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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

A DAUNTING TASK

ONE WEEK AGO

Within the Halls of Healing, the morning light streamed in through the arched windows, casting a gentle but still chilly glow over the Elven infirmary wing. An elf child lay nestled in a bed, his fever-flushed little face brightening with joy when Isildur knocked and then poked his head in. “Master Isildur!” the child exclaimed.

He approached quietly, keeping the door slightly ajar, for Elenion’s mother was speaking with one of the healers in the hallway outside. Children were so rarely admitted to the Halls, but the boy’s fever endured for several days now. Isildur had taken it upon himself to grant the poor woman some respite while she fretted over her son’s condition, but even so, he did not wish to cut her off from Elenion completely.

Isildur came forth with a mischievous grin playing on his lips. “Good morning,” he greeted warmly, producing a small bundle from behind his back. He’d tied the jewel-green pouch with a little length of twine, but Halbrand saw him doing so and batted him away until the proportions of each side of the bow were equal. “I brought you something special, but you must promise not to tell your mother.” He winked conspiratorially, and the elf child’s eyes widened with excitement.

Taking a seat by Elenion’s bed, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal an assortment of treats he had baked himself that very morning. The sweet aromas of cakes and pastries filled the room, and the child’s sickly face lit with delight. “Thank you, Master Isildur!” he exclaimed, his little hand reaching eagerly for a sample of the delicacies. Isildur chuckled and placed the baked goods within easy reach; he had already given a few to the boy’s mother, for her to either enjoy herself or keep for Elenion on another day.

The first of the delectable trio of treats was a pair of honey cakes, golden and glistening with a light drizzle of wildflower honey. He had worked tirelessly to recreate the cakes he tasted with Valandil and Galadriel at the Yule festival—and forfeited many incorrect attempts to Valandil’s and Halbrand’s eager hands. Every bite presented a mouthwatering blend of sweetness and warmth, with a hint of vanilla that lingered on the tongue. Next—berry tarts, their flaky crusts jammed to the brim with a medley of fresh berries. The vibrant reds and blues of the strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries peeking through the buttery, crisp crust were topped with a light dusting of powdered sugar. Lastly were the cinnamon twists, their spiraled shapes scattered generously with sugar and its namesake spice. The aroma of cinnamon permeated the room as Isildur bit into one of the twists, nodding to himself in approval (this particular recipe sometimes gave him grief).

His mouth full to bursting with a honey cake, Elenion promptly declared this the best day of his life. Isildur chuckled and said this might be the best day of his too. They talked for a time, although the boy was far more invested in the treats than in answering questions about his well-being. Isildur kept one ear towards the door in case Elenion’s mother wanted to see her son when she was finished speaking with the healers.

He had just taken a bite of his second cinnamon twist when the door brushed open. Isildur turned with a smile, but instead of the boy’s mother, he found Diarmid entering instead.

The old man’s knowing eyes twinkled with warmth as he took in the scene. “Good morning, young master Elenion,” he greeted the elf child, then turned to Isildur. “I see you’ve been spreading joy this morning, my son.”

Isildur rose to his feet, a smile still on his face and a cinnamon twist in hand. “Diarmid, it’s good to see you. What brings you here today?”

Diarmid glanced at the elf child (who was paying him no mind in the slightest) then back at Isildur. “If you can spare me a moment, I would like to speak with you in private,” he said.

“Of course,” he replied, then turned back to the boy. “I’ll be back soon, my friend. Enjoy the treats and rest well.” Isildur put aside his food and bundled away the rest, setting them on the nightstand where they could still be accessed. He then ruffled Elenion’s hair affectionately before following Diarmid out of the room. The boy’s mother had moved further down the hall with a healer, and he nodded to her that all was well when she glanced towards her son’s room. She smiled to Diarmid as well, for the old man sometimes accompanied Isildur when he aided the healers. He gave her a little bow, then gestured Isildur down the turn of another hallway.

