Chapter Text
When she rises the next day after a night of anxious slumber – usually she does not need sleep, or not much, but she is still recovering from her injury – the sun is shining, and the Orcs are gone.
She goes out to inspect the now empty field between the elven camp and the ruins of Eregion. In the air the sadness is overwhelming. They have peace, but it almost feels like it has been bought too dearly.
The Elves are slowly breaking camp. This afternoon they will march back to Lindon, but it does not have the capacity to permanently receive all the refugees from Eregion. What will they do? Gil-Galad is worried, he talks about a new settlement, but is that really needed? After all this trauma, will not most Elves decide to abandon Middle Earth and sail to Valinor?
There are still many Elves left in Middle Earth, but fewer and fewer of their realms and strongholds remain every century. From the Noldor leaders that came from Valinor, Galadriel is the last one. It is sometimes difficult to explain why she lingers here. She used to say her work was not done as long as she did not find and kill Sauron. Now she is not sure she wants to hunt him anymore. Does it even make sense if she cannot beat him? Does it make sense if he can hide anywhere, under any form, and reveal himself only when he chooses to?
As her things are being loaded into trunks and onto the horses, Galadriel unbuttons her top in front of the mirror and examines the place where she got stabbed in the chest. There is no visible trace of it. But when she takes Nenya off, the marks appear immediately, angry red scars with dark capillaries surrounding them in the shape of a circle.
The wounds are gone but the scars remain, and the veins around them are corrupted. Just like Adar’s scars, they return after the removal of the ring. It is scary and disconcerting to see such stamps of darkness on her own body, so she slips Nenya back onto her finger and breathes with relief when her skin appears unblemished again.
Her thoughts continue to skim around Adar. Their encounter last night, the moment she touched his face, the way he looked at her… He is gone now, and she is mortified. It is easy to explain her dejection by the traumatic injury, the mourning of the fallen, regrets about Sauron getting away, an overwhelming feeling of failure and a premonition of sorrows yet to come, now that evil remains at large and is planning to return in force. But on top of it all…
She forces herself to push the thoughts of Adar away because she is suddenly ashamed of them. Ashamed of feeling so wretched at his departure, ashamed of wishing to see him again, when there are so many closer friends and better people she should miss. She barely knows him. She does not know his real name, does not know his story, and she can only guess how many Elves he slayed during the wars Morgoth waged in Beleriand. Perhaps he killed someone she knew with his own hands.
And yet she would like him to ride by her side on the way back to Lindon, then walk with him among the trees in the Lindon forest – he would surely enjoy its calm and the sunlight filtering through the canopy. He would admire the Great Tree and the view from the top of the waterfall. He would shed his old armour and wear Elvish clothes, and she would put her hands on him to try and heal him again…
“Let’s go, Galadriel,” Elrond opens the flap of her tent and peers inside. “The horses are ready. Shall we ride together?”
On the way, Elrond talks excitedly about the new settlement. It turns out he knows a site that could be suitable – a valley sheltered amidst high peaks, with a single access via a mountain path. No army can reach the place easily because only a few riders can pass at a time, so the settlement would not be difficult to defend, should war ever come their way.
It is a good strategic idea, not just because of the topography, but also because the Elves should try and move to new locations Sauron does not know yet. And above all, Elrond argues, they need to build anew. It is only by creating new things, and best of all a new home, that a sense of hope can be rekindled.
“I have a name in mind,” he says and smiles to her as their horses trot next to each other. “Imladris, a deep valley of the cleft, or Rivendell in the common tongue. You must come with me to see it – I am sure you will love it. The landscape is dramatic, there are waterfalls all around, and there’s a rocky outcrop on which we can build, with a view both of the mountains and of the valley bottom. A vantage point that remains sheltered at the same time. We could build a bridge to get there from the mountain pass, and a whole small city could be erected on the rock. I have some ideas for styles and stone we could use…”
Galadriel sighs.
“How do you do this?” she asks. “How are you able to rebound so quickly? I feel as if a whole army of mountain trolls had walked all over me…”
Elrond glances at her with sympathy, reaches out and pats her arm.
“Well, I didn’t fight Sauron, did I? I wasn’t stabbed with an evil crown just yesterday, did not pass out for a few hours, did not see Celebrimbor just before he was killed… You must take it slowly, Galadriel. Nobody expects you to jump back into action any time soon.”
