeth under her jaw.

He could watch the light leave her eyes as he did with her brother, turning her into the most beautiful corpse he would ever leave in his wake.

(He could consume her. And he could do so with a few words.

I am whom you seek whispered tenderly in her ear.)

Instead, he says, “You used me.”

He has been used before. That is not what irks him.

She leans on the table, her eyes glinting with a feverish gleam. A gleam he is certain would be mirrored back at him, should he check his reflection on the surface of the very blades he makes. Those pink lips of hers part, and her face looks like the purest snow as she says, “Many might assume you used me.”

No.

No, being used is not what irks him.

What makes the fire in his veins roar, hoping he could lunge across the table and close his fingers around her beautiful neck, is that for an instant—she reminds him of Melkor.

And for some reason he cannot begin to explain, he expected himself to do better.

(When he holds a grudge, he holds it forever.

He holds grudges against Aulë, the Valar, Ilúvatar.

He holds grudges against Elves, Men, Dwarves.

He holds a grudge against his lover the Dark Lord, and against the worthless Moriondor who betrayed him.

Yet when he sees her outmanoeuvre every Númenórean soldier in the square, dancing her way through the swords he has shaped, a smile on her face brighter than the coveted Silmarili—the grudge he has built against her falters.

There is an itch growing stronger inside of him. An itch to cross swords with her. An itch to bathe her with magic and watch her repel his enchantments by sheer will. An itch to dance with her until The One is forced to set Arda ablaze to make them stop.

But the illusion is short-lived.

She comes to him afterwards, her cheeks exquisitely reddened. She talks of skills and hints at greatness.

He feels like he has swallowed poison.)

There is doubt in him.

There has always been.

After all, he was created good, and pure, and wonderful.

Before there was a single grain of sand in Eä, Aulë told him that all the Ainur were born from Ilúvatar’s dreams. That they were exactly as Ilúvatar imagined them. That they had the task of creating Arda, of guarding the Children, of following Ilúvatar’s plan.

But if that is the case, if they are all trapped in the web Ilúvatar weaves, then why should he be ashamed of being—

She begins by asking for forgiveness.

She sounds sincere but soon ruins it by being hasty. A hasty Elf, who would have thought. She appeals to his selfishness, and then to his selflessness. Stop fighting me, she commands him, ignorant of the fact that he has always been at war—with the world, with himself. That he wouldn’t be able to stop even if he so wanted.

There are blood stains in his hands that will never dry, that will never wash away.

He answers her anyway. It is in his nature to be contrariant. It is in his nature to worship violence. She demands peace of him, yet she comes looking for a battle of her own making. This pampered She-elf that knows nothing of survival, nothing of the deeds one commits in the dark. How could she, daughter of the Eldar, precocious child that she is? She believes him to be a Man, a mortal. She knows not of the true rot that plagues him. Of the twisted hand that held his head down in surrender until the only way through was to drown in the filth.

She could never understand the depravity of having all that is pure stripped away, replaced with infamy and perversion—and revel in it.

“Sometimes to find the light, we must first touch the darkness.”

She whispers those words with sincerity, despite the double-edged sword the statement is. Naïve, like all her kind. As if she knew what true darkness felt like.

(True darkness is standing right before her and yet she can’t see.)

He pushes her, of course. He pushes her because for as much as he loves creating things, he learned long ago that he must first break them. So he changes not his form but his shadow, making it loom larger than her, larger than this mortal forge, larger than Armenelos herself. He raises not his voice, but his eyes try to burn her where she stands.

And he was granted powerful eyes.

That is when she speaks of her brother. Angry tears running down her cheeks, she recalls her memories of him, believing Halbrand doesn’t know. Believing he couldn’t possibly have been present when Finrod Felagund was thrown into the Halls of Mandos by the fangs of his creatures.

For a moment, it angers him, her stooping so low as to seek revenge. Corrupt, all of them, my beloved, Melkor had said once.

But surely not Galadriel of the Golden House. Surely not this She-elf so reminiscent of the Nightingale. Not her, the one being that chose to see him as more (as less) than what he truly is. He is so furious at her it hurts him, tears coming to his eyes without explanation. The words are spat out, resembling not sounds but dragon fire. An illness meant to corrode all that is pure and alive.

Vengeance.

The sorrow upon her face would have made Manwë himself relent.

Halbrand is no Manwë.

(And maybe therein lies the problem.)

The cracks are there even before he pushes her over the edge. He wonders what would happen if he grabbed her throat, pulled her in, and uttered poison against her lips. If he truly spoke his mind, telling her how similar she is to her corrupt uncle. How much sin she carries with her, revenge cursing through her veins. Eru put her in his path, and if he has to break her to understand her, then he—

When she speaks next, her words could very well shatter his mortal bones.

A tear falling down her cheek, she says, “I cannot stop.” Sadness dripping off her voice, she says, “They could no longer distinguish me from the evil I was fighting.”

Once, a She-elf bested him at his own house.

Now here comes another, her words so true they call to an agonising part of him. A remnant of a being he thought long lost. He who has seen the absolute putrefaction of Arda. He who betrayed his first master for the promise of power and love.

He, as much of a deserter as she.

The furnace is still burning, but the fire feels appeased.

In his search to break her, he breaks himself. For there is a strange emotion crawling from his chest to his throat, an unnamed feeling that only comes when she beckons. The words slip from his mouth and they are not falsehood.

He asks for forgiveness, perhaps for the first time since he chose the shadows.

And of course, she mistakes it for sorrow and casts it aside with that pride of hers.

When she leaves, she comes close to him, allowing him to catch her sweet scent mixed with the fire. When she leaves, her warm hand presses something against his palm, something crude and metallic he recognises immediately.

When she leaves, all the air leaves with her.

(Sometimes he is seduced by the call of sleep.

Sometimes he answers that call just to remember who he is and what he has done.

Sometimes Finrod Felagund rips him open with the same dagger his sister now carries with her.)

He sits in the shadows where he belongs. Her voice still echoes on the walls, echoes through Time, echoes across Arda. He sits there, the accursed sigil resting on his palm, and repeats her words like a song.

(She had said, There is no peace to be found for you here.

She had said, No lasting peace in any path, but that which lies across the sea.

She had said, This is how you earn yours.)

They sounded true. They sounded like a benediction.

Númenor offers a simple life. He could stay, become a great smith, and forge great beauty. He could devote his immortal existence to penance, to redemption and peace. Maybe someday, when Time turned Armenelos to dust, when his harmless deception was lost to the wind and sea, when he had served mortals long enough to tire his hands, Eönwë would come for him. He would utter words of forgiveness and take him back to Aman.

And yet, if he were to follow her—he could finally get his crown.

He could achieve his precious desires, ruling over Men, Elves, and Dwarves. He could set order and eradicate corruption. He could prove to the Children of Ilúvatar he would use his power to better them and protect them, unlike the Valar. All in exchange for their eternal loyalty.

By the hand of his enemy, he could reign, exacting revenge on those who betrayed him. He could return to Middle-earth and be loved, proving the mighty Ainur wrong.

Yes, Númenor offers a simple life.

But he is no simple creature.

Ilúvatar does not make things by mere chance, for his designs have no flaws. That’s what Aulë taught him. Galadriel of the Noldor did not cross his path on mere happenstance. She is no mischievous Vala hoping to enslave him, but one of the First Children, offering glory and compassion. An emissary of the Light. She cares not for his meagre aspirations in Númenor, but for his return to Middle-earth.

For him to resume his duty.

In a cooling Númenórean forge, he thinks Who am I to deny you, Ilúvatar for the first time in millennia.

Morning comes. The die is cast.

If the She-elf demands of him a king, so a king he will be.

Mairon.

Mairon, what have you done?

Aulë’s words find him. They always find him, day or night. Light or shadow. The words of his teacher, of his master. Of the Ainu he would have called Father if he had ever been entitled to one.

(Not Ilúvatar, never Ilúvatar.

For Ilúvatar is an almighty force—a neglecting god who cares only for his Song.)

Mairon, there is nothing for you down this path, Aulë whispers. Warns. Begs. Nothing but destruction and your own damnation.

Such hypocrisy. Aulë created the Dwarves just to prove he could. But Mairon was never allowed to conceive more than that which had been foreseen. Never allowed to rise higher. Never allowed to deviate from Ilúvatar’s plan.

Mairon, come to us. Face your judgement.

Halbrand takes his eyes away from the stars. He belongs nowhere but to whichever kingdom he builds for himself. He will never set foot in Valinor again. He will never see the City of Many Bells again. He will never speak to his former master again.

But in a few days, he sails back to Middle-earth, a title placed upon his shoulders, an army at his command, and the daughter of Finarfin as his lieutenant.

In a few days, the betrayed Maia returns as a king.

Watch me, father, he thinks.

(The wind blows.

It sobs, you know not what you are doing, Mairon.)

There is an old armour waiting for him at the forge.

The design is Elven, a relic from centuries ago—back when Númenor cared for her friendship with the Eldar. The steel has held decently enough through the years, but some work would not go amiss.

“The Queen Regent has gifted it to me,” Galadriel says from a corner. Halbrand turns and sees her sitting patiently on a stool. She looks far too clean, far too pure to be here. Over her shoulders, a cape the colour of midnight does little to conceal her in the shadow, for there is an unnatural shine to her skin that rivals that of the furnace. “It is ill-fitting, however.”

She blinks slowly, says no more.

What a pitiful display of fake innocence.

He cannot help himself—and laughs.

“Allow me to guess,” he says. His fingers trace the delicate lines on one of the vambraces, leaning forward on the table, unable to rein a smirk in. “You require my humble skills.”

Light as air, she stands from her seat, taking the opposite side of the table in three long strides. “If you are not otherwise occupied.”

He is. She knows this.

For all his love of subtlety, he finds the harshness of her ways endearing. She is like a tempest hitting a rock, waiting for it to shatter to her will. Her persuasion is based on her fiery spirit—she either wins by exasperation or by contagious passion.

After many winters roaming Arda, a passionate Elf is a refreshing rarity.

“Very well, then. Let's see how ill-fitting Her Majesty’s gifted armour is, Elf,” he tells her, prompting her to come closer so she can put on the steel.

Underneath her cape, she wears a white gambeson and linen breeches. The fabric looks simple, but the material is rich and soft, decorated with the Númenórean star. It fits her perfectly, yet the padded garment hides the curves of her silhouette. That delicate insinuation of her body he became so familiar with on their adventure over the Belegaer, her wet shift clinging to her limbs by the kiss of the sea.

Suddenly, his fingers twitch with the angry need to tear all that offensive fabric from her body, discovering for himself how much Telperion and Laurelin have imprinted themselves on her skin. It is a blinding urge. And that alone should serve as a warning.

He learned long ago not to let lust catch him unguarded.

(Are you fooling yourself again, my beloved?)

She is not oblivious to the fact that he has been staring, for she breathes in sharply and extends her hand towards the table, reaching for the first piece of armour. Galadriel may be blind to certain truths, but surely not this. She must suspect his lowly wishes, she must see the greed in his eyes.

Yet, she does not run.

Halbrand reacts, staying her hand and taking the responsibility of armouring her himself. With calloused fingers, he helps her put on the dull-looking pieces—mail first, the heavy shirt falling to the top of her thighs. There is no doubt she can do it herself, but she does not protest when he kneels to start with her legs, helping her step on the sabatons. Nor when his fingers take command, moving her to his liking.

To immortal beings, time is a complicated matter. One fleeting moment can seem like an eternity to those who have lived through centuries, whereas years might pass in the blink of an eye.

Now, as he inspects her armour for weaknesses, as she lets herself be led, time slows to an everlasting heartbeat.

Fingers graze an ear on their way to a pauldron. Palms press against the curve of a waist to attach the faulds. Long hair is set gently over a shoulder, leaving a slender neck bare to warm breath, the gorget placed taut against a throat.

They scarcely speak. An instruction here and there, a soft affirmation. They breathe and move, the fire crackling in the dead of night. She lets herself be directed, cheeks reddening, eyes fixed somewhere far away, keeping herself still until his hands shift her. Her breathing sometimes hitches, her eyelids blink too slowly.

She fools no one.

(Elves were not created to feel this all-consuming passion.

She is indeed an absolute wonder.)

He can and does toy with her. He stands too close, breathes her in, murmurs in a low tone that carries an unseemly familiarity. Stares down at her as he inspects her cuirass, stares up at her as he inspects her greaves. His fingers never stray, however. He never touches her in any compromising manner. He works and he does so unfalteringly.

That does not mean their actions lack intimacy. For there is something private in the way their bodies flow.

And he—he is not unaffected.

He wonders what it would feel like to grab her chin, to force her to look into his eyes as he removes the armour and tears her undergarments open. Wonders what it would feel like to taste her skin, mouth mapping her body until it settles over the wetness between her legs, her gasps filling the forge as she stands in front of the fire, holding onto his shoulders. Wonders what would happen if he placed her atop his working table and took her like a real mortal of the Southlands, her face against the oak, mouth open in pleasure, his hands holding her hips down, and his body thrusting into her to the song of wet sounds.

Burning together until they shatter.

(He was vaguely aware he desired her.

Apparently, he has underestimated how much.)

He breathes in, scents her own need—and refrains from scraping his teeth down her throat. Instead, he finishes marking the old armour, where to adjust the frame and where to reinforce the steel. When he is finished, he leans back. There is no task left to do but undress her, and yet he does not move. His eyes find hers, catching the same emotion he saw on them once—when he retrieved her dagger.

“Is that all?” she asks, her voice but a whisper.

He is still standing too close. He could raise his hand and touch her face, the arch of her cheekbone.

He doesn’t.

“Yes,” he hears himself say from far, far away. “It will be ready the day before we depart.”

She nods. Breathes out. Walks herself back to her corner and begins to remove the armour by herself.

Mairon the Maia was an excellent smith.

When she sets foot aboard their ship, her armour shines unnaturally. It looks solid, and light, and made only for her. Improved not by the hands of a crownless Southland king, but by the best immortal blacksmiths.

Númenórean soldiers stare after her, her loose hair dancing in the wind. Any of them could easily mistake her for one of the Ainur.

Over her breastplate, he left a gift—the Evening Star, standing out in gold.

She never says anything about it, but he catches her tracing its points when she thinks no one is looking.

He asked Melkor once if there was a plan. If his rule over Middle-earth had meaning.

His lover laughed and came closer with a soft look in his eyes that was anything but sincere. His gauntlet closed tightly around Gorthaur’s neck, thumb pressing against his lip until it bled.

“What is better, my beloved?” he asked. “To serve the Light or to rule the Darkness?”

Those were the only two options for the Lord of All—serve or rule.

Gorthaur said nothing, just took the kiss his lover gave him. Cold as ice, unyielding as stone.

“I only desire for Arda to burn,” Melkor said then, his eyes growing vicious. “I desire for these lower creatures of The One to feel pain and despair—for there are no truer feelings. For they deserve nothing else.”

Melkor smiled sweetly. Thick as honey, poisonous as Ungoliant.

He leaned forward, his lips close to Gorthaur’s ear.

“There is only one way to defeat Eru, beloved,” he whispered. “To do so, we must descend into the pit. We must tread through the darkness. We must fight until victory is won.”

And so he said, never forget that, Mairon.

The Elves first woke up to the light of the stars.

Maybe that is the reason why they need no sleep. There was no day nor night back then. Just stars. And it’s under the stars that he finds her, her gaze fixed on the horizon, waiting for the East to become her North.

Behind them, the ghost of a sunset. Ahead, nothing but the dark sea.

“Elendil says the next watch will start soon,” he murmurs over her shoulder. She turns, a lock of her hair catching on his leather armour. Again, he is standing unwisely close to her. She does not complain, though, and he does not feel like retreating. “You should come below, have something to eat.”

There is tension around her eyes, in the line of her back, in the corners of her lips. She looks at him, but doesn’t truly see him.

Turning back towards the horizon, she says, “I am not hungry.”

He glances up at the sky, sees Varda’s twinkling lights watching curiously.

“Allow me to be more specific, lady Galadriel,” he says airily, using the title the Queen Regent spits at her every time she is being difficult. She turns, cheeks ruddy from the wind and the cold and the indignation. “These soldiers—as charming as their company is—are terrible at conversation. Or at gambling.” He shifts his weight forward, like he is telling her a secret, but still glancing up at the stars. “I tire of their incessant chatter about horses and, seeing as these Númenóreans have granted you a cabin, I would appreciate it if you came below deck so I can unbecomingly make use of it for a few moments of peace and quiet.”

He looks at her then, his lips stretching smugly upwards.

The strain in her blue eyes is momentarily gone. Instead, there’s—amusement. As if she finds his crude impertinence charming.

“I see,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the waves. “Well, in that case, my lord Halbrand.”

Dry humour, what a treat.

She delicately glides past him, her hair flying freely in the night. Everyone stops to stare at her as she descends the stairs of the forecastle, walks the deck without staggering, and disappears under an open hatch.

Like a moth to the flame, he follows.

The torches show him the way to the officer’s quarters until he finds her accommodations. She has left the door open, her back to him as she removes the cuirass and gorget of her armour, leaving them on a narrow table and taking a seat on a wooden stool.

The cabin Elendil has dispensed for her is quite small, quite dark. It’s no wonder she prefers to be in the forecastle, watching the stars and searching the horizon. Unfortunately, they are still two days away from reaching their destination, and if she keeps her incessant pacing, most of the Númenórean soldiers will end up drowning themselves.

He closes the door and falls unceremoniously on her bed.

“Far better than my assigned pallet,” he complains, leaning back on his forearms and staring at her. His knees can almost graze the side of her stool. If he leant forward, he could touch her.

“You are welcome to use it,” she hums, starting to comb her hair with long fingers. “Although I suspect our hosts would find it far from appropriate.”

He bites his tongue to keep from saying especially if they find us lying on it together.

Instead, he watches as she separates the golden tresses, barely a knot in them. Each lock she combs, she sets it over the shoulder facing the wall until one side of her neck is bare. The gorget has left no mark on her pale skin, and the curve of her throat is the sweetest of temptations.

He follows the line of her neck to the point of her ear. She looks delicate, vulnerable. But then again, looks can be deceiving.

His eyes find hers already watching him, and so he makes his decision.

“Allow me,” he whispers, sitting up with one hand stretched towards her hair.

There is wariness in her gaze, but it is soon replaced with a blank expression. She nods, giving her consent, and swiftly turns to face the wall.

The slide of his fingers in her hair is smooth, like touching silk. He can feel the warmth from the Sacred Trees on the strands, like magic coursing through his fingertips. He doubts any Elf, Man or Dwarf would be able to tell. And it feels like a secret. A secret no one else will ever know about Galadriel of the Noldor.

