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The forests of Enedwaith had ever been the demesne of Men, and what conflicts that erupted within it were rarely the business of Elves, for they themselves had the kingdom of Lindon to reign over, and the plains and hills of Eriador and Forodwaith to patrol. Perhaps they would have cared more for these Southlands, if their cousins in the east had not been so easily traversed to by way of the Misty Mountains. Enedwaith guarded them against enemies from the true south, after all.
From atop her silver mare, Galadriel watched the orc army as it steadily crawled across the lands. They were dark, blighted creatures—but even she begrudged them the compliment that was their efficiency, hauling down tree after tree to create a road for their war machines. Her nerves were raw. She had failed to warn her people of danger, had failed entirely at seeing through Sauron’s mortal guise…
Shh, she thought when her mare huffed nervously, stroking the warm flesh of her neck consolingly. The orcs’ scent was pungent. Galadriel’s eyes were locked on the reinforcement war party, until the moment she heard the snap of a branch at her back, and her sword flew from its sheath. When she turned her head, mare huffing again, she saw her Enemy.
‘Sauron!’ Galadriel seethed, hating him with every fibre of her being. Heat roiled through her as she saw his form was in Halbrand’s shape, teeth flashing in a smile at the sight of her.
‘Galadriel,’ he greeted her, then had the audacity to step forwards to grasp her frightened horse’s reigns. He cared not for the blade she held to his throat, ignoring her in lieu of settling the mare. ‘Quiet, now… I mean you no harm. There are sorcerers watching, and we wouldn’t want them to discover our little liaison.’
The elf-maiden hissed at the news, but did not remove her blade. The steel flashed a burnished orange in the low light of sunset. ‘You are harm personified. Treacherous by nature.’
‘Am I?’ Sauron chuckled, still holding her mare’s reigns. He glanced up at her. ‘I am not the one spying from afar. I must admit, I admire whatever tool you are using to project yourself—usually, you rely on my own power. Heavily.’
Galadriel disliked him heavily in that moment, for her pride outweighed her sense. ‘Tis a mirror of mine own creation, of silvered mithril.’ Her mare—her dream’s personification of the mirror—had no feelings of it own, and fewer protections than she’d envisioned, it would seem. She warned him, ‘Let go.’
Sauron flexed his magic along the reigns, dark and covetous, to reach the instrument she’d forged. ‘I don’t think I shall,’ he said.
Galadriel hastened to sheath her sword, sliding her leg over the mare’s back to drop down onto the soft dirt of the hill. When she reached for the mare’s reigns, her fingers brushed against Sauron’s for the briefest of moments, and it was enough for her to open a door between their minds, meanwhile sending the mirror to sleep. In their shared dreamscape, the mare turned to silver light and dissipated into nothingness.
‘How disappointing,’ her Enemy murmured, nose scrunching in annoyance. A curl of hair fell across his eyes. Their connection open, Galadriel began to sense what he did, pinpointing the three sorcerers he’d bound to his cause within the mass of orcs in seconds, ignoring their quaking at sensing their Dark Lord; she knew by now that when enmeshed as they were, Galadriel’s light was fully eclipsed by Sauron’s dark. It was a boon, however disgusting it was to use his power as a cloak.
Sauron knew her thoughts. ‘You are irritating,’ he said, hand grasping at the fabric of her gown. Soot stained it in an instant, and Galadriel made sure to dig her fingers into the red padding of his tunic in reply, sharp enough to tear.
‘Take care! For every wound you seek to inflict, I shall return twofold!’ She could feel heat rising off him like a cloak, sinking into the skin of her hands, rushing through her veins like adrenaline. Sauron’s eyes were locked on hers, a molten amber—and when she felt his power pulse, surging through her, he in turn felt the same, and made to disentangle them.
Galadriel tightened her grip.
‘What pithy scheme do I distract you from, now?’ Her lip curled, triumphant that she’d found something to tear into. ‘Surely, you do not watch every move I make.’
‘No,’ he agreed, before allowing himself to relax against her, breath mingling. ‘For you are not my only nemesis in this world.’
Heat. Power. Both flooded her body, and Galadriel could not bring herself to draw away, feeling the sway of intoxication. It lingered like drink—a poison, flushing through his system without the ease she would have expected from him. Her brow furrowed, gently touching his own. She’d not realised they were so close.
‘You have been drugged,’ she noted, trying to recognise the symptoms. Her limbs tingled, but it was fading quickly, replaced by a tightness in her belly and a dear need to feel his lips on her own… ‘Ai, did one of your allies wish to bed you?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Sauron. His lips ghosted against her own. ‘Unfortunately, I have only ever wished for one queen.’
This is dangerous, she thought, even as the hands on her dress pulled, tugging silk and embroidery high up her legs. ‘You shunned me.’
‘I wanted-’ and his words were forced out, anger flaring ‘-to put a crown upon your head!’
