Work Text:
“The devil shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil his due.”
"Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.”
"Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.”
- William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 1, I.ii.
——
There are no trees at the top of the hill, not anymore.
Growing up, the image of Ezellohar Hill crowned with its two trees had been everywhere, as common a sight as the sparrow in the sky or flowers in the spring. Everything from pennants to proclamations had been marked with the Duke’s standard; two golden trees on a silver hill.
But now the trees are gone. The Duke is, too. A new family presides over Tirion, and the familiar standard has been replaced with a yellow sun emblazoned on a sea of blue.
Halbrand does not know what became of the trees after they fell. Perhaps their wood went into the construction of the scaffolding on which he stands. There is a sense of poetic justice to the idea that he rather likes; hanged on the gallows built of the very trees he’d cut down. It’s neat, symmetrical in a way fables often are.
One day, children may sit around the hearth to hear the story of the Warlock and the Mighty Trees. A chilling tale best reserved for dark nights. One that doubles as a lesson, a warning about the twin follies of ambition and pride.
After the felling of the trees, Ezellohar had been swiftly repurposed. The great, ragged trunks had been dug up, the ground atop the hill leveled, and a walled-in courtyard constructed. Long benches were installed around the perimeter walls, raised at different levels to give spectators a clear view of the gallows, which stood alone in the center of the ring, pretty and clean and horrible to behold.
The benches are empty today, though not for lack of interest. Over the droning recitation of his crimes the soldier at his side reads aloud, Halbrand can hear the din of a crowd gathering outside the gates. He does not need to hear their words to know what they’re demanding. One would think that a people who had been at war for so long would be sick of the sight of death by now. But evidently not — not for his, at least.
On the north wall of the courtyard, a grand box had been built for the nobility, filled with padded seats and long tables protected from the elements by a wooden awning. Aside from the handful of soldiers stationed around the walls, the giant executioner standing at his back, and the birds who have made their nests in the rafters, no one else will bear witness to Halbrand’s death but those who had mediated his justice; Lord Finarfin and his three sons, sirs Finrod, Aegnor, and Angrod.
The day is cloudless and bright, no breeze to offer relief. Deep shadows obscure the new duke and his sons, but their disdain is as mercilessly hot as the sun. The hypocrisy makes Halbrand’s stomach sour. Really, they ought to be thanking him. If not for him, the Noldor would still be nothing but petty manor lords of some backwater province, home to more cows than people. He cleared the way for their meteoric rise to power, and for his troubles, he’s been rewarded with nothing more than a short drop and a sudden stop.
“And for these crimes,” the soldier at his side finishes reading, “you have been sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead and granted no final resting place. Your body will be burned and your ashes spread across the sea. You shall never be risen by any black arts, nor will your spirit find a home in the house of that devil to whom you are sworn.” Rolling up the parchment, the soldier asks, “Have you any last words?”
Squinting in the sunlight, Halbrand tilts his head back to look at the endlessly blue sky. Up above, a hazy corona surrounds the sun. To the far west, storm clouds are gathering. A bird flits by overhead, carefree and ignorant of the deadly matters below.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You have nothing to say?” Lord Finarfin leans forward into the sunlight, gripping the wooden banister. “Nothing to say for the evil your actions brought upon this land? Your treachery, the lives you took, the horrors you bore — you have nothing at all to say?”
Finarfin seems genuinely surprised. It makes Halbrand want to laugh; makes him want to scream. “To what end?” he asks. “You have already condemned me, sentenced me to death. You would discredit any repentance I offered, call me a liar and hang me even so.” He pauses to collect himself before continuing. “No, my lord. Besides these I speak, my final words will be mine alone. You will get nothing more from me.”
There is no bloodlust in Finarfin’s gaze, as there might have been with Morgoth's, nor is there pity. Only the steely resolve of a man sick to death of the sight of blood. “So be it then,” Finarfin sighs. “May the Valar have mercy on your soul.”
With a nod from his lord, the executioner steps forward and slips the noose over Halbrand’s head. He gives it a sharp tug, pulling the rope tight; not enough to kill him but enough to offer a taste of what’s to come.
Sensing its impending doom, something unfathomable and desperate to live rears its head in Halbrand’s body, bucking like a wild horse. His heart thunders wildly, blood pulsing across his vision, his breathing short and shallow.
He deserves this, knows deep in his bones he deserves this. But that does not make it any easier to bear.
The wood creaks as the executioner steps back. Halbrand closes his eyes, braces for the fall. His mind is blank with terror. Another step, another creak of wood, and—
“Stop!”