Isildur awaited the reason for Diarmid’s presence today, tucking his hands behind his back. The Man considered him a moment, his blue gaze both appraising and approving at once: a judgment already rendered and discovered sound upon reexamination. “I come with news of interesting circumstances,” he said. “Lord Annatar has been searching for someone who might teach our dear Nerwyn her letters. He has asked me to do the job, but I thought perhaps—someone closer to her age, with a steady temperament and kind heart, would be a better match.”

He tilted his head—of all the things he imagined Diarmid might have sought him out for today, teaching Nerwyn her letters had never occurred to him. That flame-headed wildcat of a girl, who ejected them from Halbrand’s room within moments of meeting them and then slammed the door in their faces? That freckle-faced spitfire who was just as likely to dump a drink on her own brother as accept a hug from him?

Isildur exhaled. “I see. And who might that be?”

Diarmid chuckled softly. “I suggested you, my son. Lord Annatar agreed that you would do well with Nerwyn. He even offered to provide whatever supplies and space you might require for the lessons, if you find yourself in need of either.”

“Diarmid … I am flattered, please do not misunderstand … It’s only—Well, she’s quite—prickly, isn’t she?”

The old man’s resulting smile lifted the copious crease lines about his twinkling eyes. “That is true,” he acknowledged, “but oft a bit of time and kindness can work wonders on even the most stubborn hearts. And forget not—sugary treats can be quite persuasive too.”

Isildur laughed at the thought of him luring Nerwyn into better behavior with honey cakes, as though she was some unbroken filly. Perhaps not such a bad idea. Still, he wavered on the line of accepting this new task—already his time was accounted for during most of the daylight hours, and adding further obligations might only exhaust him.

But he had long since resolved to help the people of Ost-in-Edhil however he might while they tarried in this Elven city; even if Nerwyn was no elf, Isildur did think the endeavor of learning one’s letters a noble one. One worthy of earnest aid—how often had Elendil chastised him for not paying better mind to his education when he had been dreaming of his own interests instead? Racing Valandil and Ontamo on the shoreline and drinking beers with their friends from the sea-guard had quickly eaten up what little free time Isildur possessed as he grew into a man. He did not regret the joyful hours he spent with his friends, but he could appreciate that he was afforded opportunities in Armenelos that few people his age could ever hope to receive here on the continent (humankind, at least). Did he not have some duty to impart what he’d learned to those who would otherwise never study these things?

Then Isildur had a brief vision of what Nerwyn would likely say to his pious ponderings (it involved a great deal of vividly descriptive profanity), and he chuckled. “I am not certain she will be delighted with your selection,” he told the old man, a wry smile settling onto his lips. “I can coax some small conversation out of her at times, but only when Halbrand is present, and her ire has been softened with several drinks.”

Diarmid bestowed upon him a discerning glance, which Isildur felt pierced into his very bones, and replied, “Halbrand was much the same when first you met, and the same is true for my initial encounter with him. He and his sister have suffered a great deal in their short lives, and prolonged helplessness oft manifests itself with rage. A shield, to push back whatever seeks to breach their defenses, whether for evil or for good. After living amid such darkness so long, distinguishing the two is a challenge. Greater suffering lies ahead if a faulty choice is made—better to make no choice at all, and to keep the shield high. But so long as the bright ringing of trumpets sounds out to herald the ending of war … the shields will lower at long last. The light of peace may be dazzling at the first, but as moths to a flame, all shall find its warmth … utterly irresistible.”

The old man put a warm hand upon his shoulder and went on, “You possess a rare gift, Isildur: a generosity of spirit this world is sorely lacking, and shall be in dire need of before this Age is ended. I believe you might reach Nerwyn in a way others may not, even our Halbrand. They are much alike in many ways, and you have handled his development of character with grace and compassion always. Now is the chance to extend a hand to someone who has been granted very little compassion in her life. What greater privilege could we both be granted than the nurturing of lost souls, hmm?”

“It is only reading lessons,” he replied, still smiling softly.

Diarmid chuckled and patted his cheek. “Is it?”

