I'm sorry for the delay in posting this. We are starting to pick up other threads left open by the show, so hopefully you enjoy. These are only my theories of where the show is headed based on the characters developed and my own reading of the Silmarillion. I make no claims to the accuracy of my theories.
Chapter 7: The King of Men
Isildur and Theo left the city the next day with a few other soldiers. Arondir would guide them to the base of the pass before completing some reconnaissance of his own and returning to the city with news. The group was expected to watch the pass for a few weeks or until they had clear evidence that the orcs were using it to cross the mountains.
Galadriel had watched the sendoff stoically, but her emotions still roiled from the prior day. The shock of finding out such an evil still dwelt in Middle Earth combined with the unnerving realization that she had fallen into such easy and trusting camaraderie with her nemesis had stolen her peace and left her feeling jumpy.
As soon as Halbrand dismissed her, Galadriel set off walking. Ontamo was drilling the younger farmers today and didn't need her assistance. With no one expecting her presence, Galadriel slipped from the city unnoticed and began to walk south along the bank of the Anduin.
She passed through farmlands first, inquiring as she went after the progress of the crops and the welfare of the farmers. Once she passed the last plot, the world around her paled to the yellow green grassland that stretched from the Anduin as far as the eye could see until it faded into the horizon or met the distant White Mountains to the north.
From somewhere far to the south, Galadriel could smell the tang of salt on the wind and felt an irresistible longing for home. She loved and hated the sea, as did many elves of her age. The younger ones only dreamt of the sea, but she had crossed it willingly and hated what it represented to her. Without realizing it, she found her feet picking up speed and carrying her lightly and swiftly toward the source of that smell.
She flew south as only an elf can, feeling her cares slowly melt away as the unchanging landscape blurred around her.
After a long while, her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a distant rider. He was little more than a dot on her horizon, but he appeared to be riding toward her.
Curiosity piqued, Galadriel confirmed her sword was strapped to her waist and continued moving south toward the rider. Eventually, she was able to make out more detail. The man was riding hard north, long dark hair flying like a banner behind him and starkly contrasting against his pale face. A man of Númenor then.
He would not have seen her yet, so Galadriel kept running until the distance was short enough for mortal eyes. The rider jerked back in surprise, slowing his horse, before continuing toward her more cautiously.
Galadriel met him before long. He was a tall man on a large bay that was breathing heavily.
"There is nothing north of here save the court of Halbrand, King of the Southlanders. What are your intentions?"
The man looked at her, still seeming to disbelieve his own eyes. "Have the elves come down from their high halls to dwell with men now?"
Galadriel raised an eyebrow but otherwise kept her face impassive. "I am the official envoy from the court of High King Gil-galad. You have not answered my question. What are your intentions toward the Southlanders?"
The man frowned. "I have a message from the King of Númenor. My lord requests an audience with Halbrand. He bids the Southlander to come south to Pelargir under the protection of His Majesty's hospitality."
Galadriel was silent for a moment. "I will bring your message to the king. When shall I say this audience is to take place?"
"The Southlander has been summoned. The audience will commence as soon as he arrives." The Númenórean scowled for a moment then turned and began riding back south.
Galadriel, puzzled by the interaction, watched him ride away. The men of Pelargir were elf-friends of the old sort from Númenor, but this rider had nearly spat the word. He had also referred to the King of Númenor when he spoke of the audience, but Galadriel had seen the old king back when she visited the island and knew he was not fit for travel.
She turned and began running back toward the city, her speed born of necessity now. Something had changed in Númenor since she had parted from Miriel, and Galadriel was sure it was for the worse.
When she arrived back at the city, Galadriel went straight to the palace to bring the news to Halbrand. He sighed heavily but seemed grimly unsurprised.
"The men of Númenor have considered the western shores of Middle Earth to be their vassal territory for centuries. It was only a matter of time before the thought of a native king in the region stirred jealousy."
Galadriel stared at him in disbelief. "Miriel supported your claim to the throne and helped you take it. Why would she now be jealous?"
He shrugged with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. "I'm sure we will find out soon."
Soon, however, turned out to still be several days away. Although Galadriel at first wanted to ride south with a small party and get answers at once, Tindómëon quickly reminded her of the importance of appearances for formal audiences.