For a moment, Halbrand supposes that he is already dead. Supposes that his final, wretched moments of life had been mercilessly erased from his memory. But the rope is still painfully tight around his throat, sweat still drips uncomfortably down his back. And why would there be birdsong in the hells?
Cracking open one eye, Halbrand confirms that he is not dead. He turns to look at the executioner. The man’s hand hovers over the lever, and he stares imploringly at Finarfin for direction. But Finarfin is not looking their way. He is looking at the figure crossing the courtyard. And Halbrand follows his gaze.
It takes him a moment to realize who she is. He’s never met her, never seen her likeness, but there is no doubting the golden hair or regal bearings of the Noldor House.
It is Lady Galadriel who has crossed the yard, Lady Galadriel who is now ascending the scaffolding. One of her brother’s shouts her name, but she does not turn to acknowledge him. Instead, she approaches the executioner and lays a hand on his arm.
“Your services will not be needed today, sir,” she says, firmly.
“Galadriel!” Finarfin shouts. “What is the meaning of this?”
Glancing briefly at Halbrand, a small, secretive smile flashing across her face, Galadriel turns to address her father. “I have come to fetch my husband.”
—
Beyond their noble natures, sun-yellow hair, and deep blue eyes, the House of Noldor has always been known for one thing: Their secret.
It’s not a particularly well-kept secret; everyone from prince to pauper seems to know about it. But no one dares acknowledge it.
For all their righteousness, their condemnation of the black arts and crusade against those who dared dabble in them, the Noldors are not wholly opposed to magic. They cannot be, not when their youngest, their only daughter, is a witch.
She was born under the light of a blood moon, if the stories are to be believed. That’s where they say her magic comes from. She’s signed no contract for her powers, has not bound herself to a devil in eternal servitude for just a small taste of infernal power, as Halbrand had. No, No, Galadriel’s magic is a gift from the Valar, divine purity made manifest. An ever-bright sword to cleave through the darkness that gathers across the lands.
The White Lady — the White Witch. She does not keep court, like her mother and sisters-in-law, nor is she a soldier, like her brothers and father. Halbrand has heard it said that she lives apart from her family, deep in the woods where the forest folk attend to her and she can weave her magic in peace.
Utter bullshit, Halbrand believes.
Had believed — until this moment. Because the very force of Lady Galadriel’s presence makes his knees tremble. It is only the rope around his neck that keeps him upright when her eyes cut to his in a flash of ethereal blue.
She wears a brilliant white gown with a surcoat embroidered with gold-threaded suns. Strings of pearls are draped about her throat, diamonds sparkling from her ears and her fingers. But despite her lustrous dress, there is something strangely wild about her appearance; her hair is a wave of gold-twined-silver cascading down her back, loose and unadorned. And Halbrand notices, somewhat distantly, that she wears no shoes.
Even in the noon sun, Lady Galadriel carries something of the moon in her skin, an aura that is as soft and cool as the first breath of an autumnal midnight. That serenity is reflected on her face as she stands next to Halbrand, looking out toward her father.
“Husband?” Finarfin and Halbrand both repeat — one in fury and one in shock. The look on Finarfin’s face is thunderous.
Galadriel does not respond right away, pausing to study Halbrand. For all her power, she is small in stature, has to tilt her chin high to meet his gaze. There is a weight to her stare like the pressure of the deep ocean; Halbrand finds he cannot look her in the eye for more than a handful of moments.
At last, she nods. “Yes, this is him.” Adding quietly, “or, will be him soon enough.”
There is a commotion in the yard as the three Noldor sons quickly descend from their box. The twins, Aegnor and Angrod, fall a step behind Finrod, who makes his way to the scaffolding hurriedly.
“Sister, come away from there,” he says. “You are interfering with affairs of the state. You must come down and let the executioner finish his work.”
The man in question still hovers uncertainly by the lever, shoulders hunched inwards as though to make himself smaller under Galadriel’s gaze.
“As I’ve said, your services will not be needed here today, sir,” she addresses him. “I thank you for your troubles and suggest you remove yourself from here with all haste.”
Struck dumb, the executioner can only nod. He barrels his way down the stairs, pushing past Finrod and the twins, none of whom try to stop him.
With all the caution of a man approaching a sleeping dragon, Finrod takes a few hesitant steps up the stairs. “Galadriel, you must understand,” he says, slowly, “that this man has already been condemned to die. There is no kindness in delaying the inevitable.”