He touches her neck once, softly. Slowly. On accident, on purpose, it does not matter. Their fates are woven together. He is certain of this.

She sighs once, but otherwise does not utter a word.

As the ship rocks and the night guard takes its watch, he entwines her hair into a long braid, the ends of which reach past her waist. He takes one final look at it, satisfied, and slides his calloused hand down its length.

“There,” is the only thing he says, “far more practical.”

Her shoulders rise and fall, but she never reaches for the braid. He thought she would, inspecting it for flaws like she does everything else. Instead, she turns with a softness in her eyes that could very well be sorrow.

“It has been a long time,” she whispers, her beautiful face at hand’s reach, “since someone did such kindness for me.”

(And isn’t that ludicrous?

It has been a long time since he did any kindness at all.)

His elbows find his knees, his mouth so close to her face he should be dragged above deck and thrown into the Belegaer with an arrow through his chest.

“May I suggest better company, then,” he teases her, but his voice comes out soft and secretive.

Her eyes drop from his mouth to her own hands, and albeit there is the ghost of a smile on her parted lips, she is clearly unsettled—her gaze far away from their Númenórean ship. There is something private in her features, something he isn’t privy to.

It is enough for tonight.

(It would be enough for a lifetime.)

“I should take my leave,” he says, standing up from her bed. “Thank you for this brief reprieve from horse-talk.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgement. Long fingers grab for her discarded armour once more.

He has one hand on the doorknob, another on the jamb when the idea burns through his mind until it reaches the tip of his tongue. He says, “Who was it?” He turns his head and says, “The last person to braid your hair.”

She looks startled for a moment. And then—

“Centuries have passed,” she says. “It does not no longer matter.”

Côf Belfalas opens up before them.

To the Númenóreans, the bay is an unknown future. Either a land of opportunity or the place where they will be laid to rest forever.

To Galadriel, it is an act of rebellion, an outright rejection of her exile.

To him, Belfalas is an open wound. The sight of a beautifully destructive Vala, welcoming him with open arms. The bay calls out all his names, the virtuous and the wicked. A stanza in a larger song, in a great Music he took part in many centuries ago.

Middle-earth feels like doom.

During the Age of the Trees, the Ainur came for Melkor in a fit of fury.

In the name of their love for the Elves, they laid waste to Utumno, knocked down her doors, tore down her roof. They forced a laughing Melkor from his throne in her darkest pit, chained him like a beast, and took him with them to Aman.

This proved to be fatal, of course.

Yet in Melkor’s absence from Middle-earth, Gorthaur reigned and thrived. All fallen Maiar rallied to him in secret, and in the privacy of his lair, he perfected an army like no one had ever seen before. An army waiting for their general to break free from his prison and return to them. Because Melkor may have tortured Elves into Orcs, but it was Gorthaur the one who created them from stone and desperation. The one who perfected them, dispensable soldiers to fight his Master’s war.

The same soldiers who betrayed him centuries later, under the orders of an accursed Moriondor who called itself their Father.

Now, the hooves of Númenórean horses shatter the earth as they charge into battle against his creations.

Riding downhill, his mind clouds with thoughts of bloodlust. He could call on his power and banish these Orcs back to the filth whence they came. He could smite them where they stand, for they deserve fire, they deserve ash—not the quick death of the sword. Out of all masters, it is him they betrayed, and so they must suffer, their heads put on spikes and paraded throughout all of Middle-earth. Their bodies burnt in a pyre high enough that it is seen from Valmar.

(A warning. This is the fate that awaits those who dare betray—)

The only thing that reins in his ire is her.

She leads the charge like a beacon of light. The armour he perfected shining in the dawn. The golden hair he braided leaping between her shoulders. She has come to exact justice, the might of the Ainur on her face.

He follows her into battle like he once charged into Beleriand, the sky black from dragon fire and the whips of the Balrogs. He follows her into battle like they are already victorious—the Elf and the Maia, survivors of the Belegaer, survivors of Ulmo’s storm, survivors of Ilúvatar’s test.

His chance at vengeance will come.

For now, he will be her sword and shield.

There is a phantom ache across his torso. That of a thousand cuts from cowardly, filthy knives digging into his skin, letting the cold of the Northern Waste seep into his body. There is a phantom sound ringing in his ears. That of a thousand feet trudging in the snow, fleeing their posts and leaving their former Master to bleed alone in the vast coldness of the Forodwaith.

There is a pain that still lingers to this day. That of his magic twisting his body into the shape of a mortal Man.

His memory is a long one.

He does not forget, he does not forgive.

When Galadriel rides through the slaughtering of Orcs, chasing after the Moriondor, he pulls hard on the reins of his horse. He forces it to run faster than any beast could, a soft spell falling from his tongue into its ear. His eyes—strong eyes that see all, know all—pierce through the forest, past trees, past streams, past animals and birds. His body tenses in anticipation, the wind blowing through his ears like the waves of the sea.

He can see her. He can see her light coming straight towards him, can hear her breathing, the soft words she whispers to her horse. He rides out to meet her, his mind darkened with vengeful schemes.

The trees part—he sees the Moriondor first, Galadriel close behind him. He does not hesitate as he slides sideways on his saddle, lance extended to stop powerful hooves. He does not see the fallout, but he does hear it.

It sounds painful.

It sounds satisfactory.

His horse stops when he pulls on the reins. He dismounts, watching the Moriondor reach for a parcel. The blade of his lance stills that wandering hand, a deep wound just for pleasure. With his boot, he turns the Moriondor over. Steps on its chest with authority, keeping the scum down on the ground, where it should have stayed all those years ago.

He asks, “Do you remember me?”

The filth that was once an Elf has the audacity to say no.

It matters not. The vermin will soon remember. Determined, he lifts his lance for a painful strike—

Only for her to stop him just as the spear is in freefall.

She shouts a mighty order, dismounting from her horse in fury. They need the Moriondor alive, she says. She needs the Moriondor alive, she says. He cannot end its miserable and cowardly life because she needs information. To find her Enemy, of course.

For a moment, he feels like lashing out at her. There are dark spells on the tip of his tongue. There are words in Black Speech. Words such as, it is me you seek, Elf. Words such as, its life is mine to take. Words such as, I might take yours too if you interrupt me again. For he is the Admirable, the Abhorrent, and he will have restitution.

Instead, he urges her. He says, “You don’t know what he did.”

She stills. And for all the displeasure that clouds her eyes, there is also compassion and understanding. For him.

Always for him.

He barely looks at her, his eyes trained on the travesty that lies beneath his boot. The Moriondor smiles. Speaks. Tries to unbalance him, searching for a crack in his restraint. Pushing him to slaughter. It says, “Did I cause someone you love pain?” It says, “A woman?”

It truly does not remember.

Yet, its smile is the same. That yellow smile with which it looked down upon him as he lay bleeding on ashen snow.

As a last attempt, the scum mentions a child. Still serene. Still smiling. And the urge to cut open those cheeks on its twisted face with the edge of his blade—

“Eat your tongue,” Galadriel all but commands it, her voice dripping with disgust. He feels her eyes on his face. “Halbrand,” she calls softly, “put it down.” Her voice is unyielding steel as she says, “One cannot satisfy thirst by drinking seawater.”

The lance trembles in his hand. With a clenched jaw, he considers ignoring her. She knows not what this vermin has cost him, what it could cost him still. It is a nuisance that has to be eliminated. So he parts his lips, a plea ready on his tongue—and then he glances at her face.

Her semblance is severe, yet there is sadness in her eyes. Sadness and hope.

For him.

Always for him.

Halbrand lets the Moriondor live.

Uruk.

An unimaginative, yet offensive word for Orcs to call themselves. But its offence relies not on the term, but the language. Because it is not in Quenya or Sindarin. Not in Mannish or Khuzdul. Not even primitive Orkish.

It is a word in Black Speech. A language created by Melkor’s lieutenant to unite all creatures of the dark. A language of pure shadow.

His language.

And now the vermin that betrayed him uses it like a banner. Like a name its critters can rally behind, as if they are people. As if they are more than simple tools to inflict pain and despair. To be disposed of like dirt.

Uruk. That is what the Moriondor tells her. We prefer Uruk.

He hears it from his place in the shadows, hiding from her sight in the slanted walls of the barn.

The creature calls itself Uruk, but she does not fall for its tricks. She persists, asking the question she has been unable to answer even as it stands in front of her.

Galadriel of the Noldor, blinded by her very duty.

Yet, what she does next is surprising. She makes a threat. A threat of torture and pain. So unlike her that for a moment he thinks he has stepped back in time. He is back in the halls of Angband, Melkor tearing the mind of his prisoners to shreds for a scrap of information. For practice. For his undisguised pleasure.

The thread works. The Moriondor speaks. It talks of things it does not truly understand, things not even she does. The quest. Their march North. The Unseen. And, of course, the betrayal. I split him open, the creature says.

But she is wise. She does not believe him.

The Moriondor baits her with words of justice, of worth. But she is deaf to them, blinded by more than just duty. Blinded by hate. This time, her threat sounds closer to a promise, severe and all-powerful. The things she says, the way she says them, have him tensing in the shadows. Alarmed and—somewhat amazed. For the first time, he imagines her not only as an emissary of destiny, as a companion to make gasp in pleasure, but as an equal. A co-ruler to guide the way through the darkness with her light.

Are they not alike, after all?

When the Moriondor speaks again, it dares to compare her to Melkor. As if she, with her compassion and glory, could be anything like Melkor. As if she, with her desire for peace, could set fire to a whole kingdom for her own amusement until the sea claimed it back in mourning.

“Perhaps I should start by killing you,” she growls under her breath.

He could let her do it. Could let her stain her hands with black blood, and live forever with the guilt in her heart. Could let her separate head from body, and struggle with the knowledge of what she is capable of in the name of her own ambition.

That would break her. That would tear her asunder. And isn’t that what he once wanted? Sometimes to find the light, we must first touch the darkness, she had said. Yet, one thing is to touch the darkness, another is to drown in it.

He should know.

There it is again, that feeling. That emotion that answers only to her, burning his body from the inside out. Damn her, damn her to the underworld—but he likes her whole. He wants her as she is.

He—

“Galadriel.”

Halbrand intervenes, her dagger pressed to the Moriondor’s throat. He intervenes because she should never have to dirty her hands with such scum. He intervenes because she would hate herself forever afterwards.

He intervenes because it is not her kill, but his.

And when he ends the Moriondor’s life, he will end it for the both of them.

(As he is taking his leave, eyes set on her retreating back, the traitor calls out to him.

“Who are you?” it asks, a note of suspicion in its voice.

He stills but does not answer.

The scum will know soon enough.)

Middle-earth is beautiful.

A simple truth, but a truth nonetheless. It is a pity that the Children of Ilúvatar do not quite see it.

Elves live their immortal lives trying to shape Middle-earth to their memories of Valinor, recounting tales of the Trees, of the City of Many Bells. They long for eternal glory, so their kingdoms rival in riches and beauty to that of their masters.

Men live their mortal lives trying to cheat their deaths. They speak of legacy, of being remembered. So they build their halls and towers, striving for the greatness of Elvish architecture. They build and rebuild, hoping their walls and castles will endure the passing of time so that centuries from now their names will still be spoken.

Dwarves see some of the allure but mainly want it for profit. They care not for the trees or the skies. They long for the embrace of the mountain, for the riches it holds deep inside. They carve their mighty halls in the stone, great mines illuminated with the shine of gems and gold. Greedy little creatures, Aulë’s children.

He has always seen the beauty of Middle-earth. He helped shape it, after all.

(And he knows the Children of Ilúvatar will only truly appreciate it once he razes it to the ground.)

The clearing he has followed Galadriel to is one of those marvels.

She sits by the edge of a stream, the soft murmur a balm for exhaustion. The sun lights her up like Laurelin herself, the wet moss traces her armour like a pearl in green velvet. It is a pity her eyes have a faraway look to them. Like she has lost her North and has given up in her quest to find it.

If he still had a heart, it would break.

With a soft sigh, he takes a seat next to her. He does not speak, for it is not his place. His presence is but a comfort. A kindness, as she once called it. And Halbrand has come to understand that, just like him, she is not gifted many kindnesses anymore. As to why he decides to bestow one upon her, he couldn’t possibly say.

The stream hums, the birds sing, she takes a breath.

She thanks him. Says, “For pulling me back.”

He answers. Says, “Was you, pulled me back first.”

Neither of them acknowledges she did so for her own selfish reasons. But he does not particularly mind. Underneath the selfishness, there was also compassion. Almost as if she cared about his soul. About what would happen to it if he were to kill the Moriondor in a fit of rage.

(When was the last time someone cared about your soul, my beloved—)

It is peaceful, this clearing.

Peaceful as he hasn’t experienced in centuries. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to silence the voices that call out to him in pleas and threats. If he tried hard enough, he could just exist as a mortal Man, sharing space and air with this wonder of an Elf.

If he tried hard enough, he could pierce her mind to find out what she was thinking.

It does not matter, for she speaks then, her eyes reclaiming that severeness that precedes a stubborn decision. She speaks of the sins committed against him, she speaks of the sins he has committed himself, and adds, “Be free of it.”

Sharp and precise as an arrow wound.

Be free of it.

It is more than an order.

It is absolution.

Of all the things he has learned about her, he ignored that she was also a witch. For her words pull at him like a spell. Like a chain. He is both breathless and alert, wondering when it was that she enchanted him. When it was that she clawed her fingers into him hard enough to pierce skin.

She is supposed to be a mere messenger. She is supposed to be one of the lowly Children. Not this.

Her magic takes hold and his mouth parts, genuine words pouring out, unbidden. Words he would like to keep silent forever, but is unable to.

He says, “Fighting at your side, I felt—”

And what an irony. I felt. It has been so long since he felt much of anything. Since he felt right. Since he felt tethered. Since there was light in his life to guide his quest through the darkness. He, lord of Angband. He, master of werewolves. He, Finrod Felagun’s demise.

There are no flaws in Ilúvatar’s designs, Aulë once said. Everything is as it should be, Aulë once said. So here comes this white sorceress, bewitching him with compassion, and morality, and lust. Doing the only thing no Vala has ever achieved before. Granting forgiveness despite her grief. Giving him a second chance and bestowing the free will of her people upon him.

His voice trembles, loses momentum—dies abruptly. Unable to continue.

He wants her. He wants her so much he would kill over it.

That is when she seals the spell.

“I felt it too.”

(The Moriondor had spoken of his quest for a power to cleanse Middle-earth.

The Moriondor had spoken of something missing.

Now he understands.

Her. What was missing—it has always been her.)

The people around him hail him. They call out his name. Their lost king, back to save them in their time of need.

Hail Halbrand, king of the Southlands.

He takes the praise with a smile. Toasts with them, drinks their wine, eats their food. He puts his hand on the shoulders of these mortals and applauds their courage. He salutes the Númenórean army, their white armour stained with blood and mud, and yet shining gloriously under the sun.

He sees Galadriel out of the corner of his eye, a small curl of her lips illuminating her features.

And so, for a moment, he stumbles.

He, who has never stumbled before.

This could be enough—the peace he has been searching for. The Maia in him could raise these people up to a condition worthy of the Valar. He could make them flourish, could clean away their past sins, make them just as grand as the Men who were granted Númenor. He could be a magnanimous king and rule a just and orderly kingdom.

He could be worthy of Elven admiration.

He could be worthy of the Valar’s forgiveness.

(He could have her.

Like Melian had Thingol. Like the son of Barahir had the Nightingale.

And he—he would make her a queen. He would fight at her side until their swords erased the Orc race like a wave erases footprints on the sand. He would ensure her peace, her happiness. He would bathe her in kindnesses and gifts until she called her Annatar with that mischievous glint in her eyes.

In return, she would guide him to the light. She would remind him of that Maia he once was all those centuries ago. She would laugh fondly in his presence and fill him with her white magic.

Love.

He could love—)

With a half-empty cup in his hand, he turns and catches the glint of her hair. She is sharing a table with Tar-Míriel, a soft look on her face, her lips moving in conversation. He imagines her in a crown, walking with him down the halls of their fortress.

Mairon the Maia wanted order. Gorthaur the Cruel wanted control. Halbrand the Mortal could learn to want simplicity.

Let this be his final choice, then.

His mind made, he takes one step towards Galadriel.

That is when the world bursts into flames.

He wonders about Melkor sometimes.

He knows he should not, but he cannot help himself.

He wonders about his exile in the Void. He wonders what it must feel like—to be thrown into non-existence. To float in the dark with no sound, only one’s thoughts for company. And Halbrand knows firsthand Melkor’s thoughts were anything but good company.

To him, sound means life. Means creation. Hammer against anvil. The rustling of leaves. A secret whispered in the dead of night. Horses galloping downhill and into the dawn.

He remembers true silence and what it was like to break it.

What it was like to sing.

Now, as the embers burn him and the ashes overcome his senses, there are no songs. No rustling or whispers.

There is only the fearsome chant of a word he has not heard in centuries.

The Balrogs growled, their whips slaughtering the Edain.

Ancalagon soared through the grey skies, his breath raining fire upon the Host of the West.

Melkor laughed and laughed, commanding Orcs into battle like vultures feeding off corpses.

Beleriand cried in anguish. Arda pleaded for help.

Ilúvatar did not intervene, for it was all part of his design.

Utumno was a thing to behold. Though carved from stone, it looked made of solid shadow. True darkness from beyond Eä. It was a pit that reached further into the earth than any Dwarven mine.

The stronghold of a Dark Lord. The fortress of evil.

(Utumno was also given another name. A Sindarin name.)

Now Halbrand stands in a rain of ashes, the ageless mount spitting fire and casting dark clouds over what a few moments ago was his kingdom. He stares at the bodies scattered around him, lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

Tirharad is a graveyard of dust and embers. His people, slaughtered. His lands, erased.

And the word—the word does nothing but ring, and ring, and ring in his ears. It is a curse, an admonishment.

A warning.

It reminds him that he cannot escape his dark destiny. That he is tied to Middle-earth by blood and shadow. That his life answers to the designs of Eru Ilúvatar, one more servant forced to carry out the destiny written for him.

(From far away, a voice calls Mairon, please stop.)

He recognises the scheme—his scheme. The sword, the river, the mountain. Executed without his knowledge. Executed to perfection. Almost like it was inevitable. Almost like the Creator himself did it.

The mount burns mockingly and the wind blows words in his ears. You shall not know peace, Mairon, it seems to say. These barren lands are all you deserve, Gorthaur, it seems to say. You know which path you must truly walk, Abhorrent. They all sound like the same voice. The only voice.

