Galadriel Part 2
Galadriel sat on a rock on a ledge that overlooked the river. The water was peaceful and flowing gently here. It was hard to remember that there were rapids. A lot of elves did. That's why that child was asleep right now. Because he'd forgotten.
Galadriel let go of the hilt in her hand. The blade spun once before her fragile, pale, thin hand reached up and caught it. She turned the tip of the blade skywards.
The blade itself was a shimmering silver that reflected the light of the sun strongest. The hilt was white, made of the sister gem to that of the ring of power she wore on her finger, Nenya, the Ring of Air. The guard was a splay of leaved branches of the trees that could only be found in Lothlorien.
All elves that had ruled this forest had held this blade.
When Celeborn had died, Galadriel had, by rights, taken up the blade. Though she loved Brydda, she wouldn't give the blade to him. It felt strange. It felt like giving away the last true part of Celeborn.
Celeborn had cared for the enchanted blade, and Galadriel had too. She only hoped her child would as well.
Elrond had grown up to be a holder of one of the rings. The son she had born with Brydda would too.
Galadriel was lost in thought when Brydda came into the clearing. She didn't realize he was there until he had sat behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and scooting forward until her back was against his side. He put his chin on her shoulder, kissing her neck for straightening out to look at what she was.
"The Blade of Wind. A majestic thing." Brydda whispered.
"Yes." Galadriel agreed, letting her back slouch a little and rubbing the side of her head against the side of his. Galadriel wanted nothing more than to nuzzle and kiss Brydda. She was afraid. But like every other time, she couldn't let fear rule her. She had a last duty as queen of Lothlorien.
Galadriel set the blade aside and told Brydda, "I'd love to. I want to. But we can't, not now." Brydda nodded and Galadriel kneeled in front of the rock.
Her thin fingers pushed dirt and plant and root away, her hand going deeper into the cool earth. When the hole was deep enough so anything buried in it wouldn't be misplaced or washed away with a heavy rain, Galadriel looked at Nenya longingly.
This ring had given her true power over the forest. One could rule without it, but Galadriel knew she couldn't. The ring helped her function. "I can't let anyone else hold Nenya. I can't let them fall into this reliance on a ring."
Brydda sat on the rock where she'd left him, staring and listening silently. "It controlled me. I won't let it control anyone else." Galadriel said as she pulled Nenya off her finger and dropped the stone into the ground.
The clouds she could see in the sky began to twist and turn violently for a moment, dissipating with every little bit of dirt Galadriel pushed over the Ring of Winds, Nenya. The leaves of the Mellorn trees rattled together in the wind, twisting and turning and smacking into each other. The clouds in the sky were moving so fast, they seemed to be running from her.
Nenya was buried away, once and for all. Galadriel somehow knew it would never be found again, deep in its earthen prison. A breath of fresh air tickled her nose and stirred her silver hair, then everything around her went still. The only sound was that of the beating of her heart, her calm breaths, and the steady breathing of Brydda behind her.
"No one will ever have to suffer the power of Winds again." Galadriel whispered, her thin voice cracking. She wondered if Thranduil had found it this hard to take off.
They were leaving behind ultimate power, after all. The power of fire was the strongest, the power of wind the gentlest, and the power of water the calmest. Three virtues the elves valued most.
Fire was deathless, wind eternal, and water continuous. Fire was brazen, wind was wise, and water loyal.
Galadriel herself was all the things wind was, the eldest of the elders, the elf with the strongest touch from experience with many children, the wisest Elven Lord of them all. Thranduil had been hot and protecting of only his realm, with little regard for all others. Despite his faults, he was a fair friend. Elrond was slow to sway, but when he shared your opinions, he was the most loyal, though he was so paternal and kind he would drown in his sorrows, one moment or another.
Galadriel almost felt as if she would drown in her sorrows. It was inexplicable, this feeling that started to overwhelm her the moment she'd heard Arwen had been struck down.
She might make it. Galadriel remembered telling the lie to herself. She might just make it. Even though the sickness Arwen faced had been identical to the one in the prophecy.
She didn't make it. Had been Galadriel's first thought when news came. "Arwen Evenstar has faded." Galadriel had turned around then, sucking in breath in an attempt to keep her composure. The attempt had been, of course, futile. Galadriel had shoved her face into Brydda's chest and cried for hours. The king eventually had picked her up and laid with her crying all through four nights and five days.
Maybe Thranduil will be not only bold, but stronger than we thought. Maybe he'll win. Galadriel told herself, even though some part of her knew it could never be true.
The queen was so old, she almost felt young. Not only young, but afraid. Tears flew freely often, her mind buckling under the sadness like knees under dead weight. 'I don't want to die." Galadriel often murmured into Brydda's chest as he rubbed her back and hummed and told her everything was going to be okay. Just like one might do to a child.
"I don't either." Brydda had replied. "But the end of time comes for all beings, even elves."
The words were well-meant but did nothing to comfort Galadriel. She already knew the way it went, the song people sung to each other when somebody they loved died or they were about to die. It'll be okay. Everyone must die, even the elves. It was so mean, that others should find comfort in the death of elves. Galadriel would hate that phrase if it didn't bring a certain comfort to elves.
