Chapter Text
He wears his creation proudly. It brings beauty to the hazy skies of Mordor.
Galadriel calms her tittering horse. The air is still and quiet in the way it always is before battle. Sauron makes a tall seat upon his own mount, the tack a smooth black leather with buckles of gleaming silver. He wears armor, no doubt forged by his own hand, each rivet as sharp as a knife. His helmet is tucked under his arm. He wears his fair form still, his hair shining like gold in the dim landscape, his countenance set like a figure sculpted with marble. He lets them see his face, fair that it is, as if to make plain the mistakes of the elves. To show them the evil in their own hearts.
Galadriel cannot see the ring. She feels it in her chest, in the wound long healed. It is a scar now, the skin shiny and tight and new, but it pulses with pain when their eyes meet across the field. Galadriel had known its shape from the moment it came into being. Its plainness, its power that seethes just beneath the surface. His eye, wreathed in flame, as he had beheld her in the tent at Imladris. Seen her, plain as day, through the connection forged through Nenya. Her beloved ring was far away now, hidden, its beauty and power unreachable by Sauron and herself alike.
Her nose stings from the smoke in the air.
He is beautiful, Galadriel thinks once more, now that he has created that which suits him perfectly.
***
The Numenoreans are quiet. Galadriel leads her horse through the ranks, and thinks that they are different from the men and women with whom she had once shared a battlefield. There is no laughter, no song. Perhaps they are fearful. They have come to aid the elves against Sauron, Ar-Pharazon had said. To kill him, once and for all, for the good of Men and all Middle Earth.
Ar-Pharazon calls himself King. He explains that Miriel had joined with him in marriage, and happy were they to uphold the strong legacy of Numenor. Elendil is not here; he is guarding the Queen in Armenelos, with Pharazon choosing to travel to Middle Earth this time with his own legions. Legions that are hearty and well-trained, but quiet.
Barad-dur is tall and menacing, black stone and iron reaching toward the skies. Another creation. The steps will be winding and there will many inside to stop her. Galadriel’s party is small, she had wanted it that way. Gil-Galad is holding his defenses at Lindon, and Elrond is still building Imladris. The Eregion refugees have spirits in need of healing, and it suits him.
Elrond smiles more now. She is thankful that the Numenoreans asked not for a legion of elves to share in this battle. Elrond wears the soft robes of a healer now, the maker of a comfortable house for those not strong enough to build for themselves, as is proper.
Elrond is not meant for war, as she is. He and the King will hear of this deed, once it is done. And they will mourn, but quietly, they will give thanks that elven lives were spared.
The seven elves at her side are stalwart and trustworthy. She chose them herself, learned their names and their skills well. Their mission is simple– find Sauron and detain him long enough for the Numenoreans to make their war against the Orcs. They could not allow a figure like Adar to rise again, so Sauron’s army must dispatched as well as he. The echo of Adar’s words (We will build a lasting peace for all of Middle Earth) , feels far away now. The elves are few, and Numenor is mighty.
Galadriel herself would take the ring from Sauron’s hand.
Sauron still sits upon his horse, speaking lightly with a lieutenant to his left, barely surveying the battlefield. With a few more words, he dismounts, and his horse is led away. The Dark Lord retreats to his tower, as if the impending battle of Men and Orcs holds little of his interest.
Stand and fight, coward.
If he hesitates upon the threshold of Barad-Dur, if he hears her through the haze of Mordor, he does not show it. There connection is a shadow now that she is healed and Nenya is gone. There is a moment where her chest aches.
The doors of the tower close, and the battle has begun.
***
The tower of Barad-dûr is new, its stone steps black and shining with blood as Galadriel and her party dispatch orc after orc. They rise slowly, and her companions make a ring around her. The orcs left to guard the citadel were taken off guard by their appearance, most of their forces shanghaied into service on the fields below, every orc soul needed to fight the gleaming army of the Numenoreans.
They reach a landing. Galadriel wipes her blade on the side of her trousers. The smell of orc-blood is thick in the air, as is the sweat and strain of her companions. One sports a wound on her face, a gash on her cheek so deep it reveals red muscle and white tendon.
“I can still fight,” the elf says, her sword dripping with orc blood. Her own blood coats her teeth.
“I will not stop you,” Galadriel says, and they press on.
The orcs grow thinner in number as they rise higher. It is a trap, one Galadriel expects. This mission was not one of the elves, they would not deign to sacrifice her so easily.
The stench of blood and death fills the stairway. Galadriel counts her sword strokes to calm her mind. She must reach the precipice with her strength.
She hopes word will be sent to Elrond at least, that she had been felled in service to the Numenoreans’ victory. In service to Sauron’s death.
You are so close, Galadriel. Only a few steps more.
The words are faint, but Sauron’s voice is in her heart. His ring already knows her, his power knows her.
