Chapter Text
The last Son of the House of Finarfin was dead.
Like the fallen autumn leaves, the final male heir rotted on the soil of war, never to return home. His body red and open and blackened by fire, laid to final rest among his men, with only his ring returned to his kin.
A ring for a Prince. The stench of decay still clung to it’s dirt crusted emblem, embedded within the sigil of their dying house.
She twisted the signet around her delicate finger, the gold harsh on her pale skin and far too big even on her thumb.
It looked much better upon her brother’s soldier tanned hand.
“Galadriel,” her uncle spoke in that low tone she’d come to despise in the years past. It meant news that would shake her world once again. It meant he was stepping into the place that was not made for him.
The place of her father, her minder, her only kin.
Kin did not do what he did. Kin was meant to protect, not exploit.
No, she did not see her Uncle King as kin.
With an aching effort, she turned her tired eyes to face him in the solar of her family’s estate. The castle was grand yet homey, utterly lived in with its comfortable sitting rooms and tapestry lined great hall. A far cry from the royal castle in Valinor.
He’d road in early that morning, arriving before she woke.
They came to bring her news.
News of her brothers rotting flesh— left where he was felled by enemies.
As if she did not feel the blade herself as it pierced his good heart.
Her uncle said nothing for a moment, his eyes roaming her dawned blacks. They were dusted from her trunk the day before, after only having been returned to its care not three months before.
Word travelled fast to her, being her father’s daughter. Her uncle despised this. But he could not stop up love the way he cut the heads from those who spoke against him.
Her family, though not the royal line, was loved. Far more than he and his gaggle of sons.
“Uncle, how kind of you to visit in this trying time,” she replied— voice painfully blank. If he would not address her by her station, as a Lady, he would not hear Your Grace fall from her lips.
Feanor examined her, his narrow eyes so much like the brother he never truly liked. His hair was black, an abyss floating around his thinly lined face. Chin the same point, as she’d inherited it from her dear father. Though his stature was that of a king— the set of his shoulders proud and assured. He did not fit, too imposing among the gentle blue velvets and woven tapestries that made up the room her mother once loved.
She was all that was left of her great house.
“You know why I have come, then?” He asked, foolishly attempting to manipulate her with a gentle furrow to his brow. She knew her uncle too well for his games, for she had seen his greed shine within his eyes like the gems upon his coronation crown.
Though he be king, his brother was the beloved General who commanded his armies. Whose rich and fertile lands fed his people. Who’s warmth drew commoners to him like moths to a flame.
But he was now dead. Along with his heir their people called the Sun Prince.
Feanor took a step towards her.
It took all her power not to step back from his advance. She would not show him weakness. Not after nights of listening at the door of her father’s study, to the horrors he did not know how to stop enacted by their gracious king.
“I have come to take you to your new home, my girl.” He spoke gently, as if she’d spook like an untrained filly. Galadriel had to keep herself from rolling her eyes. He believed her a kept women, a child in mind but chattel in body, to be sold and bartered to the rich men of the land to secure his power. As the last daughter of his blood, she was the most precious bargaining chip he could possess. It gave her some semblance of power, if she could figure how to wield it. “These lands will be ruled by my eldest for the time.”
“And in time, all the Dukedom will be absorbed into your kingdom.” She could not keep the snarl from her lips. Her mother’s land, of which her father married into. They allied with the Eldar, but ruled themselves in truth. “Is that what you have waited for, uncle? How apt you dance on the bodies of your fallen kin if it means your own advancement.”
The slap landed quick, stinging her cheek with a bright pain. She’d felt worse in her endeavors outside the walls he thought her cage. But Feanor sought a lamb, a cowed girl to bow and simper under his kingly dominance.
Galadriel was no lamb.
The thought made her smile, though she hid it with her hand as she rubbed her sore cheek.
“You’ll learn to hold your tongue, girl,” her uncle’s voice gave no indication that he was angry. But she could sense it in the same way one could smell snow. “There is a litter outside, your maids will pack your necessary items and anything else can be provided. It will bear you to your new home in the countryside until your betrothed is prepared to receive you.”
That word slithered down her spine, striking fear into her heart with its very fangs.
“Betrothed?” She shrieked, unable to keep the panic from her voice.
Feanor grinned, an unfriendly twist of his lips that made her wonder how cruel one who shared blood with her could truly be. “It has been too long since you’ve come of age, soon you’ll be no good to a proper man.”
Galadriel turned back to the slitted window that looked over the eastern woods lining their land. Beyond, she could almost feel the bleeding heat she imagined emanated from their enemy.
Mordor laid beyond the trees and even in the quiet brush of spring, she could almost smell war upon the breeze.
War that took her father. War that slaughtered her brothers. One after one.
War that stole her innocence, that made sure she knew the scent of death better than her mother’s favorite perfume.
