Chapter Text
The streets hadn't changed.
The war had blackened skies across Europe, ships had sunk in the Channel and men, women and children alike were swallowed whole in the conflict. But the cobblestones on Merton Street remained the same. As did the pale gothic spires of the Chapel, rising unbothered, untouched in the cool, damp morning mist that mingled with the smoke from nearby chimneys.
It was Monday, ten o'clock in the morning on October the 7th 1946, the first day of the Michaelmas term at Oxford, and Galadriel stood below the spikes and spires of Merton College, simply observing.
She was back to finish what she had started the better part of a decade ago. After the death of her brother on the African Front during Operation Crusader, Galadriel had voluntarily left her post at the University upon completion of her second year in 1942 and joined the war effort. The darkness that rose from the East had finally touched her, shattering her world, so she took up the fight in the only way she could; joining the British Red Cross’s Voluntary Aid Detachment as a nurse. For the following three years she was sent all over England, and then the continent to stitch broken men back together and comfort the ones she couldn’t as they passed into the next life.
But when the guns were laid down and the bombings stopped in 1945, she returned to her ancestral home in the Cotswolds and spent the next year in a fog of her own memories while those around her laughed and clinked glasses, as if nothing had happened at all.
Her new normal would take some getting used to.
Half healed, and perhaps under prepared, she decided it best to soldier on and return to Oxford to finish her studies. There were expectations, duties to be met, and she was the first woman in her family allowed to carry on the legacy of being an Oxford graduate.
After everything, it now seemed a more hollow achievement than the prospect it held when she first stepped on the campus in 1940.
But she was here, and she never did anything halfway.
She continued on up Merton Street, walking alongside her bike, the wide heels of her shoes clicking against the centuries old cobblestone street. Around her, other students walked and chatted together, excited for what the coming eight months held in store. She was simply focused on the task ahead: complete the year, return home, figure out how to arrange the pieces of her old and new life into a picture that made sense.
Galadriel rounded the gentle curve of the street, heading to the Examination Schools lecture halls. She had chosen this literary seminar course because the theme spoke to her:
“Mythic Traditions and Modern Storycraft”– An exploration of legendary European narratives and their role in contemporary literature.
Something about the bridging of the past to the present resonated with her.
Lost in her own thoughts, she chained her bike to the wrought iron fence surrounding the Halls then breezed past a man with chestnut-brown hair, half-leaning against the same long fence, smoking a self-rolled cigarette who looked up from his gaze at the ground, instantly aware of her presence and watched her walk past him, through the gate and onward into the grassy courtyard.
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The seminar room is far smaller than the lecture halls in the same building, with space enough for only eighteen students - nine oak tables with two forest green leather chairs at each, arranged in rows of three.
Galadriel entered the room, a dim grey light casting in from the large sash windows with hand-blown glass, slightly warping the view to the inner courtyard beyond. Blackout blinds of heavy fabric used to block the inner light from the hovering Luftwaffe still flank the windows. Dark wood paneling rises midway up the walls, and a large blackboard and humble desk before it, is the room’s focal point.
Choosing a seat at the front middle table, Galadriel took off her knee length, grey tweed coat and draped it over the back of her chair. She smoothed the back of her blue and green plaid skirt as she sits down and carefully arranged her course books, notebook and pen as the rest of the students make their way into the room.
A couple of faces she already knows – fellow members of the aristocracy; a Duke’s son, an heir to a lordship... but most are strangers. They all look so young, so innocent, even, except one.
With a chin held high, almost as if in defiance, a tall man with broad shoulders and chestnut-brown hair that tousled waywardly just past his ears entered the room. He wore a brown corduroy jacket, which appeared slightly too big, over an olive green sweater vest with dark grey trousers. His charcoal-colored tie over his white collared shirt is loosened and his top button undone – a slight rebellion against his rigidly dressed male counterparts. But there is something in his hazel eyes that catches Galadriel’s attention – something deeper there. Something she almost recognizes.
Galadriel couldn’t help but to stare, perhaps a moment longer than she should have because the handsome stranger caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow at her, a small smirk pulling across his stubble-bearded face. She quickly looked back down at her desk, trying to will away the unbidden flush she felt come to her cheeks.
He made his way to the back of the room, taking a seat at a table on the left alongside a window.
Eventually the fourteen students who would make up the class were all seated, a few conversing amongst themselves when the Professor walked in just a few minutes past 10:15, carrying several books and a clipboard which he set down casually on the desk. He is of medium build and sharply dressed in a waistcoat and blazer, though his broad tie is slightly askew, and his silvering hair is parted off center, cleanly.
