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Find Me Falling

Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen

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Seventeen
Galadriel

 

After Halbrand slips from the room, Galadriel finishes dressing, ties her hair up in a simple bun, and splashes her face with the cold water in the pitcher by the window. If he was serious about finding a bathhouse, she’ll wash properly then – right now her hair is far too messy to do much with it other than get it up and out of the way, and as for the rest of her... well it's going to need more than what the simple pitcher can provide.

There’s a knock on the door just as she’s lacing up her boots, and her heart does a little flip – excited to see him again even though he’s only been gone a few minutes. “Come in!”

“It’s nice to see you looking so well, Galadriel,” a familiar voice drawls from the doorway, and Galadriel’s head shoots up, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes Heledhel. The woman’s expression holds an unsettling mixture of satisfaction and pity.

“Heledhel.” Galadriel’s voice is steady, though her heart races with a flicker of alarm. “What are you doing here? Where is Halbrand?”

Heledhel’s lips curl into a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Halbrand is... otherwise engaged at the moment. I'm just following orders, Galadriel. Now, let’s not make a scene, shall we?”

Two more figures close in from behind Heledhel, blocking any easy escape, and Galadriel’s blood runs cold, fear gripping her heart. But she keeps her composure, lifting her chin defiantly.

“Orders?” she says coolly. “From whom? Why are you doing this?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Heledhel replies, slipping a hand into her cloak and producing a small vial filled with a translucent liquid that she pours onto a white cloth.

Galadriel tries to fight it, diving towards the window and praying the fall isn’t too far, but one of the soldiers grabs her around the waist – his strength startling. With swift precision, Heledhel presses the cloth soaked with the vial’s contents to Galadriel’s face.

The world blurs as a powerful, soporific haze wraps around her senses. The last thing she sees is Heledhel’s unreadable expression before everything fades to black.

***

Slowly, Galadriel drifts back to consciousness, her senses returning like the incoming tide. She becomes aware of a soft rustling sound, like silk brushing over stone, and the faint scent of incense and polished wood, and somewhere there are hushed whispers being bandied about. Her wrists are bound, but loosely, as if to show a sense of respect rather than cruelty.

She blinks her eyes open, adjusting to the dim light. She’s in a richly adorned chamber filled with carved columns and intricate tapestries and her gaze settles on an imposing figure seated before her on a throne-like chair draped with rich fabrics and adorned with carvings of the same crest Elendil had worn on his uniform.

Tar-Míriel, Lady of Tharbad, sits regal and unmoving, her dark eyes coolly assessing. Despite the faint signs of weariness etched into her face, her bearing radiates power and authority, and Galadriel feels the unspoken weight of it pressing down upon her. To her right stands Heledhel, proud and unrepentant.

“Galadriel,” Míriel intones, her voice calm and unwavering. “I apologize for the... unorthodox method of summoning you. But certain circumstances have forced my hand.”

Galadriel stiffens, meeting the queen’s gaze without flinching. “Is this what you call summoning? You might have simply asked to speak with me.”

Míriel sighs, her expression softening slightly, but the steel in her gaze remains. “You must understand. Your presence here - it has consequences.”

Consequences. What could she have done in the past twelve hours that earned imprisonment or punishment? Galadriel’s mind races as she considers Halbrand, a knot of worry tightening in her chest. She schools her face, though, refusing to show her unease. “What have you done with my companion?”

“I know what you are, Galadriel,” Míriel says, sidestepping the question, “and I’m afraid I cannot let you leave this city.”

Her blood runs cold at Tar-Míriel's words, her fingers icy where they clench her skirts, and Galadriel's eyes flicker towards Heledhel. She must have betrayed her. It appears Elendil's faith in his crew had been misplaced. 

“And what gives you the right to decide such a thing?” Galadriel’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of anger and fear breaking through her calm facade.

“Forgive me, but we have little choice. There is a threat looming beyond our borders. I cannot defeat it with such meager resources as have been afforded to me here. I intend to-”

Before she can finish speaking, the heavy doors to the chamber swing open with a resounding crash.