It reminded them their time had to end eventually, and that if they died now, it just might be a little earlier than expected.
That wasn't an excuse in Galadriel's mind. The idea of death still hurt, even though she'd lived fifty times the length of men. Nothing could comfort her.
Thranduil has died. The news came one bright, crisp morning. The kind of morning you couldn't imagine to hold such ill news. The woodland realm now belongs to Legolas.
In those years of waiting, there had been little happiness. Galadriel hated herself for crying herself to sleep most nights. The union of Legolas and Tauriel and the birth of their child had been the only happy news.
"Why do I fear death so much?" Galadriel had asked Brydda one morning after her red eyes and pale face and haggard look stared back at her from a lake she had been bathing in.
Brydda had took her hands and kissed one finger. "Once for Celeborn." He kissed another finger. "For Haldir. For your mother. For your father. For your child." He kissed one finger for every title. "For another child, a childhood crush you never managed to love." He kissed the remaining three fingers. "One for each child. I could kiss your toes and each could hold the name of a child you lost."
Galadriel had looked down at her hands, floating in the air when Brydda let go of them. "You were known as a mother for a reason. Yet the children you conceived that survived to this day can be counted on two fingers, one is already one of the three elven lords and shall die next. The other is a child from my blood as much as yours, and will keep careful watch of Lothlorien whilst we dwindle into bare memories."
Galadriel had broken down. Even now, the thought hurt like wildfire streaming through her body. Brydda came up behind her again and held her around her waist, pulling her back down onto the rock. Just as Brydda wrapped his arms around her, Galadriel broke down.
Her king had been right. One sorrow for a lover, another for a friend, a third that had made her realize her womanhood had already come to pass. Most of the time, just the memory of those thoughts and wants made her blush, but as she remembered them this time, she didn't feel ashamed or worried or scared. Well, not scared about that kind of thing.
Another memory came streaming forth into Galadriel's mind.
She was asleep against Celeborn, his hand in the middle of her bare back. Gentle snores had been the thing that had lulled Galadriel into sleep in the first place.
More memories came to Galadriel as she cried against Brydda's chest, but for once she let them flow. Painful memories were her least-favorite to revisit, but they only came when they needed to be seen again, Galadriel had learned.
She was shivering, everything around her black. The rest of the world around her didn't seem to come to memory. This was so long ago. Galadriel was shivering, leaning against the very rock she leaned against now. Tears didn't come, but they wanted to. Celeborn appeared, walking to Galadriel, embracing her. "The child will come soon." He reassured her.
The next flash was filled with screams and blood, but ended in laughter and joy as she held her new baby boy in her arms. "Elrond." Celeborn whispered as he held her close. Galadriel agreed and kissed the feasting babe on the head.
Elrond must have been 50, long and lanky, black hair reaching down to his hips in gentle, natural waves. So young, Galadriel thought. So sad. Elrond held Galadriel's hand painfully tight, his face bunches as he fought tears and racking sobs. Galadriel stood and held the boy in her arms as he wept over the death of a friend.
Months later, Galadriel was weeping over a limp form already getting cold. Celeborn held her tight, sharing her mother's grief. The child had died whilst being born.
Looking back, Galadriel could feel the gut feelings rushing through her, no logic. She hadn't learned yet.
Galadriel herself nearly died when she brought another child had died a month before birth into the cold, dead world.
Many children died inside her womb, many more moments after birth. Yet all those deaths came rushing forth.
The most painful death had been the last child she'd conceived with Celeborn. Elrond had already become Lord of Rivendell, held a ring of power, found a wife, and conceived a child of his own. The child Galadriel had birthed wanted nothing more to see his brother's child being born. Galadriel and Celeborn celebrated in food and wine on the anniversary of his birth, celebrating the luck that had brought the child into their lives.
This one was going to stay.
A thousand years into his life, he finally reached manhood and all the blushing awkwardness towards women that came with it. Galadriel enjoyed watching him trip over asking several girls if they wanted to dine together.
His mother always held hope for him. That's how Celeborn had taken her maidenhood and they'd conceived Elrond. His awkwardness had been charming.
It wasn't long after that sickness befell him. Unlike most elves, any fleeting of immortality had started in the middle of his life.
Galadriel tended him as he died so quickly, Galadriel didn't have a moment at the time to feel sadness. He couldn't keep food down, his lungs didn't take in air, his heart beat too fast, his brow heated too hot.
Word had gotten to Galadriel soon after: Elrond's child had been born. The exact same moment her second longest living child had died.
The boy's name never faded, she still had journals written by him and for him. It just hurt too much, even now.
Elrond had been in a rage inside. He hadn't foreseen the blood that would drape his daughter, Arwen's, birth.
"Nobody could have." Galadriel told him. "She was born on the eve when a blood member died in suffrage. Thranduil, you, me. None of us could see it. It speaks of our deaths, Elrond."
Elrond knew it was true, yet harbored no ill will to anything after he'd learned the truth.
Galadriel held onto Brydda as if her life was depending on it. Maybe it was.
"Time hurts." She whispered.
"Yes."