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Once upon a time, deep in the marches between England and Scotland, there lived a young maiden, fair as the sun...

Part I: 

“Galadriel!” the melodic voice of the Lady Earwen echoed along the walls of the courtyard before it reached its intended target.  “Do not be late for the opening ceremony!” 

“Of course, mother.  We won’t be long!” she called behind her while ducking under the opening gate. 

As if it was something that I would forget, she mused as the crisp morning air fogged her breath and stung her nose.  It was the biggest event of the year and brought all of the neighboring lords and knights together for six days of feasting and games.  Her ancestral lands became a place that seemed to exist out of time, where feuds were not so much forgotten as set aside for the sake of tradition. 

Or taken instead to the field in sport.

Her mother’s family had been hosting the festival since the days before the Vikings, and it brought much excitement and prosperity to their hardy little town.  While the local farmers and craftsmen welcomed the exchange of food and goods, and the knights competed for honor and coin, Galadriel treasured it for another reason—the chance to see her dear cousin Luthien again.

“Yes, come cousin, let us hurry,” Luthien urged with a forcedly demure giggle, as she pulled at Galadriel’s sleeve.  The sisters at the convent where she spent her winters hadn’t fully succeeded in sapping all of her vivacity.  “We do not want to miss the introductions.  Mama says there are a number of eligible knights in attendance.  She thinks there will be more than a few betrothals before the week has ended.”

With most folk still abed after a night of merriment, they wound their way through the maze of tents, carts, and smoldering cook fires arm and arm until they broke through to the seclusion of the meadow beyond.  They’d escaped the confines of the castle under the guise of picking wildflowers for their ceremonial crowns, but in actuality, they needed the excuse to visit their beloved tree.

It stood immortal and unchanging at the center of the clearing.  A secret place that Galadriel had claimed as hers since childhood.  She’d memorized every scar and scratch to its weathered bark.  Carved her own hopes and dreams into its trunk.  Whispered her deepest wishes into its leaves to be carried on the wind come the fall.

“Father promised that I can enter the games next year when my skills have improved.  Which is bollocks, because I have better aim with a bow than all my brothers and they still get to compete.”

“You shouldn’t swear like that, Galadriel.  You sound like a man,” Luthien chastised, without much conviction.  As if she herself didn’t much believe the words but felt obligated to say them.

“Yes, because only men can shoot and swear.  I wonder if he only agreed in the hopes that I’ll be married by the next games, and he’ll have avoided the argument entirely.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.  But it’s out of his character to be so optimistic about such things, considering how unamenable you are to the idea.  Perhaps he is sincere after all.”  Luthien shrugged her shoulders as she cut a handful of thistle flowers and placed them in her basket.

“Do you know who I truly wish to marry?”  Galadriel asked, abandoning her basket in favor of scaling the lowest branches of the great oak.

The bark had been worn smooth in certain places well before her slippered feet first touched its surface several years before.  She followed them like a path of stepping stones to guide her.  One hand there and a foothold there.  Her favorite activity was imaging those who’d climbed it before her.  What their stories were.  What they were hiding from.

“Do tell, do tell,” Luthien chirped excitedly as her eyes widened like pewter saucers.  

Ever as romantic as she was beautiful, Luthien would have no trouble securing a husband.  It was only a matter of finding one who was worthy of her goodness.  There was no more loyal or courageous friend to be had in all the realm.  Galadriel dreaded the day when they would be parted.  Their girlish escapades exchanged for womanly responsibilities.

“Someone taller than I, and who will not scold me for trivial things like curse words.  Who will gladly admit that I am a formidable adversary with a bow.  Maybe even one that will permit me to join the tournament even after we’re wed.  I’ll tie his token around my wrist for luck.”

Luthien’s harsh snort quickly faded into a more ladylike roll of her eyes. 

“Oh, dearest cousin, you are truly mad then.  For that manner of man does not exist.”

“I didn’t say it had to be a man.  A fae king would do.  A crown as black as his heart.  Armor to match.  What would father say to that?”

“He’d kiss his dark gauntlet and wish the poor wretch luck.”

Much to Galadriel’s dear sweet mother’s surprise, the girls returned well before the commencement and had enough time to dress in their best white frocks and crown their braided hair with a ring of fresh summer blossoms.  Together, the dutiful daughters took their places on the dais with the other noblewomen of their houses, while the knights and commonfolk stood at rapt attention below.

Even the length and verbosity of her father’s welcoming speech could not dampen the anticipation of the festivities to come.  While the crowd laughed graciously at his well-intentioned attempts at humor, Galadriel smiled all the way to the last word despite the cramping of her cheeks.

Though, truthfully, she wasn’t paying much attention.  Instead, she surveyed those in attendance.  There were Luthien’s parents, Lord Thingol and Lady Melian, of course, as well as the many sons of Lords Feanor and Fingolfin.  The Broadbeams of Belegost had unexpectedly accepted her family’s invitation, despite their latest feuding with the Firebeards of Nogrod.  The circumstances of which were decidedly vague and convoluted, though it seemed to mean a great deal to them considering the distance they kept between each other at all times.

The Rock Splitting contest would be a heated one and she hoped not to miss it.

The biggest upset, or rather boon, came from the arrival of Prince Aule and Princess Yavanna.  Out of all King Eru’s sons, he was the most likely to get his hands dirty among the country barons.  He’d even earned the nickname of “Smith” among the minstrels and bards, endearing him as a favorite among the people.

Galadriel, like many others, was fascinated by his royal presence and her gaze lingered on his party of knights and bannermen long enough to catch the eye of a squire attending the horses.  He stood out for his height and was broad in the shoulders despite his lack of armor.  He must have been standing on a barrel or a crate to get a better view.

Either way, he was looking straight at her.  Their gazes met across the crowd, and from the heat of his expression, she wondered how long he had been staring at her.  By the bold smile that crossed his lips, he was certainly pleased that she’d noticed him back. 

It must’ve been a trick of the light, she decided.  The sun was unusually strong that day.  With Luthien, the greatest beauty of the realm, beside her only a fool would give notice to Galadriel in such a way.  Save for her prized hair and unusual height, Galadriel was nearly plain by comparison.  Not that she minded or begrudged her cousin for the attention. 

While everyone was fawning over Luthien, they didn’t notice the way Galadriel’s fingers itched to adjust the grip of her brother Aegnor’s hand on his bow and string.  Or the oaths she muttered under her breath when both he and Angrod lost the Archery competition to their cousins Fingon and Turgon. 

And yet still, as the first day wore on through the Caber Toss to the mid-day feast, each time Galadriel sought out Prince Aule’s striking squire in the throngs, his eyes would meet hers.  No longer a play of the sun, she found them to flicker between a lively green to match the tourney field and the deep amber of firelight.  There was no barrel or crate under his feet.  Just long legs strapped in leather trousers and a simple gray tunic to befit his station as a servant in a royal house.

Well, he certainly thought highly of himself for such a low man, she judged silently, considering him over her cup of honey mead.

“What was that, sister?” her eldest brother Finrod asked from by her side at the long table.

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud, and she flustered at her mistake.  Cursed the blush that colored her cheeks and chest. 

“Nothing.  I was just wondering who Aule’s squire is.  He seems familiar.”

“He’s a Scot, that’s all I know.”

“A man of his size should be competing,” she quipped, hoping that she didn’t sound as interested as she was. 

“He’s no knight, even by Scottish standards.”

“Oh, come, Fin.  We have no quarrel with the Scots.  Only the reivers.”

From what Galadriel knew of it, the border reivers that raided their lands weren’t even all Scots.  They were a violent band of rebel clans who claimed no allegiance to either side.  They’d existed long before there was even a Scotland or an England at all.  They stole sheep and grain, and took prisoners for ransom, all under the authority of a set of laws dating to a time from which memory no longer existed.

It was simply the way of things in the marches.  King Eru hadn’t cared enough to intervene on their behalf, and the barons managed them to a certain degree through a system of tithes and trade.

“You know nothing of it,” Finrod countered, in a harsh manner most unlike him. 

“Have I done something to anger you, brother?” Galadriel asked, not willing to let him get away with the ugly slight without an explanation.

“Only that you’re going to be lady of the great Golden House of Finarfin, and of this land someday.  You should better acquaint yourself with the politics of it.  And steer clear of those who are unworthy of your consideration.”

Perhaps Finrod had seen the way the squire looked at her, or how she had regarded him in return. 

Galadriel didn’t take it lightly that she was to inherit the whole of their lands.  While her father was the acting lord, and her brothers were all highly esteemed and wealthy vassals in their own right, the deed of right belonged to her mother.  It would pass to their only daughter upon marriage.  The same March Law that allowed for the willful wildness of the borders also upheld the unconventional rights of its inheritance.  The old ways had survived in tiny, mysterious corners of the realm, just like her great oak.

When Galadriel became the lady, she would be rich beyond imagination, and her husband would become the lord.  Her daughters would be heirs to something ancient and deeply rooted in the blood of their foremothers.  It was natural for Finrod to be protective.  Her father had prospered in the role.  Thanks to his steadfast oversight, their fields were fertile and their tenants were well fed.  Their continued loyalty provided the crown with generations of fighting men, along with the taxes needed to fund the continued conflicts both abroad and at home.

Her mother had made a good match.  Galadriel was dutybound to do the same.

The Scottish squire, as handsome and audacious as he may have been, would forever remain a pleasant memory of stolen glances and silent flirtations.  A stark reminder that although the law was in her favor, her fate was not her own.  That her brother had doubted her judgement or her commitment to her family soured the food on her tongue.