‘At the expense of my soul,’ argued Galadriel, before she tore into his tunic. Fabric tore, revealing yet another shirt beneath. Anything more she could have said was drowned out by his kiss, lips bruising beneath his wanting, but Galadriel had the upper hand, able to press her bare knee between the apex of his legs. He groaned, hips rocking.
He is more taken than I by this poison. His flesh, his body—they are the ones affected. Galadriel prayed for her own mind’s clarity, though knew it was too little, too late. The moment she discarded the mirror in lieu of their bond, she’d opened the floodgates.
‘My golden lady,’ he mumbled as he moved to her neck, teeth nipping at her ear. Galadriel wanted to feel his skin, his everything—and Sauron, feeling the interest of his sorcerers as they got louder and louder in their desires, spun them away from the forests, to some noble manor-house by the sea. Galadriel was grateful for the reprieve as she was flung onto a soft mattress, hair awry. Above her, Sauron looked at her body like prey, divested of his clothes to reveal the same skin she’d come to know on the Sundering Seas, in Númenor, and Enedwaith.
‘This means nothing,’ she warned him, foot pressing to the muscle of his thigh. His hand wrapped around her ankle, before he tugged her down the bed. Galadriel allowed herself a quiet laugh—and o, if it wasn’t so easy to forget the truth when they were like this, Halbrand’s grin setting her at ease better than anything in Arda. Her smile turned his eyes fond.
He agreed, ‘Nothing beyond now,’ before surrendering to the heat in his blood, kissing her bent knee. Galadriel reached for him. He bent his head. When his head came within reach, she brushed her fingers through his tawny hair, drawing him close enough to kiss. Twas a delicate motion, something gentle, that she wished could have been true.
Sauron matched her. Halbrand was a figment, yes, but Sauron put his everything into the roles he portrayed, and Halbrand loved her. They were fools. Enemies, fools, lovers—all, and none. Galadriel could well imagine the world where she was his Queen, falling into the trap of dominance and control. She would be beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night, fair as the sea and the sun, and the snow upon the mountain—perhaps even dreadful, and stronger still than the foundations of the earth. Loved by the despairing masses.
It made her laugh. No, she thought, even as Sauron’s thoughts wound into her own and tried to convince her that this world deserved her. Instead, she dragged him close to her, and promised only this dream they shared. Her anger abated.
In turn, Sauron’s wrath grew. ‘I hate you,’ he spewed venom, discarding her dream-clothes with nary a thought to press his hand to her breast, learning the shape of her. ‘You could be mine, and we would be victorious. Great rulers, the king and queen that Middle Earth so dearly needs…’
Galadriel held his jaw, kissing the rough stubble of his cheek. ‘No,’ she denied him. ‘Never will I submit to such a cursed future.’
The heat of the poison made them both groan, then. She was in tune to his body, and he to hers, a cycle of endurance and wanting beginning to form. Like a spider, Galadriel wrapped her legs around his form, pushing him closer, and with one hand to hold him upright, the one that squeezed at her breast slid down, down to the softness of her centre. He laid his palm flat, fingers tracing the outline of her lips as she trembled, pausing when he heard Galadriel’s demand in his mind. Without another word, Sauron delved into her wetness, gauging his quarry before sliding his cock close, just like she wanted.
‘In, or begone!’ She threatened him, and was rewarded when Sauron pressed it to entrance. The head of him slid, then caught, and Galadriel drew closer to his torso, hips flexing as she drew him into herself without abandon, desperate for him. His gasp was almost silent, head burrowing in the curve of her neck, before they rutted against each other. Galadriel was pleased to be so overwhelmed—and he was pleased to have her, rocking in and out of her in haste. Galadriel’s hands moved from his face to his shoulders, fingers bruising his skin. He laughed gutturally when her nails drew blood, hips snapping.
‘Mine, all mine,’ he whispered to himself, deluded, and Galadriel let him, mind imagining the world where they could have this. Where Halbrand was her husband, and the world was at peace. Perhaps that version of her would dare bring him to Mithlond, dancing with him in front of the court, suspiciously quiet when Elrond asked why he never grew old; perhaps they would have a brash daughter, or a reckless son, or both; perhaps he would give up his ambitions, and be content at her side for the millennia to come.
It was a beautiful piece of fiction, and Galadriel yearned for it all the same.
Her peak grew close enough to taste. She found the nape of his neck, savaging his mouth as they groaned and mewled, each to their own, synchronised and as one. He shuddered through his climax, heat roiling in his veins—and when he opened his eyes, sated, he grinned at her and cut their connection with her own brother’s knife.
Galadriel awoke on the moss floor of her garden, mirror silent before her. Her centre throbbed, wet and slippery under the fabric of her pale gown, and a shriek grew in her mind that she threw at the closed door between them. From the other side, she could feel Sauron and his blasted completeness, the dream sensation of his spend between her legs making her flutter uncontrollably. Covering her mouth with one hand, she rocked once, twice-
Mine. His voice filtered through her head as she came. This will never be nothing, my queen.