That same night, after the merriment was over, Galadriel sat at the balcony
of the large corridor, staring at the garden and the stars above. She was
thinking about Annatar, those odd eyes, and the fake smile, the black hair
and the noble figure. She shivered as she felt a gaze upon her, and turned
to se him standing, alone, dark, crouched in the shadow by the wall. They
were alone here, and the night was getting darker. The stars sparkled
piercingly, but distantly above. A sense of danger, a scent of cold wind
shook her, and she turned on the balcony, and gazed at him. His eyes were
glowing in the dark, a wolfish aspect to the manner he stood.
" You are frightening me." She told him. Annatar stirred. She said things he did not expect. Of course he frightened her, it was the purpose, and yet not the main purpose. He needed to be rid of her, a paranoid sensation of being discovered infiltrating his thoughts. And the night was dark, and the gardens deserted. He could be rid of her easily, a slender elven lady, no trace would be left. A scandal, a disappearance, a sad story, or a strange one. Did she simply leave? In the drunken state everyone was, it would be difficult to notice who had and who had not been there, when she walked out from the party, who she had spoken to. They had both talked in an odd corner of the hall, when the night was well past its middle, and no one had seen them.
" Good." He said, a tone of soft menace and a dark brooding. He moved silently toward her, the golden glow of the eyes shading into a red.
" It is not such a beautiful night" she said, disregarding the menace in his voice and manner. " The evening had been lovely, but the night isn't. The breeze is cold, and the air is dark. Do you like the dark?' Her voice was soft, like velvet, and soothing. Her eyes, the softest almond, gazed up at him as he stood now close, dark and tall, his mouth a thin line of mockery and contempt.
" Ay. I am the dark" He whispered, leaning in on her, thinking how to.
Galadriel did not back away. She sensed the danger, sensed it full well. She new she had no chance of escaping him, he was to strong, and too quick. But it was not only that. It was the warmth. He was not cold, as she had expected. He was warm, a glow emanating from him, as of a fire within. And the breeze was chilly and unfriendly, and she needed confort. A touch maybe. She suddenly felt small, and lonely, and misunderstood. The world was large, and menacing, and all others expected was her to be strong, to not need anyone. She reached her hand up, and as he leaned in, his eyes glowing, his mouth opening slightly in a grin or to bite, but then she touched his face.
He stopped, astounded. The soft touch upon his cheek, the warm hand, and the gentle eyes, soft and brown, gazing at him from some private dream of hers. So surprising. He had expected distrust, repulsion, fear, horror and death, at length, as she struggled in his arms as a caught rabbit, as she tried to yank from his wolf teeth and he tore her, an enemy, an elf, into tiny shards.
He realized, suddenly, he had never before attacked a lady. Except Luthien, but she was half-maia, of his own kind, and that was long ago, and not a pleasant memory. Galadriel held her hand on his face, and then lifted herself up from the balcony, and stood next to him, very, very close. She smelt of green leaves, he felt.
Annatar gazed down, the deadly red disappearing from his eyes. She was not afraid. Or repulsed. She looked simply sad, and lost, and lonely. The spell ended then, suddenly. She put her hand down, and turned, and left slowly down the corridor, her head low, and her steps unsure. He stared after her, for a few moments, and then followed, surprised and amazed, at both her, and himself.
" Where are you going?" He asked, intending to stop her.
She answered gently and sadly. " To my chambers. Or to the kitchen. I need something to drink, maybe."
He followed her. " Why do you dislike me?" She suddenly asked. Annatar was surprised. He didn't trust her, of course. She was an enemy. He could feel contempt, or even hate. But dislike? No, that was not what he felt. In fact, he thought, it may be the opposite. He actually did like her. She was different, and soft, and dreamy. She reminded him, well, he should not be saying this to himself, but it was true, she did remind him. Of Aman. Of Aman long ago, when he had not yet touched the shore of Middle Earth. Of the days in the golden light, and the sound of voices and music far off. Maybe of home. " I do not dislike you" he said, in a normal voice now. "Why would you think my hating you has anything to do with my dislike?"
" So you don't dislike me?" She stopped, and faced him. This was dangerous, he had been intent on murdering her minutes ago, and probably still had the intention. Not out of a disturbed need for violence, she judged, but from a sense of menace. She menaced him, she realized, and wandered why.
"No." he answered simply, gazing down at her eyes. She looked unsure.