“Captain Elendil!” Tar-Míriel’s tone is a mixture of surprise and reproof as the tall, proud sea captain strides into the room, his face set with restrained anger. Galadriel almost weeps at the sight of him – finally a friendly face.

"Your Grace," he says, his deep voice reverberating in the silence, "with all due respect, this treatment is unworthy of you. Galadriel is not a threat, and she does not deserve to be abducted and interrogated like a prisoner."

The Queen’s gaze hardens, but there’s a flicker of acknowledgment. “Elendil, you forget your place. This is a matter beyond your control. I am grateful you agreed to take the post here in Tharbad, but that does not give you leave to make such decisions. You should have told me yourself that you’d brought a star with you. Instead, I had to hear it from one of your lieutenants.”

Elendil’s attention shifts to Heledhel, and his frown deepens. “I promised Galadriel no one aboard my ship would harm her.”

“And Tar-Míriel promised me my own ship,” Heledhel replies, finally revealing her motivations, and Galadriel can see the disappointment etched clearly on the captain’s face. 

“That was not your promise to make, Elendil,” Míriel reprimands, her tone stern. “A fallen star is no trivial thing.”

Elendil does not waver. “Galadriel’s business is her own. She is not some precious gem to be bandied about and traded upon the whims of mortal men. Whatever plans you have for her, this is not the way to go about it.”

Tar-Míriel sighs, her rigid stance softening slightly. “Perhaps I owe you an explanation.” She looks at both Elendil and Galadriel before continuing, “there have been troubling reports from our outposts. Strange disturbances among the ancient tombs scattered across the South Downs… where the barrow-wights were once confined.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrow as she listens, an ominous dread creeping over her. “The barrow-wights,” she repeats, “what are they?”

“Dark spirits,” Míriel gestures to one of her soldiers, who steps forward to report.

“Two scouting parties have disappeared near the mounds. And there have been sightings of eerie lights, like will-o'-the-wisps, seen drifting over the hills by night. Our seers speak of voices in the darkness, urging men toward ruin.”

Elendil’s face tightens as he listens, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. “If the barrow-wights are rising, it is a dire sign. They are bound by dark magic to their tombs; if they are escaping, it poses a risk to all we are trying to build here.”

Tar-Míriel’s gaze shifts back to Galadriel. “And that is why you are here.”

"I am here merely as a stopover on my journey to Mithlond so that I may return home," Galadriel replies. “What help could I possibly be?” she asks incredulously. “I know nothing of such things.”

“Forgive me,” Míriel says again, this time addressing Elendil as well, “but I need more resources to fight them, otherwise Tharbad will fall, and this section of the North-South Road will be lost. My cousin, Ar-Pharazôn, the lord of Dol Amroth, has promised to grant me whatever I need in return for gold. This, he knows I do not have, but now I can give him something infinitely more valuable.”

The room falls silent as her words sink in, and then Galadriel blanches, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelming her.

“You mean to trade me to him.”

“The heart of a star,” Míriel gestures vaguely as her voice trails off. She at least has the decency to look ashamed, but it’s obvious from her stiff posture that she means to go through with this plan.

Elendil steps forward, clearly trying to rein in his frustration. “You cannot do this. Ar-Pharazôn encouraged Tar-Palantir to send you here hoping you would fail. He's been envious of you ever since you were children. If you send him such a prize, you may get a momentary respite, but eventually he will try to get rid of you again – and by then he’ll be much more powerful.”

“I know the risk,” she replies, eyes flashing, “and you forget yourself. Leave, Captain, and go back to your post. You there,” she points at one of the soldiers, “take Galadriel to the castle prison and lock her in a cell. Make sure she has food and a comfortable bed, but ensure that she is secure.”