“‘Kindness?’” Halbrand cannot stop himself from laughing, even as he chokes on it, his tongue thick in his mouth. “How noble. So, this is to be a culling, not a killing, then? Yes, there can be no doubting the kindness of Noldor justice; charged, judged, and sentenced by the same men. A wonder none of you were up here to pull the lever yourselves. That would’ve been the kind thing to do.”
Finrod’s shoulders stiffen, his face awash with cold fury. He turns his attention to Halbrand, stalking up the remaining stairs until they stand practically toe-to-toe. “You dare speak to me of justice?” he hisses. “You, Devil-bound and soulless. Whose hands overflow with the blood of all the innocent slain. Who destroyed the two trees, the very symbol of this realm — justice?” He menaces closer, teeth bared. “If there was true justice in this world, you would be hanged a thousand times over and never die. You would know the agony of death without the mercy of its sweet release until the end of time. You would—”
“That is enough, Brother, you have made your point.”
In his rage, Finrod had bypassed Galadriel completely. He startles at her voice, stumbling back and blinking rapidly, as though clearing his eyes of some haze. Aegnor and Angrod move to flank their brother, both with their hands on their sword hilts, but neither ascend the gallows past the top step.
Finrod takes a moment to collect himself, smoothing back his hair and shaking the tension from his shoulders. It lingers in his throat, straining his words. “Please, Galadriel. You were not on the battlefield, you cannot understand.” He cuts Halbrand a dark look. “This one’s selfishness was nearly the doom of us all. Never in my life have I known a man so deserving of death.”
“Is that so?” Galadriel hums softly. “Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life. Would you give it to them?” Stepping forward, she reaches out to brush a lock of hair from Halbrand’s brow. He flinches at her touch, unaccustomed to such gentleness.
“It is our family’s solemn duty,” Finrod says, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. “Cruel as it may seem, we have been anointed to do so.”
“By whom?” Galadriel asks; her fingers trail down Halbrand’s cheek, fascinated by the feel of his stubble. He is helpless to do anything but stare at her in wide-eyed wonder. “Certainly not the people of this land.”
“Careful, girl,” this from Angrod, who braves the final step onto the platform to address his sister. Halbrand notices the Valar’s holy symbol hangs about his neck and is embroidered on his tunic. “You tread dangerously close to heresy.”
“Tread? Oh no, I do not tread.” Galadriel rocks back on her heels. “I charge towards it, like a colt in full gallop.”
“You dare—!”
“Our enemy, too, is well versed in heresy,” she says, calmly, “and they exercise it with a terrible precision. Do you think them afraid of our most revered masters across the sea? This war was nothing but a battle to them — a crushing defeat, yes, but they are far from beaten. Even now, banners are being raised once more in the Black Lands. Some new devil, some Lord Father, is amassing an army of Morgoth’s remaining faithful.”
Halbrand startles at the name; only Galadriel seems to notice, but she does not acknowledge it.
“Surely it would be prudent,” she continues, turning to face Finarfin, who has done nothing but wring the banister beneath furious fists, “to retain every advantage possible over the enemy. I do not see the wisdom of destroying a weapon merely because it has been used cruelly by a poor master. Even a wild dog can be domesticated by a firm hand.”
Standing behind Angrod and gripping his arm tight, Aegnor scoffs. “And to whose hand should we command this man’s leash?”
“My own.” She tilts her head and the angle sharpens her soft smile. “He is to be my husband, after all.”
“Galadriel—”
“No.”
The world seems to darken around the edges of Halbrand’s vision, the ambient noises of the day disappearing. There is only her No echoing in his ears, reverberating between his ribs. Something in the air shifts, but before he can grasp what is happening, the world gives a great sigh and the echoes cease.
Finarfin still stands in his box, white lipped and trembling. The brothers have huddled together in a mass, whether to prop one another up or pull each other down, it is hard to say.
Galadriel slowly meets each man’s gaze in turn. “The tides of fate are flowing,” she says “with or without you. Either submit to their currents and sail the calm waters, or fight against them and drown. But there is no escaping them. None of us can.”
Glancing back at Halbrand, she waves her hand and a fine sickle of silver light, thin as a cloud, slices through the rope. He collapses to the ground, coughing and spluttering and nauseatingly lightheaded.
“Take him back to my chambers. Clean him, feed him, see that he is comfortable and unharmed. I am done here.”
Halbrand does not know to whom she is speaking; by the time he raises his head, Lady Galadriel is halfway across the courtyard, disappearing into the shadows without a backwards glance.
