They had been riding for four days when Galadriel realized they wouldn't make it.
Or rather, he wouldn't.
"How much farther?" he rasped.
"We take shelter at sundown, once we pass beyond the forest's edge."
He gritted his teeth, lacking the energy to argue. It was unlike him to hold his tongue with her; always a biting response on the tip of his tongue, always challenging her. The pain must be excruciating.
"Enough with your fretting; we shall advance," she huffed.
The brutal realization settled upon her: Halbrand's condition had been unstable throughout their trek. One moment he engaged in conversation, casting wary glances and jabs at her attempts to hasten their pace, and the next he slumped over his saddle, groans of agony barely muffled by the horses' trots.
But today, his hisses of pain were sharper, cutting through her remaining armor and biting down into war-torn flesh. They hadn't abated, offering no respite in their chilling intensity. She stole a glance at his pallid skin, noting with some relief the absence of fresh blood seeping through his garments—a small mercy.
Yet his hands, bony and trembling, struggled to grip the reins, slipping gradually from his grasp. Life was leaking out of his body.
She snapped her head forward, forcing herself to stare ahead. The mountains loomed, the final obstacle to his salvation.
You're the obstacle to his salvation.
She gritted her teeth, willing the thought to perish. Self-doubt was a luxury she couldn't afford, not now, not when his every agonized groan tore through her like a dagger. She pushed the guilt aside, burying it beneath pursed lips of determination, refusing to let it consume her.
Deep inside, a voice resembling the High King's murmured that it was all her doing.
Halbrand's blood, the fuel to her revenge.
Yanking the reins, her horse sped up, trotting grumpily on the rocky terrain. She heard his wails but pressed on. Her breath came out ragged, tasting remnants of ash and smoke in her throat.
Isildur's death upon the scorched plains, Elendil's anguish, Miriel's loss of sight, and the encroaching darkness threatening to engulf Middle Earth. She fanned the flame and the shadow spread.
And amidst it all, Halbrand.
She had promised him a crown, yet all she delivered was a blade to his stomach.
She ran, breathless as her poor horse, chasing away the stone of guilt pressing her stomach, stifling her. The sun weighed down on the horizon, blooding the sky.
One can't outrun destiny. But she tried.
A loud thud startled her, her horse rearing up in panic. Harshly, she halted and turned around. Halbrand had fallen to the ground, clutching his injured side, face contorted in pain.
"Halbrand!" She jumped off the horse and rushed to his side. "Are you hurt?"
"Apart from being stabbed?" he groaned.
"I will stab you myself if you are that careless." But her voice couldn't muster the threat, only trembling fear.
"You had your chance, Elf." She helped him up and dragged him to rest against a nearby tree.
"Don't tempt me."
"I wouldn't dare," he lied.
She tended to their weary steeds before setting about the task of kindling a fire. Their journey had reached its end for the day; they could travel no further.
"I shall attend to your wound." Her voice was still weak, though she willed it to be steady.
She applied salve to his injured hands, and he hissed at the contact. "Bronwyn was gentler."
"Shall I send you back to her?" she snapped.
"Easy, I am only jesting. It's your hands I trust."
She was no healer. She had helped injured soldiers who wouldn't dare question her touch. Even if said touch couldn't save them, their faces stripped of warmth as death—
"Lie back now," she ordered. "And save your breath."
"Ordering me to shut my mouth. That's more like you." But he obliged, following her with his eyes until they dropped closed.
He didn't rest, his hands tightly clenched into fists. Orc weapons didn't just hurt at the moment of contact; the pain reverberated, lying dormant before brutally resurfacing when the body relaxed.
She tried to stack the pieces of wood neatly, few as they were. The night would be cold. But her movements were jerky, her hands too clammy to obey, a sob lodged in her throat.
She had become the harbinger of his suffering, the architect of his torment.
He had slipped into unconsciousness and looked peaceful against the bark of the old tree, calm despite his skin being stitched with new scars. Waking him was the last thing she wanted, but she had to re-bandage his wound. She lifted off his ruined tunic, bunching it up on his chest. Up close, the wound pulsed, fresh blood seeping from the marred tissue. It moved with his slow, noisy breathing.
At least he's still breathing. When the mountain spewed hellfire and ash, and she saw the men she fought alongside swallowed by flames—
She pulled off the cloth used as dressing, finding resistance as it stuck to the dried blood, and he hissed.
