Alloy

If their paths ever cross again, she would kill him. That is set in stone. She would plunge a blade into his throat — even now, she could see the exact spot on his neck where her blow would land — and watch his blood gush down and redden the collar of his tunic. She would not turn away until the last scarlet trickle ran dry. It certainly would be wiser to seize him and put to justice of Valar… But she knew that seeing him would strip her from any wisdom. And eventually, he came to her. Sauron simply appears in Harlond as if he lives here. As if the borders haven’t been guarded by the best archers they had. As if he is a welcome guest. And that is how he carries himself — as a guest. As soon as his eyes find her, he smiles. Galadriel’s fingers immediately find her dagger’s pommel. She needs him to come closer… His intention is obvious: for a while now, Celebrimbor has been crying foul at Sauron’s efforts to lay his hands on the Elven Rings. She has even been entrusted with one of them. Nenya on her finger feels colder now, in the presence of the Dark Lord, and a weird and sorcerous chill makes Galadriel’s skin crawl. At last, it is the day she has pictured in her mind, time out of number… ‘Galadriel,’ he calls, his voice smiling like his mouth. Deceiver. Traitor. Murderer. There is no place in Ea where he could be forgiven, but even if there is — she would never forgive. She clenches her fist around the hilt. Her glance instantaneously darts up to that one spot on his throat; she already sees a stream of blood in her mind’s eye. ‘Sauron…’ she whispers so quietly, as if to herself. ‘I know what you are here for.’ He takes a few hasteless steps forward. His sabatons, made of some eminently black metal, clangour menacingly over the stone pavement. His armour seems to absorb all the light — it shows no reflection or shine, only blackness. The same with the cloak on his shoulders. It’s as if all of him is woven out of darkness, death, and terror. All but for his face. If only Sauron had come in a helm, he would have already been dead, but he hasn’t yet lost his good sense. He has done everything in his power to make her waver. To make her see not the Enemy of all living things, but her friend. He doesn’t look the same anymore: flowing golden hair, only slightly darker than her own, spotless white skin… She could have failed to recognise him — and then he also would already be dead. But his gaze is unchanged. When Galadriel regained her senses on the raft after nearly drowning, the first thing she saw were these eyes, the slowly dissipating dismay in them. These eyes have looked upon her through the bars of his cell in Numenor, filled with rage and despair. These eyes smiled at her after the battle of Tirharad, and deep inside of them, behind the astonishment, ignited a spark of… She ought not recall any of that. She must not, yet the memories flash before her eyes despite her wishes. ‘Fighting at your side, I… I felt…’ and he himself cannot find a word for the thing that flares up in his eyes. ‘If I could just hold on to that feeling, keep it with me always, bind it to my very being, then I…’ ‘I felt it, too,’ she responds, also unable to articulate, what has sprouted gingerly in her heart. It’s not that she is scared of the feeling; words simply wouldn’t say enough. ‘Sauron! ’ Galadriel says again, now rather firmly. With this name, she slashes the deceptive webs of her memories without mercy. He halts one step away from her. Galadriel can see a mole on his neck, right where her blade would plunge, and holds her gaze upon it. She doesn’t want to repeat her mistake of getting lost in the eyes of the one who alone has been receptive to her once. ‘You won’t have her.’ It’s tough to find the words, to say them. Her head is nearly splitting. ‘Her? ’ By the sound of his voice she knows he is still smiling. ‘Nenya,’ Galadriel forces herself to speak. ‘You named them? ’ He seems genuinely curious, a smile even more evident. All of this is an act. ‘Go back from whence you came or I shall take your life.’ Her voice set against his sounds hollow and lifeless, unfamiliar even to herself. ‘You have taken much from me, Galadriel, but…’ ‘Don’t you dare call my name! ’ She bursts into rage — something she has refrained from for a long time now. 'I’ve heard it was your husband who named you with it.' His kindly smile turns mocking. 'May I call you something else? Artanis? Nerwen? ' 'All the names that have been given me, you will corrupt by your forked tongue,’ she answers calmly. Her anger and dismay have disappeared. Finally Galadriel feels: there is noone except her nemesis here. Now she only needs to find courage to face him. ‘If you let me, I could give you a new name. One you wouldn’t need to guard from me.’ He doesn’t smile anymore. His voice is cold and void. She is silent. She needs her strength to raise her head at last. ‘Eärwen…’ he calls softly. Galadriel shivers. ‘Sea-maiden’… That was the name of her mother. He most certainly knows it, but why would he… Despite herself, she darts her eyes up and meets his gaze. He desperately searches for something, scrutinising her face, while she obstinately tries to see nothing but pure evil in him. ‘Eärwen…’ He leans forward, towering above her. Nenya burns her finger viciously, the mithril alloy growing ever colder, nearing the Lord of the Rings. ‘Beautiful, terrible, and unfathomable as the sea that has intertwined our fates. That is the name I would clothe you in.’ His voice is a whisper under his breath, and a smile warms up his eyes. And she bedamns him, but even more herself — for smiling back at him, unbidden. How simple it was to hunt a faceless malice responsible for all of her brothers’ deaths, for the loss of her husband, for all the wounds still fresh in her heart. And how impossible it is to wish death upon her lifeline. The one who has pulled her from the abyss of despair, loneliness, and delirious wrath. He alone in the whole vastness of the world has lent her his shoulder. She’s seen him laughing and crying, raging and benevolent, strong and weak — and none of it fits in her grasp of Evil. How many Ages shall it take to forget that? ‘It won’t be long before this world rases you and all the names you’ve ever received or given.’ She averts her eyes no more. ‘Oh, it would be a blessing not to hear the great mass of the names I’ve been endowed with. I’ll warrant that, shall you wish to give me another, you wouldn’t find a tongue which hasn’t branded me with the blackest of words! ’ ‘Halbrand,’ she says, her voice quiet but firm. And she smiles bitterly, seeing him overwhelmed all of a sudden. ‘That is what I would call you, if only I could… A name with no meaning behind it for anyone but you and I.’ He leans his head abruptly on her forehead and takes a rugged breath. Now it is he who cannot raise his eyes to meet hers. ‘Why couldn’t you stay? ’ He is so close, Galadriel could plunge her dagger to the very hilt. ‘For one cannot satisfy thirst drinking seawater.’ She shall kill him. For it was him who took everything that had been dear to her: her brothers, her husband… And Halbrand too. She shall kill him. Just not today. She shall kill him. She only needs to find courage. Deceiver. Traitor. Murderer. There is no place in Ea where he could be forgiven, but even if there is — she would never forgive. No matter how much she craves to.