This would be no small trading party to negotiate with bandits. This was a meeting of kings.
Halbrand, Tindómëon, and Galadriel spent three days preparing a courtly entourage for a king of men. The tallest and most imposing of the soldiers were chosen to accompany the king and were carefully outfitted in black with a small white sigil stitched on their breasts.
Tindómëon insisted that they could not journey south without a standard also bearing the sigil of the king. A deep red tent was found that could donate a stretch of fabric to the new standard, and the sigil was carefully stitched by Bronwyn and Cerys.
When the group finally set out, Myrddin, a lithe boy of fourteen and one of the youngest who trained with the soldiers, proudly rode behind the king carrying the red banner emblazoned with a white winged star.
The journey south took three days for the full party. Early on the morning of the third day, Halbrand took Galadriel aside. "I have several theories regarding this meeting, and none give me pleasure. Therefore, I have two requests I must make of you. First, as we approach the city, you will see it first. Look for any sign of what has happened and report back to me.
"Second, I ask that you let me take the lead in this conversation." Galadriel opened her mouth quickly, ready to remind him of her own history with the Queen of Númenor, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"I understand how much I ask of you, but I fear the worst factions in Númenor have gained power. I want you here for your counsel and insight, but I do not want to provoke a conflict we cannot win."
Galadriel glowered at him for a moment but finally nodded. "Loathe as I am to admit it, I fear you may be right. I do wish to speak to Miriel, but I will seek a private audience."
Halbrand smiled at her, his features softening, then turned to the men and began preparations for their departure.
Galadriel took a seat upon her horse, her divided skirts settling around her. As the group set off, she rode at Halbrand's left hand, yielding the higher place to Tindómëon as a native of Númenor.
They rode in silence for a short stretch before the first lines of the distant city revealed themselves to Galadriel. The city looked much like Armenolos had, but on a smaller scale. Still, the spires of white reaching up toward the heavens against the backdrop of the sea served as a striking reminder of the power and wealth of Númenor, even here so far from the capital.
Soon, more details became visible, and Galadriel rode forward until she was abreast of Halbrand. "There are ships. A great fleet lies in the river harbor. I see one that must be the royal barge, but Miriel's flag does not fly. I see the flag of Númenor and one I do not recognize."
Halbrand frowned and muttered his thanks. His eyes were fixed on the distant horizon, searching for his own first sight of the city.
By midday the group had closed in on the city. The flag of Númenor and a gold standard with black swords crossed beneath a white crown flapped in the stiff sea wind. From across Halbrand, Galadriel heard Tindómëon name the second flag as a more ornate version of the sign of the King's Men, a faction that had grown in power as the faithful lost standing in Númenor. She set her face in a perfect mask and followed Halbrand to the heavy gates.
One of the soldiers rode forward and called up to the sentries, "Here rides Halbrand, King of the Southlands, come to partake of the hospitality of Númenor and parlay with your king."
There was a muted muttering from the wall before the gates swung open. A guard stood in the gateway, dark mustaches drooping over his scowl. "The king is waiting for you. Here, we have stable hands to tend to your horses. Once you dismount, I will lead you to the audience chamber."
Galadriel dismounted and handed the reins to a young boy who'd appeared in front of her. She looked around, noting the gates had been closed silently behind them. She caught Halbrand's eye and nodded back the way they'd come. She watched as his face darkened in understanding. She double checked that her sword was in easy reach before following Halbrand and the guard away from the walls.
The streets of Pelargir were ornate and clean, as she had come to expect of a Númenórean city, but it was also strangely quiet. Soldiers stood in small huddles and looked up at their approach, but the citizens were largely absent. The few she did see, down alleys or inside buildings, all hurried away when they caught sight of the group.
Finally, they reached a large white building on a tall hill overlooking the harbor. The dome on top marked it as a smaller copy of the great palace of Armenolos.
"Leave your weapons here. They will be returned to you after the interview," the guard said gruffly, mustaches fluttering as he spoke.
Galadriel turned to Halbrand to judge his reaction. He was still for a moment before carefully removing his sword and handing it to one of the palace guards.