The apology died in her throat.
She dared not meet his gaze, fearing the hurt she would find in his eyes, the hurt she was still eliciting with every move of her hands.
All she did was hurt him, and at some point, it started to matter. She willed her tears not to spill.
"Am I getting through the night?" he croaked.
"You must," she insisted, tightening the bandage with a firm hand. "I did not crown you king to see you perish in darkness."
"I see, my death wouldn't align with your plans."
"Cease talking and rest. We move at first light."
"Even you can't push death away."
"I shall."
"Stubborn elf," he said, but fondness laced his words. He did that sometimes—goad her without malice, conceding the point.
Stripping away her armor, unchaining herself from battle with every piece off, she prepared their lodgings for the night. She fashioned a headrest for Halbrand out of her spare shirt and covered him with his own cape. He fell asleep as soon as she held the back of his head and helped him recline into it.
For her, it was a simple bedroll next to his. She was beyond sore from their days of travel and longed for sleep's luscious relief. Sounds of the forest, rustling leaves as the wind blew tiredly, and the last embers of their fire whispering ancient prayers. Nature comforted elves, and Galadriel waited for the moment it would envelop her with a soothing song.
But sleep never came. Nor peace. She felt it slipping from her fingers as the veil of night weighed heavy on her limbs.
She looked up, seeking solace from the stars. Menelvagor, "The Swordsman of the Sky," always reminded her of Finrod. Valacirca, a sign of hope against Melkor. Eärendil, the closest to her, Elrond's father. The sacrifices of her kin, the blood lost for the cause she was still fighting. Suddenly, all stars twinkled as they anchored the souls gone by her tirade. How many more empty helmets would fall at her feet? Enough to fill the whole sky?
Only when hot tears slid down her face did she realize she was crying. By then, sobs escaped her, and she put a hand on her mouth to stifle them. Halbrand must sleep.
As if her distress affected him, he groaned in his sleep, ragged movements coursing through his body. He mumbled something again and again. It sounded like her name, the strong "L," disregarding proper pronunciation and making it his own. A murmur, and him tightening, as if bracing for impact.
"'Ladriel," he let out.
His body convulsed, shaking violently in his sleep, sweat drenching his brow. The nightmare tightened its grip, refusing to let go.
"Halbrand, wake up," she urged, shaking him gently at first, then with more urgency as his terrors worsened. "Halbrand!"
His eyes flew open, wild and unseeing, and he gasped for breath. He bolted upright but the pain stopped him, staring at her with a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Galadriel," he reached out to touch her arm, his hand trembling. His eyes found hers, but they were unfocused, hollow, lost under the surface. She scooted closer and ran a hand across his forehead, gathering the sweat and soft tendrils. He panted, and the horror of the dream lingered on his face.
"Where d' you go?" he clutched her wrist, feeling the blood pumping in her veins.
"I am here. It was only a dream—"
"After the mountain erupted."
She had stood and gazed at the mountain; pure, inescapable destruction. She was utterly captivated. For a moment she didn't move; maybe that was what she would do, offer herself to the fire, let this sacrifice appease the darkness. No more dead bodies at her feet, if she was the one below the ground.
"Where were you?" he whispered, bringing her back. "One moment I'm looking at the bloodied sky and the next you're out of my sight. I called for you. I called," he swallowed, "and cried and begged for you to be safe."
She turned away, lest he see her glistening eyes. Let the night be over, for she couldn't bear this.
"I survived. I always do," she answered bitterly.
She'd seen soldiers dying in battle, many in their last breaths. She was calm and soothing, but with Halbrand, she couldn't muster the courage. His blood was under her fingertips, a crimson banner of her failure, and she couldn't—
"Galadriel," he pleaded, his accent hugging her name like no one else did. Like she was a different person when it came off his lips.
She pulled his blanket to his shoulders, but he wouldn't lie down. "Let us not think of that until tomorrow."
He caught her hand, stopping her. "There may be no tomorrow for me. Human bodies are weak, my beautiful elven warrior."
She bit her lower lip until she tasted shame.
The pad of his finger slid across her bruised knuckles. At his tenderness, her heart swelled, the pressure breaking it into millions of jagged, unrepairable pieces.
"And what would you have me say? I screamed for you and you were gone! The land was burning and I thought you were dead. Then you were lying on a cot, stabbed by orcs, wishing you were. And now you are dying. Because of me."
