I Grow; I Prosper

Galadriel does not join the wailing chorus. She stands frozen, the light of the falling star reflected in her eyes. Beneath the cries, beneath the roar of fire across the sky, she hears something else.

A voice, slipping into the world like oil into water. Deep and resonant, a cold sound, a bitter lilt in the way he speaks. A whisper carried through the bones of Arda itself. Words meant for one being, but heard by every living creature.

She closes her eyes as the sound crawls into her mind.

A master calling for his servant.

At once, her old wound blazes into agony, and she clutches at her chest. The scars there throb with pain: the mark where once the crown of Morgoth drove her against the stone. That cruel circlet forged in the depths of Angband, that once bore the Silmarils upon its brow. The same fell iron that later pierced the flesh of his servant and bound itself to the blood of the Maiar. She remembers the darkness once buried within her body, that foul mingling of shadow and their blood. Binding her to that cursed servant.

Binding her to Sauron.

Galadriel is famed for wisdom, for patience, and for the long weaving of counsel. A lady of foresight, slow to wrath and careful in judgment.

But in this moment, she is the Galadriel of ages past. She who crossed the Helcaraxë, who defied the Valar, who defied her high king. Who lost her heart to the great enemy, if only for a moment. And in a single breath, she chooses something terrible. Something that must be done.

They called her a sorceress once, in fear and concern. And now, drawing upon her magic, beyond the craft of the Elves, she lifts her hands to utter words of dread.

But first, in a clear and ringing voice, she says: “you cannot have him.”

She is the Lady of Light, yet she is nothing compared to Morgoth, the elder king, the black foe of the wide world, and less than dust beneath his heel. But he has been gone for many long ages, and he knows nothing of what has befallen his lieutenant.

All she possesses is time, such precious time.

Her spell is cast. Heat and fire erupt all around her, shattering stone. The air twists and screams as something unseen struggles within the snare of her power. Something– something so crushingly familiar that her eyes glisten even as her fists tighten. That mere spirit of malice, he who has gnawed himself in the shadows. Sauron, the enemy, a formless and shapeless thing, trapped.

He fights her with all that he can, the shrill horror of his screams filling the room.

It’s agony in her chest but she remains steady. She does not falter.

She cannot hold him long and her spells mingle now with prayers, frantic pleas. “We must,” she says, “we must not let the Dark Lord have him.”

At once, she hears the flutter of wings and a hand closes firmly upon her shoulder. Her pain eases and the power around her shifts. The spell shatters like glass, and the writhing spirit is torn from the air before her, seized and held fast by a will far greater than her own.

“I—help me,” Galadriel gasps, forcing herself to turn.

She trembles to see the blessed Eönwë, standing at her side. The herald of Manwë stretches out his hand, and in his grasp, the spirit of Sauron twists and writhes. It is Manwë’s power here, channeling like a sudden release of floodwaters by Eönwë, allowing this iron grip of the enemy.

He grimaces at her. “Lady, it would be wiser to destroy him.”

“No,” she breathes. The sound that leaves her throat is strange, almost broken. Her dread decision, made so swiftly, rooted in the depths of her heart.

“If I do this, he’s yours,” he warns. “His fate will be bound to you. You will answer for what he becomes.” He winces. The spirit is lashing against the bonds, fierce and untamed. “You may not be able to convince him. His love for— “

She doesn’t hesitate. “Give him to me.”

“As you wish.”

With the snap of his fingers, the spirit begins to take shape. The transformation, hideous; the sound, unnatural. A young boy with a sweet face, a young man holding an anvil, a warrior with flaming red hair and rich garments, a fell commander clad in iron, a monstrous wolf, a fair traveler with chestnut hair and a mocking grin, a golden terror, a dark lord with red eyes, a lidless eye wreathed in flame. The shapes flash and collapse upon themselves, shifting from shape to shape to shape.

Eönwë turns to her, his gaze unreadable before he snaps again. The shifting ceases and the body settles. One face remains.

The body, new and his once more, familiar. The face, the one she knew first. The false king of the Southlands, the man she once called Halbrand.

Eönwë releases him and Sauron drops to the floor. “Failure is not permitted,” he says quietly. “Not now.” And then the herald of Manwë is gone. The war has begun, and there are preparations that cannot wait.

Galadriel is left alone with the living terror gasping at her feet.

His screams change; they become words. “Master,” he moans, the sound torn from him in anguished longing. A tone she has never heard from him before. “Master, no. Master, I am here.” The pleas are raw, devoted beyond reason.

She feels suddenly young. Too many emotions racing through her blood at once; anger, fear, something darker and sharper beneath it all. For a moment, the world tilts and she is dizzy from it. There’s a truth settling cold and clear in her mind.

Morgoth will not have him. Not now, not again.

Something fierce and possessive rises in her. Ugly, perhaps, and unworthy of her. She doesn’t care.

Dropping to her knees beside him, Galadriel gathers him into her arms, holding him as he writhes in this painful trance. The whines in his mouth queer and tormented. Her hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of a heart newly made flesh. That he is warm and solid in her arms startles her; he’s real and he’s here and that face– oh that face.

And still he moans his master’s name, broken and desperate in her arms.

Morgoth has called him, and he would answer if he could. He’s shielded here from it; a mix of Galadriel’s sorcery and the Valar’s might in the blessed lands.

“Listen to me,” she says, “listen to my voice.”

His eyes flutter open, wild and bloodshot and struggling to focus. “Galadriel?” he tries.

“He can’t have you,” she says, pressing her palm harder against his chest.

But he cannot hear her. His body thrashes beneath her grip, caught between agony and longing. His mind lost, reaching impotently for the presence that once defined his world, his being, his purpose. He has wandered as a spirit for too long, untethered.

What he needs is contact, what he needs is—

Galadriel breathes in slowly, gathering her resolve. Finding her courage. And she leans in, first the timid press of her mouth to his before she pushes in with purpose. Her lips crashing against his.

The sudden intimacy stuns him. His entire body shudders beneath her as though struck by lightning. His gaze clears, startled and bewildered.