—
Numb with shock, Halbrand is something like a ghost living deep inside his own body. He is aware of the brutish hands of the two guards that grab him, pushing him down from the gallows; aware of the long, hot, uphill trek back to the manor; aware of entering through the kitchens, of the startled hush that falls over the room as he is spotted and pushed through an open panel in the wall.
He is led through the servants’ halls that run through the interior of the manor. Windowless and dark, save for half-burnt tallow candles dripping from the walls. The air in here is close, the heat oppressive. The guards before and behind him seem unaffected, but Halbrand struggles to draw a full breath and his pace grows sluggish.
As he struggles up a narrow staircase, the guard at his back loses his patience. He snaps, “Faster, damn you,” and pushes Halbrand’s shoulders.
They have not removed the manacles keeping his arms locked behind his back. There is nothing Halbrand can do to brace for the fall. He slams down chin first, biting hard at the inside of his cheek. White spots flash across his eyes as he lies crumpled in a heap at the foot of the stairs, aware of the pain, aware of the taste of blood in his mouth.
“Oy, watch it,” the guard above yells to the other. “You heard what the lady said — can’t go breaking her new toy before she’s had a chance to play with him.”
The guard who pushed him snorts and prods Halbrand with his toe. “You think she actually intends to wed this one?”
“Wed, bed, and behead. You know how the lady is. Remember when Lord Celeborn came to court her?” The guard whistles, shaking his head. “Heard they still haven’t found all the missing pieces. ‘Course Doriath’s gone now, along with the rest of them, so no one’s really been looking too hard. What’s one more dead lord?”
His partner laughs. Halbrand’s vision swims as he’s hauled up by the scruff of his neck, meaty fingers digging into the spot where the noose had rubbed his skin raw. “Hear that?” the guard asks. “Bet you’ll be begging for the gallows by the time the Lady’s through with you.”
Underneath the pain and the shock, something festers and seethes in Halbrand’s stomach: humiliation. He realizes in that moment that he’d entrusted too much of himself into Morgoth’s being, much more than just his soul. His strength, his pride, his loyalty — how eagerly he had sold these parts of himself away, never once considering what might happen to him if he somehow lived longer than his patron.
And now, here he is; shackled and powerless, pushed around by weaker men. Morgoth’s death has robbed Halbrand of much more than his magic. It has robbed him of his peace, his freedom, and any future he might’ve shaped for himself.
The guards drag Halbrand the rest of the way through the winding veins of the manor, eventually shoving him unceremoniously through a door at the end of a long hall. He stumbles into a sparsely appointed solar. The windows are open wide, flooding the room with eye-blinding light. Squinting through watering eyes, Halbrand has just enough time to determine that they must be standing in the southwestern tower — the tops of the surviving forest trees just visible beyond the walls — before he is once again grabbed by rough hands.
Servants sent to attend to him at Lady Galadriel’s demand.
They treat him just as cruelly as the guards in their own way. Referring to him as “Lady Galadriel’s pet,” they refuse to remove his manacles, even to bathe. The last vestiges of his dignity crumble as they cut away his ragged clothes from his body and force him into a tub of ice cold water. He is scrubbed with coarse brushes that rip open half-healed sores littering his body, tinging the water pink. His head is yanked this way and that as they wash his hair and trim his beard, each sharp tug making the rope burn around his throat sting.
Halbrand is unchained only once in order that they can dress him. The feeling in his arms has been gone for hours. When they are released, a wave of pins and needles rushes down to his fingers — a sensation not unlike the first time he’d wielded magic. Back then, the pain and the joy had been indistinguishable from each other; he had laughed wildly while tears blurred his vision.
But now, with the tendons in his shoulders stiff with disuse, the tears that spring in his eyes are only from pain. He bites down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out when his arms are shoved through a tunic. His wrists are rebound the moment his hands are through the sleeves, although thankfully this time at his front, affording him some semblance of balance as the servants continue dressing him.
As they finish, two more servants enter the apartment, one carrying a platter of cold meats and cheeses, the other a pitcher of ale. Halbrand’s mouth waters. Stumbling over to the table where they set the food, his stomach twists sourly as he realizes that the meats are mostly fat and gristle, the cheese spotted with mold; it wouldn’t surprise him if they’d pissed in the ale, too. But there is nothing so humbling as hunger. He gnaws at the gristle, sucks the marrow from cracked bones, rips the moldy edges off the cheese, and tries not to taste the ale as he drinks.
