"Take my hand and we will pursue this light together, no matter how dim."

Book 2: Annatar

Beleriand F.A. circa year 63

The banks of the river were covered in sage blossoms, the blooms swaying gently against the whisper of wind that trailed its fingers across the waterfront. It was the second day of my passage along the Sirion. I had departed from Doriath the previous morning, as I had done countless times before, and planned to make the journey to forage and perhaps even make a hunt of my own through the wilderness. Though it was smaller, the river which wound through the heart of Beleriand always called to mind the one I had sprouted up alongside in Valinor, and I treasured these precious, quiet moments as I floated unburdened along its spirited current.

The afternoon light washed over me—clear and perfect—and I savored the way it sparkled along the surface of the stream. I had never ventured this far before, and my arms flexed as I churned myself further along the river, my paddle pivoting in and out of the water like a weapons master drilling his sword. Just a little further—then I would turn back. After all, I still hadn't found Melian the hyssop I had promised her, and it was not in my nature to return empty-handed or leave an errand incomplete.

I laughed as the river took a sudden bend, my stomach dropping slightly as I braced myself for any rapids that might accompany the turn. Yet instead of a tortuous course, I was met with a seeping darkness that snaked through the still waters beyond. Swiftly, softly I slowed my kayak, my body tensing as I prepared for whatever bloodshed awaited up ahead. Sheer cliffs faced me from the opposite shore, so I was left with no choice but to steer myself towards the offending bank, hoping I would at least be able to catch whatever lay ahead by surprise, or at least lie in secrecy until any danger passed.

I gingerly pulled my boat ashore, hiding it beneath a stretch of sweet fern. Perhaps I had let myself wander further along the Sirion that I had thought. I imagined the lay Melian would lecture me with—the laughter we would share after I teased her for doubting my fortitude. She was always warning me about staying vigilant not to venture too far outside her protection; an adventure into lands unguarded could easily draw the attention of Morgoth's servants. And though I had always doubted they were waiting at our door, I realized chillingly that her fears could soon be proven true.

The river was bordered by thick wood, more unruly than that which sprouted in Doriath, but enough to offer me some cover as I crept along. Strangely, only silence greeted me as I scouted through the wild, and I wondered if whatever gore had stained my voyage was not so fresh as it seemed.

But no sooner had I thought this than the sharp tang of blood filled my nostrils.

I pressed through tree limbs to break into a glade, and my breath passed from me as I beheld what lay bleeding by the edge of the river. Stretched haggard over the carpet of moss was a wolf—great and terrible—breathing heavily through foul yellow fangs and on what seemed the very edge of death. Its eyes were rolled back, apparently unconscious from pain or fury, and a deep wound gaped open across its belly, weeping black fluid that trailed into the water. I had heard of creatures like this described before but never seen one myself; perhaps this finally was one of the fell creatures—a werewolf—that were only spoken of in harsh whispers or behind closed doors in Doriath.

Yet something about it seemed more otherworldly than evil.

Despite the obvious wretchedness of the creature—somehow—I felt my heart stirred to something resembling pity, even as I convinced myself that, were our roles were reversed, no such sentiment would have been extended towards me. From the imagined safety of a nearby stump, I sat and watched the wolf. Would more arrive? No, it seemed to be alone. Yet what could have wounded such a creature so grievously? And would it not return?

I swallowed and shifted my position on the stump.

The sun beat down overhead, bright daylight whispering a reminder that Vása, the Heart of Fire that awakens and consumes, would have to carry it inevitably beyond the horizon. As the seconds passed, the wolf continued to gasp in distress, now occasionally twitching violently before resuming its cycle of panting.

I resolved that I would approach the creature to at least end its life in mercy. But the nearer I crept, the more I found myself repulsed by the thought. In fact, it seemed that this monster was no werewolf at all, but perhaps a great wolf come from the north, of a line untouched by the corruption that spread through this land. Something perfect. Something whole. Any harm it had come to certainly must have been deserved. Let it suffer its punishment. Leave it to its malingering.

It did not need my help, after all.