“If you’ll excuse me, I find that I am no longer hungry.”  She pushed back from the table, slowly so that she didn’t draw attention, but quickly enough to avoid any further conversation.

What she couldn’t avoid was the feeling of one particular gaze ever upon her back.

The afternoon’s events were not her favorite—one could only watch someone toss a stone across a field so many times before slipping slowly into madness—and Galadriel was sure to mention a terrible headache to enough people she passed for the rumor to reach her parents’ ears.  She hoped no one would go searching for her until at least dinner.

She had no desire to be found.

It wasn’t in her nature to be melancholy.  Quick to temper, maybe.  But never to sorrow.  Certainly not over some man she didn’t even know.  Nor was she a coward who ran from an undesirable situation or hid from a particularly intrusive pair of eyes.

Nevertheless, she found herself feeling both melancholy and cowardly as she donned a thick cloak from the stables and snuck off unescorted.  She had only intended to take a walk to clear her thoughts, but her step quickened to a sprint and before she knew it, she’d run fast and blind through the meadow and down the lee.

Farther than she’d ever gone before without her horse and the protection of a guard.  It was foolish, she knew, but she couldn’t stop.  Not when her dress snagged on a patch of thornbushes, or her feet sank into the dank mud.  She ran until she saw the stone cross that marked the northern boundary. 

No matter how distraught she felt, how helpless and forlorn and dangerously close to reckless, she dared not go beyond it. 

‘There are wolves out there’, her father had warned her since she was a tot.  ‘Not the kind with fangs and fur.  They carry spears and darken their faces and hair with coal and peat to mask their true selves.’  She wondered how much truth there was to the stories of the reivers, but the image of wraiths riding through the hills looking to kidnap small children and helpless maidens had stuck with her enough to take heed.

For the most part.  There was always a small voice in the back of her mind beckoning her to find out for herself.

With her face flushed and legs burning, she pulled fresh air into her heaving lungs and let the warm summer breeze dry the sweat from her brow.  She closed her eyes and counted each breath as she turned and began the long walk back to the keep.  To the politics and pageantry that waited for her. 

For the rest of her life.

“Now, that’s a fair sight!  Where you off to little bird?” a man’s voice called out from behind her.

She startled at the corporal intrusion to the cacophony of her thoughts.  When she turned towards the sound, her stomach dropped.

Nine dark figures on horseback.  They seemed to swallow the light of the day, stark and black against the lush greens of the hill a hundred yards behind her. 

“Why don’t you come with us, lass.  We’ll get you home safe,” another taunted loudly, with a menacing cackle. 

Not wraiths, just men beneath the cover of their great cloaks. 

Without hesitation, Galadriel ran.  She had no desire to test the honesty of their claims.  The shelter of the wood wasn’t far off, and her tree lay beyond.  She prayed that there was enough distance between them, and that their horses weren’t as swift as they appeared to be, and she could lose them in the brush.

She didn’t waste her energy calling for help.  There was no one around for miles.  Even the gamekeepers and the shepherds would be at the festival.  It had been a week of respite and celebration for all.

She untied her thick cloak and let it fall behind her.  Her slippers were sodden, and her skirts were heavy, but she pushed her blessedly long legs as fast as she could.  Towards the protection of her tree.  Away from them and their thundering hooves.  She focused her mind on that singular objective.  She’d dwell on her imprudence when she figured her way out of the mess she'd made.

She met the cover of the forest before they did, and she weaved in and out of the young trees.  It wasn’t much farther—it was in her sights—and she spurred ahead faster at the sound of sticks snapping and leaves crunching as they closed in.

When she finally reached it, she hastily climbed along her well-trodden path to the safety of its branches.  In her desperation to be unseen, she went higher than she’d been before.  Far beyond the familiar lowest, oldest shoots and up into the uncharted canopy. 

But it was for nothing.

“Come on down from your roost, dovey.  We won’t hurt you.”

“You break the truce with his lord?  You’re trespassing on these lands, and he’ll have you all hanged for it,” she called down to them as they surrounded the base of the tree. 

There would be no running away from them, she realized.  No hiding.

“We was patrolling the borders is all,” the leader of them said.  Or at least he appeared to be while doing all of the speaking.  His crude, broken tongue was barely intelligible to her ears.  “Saw a lady in need of assistance.  We’ll deliver you back to the lord, for a fair price.”

“You’d ransom me from my own property?  You’re stupider than you sound, reiver.”  She had no weapons.  No bow or dagger.  No horse or guardsman.  Just her wits and her courage.

“Fine, we’ll just cut you down, like we would a feisty, plump grouse,” he sneered, motioning to the one next to him with a nod of his head.  “Get your axe.”

“No, please!  Don’t do that!” she cried in protest, her eyes filling with panicky tears.  “I’ll come down, I will!”

She just didn’t know how.  She’d gone too high, didn’t know the next foothold.  The ground seemed so far away.

“You’re testing my patience, precious,” he warned, as he signaled one of the nine to swing the axe. 

It cleaved the thick wood with a sickening thwack and Galadriel flinched as if it struck her as well. 

“No, don’t, please.  I said I’d come down.  I just—”

“Swing that axe again, and I’ll lodge it in your skull.”  Her plea was cut off by another man’s voice.  One she couldn’t see through the branches and summer foliage. 

She struggled to get a better view, and nearly lost her balance at the movement.  She could only look on from her perilous position as the others shifted their attention toward him.  Their roosted grouse momentarily forgotten.

“And who are you?” the Leader asked, but there was no reply.

Instead, a scuffle ensued.  An exchange of muffled grunts and cries.  The sharp neighs of spooked horses and the metallic clinking of swords.  The grisly thud of fists against flesh.  She could hear bones breaking and bodies hitting the dirt.

She didn’t know whether she wished to watch or be thankful she couldn’t see a thing between the cover of leaves.

“You can come down now.  They’re gone.”  She heard from below after it had gone quiet, clear and strong.  A bit winded, but not the bastardized accent of the reivers.  His was more dignified. 

And notably Scottish.

“I, um, thank you for your assistance, sir,” she stumbled over the words that would show her gratitude.  “I fear I find myself stuck.”

There was no use in trying to feign strength and competence at that moment.  Whether he was her savior or potential captor, she couldn’t remain in the tree forever. 

“I see,” he replied, followed by a long pause.  So long in fact, that she wondered if he had left her there.

A rustle from below proved her wrong, as did a flash of grey and brown along the trunk. 

“Don’t look down.  Just look at me, I promise I’ll catch you,” he said, when she finally set her eyes upon him. 

It was her squire.  The squire, she corrected herself inwardly.  Not one of her father’s guards.  Not a gamekeeper or a woodcutter.  Him.

“Do you mean for me jump?” she asked incredulously.  “And if we both fall?”

“We won’t.  Just trust me.”  He smiled in a way that almost made her want to, against all better judgement.

“Easy for you to say, you’re down there.”  She bit her lip and weighed her options.  Only, she didn’t get far before he began to climb up higher to reach her.  “No, don’t!  What are you doing?”

“Now we’re both stuck up here,” he had the nerve to say as he stood on an adjoining branch to hers.  As if it were no trouble for him at all.  “Good thing I have a plan.”

“Do you know of any eagles big enough to fly us down?  Or a dragon, better yet?”

“I was going to be kind, but if you’re going to be insolent than so will I,” he teased.

“What does that mean?”

“Insolent?   It means bad-mannered.  One would think a well-bred English lass such as yourself would have been educated in basic vocabulary—"

“I know what it means!” she snapped.  Rather insolently, in fact.  She was too scared to worry about her manners.  “What is your plan?”

“I will help you down, Lady Galadriel.  For a price,” he said the last with a particular glint of seriousness to his rakish features. 

It made her skin prickle like the air before a storm.  The dark reiver had said the same, but the squire made it seem much more…personal.

He certainly was bold. 

“What can I possibly give you at this current moment?” she asked with a nervous levity to her tone, as his lashes dipped and he licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. 

It was just a glimpse, but it gave him the aura of a wolf about to pounce.  She realized quickly that she had not been rescued.  She was the grouse, treed by hounds, only to be eaten by something bigger.

“Just a kiss.  Only fair, don't you think?”

“I don't even know your name.”  Again, without weapon, she only had her wits.

“It makes no difference, does it?”

“All the difference to a lady, sir,” she argued, bristling.

“You're right, I'm sorry.  I'd forgotten, what with all of the peril and heroism,” he scoffed, with more than a hint of sarcasm.  “You can call me Halbrand.”

“Thank you, Halbrand.”  She liked the way it sounded.  Sturdy and strong, like a tall stone tower.  Comforting and warm, like a well-tended fire.  She'd never known another.  It stood out among the usual Saxon, Briton, and Norman names.

He met her halfway across the short distance like she had already said ‘yes’.  Her mouth hadn't, at least. But when his lips touched upon hers, she gave one last squeak, like a dove devoured, before she gave in.

She wasn't even spared a moment to process what had happened, to lean in or to savor the contact of soft skin to skin, before he pulled away and took her arm with him. 

The one that supported her against the branch. 

But instead of falling, he tossed her over his shoulder like a spring lamb.  She dared not struggle for fear of sending them both tumbling down.  Instead, she clung to him as he brought them both lower.

Is this how a mouse feels in the jaws of a beast? she wondered, through one squinted eye while she dared not look down.  Not until the ground was within a safe jumping distance.