By the time Halbrand finishes eating, the sun has begun to set in earnest, bathing the room in warm, golden light. The servants have all scurried away, and he is alone once more with only the two guards for company. Both ignore him as he stands, stretching as far as his chains will allow.
Rolling his head side to side, Halbrand surreptitiously takes stock of the men, eying their swords warily. They pay him no mind now, but his chin still smarts from hitting the stairs. There is no telling when Lady Galadriel will appear, and no telling how bored these two might grow while waiting — or what that boredom might inspire
Casting around for anything that could be used as a makeshift weapon, he spies two pewter candlesticks standing unlit on the sideboard. But the moment he reaches for one, the guard who had grabbed him barks, “Don’t touch that!” Halbrand quickly does as he’s told, causing the two men to snigger.
It’s all he can do to stop himself from attacking them in that moment, weapons be damned. They sneer at his weakness now, but these men would’ve cowered in terror if they’d met Halbrand on the battlefield. Black helmed and wicked blades crackling with demonic energy, he could have cut through them with a single flick of his wrist. Could have plucked their worst fears from their minds and trapped them in illusions so powerful their hearts would’ve given out from sheer terror.
But fury is a cold, patient killer; Halbrand commits their faces to his memory for later use.
Exhaustion pulls heavy at his limbs. He struggles against it, not wanting to leave himself any more vulnerable than he already is. But the moment Halbrand collapses on the divan in front of the hearth, all of his remaining energy drains away, and he slips into the welcoming embrace of sleep.
—
The moon smiles down on Halbrand as he sleeps. It runs its cool fingers through his hair, filling his chest with a lightness he’s not felt since boyhood. A sense of peace. He could linger here happily, wants nothing more than to stay, but his name echoes through the darkness, pulling him up.
He awakes, disoriented. Above him, the moon transforms into Lady Galadriel. His head is resting on her lap as she idly toys with his hair, a far off look in her eyes.
“I was wondering when you’d wake,” she says.
Halbrand sits up slowly, head heavy. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sees that his manacles have been removed. The skin about his wrists are rubbed red and raw.
Galadriel stands, indicating a low table as she walks by it. “There is salve here, if you wish.”
Halbrand reaches for it cautiously; it is cool on his skin, smells fresh and green. He dabs it on his wrists as he watches her glide across the room.
She has changed gowns since last he saw her. The one she wears is white still, but it lacks the adornments of her station, all those fine gems and jewels that had glimmered so blindingly in the sun. The fabric is thin — not satin or damask, but a rough silk, maybe cotton — and swirls loosely around her form. A peasant’s dress, he would think, if not for the intricate silver embroidery on the hem and sleeves.
Pouring a glass of wine from a carafe on the sideboard, Galadriel returns to his side, pressing it into his hands. But he does not drink it immediately. Seeing his distrust, she scoffs, takes the glass, drinks deeply, and hands it back.
“Surely you cannot think I would’ve gone to all the trouble of saving you from the gallows only to poison you now?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Halbrand admits. “I was told that I would die today and planned accordingly; I did not account for these hours I was not supposed to have.”
Galadriel tilts her head, eyes unfocusing briefly, as though looking at something far beyond his understanding. “Yes, the path does go ever winding,” she says softly, almost too herself, “and even the wisest cannot see all ends.”
For a brief moment, she sits there, unnaturally still as though frozen in time. But then she blinks and her eyes refocus. “Drink,” she instructs, nodding to the glass in Halbrand’s hand. “It will do you good.”
He makes a show of taking a healthy sip, earning himself a small smile before she stands, and crosses to the windows at the other side of the room.
Outside, the sky is heavy and black with storm clouds. Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, a weak flash of lightning following moments later. Despite the incoming storm, the windows have not been shuttered and the perfume of ozone wafts in on a cool breeze. Inside, there are a great many candles lit, a healthy fire crackling in the hearth. They are merry and bright, but Galadriel outshines them all, her skin glowing with silver light.
It is her magic that surrounds her, wending its way through the air, unseen by all but those who know how to see it. Her potency is remarkable; as strong as Morgoth’s and just as alluring. It reveals a sensation of emptiness at the back of Halbrand’s throat, a deep thirst wine could never satisfy. His hands shake with want, and he drinks deeply from his glass to disguise the tremors.
“Halbrand.” Standing by the window, looking out into the night, Galadriel sounds out his name slowly, thoughtfully; rolling it around her mouth to get the feel of it. “Quite a common name.”
“I come from common stock,” he says.
She turns, giving him a knowing smile. “You made a wise choice. It is a very disarming name.”