There was a shimmering—an almost sparkle in the corner of my vision—and a shudder tore through me as I realized what vile magic repelled me away. Just as Melian's light could safeguard Doriath from malice, a power equal and opposite in nature shielded this creature from me. I breathed in deeply, closing my eyes, and as I exhaled, I opened them, directing my gaze to that little ripple. My mind pierced the mirage, allowing me to step clearly once again to the wolf that lay bleeding in anguish. What wretched evil would hinder my attempts to grant this creature the relief of even death?

I did not imagine Melian laughing anymore.

As I stepped forward, my hand found my blade, prepared to grant a swift death, but as my arm lifted, I found it not striking, but hovering gently above the crest of the creature's throat. It looked so helpless, panting against pain as though pursued by some relentless suffering.

In an instant I felt something shift inside of me, a cog clicking into place against the foundry of my spirit. This was no discordant magic as before; it felt as though Ilúvatar Himself were plucking the harpstrings of my soul. A reminder that I was not like the rest of Fëanor's kinfolk. No oath had wormed its way across my tongue. I was not bound to slaughter indiscriminately, until the heat of my adversaries' blood poured out enough to warm my frost-numbed heart. No, I carried a light inside of me, a light that had been born in Valinor and nurtured beneath Melian's tutelage—a light that seared acutely that very moment as I stood unsettled there on the shore of the Sirion.

Instead of death, I was called to life. To mercy.

I turned to the river, my lips finding a prayer to Ulmo as the water wrapped around my palms. It swelled against me, and I turned back to lift my hands to the creature's abdomen, pressing water firmly against the wound. I gasped as the flesh sizzled against me. The water coating my hands was replaced by blood, and I watched transfixed as suddenly the beast before me was transfigured at my touch. Where once had lain a tangle of blooded fur now lay unblemished flesh. The monster became at once a man—no—something more than man. Smooth, sun-kissed skin which seemed to glow against the moss beneath it and a crown of curls bright as fire. Not mannish, not fey, no—he was as Melian was. Something which had awoken long before we Children of Ilúvatar had walked this Middle-Earth.

This being gave a great sigh as it shuddered with renewed life, and the sudden terror of not-knowing at once seized me. I jerked back, my palms slicked black with blood, slipping and sticking against the leaves covering the earth as I pushed myself away. I had hardly returned to the tree line when his eyelids fluttered open, still weak but searching. Freezing in the electric darkness of that overgrowth, I watched him, his ethereal face searing into my mind as a brand.

I did not wait around to see what might happen next; instead, my body ferried me automatically to the kayak, propelled me at a pace unthinkable down the river, and whisked me all the way back to shores far more familiar than that wild, bewitching beast.

I wondered for a long time if those piercing eyes had known me.

That night, when I returned to Doriath, Melian's silence frightened me more than any lecture ever could. I bathed and dressed restlessly for the celebration Thingol was hosting for Midsummer that evening, and Melian lingered in my chambers, watching. As she helped arrange my tresses for the night of dancing, she probed me with questions, and strangely, I found myself omitting the details of my excursion. The first time I had hidden anything from her.

"Your cousin Celeborn, Elu Thingol's nephew, has arrived with a company to dwell for a time among his kinsmen," Melian said, adjusting the final strands of my hair. "Your brothers, myself, and our King desire expressly for you to meet."

I smiled, my eyes lit with laughter, "Well, if the young prince wishes to ask for my hand to dance, let it be by his own machinations."

She did not respond, only humming absently, but as she turned to leave, Melian hovered in the doorway, her face regarding me solemnly.

"I am forever your fiercest supporter and friend, so know that it is only love that guides my heart as I speak now to you," she said, folding her hands together. "I foresee that it is time for you now to make a match. Elves who marry late are said to have strange fates, but better to be married late, than never to be married at all. We are all of us made stronger by choosing a truly worthy partner. Celeborn and the company who arrived with him are all noble elves, close to you in kin and in grace. He would make a fine match, if you only opened your heart to him."

