Disclaimer: Tolkien created the world, I didn't.
Timeframe:3434 S.A.
Rating: Rated PG-13 for themes of rape.

Shadow Child
Chapter III: Heir

The dungeons of the outpost were cold and damp. Occasional torches mounted on the cracked stone walls shed just enough light for Celeborn to find his way through the winding passageways. If there were prisoners in the cells that he passed, he did not notice. He only knew that Galadriel was here, somewhere, and that he must find her.

It had come to him near the end of the battle, just as their victory seemed imminent: the memory of Doriath the night that they had met. Her hair had shone with a light of its own, the golden strands touched with silver moonlight, as she gazed at him with eyes that told him his heart was no longer his own. After the vision, he had known beyond a doubt that she was being held there. It had brought hope to his heart, a hope that had lay dormant since the first rescue attempt had failed, when they had realized that the path of the orcs led to Mordor, a land that was unassailable by so few warriors. What was he to think after that? By the time the Last Alliance assailed Mordor, he feared that it would be too late. Indeed, he guessed this still would have been true, had Galadriel been imprisoned in Barad-dûr itself rather than a lesser outpost of Mordor. It might have been months, even years, until they reached her.

He turned the corner, and she was there. She stood behind a barred door, her hands gripping the iron bars. She did not seem surprised to see him; indeed, it was if she had been expecting him, just as he had sensed the presence of her thoughts during the battle.

He rushed towards her and took one of her hands in his. Her hand was warm, a surprising contrast with the cold iron bar. "A moment," he murmured, fishing out the skeleton key that he had filched from the body of a fallen Orc, and quickly unlocking the door. When this was accomplished, she pushed the door aside and ran to him, embracing him tightly.

As he held her in his arms, kissing her brow, he felt that something was different. When he stood back to see, he gasped, for she was heavy with child.

"Galadriel," he began, but she held up her hand, silencing him. Thus they stood for some seconds. She seemed more than troubled, her face weary and racked with anguish. Her eyes were focused downwards, as if lost in some deep reverie, and when he examined them closer, he saw that they were clouded with despair.

"Do not look so, Nerwen," he said, taking her hand in his. (1) "We will leave this place. You are safe." At this she stirred, and smiled slightly at him, but he sensed that this was more of a reaction to his efforts than to his actual words.

"And think," he added, smiling at her swollen abdomen, "a child. It will not be easy to raise a young one in this time of war, but I cannot help but be joyful all the same. I am surprised that you did not know."

At these words, a shadow passed over Galadriel's face. "No, I did not know," she said sharply. Then, abruptly: "Let us be gone. I do not wish to idle in this loathsome dungeon forever."

"Of course," he said, and took her arm in his so that she might have support while walking. At this gesture, she looked up at him with a gentler expression on her face, as if to apologize for the harshness of her words.

"Much troubles me," she explained. "I will explain more tonight; now is not the time."

These words puzzled him, but he accepted her apology with a nod. She clung more tightly to his arm, and so they swiftly left the dungeon.


That night, Galadriel seemed less sorrowful than before, though just as solemn. She spoke seldom, but when she did, her voice was clear and even, as if the memory of her prison was a thing forgotten. Soon after eating, she rested against the trunk of an ancient maple and became lost in memory, as Elves were wont to do in place of mortal sleep. As he watched her from the campfire, something about her appearance concerned him—perhaps it was the deep flush of her cheeks, as if a fire was blazing within her, perhaps the fact that she was wearing such a thin, ragged dress on so cold a night. He left the campfire and sat down beside her, wrapping his cloak around her.

"Celeborn," she murmured, her eyes refocusing. "Ah, but you startled me from such a vision! I stood on the coast, and the ships were in flames on the far shore... the beach was still stained with the blood of my kin." She composed herself suddenly, pushing back the tendrils of golden hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "But enough of this. You wish to know what is wrong with me, and I intend to tell you." She paused for a moment. "It is not an easy thing to say. You have not guessed at it, I see. But I would not conceal it from you." She took her hand in his—her hand was still so warm!—and placed it against her abdomen. "What do you feel?"

As her hand was warm, her stomach was twice this. "I don't understand!" he exclaimed. "What is wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, nothing and everything. For the child receives this fiery potency from his parent—from his father."

The implications of her words forced him into silence, such was his horror.

"It is of the Enemy," she continued. Her voice was strangely dispassionate. "Do you understand? He sees the possibility of his doom approaching. He must have an heir, immortal and powerful, that might prepare for his return. And so he has created one, in me." Still, Celeborn sat motionless, his mind a whirlwind of thought. "Celeborn, what think you?"

When he spoke, his voice was shaky. "I know not what to think!" he confessed. "That such a thing of evil was done to you, I cannot bear. It is a wonder that you live at all. And more troubles me, for what shall be done with the child?"

Galadriel's reply was almost immediate. "He shall not be harmed!" Celeborn frowned at the severity of her voice. "Do not misunderstand me," she continued in a softer tone. "But what else can I do? He is my child—my son. I cannot help but love him. For evil is not passed down through generations, like an ill-wrought surname."

"And yet predilection for evil is!" Celeborn retorted.

But Galadriel shook her golden locks. "Nay, I cannot believe that, for Morgoth, the root of all such darkness, sprang from the light of Ilúvatar, was brother to him who reigns on the Mountain. He was given much power, not evil inherent. True, my son will be strong. And yet, as long as he is guided in the ways of good, making the choice that all must make, so will he also focus his strengths—towards the good." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that? Can you accept him as a son? I know too well that it is no easy favor to ask, but I would not ask if it were not so important."

Celeborn closed his eyes for a moment in introspection. What would he say? He could hardly be unafraid of this child, the child that had been conceived so cruelly and derived its strength from so foul a source. Still, he trusted Galadriel's wisdom in this matter, and knew that her words made sense. What else, indeed, could they do?

"I promise to do this," he vowed, "as long as good is served. And yet," he continued, "I must confess, I fear what might become of this child."

Galadriel sighed softly, her eyes gazing into the heart of the nearby campfire. "So do I."


1. Nerwen - Galadriel's mother name. As a Sindar, Celeborn might well use the Sindarin rendering. See chapter two notes for more information.

More canon quibbles greet us in chapter three. Would Celeborn and Galadriel still be sexually active at this point in their marriage? Unlikely, but an easy mistake considering I hadn't read Morgoth's Ring yet. Would Sauron be able to father a child without permanently making himself an Elf? Sticklers for canon would look to the example of Melian as a standard (although even Melian was able to return to her natural form long after Lúthien was born.) I can only entreat the reader to smile, nod, and suspend disbelief.