The wine glass pauses on its way to his mouth for an infinitesimal moment; he is sure she notices. “What do you want of me, my lady? I am very grateful to be alive,” he adds, hastily, “but I do not understand why.”
Galadriel does not answer. Thunder rumbles overhead as rain begins to fall, splattering onto the windowsill.
Closing the shutters, she says, quite suddenly, “My brothers have told me that Morgoth had a lieutenant; his most beautiful servant. Not this Lord Father who rallies in the Black Lands now, but a warlock of unfathomable skill.” Her gaze pierces him, even from across the room. “They say he disappeared before the war ended. After the battle at Angband, as I understand it. Do you know of whom I speak, Halbrand?”
He is slow to answer, carefully setting the glass down on the table next to the salve.“You speak of Sauron,” he says, eventually.
Galadriel nods. “I’ve heard it said that Morgoth cast him out in fury over the loss. Others say he lost his faith in his master and fled to save his life.”
Frowning, Halbrand chooses his next words carefully. “If you think to use me to seek him out, I fear you won’t have much luck. A low-man like me never met anyone in Morgoth’s inner circle.”
Galadriel hums in the back of her throat. Walking to the corner of the room, she pushes aside a tapestry, revealing a hidden door. “My father says that Sauron had all but mastered the forbidden magics,” she continues, as though he has not spoken, “necromancy and shadowcasting and the like. That he was too powerful to die by mortal hands.”
Opening the door, she gestures for Halbrand to follow. There is nothing beyond the frame but a staircase spiraling upwards. Halbrand follows a step behind Galadriel, letting her silver glow guide the way through the dark. The heat from the day lingers in the passageway.
“And you question the wisdom of your father,” he asks, “is that it?”
“I suppose I’m curious. Death comes for us all, even Morgoth could not escape it, in the end. Which leads me to wonder,” Galadriel pauses, glances over her shoulder, lips curling into a coy smile, “Were you ever in any real danger today? Or is it true that you’ve learned of secret magics far beyond your master’s understanding — Sauron?”
There is a swoop in Halbrand’s stomach, an upending of gravity like he’s fallen from some great height. “Witch,” he curses, hoarsely. “Have you known all along?”
“Yes.” Wind whistles through the cracks in the wall. “You don’t deny it, then.” It’s not a question.
“I—” Halbrand stops, considers lying, but there would be no benefit to it. “It’s not as simple as that.”
Galadriel turns, continuing up the stairs. “Explain it to me, then.”
Something is spinning out of Halbrand’s control, too fast for him to even get a sense of its whole shape. He needs to find his footing before he’s swept under. “I am indebted to you, my lady, but not so indebted as to share all my secrets for free,” he says, at last. “Let us say simply that the warlock Sauron died with Morgoth. All his power and magic dragged back into the Nine Hells with his master. I am simply what was left behind.”
“Mortal,” Galadriel surmises.
“Yes.”
“Powerless?”
Flushing, he grits his teeth. “It would seem so.”
“But not for long, I think.”
Halbrand opens his mouth to ask what she means, but then he reaches the top step and the question dies. The storm is closer now, the lightning more frequent, illuminating the dark room. The tall ceiling slopes inwards, disappearing into shadow as it goes up. There is one window in the room, as tall and wide as a man, facing east. He supposes, somewhat distantly, that they stand in an attic like any other — it has walls and a roof and a floor — but that is where the similarities end.
Where the solar is ascetic as an abbey, the attic is packed so full it is difficult to spot a clear path through it. In the brief flashes of lightning, he spies thick garlands of herbs hanging from the rafters, along with charms made of bones and feathers. A small pile of books spills from the corner of the room, the shelves where they should be are packed full; flasks and phials of all different sizes; tufts of wild grasses woven with wildflowers; rolls of parchment and scattered rune-stones; earthen bowls and chalices made of precious metals.
A long table runs along the back wall, and centered on it, just below the window, sits a basin of clear water. There is something about it that instantly pricks the back of Halbrand’s neck; all of the light in the room seems to converge on its surface, and it has the same silver glow about it as Galadriel.
She moves toward it gracefully. “Be careful where you step,” she warns. “Some things are not meant to be disturbed.”
Halbrand, who had been following in her wake, stops abruptly, foot hovering over something dark and spiked that seems to have been placed on the floor with precise intent. Edging away, he keeps his eyes cast downward as he carefully picks his way across the room. There are dark streaks painting the floor in an odd pattern; he cannot discern the full shape of it, though something about it tugs at his memory.