“Not that I would even know what action to jump into…”
To tell the truth, she envies Elrond his enthusiasm about the new settlement. This realm will be his and she still does not have one of her own. She is still looking for a new goal and purpose.
***
On their arrival in Lindon quarters need to be prepared for the Eregion refugees, families of the fallen Lindon Elves need to be informed, a wake or a get-together needs to be organised. Orders are given, and while their people busy themselves with the preparations, Gil-Galad, Galadriel and Elrond head for the Great Tree. A site of ceremonies, the little courtyard at the top of the cliff from which a waterfall plunges into the valley of the River Lhûn is also their chosen place of gathering for council and contemplation.
But as they emerge from the forest, they spot a tall silhouette on the edge of the cliff. The stranger stands with his back to them. With his long hair, wide-brimmed hat and a grey cloak, he appears to be a pilgrim. He is holding a long staff in his left hand, while his right is extended towards the valley and the river down below.
In front of him, a tall wall of water droplets rises in the air, dancing in the sunlight like a shimmering curtain, a truly wondrous sight to behold. The water seems alive – it follows the slight, graceful movements of the stranger’s hand, shifting to the left or to the right, rising higher or shrinking back. Ripples run through it when he curls his fingers and it expands, forming half a dome above him, when he stretches his palm. Should there be a threat coming at him from the other side of the valley, the curtain would conceal and shield him from prying eyes or an attack.
It just lasts for a few seconds as they watch in silence, transfixed. Then the stranger turns around to face them and behind him the water droplets disperse and fall gently back into the river.
Galadriel and Elrond exchange quick looks. Is this Sauron’s new guise? Who else would dare to come here alone and face all the Elves, while making a display of his magical prowess? Even the scenery resembles that of their recent faceoff near Eregion – a high cliff from which he probably means to throw them all after he takes their two rings of power.
“High King, lady Galadriel, lord Elrond,” the stranger places his right hand on the heart, then extends it towards them and bows respectfully. “I have been waiting for you. We have much to discuss.”
And now that they are facing him, they all see it as they follow the movement of his hand with their eyes – and gasp as one.
On his finger shines Narya, the ring of fire, with the ruby that Celebrimbor’s hand placed in the delicate golden frame.
This is too much to bear, knowing that Celebrimbor who made the ring is dead, and Círdan, who used to be Narya’s bearer, must be dead too if the ring adorns someone else’s hand.
“What have you done to Círdan, foul creature?” Galadriel lunges and presses the tip of her sword to his chest. “Who are you? How did you get past our guards? Respond or you will find the way down this cliff much shorter than what it took you to climb it!”
“He has not done anything to me,” Círdan speaks from behind her and everyone, apart from the grey pilgrim, whips their heads towards the sound, bewildered. The Shipwright who apparently stood just a few metres away all along, somewhat hidden under the branches of the Great Tree, now steps forward into the open space and joins the stranger.
“You are quick to jump to nefarious conclusions, my friends. He has arrived here with me and by my invitation.”
“The shadow has indeed spread over Middle Earth if this is what elven hospitality has become,” the pilgrim remarks but he sounds rather playful and does not look like he holds a grudge. “Worry not, my lords and ladies. I have not come with any ill intent and the ring of power is safe with me.”
“I met Gandalf a few days ago when he came to see me in the Havens,” Círdan explains. “Great as his powers are, Narya could support him in the struggle against evil. Perhaps it can also help him rekindle hearts to the valour of old in a world that grows chill. In any event, he will make a much better use of it than I could.”
He turns to the stranger he calls Gandalf:
“As for me, my heart is with the sea and I will dwell by the grey shores, guarding the Havens until the last ship sails. Then I shall await you.”
“But who are you?” Gil-Galad asks, having now sheathed his sword, while Galadriel lowers her weapon but lingers near the stranger, undecided. It is all so sudden – they don’t know him, but on the other hand, she is always inclined to follow Círdan’s judgment as he is one of the wisest, if not the wisest, and the most ancient Elves in Middle Earth. It is extremely difficult to bring oneself to surrender a ring of power, Galadriel knows it best, and if Círdan has done so, he must have believed beyond all doubt that he was giving it to someone more worthy of the honour than himself.