I nodded my understanding, smiling softly at my friend while internally rolling my eyes at her prompting. Her words were somber, yet in response I felt inappropriately unserious—some carelessness consuming me that chuckled at the strangeness of it all and my excitement over the evening that awaited.

When we were finally introduced, Thingol clasped our hands together with a smile so dazzling constellations could have been suspended between his teeth. Celeborn had just come of age and stood boyish and bold, his hair a rare, shimmering silver in the evening light. I was over a thousand years of the sun his senior, but he did not seem intimidated by that fact. We danced all night, and unlike so many of the Sindar and even Melian that night, he did not behold me strangely or with hesitance. I was not a curse to be shunned or a thing to be conquered. And, at least at first, his attitude toward me remained untainted by the protective vigilance which my brothers and Melian regarded me with.

Celeborn's behavior was freeing, and the yearning that colored my heart that day sucked me dizzyingly into it.

Sipping a cool drink to steady myself after hours of dancing, Melian floated over to me. She watched me observing Celeborn.

"I sense," she said, "on this day, a bond has been formed like no other."

But the smile which lit my friend's beloved face failed to reach her eyes. I ignored her strange behavior, and focused instead on her words, offering as smile, "As do I."

I felt it too, felt in my bones that which my kinfolk had always sighed over. The entire day my heart had swelled in a song of affection—the acknowledgement that I had finally met the one I would be bound to beyond eternity. There was real joy—after so many years thinking I would never know that kind of love, it had discovered me after all. Finally, after so long, I had found the one whom my soul loved!

And yet…

I couldn't remember his face anymore. What Celeborn had once looked like. My perfect memory, flawed only in its ability to recall the details of my husband's face. His loss still haunted me, though the mourning had passed. But I was more unsettled that I could not sense a vastness between us. I thought for so long that the disquiet that plagued my heart during the ages that followed was due to my mate being sundered from me, but as I neared Valinor at Gil-galad's insistence, I did not thrill with hope that I was come near to him again, only terror. And as I reached inside of myself now, I would be lying if I denied that disquiet had since been dulled, filled with an unspeakable hope these last weeks, followed presently by a numb and shameful silence.

It seemed only slaughter could calm the war that raged inside of me now.

In the millennia that followed my first meeting with Celeborn and my wretched encounter with that wolf, the calling I had felt to give life was replaced with a mandate for death. With each body that was heaped onto the pile—my own personal cairn of flesh—something nameless slipped from me. There was no more room for mercy. Whatever light Melian once thought she saw in me had long ago been dimmed.

I would not have spared that wolf again.

Middle-Earth S.A. The Present

A stillness hung suspended in the air above me, my eyes struggling to focus between the vast expanse of sky that swirled above me and the dust that spun around me. I blinked, choking out a sudden cough as I rolled over onto my side and promptly vomited. The acrid contents of my stomach hissed against the ground.

A groan echoed out from far to my left, and I scraped my elbow frantically as I scrambled to prop myself up to find its source. Had Sauron already returned to punish me? Was this all an illusion after all?

No, it was only Arannis standing up from the earth, his hands slowly lifting his sword to his side—wait, Arannis?

There were more groans as the rest of the soldiers peeled themselves up from the earth, and my jaw hung slack, realizing that they had fallen entranced but not lifeless. They stared at me, then at the pile of black sludge that lay in the center of the clearing, then back at me again. We gaped at each other in this fashion until my mouth felt sore from the gawking.

Why had Sauron left them alive? I could not fathom that they still drew breath. So paranoid was I that this was just yet another deception that I reflexively tried pinching myself where I stood, but I needed no such confirmation. My body still throbbed enough from its wounds for me to know that the pain and the present were both equally real.

Arannis strode towards me, the hilt of his sword grasped firmly between his hands. I flinched as he thrust it firmly into the ground beneath my feet. Perhaps I would have fainted where I stood, had he not bowed his head and knelt with purpose.

"Behold!" He cried, voice swelling with emotion, "Noble Galadriel, Artanis, Our Lady of Light, the hope of the elves and the paragon of our people! Here lies before her Sauron the Abhorred, scourge of the Southlands and shame of the Maiar."