" If you do not dislike me, why do you want to hurt me?" She breathed out, scared.
" I cannot have an enemy here, now, lady" He said. Interesting, he thought, I am speaking to my prey. She looked, suddenly, her golden hair still in the loose bun, as a soft lamb for him to take. As a soft angel. He made himself stop. Her eyes were gazing up at him, and he saw in them a softness he suddenly longed for, and this seemed to him weak.
"I am not your enemy." She whispered, and shook her head. ' I would certainly never hurt you"
He considered this. Why would she say such a thing. Why was her voice so broken, and so soft? This was odd, he argued, and it seemed as a dream, in the dark corridor next to the garden. The breeze picked up, and she shivered. Suddenly, he made up his mind, and moved in a quick manner forward, but before he could turn into a wolf, and strike, the strangest thing happened. She slipped her arms around him, and buried her face into his chest, and began sobbing softly. His instincts took over, ones from the other set of thoughts, and he remembered the music of Aman again, the last time anyone held him, and he wrapped his arms around her too. Yes, just like an angel. A dream or a memory from some other time, long past. The voice of his consciousness maybe, soft and sad. She fit well into his embrace, and he felt the warmth flow over him, as she nestled next to him. She had stopped sobbing, now she was just holding him close. He put his head down on hers, suddenly glad he was not alone any more, and the scent of her hair, a feminine, pleasant scent set him into some golden dream. This was much nicer than tearing a victim apart, and then having to do away with the body.
At length, they looked at each other. His distrust had passed, he was glad she had stopped him. And she no longer feared him for some reason, his arms had felt so safe. It had not been him she had feared, she realized, but the thought that he held some crazed darkness within him. He was dangerous, she knew, but not out of madness or real hate. He was calculating, and had a plan, whoever he was, and he had rationally thought he found an enemy in her. And rationally had to eliminate the menace. But not like the wild orcs or the crazy goblins, not like a Balrog in disgust, like an elf would, she thought, with a sense of duty and a sense of distaste. Yes, he was noble. Maybe his goals were not, but he was. Some elder creature, for another world, a lord of old. The music of Aman suddenly voiced in her ears. Could he be, she thought, one of the bright beings form that place, that had come hither to these shores long ago?
He gazed down, as his elven enemy turned into a soft angel. She did not know who he was, and she did not hate, or fear him. Maybe a misunderstanding, he deemed. He would not kill her. No reason to. His arms were still around her, and it was comfortable. " I'm sorry" he muttered. "Let me take you in. It is cold. And I think I could use a drink too."
" You are frightening me." She told him. Annatar stirred. She said things he did not expect. Of course he frightened her, it was the purpose, and yet not the main purpose. He needed to be rid of her, a paranoid sensation of being discovered infiltrating his thoughts. And the night was dark, and the gardens deserted. He could be rid of her easily, a slender elven lady, no trace would be left. A scandal, a disappearance, a sad story, or a strange one. Did she simply leave? In the drunken state everyone was, it would be difficult to notice who had and who had not been there, when she walked out from the party, who she had spoken to. They had both talked in an odd corner of the hall, when the night was well past its middle, and no one had seen them.
" Good." He said, a tone of soft menace and a dark brooding. He moved silently toward her, the golden glow of the eyes shading into a red.
" It is not such a beautiful night" she said, disregarding the menace in his voice and manner. " The evening had been lovely, but the night isn't. The breeze is cold, and the air is dark. Do you like the dark?' Her voice was soft, like velvet, and soothing. Her eyes, the softest almond, gazed up at him as he stood now close, dark and tall, his mouth a thin line of mockery and contempt.
" Ay. I am the dark" He whispered, leaning in on her, thinking how to.
Galadriel did not back away. She sensed the danger, sensed it full well. She new she had no chance of escaping him, he was to strong, and too quick. But it was not only that. It was the warmth. He was not cold, as she had expected. He was warm, a glow emanating from him, as of a fire within. And the breeze was chilly and unfriendly, and she needed confort. A touch maybe. She suddenly felt small, and lonely, and misunderstood. The world was large, and menacing, and all others expected was her to be strong, to not need anyone. She reached her hand up, and as he leaned in, his eyes glowing, his mouth opening slightly in a grin or to bite, but then she touched his face.
He stopped, astounded. The soft touch upon his cheek, the warm hand, and the gentle eyes, soft and brown, gazing at him from some private dream of hers. So surprising. He had expected distrust, repulsion, fear, horror and death, at length, as she struggled in his arms as a caught rabbit, as she tried to yank from his wolf teeth and he tore her, an enemy, an elf, into tiny shards.