He took in her tear-streaked face. She couldn't hide it anymore.
"You were looking for me," he said tentatively.
"Forgive me."
"For what?"
"For using you. For goading you with a crown and making you fight my war."
"Our war."
"Don't try to spare my feelings. I abhor that."
"Then spare mine. If it's my last night, may we spend it without needless arguments?"
"I'm not arguing with you," she countered, hypocritically.
"Galadriel."
She looked at him, and he leaned into her. Up close, she could see his chapped lips, and the color drained from his face. Auburn locks stuck to the sweat on his temples. He was unfairly handsome, still.
"It's not your doing that an orc attacked me. Nor the mountain erupting, nor people dying."
"Is it not? You begged for peace and I hauled you back to the war because I…" she swallowed, "I couldn't bear fighting it without you. I was selfish and cruel."
He had the audacity to laugh, shallowly, as much as his lungs allowed. Lines formed around his eyes, and something tugged at her chest.
"You are frighteningly persuasive, but you didn't drag me here against my will. Nor did you threaten the men of Númenor with daggers to their throats. I came along willingly."
"Why?"
He huffed. "Do you truly not know?" He stared at her, mossy eyes gleaming in the dying firelight.
His eyes fell on her lips, the line of her nose, caressing the blush of her cheeks covered with smoke.
"Halbrand—" Now fresh tears streamed down her face. With an unsteady hand, he brushed them off, gently.
"It would be easy to begin anew in Númenor." He could have been a renowned smith, forging the armor of the palace. He could be content. "But you wouldn't be there."
"What of your treasured peace?"
"There's no peace without you. You came into my life like a raft in a storm. Or you were the tempest. I haven't decided," he huffed.
His fingers brushed the tendrils falling to her cheeks, sticking from the tears. His thumb brushed her chin where wetness had gathered, and she pressed a kiss on his hand.
This could only end in tragedy.
It would.
He read her thoughts on her glistening face. Only instead of heeding fate's warning, he tightened his grip on her jaw and pulled her closer. Their foreheads were pressed together when—
"Do not utter words you cannot rescind," she whispered against his lips. "It is merely the fever speaking—"
"It is not the fever, nor the pain, nor any other excuse you might devise to avoid naming what has long lingered between us."
"What, then, is it?" she asked, her voice quivering.
"It is you. My hope and my undoing."
Leaning into her, he closed the distance between them, lips brushing against hers with a warmth that stole her breath away. The kiss had rough edges, as his scabby skin made contact with her untouched one, like he wanted to claw into her and mark her simultaneously.
She responded, her hands sliding up to cup his face –precious, beautiful– as his neck strained to meet her, fingers threading through his hair. The world around them faded into nothingness, the stars bleeding out their light.
They lingered, foreheads resting on each other, lips as close as they could be. Sharing the breath of a dying king.
"I intended to do this in a more jovial setting, but…" he said with a groan and fished for his pouch from beneath his shirt. She had been curious about it since she first saw it on the raft, the protectiveness he had to hide it from prying eyes. When he opened it, it was as if her world stopped.
Two rings slid onto his palm.
She was rendered speechless.
"I crafted them," he tilted her chin towards her, eyes inescapable. "In Númenor."
She remembered that night when she slept in the forge while he was working. But in Númenor, he had begged her to let him be.
"I knew it then, though I was too incensed with you to admit it. Vexing beyond belief, you are. Yet, as I was forging swords, you occupied my every thought, and this is what emerged."
"Then live until we reach Eregion, for I cannot placate a dying man with empty promises." It would be selfish to put the ring on his finger, when death could claim him any time. Only in Eregion–
"Then allow me to make them." He extended his palm, and she slipped hers in it. Her fingers were coated with dirt and ash, a far cry from the elegance of a Noldor princess. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "Help me fight the darkness and I promise myself to you, to be your partner, your ally, your husband. I vow to follow your light and never cast upon you a glance of doubt. I will make you my Queen, fairest than the sea and the stars."
He slid the ring onto her finger, and it fit perfectly, forged just for her. It gleamed on her finger, and she cupped his face with tender grace.
She did not utter promises, etching her adoration on his lips.
—
Author's note: Are there Haladriel people here? How are we feeling after the finale and what would you like to see in fics?