“See?” he taunted, arrogantly. “All is well.  I didn't drop us.”

“If I had my quiver, I would have no need of rescuing,” she answered, in an effort to regain some of her self-respect.

“I have no doubt.  Are you as good with a blade?”

“I can manage just fine.”

“How about a needle?”

“What?” she asked in return to such a strange question as her foot touched the blessedly soft grass at the tree’s base.  “Why?  Do you have something you wish to be embroidered?”

“Not exactly.”  When he stumbled slightly on his own feet, she turned to find a streak of viscous crimson along the trunk.

Blood.

“You’re hurt?”  When she wasn’t so fixated on her own fear, and whatever she had felt at the kiss, she saw that her skirts bore the same stain.  How had he carried her down so swiftly while injured?

“You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.  We shouldn’t be seen walking to back to the camp together.”  He leaned back against the tree as if to catch his bearings.

“You saved my life, sir.  I intend to tell the prince what happened and have you well rewarded.”

“They wouldn’t have harmed you if you’d gone willingly.  Your father has plenty of gold to pay the ransom, and enough pride to spare a little bruising.”

“Then why did you help me?”

“I saw you running off and took it as my chance to get you alone.  Didn’t think I’d be nearly gutted over it.”

“It can’t be that bad,” she chided, but upon second look, she blanched at the gash along his side.  It was deep.  And bleeding profusely.  “Here,” she offered, ripping a section of her soft, already shredded underskirt for him to hold against the wound.  “You’d better lean on me.  I’ll take you the healing tent.”

They had all the best healers in the realm in attendance.  Surely, the prince would have his own retinue of bleeders, physicians and apothecaries.

“It’s just a scratch, is all.  No need to fuss,” he said, though he relented and let her loop his arm around her shoulders like a crutch.

It was an odd feeling, with her height, to be so well encased in someone’s arms.  It should feel indecent to be close enough to a man to feel the damp warmth of his sweat through his tunic, regardless of his injured state.  And yet it sent a wave of awareness through her belly that made her shudder from within.

A sensation almost as intoxicating as their kiss had been.  Her nightly prayers would be full of confessions that evening.  Or perhaps she should keep the Heavenly Father out of this latest escapade.

“You’re not going to swoon on me, are you?  You’re the one holding me up,” he jested from above her.

“I will certainly not.”  She didn’t look up at him, as busy as she was watching her step so as not to trip under his weight, but she could feel him laugh softly with his chest against her cheek.

“I’d do it all again for another kiss,” she heard him mutter under his breath.

He was no fae king, by any stretch of the imagination.  More likely a devil in disguise.

Luckily for Galadriel, the dramatic recounting that the only daughter of the lord snuck away in secret, only to be attacked by reivers and saved by a lowly squire had been kept to just a few ears.  Her father had not wanted news of the wolves return to spread to the other nobleman.  It would only disrupt the tentative peace they all had enjoyed during the opening day.  Or to the merchants and townsfolk, who would pack up and run away in fear so early in the festivities.

Instead, Halbrand was quickly mended with a few deft stitches and a tight poultice, and Galadriel was chastised for her foolishness and threatened with 1000 days locked in her room if she didn’t promise to stay within sight of a family member for the duration of her maidenhood.  Which would surely be incredibly long if she didn’t cease her childish need to cause trouble.

But none of that mattered in the end because Halbrand, for his bravery, was allowed to dine at their table for meals and enjoy some of the finer comforts well above his station.  He fit in well among the barons, and Galadriel found herself as captivated by his charms as everyone else. 

Everyone except Finrod, of course.  He remained sulky and brooding throughout the entirety of the week.  For her part, she paid him no mind.  His hatred for the Scot was his own, even if he had saved his sister’s life.  For Galadriel, the regional politics and petty animosity could wait until the tournament ended.  It would always be there when life went back to normal.

She chose to enjoy the luxury of having her cousin close by, the merriment in the air, and a handsome stranger to distract her from the creeping dread she had felt in her last conversation with Finrod.  Yes, she would be the lady, and the well-being of the land would fall on her shoulders.  But that could wait a little longer.

It was on the final day of the tournament, just before the championship Melee that Galadriel found Halbrand tending to the prince’s horses.  They were all finely styled in the royal colors and sleekly covered in shiny armored horns and protective mail.  Earthly creatures dressed as fearsome beasts of myth.

“I wanted to catch you before the excitement.  Do you have a moment?”

“For you, my lady, I have them all.”  He gave the steed’s tail one last swipe of his brush and sauntered over to her. 

He had a way of leaning low so that she could meet his gaze more easily.  It was both endearing and unnerving how he could change himself for his audience so effortlessly.

“I made you a gift,” she said, holding out a piece of cloth.  “It’s just a token, really.  Rather silly, but maybe it’ll bring you luck today.”

She’d spent the last few nights working on the embroidery.  Needlework wasn’t her strong suit, but aside from winning the Archery contest in his name, she had nothing else to offer.  A kiss perhaps, but not with the steady eye of her brother ever in her direction when Halbrand was near.  She opted for a stitching of her oak tree, knowing that she could recreate its likeness from memory.

It seemed fitting, but maybe it had been a mistake.  Too sentimental.  Perhaps he didn’t regard their meeting quite so fondly considering the wound he took for his troubles.

“I’m not competing,” he said with a wry smile, but his eyes told another story.  One that seemed to hold multitudes.

“Aren’t you, though?  Aule would not stand a chance without his squire.  May you be swift and dependable in your service.”

She had meant it to be a compliment, but she couldn’t help but notice the shadow that fell over his face at the reminder of his station.

“You don’t like it,” she guessed, trying not let the disappointment shatter her strong façade.  She would not cry…

“It’s not that.  Just that no one’s ever given me anything before,” he admitted, running his thumb over the greens, chestnuts, and golds of the threads.  Did he notice that she’d chosen colors to match his own?

Or that she’d sewn a sun in the blue sky above it to match hers?

No, a man would not pay attention to such things.

“You’ve never had a friend before?” she asked, curiously. 

“Not one such as you,” he admitted, as he tucked the cloth inside his belt.  “I shall wear it with honor.  And I promise I won’t be a servant forever.”

“I have no doubt,” she offered with what she hoped was her most reassuring smile, giving a quick and polite curtsy before leaving him reluctantly. 

If her brother bore his daggered gaze any deeper, he would draw blood.

There was plenty of blood to be shed in the Melee.  It was the grand finale of the tournament and showcased the skills of war among the knights.  Although the weapons were blunted, the danger was nonetheless real.  The object of the game was to unhorse and incapacitate as many of your enemies as possible and capture their banner on the other side of the field.

Galadriel watched with both excitement and anxiety.  Unlike the Stone Throw or the Rope Pull, the event had the potential to cause serious injury. 

Luthien had found a champion in a knight named Beren.  He had no lands or titles, but he’d won great wealth and esteem in the Joust the day before.  Galadriel imagined they would be betrothed before the end of the final feast.  She hoped for her cousin’s sake that he made it through the last event with all of his appendages intact.

It was to be the houses of Feanor and Fingolfin fighting under the banner of the host lord Finarfin, versus Prince Aule and his royal guard, with the support of the Broadbeams and the Firebeards.  Various hedge knights such as Beren who joined independently were chosen by each side according to their strengths in the other games of the tournament.

While she outwardly cheered for her own house’s victory, she silently watched Halbrand run his paces across the field.  Dodging attacks not meant for him, and supplying his team with fresh horses and weapons.  She cringed when a hammer nearly hit his side, or a horse reared up in his path. 

As knights fell around him and the event reached its peak, Halbrand heaved the weary Prince Aule onto a fresh steed.  He clapped the animal on the hind end and sent it straight for the opposing team’s weakest flank.  Barely able to hold his seat on the racing horse, the prince slipped past the failing defenses. 

When he reached out and narrowly clasped the banner of the Golden House of Finarfin in his hands, the horn sounded the victory and marked the end of the contest.  The knights in current combat put down their arms and hastily kneeled to the conquering prince.

While the cheers erupted with joy, along with the resounding rush of relief that no one was seriously maimed, another knight appeared on the field of play.  His armor was black as coal and in the commotion of the celebration, he appeared without notice.

Until he pulled back his helm and called out Prince Aule’s name.

“I come to claim my right by law.  A grievance was done against me by one of yours, brother, and I seek my payment.”

“You are no brother of mine, Morgoth.  And what grievance can you claim, when it was your men who were the aggressors?”

A hush fell on the crowd then.  The interloper was Prince Melkor, or rather Lord Morgoth since he was denounced by the king as an illegitimate son.  A great knight and influential figure thanks to his conquests in the Crusades, he had been exiled years before for attempting to raise an army against Eru.  Many wondered why the king hadn’t had him executed for the treason, but Galadriel imagined erasing one’s own creation from the world was a heavy weight to bear.  Even for a king.

Had her father known the fallen prince had aligned with the reivers?

“A defense not easily proven when it’s one word against another,” Melkor continued.  His voice commanded the ear like a true politician.  “What cannot be disputed, is that he blinded one of my men.  Broke another’s skull and another’s arm.”

“Your men broke the truce when you crossed the border and attacked my daughter,” her father argued.  She was pleased to see him take her side, but he seemed too small and insignificant when compared to the enemy at his gate.

“We either take him or burn your whole town.  It’s up to you, Lord Finarfin.”  The cold indifference slid like ice down Galadriel’s spine.