The voice of a long-lost lover.

A tear falls from his eyes, mourning the life he could have created, wonderful and everlasting. Mourning the hope that dared bloom inside his chest, that of free will and fulfilled wishes. Mourning the last dream he will ever have, nothing but a foolish delusion.

But now he understands. Now he knows his true purpose.

For Ilúvatar makes no mistakes.

(Mairon, don’t go down that road—)

And if his Creator will offer honey just to take it away, if he is to be denied his chance, then he will seize his kingdom with teeth and claws. He will curse Eru and make the Children see their Creator as the tyrant he is. He will sift the good seed from the bad, ruling over Middle-earth until Ilúvatar is forced to capitulate.

Until he is the last one standing.

Into the pit, Melkor had said. Through the darkness, Melkor had said.

Until victory is won.

There are Orcs running free under the black sky, rusty weapons in hand. Killing those they still find alive. His creations, thinking they have outsmarted him. His worthless creatures, thinking they are free to do as they please. Horrible, pitiful Orcs that have forgotten their place.

Halbrand smiles sourly at their twisted features, unsheathes his sword. Wets the blade in the blood of his own slaves.

(Utumno had another name. A Sindarin name—the Depth.

Udûn.)

“Such rage, my beloved,” Melkor says in his mind.

Those poisonous lips find his ear. They press the words, they press a kiss.

“You were a fine teacher, Master,” his voice answers.

It is not the voice of a mortal Man.

The Orcs pile on top of each other, carcasses half-rotten from the start. Their thick blood oozes down quartered limbs, dripping onto barren soil.

Nothing will ever grow here again.

Halbrand stands above the massacre, a proud butcher. Distantly, he hears the voices of the Southlanders. Of Númenórean soldiers regrouping, hoping to reach their camp by dawn. To get their wounds treated, to find their lost brothers-in-arms.

All of them are fools.

There is no hope anymore.

There is only death.

His sword slips from his hand, making no sound as it lands on ashes. His mortal form already hurts, and sweats, and feels far too much. There are as many plans growing in his mind as stars are in the sky, Gorthaur boiling underneath his skin like no time has passed since he ruled Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

The wanderers are closing in on him, their voices calling out as they turn every single body they find looking for survivors. For friends and family. For their king, perhaps, to guide them through the chaos.

And king he will be. A sovereign.

A god.

But if he is to defy The Creator, if he is to shroud himself in shadow, he will need a torch to light the way. He will need that which he didn’t have before, a power to bind to his own—the white sorcery of the Eldar.

There is but one path.

He can feel her alive in the chaos. Fighting, always fighting, this beautiful harbinger that has steered him back to his true purpose. His witch, his lieutenant, his Queen.

He needs her.

He wants her.

And so he will have to abuse her weakness once more. For the greater good. For the cleanse of Middle-earth. He will have to use her compassion against her, one more dark spell to earn him time.

Standing over his pile of nauseating Orcs, he takes one of their poisonous lances, places the blade over his burned leather armour, and sinks it to the wing.

There is pain, there is sacrilege, and there is magic.

One must always weave in a little truth with the lie.

(He falls into a feverish slumber.

The voices of the Ainur come, then. They speak, they scream.

The ghosts shatter through the bounds of his own mind, creeping like spiders. Their hands close around his limbs, tear at his garments, scratch at his skin.

He only laughs.

He laughs as they pull out his eyes. He laughs as they sever his hands. He laughs as they slash his chest open to feast on his insides.

He laughs.

Aulë whispers, Mairon, what have you become.)

She finds him.

She always does.

The world is but pain and shadow, and still, her figure casts a light as she steps inside his tent. A star in the night, only for him. Consciousness leaves him at times, throwing him into the waiting arms of his ghosts and nightmares. He tries fighting them, tries using her voice as an anchor to pull himself back into the waking world.

This is his own fault, of course. A poisoned blade, what recklessness.

Still, what is a little suffering if he is rewarded with her soft voice and her visible concern?

Blinking his tired eyes, he hears her talk to the Tirharad woman, Bronwyn. The conversation is short, meaningless to him. That is, until Galadriel implies mortal healers cannot do anything else for his wound. Until she says he needs Elvish medicine.

Can he ride, she asks.

She will take him with her. And as always, he will follow.

He has followed her since the very beginning, unaware that she would lead him back here. Where he belongs. Where he shall build his throne.

“Well, my friend,” she says, her hand in a fist by his wound, “it seems fate has in store for us one more raft.”

How he wishes to kiss her, then.

Their path is far from over. They must fight until victory is won.

Eönwë says, “Do you abjure Morgoth?”

He is on his knees, tears falling down his cheeks. His hands are dripping with blood—he isn’t sure whose anymore.

He sobs, “Yes.” Sobs, “I am sorry.” Sobs, “I repent.”

This is the part of his memory when Eönwë will take him by the chin, lean down and say, “Then go West, face your punishment”. But this is not a memory, so that is not what happens.

What happens is that the Herald of Manwë laughs, leans closer and spits, “You are a liar.”

Hands grab him from behind, piercing his chest and stopping his breathing. He gasps at Eönwë, pleading for help. He begs to Manwë, Aulë, Ilúvatar.

Instead, his answer is a voice he knows all too well.

“Stop fighting who you are, beloved,” Melkor whispers in his ear. “Embrace the foulness that runs through your veins.”

His blood pools underneath his knees, his lungs cannot catch any air, and he—

“Halbrand,” she calls softly, waking him up. Her hand is on his shoulder, her braid brushing his face. “We must ride now.”

To the inexperienced eye, she looks calm and in control. To him, she is drowning in worry, her blue eyes like stormy seas, her voice gentler than what she would usually allow herself. He wishes to tell her not to fret over him, that he will survive this. But her concern is sweet like good wine. He is not sure he could ever get enough of it.

Power sluggish underneath his skin, he manages to stand. Bronwyn places a cape over his shoulders, but refrains from holding him as he walks. She is a smart mortal, she must know he will never allow it.

He steps outside his tent to the faces of the Southlanders, worried for his health and sad about his departure. Strength to the king, they shout.

He nods at them and lets himself be praised.

He mounts his horse and sees Galadriel do the same.

And then a boy comes closer.

A boy who is carrying her sword. Who offers it to her, and seems elated when she gifts it to him. She calls him a soldier, he calls her commander. There is light in that boy’s eyes. Her influence, most likely. Halbrand knows how that feels.

Yet, when he looks at this mortal, this newly anointed soldier, he sees the darkness in his mind as well. A tiny stain that could be persuaded to grow, to consume him. Halbrand sees it as clear as the skies. Keeps the revelation close for when he returns.

For he will.

He will claim these lands, he will be their king.

He will best Ilúvatar at his own game.

His hands close around the reins of his horse, and albeit his wound tightens in pain, his head is clear.

Galadriel leads and he follows.

They stop under the canopy of trees.

They have been riding without rest for the past two days, their horses whining under sun and moon. She should not make them stop now, much less make him dismount. But he is having a hard time keeping himself awake, his ghosts pulling him into neverending nightmares. The Seen mixes with the Unseen until his mind can barely distinguish one from the other.

“Drink,” she says, placing a waterskin on his lower lip.

He does. The water is fresh and soothing to his parched throat. But soon turns into poison, the taste sour on his tongue.

Her hands feel cold against his feverish skin when she tries to tend to his wound. He can tell by her breathing that, whatever it is she sees, it does not look promising. Well, he has never done things by half-measures.

As she kneels over him, her fingers doing quick work on a new bandage, he realises she has started a small fire, trying to provide some comfort for the both of them. It is a pity he cannot feel the warmth.

He, who is made of fire.

(Is this how you die, beloved? Melkor asks. Will your end be by your own pathetic hand?)

It is ironic. He has broken the minds of several enemies with a similar kind of pain. Suffering without reprieve until they provided the answers he was looking for.

“Halbrand,” she calls when she finishes dressing his rotting wound. She hesitates before making up her mind and letting her thumb trace the soft curve of his cheek. “You must fight this.”

Looking at her is a wonder. Sometimes she is Seen, wearing her armour around her frame and wearing mud all over her face. Sometimes she is Unseen, dressed in white, with her hair down. Golden and pure as the first dawn that graced Arda.

Delirious, is what he is. Murmuring words in a language she would never understand, but that she thankfully mistakes as the incoherent stutter of a dying Man.

The forest around them is too dark, too bright. He can’t stand it. He wants to burn it and cry over it.

“Galadriel,” he hears himself gasp. No request follows.

If he does not survive his own scheme, at the very least he will die with her name on his lips.

She makes a curious sound, something hurt and small. She does not repress herself as she moves behind him, pulling his head onto her lap. Her fingers comb through his sweaty hair, caress the line of his jaw. She is saying something. Something in Quenya. It sounds like a blessing, like a spell. She is not a healer, but her witchcraft is powerful.

“Don’t go,” she finally whispers in Common Speech. Her voice no longer has the severe tone she uses on everyone, but instead turns pleading, vulnerable. “Don’t leave. I forbid you.”

His hand shakes when he lifts it up to her hair, finding a soft lock that has escaped her braid. The magic of the Trees hums all around her and he chastises himself for not noticing before. His hand reaches higher, a knuckle grazing the line of her jaw.

“I would not dream of it,” he manages to rasp, opening tired eyes to find fresh tears on her face. “Who would ensure you stop antagonising people, Elf?”

For the first time, she laughs.

It sounds like a sob.

That night the nightmares are kept at bay.

That night he rests.

That night her magic shields him from the world.

There is something different in the air.

A rope pulled too tight, a stagnant spell inhabiting the forests. He can smell it in the wind, taste it in the morning dew, hear it in the muttering of the river. A special kind of illness taking place, waiting for the right moment to claim its victims.

He wonders if this is what the Valar felt right before Ungoliant crept into their lands and poisoned their Trees.

“We are almost there!” Galadriel shouts over her shoulder, the hooves of their horses muting his own breathing. “Hold on!”

He can scarcely lift his head to look ahead, but there is no need. For he can sense the magic, the splendour. He can overhear the sound of a mighty forge in the distance, a burning fire that calls him home.

His horse rides on earth, then on stone, its hooves echoing on walls and squares.

Even in his feverish state, he realises he has been welcomed into the realm of Eregion.

Even in his feverish state, he realises the rot he can taste is coming from within these walls.

The screams dissolve into dust. In their wake, they leave only a bitter taste.

A bearable exchange for a few moments of peace.

Elven magic, of course. The unequivocal kind the Noldor cast. The one that permeates this city and smells like her. It is in the healing potions he is given, in the poultices that are applied to his skin, in the soft sheets of his bed and in the candles of his room.

Sheltered by it, his slumber turns into colours, into images, into a dream. It is impossible, he tells himself, but lets his mind be pulled into the illusion. Free of pain, of screams, of ghosts.

He feels her before he sees her.

She is dancing in a field, the tall grass reaching her waist. Her features may be eternal, but for some reason he knows she is younger here. Untouched by war and loss. It almost feels like the remnants of a memory, not of a fabricated illusion. A memory in which she dances, and swirls, and her silky dress follows her movements a few paces too late.

Laughter. She is laughing. Her eyes close in joy when she laughs.

Suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder. She turns, rosy-cheeked and full of life. The Elf that has stopped her is handsome, with braided silvery hair and features that speak of noble Sindar blood.

“My lady,” he says before taking her hand and joining her in dance, turning her again and again.

She smiles, the giddiness in it making her shine brighter than any star. She falls into his rhythm, something sweet and slow. It speaks of intimacy, it speaks of fondness. Halbrand remembers asking her who was the last one to bestow kindness upon her.

This is what his mind has made of her answer.

She closes her eyes, lets herself be led, and dances under the sun like a beacon in the night.

He watches them in that field until her movements halt, mutating into something different. There is something familiar in the way she suddenly moves, something from a half-lit forge on a faraway island.

Her blue eyes open and she turns to face her partner.

Except her handsome Sindar companion is gone.

In his place, however—

“I doubted you even knew how to laugh, Elf,” Halbrand says, his hands holding her waist. He is wearing a Númenórean tunic. “Much less dance.”

She gives him a severe look, but her hands find his chest. “Silence,” she commands, inspecting the sigil that hangs from his neck. The day has turned to night, the field into a ship deck. “Let us see how much of a dancer you are, my lord,” she mutters close to his lips before her façade fractures, smiling slyly up at him and forcing him into a different kind of dance.

That is when he understands.

This is not his dream.

It’s Galadriel’s.

When he wakes, his power is restored, burning hot beneath his skin.

The sun shines into his Elven room, a perfect copy of the architecture of Valinor. It is proof of a wish fulfilled—he finally walks amongst the Elves. That which has forever eluded him is his for the taking.

Alone in this beautiful room, he stands in might. In power. It has been a long time since he felt invincible.

He owes it all to his witch of the Golden House. To the rebellious Elf who refused her glorious exile in Aman. To his future Queen, the one fated to rule by his side. Because now he is sure, now he knows.

He wants her.

And she wants him back.

The magic, that is what calls out to him.

That is what he sensed when he stepped through the threshold of Eregion.

He has not felt this kind of magic before, both innocent and condemning. He follows its voice to a circular room. A room that speaks of fire and metal. And of course this magic would take him back to a forge, the place where he belongs.

His eyes can see its source even in the shadow. A tiny little thing, a small piece of ore anyone could overlook.

And aren’t those the most dangerous of creations?

He knows he is not alone. Senses sharper than ever before, he catches the telltale signs of another being. The rustle of clothes, the soft intake of air. The taste of doubt. And doubt is something he can reason with. Doubt is a long-lost friend.

Soon a voice calls out to him—the voice of one of Aulë’s favourites. Of the lord of Eregion himself. There is wariness in Celebrimbor’s eyes, exhaustion weighing Celebrimbor’s shoulders. He looks at the end of his rope, trying to stay afloat in a stormy sea.

What a wonderful fate.

To appease the Elf, Halbrand plays the game, as he has been playing for centuries. A mortal on his way to mending, he feigns the part of a fascinated Man, someone to underestimate in the vast scheme of things. A curious, lesser creature that could cause no harm.

Celebrimbor does not disappoint. He volunteers information with the patronising smile of a parent indulging a child.

(He had told Galadriel. He had said, “In an instance like this, you'd do well to identify what it is that your opponent most fears.” He had said, “Give them a means of mastering it.” He had said, “So that you can master them.”)

Halbrand touches the ore, senses its power, and feels it taking root in his very essence. He blinks innocently at Celebrimbor as he offers opinions about weaknesses and flaws. As he speaks of sword-making and alloys to amplify power. It is so easy to convince the Elf, so easy to see his mind shift behind his kind eyes. He is desperate, after all. Desperate for a breakthrough, desperate to appease his High King, desperate to create something worthy of Fëanor’s legacy.

With excitement in his eyes, Celebrimbor says, “Well, that is an intriguing suggestion.”

Halbrand smiles.

“Call it a gift.”

And so he is welcomed into the mighty Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

The room is not meant to house kings, but its lack of opulence does not make it any less inviting.

It is the most comfortable he has been in ages. A warm bed, wooden floors, sunlight filtering through a narrow window. When he is forced to return to this room, for he must maintain his deceiving need for sleep, he does not hate it.

That he is separated from his work is a nuisance, but he does enjoy the provided comforts.

Particularly once he discovers his narrow window reaches across a small square, and into her quarters.

Their dreams have not melded again, mostly because she no longer indulges in any sleep. Instead, she spends her days and nights lost in the extensive libraries of Ost-in-Edhil, searching through scrolls and books. What for, he knows not. But she is always back in her room at dawn, combing her hair to face the day, fixing the exquisite chains of the Jewel-smiths across her body.

She does all this in front of her window, and as the creature of darkness he is, he hides in shadows as he steals glances at her.

His skin reeks of ash and metal, his fingers are burnt and dirty, yet he would cross Celebrimbor’s palace to knock on her door. To fulfil the images she conjures up in her dreams. To show her what true passion looks like, the gift Ilúvatar has denied her people.

He would leave ashen smears on her dress, he would leave dark marks on the inside of her thighs, he would whisper praise in her ears until she felt greater than Varda herself.

Later that day, he finds her in the square.

There is worry crossing her brow, tension coiling her shoulders. When he calls out to her, he aims to comfort her. Elvendom will not perish, after all. He will make sure of it, healing the rot that plagues her people and shaping them into his perfect subjects. Clean and pure, as it is meant to be. Free of Fëanor’s sins.

Her eyes are wary, a little sad. She plays difficult, as is her usual demeanour. He would not have it any other way.

Stunning, she is. Here, in the dwellings of her kin, under the afternoon sun that bathes her in gold light. A jewel herself, the strongest of all diamonds. The things he would do to this She-elf. The things he would do for her. She, who pulled him from the sea. She, who pulled him from the depths of surrender. She, who pulled him through misery with compassionate eyes.

And still, when he thanks her, she does not comprehend how meaningful her deeds have been. The magnitude of what she has done for him. How by believing in him, she has etched herself into his existence like one carves a statue out of marble.

He has a long memory.

He tells her as much. Says, “I will never forget that.” And his voice rings truer than Ilúvatar’s Music.

When he leans towards her, he makes her a promise. His fingers closing around her shoulder, his palm feeling the warmth of her skin underneath her dress, he whispers words that could have very well been a blood oath.

“I’ll see to it that no one else does either.”

(Mairon, the wind blows.

Mairon, stop this nonsense.

Desperation paints Aulë’s words, but Halbrand pays no mind.

He is close. So close—)

She is the one to give him the key to it all, as she has given him everything else.

One cannot force magic. It must be persuaded, enticed.

And the idea comes to him. A voice—the voice of that powerful sorcerer he once was, the one who has been missing since he was betrayed in the snows of Forodwaith—whispers it in his mind. True inspiration like the one behind the Great Music. For less is more—small things are overlooked, underestimated, cast aside. Even when they are powerful.

Like a mortal Man on a raft. Like a golden Elf at sea.

(The voice in his head whispers one tiny, compelling word.

Nazg.)

Of course, he will need two.

It is a thing of beauty, the Glanduin.

It flows clear and soft, surrounded by Elven architecture, yet claiming back its territory—wild moss, untamed grass, insolent flowers. It is no surprise he shall find her here, where water flows. Their encounters are marked by it.

After all, even forges need water to quench their fire.

He calls her by name, finds her holding one of her scrolls. There is something unsettling about the line of her shoulders, something he believes to be fear. Fear of passing, perhaps. Of diminishing. Of her whole kin turned to dust. If that is what ails her, she will never have to fear again.