The Professor turned almost ceremoniously to the students before him.
“Welcome, class of 1947, to Mythic Traditions and Modern Storycraft. I’m your Professor, Mr. Tolkien, and we’ll be spending the next 3 terms together discussing the topic of how ancient myths and legends of Europe can play a role in modern literature and story telling.”
Turning on his heel, he strided over to the black board and wrote his name in chalk, the crisp sound of its contact with the board echoing slightly in the room.
“Apologies for my slight tardiness, however a Professor arrives precisely when he means to,” he remarked over his shoulder with a playful grin as he finished writing.
He positioned himself to face his students once more and continued.
“In this course, you will have weekly readings of various works – sagas, poems, and essays – which you will need to analyze and critique. You will also have creative writing topics based on the theme of the lecture, which is outlined in the syllabus. Ultimately, as your final assignment, you will submit an original work of your own.”
Moving to the desk, Professor Tolkien slid the clipboard out from under his stack of books.
“I’ve decided these assignments will work best in pairs – you’ll be each other's sound board and starkest critic,” he stated, holding the clipboard in front of him as the students whisper and some even groan in disapproval.
Unbeknownst to them, Professor Tolkien had taken great care in his pairings, some were for his own amusement, some because he wanted to see one challenge the other – students he’d had in previous classes. But one pair he created because of all the faces sitting before him, only those two had seen the horrors of the recent war and he knew instinctively they would work well together.
“So, let us begin. When I announce your pairing, I’d like you to take a seat next to each other if you aren't already,” the Professor instructed.
He began reading off his list, chairs moving against the worn wooden floor as students rearranged themselves according to the Professor’s orchestrations.
“Galadriel DeVere,” Tolkien read aloud with an air of curiosity and impression. “A very interesting first name to be attached to such prestige.”
“Yes, Professor,” Galadriel answered, her voice clear and confident. “My mother is a Scotswoman – she claims the name is Gaelic for ‘maiden crowned with light’.”
Professor Tolkien hummed in approval. “Lovely. Well, Miss DeVere, you will be paired with Mister… Halbrand Fletcher.”
“It’s just Hal,” a low and slightly rough-edged voice called out from his lone seat in the back in a polished Northern accent. Some of the students turned to look at him when he spoke, the working-class dialect immediately singling him out.
“Ok Mr. Fletcher, please come take a seat next to Miss DeVere.”
Halbrand did as instructed, gathering his belongings in the tiniest bit of a protesting huff and moved to the front table. He sat down calmly, but clearly annoyed. “Perfect,” he muttered under his breath.
Professor Tolkien continued on, but Galadriel whipped her head at Halbrand, instantly offended by his utterance and demeanor.
“Do you have some sort of problem being paired with me?” she hissed, keeping her voice at a whisper.
Halbrand turned his head slightly, assessing the comparatively small but fiery woman in the seat next to him. Sitting there with her light golden blonde hair pinned into soft waves, a red velvet lip, her pressed wool skirt and corresponding blue cardigan, posture finishing-school straight – he would never have guessed by looking that she’d be the type to confront him so assuredly. He liked that – admired it, even.
He let out a short sigh, curling his lip slightly upward. “I just wasn’t expecting we’d be paired off in this course, is all,” he admitted, keeping his voice quiet.
“And now you're sour because why? Because you're paired with a woman?” Galadriel inquired. She had gotten used to sexist attitudes during the war, and being one of only two women in this class, she jumped to the assumption.
“No, absolutely not!” Halbrand was quick to reply. “But, you’re a DeVere. Come on, what could you possibly know of hardship – of struggle? I just don't know if our experiences will lend to a good writing partnership,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders.
“'Won’t lend to a good writing partnership'?" Galadriel fumed in thought, "Who the hell does this man think he is? He knows nothing about me! What I’ve seen… what I’ve done over the last three years. What I’ve lost…"
Galadriel blinked long, shook her head, and furrowed her brow. “So because of who my family is, I’m ignorant to the ways of the world and its suffering,” she said sarcastically, turning her head to face him completely now. “Maybe you’re too quick to judge, Hal.”
“Maybe…,” Halbrand conceded with a shrug. He then leaned his shoulder in slightly towards her, the tone of his voice changing to something more warm and charming as he spoke, offering her a challenge.
“You’ve got eight months to prove me wrong, DeVere.”