So passes another hour, or a day, or a week. Galadriel’s life centers only around the steady rising of steps, around the burn in her lungs. There are screams as those with her drop away. His chambers are the top of the tower, and five of Galadriel’s companions lay slain upon its steps. Only two flank her still, one with a bow of gleaming blond wood stained with blood and the other with two short swords. They are wounded, they are tired.
When they enter Sauron’s chambers, they hemorrhage blood and drop to their knees. They cough and choke as they die. Galadriel prays for a quick journey to the West, for their souls to be re-embodied without judgment from the One.
She is alone, save for him.
***
Outside, the sounds of battle grow to a frenzy. She hears the shouted orders of the Numenoreans, their own tongue foreign to her ears. The orcs employ trebuchets with flaming ammunition, but the Numenoreans have a powder that sparks like lightning, boiling the blood of all in its path.
An ornate throne sits upon a dais of polished granite. It is empty, and Sauron stands before her instead. He had shed his armor, wearing instead robes of deep black. The cloth moves oddly, as if it is a creature unto itself. When the garment catches the light she sees it is covered in raven feathers.
He bows his head. He has fashioned his hair to be longer. “Hail, Galadriel. What tidings from the north?”
Her voice cracks when she first uses it, the shouting in the stairwell making her throat feel raw. “There are no glad tidings for one who dwells in darkness. I should think your subordinates would have given you news enough with how they attack my people without mercy.”
His eyes are dark now, without flame. They flick to her hand still holding her sword.
“Where is your ring?” he asks.
Her heart aches for Nenya. It would have refreshed her in this moment, reminded her of the Light of Trees. She can scarcely recall them in her mind’s eye.
“Safe,” she says, “From you and yours.”
“That is a pity. I should have like to have seen it one last time.” His voice is soft and calm, so unlike their last meeting where even as he sat in her tent his manner was strained with his labors. This is not a show, as it had the pantomimed with Findrod’s knife, but quiet hands meant nothing with Suaron. He could be crafting as they spoke.
She swallows hard. Her grip on her sword is unsure, wet with orc blood and her own perspiration. “You have trinkets of your own now.”
He holds his hand to the light of a single pillar candle. The room has only one window, but the candle throws better light. The ring catches it, but rather than reflect, it seems to absorb the light within.
“A trinket,” he corrects her. “No more than one .”
The word sends a wave through her. Pressure behind her eyes. She grimaces, but persists.
“Such restraint. Did Celebrimbor’s knowledge serve you well?”
Sauron smiles, remembering. “He taught me elegance, it is true. But his designs were complex, to their detriment. My ring is simple in its solitude. His rings for men can only… serve. But all is well, now that they have a true master.”
“This tower is a paragon of restraint,” she says.
Her jibe takes his gaze from his ring. He laughs, low and breathy.
“I have missed your wit. And you’re right, you know. It is all a bit overwrought.” He looks around the room, to his black throne sitting empty and the tall tapers dripping wax to the floor. “But how else am I to draw the attention of the elves, but by creating a fine realm for myself?”
“You could surprise all by choosing to refrain from enslaving Middle Earth.”
He wrinkles his nose. “A distasteful word, slavery. The orcs chose this when they slew their former leader. As all Middle Earth will choose me when they see my designs.”
She know this is heading no where. He is no closer to her, and the Numenoreans would only give her so much time. She sheathes her sword.
“Would you have–” Galadriel stops. Her throat is dry. “Would you have made a ring for me as well?”
He walks to a small table, turning his back from her. There is a carafe, and he pours a cup of dark wine from it. His hair is longer now, a curtain that shrouds his far from this angle. He brings it to her. His skin is arm and smooth when he places the cup in her hand.
“You must be parched. I would have stationed less orcs had I know you traveled with such a small company.” He keeps hold of the cup, guiding her hand to bring it to her lips. “Drink.”
With thought, she does.
The wine is thick and sweet, unlike the bright and clear wines of the elves. He holds the cup to her lips and she drains it. She coughs as she aspirates the last drop. The cup falls to the ground, leaving their fingers laced without burden between them. She waits for the ring to burn her, to sear a hole into the tender flesh between her fingers, but it is only warm.
“The ring is me, Galadriel. Only me.” His eyes are not black, as she had thought, but a murky brown. Nearly green. “I am glad you’re here. For now I will not be alone.”
Pressure builds again behind her eyes. Tears, threatening to pour forth from her. Tears of fear, and tears for the one before her whose hand she holds.
“You need only ask,” he says, a whisper.
“For a ring?”
Sauron shakes his head. “No. In time, you will come to know the question I seek.”
There is a clamor outside the door. Her heart beats against her ribs. They arrived too quickly. She needs time, more time, to wrest the ring from his finger–
“Is something amiss?” he asks.
She presses their palms together, taking a step closer. Her armor is only a thin mail, and she can guess at the smoothness of his garment as their bodies brush.