The other guards pressed their fists to their chests, chiming in chorus. "Hail, Lady Galadriel!"

I sat back down.

Their words, which once would have warmed my heart with pride, felt hollow. The soldiers shouted my praise, kneeling before me in solemn reverence, but I was not the one who had spared them. Perhaps I had slain our common enemy, but Sauron had—for some strange and incomprehensible reason—chosen to render them only unconscious from the earliest moments of our meeting. The creature who swore to slay the last of the elves, sparing the squadron most easily in his grasp. He was a hypocrite through and through it seemed, even in this unfamiliar mercy.

My breath caught, but not in elation. What was wrong with me? This was my victory. And yet, as I sat there, staring at the blood-smeared earth between my boots, an unfamiliar coldness spread through me. Even though my kinsmen lived, I still felt an inexplicable sadness.

"Lady Galadriel?" Arannis stood before me now, and briefly I wondered how I had missed his rising. "Valar above, your arm—"

His hand closed gingerly around my wrist, the other palm supporting my triceps as he examined my wound. And though it still burned, there was something else now I noticed that ached hollowly inside of me. A tear trailed unbidden down the curve of my cheek.

It seemed to take all my will to even form words to speak. "I… I have lost a great deal of blood."

So much strength and hatred had flowed from me mere minutes before, and here I was reduced to a pitiful, trembling mess. I should be jumping for joy—bursting into song as we danced over the remains of the once-Sauron. Instead, I was speechless. Everything felt wrong.

The other soldiers watched me silently, but it was not the suspicion I anticipated which lined their eyes, only concern. Arannis made as though to pick me up, and finally this roused me. I shrugged him off.

"No, I can rise on my own."

A female elf stepped towards us, shaking her head. "Rise you may, but stand alone you will not. Arannis, please help Lyra see to Lady Galadriel's arm, at least until we can find what remains of our supplies."

"Commander Velora, I am afraid there are no signs of the horses," another member of the guard chimed in.

"Well then, we must have quite the search ahead of us. Fan out and see whatever trace you can find of our steeds."

The soldiers began filtering out of the clearing, preparing to canvass the area for the missing stallions and whatever supplies remained before we found a safe space to make camp for the evening. Arannis and Lyra waited for me a few steps ahead, but I turned back one last time, my gaze lingering on the black stain that marked the consummation of my vengeance. Had justice always cut so deep? I found it hard to imagine my brother Finrod pleased by what I had done for the sake of his name.

Blameless or not, this recompense had cost me dearly.

I sighed and picked up the torc that Sauron had worn as ornament, the only thing left of my sworn enemy besides a disintegrating smock. I stared at the rings within rings carved around the ends of the trinket—some spiraling thing of abandoned beauty. There was no more sense of propriety, no feeling that I had someone to answer to or some righteousness to defend. So, without a pack to place it in, I lifted the torc and wrapped it soundly around my throat.

He was gone—what did it matter anymore anyway?

It was a grueling journey back to Lindon, particularly without our horses. But the discomfort was worth it, the moment I saw Gil-galad's face as he witnessed our return. There were no fancy meetings this time—no summons to his chambers or formal presentations by the guards. Instead, the High King himself stumbled out from his hall, flustered and red-faced, the panic palpable in his wide eyes.

Galadriel—his prisoner, his traitor, his problem—had returned unbound and unobstructed to his gates.

A crowd gathered quickly, whispers rippling through them like flame catching on dry leaves. They stared, first at Commander Velora and the soldiers at my back, then at me, as if expecting to see chains binding my wrists. Instead, they found only a figure cloaked once more in authority, hair wild and face worn from the long trek, but my expression unyielding, cold as winter stone.

Velora stepped forward, the other soldiers—Gil-galad's self-professed finest—standing behind her with expressions I couldn't quite read. Perhaps fear, perhaps awe, or perhaps uncomplicated relief.

"Unfortunately," I began, letting my voice carry over the murmur of the crowd, "there wasn't enough left of him for us to bring back a head, so I hope this serves as proof enough."

With a flick of my wrist, I plunked the torc down onto the cobblestones, the heavy metal clinking dully.