War mongered by one man.
Her father fought on even when his sons died one after another. She was only a girl when her second eldest brother fell in battle, she barely remembered Angrod’s face. But she was thirteen when Aegnor died. Then sixteen when her father was slain before her eyes. Finally, her closest brother. Finrod deserved the burial of a prince. But her uncle had declared it an unnecessary risk in the face of retreat.
For that is what the people of Eldar had done. With their general gone, morale plummeted to dire ends and the battles grew bloodier and bloodier as Mordor’s armies continued to devour their land. They had already taken almost a 100 leagues of the East.
Led by their King, a man who went by many names— whose background was as mysterious as his likeness.
Her people called him Sauron. An imposing man in black armor, his long sword strapped to his wide back as he road an ebony station with his fiery banner behind him.
She’d seen him on a few occasions. Through the thicket of the woods as he met with his men, helm snug over his face with black prongs shooting from the top to form an iron crown that only spoke of brutality.
Again, when he struck the killing blow in her father’s chest.
She would not allow her mind to descend into her grief at the reminder, not when her uncle threatened her with marriage.
“You wish me to marry? When I am in mourning?” The laws of decorum rarely stopped the king from acting upon his wishes, but she had to try. A hard swallow was her only defense in keeping the tears at bay. She had to remain still as a dried reed, hands clasped demurely in front of her stomach. The fine wool of her overdress rubbed against her, almost soothing, even if her wimple itched around her temples. The hair of her house lay beneath her veil, shielded from the world in preparation for her husband’s eyes. She tried not to think how it was so close to the shade of Finrod’s.
“You’ll be given three months to mourn and pray, whatever women do in these times—” he waved his hand— she wished to bite it. “Then I will send for you and preparations will be made for your wedding in five months time at the palace in the capital. Are we understood?”
Feanor’s tone brokered no room for disobedience.
Tendrils of an invisible collar locked around her neck, for the first time in her life she was alone. None would advocate for her wants or desires.
She was trapped.
“Who is it?” She asked, voice quieter than she wished but the reality of her situation was swiftly crashing around her. She was a women, with not father or brothers to offer protection, and with a powerful uncle who had none to challenge him. Even if she were to get word to her dear friend Lord Elrond, he was too far away in the West, too green in his power to do much beside let his grievances be known.
Her only hope was to flee to Númenor and hope Queen Muriel would take pity on her while she gathered support to reclaim her family’s Dukedom.
“That is no important as of now,” Feanor answered carefully. Every hair on her body stood on edge— there was a reason he kept the name from her. Perhaps he was one of the aging corpses in Feanor’s court, or an evil man with an even worse reputation for battering his whores. Perhaps he was wealthy but a coward.
Perhaps it was something worse— like Heavens forbid one of her sadistic cousins.
“Be ready to leave in a few minutes time, that is an order.” The king turned to leave her alone to fester with the information dropped before her feet.
“Will I ever see this place again?” She whispered, the trees like family themselves. The scent of rich cinnamon and lilies flowing through the dusty air.
Feanor stopped and turned his chin over his shoulder, not meeting her eye. “No.”
With that, he left her there. All she could do was trace the small stars painted upon the wall with her eyes. Her mother’s work.
Now lost.
***
The ride southwest was longer than she anticipated but not longer than she’d ventured before in her wartime activities. It did cause her some discomfort to know they neared the front with each jostle of the carriage. But the fighting was often more to the Northern and North Western borders, though some Southlanders had taken to raiding villages when the armies attentions were far away.
She did not understand why her uncle would bring her to an estate so near the fighting. But when she questioned him last her cheek was painted red once again.
It still throbbed slightly and she did not cover the mark— let all see who their King was. Yet none cared, for they already knew.
Her cousin, the most bearable of them all, Maglor, accompanied them. But even he turned his head at his father’s cruelty.
The litter she was forced to journey in was stuffy and her maid was too frightened to speak much. The girl was new to her service, a sweet thing who had been touched by the grief of their endless war. But she was a kind presence, especially when Galadriel did not feel very kind.
Maglor periodically road with her, playing his harp to attempt to make her smile. He could be kind, having a small affection for her since Finrod and he played as boys.
“Are you hungry, cos?” He asked after many hours of silence as she watched the trees pass her by.
She glanced at him, his dark hair reminding her far too much of his fathers’.
“I am not, not for food,” she said softly. Her eyes stuck to the passing countryside.
“You have not touched food in almost two days,” he prodded gently. She glanced at him, his kind eyes were so unlike his elder brother’s. She was somewhat fearful of the Crowned Prince, even after his hand was taken in battle.
“I have little appetite.” It was true, her stomach was a hollow pit, but even the thought of eating turned her to nausea.