He shall save her people. For her.

(For him.)

Descending the steps to the terrace, he tells her of their progress. There is a smile on his face he cannot erase. How wonderful it feels to create marvels again. And these objects, these rings will be more marvellous than the Silmarili that divided her kin. He urges her to come and see their work—

Her voice is soft when she speaks. Sad. As if she is standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for him to pull her back.

Not until you tell me who you are are her words.

Blinded by his own excitement, it takes him a moment to understand their meaning.

She suspects.

No, not suspects. Knows—she knows.

Her eyes are pleading, asking him for an explanation. For she would forgive him, he is sure. Out of love, she would forgive Halbrand, the common Man, for white lies to better his status. She would forgive Halbrand, her friend, for trying to live up to her expectations. He would forgive Halbrand, her equal, for anything—anything but the truth. Because in her heart, in the deepest parts of her soul—she already knows the answer to her own question. And fears it to her very core.

Even immortal beings, it seems, fool themselves.

No more pretending, then.

The Deceiver, they call him. But he does not really deceive them, for they do that to themselves. He has told her the truth since they met. It was she who chose to believe in him, she who chose to imagine him as a Man with a tragic past. Abandoned, alone, adrift, she comforted herself by thinking she was sharing a raft with a noble mortal.

He tells her as much, sees her take a step back, sees the tears in her eyes.

Still, she resists it. She does not want to pull the veil and discover what is behind it. And even if she did, it would not change a thing. Who is anyone to say he is not who she desires him to be? Who is anyone to judge her for making wrong assumptions if the end result is met anyway?

Drawn to her light, he corrects her accusations. He is soft with her, delicate. For he knows how difficult this is for her. She, who will put duty before happiness until her life is consumed.

She asks him again, a sob in her voice.

“Tell me your name.”

There it is. The only question she never asked properly.

(Isn’t it amusing, my beloved, that she would consider the only name you have ever chosen for yourself to be your greatest lie—)

He feels his blood boil with pride when he answers. Ilúvatar’s designs are without flaws, so why should he feel ashamed?

“I have been awake since before the breaking of the first silence,” he says. “In that time, I have had many names.”

Her fear turns to horror, to heartbreak, to fury. She looks as one of the Valier as she unsheathes her dagger, a battle cry half-suffocated in her throat. Even as the embodiment of vengeance, she is as stunning as the Music.

He stays her hand with little effort, staring at this She-elf and wondering what it would be like to stop Time and keep them here forever.

Then he stares into her eyes, uses her own emotions against her, and—

The world fractures.

Mairon was a smith. He cast beautiful objects from melted metal.

Gorthaur was a nightmare. He cast shadows over his enemies until they begged for mercy.

Sauron—

Sauron is a sorcerer. He casts spells no Vala can undo.

There is doubt in him, yes.

But there is also doubt in her. When one lives for so long, doubt creeps like a spider, making its webs in the corners of the mind. And so she doubts. She doubts her fate, her duty, her worth. She doubts him, doubts his intentions and his plans.

He would never dare judge her for it.

Now she lays in the river, a beautiful, stranded siren. She fell graciously from the terrace into the Glanduin, her mind busily trapped in old memories.

Memories are the easiest to forge, after all.

He crouches above her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her eyes move underneath her lids, her mind caught in a dream of his own making. The deception is easy to spot. After all, he made the beauty of Valinor pale compared to her own.

To him, the Trees are just firewood. She, however, is something else entirely.

In his ambition, he takes Finrod a step too far, and she sees through the lies as he sees through her mind. In truth, he expected nothing else from this white witch. He changes the fantasy then. Discards many—the ship, the forge, the clearing—and finally settles on the one that will endure in her memory forever.

The raft.

She thinks him false, so he will show her truth.

And there is no greater truth than two souls lost at sea, saving each other from drowning in shadow.

She resists, of course. That is the only thing she does these days—resist.

She fights with words and he meets her every time. Even as she speaks the one name that hurts to hear. The one name that will plague him until Eä is destroyed as an afterthought by the fickle Ilúvatar. Yet, if she wants to know about Morgoth Bauglir, if she wants to know about the Wicked King, he will tell her.

In the dream, he approaches her delicately, speaking words he has never dared utter out loud. Conveying how it felt to be trapped under the fist of the Lord of All, the one who broke him, the one he loved. Conveying what it was like to feel light after centuries of darkness. To feel guilt.

In reality, he sits by her side as he watches her serene face, cool water seeping through his clothes as the Glanduin soothes the heat from his magic.

When he shows her his vision, the birds stop singing.

For all his faults, he has always been loyal. Loyal to his nature, loyal to his cause. Loyal to Melkor.

And he could be loyal to her. He could commit his life to her, showing love and worship, putting a crown upon her head. He could become the shield to her vulnerability, the answer to her doubts, the shadow to her light. The things he would do for her. The lives he would take. Anything. He, lord of Darkness, would do anything for her.

Anything to have her look at him as she did back in Tirharad.

But when she does ask, her wish is impossible. When she does ask, her wish is but a single answer.

In their shared fantasy, there are tears in her eyes as she says, “Save or rule?”

(His heart does not break, for he has none.)

Once, his army betrayed him in the Northern Waste, their blades sinking into his flesh without mercy. They abandoned him there to die as they executed his plans, as they rallied behind his language.

He has been carrying that pain deep inside, waiting for the right moment to exact retribution.

And yet, her rejection hurts more than a thousand knives piercing his skin.

The spell breaks.

She is left in the river, her consciousness encased in her own mind. She will wake soon, for he did not have the strength to curse her. She will do that to herself, anyway.

A voice is calling out her name from the trees. The Half-elf, the son of The Mariner, is looking for her.

Breathing out, Halbrand steals one last glance at Galadriel. She looks peaceful, exactly as she did when Númenor found them at sea. This time, he has nothing to cover her shoulders with. Instead, his fingertips touch her pink lips, still warm. Still alive.

(He could remedy that, whispers a voice in his head. He could end her life and ensure his task continues unchallenged. He could send her to the Halls of Mandos, into the arms of her brothers, and—

And never see her again.)

A drop falls on her right cheek. It is not from the Glanduin.

Elrond calls again, closer this time. Halbrand does not stay to watch him find her.

Is it not ironic, beloved, that the corrupted should fall in love with the incorruptible?

The trees become a blur. The river turns into a faraway whisper.

He leaves Eregion behind, ripping the robes from his mortal body. A mortal body that hurts without wounds.

The magic pulses in his veins, burns through his limbs, breaks his spine into a million pieces—and then pulls it all back together.

Hands that turn to paws, a nose that turns to snout, a Man that turns to wolf. A wolf that has not howled in Arda for a long time.

His shape runs as fast as the wind, back to fire, back to ash.

If he is to be condemned to shadows, he shall build his throne in the dark. He shall reach out his hand and plunge the world into chaos. He shall do terrible wonders and prove to Ilúvatar that evil is the only way. For only fire can cleanse the rot.

And he is made of fire.

His magic flows unhindered and Middle-earth trembles.

two. the abhorrent

Orodruin.

That is what Elves whispered back in Ost-in-Edhil.

It is a grand and ostentatious name, not something he would have chosen himself. But it is fitting. The mountain is a burning titan, after all.

Of course, the mortals call it something different.

He crosses paths with them, survivors of the firestorm. They are pitiful creatures, carrying what they can in small baskets and knapsacks, seeking asylum in town after town only to be denied. Through them, he grasps the full scope of the damage. Of how far the Moriondor’s claw has reached, usurping the reign that was meant to be his.

He will rid Middle-earth of that scum soon enough.

On his third day down the road to the ashes of Tirharad, he stumbles upon an old man. He is half-blind and limps, holding onto a woman who is probably his daughter to keep himself upright. Filthy and humbled, the man says, “You are going the wrong way, my lad.”

Halbrand still reeks of wild wolf and spilt blood, rejection very much alive in his veins.

The old man beckons him to come closer, his gnarled hand shaking. He does not look mistrustful as the rest of the mortals that walk this road. He looks fragile and welcoming. Halbrand cannot explain why he approaches him.

“We are headed northwest,” the man rasps, head bobbing with small tremors as he speaks. “We have heard there is a Númenórean camp not far from here. You should come with.”

Ah, yes. Not Númenor. Not yet.

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers in a sad voice, closing his fingers around the old man’s bony shoulder, “but I must go back. My brother is missing.”

The lies come easy now that her white spell is gone.

Both the old man and the daughter look at him with pity in their eyes. They believe his quest is a lost cause, but do not try to stop him. Mortals have learned long ago that love is the worst of curses, taking any soul head-first into disaster.

They are not wrong.

The woman opens her knapsack then. She pulls out half a loaf of old bread and a travel cloak. She offers them to him with dirty fingers, a clear trail of dry tears down her muddy cheeks. “I hope you find him”, she says. And when he tries to refuse the gifts, she adds, “We have no use for them—please, take them.”

(It has been a long time since someone did such kindness for me, Galadriel had said.)

With a worried reminder to stay clear of those Orcs, my lad, they part ways.

After what feels like a hundred steps, he stops and looks back. He can still see them in the distance, the old man’s limp delaying them and placing them last in their group.

She was lying, the woman. They could have used the food, they could have used the cloak. They could use anything they can get their hands on. But maybe, just like Halbrand, she already knows they will not survive the night. That the wolves will get them sooner rather than later.

He surely did.

For some reason, that leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

(Southlanders do not call it Orodruin.

They call it Mount Doom.)

One night, before reaching the mountain range, the dark clouds part for a mere moment.

He can see the stars shining through.

A memory comes, then. That of a ship crossing the Belegaer. Golden hair turned silver, flying in the night. Full armour reflecting the moon. If he closes his eyes, he can still see her in the forecastle. Can still breathe in her scent. Can still distinguish her amusement.

For a moment, he imagines what would have been like to press her against the bulwark and steal a kiss. His fingers holding her jaw in place, his lips warming her up against the cold, salty wind. She would have been livid, perhaps. Cheeks red, mouth pursed. But she would have forgiven him eventually. Maybe even demanded another kiss later. Alone in her cabin, alone in their clearing in Tirharad.

He does not fool himself.

She would have kissed Halbrand, the common mortal. Not him.

(The only outcome he can expect now is for her to drive her dagger deep into his throat and stare into his eyes as he dies.)

Above him, the clouds close once again, plunging him into shadows.

From far away, he hears a voice that sobs oh, Mairon.

Not Aulë’s, but Nienna’s.

Finding Orcs proves easy.

He just has to follow the stench of rotting corpses and rancid poison. They have never been very quiet either, his horrible creations. So once he climbs the mountain range, feeling the burning breath of fire on his cheeks, he hears them bicker as they patrol one of the pathways leading in and out of his barren lands.

Udûn, as they seem to call it.

With a cruel smile upon his lips, he approaches them. Noisy and stupid, his putrid Uruks—it takes them a moment’s hesitation to actually move. They crowd around him, think themselves stronger, strike him across his face, drawing blood from his lips.

If the Moriondor has been making new Orcs, its craftsmanship leaves much to be desired.

Once he has been reduced and bound, he makes his move. “I would like to speak to the one you call Adar,” he tells them good-naturedly, just as they are deciding if they should kill him now or after eating a few of his limbs.

Filthy little creatures. He will have to teach them manners.

“Why should we?” says one of the Orcs, the one that thinks itself the leader.

He laughs, more powerful on his knees and with his arms tied behind his back than this group of deformed worms.

“Why, because we are old acquaintances.”

With little effort, he calls on his magic and breaks into their simple minds. Not because they need any convincing, but because his patience is growing thin.

A moment later, they are guiding him through rock and ash.

They remain wonderfully quiet.

The valley looks worse than Utumno after the war.

That in itself is an impressive achievement.

Halbrand is taken through their revolting camp, makeshift tents made out of rags clinging to half-burned structures. They are using what was once Tirharad as their main settlement—protected by two mountain ranges, the narrow pass is easy to guard. A perfect place for an ambush.

The Weak Men that follow the Moriondor whisper as he passes.

In their small groups, they talk and mutter and hiss. Joined around small fires, they inspect swords, show their plunder from fresh victims, and speak of their new realm. This Black Land they now control.

It is an unimaginative name, of course, but apt nonetheless. It does not matter in which direction they look, all is ash, all is burned. What was once green fields is now infertile soil, watered only by the excretions of humans and Orcs alike. No sun or stars penetrate the black clouds—their only source of light being Orodruin.

This land is nought but the dwelling of Death now.

“This way, scum,” says one of the Orcs guiding him, pushing him towards one of the few stone buildings left standing. He recognises it as the tavern, even with its roof burned down and the front half-demolished.

The Moriondor is staring at a piece of parchment when its children bring in the prisoner. It stops the moment its eyes set on Halbrand, straightening its stance in recognition.

He is pushed to his knees like he is but a wet rag, the claw-like hand of one of his captors keeping him in place. The rope that binds his hands together behind his back is coarse but feels as fragile as silence.

(And just as silence, it is easily broken.)

“Well, isn’t fate amusing,” the Moriondor says, approaching him where he kneels. It moves slowly, a satisfied glint in its eyes. It thinks itself a predator, a warg eyeing a defenceless Mannish child. What a fool. “It seems our paths cross again, king.”

Halbrand grimaces.

“So it seems.”

The Moriondor crouches, its disfigured face at eye level with his own. Dilated pupils make his blue eyes look as dark as the clouds outside. The remaining traces of its Elvish nature turn this creature into a mockery of the Eldar. A failed copy.

Another of Melkor’s triumphs.

“No Elven maiden to stop you now,” the Moriondor taunts. “Come to exact your vengeance at last?”

(There is an ache in his body. An ache that plagues him like an illness. An ache that leaves his body cold as snow. An ache that should have never happened and for which he will have restitution.

Except—not quite yet.)

“Ah, yes. About that,” he rasps, his voice all mischief. He stares into the dark eyes of this foul abomination, wets his lips, and says, “First I will have you build my throne.”

The Moriondor blinks and then laughs, amused. The Uruk filth that calls itself its children laughs as well, thinking themselves superior to this dirty and weak mortal.

Their laughter is a harrowing sound. A sound that will turn even more haunting in a few moments.

“Will I?” asks the Moriondor in a parody of seriousness. “May I ask why?”

And there it is—the patronising smile. That one thing he was waiting for. To see it right before he burns it off of that face is as sweet as Númenórean wine. As sweet as Elven forests and the treacherous magic of mithril.

(Never as sweet as her, though.)

“You owe a debt, Uruk,” he whispers, feeling his magic begin to sizzle under his skin. “And unfortunately for you, slave, my memory never falters.”

The Moriondor stills, its eyes widening at the mention of a word its old Master used to call him. The Orcs around him growl in anger, unsheathing their poisoned blades and uttering threats and blasphemies. Their adar, however, stops breathing. In fury.

In fear.

“What debt?” it asks, voice nothing but air.

Magic is both pleasure and pain. It satisfies and it also takes its toll. He knows this from before the Music was sung. But after centuries, he cannot distinguish one feeling from the other.

When his spell blasts, bursting through his mortal skin, the Moriondor’s children fall on their knees, clutching their horrible heads in anguish. Their eyes melt as they cook from the inside, blood boiling in their veins and rupturing their skin.

It is to the sound of their suffering that he effortlessly breaks through his bonds.

After all, even better beings than filthy Orcs have been unable to keep him imprisoned.

“Why, the debt,” he tells the Moriondor kneeling on the floor, exactly where it belongs, “of betraying your Master and leaving him to die in the snow.”

His voice is fire.

Outside, the Orodruin growls.

Inside, his slaves scream.

(The Black Land is what Weak Men whisper.

So be it, then. That shall be the name of his kingdom, of his stronghold, of his throne.

In mockery, he uses Sindarin to name it, so even Elves will whisper the word in horror when they sing their tragic songs under the trees.

Mordor rolls off the tongue like poison.)

Melkor whispers, “It is time, my beloved.”

He whispers, “Dispose of this Man-flesh you wear.”

Whispers, “Take back your true form.”

Halbrand silences the voice with a grunt. He is one of the Ainur, he has no form but the one he chooses to occupy.

It still makes him wonder, though.

He stands alone in the tent the Moriondor has dispensed for him, not a scrap of fabric on his mortal body. He inspects the skin, the muscles, the fana he made for himself as he laid dying in the snow. It is not special. It has not the beauty of the Elves or the strength of the Dwarves.

It is just a Man’s.

So what did she see in it?

Mairon the Maia was not a sentimental creature to begin with, so he does not understand why the thought of ridding himself of this form irks him.

Long fingers trace the shape of his arms, the uneven curve of his ears, the long line of his torso—and fall on the scar. The one he inflicted upon himself to gain more time with her. The one she dressed under the canopy of trees, desperate for his survival.

(Melkor had all manner of scars. Burnt hands from holding the Silmarili. A thunderous scratch on his face by the claws of the Lord of Eagles. The lame foot Fingolfin left him with, making him limp ever after.

Gorthaur knew them all.)

Halbrand inspects the clean, pinkish line of his own scar. He could erase it from his body. He could erase all traces of her.

Instead, he thinks of her soft lips, closes his eyes, and lets his hand wander lower.

Mairon, the wind whispers.

Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath are the walls to his kingdom. They are high and dangerous and full of shadows. The black clouds Orodruin breathes catch on their sharp peaks, casting the land of Mordor in perpetual, starless night.

It is easier not to hear the voices this way.

Mairon, please.

But not impossible.

Aulë is not the only one imploring him, anymore. Yavanna calls out to his Maiar blood every night. Oromë threatens with retribution. Nienna cries his name in anguish.

Manwë keeps his silence, as always.

(And Ilúvatar—Ilúvatar is deaf to their plight.)

It begins with the tower.

He wishes not for fortified citadels or dark pits. He has inhabited both and found them wanting. No, what he truly wishes for is a stronghold suited for a warlord, for a king, for a god. A fortress so tall it will cast a shadow upon his enemies. A tower so rooted in the earth that his prisoners will never see any light again.

If fate wants him to rule the darkness, he will make himself a throne from it.

“It will take years,” the Moriondor says, its face bearing the consequences of his fury. “My lord,” he adds hastily.

Halbrand sets his eyes upon Orodruin, spitting ashes and fire and smoke.

“Time means nothing to me,” he muses, listening as the mountain calls out his names. “Put your children to good use, adar. I shall wake new ones from stone and mud if necessary.”

The Moriondor bows, holding its tongue. The creature is full of resentment still, stewing in anger and failure. He knows it prefers death to servitude, and that is precisely why he won’t grant it. Instead, he will demand payment until he is satisfied.