The hush was immediate. The torc, still putrid from his power, a twisted, ornate symbol of sovereignty and malice. I watched Gil-galad's face shift from disbelief to rage, his eyes flicking to the object and then back to me. He turned sharply to one of his guards, teeth gritted.

"Tighten. Security," he hissed, as if the sight of me standing there like this, was a threat he could not abide.

"Lady Galadriel has slain the foe of our people and of all of Middle-Earth," Arannis announced, his voice ringing out with an authority I had never heard come from him before. "The dread-scourge Sauron is dead by her hand."

A murmur rumbled through the gathered elves. A collective breath released, though whether it was relief or fear, I couldn't tell. Gil-galad's expression only darkened, a deep scowl forming as he fixed his gaze back on me, eyes alight with that insufferable, righteous anger.

"You bring back an object that he wore, that he could undoubtedly have instilled with some of his malice—his control?" he spat, like a child refusing to believe what was right in front of him.

I bent down slowly, almost leisurely, as I picked up the torc and held it aloft, the twisted alloy glinting in the dull morning light.

"Yes, how foolish of me," I said dryly, holding his gaze with my mouth drawn. Then, with a swift, effortless twist, I snapped the ornament in half, the metal cracking with a sharp, almost satisfying sound.

The crowd gasped, and I dropped the broken halves from my hands.

"See?" I said, letting the sarcasm drip from every word. "Very scary."

I watched Gil-galad's face twist, but something inside me felt hollow, the triumph fleeting. I had won, hadn't I? I had killed Sauron. Morgoth's successor, our deceiver. And yet here I was, standing before them, feeling like the very darkness I had slain.

A coldness yawned inside of me where his presence once was, like a severed limb still aching in phantom-pain and disbelief. But the elves of Lindon did not need to know that. They could have their moment of relief, their whispers and their cheers. Let them look at me like a hero, if only for this brief moment. Because I knew the truth: I couldn't save anyone anymore, not even myself.

My arm did not heal. Even with the most skilled artificers and the most potent medicine, my people could only coax my flesh to meet over the festering darkness. We elves were creatures of beauty, of perfection. Even the most gruesome wounds would usually close over without mark, but the scar that marred my forearm now was a horrible thing. It swirled out like smoke, tendrils stretching like a seam of black gold across the deposit of my skin from forearm to biceps. Whisps even curled down the inner corner of my wrist, grazing my thumb with their shadowed kiss.

It never mended. Even with the ring.

Oh yes, Gil-galad had met with me privately after my return, pressing me for details of my journey and the decision I had made to depart against his counsel. And despite his fury over my disobedience and frustration that I had vanished our one chance of having an upper hand to raise our armies against Sauron—as he remained unconvinced that I had truly eradicated our enemy—he still seemed troubled by my spirit.

At the conclusion of our meeting, he pressed something scintillating into the palm of my hand.

"Galadriel," he said, "you will take this last ring, and I pray that it will purge you with its light and conceal you from the evil you have roused."

He named it water—or Nenya in our mother tongue—and expressed that he hoped, like its namesake, it could cleanse me as he once hoped Valinor would when he banished me there. But neither the blessed land nor this trinket could not heal what was broken in me, just as it could not heal fair Míriel's spirit after she birthed Fëanor. I would not dare utter these words to him, though. So instead, I took the ring, its silver adamant shining bright as Telperion, amplifying my power yet still not healing my arm.

And so I waited. And I watched. Every day my insides coiling with perverse anticipation that teetered on the knife-edge of dread and hope that our enemy, whether as Sauron or Halbrand or some other form, would once again reveal himself to me as he had promised—so that I could avenge myself again and once and for all put to death this grief that plagued my spirit.

But it was not Sauron who returned.

First came Glorfindel, a great hero from the War of Wrath, claiming to be reembodied in Valinor and sent as a messenger from the Valar. Yet I had never known this Glorfindel, mighty though his deeds were renowned, and I had seen him golden-haired and shining in a previous vision come to Lindon in what felt a warning omen. Besides this, the tidings he brought from across the sea were inconceivable to me—claims about my late husband Celeborn which demanded my disbelief, that I could not possibly bear if true.