Slowly, the rest of the party followed suit, though Tindómëon frowned at the guard as he parted with his own weapon. Finally, Galadriel handed over Nimlhach, feeling strangely off-balance without the comforting weight.
The guard nodded at the group and turned, leading them into the building. A long marble corridor led them into a large, rounded room, its ceiling soaring to the great dome of the roof. Directly in front of them stood a throne upon which sat a greying statesman that Galadriel recognized from her time in Númenor. Moving slowly so as not to draw attention, fell back amongst the soldiers and rearranged her hair around her shoulders to hide the points of her ears.
The guard stopped facing the throne. "My lord, I present to you the entourage of Halbrand, King of the Southlands." He bowed and turned back to their group. "You are now in the presence of King Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, may his name be praised."
Halbrand inclined his head while the rest of the party bowed as appropriate. Galadriel forced herself to match the others in the party and was relieved when the man on the throne did not look at her.
Pharazôn smiled at Halbrand, raising his arms out as though welcoming a lost child. "So, you have become king after all. When you convinced Ar-Zimraphel to aid your quest, I supposed I'd seen the last of you. Yet here we are."
Halbrand inclined his head again. "I am in your debt. Miriel's aid was instrumental in containing the Uruk's aggression. I had hoped to see her again and thank her in person."
Pharazôn laughed lightly, but his face was dark. "You have had little news, I fear. My dear queen was injured in the campaign and cannot travel any longer. She leads our people when I am abroad, but it is a heavy burden for her to bear. However, as her husband and king, I willingly receive your thanks in her stead."
Galadriel forced herself to be still, even as the other Southlanders muttered to one another. Tindómëon, himself looking pained, quickly gestured for them to be silent. The motion attracted Pharazôn's notice.
"You, you're a man of Númenor, one of our soldiers. Pray tell, why do you stand at the right hand of this man? What claim does this Southlander have on you?"
Tindómëon straightened and spoke calmly. "My lord, I have watched King Halbrand serve the people of this region, both Southlander and Númenórean, ever since I was stationed here. We had not received orders since the queen's departure, and the men of Pelargir refused our return, so we are indebted to the king for protecting us as his own."
Pharazôn scowled. "Your orders were to monitor the Southlanders and keep them under control, not join them."
Tindómëon inclined his head. "Just so, but with raids from bandits and nowhere to refresh our stores, all of our number would have perished without the aid of our neighbors. I am a man of Númenor—I do not take life debts lightly."
Pharazôn pursed his lip, considering the soldier before turning without a word back to Halbrand. "You have done better than I expected if you have managed to support my soldiers as well as your own hapless farmers. Perhaps my people have underestimated the men of the South. It is well for you that you have gained their respect. I have an offer for you."
Halbrand did not speak but inclined his head again. Galadriel, knowing him as she did, could see the tightening around his jaw and a spark of cold fury in his eyes. She shivered, wondering if Pharazôn would have dared speak to him so casually knowing his true identity.
"The race of men fell into darkness in the last war and only the men of Númenor were judged worthy to rule. It is by this mandate that Númenor has always protected and led the men of Middle Earth. As you have proven yourself to be a wise leader, I have decided to allow you to keep your mantel of leadership. You may continue to rule as my vassal.
"All this I offer and ask but a little. You must swear fealty to me, as the Southlands must submit to the rule of Númenor. So have the gods ordained and so must it be. No king over men can rise from the lines of the fallen who sided with Morgoth."
Halbrand bowed, deeper this time. "Your words are most gracious, my lord."
Galadriel blinked in surprise but kept her face impassive. Halbrand's voice was smooth and calm, but utterly unlike him. She watched him closely as he straightened and continued.
"My king is right to note that no great king of men can come forth but from the line of Númenor. What he does not see is that I make no claim to be King of Men. I accepted the title of king to give comfort to a small band of refugees, but I am little more than a common shepherd, tending my flock. What notice should a great king of the West give to me? We are born, grow up like weeds upon a mountain, and, like the weeds, we shrivel and die at the first frost. All this before a child of Númenor reaches manhood. But you, my lord, you are a true king among men."
In a fluid motion, Halbrand sank to the floor where he knelt before the throne of Pharazôn.