Orodruin keeps whispering to him.

His hands itch for a hammer.

It begins with the tower.

It begins with Lugbúrz.

Being one of the Ainur means vital needs are irrelevant.

He needs no rest, he needs no food. He used to indulge in them anyway because they were entertaining. Because they were enjoyable.

(Melkor enjoyed many things.

He enjoyed corrupting all manner of creatures to do his bidding. He enjoyed torturing the favourite Elves of the Valar and tearing them apart.

He enjoyed Mairon’s mouth and the sounds he made, especially the painful ones.)

But when he was denied the ability to dream, he forwent all those pleasures, leaving him with too much time. Time to observe. Time to scheme. Time to perfect his craft.

And in all that time, he has planned for this exact moment.

The moment of his ascension.

At the feet of Ered Lithui, his swarm of Orcs have begun mining for steel and iron. They are carving the rock to build his fortress, starting with a dungeon so deep even Balrogs would fear to tread its pits. And once they begin to build the tower, the stone will mix with the metal in black bricks until it looks like solid ink. Barad-dûr, The Moriondor calls it.

In the valley of Udûn, the mortal Men who have sworn allegiance to him are preparing to head out to every corner of Middle-earth. He has used his magic on them. Where they once looked ill, they now have rosy cheeks and strong muscles. Where they once wore rags, they now dress in clean tunics and leather boots. Where they once were hungry, they are now fed and content. They are to be his eyes and ears, to report back with every movement, every news, every rumour.

As for him, Orodruin demands his attention.

If he is to be denied his past pleasures, then he will build himself the mightiest forge in all of Arda. And in it, he will create devastation.

He does not seek her out.

Her rejection is a gaping wound in his chest. And he is not sure what infuriates him the most—that she was able to inflict it in the first place or that he seems unable to close it. However it may be, he decides to keep himself as far from her light as possible.

But, of course, The One has other plans.

He did make her a powerful sorceress, after all.

Her mind reaches out in the night, whispering a soft Halbrand as it tugs at him and gently pulls him into her dreams. Like him, she does not indulge in sleep often. He believes she fears it, not quite sure what awaits her in the shadows.

But exhaustion always runs faster than oneself. Even faster than Galadriel of the Golden House.

The first time it happens, he is carving his way into Orodruin. Sweating and digging, searching for a way into this mountain as old as Arda. Looking for the source of the greatest fire Middle-earth has ever seen.

One moment he is sinking a pickaxe in dirt and rock, the next he is in a dungeon.

A familiar one.

The beautiful statue of Uinen smiles beatifically at him, her hair undulating in nonexistent water. The sacrilegious fact that she is guarding a prison instead of watching over sailors lets him know he is in Númenor. Behind her marble body, a glimpse of golden hair.

Galadriel is standing in front of a cell, her shoulders tense, her feet balancing on her tiptoes. A cell where a replica of him presses against the bars, one hand woven in her hair, the other holding onto her waist to hold her close.

Halbrand takes one tentative step towards the vision. When she doesn’t seem to notice his presence, he takes another. He rounds on her, trying to make sense of their bodies, of the soft gasp he hears, a noise that sounds jarring in the dense silence.

Whatever he thinks is happening, he is mistaken.

Halbrand stops moving. There is no need to come any closer for he soon understands what he is seeing.

Her hand reaches past the bars, Finrod’s dagger clutched tightly in her fingers. Blood is trickling down her wrist, seeping through his ruined clothes, dripping onto the stone floor. There are angry tears in her eyes as she sinks the blade deeper into her sworn enemy, as she breathes against his lips, as she fulfils her promise.

Separated by prison bars, their embrace is painfully intimate as Galadriel kills him.

And as his replica bleeds out inside his cage, he calls her name. Says, Galadriel. Says, Commander. Says, Artanis. He places a soft kiss upon her mouth and says, well played, Elf.

Her tears finally fall.

The light dims until it dies. His eyelids flicker—and he is back in a cave in Orodruin, his fingers the colour of coal.

(Nienna breathes out his name, full of grief.

She is joined by another voice, this one from far away. The echoes of waves.

Uinen’s.)

He feels it one night, the rot coming from Ephel Dúath. Sweet and familiar.

The Moriondor has told him Orcs go missing when they patrol those peaks. That the ones that come back speak of a strange formation on the rock. A formation that looks like stairs, leading all the way up to a cave.

So in the dead of night, he abandons his half-built forge, runs in wolf form to the small valley nested in Ephel Dúath, and finds the stairs. He climbs, the wind carrying the foul smell of decomposing carcases.

Indeed, there is a cave at the top.

He enters through its dark and nauseating mouth into a tunnel. Something crunches underneath his feet and although there is barely light at all, he knows those are bones and corpses he is stepping on. Mannish, Orkish, and—

He smiles to himself.

“How long have you been dwelling here, Ladyship?” he asks to the darkness.

Her legs move into his line of vision, not bothering with keeping appearances. She must know he does not need light to see her. Despite her foulness and lawlessness, it seems like good manners.

Maia, her pincers click. You honour me.

She is no Ungoliant, but he does remember her from Nan Dungortheb. Big, ferocious, greedy. A beast that mates with her own offspring only to kill them after and feed on their corpses.

“You seem to have taken residence in my domain,” he smirks, taunting her.

She hisses. The intent to attack is plain as day, but she refrains from doing so out of fear.

Good, so she does know her place.

I was here first, Abhorrent, she clicks. And I shall remain here.

Her legs convulse, take perch on the sharp rocks around her. She seems hungry and unsatisfied, as all her kind. Her mother would have rallied to his cause, but she is more fickle and not as powerful. Still—her presence could be useful.

“Indeed you shall,” he tells her. “I would not exile you from your home. I am no Vala.”

She hesitates, probably remembering Beleriand. There is expectation in her milky eyes. What for, it is impossible to know. He does have his guesses—she is either waiting for him to ask about her mother, or for him to ask her to join him.

He decides to do neither.

After a few moments, she breaks her silence, I know you, Gorthaur. What would you ask of me in return?

Motivated by hunger, but not a fool. That pleases him.

“Not much, my lady,” he says sweetly. “A small tribute—keep my enemies from entering these lands.”

She squirms, delighted. Food, she hisses.

He laughs. “Yes, food indeed.” He watches the cave, watches the corpses of her offspring hanging from her webs next to Orc bones. “And when the time comes, do not kill all your children. I may have need of them.”

Her white eyes hide from what little light reflects into the cave. A creature of pure darkness. A demonic beast that Ilúvatar chose to put on this earth, just like her mother.

I agree to your terms, Maia, her pincers click.

He smiles, bows elegantly, and leaves her be.

Let Shelob be one more terror in the land of Mordor.

The second time she pulls him into her dreams, they are in the raft.

Above them, a raging storm. Underneath them, pure shadow.

He is holding her intimately as he shields her body from the rain. He is holding her intimately as he whispers unintelligible words into her shoulder.

He is holding her intimately as he keeps her face underwater, drowning her in the Belegaer—

Halbrand forces himself out of her dream.

There is bile in his mouth.

For all of his obsession with the West, the first reports he receives come for the East.

They speak of two elderly figures dressed in blue, their tunics frayed from time, their boots worn from pilgrimage. They travel the boundaries of Rhûn, going from village to village in their pursuit of enlightenment, teaching Men how to renounce darkness. How to make a stand against the Easterling barbarians.

The mortals refer to them as Morinehtar and Rómestámo. They, however, call themselves a different name. A name that implies powerful magic.

Istari.

He knows what they are the moment he reads about them.

Sorcery is not a gift given lightly to the Children of Ilúvatar, much less to lowly mortals. Their perishable forms would not be able to endure the power of the Unseen, burning from the inside out if they ever tried to cast a spell.

The only source of magic in the East are the wraiths of Rhûn.

Which means that the Valar not only will hide behind their city walls, but behind their Maiar as well.

He laughs bitterly for their plan is a folly.

No one of his own kin can best him.

Instead, he sends presents to Rhûn. Gifts to ensure their loyalty. Weapons to move them against these Wizards that come to seed dissension among his future subjects. He appeals to their dark priestesses, so faithful to him in the past. He sends them black spells to cast against the Istari, black spells that will consume them both, the executioner and the victim.

No light will touch the East, for it is his and his alone.

(The reports also speak of an Elf travelling with the Istari. One of the Sindar, his frame tall, with silver hair and noble manners. An Elf wearing the remnants of an ill-fitting armour, with sadness upon his face, and the self-appointed task of forgiving the mortals he once fought against.

A creature looking for penance, looking to erase past shame.

The Elf answers to the name of Celeborn.)

A year into the construction of Lugbúrz, he finishes the entry to his workshop.

Twelve feet tall and carved into the rocky hillside of Orodruin, the square door opens into a tunnel deep inside the mountain. The walls are as dark as obsidian, with a glowing light burning at the end. When he walks through it, he feels the fire calling out his name, begging him to shape the world anew.

The central chamber is as big as the Halls of Mandos, a lake of liquid flame scarred by several ridges. He watches Sammath Naur burst in anger from above, his long tunnel turning into a long ledge from where he can see every fissure.

A ledge where he will set his anvil and his hammer.

Here, Middle-earth growls in hatred. Here, he is king.

Southlanders call this place Mount Doom. So be it, then.

The Glanduin flows.

He is standing in it, the clear water hugging his calves. It feels colder than he remembers, not as soothing as it once was. Then again, this is her dream, so her memory might differ from his.

From his place in the riverbed, Halbrand can see the terrace. She is standing on it, wearing that beautiful green dress he so wished to sully with dirty fingers. The sunlight caresses her just right, igniting her hair like Ormal.

She has tears in her eyes.

“Tell me your name,” she all but begs.

Halbrand notices his reflection then, a soft smile upon his face as he approaches her. The golden light touches his replica like a blessing and he cannot believe Galadriel would dream of him this way when she knows what is coming.

He wonders if she is punishing herself. He wonders if she really saw him that full of light once.

The words come. “I have been awake since before the breaking of the first silence,” the reflection says as gently as a lover. “In that time, I have had many names.”

In this dream, she does not raise her dagger, but cries in sadness with her head hung low.

The hands of his reflection take hold of her face, softly and fondly. His thumb traces an arch from her chin to the corner of her eye, wiping a tear away. She closes her eyes at his tenderness, the fingers of one hand finding the curve of his shoulder.

She is still crying as she lifts herself on the tip of her toes, and presses their mouth together. Her hand goes from his shoulder to the back of his head, her thumb caressing beneath his ear.

His reflection brings her closer, breathes out a sigh against her pink lips.

The kiss looks perfect.

Then she sinks Finrod Felagund’s dagger into his heart.

The Glanduin just flows and flows.

His Orcs begin working on the throne room.

They mine Ered Lithui for material. They meld rock with metal, some edges as sharp as blades. They work, and they die, and the Moriondor brings out new batches of these worthless creatures made from stone out of the barren soil.

His traitorous master builder always says the same words, It will take time, my lord. And he always answers, Time means nothing to me. Even if it takes him six centuries, Lugbúrz will rise and put fear in the eyes of his enemies.

The Moriondor has started to diminish under his watchful eye. Almost two years of servitude, of being subjected to his magic, has turned it into a more obedient creature. Its anger is long gone, replaced with resignation and hollowness.

Halbrand is not yet satisfied with its servitude.

“This came this morning, my lord,” the corrupted Elf says, offering a small piece of parchment.

He takes it, reading the words.

Incánus.

That is what the parchment says. Another Istar, this one dressed in rags and travelling with a small creature. Trying his best to enter Rhûn. The people of the East call him Incánus, and it is said that he fell from the very stars.

(Nienna cries in the distance, unknowingly revealing the secret.)

Halbrand feels the fire in his veins burn.

So the King and Queen have made their move. So Manwë has decided to face him not with words whispered in his ear, but with combat.

Incánus, what a horrid name.

Olórin should never have to hide. Halbrand will admonish him for that before he kills him.

Sammath Naur welcomes him.

He brings hammer and anvil. He brings steel and iron. He brings plans for an imposing armour, for a fatal mace. For a thorny crown.

He will make it all anew, for his treacherous Orcs melted his old weaponry to make their own. The armour he wore during the siege of Beleriand, the armour he charged into battle with under Melkor’s reign. Gone. A full Age on this Middle-earth turned into badly sharpened, poisonous blades.

(You should burn them alive, my beloved, Melkor whispers.

Halbrand shushes him for he already has.)

Orodruin soothes him with promising words of better armour, of a better weapon.

He puts on his leather apron, grabs his tongs and sets to work.

This time, he will not hide his craftsmanship under Númenórean or Elven designs. This time, he will not work off the patterns others have sketched on thin paper. This time, he will not bestow gifts in the shape of stars.

He will devise something raw. Something made of steel and sorcery. A figure that will be remembered until Arda is destroyed.

(Where she was a pearl, he will be coal.)

Morn turns to night turns to morn.

It is difficult to tell anymore. Orodruin never stops spitting shadow over Mordor like a mourning shroud. For whom is that mourning meant, Halbrand no longer cares.

Time passes to the sound of hammering, and growling, and burning.

His tower is higher by the day. Dark and sharp and ferocious. He sometimes walks through its unfinished halls, hides behind its slanted walls, looks out its narrow windows. A snake in a pit, he is.

The reports that arrive from the West are few and far between, but incredibly useful.

From his spies in Númenórean settlements, he learns of the death of their king and the coronation of a new ruler. Ar-Pharazôn ascends to the throne of Númenor, a blinded Tar-Míriel forced to marry him to legitimate his claim.

From his spies in trading towns, he learns of the tremors that shake the earth beneath Khazad-dûm. He learns of a rebellion that puts the prince on the throne as smoke blows through the Doors of Durin.

Of the Elves, he knows nothing. They have closed ranks around Eregion and Lindon, wary of most of their neighbours. Wary of the rest of The Children.

(He does learn one thing, something that is written in a report almost as a footnote. Whispers of an Elf-maiden that has exiled herself from Lindon, riding alone from the great Elvish capital over the Misty Mountains.

An Elven maiden that has crossed into the bounds of Lothlórien, putting down her sword. Grieving for ghosts.)

There is fire and shadow in this one.

He is used to the Glanduin terrace, to the raft in the Belegaer. Even to the Númenórean prison. But the forge is unexpected.

They are not killing each other which speaks volumes as to how exhausted she must feel.

Or how lonely, if what they are doing is any indication.

Her naked skin glistens in the firelight, white thighs clinging to his hips, white fingers clinging to the edge of the workbench. She is leaning back, what is left of her linen dress indecently ripped open over her chest. With a hand in his hair, she brings him closer to breathe against his lips, soft gasps every time he thrusts into her.

His reflection sighs her name, a soft Galadriel, before pressing his thumb between her legs. She trembles when he rubs, and her fist tightens in his hair.

She gets a hard thrust in return.

From his place in the shadow of her consciousness, Halbrand sinks his nails in his palms. He watches, dazed and aroused and envious. Envious of a mere fabrication she has conjured up to ease her loneliness, her need. Her desire.

All this torment when she could say the word and have him.

Halbrand considers interrupting. Vanishing his replica with a wave of his hand and taking his place. Filling her up and pushing her towards release with debasing words whispered in her ear. Turning her soft gasps into desperate moans.

“Halbrand,” she says right before her body goes taut. Her head lolling backwards in abandon, the cradle of her thighs keeping him inside.

Her last sound resembles a sob of impossible pleasure.

Her last sound will haunt him forever.

The world shifts and he is left standing in the middle of his workshop.

Exactly as he began—amidst fire and shadow. This time, devastatingly alone.

The emissaries of Rhûn arrive at dawn.

It is no small feat, these Mannish tribes coming to Mordor as one. Their ways are vastly different, their language fractured and unintelligible. And yet, here they are, bending the knee to him.

The Easterlings are led by a man they call Khamûl. His hair is long and dark as night, a viciousness in the curve of his jaw that speaks of slaughter and sorcery. He has two lieutenants with him and a woman dressed all in white—a wraith priestess.

“Dark Lord,” Khamûl grunts in halting Common Speech, his tall frame bowing in true reverence, “we have come to pay obeisance.”

(And this. This is a true Mannish king of the South. This is what one would expect of those mortals who served Melkor.

How could she not see this—)

Three years since the construction of Lugbúrz began and the throne room has been completed. It is a dark chamber of black stone, condensation building over it like sweat. A blackish substance that has nothing to do with nature and everything to do with witchcraft.

At the centre, placed atop a three-step pedestal, stands his throne. Cut from black granite and crafted by himself, it is meant for a gigantic frame.

A frame he has not inhabited in a long time.

“Your loyalty is most welcome, lord Khamûl,” Halbrand says with a smile. “All those who fight for me shall be well compensated for their troubles.”

The human bows deeper, driven by his ambition and greed, not unlike the blessed Númenóreans. He does not comprehend the true compensation Halbrand has in mind.

At the base of his throne, the Moriondor is looking at the Easterling envoy with vile envy reflected in its eyes. With a tip of its chin, the Orcs surrounding the throne take a step closer to the Men, a pitiful show of force. For all its lost Elven features, the pride of the Eldar still remains in the Moriondor. It does not like to be outshone before its master.

Amusing in a way, tragic in another.

“We have brought you presents, my lord,” Khamûl says.

The mortal turns to his two lieutenants, makes a curt nod with his head, and watches as they disappear from the throne room into the adjacent hall. The sounds of a disgusting tongue echo on the black walls of Lúgburz—insults, perhaps. Threats.

A moment later, the two Easterlings come back, dragging—

(Oh, Mairon, Nienna cries. Be merciful, Mairon.)

“We apprehended them in a skirmish,” Khamûl says. “We enslaved some of their followers, killed others... A few escaped, I am afraid.”

Halbrand stands from his throne, casting his shadow upon the walls of his unfinished Tower.

The Easterlings push the old men onto the stone floor, tired knees barely missing the first step of the pedestal. Their blue tunics are rags, their white hair is caked with blood, their bodies look broken and bruised. Yet their eyes—Halbrand knows those eyes.

Alatar and Pallando stare up at him, exhausted and defeated.

He should have known. Morinehtar and Rómestámo. He should have known. They have always sung together. They have always journeyed together.

They have always been together.

Once upon a time, Mairon shared wine with these Maiar. Once upon a time, they stood at the edge of Valmar’s walls and stared at the wonders of Arda. Once upon a time, they laughed and sang the world into existence and Mairon saw them kiss before there were any stars.

Now he looks down at them and is unable to perceive their magic. They are diminished, they are more trapped in mortal bodies, weakened and abused. They have been reborn in them. Two of the most beautiful Maiar, brought down low just to stop him.