As if cued by some signal, a circle of torches lit the dying light of the day on the hills around the keep.  It surrounded the camp of tents and merchant carts.  The farmlands and cottages that scattered the lee.  The sheep pastures and barns that held the lifeblood of the land. 

At each torch, there was an archer.  A statement of strength and coordination that he could make good on his threat.  A battle would ensue and lives would be lost.

The knights that had gathered for the tourney were skilled, but they were exhausted from the contest.  Many were injured and without their proper sharpened weapons.  It would take time to return to the tents and secure them.

The reivers would be routed in the end, but at a great cost.

“He’s just a servant.  What could you possibly want with him?”  It was Finrod who spoke up, his derision at odds with his skepticism. 

Galadriel knew, but she doubted Lord Morgoth would admit to it.  Halbrand had bested nine of the assailants.  He didn’t want to punish him.  He wished to recruit him.  Halbrand had no free will but to obey.  Run, and he would be hunted down.  Stay, and Aule would renounce him for a traitor and force him out.

“Will none of you stand up for him?” Galadriel asked, calling out each of the many lords who failed to speak in Halbrand’s favor.

But they only averted their eyes.  Cowards, each and every one of them.

“Send him out!” Melkor demanded again, impatiently. 

When Aule motioned for Halbrand to come forward, Galadriel ran from her place on the dais, uncaring as to who would see.  She pushed past the onlookers to join Halbrand on the muddied field, before he could make his presence known.

“You don’t have to go.  They make threats, that’s what they do.  Morgoth wouldn’t dare start a war with every noble in the kingdom.”

Though he initially appeared surprised at her place at his side, he only cupped her cheek with pity.

“You’re very brave, to put such a high price on my life.  But I’m afraid Aule is not so inclined.  Why would I want to be bound to someone so keen to cast me out?  Besides, he’s more of an artist than a warrior.  Prince Melkor is said to have been the greatest knight in the realm once.  I reckon I’ll learn more from him.”

“And what about your honor?”

“It never did anything good for me before.  Until you, anyway.  Will you hold onto it for me, what little I have left?  It’ll be safe with you.”  The crinkle at the corner of his eye hinted at a smile, but it was without humor.

“I don’t expect us to meet again,” she said.  “But I will think of you fondly and pray for your good fortune.”  The polite words that tumbled forth felt hollow.  She swallowed thickly so as not to utter anything more foolish.  Like, Take me with you.

“Thank you, my lady, for your kindness,” he returned, just as politely, only to lean down so close that she thought he might kiss her.  He paused with his lips just shy of her cheek.  She could feel his breath on her skin, the soft tickle of his beard when he spoke again.

“I shall never forget it.”

And then, just as swiftly as he first entered her life, he was gone.

Part II:

As the years passed, the Lady Galadriel found comfort in the changing of the seasons.  Taking heart that the world moved on and ever forward.  That every new day brought the chance for something to break.  To change.  To grow anew. 

Luthien never returned to the borders after her marriage to Beren.  Bitter feuds and kinslayings destroyed the great houses of Feanor and Fingolfin.  The Broadbeams and the Firebeards retreated back to their mountains after relations soured over the rights to their gold and silver.  They no longer traded their wealth with neighbors and friends.  Her family’s tournament had once been a sanctuary, but there were less and less of them left to take part in it.  Torn to pieces by war and strife.

Most of them blamed the reivers and the Scots as the cause of it all, but they each had their own parts to play.  Pride and deceit.  Greed and envy. 

Galadriel heard the stories of Halbrand’s rise, whispered in her father’s war room.  Argued about over their great table at dinner.  They said that giving the lowly squire of Aule up to Morgoth was to be the doom of them all.  That his malice and cruelty at being cast off had shaken the land to its core and divided the border’s paltry alliances like a cleaver through bone.  A spike through steel.

Prince Melkor had gone too far with his alliance with France and was finally imprisoned for his treason.  His chosen heir had taken his place.  Like Melkor, Halbrand made his fortune on the continent in the Crusades.  A cause that Galadriel had never seen as noble.  If a man wanted to prove something of himself, he should look to settling a conflict in his own realm, not inciting one abroad.

They said he knew the rule of law even better than Lord Morgoth, studied it and wielded it like a thrall over the barons when he returned.  In England and Scotland alike.  Without the help of the King, many wondered if he would soon hold enough power to exert his influence over the whole of the realm.  That even the sky above them would turn as black as his heart.  That the fields and the forests would burn like the wrath that seethed in his soul.

Their stories made him a villain and all the while, Galadriel had not married any of the suitors presented to her.  Not in the first year, or the second.  Her father had not allowed her to participate in the games, either.  Not in the third or the fourth.  The castle that would be her birthright had felt more and more like a tomb.  A door that, once shut, could never be opened again. 

Though all hope was not lost, for she was not as lonely as she appeared.

Every day, she would visit her great tree.  Gone was the evidence of his sacrifice.  The blood had washed away, leaving no stain in its place.  All that remained of that fateful day was the notch left by the reiver’s axe.  One lone strike before Halbrand intervened.

By that scar, Galadriel would sometimes find a gift.  A trinket usually.  It had started out small, like a bundle of flowers or a strange piece of fruit.  A carved piece of wood in the shape of a swan or a new set of heads for her arrows.   There was a book bound in leather and written in Latin, and another in French, recounting tales of love and chivalry in faraway kingdoms. 

He had said he’d never received a gift before.  Had he never given one either?  Had she been his first?  His only?  She kept them secret and safe, and treasured each.

And she left small tokens in return.  While she decided against leaving him a lock of her hair, reasoning it to be equal parts morbid and a bit too forward, she instead wrote him letters recounting her opinions on the books he’d shared and embroidered him another sigil. 

A wolf and an oak leaf, with an eagle in flight above.  A little joke between them that no one else would understand.

The exchange had kept them tethered, and it was hard to imagine the villain they spoke of taking the time to whittle a delicate bird.  Or saving a book on Greek love from a pillaged library in the far east.

It was the evening before the fourth year’s tournament that she found his latest offerings wrapped in cloth at the base of the tree.  There was a dagger set in silver and gold, and a jeweled ring so fine that she’d never seen its likeness. 

There was something different about those new gifts.  Proof of his conquests, perhaps?  From his humble beginnings to his great wealth and prosperity.  Was he sharing them with her as if they were on the same journey together?

For questions such as those, she could give no answer.  She didn’t know what he was asking.  And she had no use for his ill-begotten gains. 

“Do you not like them?” a voice spoke quietly from above her and she startled at the unexpected company to her thoughts.

It was him, not just in her mind, but in her tree.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped, looking around to see if there were any others with him.  The reivers hadn’t been sighted on her land since he was taken from her gates.

“My caravan is not far away.  We’re on our way to town for the games.”

“Your caravan?” Galadriel asked, not understanding what he could mean.  And still not able to comprehend that he was really there. 

“I have no wish to hurt you,” he assured her, and she believed him.

When he reached a hand down to pull her up to meet him, she acquiesced as if to test his corporeality.  His strength hoisted her up easily by her forearm, with no need to use her usual footholds or leverages.

“You gave me my first kiss in this tree,” she recalled, thoughtfully and rather shyly once she was beside him on the largest branch.  Much time had passed, and yet it felt like none at all.  It was as though he’d been there all along.

“So, you haven’t forgotten,” he answered.  He was older, his hair was longer, and his skin was tanned and scarred.  Broader in the shoulders and harder, too. “First kiss, you say?” he added with an impish lift to his stubbled lip.  “Or only?”

Maybe not everything had changed.

“I’m not bound to anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” she spoke too quickly, and rolled her eyes at the innocent flush that crept up her throat.  Forever afflicted with a coloring that published her feelings so visibly on her face.

“I intend to win the tourney on the morrow.  As the champion, your father cannot deny me the request for your hand.”

It was true.  In his frustration at Galadriel’s hesitation to wed, Finarfin had issued the challenge in hopes that some gallant suitor would finally win her affections.  It had the opposite effect on Galadriel.  It was barbaric and crude, and she was disgusted at the idea entirely.  To be put on display like a colt at auction.  Sold to the highest bidder.  She had no choice but to agree to it, but she also did not admit to the one dark and haunting thought that kept creeping into her mind.

The possibility that the rogue knight Lord Sauron, the scourge of the borders and enemy to the English, would come to her rescue once more.

“You’re so certain you’ll win?” she asked, too hardened by her own family’s troubles and the state of the world to put her faith in him so easily. 

He was a tyrant, wasn’t he?

“I know a thousand ways to kill a man,” he said with a crooked grin.  She'd known that for a fact.  His reputation was well-recounted.

“And how many to love a woman?” she asked, with more sorrow than she intended.  He had been her friend once.  He held some tenderness then, even if she struggled to find it in his features now.

“What do you know of it?  I plan on ruining you thoroughly.”

Already have, she didn’t say aloud.  She was afraid that she had been ruined by him years before.  She thought fondly of no man but him.  When she imagined what her marriage bed would be like, it was his eyes that met her own in the candlelight.  When she envisioned her future children, they bore his likeness.  In what other way could he possibly ruin her? 

“Why would I accept your proposal?  You’d make me an outcast among my family.  My people.”  She was an English lady, and he was a Scottish outlaw.  She would be shunned from every door, on both sides of the border.

“Only they have that power.  Whether they choose to wield it is up to them.  I would spend the rest of my life worshipping you.  And in time, they will too.  Together we can heal this land.  Unite it in peace.”

Did he truly believe that?  She dared not hope, for it so closely resembled her own desires.