Standing in front of the basin, Galadriel runs her fingers around its edges lovingly. “When Morgoth was defeated, it was like a great, clenched fist had released its grasp from my neck,” she says. “I had lived under the oppressive aura of his dark magic all my life, I did not understand the true extent of my powers until that first dawn broke without him.”
Halbrand peers over her shoulder into the basin. There is a clarity to the water that shimmers with unreality, as though it is the only real thing in a world of illusion. The waves of power coming off it are immense. He savors the sensation of it licking across his skin.
“As the new sun rose,” continues Galadriel, “I came up here to my mirror and gazed into its depths unimpeded for the first time. And do you know what I saw?"
She waves her hand over the basin and the water begins to churn, a vortex appearing at its center. When the ripples fade, Halbrand sees two silhouettes in the water. He bends down to get a better look and the details come into focus — a man wearing a horned helm and a woman in a spiked crown. The figures are featureless, but he knows without a doubt that Galadriel is the shadowed woman and he is the one who is standing at her side.
He glances up to find her watching him intently, the color high in her cheeks. The light from the basin has made her eyes violently blue, like the heart of a flame. Her power coils around him in smokey tendrils, sending shivers down his spine.
“There are few who know this, but in the beginning, Morgoth’s strength was equal to any devil in the Nine Hells,” she says. “And then, he learned of the power of the covenant. Do you know of what I speak?”
“The warlocks’ pact,” Halbrand says, softly.
She nods. “His power shared for the cost of a soul; divided, and divided again. Each layer folding on top of the other as it spread. He made himself a pestilence, a contagion that swept across the realm.”
“And I suppose you want us to find a cure,” Halbrand guesses, “to stop this Lord Father from doing the same.”
Galadriel laughs, then, the sound warm and throaty; Halbrand thinks, weakly, that there is very little in this world he would not do to hear her laugh like that again. “You misunderstand me. I mean to match him with a covenant of my own, with the most powerful tool in Morgoth’s arsenal.”
It takes a moment to understand what she is saying. Halbrand gazes longingly at the silhouettes in the water, his heart pounding. Lightening cracks overhead, and for those brief seconds, the two figures seem to grow, to stand up from the water.
“It’s a pretty fantasy,” he says, at last, “but a fantasy nonetheless. I have told you, Sauron died with Morgoth. His power is not just diminished, it is gone. I can never hold it again. Make your bargains with other warlocks if you wish, collect as many souls as you desire, but mine is lost.”
“Is that so?” Galadriel tilts her head, thoughtfully. “A man’s possessions still remain after his death. And if he has no inheritors, then his worldly goods belong to whoever claims them first, wouldn’t you agree? I see no reason why it would be any different with devils.”
“What are you—?”
Pressing a palm to Halbrand’s chest, light bursts between them — not silver and cool as that which Galadriel emits, but a molten gold; hot without burning, sulfuric and sweet. Halbrand cries aloud in shock. It is coming from within his own chest, the warmth spreading through his limbs.
“A little worse for wear, it’s true, but all the stronger for it.” The light fades as Galadriel’s fingers curl in his tunic, pulling herself flush with him. “Bind yourself to me, Halbrand,” she implores, “and together, let us destroy the darkness once and for all.”
Halbrand is dizzy with want, still dazzled by the glow of their combined light. She is beautiful and she is magnificent. He wants to sink his teeth into her, to drown in her light, to make it the spark that releases that golden fire in his body once more.
“And what would the conditions of this pact be?” he rasps, pressing a hand over hers to keep it trapped against his chest. “My soul? My obedience? Everything has a price — power most of all.”
Galadriel reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, her touch sizzling like rain on a hot stone. “I ask only that you be my partner in all things,” she says, “no more and no less. Push me to unimaginable heights and pull me back when I soar too high. Share with me your secrets, and I will share my own. Love me, delight me, stay by my side always; be my comfort and my joy.” Her fingers pass over his lips. “Worship me,” she whispers, “and I will make you stronger than the foundations of the earth.”
Halbrand falls to his knees. There is a roaring in his ears, louder than the storm that shrieks overhead. “Yes. Yes, I agree to your terms. Take from me whatever you wish, have me sign whatever you want.” He grasps her hips and presses his face against her stomach, overcome. “Share your power with me and I will be your husband, your partner, your servant or your master — yours and yours alone.”
The air is humming around them. Galadriel slides her fingers through his hair. When she tips his head back, there is a knife pressed to his throat. The blade is sharp, he can feel it biting into his skin. He does not fight it, simply stares up at her in wonder.