“I am the servant of the Flame Imperishable," the grey pilgrim says. “Created before the Music of the Ainur, at the beginning of Time. In the Undying Lands, I sometimes walked among the Firstborn unseen or in the appearance of one of them. I have been sent to assist you and other free peoples of Middle Earth in the great fight that awaits you.”
“I have read prophecies in the old texts about the coming of Istari,” Elrond speaks. “Are you one of them? And are we in such danger that Maia wizards are sent to Middle Earth to help us fight Sauron?”
“I am one of the Istari order, and you are certainly in more danger than you know,” Gandalf replies. “But I alone cannot do away with the threat of Sauron, for he is more powerful than any Istar, and his power is growing still. However, I offer my support and advice to you in any way you deem fit, my friends.”
“Well,” Gil-Galad remarks, “a trick or two like the one you have just practised could surely be useful. But an Elf cannot perform magical feats such as an Istar can.”
“Oh, you can with these rings,” Gandalf waves his hand dismissingly. “It’s just one simple trick. I found it while I was waiting for you. A few weeks ago I had little knowledge of my own powers, before I grew used to this new bodily form and remembered where I came from. Now, as ring bearers, we need to work together on discovering and mastering the magic that they offer.”
“It looks like our fight against Sauron will not be as hopeless as we thought,” Círdan states.
“Whether it will be hopeless or not, time will tell. But it will certainly not be a lonely one. And now,” Gandalf looks pointedly at Galadriel, “how about we sit down so you can tell me about Sauron and the other rings?”
“Come then, friend,” Gil-Galad says. “Let us have some food and drink. We will see to it that elven hospitality lives up to your expectations yet.”
***
In the next weeks Elrond travels several times back and forth between Lindon and the new site. It is decided, a settlement will be built, and plans are underway. Gil-Galad comes once too, and Galadriel and Gandalf accompany Elrond each time, while the many refugees from Eregion have already set up a temporary camp there and are looking forward to helping with the construction work. The overall mood is improving, as Elrond predicted, and not just because of this new beginning. The coming of a wizard from the West is widely perceived as a good omen, a sign that the Valar have not abandoned Middle Earth to dark forces. Great ceremonies and traditional elven feasts are organised in memory of the fallen. One property of the rings that becomes evident in these circumstances is their capacity to inspire and assemble, to lift the spirits – of the bearers and of the people who look up to them.
Galadriel finds herself talking to Gandalf a lot. They spend time together learning and practising the magic of the rings, but they also discuss other topics on their long journeys to and from Imladris. By now Gandalf knows about her connection with Sauron and the peace agreement with Adar, as well as about Morgoth’s crown and the nine rings for mortal Men.
“He will seek to assert his power over all the rings bearers,” Gandalf muses as they approach Imladris one day. “But how? He has not touched your rings. He will work on finding a way. This is what he must be thinking of day and night now.”
“Is it not enough that he influenced dwarven rings and has nine more rings to distribute?”
“I do not think so, my lady. He hates the Elves with a passion, and it is their rings he wishes to control above all others. I also suspect it is personal for him, because of his connection with you and because you have rejected him twice.”
“I am wondering about the rings’ healing powers,” Galadriel changes the subject, because they are so much in the dark about Sauron’s intentions and next moves that talking about it can only generate more anxiety. “The marks from the stabbing are still there when I remove the ring, but I have the impression they have become less prominent. The circles of black veins around the scars are certainly smaller than a few weeks ago. So perhaps Nenya can heal these wounds, just not instantly? Perhaps it simply needs more time?”
“They are not just wounds. There is dark magic involved, and this darkness is not as easily chased from the body as physical injuries,” Gandalf replies. “But if the marks have got smaller, it means the darkness is receding, albeit slowly. Give it time and continue to observe them. We don’t know how powerful the ring is – perhaps there is even a way to heal this darkness instantly. You just don’t know it yet because you have not tapped into the ring’s power fully.”
Over the past weeks, as she has watched her marks shrinking and hoped they will disappear completely one day, Galadriel has wondered if Adar’s scars and darkness could also go away permanently if he kept the ring for longer. How much longer, she has no idea. Probably very long, given how deep Morgoth’s corruption extended in his body and how far it dated back. In any event, it needed the time they did not have. It pains her that he could very possibly be healed but now won’t be given that chance.