“You told me to hold onto your honor, remember?  Do I have your heart as well?”

“I have thought of nothing else, survived for nothing else but you.”

“Answer the question.  Tell me this is not about redeeming your bloodline.  About seizing power and lands.”

“I live because of you.  You have all of me.”

He brought her hand up to his chest, as if to prove it beat for the sake of her touch alone.

“Pretty words, from such convincing lips.”  She moved instead to brush her fingers against his mouth, to see if they were as soft as they appeared.  As she remembered.  “Show me, Halbrand.  Show me how you’d love me.”

His eyes darkened in realization, and she was back in the very same tree right before he first kissed her.  It had been a moment of utter truth.  No room for pretense or even second thought.  A blink in the vast reaches of time, it touched her from the past.  Bound what once was to the present. 

She did not know what the morrow would bring.  If he would win or fall to harm in the tournament.  Be slain by her brother for daring to even show his face.  If her father would honor his promise to give his daughter, too long a maiden, to the realm’s greatest enemy. 

All she knew was that perhaps their souls were entwined by something greater than borders or lands or feuds.  Than kings and princes.  Honor and law.  Even greater than right and wrong.

What other explanation was there for the heat that roiled inside her at a single glance of his eyes to hers?  Her overwhelming need to press herself against him, to hold him and be held in return. 

She would be betrothed to him or another by the week’s end.  That much was certain.  After they left the seclusion of her glade, she may never know peace again. 

“Galadriel, I—” he began to say something, but she would never know what. 

Her lips touched upon his tentatively at first.  She took the first step and leapt headlong into something she knew she couldn’t control, something she had no wish to.  She gave herself up completely to whatever came next.

The rough palms of his hands cradled her face like she was something precious, and he deepened the kiss even further than she had imagined possible.  His tongue against hers, he licked and sucked until she was dizzy and at a loss for air.  She could only hold on to shoulders as he lifted her up and carried her yet again from the tree’s limbs, overcome by the senses he filled.

His breath hot against her neck warred with the sharp scratch of his beard.  The softness of his hair as she dug her fingers into his dark curls and the hard planes of his chest as he pinned her against the ground.  The smell of the grass around them and the brightness of the sun above.

“I’ve dreamed of this, my lady,” he murmured in between wet, biting kisses to her collarbone as his long, muscled thigh pressed between hers. 

Just the slightest threat of pressure as her skirts tightened against her riotous and rebellious womanhood and she was seeing stars. 

“Bloody hell,” she breathed through clenched teeth.  She failed to bite back the curse she shouldn’t have said aloud, for fear of changing his lofty opinion of her.

“Don’t hold anything back on my account.  I want to hear how I please you,” he groaned as she moved her body against his thigh, closing the gap and savoring the sweet touch of dark pleasure that only seemed to grow the more she gave in to it.

“I ache, Halbrand.  I ache to feel you inside me,” she sobbed shamelessly.  There was no other way to describe it.  It was as simple as it was ancient and timeless.

As close as two beings could be to be each other.  Consumed.  Bound.  Ensnared.

Her only desire was to welcome him in, to wrap herself around him as he slithered inside.  To milk every drop of life he could promise.  Not just a future, but one worth living.

“I ache as well, but not yet,” he spoke with a soft clarity that cut through the haze of her arousal.  When he shifted his weight from her, she protested with a pitiful sound she’d never heard herself make.  “You’ll like it,” he insisted.

He slipped a hand between the fabric of her skirts and trailed a calloused knuckle along the inside of her thigh.  It sent a fresh shudder of shivering heat to the sensitive bundle at her sex.  “Halbrand, please,” she begged.

“A lady always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?” he teased, as he suckled at her lower lip.  As if he relished the way it quivered as his hands moved higher.  “How hard it must be to wait.  To pine.  To yearn.”

He paused, hovering a thumb just over the bud at the top of her opening.  She raised her hips to meet it, and the contact surely must’ve sent sparks flying like flint to steel.

“It makes it sweeter, don’t you think?   The struggle.  How wet you are for me.”  She wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her any longer, or more to himself.  He seemed lost in his own enjoyment, pinching and petting her cunt with alternatingly slow and fevered strokes.

When she began to twitch under his touch, he dipped a finger into her trembling hole.  When a fresh wave of slick greeted his hand, he slid the second and third in together.  It opened her up to a point that felt like breaking.  A precipice between too much and not enough.

“This is what you wanted, what you asked for?”  His broken oaths matched his strokes.  “Say it Galadriel.  Say that you wanted this.”

“I can’t—” she hesitated, even as her body adjusted and clenched around whatever piece of flesh he’d offered.

“Liar,” he taunted with his words as his fingers bullied her from within.  In and out, back and forth they beat a wet and lecherous rhythm inside her body.  “This is but a taste.  You asked for everything and more, did you not?”

He was toying with her, not cruelly but mercilessly, even as she was in danger of coming apart.  It was so close.  Whatever end she was hurtling towards was just out of reach.

“Yes, please.  Yes.”  Whether she was begging or agreeing, she didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

“You want me to fuck some life into you, is that it?  Take root.  Grow you fat with my seed and my child.  Bind us together for all time.”  His voice grew husky and thick with emotion.

How could mere words affect her so strongly?  How could the promise of a womb full of his spend drive her to such madness?

So deep in throws was she that she didn’t notice when he shifted his weight yet again and pinned one of her legs widely against the grass.  In a seamless maneuver too quick for her rapture-dulled senses, he replaced his fingers with the length of his manhood.

If she was on the edge before, his cock sent her over, careening into the darkest abyss.  It was too much, too tight, too full.  She was bodiless and mindless in equal measure. 

“That’s it, my lady.  Sweet Galadriel,” he punctuated each thrust with both taunts and venerations.  “You know just what to do, don’t you?  I give, and you take.  Take it, take it so well.”

But she was beyond hearing, for a crashing wave met her in that vast and bottomless space.  It washed over her like a thousand twinkling stars and lit up the sky in a blinding light.  He must’ve felt it too, for he stiffened inside her and flooded her with a power she’d never known before. 

She wept inwardly when the feeling began to fade.  Dull tremors lingered and she savored each one before they, too, disappeared into the ether like the fog of the morning. 

Except, it was not the morn.  The sun had just begun to set.  Soon, she would return home and pretend like the whole world had not changed in the span of an hour. 

“They’re going to kill you,” she whispered.  The tears of joy that she’d been holding inside leaked down her cheeks in dread.

“Have faith, my love.  I don’t intend to be parted from you again.”

She found no comfort in his promise and instead sought it in his arms.  For just a little while longer.

Considering the soreness of her body and the anxiety over what the day would bring, Galadriel had a surprisingly sound night’s sleep.  She’d even managed to sit through the evening meal without incident.  Years of training to be ignored completely by her male relatives had for once provide useful. 

Even her eagle-eyed, doting mother didn’t notice anything amiss.  To be fair, she’d been so busy with the details of the ceremonies and feasts that she’d barely looked up from her ledger.

And Galadriel had kept quiet about the surprise they had waiting for them come morning.  She saw no need to warn her father and brothers that the dark Lord Sauron would be paying their humble country tournament a visit.  It would only make matters worse.

The day itself, however, proved much more nerve-racking.  Her maid was accustomed to treating her ladyship’s scrapes and bruises, but there were a few marks on her skin that even Galadriel had trouble explaining.  She merely shrugged the woman off and continued to scrub herself clean. 

Too mature for a flower crown, she opted for a simple gold leaf circlet.  She swapped her ceremonial white gown for deep green velvet with golden thread to match.  It reminded her of the embroidery she’d first made for Halbrand, and it seemed significant to her on such an occasion.  She set the ring he’d given her on a chain around her wrist.  The dagger was sheathed in her belt.

It would be another year without Luthien alongside her in the stands, and Galadriel hoped it would be her last.  The festival had outstayed its welcome, was a shell of its former glory, and the days of darkness were already near upon them.  The House of Finarfin had survived when others had fallen, but their test would come.  It would be up to Galadriel to see her people through it.  And hopefully, someday, stronger on the other side.

As the game’s prize, she sat on a lone throne at the center of the dais while the knights were introduced one by one, to both the crowd and the barons.  As each helm opened, she held her breath.  Waited for the inevitable commotion.  The disdain and vitriol.  Waited for him to reveal himself as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

But his disguise was not of a sheep.  He was dressed like a lord.  Noble and beautiful.  She knew instantly which one was him.  A great dark horse.  Armor black as his heart.  A crown of iron upon his helm.

Like a fae king.  It was if she’d conjured him from a dream. 

Had she not?  Had she not known him her whole life?   

A swell of pride lifted her chest high as he revealed his face.

“I am Halbrand, Lord Sauron.  Squire of Prince Aule.  Knighted by Prince Melkor.  Four years ago, you fed me to the wolves.  Now I have returned as their leader.  I do not seek your flocks, only a seat at your great table.”

“You were not invited to this contest, Heir of Morgoth,” her father declared, his face ruddy with anger beneath the grey of his beard.

“Any knight of the realm is what you claimed.  That is what I am.  You will not honor your word, or the law of this land that you’ve sworn to protect?” Halbrand replied. 

The challenge stood hanging in the air as her father looked over to Finrod for guidance.  Not to her, whose future was at stake.  Not to her mother, whose family’s blood had fertilized the soil for a millennium. 

Her brother who had nothing to gain or lose, save his pride.  When Fin gave Finarfin a nod in return, his expression was cold and determined. 