He realized, suddenly, he had never before attacked a lady. Except Luthien, but she was half-maia, of his own kind, and that was long ago, and not a pleasant memory. Galadriel held her hand on his face, and then lifted herself up from the balcony, and stood next to him, very, very close. She smelt of green leaves, he felt.
Annatar gazed down, the deadly red disappearing from his eyes. She was not afraid. Or repulsed. She looked simply sad, and lost, and lonely. The spell ended then, suddenly. She put her hand down, and turned, and left slowly down the corridor, her head low, and her steps unsure. He stared after her, for a few moments, and then followed, surprised and amazed, at both her, and himself.
" Where are you going?" He asked, intending to stop her.
She answered gently and sadly. " To my chambers. Or to the kitchen. I need something to drink, maybe."
He followed her. " Why do you dislike me?" She suddenly asked. Annatar was surprised. He didn't trust her, of course. She was an enemy. He could feel contempt, or even hate. But dislike? No, that was not what he felt. In fact, he thought, it may be the opposite. He actually did like her. She was different, and soft, and dreamy. She reminded him, well, he should not be saying this to himself, but it was true, she did remind him. Of Aman. Of Aman long ago, when he had not yet touched the shore of Middle Earth. Of the days in the golden light, and the sound of voices and music far off. Maybe of home. " I do not dislike you" he said, in a normal voice now. "Why would you think my hating you has anything to do with my dislike?"
" So you don't dislike me?" She stopped, and faced him. This was dangerous, he had been intent on murdering her minutes ago, and probably still had the intention. Not out of a disturbed need for violence, she judged, but from a sense of menace. She menaced him, she realized, and wandered why.
"No." he answered simply, gazing down at her eyes. She looked unsure.
" If you do not dislike me, why do you want to hurt me?" She breathed out, scared.
" I cannot have an enemy here, now, lady" He said. Interesting, he thought, I am speaking to my prey. She looked, suddenly, her golden hair still in the loose bun, as a soft lamb for him to take. As a soft angel. He made himself stop. Her eyes were gazing up at him, and he saw in them a softness he suddenly longed for, and this seemed to him weak.
"I am not your enemy." She whispered, and shook her head. ' I would certainly never hurt you"
He considered this. Why would she say such a thing. Why was her voice so broken, and so soft? This was odd, he argued, and it seemed as a dream, in the dark corridor next to the garden. The breeze picked up, and she shivered. Suddenly, he made up his mind, and moved in a quick manner forward, but before he could turn into a wolf, and strike, the strangest thing happened. She slipped her arms around him, and buried her face into his chest, and began sobbing softly. His instincts took over, ones from the other set of thoughts, and he remembered the music of Aman again, the last time anyone held him, and he wrapped his arms around her too. Yes, just like an angel. A dream or a memory from some other time, long past. The voice of his consciousness maybe, soft and sad. She fit well into his embrace, and he felt the warmth flow over him, as she nestled next to him. She had stopped sobbing, now she was just holding him close. He put his head down on hers, suddenly glad he was not alone any more, and the scent of her hair, a feminine, pleasant scent set him into some golden dream. This was much nicer than tearing a victim apart, and then having to do away with the body.
At length, they looked at each other. His distrust had passed, he was glad she had stopped him. And she no longer feared him for some reason, his arms had felt so safe. It had not been him she had feared, she realized, but the thought that he held some crazed darkness within him. He was dangerous, she knew, but not out of madness or real hate. He was calculating, and had a plan, whoever he was, and he had rationally thought he found an enemy in her. And rationally had to eliminate the menace. But not like the wild orcs or the crazy goblins, not like a Balrog in disgust, like an elf would, she thought, with a sense of duty and a sense of distaste. Yes, he was noble. Maybe his goals were not, but he was. Some elder creature, for another world, a lord of old. The music of Aman suddenly voiced in her ears. Could he be, she thought, one of the bright beings form that place, that had come hither to these shores long ago?
He gazed down, as his elven enemy turned into a soft angel. She did not know who he was, and she did not hate, or fear him. Maybe a misunderstanding, he deemed. He would not kill her. No reason to. His arms were still around her, and it was comfortable. " I'm sorry" he muttered. "Let me take you in. It is cold. And I think I could use a drink too."