She does not share this thought with Gandalf, though he knows about Adar’s temporary transformation, because she is reluctant to reveal how much the destiny of the dark Elf concerns her. Yet, a few weeks from their last meeting, Adar is ever present in her thoughts and even visits her dreams on the rare occasions she does sleep. Sometimes she dreams of their past encounters and lives alternate versions of them – for example she watches him die under the Orcs’ blows and it startles her awake. Other times she dreams they are close, so close she can feel his lips on hers and his hands on her body, and she wakes up no less terrified, her body tingling with guilty pleasure. In some of these dreams his face appears scarred, in others unblemished, and she likes them both. She is not repulsed by his scars and they do not make her long for his touch any less.
Then in moments of leisure during the day she finds herself walking around with her head full of visions of him, as if such a future were possible. The ocean of colour, which he once mentioned to her when speaking of Sauron, a metaphor she understood all too well, is not about Sauron in her mind any more – it is the dream landscapes with Adar that carry all the vibrant colours, while without him everything turns dull grey.
It is a strange obsession. Perhaps it stems from boredom. She has her ring’s magic to master, she helps Elrond with the Imladris project, there are frequent councils and communications among the High Elves, a lot of discussions about Sauron’s possible whereabouts, but all this is not enough. She is used to much higher levels of activity, to moving about, pursuing a goal, fighting for it. The times of peace are disconcerting, even more so because it is abnormal peace. The enemy is hiding somewhere all along, biding his time.
Months pass in this monotonous manner and no news reaches them from the east; the Orcs must have arrived in Mordor, though it would have taken them about two months, given they travelled on foot, avoided sunlight, and had many wounded ones with them. But they are surely at their destination by now, and neither negative nor positive echoes of their presence reach the Elves from Pelargir or any other human settlement in the former Southlands. Galadriel wonders how Adar is doing, how he and his host are settling down in their new home, how they manage to survive in the inhospitable conditions. Is he thinking about her as often as she is about him? Is he happy?
No news is probably good news. Even though there are no elven watchtowers in Mordor anymore and Arondir chose to stay in Lindon after the siege of Eregion, surely a messenger would be dispatched to ask the Elves for help if neighbourly relations with Adar and his “children” turned sour. And surely Adar would send his own messenger if he encountered any problems or dangers that they should know about. At least she thinks so, until Gandalf points out that Adar would probably be very reluctant to dispatch any of his Orcs to Lindon with any communication as they would be in grave danger when travelling through elven lands. Despite the peace agreement between Mordor and Lindon, most races inhabiting Middle Earth still consider hunting the Orcs as a sport worth pursuing whenever they see one.
Yet one day a messenger does arrive, not from Adar but from Pelargir. He looks dirty and exhausted as if he had ridden for days and nights to bring them whatever bad news it is.
As he is led before the High King, Galadriel fidgets, alarmed. It must mean something bad has happened, and it could be only because of the Orcs. There are no other potentially hostile actors in the immediate vicinity of Pelargir. So what have Adar or his people done, and will it cause a new war? Will their fragile peace agreement be shattered? Alternatively – and this is her worst fear – the messenger arrives to tell them that power has changed hands in Mordor. What if Sauron came to the Orcs’ settlement at night, under whatever guise, murdered Adar and his guards and taken control of his army? With Adar dead, the disoriented Orcs might not resist a new master who would likely intimidate them with a display of magic and force. It would not be without risk, but perhaps Sauron was desperate enough to try it?
It is indeed about Sauron, but the messenger does not even mention Adar and the Orcs.
“I bring good news from Pelargir, the Númenorian outpost in Middle Earth,” he announces, and it’s quite cringy already, though none of the Elves let it show. “A few days ago dark lord Sauron was taken prisoner by our soldiers and is currently on a ship bound for Númenor, where the king will decide his fate.”
“What?” exclaim Gil-Galad and Elrond together. The whole gathering of the Elves is stupefied, and so is Galadriel. Even Gandalf looks surprised. This is the last thing they expected to hear.
“How?” Galadriel asks. “In what circumstances was he captured?”
It turns out Sauron showed up in Pelargir under his Halbrand’s guise, still claiming to be the king of the Southlands. But as the inhabitants knew already, from the messages conveyed earlier by Arondir, that the supposed king was in fact Sauron, the Númenorian guards were alerted and confronted him. Overwhelmed, he surrendered, and it was decided that he must be taken before Ar-Pharazôn. The ship departed a few days ago, after which the messenger rode non-stop to bring the news to Lindon.