“I will honor my word,” her father assured him.  “You’re welcome to try, but you will not win.”

That was how it was to be, Galadriel realized.  At every turn, Finarfin would load the odds against him.  He would do everything in his power to make sure that Halbrand could not triumph. 

Did Halbrand know this?  Was he prepared to lose?  Would he give up on her?

She reviewed the lists over her father’s shoulder to see which events Halbrand had entered: the Caber Toss, Rock Splitting, Stone Throwing, Javelin, Single Combat, the Joust, and the Melee.  He’d never win them all, not against the other knights who had heeded her father’s call. 

She knew Sir Fangorn could toss a caber clear over the castle wall.  And Sir Durin could swing his hammer from dawn until dusk and not tire of breaking a mountain of stone.  The others were more open to chance, but with her father’s influence over the proceedings, it would not be a fair fight.

As the tournament commenced, the rules of the contests were established.  Unlike in years past, when each contest was independent of the other and champions were made in each, this year a series of points would also be awarded to each of the winners.  At the end of the tournament, all points would be tallied to determine the overall champion.  Double points would be given to the knight who captured the other team’s banner in the Melee.

Galadriel was polite and attentive to each of the suitors throughout the week’s feasts and celebrations, as her duty demanded.  To avoid any suspicion that she favored one in particular, she went out of her way to avoid Sir Halbrand completely.  Though, it wasn’t always possible.  Like that first tourney, their eyes seemed to meet often across a crowded room.

He’d brought a retinue of bannermen and squires with him, and they stood out among the other lords.  Though they were rough around the edges and crude in their appearance, he seemed to keep them on a tight leash.  There were no fights or thefts reported, and they brought useful goods to trade with the other merchants in the camp.  All matters of disagreement seemed to be reserved for the field of play.

Galadriel even discovered a few warring clans sharing drinks and jests in what could almost be described as harmony.  A precarious accord had settled over all in attendance when it became clear that Sauron’s presence would not alter the veil of sanctuary. 

It filled her with a hope she hadn’t known for years, since she was a girl in a wildflower crown holding her cousin’s hand and dancing under the stars.  It was almost as if the dark lord was never the source of their infighting at all.

At the end of the fifth day, the leaderboard was stacked and tied at one point a piece across four knights.  As expected, Fangorn had taken the Caber Toss and Durin the Rock Splitting.  Lord Saruman had won the Stone Throw and Sir Halbrand the Javelin. 

Though he wasn’t even meant to compete—and had only done so to block Lord Sauron’s claim, Finrod led with two points after upsets in both the Single Combat and the Joust.  Neither had been fair in the least. 

A hound had gotten loose from its handler and ripped into Halbrand’s leg at the precise moment he gained the upper hand on his opponent in the one-on-one match, and he had clearly won the Joust, but the panel disqualified him on a technicality stemming from the length of his lance.

Her father was lucky the crowd was feeling jovial, for if they’d noticed, he would have lost their favor and his honor as a host with it.  As it was, regardless of who Galadriel wished to win, the injustice of it rankled. 

It was left to the Melee to decide the champion.

Galadriel did not sleep a wink the night before that sixth and final day.  When she closed her eyes, all she saw was death and blood.  Black smoke and red fire.  It woke her from her bed and sent her out into the night, looking for him.

She didn’t care if she was caught.  She didn’t care if she ruined the contest.  Her father and brother had already sullied her family with their dishonesty.  On her honor, she couldn’t let it go on any further.

Halbrand’s tent was clearly marked with his sigil, not very unlike those she had sewn for him.  He’d managed to combine them both into a wolf bowing in deference to the sun.  Thankfully, his guards didn’t give her trouble when she pulled back her hood at his door and sought an audience.  They merely smiled with their crooked, chipped teeth and led her inside.

“Good to see you again, little grouse,” one said, and she remembered his voice from the meadow that day.  Although he wore a patch on one eye, he seemed to hold no ill will against her.

He brought her in to where Halbrand was laying on a hammock in the corner.  Not yet asleep, he rose up quickly when he saw her.

“What are you doing here, Galadriel?” he asked worriedly at her appearance.  In her haste, she’d forgotten she was still in bedclothes.  And barefoot.

“You need to leave.  You can’t stay here.  Just run, far away,” Galadriel begged, voice shrill even as she tried to keep it quiet.

“What do you mean?  What happened?”

“They’re not going to let you win.  Don’t you see?  Someone is going to get killed tomorrow,” she cried.  She knew she sounded mad, but she had to make him see.

“I told you, I’m not going to let that happen,” he said.  “I’m not defeated yet.”

“You will be,” she said, with certainty.

“You don’t believe in me?” he asked, with the same shadow across his eyes as when she’d called him a servant years before. 

“I do, but they are not playing fair.”

“Do you think my reputation is a myth?  That I got where I am by playing fair.  That I would ever leave my fate to anyone else again.  It was all by design,” he admitted smugly.  The shadow disappeared, to be replaced with the glow of amber in flames.

“You let them beat you?” she asked, with renewed clarity. 

“Go home and sleep, my lady.  All will be well on the morrow,” he replied, and kissed her forehead.  He lingered a moment longer as she leaned into him, as if he too didn’t wish to let go so soon.

“Good luck, Sir Halbrand.”  She recovered and gave him her best curtsy.  She’d done everything she could to warn him.  Whatever happened next was out of her control.

“Glug, would you escort the lady back to the castle gate.  Discreetly, please,” he added, pointedly.

“Of course, my lord,” he spoke up from the other side of the curtain.

They had come full circle, hadn’t they?  She would have laughed if she wasn’t so tired. Galadriel risked her reputation to save one reiver, and trusted another to take her home.

The Melee was as chaotic and ruthless as Galadriel had feared.  Blunted weapons or not, the field was scattered with fallen and broken combatants.  House Finarfin was comprised of Fangorn’s men, Sir Durin, and her brothers, while the challengers were Lords Sauron and Saruman, together with the mighty Balrog clan.

Sir Fangorn sadly fell like tree in the first charge, and as old as he was, Galadriel prayed that he would recover in time.  It wasn’t much longer before the battle took a turn, and there was no one left on their mounts except for Halbrand and Finrod.  Squires ran back and forth to tend to the wounded and provide fresh weapons and horses, but the real fight was between the Golden Knight of Finarfin and the Dark Lord Sauron.

They clashed together in a brutal offensive that saw the latter unseat Finrod from his horse in a crush of splintered wood.  From where Galadriel sat, it looked like Halbrand had the clear path to the banner, but just as he sped past the fallen Finrod, a spear plunged up from the mud and struck his horse in the belly.

The onlookers gasped in horror as it reared up in pain.  Though Halbrand struggled to maintain his balance at first, he dismounted hastily to calm his dying steed.  He held him reassuringly by the reins, but the animal would not still.  Instead, it rolled to the ground with a crash of steel and squelch of mud.

Halbrand’s roar was loud enough to scare the crows from the treetops as he charged straight for Finrod.  His shoulders struck her brother in the chest and pinned him to the ground.  Hand to hand, fists flew from both sides.  Shocking thuds of metal denting metal.  Then, there was a flash of something brighter than either of their armor caught in the light.  Gold and silver.

Galadriel looked down at her belt to find her dagger missing.  She didn’t know how long it had been since she last saw it.  As the struggle for the very real and very lethal blade played out before her, she remembered hugging Finrod good luck before the event had begun.  He’d taken it and he was going to use it to kill Lord Sauron.

Just as she was about to call for the match to end, Halbrand took control of the knife and lowered it slowly to Finrod’s neck. 

“Halbrand!” she screamed.  “Don't!”  Her voice must have stopped time itself because he paused, just in time to avoid the fatal blow.

As they always seemed to do, their eyes met and he bowed his head in acknowledgement.  He tucked the dagger into his armor and shoved Finrod back into the mud, and slowly walked the length of the field to the Finarfin family banner.

The cheer of the spectators was so loud, it drowned out the sound of the horn when he raised it triumphantly over his head.

But the glory was cut short when Finrod rose from the mud in protest.  “It was not a fair fight!  He brought a dagger to a game of sport.  He should be disqualified!”

Others did not see it that way, as many in the audience came to Lord Sauron’s defense.

“Liar!” they chanted.  “You killed his horse!” another shouted.  “Shame!” others spewed as their fists pumped the air.  “You’ve been cheating all week, Finny!”

It was the perilous discord that Galadriel feared would fall upon them, for the townsfolk may have been common, but they were no fools.  She looked over to her father to see what his ruling would be, but before he could address them,  Halbrand called out from the field.

“My friends,” he began as he removed his spiked helm and wiped his sweat-drenched curls from his forehead with a dark gauntlet.  “I think I know how to settle this.”  When he was sure he had the crowd’s attention, he continued with a smile.  “If I’m to truly win the lady’s hand, it is only right that she should compete.  If she bests me, at a contest of her choosing, then she will be the champion.  Let her fate be in her own hands.  I’ve heard she’s quite good with a bow.” 

Galadriel felt the weight of their collective attention shift to her as her father nodded his agreement on her behalf.

“You can do this, sister.  No one is better than you,” Finrod assured her as he ran up to greet her.  The relief that disaster had been avoided was plain in the confident grin that spanned from his ear to ear. 

“It’s nice that you should finally say so,” she answered, though her voice felt brittle and tight.  “You stole my dagger.”

“You have no need of it.  Where did you get such a thing anyway?” he scoffed.