My paranoia and fear sent ripples through the community in Lindon. I could barely meet Glorfindel's eyes, so certain I was that he was an imposter. But we elves, especially the most ancient among us, are a curious folk, and my kinfolk began to reciprocate my mistrust. Nothing sours the eternal bliss of the elves more than whispers of despair and foreboding, and so, by the time the other one arrived, I had been dismissed from Lindon with an honor guard to bide my exile in Eregion.

And although the foe of all Middle-Earth had supposedly been expunged from its ranks, the orcs continued to swell in number and in wickedness, now spreading their violence beyond even the bounds of the Southlands. There were rumors too reaching Elrond's ears of something terrible stirring in Khazad-dûm. So, it was no surprise when the messenger arrived in Eregion, he was welcomed as a savior.

Elara met me with warm eyes and open arms, never remarking upon the mark that snaked across my skin or the unease that so obviously accompanied it. Instead, she took my hands in her own confidently, not even glancing at the elves who'd accompanied me from Lindon to Eregion's gates.

"You have returned," she hummed. "I dared not hope to see you so soon, much less with such miraculous news. Lord Celebrimbor held quite the celebration, as soon as word had reached us from Lindon. Sauron—truly gone—I can still barely believe it!" She exclaimed with a laugh, shaking her head. "How long has our High King decided to spare you for this visit?"

"Indefinitely," I replied, my voice cold, cracking like frost underfoot. I tried to smile, to meet her sunny disposition with some semblance of my own, but my lips felt still and my jaw tight from misuse. Something like concern flickered across her honeyed eyes.

"Well then, I am sure I can think of some diversions to fill your schedule, after your meetings tomorrow morning. Any requests in the meantime?"

I pulled my hands away from her, fighting the slight tremor that seized my fingers. "The battle is won," I muttered, "but the war lingers. I require more rest than I believed before."

"Then I will do everything in my power to see that you remain unbothered," she said. "Come, your room has already been prepared."

The sky outside was painted in deep purples and blues as Elara led me to my chambers, the very same she had first greeted me in prior to my departure. I slipped inside after thanking her, shutting the door with a soft click and leaning against it. The shadowed quiet that greeted me was a welcome reprieve. If I sealed my eyes tightly enough, it almost felt as though I could shut the world away, even if only for a moment.

Without lighting candle or lantern, I collapsed onto the bed. Yet still, something suffocated me. Was it the softness of the mattress? My traveling clothes?

I kicked off my boots and writhed out of the dress constraining me. The mountain of pillows piled around me still loomed atop the sheets, and my nostrils flared at an exuberance which seemed to mock me. I flung them to the floor, one by one, each throw fueled by a flash of futile anger that faded as quickly as it sparked. A prickling heat gathered at the corners of my vision in despair and disgust; my strength flagged so pitifully that I could not even sustain my own rage.

Was this ring not supposed to fix all of this?

The Great Tree had been restored; my people's sorrow salved within seconds of wearing the jewelry. What had been broken so definitively inside of me that Nenya failed to mend the pieces? Despite its light thrumming through me, I still could not seem to contort myself back into the shape of an obedient Elda. I was coming unraveled. I was coming undone.

Something erupted from within me, a keening cry tearing from my throat equally artless and terrible. The sound echoed off the walls, the room itself magnifying my pain back at me—a mirror heard but not seen. I curled into myself, clutching the blanket to my chest, sobs wracking my frame until I was exhausted, emptied of all but an anguish which clung to me like a second skin. My breath slowed, melting into shallow, hiccupping gasps. Even when the tears stopped, the ache in my arm remained, a silent reminder of the wellspring of my suffering. But my crying had seemed to dull the throb inside my heart, a welcome quiet buzzing through me instead.

I lay there, in that darkness, wondering if the silence within me now was a beginning or an end.

"Lady Galadriel, are you not going to come and see the messenger? Lord Celebrimbor has granted him to speak in an open forum!"

