It has been some time since the battle. Eregion has fallen, the elven army is crushed, Adar is eliminated, the orcs are back under Sauron’s sway, and he has the Nine, ready to start patiently building his forces in Barad-dûr. It was an unmitigated victory, it should feel like a triumph, and yet…
And yet.
Sauron broods and stews, distracted. The sun rises and falls. The elves scattered; he knows not where. Wherever she is, Galadriel’s wound necrotises, then heals with her allies’ assistance, then bleeds again and heals poorly; there is something wrong with it,
(some splinter of him left inside her, his own blood on the crown in the binding, a wedge keeping the door propped open)
and it takes time. Sauron cannot sense where, precisely, she is, but he knows she yet lives. And so one night he finally hauls on that thread and reaches for her. The elf sleeps, and rests, and dreams; she walks what must seem a peaceful forest alike Lindon, sun-dappled and pleasant, amongst golden leaves.
But a shadow falls across the glade, and when next she turns, there is a familiar figure standing there. He wears Halbrand’s face. His gaze drifts down to her heart, searching for his mark.
“My lady lives,” the Deceiver says.
He has, perhaps, practiced this, rehearsing and relishing the first words he would say to her here, in this space between their minds crafted by ósanwë. He has practiced until it sounds like this: not bitter, not disappointed, not relieved — perhaps secretly all of the above — but in passing he sounds only mild and neutral, leaning against one of the trees.
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after season 2;
Date: 2024-10-18 10:32 pm (UTC)It has been some time since the battle. Eregion has fallen, the elven army is crushed, Adar is eliminated, the orcs are back under Sauron’s sway, and he has the Nine, ready to start patiently building his forces in Barad-dûr. It was an unmitigated victory, it should feel like a triumph, and yet…
And yet.
Sauron broods and stews, distracted. The sun rises and falls. The elves scattered; he knows not where. Wherever she is, Galadriel’s wound necrotises, then heals with her allies’ assistance, then bleeds again and heals poorly; there is something wrong with it,
(some splinter of him left inside her, his own blood on the crown in the binding, a wedge keeping the door propped open)
and it takes time. Sauron cannot sense where, precisely, she is, but he knows she yet lives. And so one night he finally hauls on that thread and reaches for her. The elf sleeps, and rests, and dreams; she walks what must seem a peaceful forest alike Lindon, sun-dappled and pleasant, amongst golden leaves.
But a shadow falls across the glade, and when next she turns, there is a familiar figure standing there. He wears Halbrand’s face. His gaze drifts down to her heart, searching for his mark.
“My lady lives,” the Deceiver says.
He has, perhaps, practiced this, rehearsing and relishing the first words he would say to her here, in this space between their minds crafted by ósanwë. He has practiced until it sounds like this: not bitter, not disappointed, not relieved — perhaps secretly all of the above — but in passing he sounds only mild and neutral, leaning against one of the trees.