It was a gift from the man who had challenged her to make up her mind.  To cast her judgement and deem him either a worthy husband or the monster they had painted him to be.  To take responsibility for whatever future lay ahead of them.  Not just in private, when she’d submitted to him in body.  But publicly, in front of everyone she held dear.

She would’ve been overcome at the gesture had it not been an impossible choice.  Betray her family and embrace their greatest enemy, or cast him aside for the folly of trusting her.  Had she been someone of less skill, it would have been up to chance.  But Galadriel hadn’t missed a shot since she was a girl.

When her servant arrived with her quiver of arrows, set with the same heads he had given her, she knew them to be sharp and true.  It was eerily silent when she met him on the field, but for the nickers of the nearby horses, the gentle scuff of her slippers on the dirt, and the clang of his armor as he lowered its heavy pieces to the ground.

His squire, a man with a pale, scarred face assisted him with a scowl that implied he did not approve of his lord’s decision.  Though he seemed to keep his objections reserved to his expression and not his tongue.

“After you, Lord Sauron,” Galadriel insisted, so that he may have the first shot.  All the better to gauge his skill and her advantage.  She kept her face neutral so as not to betray any complicity.

“You are most gracious,” he answered, with a respectful dip of his shoulders.  She had expected to find him amused, or at least as arrogant as he had been before, but he remained stoic and detached. 

Was he as nervous as she was?  Was he trying to know her mind and prepare himself for her decision?

Before he readied his bow, he retrieved the dagger from its sheath at his side and handed it back to her.  “You lost this.”

She accepted with a quick blink and a sad smile.  “I had no part in it.”

“I know,” was his only reply.

He cemented his commitment to the ruse when he hit all four targets that had been set out dead center.  He did not give her an inch.  Did not throw the contest to make the decision any easier for her.

She would have to split each arrow down the middle to beat him.

“Nice shot, my lord.  You have proved yourself to be both a fierce warrior and a man of honor in this tournament,” she said loud enough for all to hear.

Their cheers for Lord Sauron quieted when Galadriel split the first arrow, the second, and the third in practiced succession.  What they thought was going to be a rout had turned into trial of equals.

As she drew back her bow and let loose the final arrow, she said a silent prayer to any god who was listening.  Let her not be wrong.

When it hit the target alongside his, so close that they appeared to embrace, the ring she kept around her wrist seemed to hum the ballad of her past and of her future, at a pitch only she could hear.

At Sir Halbrand’s request, the wedding was held the same night, during the final feast of the games. 

“So as not to give the lady a chance to change her opinion of me,” he teased wickedly from beside her at the table, after the troths had been signed and the vows had been exchanged in the eyes of the church.

The friar who’d baptized her as a baby happened to be on hand attending the festival, and he consecrated their nuptials with the sign of the cross, and a hearty gulp of ale.

She hated to think how the day could’ve ended had her brother won in such an unchivalrous manner and condemned their house to shame.  The clans would’ve erupted in war if they no longer regarded Lord Finarfin’s word as a peacekeeper in high esteem.

On the contrary, the outcome was so well-received among the attending nobles that whispers of truces and pardons seemed to echo from every table.  Even still, her new husband was sure to have his squire, the sour-faced Adar, test all of the food and drink that they were offered for poison.

Although Finrod had conceded defeat and her father had given the marriage his blessing, he preferred to leave nothing to chance.  ‘He killed my horse’ was the only explanation he would give on the matter.

She would’ve felt worse subjecting the poor man to the indignity of tasting his lord’s pie and ale while potentially suffering a horrifically painful death, but it appeared that her family was at least trying to honor her decision.  Perhaps Halbrand was right and they would come to accept him in time.

“To the Lady Galadriel!  The lady bright!” someone toasted to the bride, and Galadriel smiled. 

She reached down to find her wine, but it wasn’t within reach.

“Here sister, try this,” Finrod cut in before she could call on the serving maid for another.  “My gift to the loving couple.  Wine from my own cask.  The best of Burgundy!” he said as he took a sip from his cup and poured her one of her own from the open flask in his hand.

“I must insist, my lady,” Adar interrupted, but Galadriel waved him off.

“It’s alright, Adar,” she replied.  “It’s just my brother, paying his respects.  And he already has one of his own.”  She motioned to the half-empty cup in Fin’s hand.

Despite his faults, he always had her interests at heart.  How was he to know that she really did love the dark lord?  He’d only been trying to protect her.

“That means a lot, Fin.  I am very happy with how things worked out.  Truly.”  She turned to raise her drink with her husband, but he was caught up deep in conversation with one of the Balrogs. 

So as not to be rude and leave a toast in her name unreturned, she drank from the cup alone.  Although she had tried wine from Burgundy many times, it did not taste right on her tongue.  Bitter and acidic, like bile and something metallic. 

When she coughed, it came out wrong.  Wet and heavy.  The room began to swirl around her in a thick haze of smoke, and she reached for Halbrand’s arm at her side.  Her lips moved but she could make no sound over the clog in her throat.  It was if a hand tightened slowly around her neck.

Something crashed to the floor, and she blinked her eyes in an attempt to clear the sea of red in front of her.  In her last moments of consciousness, she heard the pained, twisted, and mangled voice of her dear brother.

“Better her dead, than married to you.”

And then she was gone.

Part III:

“These are my lands now,” Lord Sauron began the following morning.  “Per the law of the marches, I exile you for your complicity in the deaths of your children.  You are never again to return or my reivers will hang you for trespassing, as is their right under my command,” Lord Sauron cast his judgement on Lord Finarfin and Lady Earwen from the rampart of their own keep.

They stood below him on the outside of the gate, their horses and carts loaded high with everything they owned.  Including the tightly wrapped body of their deceased eldest son. 

“This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” Finarfin spat.  “Finrod was right.  You were only using her for own ends.  To take this land as your own.”

“I assure you, I was not.”  Though he didn’t know why he had to explain himself to them.  Their opinion mattered not.  He was being merciful in letting them live.  He should have drove that dagger as deep into their hearts as he had their son.  It was well within his rights.  “I’m leaving this place to rot and fester.  Without her, it is nothing but darkness and waste.  Your line is broken, for she alone was its light,” he answered.

He would watch them leave and then depart for the east with any reiver who would join him.  To take up arms and join the first conflict that promised a swift death.  Any who chose not to go with him were free to stay. 

They could burn the borders down for all he cared.

“Do you wish to see her, my lord?” Adar asked him curiously, as the family joined the rest of the shocked and downhearted caravans and left the cursed castle behind.

A sad and disastrous end to what should have been a joyous celebration.

“No.  She must always be alive for me.  I cannot bear to look upon her in death,” he answered dejectedly.  “But bring me her heart, so that I may carry her with me into the next life.  Where we shall be reunited again.”

Always one to obey, Adar crept down the stairs to the castle basement where the servants had been tasked with preparing Galadriel’s body for burial.

The pungent stench of death, coupled with the floral blend of lavender, sage and thyme, met him like a punch to stomach as he passed by a table covered with various innards.  A heart, bowels, and liver.

He found a small box just big enough to hold the fist-sized organ when a sound from an adjoining room interrupted him. 

“Who’s there?” a man called out, as he emerged from the room brandishing a rusted knife.  Adar recognized him as the castle’s healer, a young man named Elrond. 

“I’m sorry I scared you, boy.  Lord Sauron requests his lady’s heart,” he answered.  “He means to take it with him.”  He turned up his lip in distaste, as if the idea was below him.

Just as Adar used a piece of cloth to pick up it and place it in the box, a weak cough sounded again from inside the room.  Elrond attempted to block the view with his body, but it only piqued Adar’s curiosity.  He quickly disarmed the youth and pushed him out of the way.

“Please, don’t.  She’s not well.”

“She?” Adar asked blankly as he looked upon the ashen-cheeked figure of the Lady Galadriel.  “She’s alive?”

“I don’t know for how much longer.  She was dead.  No breath.  Lips blue.  But just as I was about to, you know, cut,” he stammered as he gulped thickly, “she gasped.  I didn’t know what to do!”

“You didn’t think to tell his lord?”

“What for, so he can hang me for witchcraft?  Necromancy?” Elrond explained.  “He’s brought nothing but pain to everything he touches.”

“We are aligned in that,” Adar admitted. 

“You’d betray your master this way?”

“He is not my master, and I fear it is what he deserves for his folly.  For thinking a servant such as he could ever become a lord.” 

“Are you not a servant yourself?” Elrond asked, squeezing a soaked cloth over the Lady Galadriel’s parched and parted lips.  The only movement was a slight bob of her throat as she swallowed.

A faint flicker of her nostril as she took air.

“Not always,” Adar answered, cryptically.  “And someday never again.”

“Take Finrod’s heart, then.  I told his mother I’d have it interred in the family crypt, but I was going to feed it to the dogs.”

“And what about her?”

“I’ll keep her comfortable until she succumbs to the poison,” Elrond vowed, as he adjusted the covers over her shoulders in the makeshift bed.  “It’s the least I can do, for the new lady of the castle.”

In his search for a being great enough to end his suffering, Sauron ventured far and wide across the world for months and months on end, bringing his wrath to those deepest, darkest corners.  He sought no glory or wealth any longer.  No elevation or commendation.

Even the gods, of which he now knew there were many, were dead to him. 

There was only death, on behalf of anyone who would welcome him to their table.  To invoke the name of Sauron was to smite an enemy, fill him with fear.  To see his great black crown rise above the opposing field of battle was to be dealt a certain and terrible end.  To tempt his ire was to be hunted down until the end of days.