Only a few months had passed since my return to Eregion, and in that time it felt as though I had been wandering a cold, uncharted wasteland. I stood at the edge of my favorite balcony, the morning mist curling around my feet like ghostly fingers, pulling me back into memories I was desperate to forget. The news had spread quickly—a messenger from the gods had arrived late in the night before, bringing tidings from beyond the sea.

Annatar, they called him.

I had delayed departing my quarters to encounter this visitor, though it was well within my purview as one of the eldest and most influential elves in Eregion to intercept and engage such a peculiar guest. The name settled like a stone against my stomach, and my ring warmed my hand in a way it had not before upon Glorfindel's arrival in Lindon. Nenya had woken me from sleep in the darkness only hours before—my heart racing and demanding that I burst from my room. But still I resisted, as I did even now. I did not need Elara's announcement to tell me what waited on the other side of those doors.

Apprehension, excitement, hope, terror. I was lost in a morass of conflicting emotions.

"I thought I told you not to use my title, Elara."

"Oh alright, just Galadriel," she huffed, "if you don't watch it, I'll have to resign and find you another attendant more willing to put up with your idiosyncrasies."

"What a shame—I doubt there is any other who could bear them as well as you." I lowered the veil covering my hair and turned, facing her.

"Why, you didn't say you were dressed yet!" She chuckled. "I suppose I'll put up with you a little longer, if you continue not to require my aid in the mornings so I can catch a bit more rest. Now can we please go already? I want to see this messenger, and Lord Celebrimbor insisted I come first to summon you."

I was wordless as we walked toward the main square, but my friend had grown adept at filling the quiet left by my constant brooding and navigated the gaps without trouble now. Finally, we arrived at the gathering, stunned by the throng that had assembled. A sudden gasp rumbled through the crowd, and Elara raised her hand, motioning forward.

"Look! That must be—"

The world around me went silent.

I shielded my eyes with my hand, a bright light spilling in through the cracks between my fingers and still overwhelming my sight. Even as my elf-eyes adjusted, the fire that consumed my vision was blinding, fork-tongued flames spiraling into some semblance of a body—into some being. The creature moved toward me in a blaze, and I found myself dumbstruck in the wake of its conflagration. I blinked, and suddenly sparks became skin, dotted with freckles fine as ash. A crown of red curls adorned its head, forming handsome waves that shimmered as fire frozen-mid form. Molten copper caught by the first rays of dawn. Its eyes were depthless as the deepest waters, filled with countless infinities as they seemed to bore into me. I blinked again to take it—to take him—in. Sharp-jawed and thick-armed—something as regal as the highest king and as brutal as the fiercest warrior. The light itself seemed to bend around him into a halo of gold, as though sucked in by the weight of his glory. A beauty so lethal—so ineffable—my barely-mortal mind still struggled to comprehend.

I gasped an agonal breath, clutching my hand to my chest as my brain finally registered that it had stopped breathing. Then another realization—I knew this entity.

The ring burned against my finger, and I perceived at once who it was that stood before me and who I had touched all those ages ago as they bled out on the banks of the Sirion. So many pieces fell into place in the recesses of my mind, the comprehension so raw and terrible that I had to blink away tears from my sight.

If only my ring had granted me the power to travel back in time.

"Lady Galadriel? Are you alright?" Elara held me steady, concern filling her eyes as she looked between me and Lord Annatar.

"Should I call an artificer? She looks quite distressed." Several other elves had rushed over, hearing the commotion.

"Is everything okay?" Another of my kinsmen put in.

So many pairs of eyes were staring at me, and I finally realized that I had been silent for an unconscionable amount of time. I coughed, as though clearing smoke from my lungs, and cleared my throat.

My voice still sounded gravely as I tried to use it. "I am fine, completely fine. A spell just came over me."

The ring burned furiously against my finger, so hot I brought my hands behind my back and desperately fought to twist it off. Finally successful, I palmed it in my other hand, almost dropping it when I saw the change that rippled over this Annatar. Suddenly, he seemed smaller, still divine but more youthful and elven in fashion, with white-blond tresses and a much more leanly-muscled form, though no one else seemed to notice. Was this how the others beheld him? I cleared my throat again and twisted Nenya back on. Once more, his true, divine face met me, and the weakness in my knees returned.