Is this what the Valar think of their greatest servants? Is the purpose of his kin to be used in the game of cowardly masters?

Halbrand takes one step down from his throne. Looks for words to tell these old friends of his. To tell these Istari. Words of comfort, perhaps. Words of allegiance. Words of memories long lost. Words to save their lives and bring them to his side.

Yet, Alatar speaks first.

“Be silent, Deceiver,” he growls, tears of betrayal in his eyes. “We shall never join you.”

The Istar spits on the floor of Lúgburz.

Always the defiant, Alatar.

(Oh, it has been a while since rejection felt so—)

The Easterlings shout. The Orcs growl. They all unsheathe their weapons at the two forgotten Maiar, battered and bruised. Two beings that are worth more than all his horde of filthy creatures. That are worth more than the best Elven cavalry or the biggest Númenórean armada.

And still, with ice in his veins, he orders, “Take that one away. Let our guest ponder his words a little longer.”

There is movement. There is violence. Alatar receives another blow before being dragged out of the throne room. Pallando follows the movement, a tear down his cheek. His tired eyes are the colour of wet earth, soft and inviting. He was always the mellow one, the reasonable one. If Halbrand can sway him—

The Istar turns to him, not with hate in his eyes but pity.

“Mairon,” he says, his mortal voice as melodious as his Maia one. That name coming from those lips feels like a curse. Like a sob in the dark. Like Nienna’s pleading.

For a moment, Halbrand does not dare breathe. He feels like he is walking on air, like he has just been awakened in the Timeless Halls. Far away, Nienna continues to plead, now joined by Varda, and Aulë, and Yavanna.

But unfortunately, theirs are not the only voices he hears, anymore.

There is another that hides deep inside his mind. The remnants of a creature Time has placed where there is no light, where there is no sound. So when Halbrand looks down at Pallando, a smirk takes over his features. A smirk that resembles Melkor in the worst of ways.

“What is it, Wizard?” he says sweetly.

Pallando softens even more. His compassion is sickening, repulsive—so much like hers.

“Whatever it is you do with him,” he whispers, his words shrouded in warm magic and reaching only Halbrand’s ears, “just grant me this, old friend—just let me follow.”

(Love.

They have always loved each other. The kind of love Melkor was unable to give. The kind of love that moved the heart of Mandos when the Nightingale sang.

The kind of love Mairon the Maia will never—)

With a curt tilt of his hand, the Blue Wizard is taken away.

(He asks the Lord of the Easterlings later.

He asks about Incánus first, wondering if a man fallen from the stars has been sighted. Khamûl says the priestesses have been pursuing such a foe, but that they have not crossed paths with anyone bearing that name yet.

Then, Halbrand asks about the Elf. The Sindar warrior with the old armour. At this, his servant pauses, bows deep, says, “He escaped, running straight for the Iron Hills, my lord.”

Orodruin roars in the distance.)

The Glanduin flows.

He is standing in it, the clear water hugging his calves. From his place in the riverbed, Halbrand can see the terrace. She is standing on it, wearing that beautiful green dress he wants to rip to pieces like an animal. The sunlight caresses her just right, igniting her hair like the fires of the underworld.

She has tears in her eyes.

“Tell me your name,” she all but begs.

His reflection approaches her—

He has seen this dream many times before. It is still a mystery to him why he keeps watching. He wonders if she kills him in this one, or if he steals her knife and cuts her throat, as he has witnessed before. Maybe they drown. It has happened a few times, why shouldn’t it happen now?

Except his replica looks away from her, his tired eyes setting on the wildflowers growing around them.

“You already know my name,” he says. “I did not lie when I told it to you.” His voice breaks, falling into silence for a long pause. “This is not about my name but about my lineage. Is it not, Galadriel?”

Her tears fall, but she looks relieved.

“You deceived me,” she says sternly.

The reflection blinks and then looks away, hiding his shame. “Yes,” he whispers, his eyes set on the edge of the terrace. “Yes, I did.”

This time, it is she who approaches him, who places a hand on his chin, turning him towards her.

“Why?” she asks, leaning into him like the trees to the sun.

His reflection smiles sadly.

“Because I am a foolish mortal,” he whispers to her, a tentative hand fiddling with her jewels, “and you are an Elf.” He breathes out when she presses against his body. “I would have said anything to keep you by my side a little longer.”

When they kiss, no bloodshed follows. Only peace and forgiveness.

Halbrand pushes his mind out of the dream with such force he breaks it into a million pieces. But he does not care at this moment. He is alone, in his half-built tower, in the shadows he knows all too well. He feels something clawing at his chest from the inside. Something raw. Something akin to what Finrod Felagund must have felt when he was torn to pieces.

For all his intelligence, for all his wit, it takes him a moment to understand what it is.

Grief.

Grief for what could have been. For what he could have become. For what fate could have granted him.

That night he walks into Sammath Naur and screams himself hoarse.

The fire is his only witness.

Mairon, please, Nienna begs once more.

This path will destroy you. Come back, old friend. Come back to us, she urges with such sorrow she could have moved Ered Luin.

Come and find peace at last, she whispers, her voice carried by the wind.

Halbrand plunges the breastplate he is forging into the fire. Feels the sweat drip down his back. Forces his words down his own throat.

What he does not say is, I was never meant to find any peace.

Four years.

That is how long he has been waiting.

But what is Time to him? What is Time to his task? Each blink of his eyes feels longer than the rise and fall of the sun.

Four years have passed when the news he was waiting for arrives.

It is said that the forges of Eregion have been lit for countless midnights, that the Gwaith-i-Mírdain have been tirelessly at work, shaping their greatest jewels yet. It is said that Ost-in-Edhil holds an arrangement of circlets, each more powerful than the last. The true magic behind Elvendom.

It is said Celebrimbor will live up to Fëanor’s legacy, crafting the most impressive objects Middle-earth has seen since the Silmarili.

(A voice in his mind whispers, nazg.)

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

Corrupt, all of them, Melkor had said. And here lies the irrefutable proof. Trying to reach greatness, Celebrimbor has done that which he should have not. He forged Halbrand’s rings—and has not stopped.

“My liege?” the Moriondor asks when he keeps laughing. “Something the matter?”

He laughs until there are tears in his eyes. “Why, yes,” he breathes, his eyes tracing the parchment once more. “What were the words you used? Ah, of course—isn’t fate amusing.”

(Ilúvatar weaves, and weaves, and weaves his web.

Sauron the Sorcerer laughs manically until it no longer feels like laughter, but vomit.)

The Moriondor does not look convinced, but remains silent, awaiting his orders. Four years of servitude have finally taught it what to expect of its Master.

“Send riders to Rhûn and Harad,” Halbrand says, crushing the parchment in his hands. “Double your hordes of children, Adar. The time has come.”

The fallen Elf does not raise his eyes when he asks, “Time for what, my lord?”

Halbrand turns to look over the parapet of his nearly-finished Tower, a humourless smile on his face.

“For war, of course.”

Deceiver, they call him.

Liar, manipulator, schemer. All that ails Middle-earth is to be blamed upon him. He is to carry their guilt as well as his own. He is to carry Melkor’s deeds imprinted on his soul and Ilúvatar’s plans weighing on his shoulders.

But in truth, they are not innocent. They are not without fault.

Elves, Men, and Dwarves—they are all consumed by their pride and their ambition. A word is all it takes to lead them astray, to show their true colours. And what if he is responsible for whispering it in their ears?

The rest is but their own doing.

He does not ruin them, for they already are.

He gave Celebrimbor but a fragment of counsel and now the proud Lord of Eregion has forged Middle-earth’s chains. Just like his grandsire before him. All that is left to do is for Halbrand to take the tools of his enemy and put them to work.

Because if he is to pay for the sins of the Children, if he is to play the darkest of roles in the poem Ilúvatar has written—then he will demand payment.

And it will be long overdue.

They are in a clearing. The sun is high in the sky, filtering through the trees. The birds sing, the river flows.

She has never dreamed of this before.

(It has been a while since she dreamed of anything.)

In four years she has reimagined all their encounters—the raft, the prison, the forge, the ship, the Glanduin. She has killed him a thousand times. She has let herself be killed a thousand others. They have kissed, they have bitten, they have screamed.

But in all those years, she has never dreamed of Tirharad.

Now, she stands by the uneven rock she sat on when his lands were alive, her eyes staring at the hidden stream. Not wearing the armour he rebuilt for her, but a dress made of silk and gold, the story of her family embroidered in every design. And yet, the Evening Star does remain on her chest, even if it is sewn and not forged.

She shines like Laurelin, beautiful and solemn.

Halbrand watches, equal parts excited for a new dream and troubled by the timing of it. By the place of it, feeling like something is amiss.

His reflection makes an appearance then. And it takes him a moment to recognise himself.

She has dreamed of him in every possible state. In rags, in black armour, in Númenórean tunics, in nothing at all. She has dreamed of him with dirty fingers, with a clean face, with blood pouring from his throat.

But she has never dreamed of him like this.

For he is dressed all in white, a supernatural shine to his skin that speaks of his supernatural nature. And to top it all, a crown upon his head.

His reflection circles her body from behind, arms around a narrow waist. He kisses her neck, whispers something in her ear with an amused smirk. She does not laugh, but her smile is sudden and untamed.

Ah, so she has chosen to dream of an impossibility.

He watches nonetheless. Why should he avert his eyes when her figure turns in his arms and kisses him? Why should he avert his eyes when she pushes him to green fields and climbs on top of him? Why should he even blink when their fingers undo the laces on his breeches and—

“I told you once,” seethes a voice behind him, “to stay out of my mind.”

When he turns, she is decisively not wearing gold but silver. Clad in chainmail, she looks ready for battle.

An ambush.

She has set an ambush. For him.

(Always for—)

He laughs in amazement.

“Well, I must say this is quite a pleasant surprise,” he muses, his blood boiling at finally having her looking properly at him.

She snarls, wild and furious. Oromë himself couldn’t look more menacing if he tried. And yet, she still manages to retain that soft beauty of hers, the rosy cheeks, the round eyes. The mane of hair no jewel can compare to.

“How long have you been hiding in my dreams, Deceiver?” she hisses. There is a sword in her hand, bloody intent on her face. Maybe tonight she finally exacts her anger upon him and not merely upon a figment of her imagination. “How long?”

A quick glance over his shoulder lets him know their reflections are but dust.

“So you have set a trap,” he comments out loud, heart beating faster in his chest. “A well crafted one, I must say.”

He is amused.

She, of course, is not.

“I felt you last time,” she growls, fingers trembling around her sword, cheeks reddening in shame. Last time feels like centuries ago to him. “You have been invading my dreams—how long, Abhorrent?”

The wind blows around them. And there it is again, that same feeling. That soft warning that sends shivers down his spine. Something is amiss. Something that has little to do with her scheme.

“Well, Elf,” he smirks anyway, standing up tall against her smaller frame. Making her feel his power. “I am not to blame if you pull me into your dreams like one beckons a dog.”

She pushes forward, sword first. He avoids it with ease.

“Liar,” she snaps. “You are a liar.” Her breathing is fast, hurt, shaking. She believes not a word, even if he is speaking the truth. “How long,” she growls through clenched teeth, so distressed he feels it all the way to his bones. “How long have you been laughing at me, at my sorrow. At my humiliating—”

Her sword traces a quick arc, cutting through the air. A killing blow, even if her tears are blinding her. If he were someone else, someone lesser, she would have had his head in the blink of an eye. For even shamed and insulted, she is a wonderful warrior.

He evades her blade, but not so much her words.

She is tearing her soul apart over this, and he won’t have that. At her next assault, he stops her sword with his bare hand. Breaks it into a million pieces with a flick of his wrist. The shards turn to dust, float in the air before being swept away by the wind.

(There is something truly amiss—)

Halbrand catches Galadriel by the neck of her chainmail. Brings her in close until he can feel her agitated breath upon his skin, her beating heart underneath his hand.

He is not smiling anymore.

“I have never laughed at you,” he whispers, voice rough. “Not at your desires, not at your suffering.” Her cheeks are stained with tears. Her lips are red, her eyes are lost. She refuses to believe him, but she is unable to stop herself from listening to him. After all, she has been searching for an excuse to see Halbrand as something different. As something more. “I would never laugh at you for wishing our story were anything but what it is. For wishing—”

(Mairon, growls a voice from far away.

Finally, all the pieces fall into place.)

His hand tenses around her chainmail, his senses on high alert.

“We are in my mind,” he tells her, half in accusation, half in awe.

Her face changes, hiding the vulnerability behind a stony mask. She finds the strength that lives inside her, that stubbornness that haunts him every day and every night. She looks like the Great Rider himself when she finds her footing, readying her body for another fight.

“Yes,” she hisses. “Balanced scales, Sauron.”

(The things he would do for this accursed She-elf.)

The world fractures then.

He hears his enemies in the forest, coming closer. Sniffing him out. Galadriel has not noticed the impending doom. She has only eyes for him. Furious and hurt, yes, but for him, nonetheless. And that suits him perfectly.

“You clever witch,” he tells her, leaning forwards until their noses brush. “To use my curiosity against me. A beautiful deception.”

She growls at him, but does not step back.

He could steal a kiss. He could steal a kiss and gain an animalistic bite. He could steal a kiss and give her the satisfaction of killing him in his own mind. He could steal a kiss and let her push him to the ground, let her tear at their garments, let her ride him until she is satisfied—

But as it always is with them, time runs short. The spell is broken.

Someone calls Mairon as loud as thunder.

Someone calls Gorthaur as high as the wave that drowned Beleriand.

Someone calls Traitor as melodic as the Great Music.

Galadriel flinches, hearing the voices as well. Her eyes look for the source of the muffled screams until they settle over his shoulder, towards the tree line. He gives it but a glance, already knowing what he will find there.

“What,” she gasps, her eyes fixed on one of the figures. A rotting corpse that once resembled her brother. “What sorcery—”

He pays his ghosts no mind. They will get reacquainted soon enough.

“They are not here for you, Elf,” he tells her. “I alone enjoy the pleasure of their company.”

She looks at him, horrified.

“You dream of this,” she says.

It is not a question.

There is a howl in the distance and he knows who is hunting him today. Who it is that has emerged from the forest, mighty and dark and twisted. They do not come often, but when they do, the pain is greater.

The Nightingale and the Hound, back for one more pound of flesh. One more victory.

“No. I do not dream, Galadriel,” he confesses, bittersweet. “I no longer possess that ability.”

His fingers are still closed around the neck of her chainmail. He lets the metal go, instead touching her cheek with the back of his hand. Her sight flickers from the army of wraiths back to his eyes. She looks confused, looks sad, looks absolutely lovely.

When he dies in this nightmare, he will be thinking of her.

“They come to punish you,” she realises.

Her voice sounds strange. It is no mystery as to why. She thinks he deserves it, of course. She may even be proud of the ghost of Finrod Felagund for haunting him every time he closes his eyes. Yet, part of her is troubled. Part of her is empathetic. Part of her is scared for him.

At his back, a battle cry.

“What a clever witch,” he whispers again. His fingers find her chin, tilt it upwards. A rebellious thumb presses against her lower lip. “If it is any consolation to you, Galadriel of the Noldor,” he whispers against her mouth, “know that I will suffer greatly.”

A tear falls from her eye. She breathes in, breathes out. Finally allows herself to give in to this madness she has unknowingly unleashed. Finally accepts what he has known all along—that they are inevitable. That Ilúvatar has woven their fates together through blood, through ash, through Time.

She closes her eyes, her forehead pressing against the hollow of his throat, her fists pressing against his chest.

This is as much peace as she is willing to grant him.

He bites down on his tongue, feels traitorous tears gather in his eyes. He presses his face to her hair, forbidding himself from taking a kiss. And as the army reaches out to get a hold of his body, he pushes her away.

Away from him and out of his mind.

She disappears in the blink of an eye and the whole fantasy turns tormentous.

When those wandering claws sink into him, tearing at his clothes, at his skin, at his muscles—he smiles. When his enemies rupture his body apart, screaming at him in unspoken languages while the Ainur watch from far away—he smiles.

As his blood washes the earth, he can only recall the look in her eyes.

There was compassion in them.

For him.

Always for him.

(When he wakes, he finally understands.

Once more, she solves the enigma for him. Once more, she knows not what she has done.

If his enemy were anyone else, he would have slayed them a long time ago. He would have gutted them and displayed them for the world to see.

But not her, for she is not anyone.

Nevermind her name or her lineage. Nevermind her military achievements or her beauty. What makes her different is simple enough. What makes her different is the reason why Ilúvatar put her in his path.

This Elf-witch can summon what is left of the Maia inside his soul, of a white magic as pure as Song, even when his wraiths are feeding on his flesh. And what was Mairon, what was the Admirable if not one of the Ainur? Those beings that travel from the Seen to the Unseen and back. Those beings that belong to both and neither.

A power over the flesh.

Ilúvatar sent her to draw out the Unseen in him and, inadvertently, has given Halbrand the key to Middle-earth.

Who would have thought that the price of his own victory would be himself.)

The dungeons of Lugbúrz are what nightmares are made of.

He walks down its corridors, ignoring the stench his Orcs have left behind. The sweet taste of putrefaction permeating every brick. He carries a torch, not because he needs it, but because it might bring comfort to his prisoners. One more trick to bring them to his side.

They are being kept separate—Pallando in the easternmost cell, Alatar in the westernmost one.

From the two of them, he chooses Alatar. The stubborn one, the contrarian. Because if he convinces him, Pallando will follow.

There is a honeyed smile ready upon his face when he approaches the cell, the image of gentleness and warmth.

It dies immediately when he sees behind the bars.

Alatar is crouched in a corner, body trembling in the cold. Feverish. His wounds have festered, eating at his old flesh like worms. His wrinkled skin is black and blue, and his hair has been shaved so close to his skull there are cuts in it.

One more wraith to add to his collection.

“You were not to be touched,” Halbrand growls to himself, placing the torch on a solitary sconce.

Alatar rasps out a laugh, holding onto the blue rag he wears. The colour is mostly gone, turned black with grime and filth.

“Are you referring to the same foul creatures that betrayed you in the North?” he grunts, trying his best to stand up. “They are not good listeners.” Alatar uses the slimy wall to get close to the bars, holding onto the crude steel to keep himself upright. “I suppose you have come to make demands in exchange for reprieve.”

Halbrand stares into those grey eyes. “They are not demands, but promises,” he says, his hand reaching out and softly turning Alatar’s face to the side, inspecting a terrible bruise by his jaw. “I will have my slaves burned for this.”

Alatar’s long fingers close around his wrist.