She instructs him to remove his tunic, and Halbrand does so quickly, hands shaking. He shivers in pleasure as she studies his body, the weight of her gaze soft as a caress. He cannot contain the small noise that escapes him when she grasps the hair at the base of his skull.
Tipping his head back once more, she scrapes the knife across the bobbing apple of his throat, dragging it down his chest. Resting the point of the knife just above his heart, Galadriel whispers, “Only blood can bind.”
Halbrand does not move, fear and desire and wicked joy swelling in his stomach. He moans when she pierces his flesh. The path of the knife is hot and wet as she carves a curved symbol into his skin. There is pain and there is pleasure as magic spills into his veins. It swirls like a maelstrom that consumes his senses, pulling him into a blinding whiteness. His blood surges, drumming in his heart, dripping down his chest, stiffening his cock.
A boom of thunder shakes the manor, the force of it bringing him back to himself. Halbrand is on his hands and knees, sweat-slicked and panting. A small puddle of blood forming below him. He looks up. Galadriel is naked and glowing like starlight, kneeling in the center of those strange dark patterns that line the floor — a binding circle, he realizes.
She crooks a finger and bids him, “Come.”
On hands and knees, he prowls toward her, feeling his skin shift in a leonine fashion as the magic knits to his muscle, just beneath his flesh. When he enters the circle, Galadriel takes his hand in hers and wraps it around the knife’s hilt. His vision doubles at her touch; he is looking in her eyes and through her eyes, and he knows she is doing the same. Her heartbeat nestles next to his, and as she guides him to carve the matching symbol just above her breastbone, the feeling of her ecstasy magnifies his own.
The knife clatters to the floor the moment the figure is finished, and Halbrand is wrapping his arms around Galadriel’s waist, drawing her sharply forward. She buries her hands in his hair, moaning as he bends his head and licks the blood that swells from her breast. Spilling across her silver skin, it seems more black than red, but it is hot and sweet on his tongue.
He feels lightheaded and drunk when she pushes him away but holds steady as she crawls into his lap. Straddling his hips, Galadriel takes her time sinking down onto his stiff cock, teeth caught between her lips as she adjusts to the size of him. She rocks forward experimentally and her name falls from his lips in a shaking plea.
She finds her rhythm slowly, rising and falling over him like an incoming tide. Halbrand is helpless to do anything but guide her hips, fingers bruising her pale skin. She kisses him once, sharp and sudden, before pressing her open mouth to the bloody symbol on his chest.
When she hollows her cheeks and sucks, the world breaks around him. He is falling through its cracks, mindless with pleasure, consuming her and is consumed by her. They come together, the sensation of her orgasm rippling through her core echoing in his own.
Afterwards, Halbrand comes back to himself in fits and starts. His mind takes its time to slowly settle back into his body. Galadriel is still wrapped around him, fingers digging into his shoulders. She seems just as overwhelmed as he is, eyes wet and lips red with blood.
She startles when he pushes the hair from her sweaty brow, staring at him in wonder, as though she has never seen his like. “I did not know,” she murmurs. “I did not know it would be like this.”
“Nor I,” he admits. “Only with you — only with us.” Keeping his arms around her, Halbrand leans back until he is lying prone on the floor. Galadriel sprawls across his chest, her magic humming like a purr.
After some time, she raises her head. Twining her fingers with Halbrand’s, she brings them to her mouth and brushes her lips across his knuckles. He cups her cheek in his hand, thumb softly stroking her pink cheek.
Leaning into his touch, Galadriel gives a contented sigh. “We will do such wonders, you and I,” she says, nuzzling into his hand. “Together.”
Halbrand grins as he feels his own magic rising to meet her’s. “Together,” he repeats.
Outside the attic, the storm reaches its zenith. At the top of Ezellohar Hill, water floods the new courtyard, turning packed dirt into mud. The wind is whipping into a frenzy, the noose still dangling from the gallows knotted in on itself and fraying.
There is a moment like a held breath, and then the air shatters. Lightening forks down from the sky, striking the scaffolding with an all-mighty boom. The wood creaks in agony as it falls. It crashes down onto the platform, which splinters under the force. The whole structure buckles and collapses with a final, pained groan.
And deep in the earth, far, far below the wreckage, two seeds strain against their husks. Their white tendrils snake through the soil, eagerly drinking up the water that now seeps into the ground.
There are no trees at the top of the hill, not anymore. But someday soon, there will be again.