Sauron—Annatar—whatever name my enemy preferred—squinted at me suspiciously for a moment, as though also unsure before he burst into a smile that seemed almost genuine. Once again I was blinded, but this time by how dazzling and sharp his teeth seemed.

Pull yourself together! I screamed at myself mentally.

The crowd parted as he stepped forward, every eye in the courtyard now fixed on us. He bowed gracefully, sweeping an arm to his chest in an elaborate gesture of respect.

"Lady Galadriel," he said, his voice smooth and warm, echoing through the courtyard. But as his gaze met mine, a flicker of something darker flashed in his eyes. "It is a great honor to meet you at last. I have heard so very much about you."

The response bubbled up inside of me, absurd and uncontrollable—I burst into laughter. It was unfathomable—impossible. He had been dead 1500 years after Adar slaughtered him, yet he was alive now after barely even a year following my brutally delivered execution. Why was he here? And why didn't he seem furious? Worse, he seemed perfect in every way imaginable. So fair, it was almost painful to gaze upon his visage. His godhood was unquestionable, ever-present, and how desperately did I wish to kill him again over it.

"Do you find me humorous?" He inquired, but—strangely—his face looked more delighted than upset.

I inclined my head, forcing a smile to my disbelieving lips. "No, not at all, my Lord Annatar. You must excuse my laughter; I just cannot believe our luck—a messenger of the Ainur sent so soon. You must be weary from your journey. We are all eager to hear what tidings you bring from across the sea."

He straightened, his eyes locking onto mine. There was a playful glint in them, a challenge that only I could recognize. "Oh, I am indeed weary," he said, his voice dipping lower. "The road was long and fraught with peril. But I must say, the welcome I have received here makes the journey worthwhile. The astonishment on your face alone is prize enough."

I bit back a laugh, swallowing down the absurdity of it all. "Well, I'm glad we could bring you some fleeting joy," I replied, the nonchalance of my tone not reflecting the sobering reality that seemed suddenly to settle over me. Did he know that I knew? Did the other elves know that I knew? There was only one explanation—he must have returned to kill me, as punishment for what I had done to him. I tried to steady myself and scrape together some response. "We don't often have such esteemed visitors. Tell me, Annatar, have you traveled much in these lands before?"

A grin played on his lips, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, only in passing," he said smoothly. "I find there is great beauty here, though I must confess, the landscape seems different from what I remember."

"I'm sure it does," I said, my tone equally light. "Time has a way of changing things. Sometimes, even the most familiar faces can become unrecognizable."

His eyes gleamed, and he took a step closer, just enough to invade my space without anyone else taking note. "Isn't that the truth?" he murmured. "Sometimes, you meet someone you think you know, only to find they are not at all who you thought they were."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest but kept my expression serene. "A strange thing indeed," I agreed. "And yet, there is a certain thrill in rediscovering an old acquaintance, don't you think?"

He chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "Absolutely."

The elves around us watched with wide eyes, oblivious in their awe of a messenger come from Valinor. Elara stepped forward, eager to introduce Annatar formally. "My lord," she said with a bow, "we are honored by your presence. The people of Eregion are eager to hear your message from the Valar."

He turned his attention to her, flashing a smile so handsome it made several of the younger elves gasp. "I am grateful for your hospitality," he said warmly. "I bring news of hope and healing—gifts for a land in need of security and restoration."

He shot me a sidelong glance as he said it, his words dripping with irony only I could perceive. I matched his smile, my heart pounding in my chest. "That is most welcome news," I said. "After so much darkness, a glimmer of light is just what we need."

His lips curled into a smirk, as vicious as what I imagined him wearing ages before as a wolf, and he brought his right hand into a fist, purposefully clasping it in the air in front of him. "Indeed, you cannot imagine how exhilarating the deliverance I bring will be. Now, I am afraid I must return to Lord Celebrimbor; there is so much work for us to yet accomplish."