“Mairon,” he says, his skin taut against his bones, “Let us forgo the games. You and I were plain with each other, once.”

Clenching his teeth, Halbrand says, “Speak plainly, then.”

Alatar fingers reach through the bars of his cell, finding his face and tracing it with care. “That is a beautiful fana you wear,” the Istar says. “You were always the best at creating beautiful things.” His eyes are sad, are tired, are angry. “Why are you so determined to burn it all into oblivion?”

Halbrand closes his eyes for a moment, letting Alatar feel his magic underneath. The magic that remains unaltered unlike this Istar’s, brought down to cheat tricks.

There is a sigh of longing, but Alatar does not fall for it.

“It is my fate,” Halbrand finally says, taking a step back from the cell and ceasing all contact. “I am to cleanse these lands so they can start again. So they can do better.”

Alatar frowns, the gesture pulling at his bruises painfully. “Your fate?” he asks, anger in his voice. “Those are Morgoth’s words!”

That name again.

“Ilúvatar does not make mistakes,” he hears himself say in the coldest of tones. “You should know. He is your master.”

Alatar goes from furious to sad.

“Mairon,” he begs. “Mairon, The Creator does not make mistakes, but we do.” He reaches out with his hand, trying to touch him again. “And we can also repent for them, we can serve those we have aggrieved—”

“Tell me, Alatar,” he interrupts calmly, the fire from the torch flickering with violence, “what is better, to serve the Light or to rule the Darkness?”

A sound escapes Alatar. A sound of grief. A sound of despair. He presses his head against the bars, tears falling slowly down his cheeks. His broken body resembles that of the Southlander Halbrand met on the road years ago, the old man and his sad daughter destined to feed the wolves.

And Halbrand hates the Valar more than ever before.

When Alatar opens his eyes and stares at him, he says, “Very well, then,” he whispers. “I have no more words for you, Abhorrent.” Standing as tall as his rotting fana allows him, Oromë’s servant looks as mighty as Mairon once saw him. “Whatever poison you brew, I will not drink a single drop.”

(If there is justice, if Ilúvatar really cares for his creations, he will strike Halbrand down right this instant.)

“So be it, Wizard,” he hears himself say. “Then you shall hang from my tower next to your beloved.”

Abandoning Alatar to the shadow, he takes his leave, his hand splintering the torch as he grabs it too tight. At his back, he hears a powerful scream. He hears, I curse you, Dark One. He hears, I shall plague your waking moments. He hears, I shall join your ghosts and haunt you until you are dust.

The dungeons of Lugbúrz are what nightmares are made of.

What is one more soul in his?

From the battlements, he watches his armies train.

Orcs and Easterlings and wargs. Their fires blow smoke into the already dense air of Mordor. Hammers hit anvils as they make dark armour, blades hiss as they are sunk into poison, filthy songs are chanted as they wish torture upon their enemies.

With the turn of the moon, his hordes will be ready to wage war against the Elves. Against the Lord of Eregion whom he will submit in payment for the gifts received.

From the parapet of his Dark Tower, his Orcs have hung two corpses.

He stares at them as they swing against stone.

He would never do Alatar and Pallando the indignity of looking away.

(The Valar cry in anguish.

Soon, he will be deaf to their grief.)

He looks for the Elf.

He looks for the Elf because he is weak, and he is selfish, and he wishes to curse his Easterling slaves for not killing him.

So he stands in his Tower, on top of the world, and looks for him. He sends his spies, sends his Orcs, sends his wargs. He infests the Iron Hills with a swarm of foul creatures, all lusting after the light of one single Elf.

They spot him eventually, his Sindar features still beautiful despite the war, and the chase, and the fighting. Yet, they never catch him. He may not be a fighter like her, but he is a great dancer, and so he dances out of harm’s way. From the Iron Hills into Greenwood.

Closer and closer to Lothlórien.

This time, it is he who summons her.

He fixes his sight up North. From Lugbúrz, he sees past the fumes of Mordor, past the scorched earth, past the mountains. His eyes settle over Lothlórien, over the peacefulness that emanates from the forest, over the light that shines from her new home.

He can feel her power, his wonderful Elf-witch.

Softly, like a knock on a door, his mind touches hers. Gently, like the way he braided her hair a long time ago, he asks for permission to relay his message.

She is not asleep, so her walls are strong. Unyielding.

His mind whispers her names. The one her father gave her. The one her mother called her. The one her husband sang until she chose it above all others.

Galadriel, his mind pleads.

Suddenly, a small crack manifests in the walls of her mind. And small cracks are the only thing he asks of her anymore.

He invites her into his mind and recreates the cabin. She is wearing the armour he repaired, sitting on her wooden stool. He is wearing his simple smithing attire, sitting on her soft bed.

“What is it you want, Deceiver?” she asks, regal and severe.

He stares silently at her for a moment. Her hair is down and his fingers itch to braid it once more. Instead, he laces his hands together and leans forward.

“A meeting,” he replies. “During the next full moon.”

Her body tenses, suspicion palpable in the air—he can almost taste it in his mouth. One thing is to meet in dreams and fabrications, places lost deep inside their minds where no one can pass judgement. Another is to find themselves in the same room, a circumstance that has already proven fatal when it comes to the two of them.

Those rosy lips look inviting when she says, “Why?”

That is a question to which he has partial answers. All of them true, all of them foolish. All of them part of a bigger revelation he cannot put into words.

“Come and find out,” he teases instead. “Amon Lanc, during the full moon.” He knows she will not be satisfied with his words. Still, he adds, “Just you and me. Our last raft.”

There is conflict in her eyes. There will always be conflict in her eyes.

He stands up without touching her, stepping towards the door and the darkness that awaits beyond it. From far away he can hear the onslaught of ghosts coming for him, crawling over each other to reach him first.

“Do they always find you?”

Apparently, she can hear them, too.

He turns his head, steals one more glance at her. For a moment, he remembers he hates her for carving herself into his very being.

“Yes,” he says with a bitter smile. “They always do.”

He has a hand on the doorknob, another on the jamb. It is so familiar it hurts. Her eyes, however, are not in a faraway memory this time, thinking of her lost husband. Her eyes are set on him and all the emotions that dwell in them are meant for him alone.

“If it assuages your conscience, my Lady,” he tells her from the threshold, “your dreams are the ones that truly haunt me.”

He avoids looking into her eyes after his confession. Instead, he dissolves the fantasy, letting her slip from his mind as water slips from in between one’s fingers.

When the full moon arrives, she will either be there or not.

He tries not to think about what will happen if she isn’t.

(If he is to tear himself apart, he will indulge in one more selfish act.

And then, as Melkor said, he will descend into the pit. He will walk through the darkness.

He will fight his way to victory.)

Most of the armour is complete.

It is dark and sharp, with a sickening feeling clinging to it. Almost as if it is poisoned.

It might as well be, for he made it.

Orodruin roars tonight, molten fire bursting underneath his feet. Sweating in the mortal form he has refused to discard, he stands by the anvil in his workshop, his fingers playing with a golden crest. The one he gained by betraying her secrets.

Why he has kept it, he could not explain.

He feels the Moriondor before the creature even speaks.

“My lord,” it says, “I bring great news.”

Halbrand turns around, his fist closing around the crest in his hand.

The being that stands before him is but a shell of a creature. Its skin has turned to the colour of ash, its scars and rotting flesh standing out against the fire. The fumes of the land have made its hair thin and brittle, and the violence of the new batches of Orcs has cost it one of its pointy ears.

It is but a shadow.

Not unlike the wraiths that hunt him in his nightmares.

“I do enjoy great news,” he tells it after stretching the silence for far too long.

The Moriondor’s eyes are empty when it says, “Barad-dûr is finally complete, my lord.” It wets its lips with a purple tongue. “Your Tower is done.”

Orodruin growls, elated.

However, no words come from Ilúvatar. No thunder to strike Mordor into the Void. His stronghold is finished, his armies are ready, and his plan is well underway. Yet, The Creator remains silent. Almost as if he is blessing this endeavour. One more thread in his web.

Halbrand straightens, a smile on his face. “Great news indeed, Adar,” he says, approaching the Moriondor with joyful steps. “You have done exceptionally.” His hand falls upon the creature’s shoulder, squeezing tightly as in friendship.

It is anything but.

With a gentle pull, he guides the Moriondor to the edge of Sammath Naur. They both look down at the river of fire that flows inside Orodruin. The fire with which he will forge his ultimate tool.

His ultimate weapon.

“We are close to achieving our goal,” he tells the Moriondor. “Soon my armies will wage war upon the Elves, upon the mortals, upon the Dwarves. Soon we will raze Middle-earth to the ground, just to build it back anew.”

The Moriondor barely breathes underneath his hand.

“Does this mean,” he whispers in fear, “that my debt is paid, my lord?”

Halbrand looks at him. Remembers the ache of a thousand blades, remembers the sound of a thousand feet, remembers the cold of the Forodwaith seeping all the way to his bones.

And in one last act of mercy, he puts it behind him.

“Yes, Adar,” he says, his voice coming out soft. “Your debt to me is paid.”

As a reward, Halbrand eases his control over the Moriondor’s mind. The creature visibly flinches, a sob escaping from his dry lips, a tear escaping from his beady eyes. It hurts to taste freedom after years of subjugation, it hurts to be alone with one’s thoughts after years of hearing someone else’s voice.

Halbrand knows this well, for Melkor did it to him first.

Staring down at the fire, he tries to banish the memory of his former Master from his mind. Instead, he recalls Tirharad. He still remembers the worship of the Southlanders, the approval of the Númenóran Queen. Galadriel herself, the armour he remade for her shining like a pearl—

And then the look upon her face when he stopped her at the barn.

That utter loss that shattered her face at the words this Moriondor said to her—to her, the most deserving of all the Elves.

The Elf-witch that hurts him more than a thousand knives, more than the curse of eternal nightmares.

His eyes not moving from the lovely spell of the fire, he says, “Your debt to her, however, is still to be addressed.”

Adar, once an Elf, now a diminishing Orc, blinks in confusion. Its marred face turns to him, tears still fresh upon its cheeks. “My lord?” it asks, still trying to make sense of his words.

Halbrand smiles pitifully at it.

“Worry not, lieutenant,” he whispers in secret. “I know precisely what needs to be done about it.”

With another affable squeeze of the Moriondor’s shoulder, he pushes the traitorous creature into Sammath Naur.

It does not even scream as its body touches the liquid fire.

It does not even scream as it dissolves into nothingness.

Whatever it was before the darkness took hold of it, its fëa is now free.

A freedom Halbrand will never know.

(He was willing to make her his Queen. He was willing to share his power, to put a leash around his neck and give her command of the chain. He was willing to make her a ring equal to his. A ring of mithril, of the Light of the Trees and the Darkness of the Balrog. A perfect balance for a perfect union.

Now—

Now he will make only one.

Now he will carry the lives of the Children on his finger. Now he will bind them all to the darkness they hide in their hearts.

One ring.

One ring to rule them all.)

No one inhabits Amon Lanc anymore.

Oropher left it behind, discarded on the hilltop like a burned-down hut. His Elves migrated North not too long ago, fleeing from the Dwarves of Kazam-dûm. From the ever-growing power of Lothlórien. From Mordor, perhaps. It does not matter. Silvan Elves have always been the lesser of the First Children.

The stronghold still stands proud. Unspoiled. As if its masters still care for it.

Now Halbrand walks its corridors, climbs its spiral stairs, watches as the moon filters through the windows and bathes the halls in blue.

He reaches one of the towers, stepping out into the battlements. It resembles a courtyard rather than the roof of a tower. There are intricate stone benches placed against the ramparts. Wildflowers and vines have taken hold of the walls, reaching all the way up to ornate pinnacles that point towards the skies like claws.

Amon Lanc is unique because Silvan Elves do not build to copy Valinor. They have never been, why should they try to recreate it?

A beautiful architecture of light and shadow and, of course, neutral ground.

From the tops of the fortress, he can see Eryn Galen. He can see Lothlórien. He can see Hithaeglir. If he tried, he would be able to see even further. He would be able to see her every day, every night. He would be able to feel her close, instead of drowning in the poisonous fumes of Mordor.

But just as she belongs in her forest, he belongs in the fire.

Those are the lands she procured for him. There lies the crown she put upon his head.

Just as his eyes turn South, contemplating the smoke that pours out of Orodruin, he feels her. Magic shrouds her from the curious gaze of the moon, her light made brighter by the ever-watchful stars. She enters the fortress of Amon Lanc and does not hesitate as she climbs to him.

She must feel him as much as he feels her.

He closes his eyes. Banishes all voices from his mind—all his previous masters, all his previous victims. Tonight he will not endure their pleads, their threats, their screams.

Tonight belongs to her and her alone.

“Deceiver,” she calls behind him.

He turns just as she steps through the threshold, the moon casting her in silvery blue.

She has not come wearing Noldorin riches and thick fabrics. She has not come in heavy armour marked with the curse of Fëanor. She has come to him dressed in white—a sheer and lightweight gown with golden leaves embroidered in the hem. Her hair falls free around her face, the neckline of her dress leaving her shoulders bare to the night.

She looks like a Queen.

In her hand, she carries a single dagger. It is not her brother’s.

“Elf,” he greets her, swallowing around the elation in his throat at seeing her again.

With distrust, her gaze flickers from his chest to his waist, looking for a sword. He leans back on the ramparts, opening his arms widely to her wary eyes. Unlike her, he came unarmed, wearing only armour on his upper body. Forged in the fires of Orodruin, his breastplate and pauldrons must look like darkness itself, consuming light instead of reflecting it. His vambraces must seem as sharp as knives, tightened around his forearms to the point of pain.

No, he carries no sword. It does not mean he is helpless.

Galadriel takes one more step towards him and he notices she is barefoot. “Why have you truly summoned me here?” she asks, hand in a fist around the hilt of her dagger.

He goes for the truth.

“I wanted to see you,” he confesses, pushing off the stone at his back and taking a few steps forward until he is cast in the shadow of a pinnacle. Where she seems light as air, he feels heavy as stone. If they were back at their sinking raft, he would surely drown.

Galadriel sneers, disgusted. She does not believe him.

“We know of your war preparations,” she hisses like the sea. “Have you come to state your terms, Abhorrent?”

His boots scuffle against the cobblestones underneath when he leans forward.

“No need for pleasantries,” he says. “You might as well call me Halbrand.”

Her body plunges forward, moved by hatred and pain. “That is not your name,” she growls, lifting her sheathed dagger without meaning to.

“Of course it is,” he corrects. “I chose it for myself. And I gave it to you—”

“Why have you summoned me here?” she interrupts, being as impatient as always. “What is it you will demand of me this time?”

That gives him pause.

She has not told her people about this meeting. She has come to face him alone, as he asked, armed with nothing but a mere dagger. Dressed in fabric thin enough to pierce, waiting to kill or be killed. She came to him in the dead of night expecting to finally end her suffering.

He steps into the light.

“I will demand nothing,” he says.

But she might as well be deaf.

“Of course,” she hisses, “you do not demand. You take.” There is an angry tear in her eye, threatening to spill. “I care not for your promises, I will not betray my kin,” she whispers. “I will not join you.”

Halbrand tilts his head, regarding her with tired eyes.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks.

She looks affronted. “Yes,” she gasps. “There is nothing you have not taken from me—”

“I could give you more than I have ever taken.” That makes her recoil. That makes her tear fall. She hesitates as she has hesitated before. Because for as strong as she is, there is doubt in her. The same doubt that plagues him. “The things I would give you, Galadriel,” he pushes. “Not only a crown, not only power. I would make sure you never felt alone again.”

She looks away, her chin trembling.

“Such lies you tell,” she says. “And at the same time you breed your Orcs, you burn your lands. You violate my dreams.” She takes a shaking breath, her blue eyes facing him once more. “You love your war more than you would ever love me.”

(I did warn you, my beloved, Melkor laughs in his ear—)

He moves without being aware of it. His body marches forward in an angry daze. Tired of being questioned, tired of being rejected. Faster than she can anticipate, his hands reach underneath his pauldrons to undo two thick clasps, then crawl to his side to release the metal locks that keep the breastplate in place.

He tears the cuirass from his chest and hurls it into the shadows the moon casts. He stops just in time for her blade to nick the side of his neck.

Staring down at her, he lets her feel his fury.

“End it, then,” he growls, seeing the fear in her eyes. “End me, Elf.” One of his hands catches the back of her head. He weaves his fingers in her hair, gets lost in the pain upon her brow, spits the words out like he is choking on his own blood. “I am giving you a choice not even The One is able to take. Kill me and save your kin. Kill me and avenge your brother.”

He moves her hand from his neck to his chest, coaxing her to press the dagger over his heart, as she has dreamed of many times before.

She is barely breathing, an array of emotions crossing her face until there are fresh tears on her cheeks. They fall from her face to her clavicle, her skin white as fresh snow.

“You swore it,” he whispers, “did you not?”

Her free hand joins the one around the dagger in an attempt to keep her fingers from trembling. She leans forward into his embrace, her skin cold against his own warmth. She closes her eyes, steadying herself. When she looks up at him, her neck curls beautifully.

“Why have you summoned me here?” she asks for the third time, her voice a desperate whisper.

He has never lied to her. There is no reason to start now.

“As I have said, Elf,” he whispers, his thumb caressing the edge of her ear, “I wanted to see you.”

The one last time is implicit. Even so, they both hear it. What was a mere whim to him is now as clear as the Glanduin river. Tonight is as far as their paths go. Whatever her decision in the end, there is no future for them.

Light and darkness always intertwine, but they never join.

There is a sigh on her lips that resembles a sob. “It is impossible for me to believe a single word you say,” she whispers finally.

He is as old as Time. For the first time in his existence, he feels the weight of it on his bones. So he decides to bestow one last kindness. For her.

Always for her.

“Then,” he says, cradling both her hands between his and pressing the dagger against his heart, “I shall not speak.”

Of all living beings, of all Elves and Men and Dwarves, of all the Maiar and the Valar—this choice is only hers. He would grant it to no other. With her simple dagger she could kill him right now and procure peace for Middle-earth. She could plunge it into his heart, a heart that has seen much, that has done much, and end the brewing war he is sure to wage against Arda until the world cracks and bends and turns to dust.

If his judgement has finally arrived, let her pass sentence.

He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to hers, and lets fate be decided.

Peace.

What is peace? Coveted. Easily broken. Hard to find. But, what is it?

Maybe it is not something one can keep forever. Maybe it is just the sum of small intervals throughout time that linger in the memory. It does not last for it was not meant to. After all, how can anyone appreciate peace if that is the only thing they know?