“This ship will never arrive at port,” Elrond snorts. “You don’t know what you took upon yourselves!”
On the contrary, Galadriel thinks. She is having another of those sinking realisations, like back in Adar’s camp when she shouted to him that he was doing Sauron’s bidding by attacking Eregion.
Sauron would never be stupid enough to show up in Pelargir just to reclaim his kingship. He must have guessed those people were aware of his real identity by now. He wanted to be captured and go to Númenor.
She has not considered Númenor as a potential next stage in Sauron’s plan to take over and rule the world. Adar did not think of Númenor either when he told them Sauron would seek to exploit the resentment and desperation of some races of Men who do not know any better and who will recognise him as their master. That could be Easterlings or Haradrim, for example, or even some Southerners. Who could have thought that instead Sauron would try to overthrow the greatest human civilisation on Arda and take control of their military force!
But they should have thought about it. Númenor has the biggest army of all Men’s realms and it is away from Middle Earth where Sauron is hunted by everyone, especially by the Elves. Under Ar-Pharazôn, the Elves are not welcome in Númenor and their counsel would certainly not be heeded. If Sauron wants to get a break from the Elves and, at the same time, get himself a highly skilled army, Númenor is truly his best option.
And now he is even getting a free lift there. Galadriel would admire his ingenuity if all this could be considered remotely entertaining.
“Númenor is in grave danger,” Gandalf confirms her fears, his features darker and more weary than usual. The five of them – the High King, Elrond, Galadriel, Círdan and Gandalf – confer after the messenger departs back to Pelargir. They told him Sauron had likely engineered this situation and implored him to convey the message to the head of the outpost and further, to king Ar-Pharazôn. Yet they have no illusions; the communication might reach the king but it won’t help.
“Ar-Pharazôn will fall victim to Sauron’s manipulation just like Celebrimbor did, and like Adar almost did,” Gil-Galad says. “Even though we had warned them all. If someone does not go there to save them, the way Galadriel saved Adar at the last moment, Númenor will be lost. And we cannot go – we would risk being taken prisoners or worse. We have warned the messenger. Our duty is done.”
“I wonder what your new ally Adar thinks of all this,” Gandalf muses. When asked, the messenger said this new development had not been immediately communicated to the Orcs’ leader, and he did not know if the head of the Númenorian outpost planned to do so. Relations with the Orcs are otherwise peaceful, he added when pressed. But Gil-Galad looked like he was not going to take that man’s word for anything.
“So we are not even sure if Adar knows,” Elrond says. “But what was Sauron even doing there? Does it mean there is a bigger thing going on, in which Adar might play a part?”
“Are you suggesting they are plotting together?” Galadriel asks. “That is impossible. They hate each other. There will be no peace and no deal between them ever again.”
“Maybe not a deal, but Adar might know something,” Gil-Galad replies. “A year has almost passed since we made peace with him. I’d say it’s time for the first of those inspections we agreed on. Perhaps we should send a company to investigate what is happening there.”
He looks at Galadriel.
“Would you like to lead that company, Commander?” he asks. “I feel you’re in need of a new challenge. And you are probably the best placed to discuss with him. He trusts you. See what they are up to, whether they’ve had any dealings or encounters with Sauron, and how they are faring in general, especially what relations they keep with the neighbours. If you discover anything out of order, dispatch a messenger and we will decide on a course of action. What do you say?”
She makes a show of hesitating, but she is itching to go. She has actually hoped for quite some time that the High King might send her when the time comes for the first visit to Mordor.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “How long should I stay?”
“A few weeks should give you a good perspective but see what you think once you are there. If there is no news from you before two months have passed, the cavalry will arrive.”
“Well, I never thought I would see Galadriel so happy about going to Mordor,” Elrond remarks, while she tries to school her face into a neutral expression. Gandalf watches her, pensive, puffing from his pipe.
“It’s true I might enjoy a new adventure,” she admits. “You know I can’t stay put for a long time or I get fidgety. And I will not lie, I am rather happy not to be sent to where Sauron is.”
This is all true. But it’s not the whole truth.
And when she rides out of Lindon the next morning at the head of a company of ten, she feels lighter and happier than she has for a long time, Sauron’s intrigues and Númenor’s imminent doom be damned.