As the guard steps forward to carry out her order, Galadriel meets Elendil's eyes, searching for any hint of a plan. Though he remains stoic, she detects a flicker of regret and urgency - a silent promise that he will not abandon her to this fate. Elendil stands rooted in place as the soldier clasps her arms, his jaw set tightly, but he does not leave, even as Míriel’s expression darkens.

“Elendil,” Míriel commands, her tone edged with impatience, “I said return to your post.”

Elendil gives her a terse bow, though his eyes remain fixed on Galadriel as he backs toward the door. Just before he turns away completely, he mouths, I’ll be back. Then, with one last glance, he slips from the chamber, leaving Galadriel to the mercy of the queen.

As the guard escorts her through the dimly lit corridors of the fortress, Galadriel takes in her surroundings, her mind already formulating possible escape routes. Though the passage twists and winds in unfamiliar ways, she makes note of landmarks - a certain tapestry here, a cracked stone there - focusing on anything that might later guide her. If she could just buy herself enough time, perhaps Elendil could return with a plan.

And where is Halbrand?

The guard leads her down a set of narrow stairs into the cold underbelly of the castle. The sound of their footsteps echoes against the stone walls as they finally reach a heavy iron door. He unlocks it with a ring of keys, opening into a small, barren cell with a low wooden bed and a single window, little more than a slit high up on the wall.

“Sorry,” the guard mutters as he gestures for her to step inside. His tone is apologetic, as if he understands the indignity of it all but feels powerless to defy his lady’s command.

Galadriel steps in, her expression impassive, refusing to betray any hint of fear or anger. “I appreciate the courtesy,” she replies, her voice soft but steely.

The guard nods, looking almost guilty, then pulls the door shut with a muted clang. She listens as his footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving her alone in the damp silence of her cell.

Galadriel lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the cold stone wall. Closing her eyes, she reaches inward, searching for inner strength.

If only she knew where Halbrand was, if he’s alright.

 

The hours stretch on, marked only by the gradual shifting of light through the tiny window. At last, after what feels like an eternity, the quiet creak of the outer door shatters the stillness.

“Elendil?” she whispers, rising from the bed, but the footsteps that approach are too light, too delicate.

The figure who appears in the doorway is a slender young woman, cloaked in shadows, her face obscured beneath a dark hood. She slips into the cell without a sound, pulling the hood back to reveal Heledhel’s familiar face.

Galadriel’s gaze hardens. “Come to gloat?”

Heledhel’s expression is unyielding, a smirk forming on her lips. “Why not?” she says, crossing her arms and leaning casually against the wall. “After all, it’s not every day one captures a star. What did have you glowing so brightly last night? I was able to follow your light from across town.”

Galadriel’s fists tighten, even as she fights her rising blush. “You’ve traded loyalty for ambition, Heledhel. There’s no honor in treachery.”

Heledhel laughs lightly, her tone mocking. “Honor? You think I care about honor? That’s a luxury for those who already have everything. I did what I thought was best for myself, but also for Tharbad, Galadriel. My priority is myself, but I have friends here and I don’t want them to die screaming and terrified in the mist.”

Galadriel’s eyes flash. “How noble,” she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, “so you barter away the lives of others like coins for trade.”

For a moment, Heledhel’s gaze wavers, a trace of doubt flitting across her features, but she recovers quickly, masking it with a shrug. “Perhaps. But if Míriel is right, and the barrow-wights rise, Tharbad will need every ally it can find to stand a chance. Sometimes, sacrifices are necessary.”

Galadriel forces herself to remain calm, even as anger simmers beneath her composure. She meets Heledhel’s gaze, her voice steady. “I hope that’s a choice you can live with.”

Heledhel’s smile widens, unapologetic. “Oh, I have no fear of that. I made my choice the moment I saw you and that lovesick puppy Halbrand dancing about on Elendil’s ship and I realized what you were. Stars have no place in Middle-earth, Galadriel.”

She straightens, giving Galadriel one last condescending look, before turning to leave. Her footsteps echo down the corridor, leaving Galadriel alone in the silence once more.