And despite the battles he has fought, the wars he has waged, the blood he has spilt, he has found instances of peace. At the Númenórean forge, hammer hitting anvil to the heat of the fire. At sea, braiding the hair of a grieving soldier. At a clearing without a name, meeting his match after saving her from damnation.

And, of course, right now, with her dagger to his heart.

There are no more voices calling him from beyond the sea. The only thing he can hear is her breathing, the beating of her heart, the soft dance of treetops in the wind.

The matter is out of his hands at last.

She finally makes her decision.

With a strong voice, she says, “You are my enemy.”

Without a single note of hesitation, she says, “You will forever be my enemy.”

(What she truly means is, except tonight.)

The dagger clatters as it falls to the ground, making his eyes flutter open in surprise. He has no time to get his bearings, for her fingers find his face and pull him down towards her. Her nose brushes against his own, her neck tilting to accommodate him.

When she kisses him, she does so in desperation—for what she feels, for the chance she has just wasted, for the impending war she will have to wage against him tomorrow.

She kisses him and she might as well have pierced his heart.

He surges against her like a tidal wave.

Keeping his vow of silence, he speaks to her with his hands, grabbing her body with greedy fingers and pressing harder than he probably should. He speaks to her with the tip of his tongue, tracing the inside of her mouth until she is arching her back into him, asking for more. He speaks to her with his teeth, closing gently around her ear, the curve of her jaw, the base of her neck—finding those spots that make her gasp.

It hurts to think that she is only his for tonight.

Her hands find the joints of his armour, unclasping his pauldrons, pulling his vambraces off, getting rid of hard metal to find soft flesh. She is not ashamed or demure about it, almost as if she fears he will change his mind. As if she fears he will deny her.

(He could not deny her a single thing tonight.)

When she reaches for his tunic, he spins her around. His hands make quick work of the laces of her bodice, almost ripping them apart. His tongue traces an arch from the tip of her shoulder to her jaw, until she captures it with her mouth, her fingers grabbing his hair and pulling him in.

She is impatient. She has always been.

He would love to taunt her about it, but he promised.

Her bodice falls and he wastes no time in touching her breasts, thumbs tracing warm and rosy flesh until she is gasping indecently into his mouth. One of his hands creeps downwards, over her ribs, her lower belly, her hip. He fists the skirt of her gown and pulls, gathering it up to reach beneath. She helps, lifting the fabric to her waist so that his hand can touch her where she most wants.

She is wet when he brushes between her legs.

But not wet enough.

“Halbrand,” she calls, holding onto his thigh with one hand, head resting wantonly on his shoulder.

Her voice dissolves into a broken hum as he circles the base of her throat with his free hand, a sign of ownership he has no right to. His mouth leaves a trail of soft kisses on the curve of her shoulder, as gentle as the way he rubs between her legs. She is soft, and wet, and burning, and he wants to bury himself in her body.

Slender fingers close around his wrist, not to guide him, but to hold on. It almost makes him sink his teeth on her neck to mark her as his own.

Instead, he closes his eyes and—cheats.

Somewhere deep inside of him there are traces of a wonderful magic he hasn’t practised in centuries. He calls upon it now, presses it into her skin, weaves it with her own beauty. The spell touches her fëa until her body goes impossibly hot, thrashing in his arms.

Melkor would have resented him for wasting his last vestiges of white magic like this.

Halbrand sees no reason why he shouldn’t.

Galadriel moans, pressing against him in delirium. “You—Halbrand,” she calls again. He wonders if she is unable to voice her request or if she only says his name out loud because she enjoys the sound of it.

As a reward, he pleasures her harder. He sinks one finger inside her body, rubbing faster against her until she begins sighing words in Quenya. His other hand cups her breast, caressing her slow and light until she keens.

There are so many things he wants to tell her—instead he coaxes her into a deep kiss, pressing his words against her tongue.

As with everything between them, she makes it difficult. She grinds against his body and against his hands, searching for his heat, for his touch. She covers his soaked fingers with her own and reaches back to cup him through his breeches. She calls his name, and breathes out yes and please, and demands what she wants, how she wants it. She becomes so wet he has to clench his teeth to keep himself from speaking. From praising her, for making promises neither of them would be able to keep.

Instead, he licks the curve of her ear. Breathing hotly against her shoulder, he presses another finger into her. Presses the heel of his hand against her core. Presses a soft spell into her soul.

What finally pushes her over the edge is the moan that escapes him when she catches his free hand and sucks his fingers into her mouth.

When she reaches her peak, her body shakes. She bites down on his fingers hard enough for his traitorous, mortal body to rut against her in delicious anguish.

They breathe in each other’s mouths as their movements slow.

He retreats half a step and gives her space to compose herself.

Ignoring his own aching need, he risks a glance at the stars. They twinkle, curious and slightly ashamed at being caught. He would laugh at them, at Varda who is no doubt peering down at their deeds.

Galadriel turns in his arms.

She does not look sated, but incredibly hungry.

“Why would fate curse me with such a scheming—,” she does not finish her thought, kissing him in anger. For all her indignation, she did not seem to mind his magic. Halbrand would dare say it has inflamed her further.

She rids him of his tunic with none of the care she showed his armour. Her tongue is in his mouth as she goes for the laces of his breeches—and she has dreamed so many times of this, he is in no position to deny her.

She would do well, however, to remind herself that she is feeding a wolf.

Finding her waist, he crowds her against the nearest wall, the one that twirls all the way up into a pinnacle. Her hair catches in the flowers and vines like it was meant to be there, surrounded by nature. Wild and untamed.

He sometimes wishes she were not this beautiful.

Her hands shove his breeches down enough for her to get a hold of him, finding firsthand how painfully hard he is for her. She strokes him a few times, their lips pressed in a wanton kiss that resembles more of an incoherent sob than a plea for more. He feels the fire burn underneath his mortal skin, half hoping his ëala won’t burst through his fragile bones.

Fingers closing hard around her hips, he is half-mad with the need to sink into her body and forget for a moment who he is and why he is here. To feel how soaked she is around his—

“Wait,” she gasps.

In her blue eyes, a storm.

It takes more discipline than he will ever admit to rein himself in. But this is her, and she has always held the end of his chain.

(“What is better, my beloved?” Melkor asked him once, “To serve the Light or to rule the Darkness?”

Tonight he serves the Light.

Tonight she rules the Darkness.)

Galadriel presses a hand to his chest, letting it fall all the way down to the pinkish scar left by a poisoned spear. She loses herself in his skin, in the muscles underneath. He is no Elf, has none of their delicate beauty. Halbrand’s fana is crude, mortal, venereal.

She seems to enjoy it.

Her cheeks as red as sin, she gathers the hem of her own gown and rips it open. The fabric screeches as it tears all the way up to her hip. She then leans backwards against the wall, her eyes challenging him.

She should look debauched with her beautiful Elven dress torn to allow him better access to her body.

Instead, she looks powerful.

And Halbrand would beg her to set him on fire.

He forgets to be gentle as he lifts her up, moving the skirt out of the way and pressing her against the wall, beautiful and his. Galadriel relishes it, for the glint in her eyes is the same as the one she showed him years ago in a Númenórean prison.

Her nails rake down the skin of his back when he sinks into her, finding her wet and warm and inviting. Grunting like an animal against her clavicle, he fills her body until their hips are flushed together. Just like he envisioned all those years ago in the forge, just like she has been dreaming of for years.

One of her knees hooks around his waist, while he keeps the other in a firm grip. “Move,” she orders, a soft blush trailing from her cheeks to the top of her breasts. He complies, thrusting deeply a few times before changing his mind and rutting against her. Rubbing the swollen skin between her legs until she is biting back sounds, and scratching his skin, and trying desperately to find a modicum of leverage to push against his body.

He has her close, and he takes her deep, and he traces the lines of her body with his tongue. In return, she swallows his moans, and combs through his hair, and grabs at his flesh to guide his movements.

Their weak bodies sweat and burn and fit together in perfect harmony.

And then, surrounded by her scent, by her gasps, by her magic, he feels himself falter. Feels himself shake, almost as if he were standing on the edge of Sammath Naur, enchanted by the call of the fire. He wants to sigh her name, to groan terrible words, but bites down on his own tongue, thrusting shallowly into her. Once, twice, the need building beneath his skin, and—

He stops.

It is painful, keeping himself still, so close from toppling over the edge. But inside him, the Maia that once was pure and wonderful refuses to sully her this way. After all, she knows not of her husband, still alive and making his way to her. After all, she would never choose him over her noble Sindarin Elf.

She has accused him of greed. Tonight, he will not take more than she is willing to give.

“Halbrand,” Galadriel calls, breathless. “What is it?”

He lifts his face from the crook of her neck. Kisses her lips slowly, lets her mouth melt against his like honey. He rubs against her a few times, ignoring his need to press inside her body like the beast he is. But when he tries to pull away and out of her, the cradle of her thighs becomes a cage.

The storm in her eyes finally breaks.

“No,” she growls at him, her fingers clenching painfully in his hair, pulling him close, making him thrust up into her without meaning to. She looks furious, a righteous queen to whom he would bend his knee. “Finish,” she whispers against his mouth, ripping a grunt from his lungs. “You will finish.” She moans when he sinks inside her again, untamed and unleashed. “You will obey me and you will—”

He forgoes gentleness again, thrusting hard and fast into her, into the warmth of her body like it is his salvation. She has asked for ruin, so ruin she will get. What is he good at if not ruin and devastation. He takes her like a wolf, scraping his teeth down her throat and feeling how wet she is. How wet she gets as he sinks his fingers into her hips and spills messily inside her, his body thrusting violently between her thighs.

He can’t help it when his magic presses a moan into her mind.

A moan that resembles her name.

Galadriel hums and holds on, her arms wrapping around his shoulders like a shield and bringing him closer to her chest.

(It occurs to him at that moment that she has come to him dressed as a bride.)

“I sometimes wonder,” she says, her head resting on his chest, “what would have happened if I had heeded your warning.” She lifts her body on one forearm, staring down at him, her hair cascading over one shoulder. “If I had left you in Númenor.”

On the horizon, he can already see the telltale signs of the approaching dawn. Yet the moon is still above them, so he fools himself into believing they have more time.

There is exhaustion in her eyes. There is hurt.

Halbrand cups her face, still silent.

“Would you really have sought peace?” she asks him, even though she knows he won’t answer. “Or would you have torn the island asunder?”

They will never know.

She knows that.

He takes a hold of one of her hands. Kisses her knuckles. Kisses her wrist. He sits up and kisses her shoulder. A hand cradling her head, an arm circling her waist, he lowers her to the stone floor, both of them half-dressed still. He keeps kissing her—her lips, her neck, her breasts, her navel. He sears her taste in his memory.

And he has a long memory.

“Would you have convinced me to stay,” she gasps at the stars as he parts her ruined gown to kiss between her legs, to lick where she is hot, where she is still wet with both her fluid and his seed, “or would you have celebrated my parting?”

Her voice soon turns into breathless pleas as he savours her, his tongue soothing swollen skin. Tasting her. Tasting himself. It is intoxicating, the mix they make. He feels himself grow harder with every pass of his tongue, with every moan she lets loose. With the way her body becomes desperate as he mouths at her harder and deeper, making a wet mess between her legs.

What cruel fate, to never have this again.

(Because tomorrow she will go back to hating him. Tomorrow he will raise his banners, he will declare war on everything she considers holy. Tomorrow he will no longer be hers.

Tomorrow he will no longer be anything.)

“Halbrand,” she moans as he pushes a few fingers into her, still drinking from her body.

If he can only have this once, if he can only have her once—let it be like this. Beautiful and painful and all-consuming. Let it be like this, at night, when there is both light and darkness.

He gropes himself with his free hand as he brings her closer to the brink. His mortal knees hurt against the stone floor, his mortal chest burns with the little air he is breathing in, his mortal skin tears as she scratches him in abandon.

Once upon a time, he gifted her the Evening Star over her chest. Now, he gifts her something else.

His mind catches hers, incoherent and numbed by pleasure. He shares a few memories. Memories not from Gorthaur or Sauron, but from Mairon. Flashes of the Great Music, of the sea shaping the land before there were birds in the sky, of his workshop in Aman, of the way the bells toll in Valmar.

He shares the light of the Lamps with her. The light he wishes he could forget.

Her body goes taut, back arching, moans barely keeping up with her breath.

He shares one last memory. Herself, swimming towards him in the Belegaer.

The one memory he would kill over.

When she peaks, she cries.

She is mesmerising, in both the Seen and the Unseen.

He retreats, allowing her to draw her shaking knees together for a moment. It is then that he notices he is trembling as well, his blood boiling and his ëala bursting at the seams of his fana. He tries to rein it in, closing his eyes shut, sinking his fingers in the meat of his thighs.

Her hands finally reach for him. She brings him closer, kisses his mouth deeply as her fingers reach between his legs and close around him. She strokes him to completion as he trembles with pleasure, with pain, with barely-contained magic.

“Say my name,” she commands right before he spills on her lower belly.

And he—

He complies.

(When he moans Galadriel into her mouth, he knows he is giving her the last sliver of light that inhabits his twisted soul.)

They breathe in unison for a moment, ruined and broken. Stealing soft caresses, brushing lips against available skin, feeling their blood calm itself in their embrace. It is soft, and it has been centuries since any of them felt any softness.

If only spells such as this could last forever.

His eyes glances at the impending dawn, the end of their journey. He stands, helping her to her feet. They dress each other just as the sky begins to bleed from dark indigo to pinkish blue. She helps him put on his armour, he tightens the laces of her bodice and combs through her hair. There is nothing to be done about the skirts of her gown, but she does not seem to mind. When he catches a glimpse of her left leg, a purple arrangement of marks stares back at him.

He leaves with her scratches down his back. She leaves with his fingers around her thighs.

(They leave with more, but those marks are not visible.)

He searches for words, their bodies out of rhythm now that their agreement has been fulfilled. He searches for words, but he cannot find any. He, the one who brought about Gorlim’s demise. He, the one she calls a liar.

Galadriel sheathes the long-forgotten dagger, her brow tight as she contemplates him.

“If I were to become yours,” she says, “would you stop this madness?”

(Deceiver, they call him.

But she is not far behind.)

He catches her chin in his fingers, trying hard not to close his fist around her neck. He wants to ask her if that was her plan all along, if she came here to seduce him into capitulation. But he relents, for he knows her. He knows her better than he knows himself, most days.

Instead, he wets his lips, breathes out a sigh. “And what, pray tell, would we do?” he asks her. “Hide in the mountains? Live a quiet life far from everything we know?”

Her hand closes fondly around his wrist.

“Yes,” she says.

He smiles softly at her. At the vision he can see clearly in his mind, a vision of the two of them in a home of their own, far from riches and ambition. A Maia and one of the Eldar, married in all but ceremony, watching the Ages of Arda pass by in companionship. Lesser than Thingol and Melian, yet the reason why Middle-earth still stands whole. Water and fire combined into a simple life.

The problem is—they are not simple.

He kisses her brow.

“You would resent me forever, Galadriel,” he says, and even though she claims not to believe his words, she knows he is speaking the truth. “And resentment makes me do terrible things.”

Her anger is mixed with sorrow when she closes her eyes. There are no more tears for him. She has shed them all.

“So instead you will set fire to Middle-earth,” she sneers, “and become the king of ashes.” She struggles for words, struggles for feelings. In the end, in a true plea, she asks, “Why?”

He is not Halbrand when he kisses her this time, letting her feel the fire underneath.

He is not Halbrand when he caresses her cheeks with his thumbs, pressing against bone much harder than necessary.

He is not Halbrand when he answers, leaning forwards to whisper in her ear.

“Because this is the role The One has chosen for me,” he tells her calmly. “Because fire must scorch the earth so that the forest can grow anew.”

(Those are Morgoth’s words, Alatar had said.

And what is he if not the consequence of Morgoth Bauglir.)

Her eyes look devastated when he faces her once more.

For him.

(And for herself.)

He watches the first ray of sunshine reach across the sky, and lets Halbrand consume him one last time. He takes her hand, kisses the inside of her wrist. And ignoring the anguished cries of all the Ainur that roam across the sea, he speaks in her beloved Quenya.

Two words are all he needs.

Namárië, Tinúviel.

After all, Elves do not say goodbye.

three. the nameless

The guild crest melts into liquid gold.

Sammath Naur growls around him as he pours it into the cast, letting it cool for a mere moment.

It will not have the ornamentation Elves are so fond of. It will not have the crest of powerful Mannish families. It will not be heavy and crude like the way Dwarves build their cities.

It will be plain. It will be simple.

For he is not.

And he has always enjoyed being what he is not.

He breaks the cast, the circlet still glowing white orange, and with clenched teeth, he closes his fists around it. It burns the skin of his mortal hand, melting flesh and muscle. But he does not let go, even as he screams into the chambers of Orodruin, and Arda herself screams with him.

His mind fills with memories. Memories of pure white, golden hair, a sunny workshop. The first note he sang, the first river he shaped. The way love felt once, the way love felt later. The wild hunt of his ghosts and his wraiths killing him at every turn. Everything that made him a Maia, that made him unique—he pours it all until it mixes, until it fuses.

And so, as he has fractured the world before, he fractures himself.

Screaming into the void, he casts the spell in the foulest of tongues. Ash nazg durbatulûk, he speaks as the circlet reaches bone. Ash nazg gimbatul, he speaks as his mind tears in two, the Seen and the Unseen. Ash nazg thrakatulûk, he speaks as his magic becomes poison, choking him from the inside.

Orodruin explodes around him, the Valar cry in horror, his body breaks and remakes itself.

The last thought he has before he kills all vestiges of Halbrand, and Mairon, and Gorthaur, and takes the name his Enemies have granted him—is of her. Of a memory that does not even belong to him.

Galadriel, laughing as she has never laughed for him. Dancing in a field, happy and loved and shining brighter than Light itself. The second She-elf who stood up to him, the source of his victory, the source of his pain. The one who was never his, but that he coveted as Melkor coveted the Silmarili. The one who decided to love twice, even when it was against the laws of her people.

Soon, the darkness takes even her.

(—agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.)

Shadow finally falls.

The Dark Lord leaves his workshop, walks his lands, sits on his throne.

Staring at the dark walls of his infinite Tower, wearing his mighty armour, Sauron slides the One Ring on his finger. Pure gold and pure sorcery.

Beyond the mountains of Mordor, the echo of a thousand Elvish cries speak of betrayal and war.

Of all of them, the one in Lothlórien sounds like heartbreak.

(The creature that went into Orodruin had many names.

The one that comes out is nameless.)