“We shall arrive soon, I’m sure. Father believes your time of prayer and contemplation will help you process your grief. For I know it weighs heavy on you.”
His words ricocheted off her, meaning little.
What did he know of her grief?
“I don’t think your father knows what grief is,” she whispered. Maglor simply pressed his lips together in response, letting the topic drop.
He was right, of course, and in only a few more hours they arrived at a small estate. A simple tower fortification in the style of centuries past with servants awaiting them outside.
Her knees cracked as Maglor helped her from the litter. The sun was bright above, which did not feel right as she lived within a dull grey sky upon her soul.
“Galadriel, welcome to your new lodgings for the time,” the king said from atop his massive warhorse. He did not bother to dismount nor use her proper title in front of the servants. Both irked her, but who was she to protest?
“Prince Maglor will help you to settle in and follow me on the morrow. I must attend to more important matters. In three months time, I will return to bare you to your wedding. Do not do anything foolish, girl.”
His eyes bore into hers and she met his glare with one of her own.
She let the beast inside her show— no, warn her uncle what she truly was. A wild thing, a free creature who would not bow to him.
His eyes darkened, sensing the shift within her.
The king broke first, looking up with a high whistle between his teeth. With that he was off and half the retune behind him.
Maglor cleared his throat and motioned for the servants to unpack her things. She did not care for her cousin’s discomfort. Her mind already danced to ways to topple Feanor from his high horse. Both literally and figuratively.
Perhaps it would be worth the ax just to watch him fall on his pompous ass.
Her father would laugh from the beyond, eyes twinkling with pride.
As they bustled around her, tears threatened up her throat and she turned from the crowd’s fussing. Her feet flew across the soft grass of the hold’s lawn, until she came upon a single willow blowing in the wind.
She braced her hand on the rough bark, dragging it down to scratch at her delicate skin— letting the pain ground her.
“Gal?” Maglor asked behind her. He’d followed, of course.
“Leave me be,” she demanded, her voice cracking with grief and fear of the unknown.
Damn you, Fin, damn you for dying, she thought bitterly.
“Tell me what you need,” he said as he rounded her, tilting his head down to her level to see her splotchy and tear stained face.
“Who is it?” She dared to ask. Her eyes met his, wide and pleading in a way that made her curdle with how debased she’d allowed herself to become. She was the Lady Galadriel, she begged none. But for this, to know— she would still her pride.
Maglor turned away, eyes closing with a pained expression upon his face.
“Gal—”
“Please, tell me. I beg you. I must know. I cannot live three months without knowing. Uncle is too pleased… which means he must be horrid.” She inhaled roughly. “I must know.”
Maglor seemed to fight within himself, he eyes turning from troubled to pity.
Tears beaded in her eyes, and with a final sigh she knew he’d break. There were some advantages to being the only girl among a family of boys.
“There has been a treaty offered to end this war…” he started before stepping forward to grasp her hand in his. “Mordor will retreat and keep only 50 leagues of the East. Their king has requested this be sealed in marriage.”
Galadriel stared at him, not understanding. For he could not mean that she— she was meant to—
“Father has promised your hand to seal the peace.” Maglor watched her carefully as she processed his words.
“To whom?” She murmured, fearing the answer.
Yet she knew before he said the words.
“To Sauron, their King.”
Galadriel saw red.
She tore her hand from his and whipped around, screaming into the wind. The sound washed over the green as poison, half anguish, half rage.
“He cannot! I will not!” She swore. “He cannot think I will willingly enter a union with that— that— monster!”
“Gal, I know this is hard but our station demands we sacrifice—” he reached out as if to comfort her and she tore away.
“Sacrifice? You think I don’t know of sacrifice? He killed my father by his own hand. His armies killed my brothers! I cannot— I cannot marry him.” She fell to her knees, the tears finally falling hard down her cheeks as her stomach threatened to empty the bile within. “I will not.”
Maglor knelt down next to her, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “You must, for the kingdom. It has been decided. It is no comfort, but try to find happiness in the children you bear— even if you cannot stand the father.”
She sobbed harder. “If you think I’d let that— that—beast touch me. I’ll cut his hand off before that will happen.”
Her cousin simply nodded, knowing that if she were to wed the man, they would be bound to consummate their union. She shivered to think it would not be wanted, that it would be done upon her no matter her protests.
“Do not despair, Galadriel.” His words were soft, but meant nothing to her.
She decided then and there she would flee. She would flee and find her way to Númenor to seek asylum.
She would never wed the beast they called Sauron. With a soul as ugly as his, he most likely hid a beastly visage beneath his iron helm. Ugly or not, he was a man with coals as his heart. The Lady Galadriel would not be soiled by the murderer of her kin.
And if they chased her, she would evade them.
If they caught her, she would fight them.
Her uncle would rue the day he underestimated the only daughter of Finarfin.