Any honor he had left died with her.  Any goodness in him was buried in the ground beside her, in a cold grave that he would never visit.  In a land that he would never see again.

“Do you ever wish you saw her again?” Adar asked of his general, as they were surrounded by an encroaching army of mercenaries in the vast desert of an eastern land.

They’d taken shelter in an abandoned temple that had been destroyed by the Spanish years before.  Outnumbered and with only their horses to their advantage, it would take a miracle to make it out alive.

The challenge lit Sauron’s veins with an icy fire. 

“Every night in my dreams,” he answered.

“No, not that.  Do you ever wish you watched her body lowered into the ground.  For the finality, the closure.” Adar continued wearily.  “The certainty.”

“What are you talking about?”  His squire was making no sense.

“She lives,” Adar muttered from beside him.  “Your love, the Lady Galadriel.  The lady bright.  She lives.” 

“Madness in the face of death is common, Adar.  Best to keep your wits about you as long as you can.  It’s not over until the last breath.”

Sauron welcomed it, but he would take as many with him as he could.  He wished to arrive at the gates of hell with the army of his defeated behind him, and his wife by his side.  To face the devil would be to meet his greatest equal.  And there would be a reckoning for what had befallen them on earth.

“I saw her breathe with my own eyes.  Their healer, Elrond, revived her and she survived.  She survives still.”

“Then whose heart is this?”  Sauron held up the box around his neck as if in proof.   

“Finrod, the same one pierced by your blade on your wedding night.”  Adar’s laugh was a hollow rattle.  “Fitting, isn’t it?  To carry your final damnation like a cross into death.  The last I received word, she was carrying your child.”

“Received word?”  Sauron would not let hope cloud his judgement.  Not ever again.

“I had to intercept quite a few of her letters over these last few months.  It was no small feat.  She’s been quite persistent.  She sent dozens of messengers and bounty hunters to find you.” Adar smiled reluctantly, as if he admired her tenacity.  “I even had to kill Glug with my own hands.  He fought harder than I thought he would.”

As realization dawned on Sauron, his fists clenched.  There was joy in knowing what Adar said was true.  But there was rage, too, at himself and the universe for being so cruel. 

If only he had listened to her that night in his tent. 

If only he’d had the courage to say good-bye before he'd left.

“What did I do, Adar, for you to hate me so?”

“Your obsession with that woman corrupted you, at every turn.  I intended to bring your helm back home and crown myself as your heir.  As you did for Morgoth.”

“You wish to rule, is that all?  You think it’s so easy?  That you could’ve done better?”

“Look where your selfishness has gotten us.  You wished to die and it appears that am I to join you in your fate.  In this wretched place,” he finished, as he looked around the dry, dusty remains of what would be their tomb.

Their only chances were to be ripped apart by the enemy, or imprisoned and forgotten in time as they slowly decayed into the dirt.

“If my folly was to love another more than I did myself, more than this cursed world, then yours was to think I would ever let you die with me.”

Sauron rose up on one knee and purposefully removed each piece of his great armor. 

“Don’t tell me you have a plan?”  Adar mocked, warily. 

“You wish to replace me.  This is your chance,” he said, and held out his spiked helmet for Adar to take.

Cautiously, looking back and forth from his face to his hand, Adar reached out to take it.  Just as he did, Sauron pulled his dagger from his sheath and reached around to stab his squire through the back.  Cutting through the spine and into his lungs.

A wound that would kill slowly as it immobilized his arms and legs.  Sauron let him go and he crumpled to the ground in a gasping heap.

It won’t be my best trick, he mused, but it was enough to give him the opening he needed. 

When he finished dressing the groaning and spitting traitor in his armor, and hefted and secured his weight onto Sauron’s own black steed, he clapped the horse on its rear

The brave beast ran fast and straight into the mercenaries’ formation.  With the element of surprise, it broke through to the desert beyond.  

Halbrand looked on as the notorious crown of Lord Sauron disappeared into a sandy squall.  With it, the enemy gave chase. 

Galadriel’s town, once beloved and prosperous, all believed that she was a witch.  Cursed and brought back from the dead by the dark magic of the devil himself.  Most fled to find work elsewhere.

The crops went untended for lack of men to sow them, and most of the livestock had been sold to pay the taxes need to keep the land from forfeiting to the crown.  The only blessing was that the reivers seemed to leave her in peace.  She wondered if it was out of some respect for their absent leader, or because she had nothing left to steal.  And no one was left to ransom her back.

When she recovered from her poisoning, Elrond told her what had happened.  That her brother was dead and her parents were banished.  They’d settled in a family castle near the sea.  She wrote to them to tell them she was alive, but after everything, she doubted they would come back to visit.

They wished her well and hoped for her sake that her husband would die quickly, and she could marry another.  Galadriel wept when she read the note and tossed it promptly into the fire.

They had all thought her a fool.  A victim.  A pawn in the dark lord’s twisted game.

It had been such a terrible mess that she did not blame Elrond for his secrecy, only herself.  For thinking that love could change her people’s hearts as it had hers. 

Even he, who had been kind as summer, asked to leave and seek out other employment when she was well enough.  She could only agree, as she did not wish to burden him any longer with the shadow that stained her house.

At the time, there was no evidence she was with child.  Who would have even thought it possible?

Through those dark months, she did not give up hope that one of her letters or messengers would reach her husband.  Anything could have happened to keep him away, but she knew in her heart that he lived.  He had already returned to her once.  If only he knew the truth, he would come again.

Until then, she could only carry on, as she always had.  And she prayed that the life growing inside her was healthy and strong.  That the darkness that had touched them all had spared her child, at least. 

Of course, she didn’t know if it would be a boy, but a girl just felt right.  She’d begun calling her Celebrian, the silver queen, after a story her mother used to tell her as a girl.  One of perseverance and hope.

Often, she would visit her tree.  In her round state, she couldn’t climb its branches, but she’d sit under its shade and read.  Count little kicks and flips within her belly, thankful for the company.  She’d sing the ballads and verses she used to share with Luthien, apologizing to the little one’s ears for not having the sweet voice of her cousin. 

Her mind would often play tricks on her.  She’d look over the hill beyond and see a dark rock or a shadow in the grass.  For moment, she would rejoice that the wolves had come to fetch her, perhaps with news from Glug or any of the others she’d sent to find him in the east.  But she would blink and it would be gone.    

It was one such day when Galadriel was pulling up a patch of thorns that had wound its way around the tree’s base that she felt a terrible pain in her belly.  A twisting and a pressure that let her know she was either dying or that it was time to give birth.

She still had a few faithful servants left.  There was the old crone in the kitchens who refused to leave her side when the rest of the town had fled, reasoning that she’d seen real evil and a little necromancy didn’t scare her much.  She offered to help with the birth when the time came, but Galadriel wasn’t sure she could make it back to the keep in the urgency of her condition.

“I guess it’s just you and I, my precious,” she whispered to the baby, who had set her sights on being born on a golden, sunny day.  Under a bright blue sky, and a canopy of dark green leaves.

Halbrand rode as fast as he could across the continent, travelling in secret and avoiding the French and Spanish armies who marched on their way to the Holy Land.  When he reached Dunkirk along the channel, he stowed away on a merchant ship bound for Berkwick for fear of lingering too long in England, where there was no doubt a price on his head. 

The ship sailed another week before arriving on the Scottish coast.  From there, he raced through the marches, only stopping to change horses and waterskins, barely risking a moment of sleep.  He imagined his reputation would only grow when his reivers recounted the tale of their lord riding mad, bearded and unwashed, through the countryside screaming for his bride.

When he finally saw the stone cross at the northern boundary of Galadriel’s land, he nearly fell to his knees.  But he kept to his horse and rode through the lee to the meadow in hopes that he would find her by the tree.  A sign that she was real and not a dream…

What he found when he got there filled him with dread.

She was lying with her back to its great trunk, and there was blood.  On her dress and in the grass.  He could see it from yards away as he descended that last pasture.

“Galadriel!” he called to her, praying he wasn’t too late.

He pulled up short on his horse and jumped off before it even came to a stop.  It reared its disapproval and trotted off on its own, but he paid it no mind. 

“Galadriel,” he said, quietly, for she had the appearance of angel sleeping soundly.   Her golden hair wild and unbound around her head.  “Speak to me, please.”  He was on the ground beside her, touching her cheek, testing it for warmth.

Tears streamed rivulets down the grime on his own cheeks.

When her eyes fluttered open, he was overcome with a joy that he’d never known before.  Until there was a soft cry from the swaddle of cloth she held to her breast.

A pink and wrinkled little thing, wrapped in her torn underskirts.  There was blood but not as much as he feared.  Nothing fresh, nothing flowing.

“Is it really you?” she asked dreamily.  No doubt tired and worn out from the ordeal.

“Aye,” he said, and his voice broke.  “Is this the new lord of the castle?”

“No.  ‘Tis a lady, sir,” she answered with a smile.  “I’ve named her Celebrian.”  The haze of sleep cleared from Galadriel’s eyes, and she reached a hand up to graze his mouth.  Her soft skin was like a balm to his chapped and bloodied lips.

“You came back to me,” she said, as if there was ever anything that could keep him from her.

I would die for you.  He had been ready to, until she pulled him back.

He was about to say the same, until she leaned up and kissed him.  Seemingly undeterred by his haggard state, she pressed herself against him with all of her strength, with their child safely nestled between them. 

Never to be parted again.

…And so they lived, with love as the lord of all.