“I would have you answer my first inquiry,” she says, forcing firmness in her tone. “Would you have made a ring for me?”
He purses his lips. “You already have power, Galadriel. Another ring would prove of little use, as you already have all that you would require.” He leans in, and his breath is oddly cold against her lips. “Is it not enough that would have me, body and soul, the very moment you required me?”
A Numenorean curses is Adunaic in the stairwell. There is a shout, a slam of plate armor against stone. There is no time.
“And if that moment is now?” she asks, pitching her voice lower, allowing desire to seep into the words. She squeezes his fingers, pressing their palms together, and the ring moves infinitesimally up.
She kisses him. He tastes of smoke and something sweeter, perhaps the wine that is on her lips as well. She brings their joined hands to her chest, as if to let him touch her heart through the cold mail. He strokes her face with his free hand, and when she opens her mouth he arches into her, drawing a gasp from her as their tongues meet and curl together. Heat rushes through her, settling as an ache in her belly. It is a different kiss from the last, which was full of light and creation and vision.
It is quiet, and earthly.
Galadriel.
A plea, inside her mind.
She wouldn’t stay. If she was alive when they arrived she would leave the room when Numenoreans slew him. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction to his death.
You are running out of time, Galadriel.
She remembers her quarry at the last moment. Too late. She tries to curl her fingers against his own, tries to slip the ring from his finger.
He breaks away, the truth in his eyes. It was always a poor plan. A desperate plan.
He smiles, and there is something akin to pity there.
“Oh Galadriel, you were so close.”
The din grows in the hallway. There is one last shout, and the door splinters, nearly destroyed. Sauron removes the ring himself. He gathers her other hand and presses a kiss to the palm, a burning brand that smarts and stings. With a smile that shows the points of his teeth, he takes his ring in hand, and swallows it whole.
The door bursts from its hinges. Galadriel tries to wrench herself away, but Sauron’s arm comes around her waist, his grip a vice.
“I fear I would miss you too much,” He whispered in her ear. “Our fates must be shared from this point on.”
The Numenoreans flooded the room, all clanging armor and light-drenched fury. Twenty spears, all pointed towards Sauron.
“He has deceived you! Tell your people to leave these lands!” she shouts at them.
They do not move.
Ar-Pharazon strides into the room last, his armor unsullied and his hair freshly oiled. He has made himself presentable for the moment. He knows how Kings are truly made.
“You must listen–” The words are choked off in her throat. The brand on her hand roars to life, as if she had placed her hand in hot coals.
“It is defeat for you, Vile One.” Pharazon says, spitting at Sauron’s feet. “You legions are decimated, and we have laid waste to your armory. Surrender now, declare yourself defeated, and I will order that your death be swift.”
Sauron releases her. She sags to the floor, her strength sapped, her body finally realizing the depth of its exhaustion. Her failure.
Sauron stands before Pharazon, his hands open before him in supplication.
Galadriel, hands pressing to the floor, reaches inside herself for her last tendril of strength. When she finds it, it is her own voice that reaches across their bond.
You will stop.
Sauron betrays little. His fingers twitch at his side, the only indication that he had heard her order.
“Hail.” He says, lowering to his knees. “Hail to Ar-Pharazon, King of the Men of Westernesse. I give you the victory of the day.”
The soldiers angle their spears low, all eyes on him. Even the remnants of the battle below are quiet. The vision swims before Galadriel’s eyes.
“I am but a craftsman, taken by the beauty of Middle Earth. I once lived amongst gods but it is here in this broken land that true power lies. I do not blame you for seeking it, as I have done my entire existence. I beg you use it. Were I worthy,” he swallows, allowing a wobble of chaste fear to enter his voice. “Were I worthy, I would craft for you a likeness of your power. A crown so tall that the world would see that their true Gods lie not to the uttermost West, but to the Kingdom of Men, the Land of the Star.”
It starts as a pulse. A wave of heat and force, like a hot summer wind before a lightning storm. She sees the flame of Sauron’s eye reflect back to her in the ambition of Ar-Pharazon’s gaze. Sauron has the ring. He has the will, and again his plan is revealed.
Pharazon wets his lips, breaking his gaze with Sauron. He turns to his second-in-command. “Bind him in iron. We will take him back as a prize. Only there can we truly decide his fate. Guard him night and day. We make for the harbor at Pelargir at first light.” He turns, his long tunic sweeping behind him. For the first time, he sees Galadriel upon the floor. “Bind the elf as well, while we work out her true loyalties.”
Sauron humbly offers his hands, and the soldiers restrain him. Galadriel yells for Pharazon, but he is gone, and her voice is weak. She doesn’t know the soldiers in the room, hadn’t bothered to learn their names in her quest for death. She accepts her bindings, and as they walk from the tower, she counts the bodies of her fallen companions upon the stairs, left to rot alongside orc and man alike.
When they reach the fields, all of Mordor reeks of death.