Isildur nodded, giving in with a slight sigh. “All right,” he relented, “I shall give the job my best effort. And if Lord Annatar is willing to provide the supplies and space for me to do so, I suppose I have no excuse. Please convey to him my thanks. And you are, of course, quite right in that she could use a friend—a proper friend. If Nerwyn will allow me to do so, I will be happy to try.”

Diarmid’s smile widened. “That is the right spirit, my son! I have no doubt that with your ongoing patience and kindness, Nerwyn will temper. And who can say? You may even learn a thing or two yourself. Now—shall we return to young master Elenion? I wish to try one of those honey cakes; let us hope he has not yet devoured them all!”

*

A few days later, after a brief conversation with Halbrand in the noontide snow, Isildur made his way to the apartments where Nerwyn kept her residence. At his side, he kept a hand upon a satchel loaded with supplies of the finest quality—blank notebooks, quills and inkwells, rolls of parchments, instructional guides for teaching Elven children how to read and write (he was resolved not to use these unless necessary, for he thought Nerwyn might toss them into the nearest fire if she figured out what they were for). Isildur had been somewhat uncertain what to request when Lord Annatar told him he could do so. So the elf-lord simply provided a wide variation of tools he might find beneficial. He wondered from whence Annatar procured whatever supplies seemed to be needed at any given moment, and he smiled at the thought of his staff going door-to-door asking for children’s reading supplies.

The sliding of a shoe over ice jolted Isildur’s mind back to the present, and he only just had the time to throw out his arms as a bundle of light blue wool and fiery red hair crashed into him. Halfway fallen, Nerwyn gaped up at him for a split second—and then they teetered backwards with the force of her sudden arrival.

Isildur grunted when he collided with a fresh bank of snow, and a dusting of white powder puffed into his face. He blinked away the ice crystals, momentarily winded. Above him—a perilous mere inch or two from his face—Nerwyn stared down at him, her slightly chapped lips gaping in shock. Time stretched and compressed into both an eternity and a fleeting second, and when she scrambled off him, Isildur could only lay there in stunned silence.

She beat the snow off her cloak and barked, “You ought to watch where you’re going!”  

Well, this lesson was off to an excellent start. “Good morning to you too, Nerwyn,” he replied. “Where are you off to in such a rush?” He stood, brushing the snow off his own clothes and hair. Isildur confirmed that none of his supplies had emptied out into the snow during the clash, and ran a hand through his dark hair to dislodge the intruding crystals.

Nerwyn tossed her braid over her shoulder, spat out a few snowflakes that landed on her mouth, and said, “The library. Lord Annatar has arranged some lessons for me. If you will excuse me.” Picking up her skirts so they did not drag in the snow, she began to shove past him. “My instructor will be waiting on me.”

Had no one told her? A small pit formed in Isildur’s stomach, but before she could get too far ahead on her journey to the library, he caught her arm. He released her immediately when she shot him a glare that could have curdled milk—similar to many he had witnessed upon Halbrand’s face throughout their time in Númenor, in fact.

“Actually,” he said, hoping he was not about to incite his own murder, “I thought I might come to you instead, and we could conduct the lesson here. Spare you the walk in the snow. Lucky I arrived when I did, or you might be spending your afternoon in the infirmary. I do look forward to when the ice proves more manageable.”

Halbrand’s sister stared at him once more. “You?” she protested, her voice rising slightly. “This must be a jest.” Was she blushing, or was the flush in her fair cheeks only the natural result of lingering in the snow? He shifted his boots about in the snow, suddenly feeling a bit warm himself.

Isildur shook his head. “No jests. I am very well-read, you know. I used to accompany my father to the Halls of Lore in Númenor, and I received a very fine education in Armenelos.” Attempting to put Nerwyn at ease (for she very much appeared as though she wished to rip out her hair, or maybe his), he teased, “I am confident that I can handle teaching you your letters. If you find my efforts unsatisfactory, you are more than welcome to lodge a complaint with Diarmid, who referred me to Lord Annatar for this very purpose.”

“Diarmid?” she spluttered.

He laughed. “Yes! Lord Annatar originally approached him about the task, but he thought I would do just as well. I cannot guess why, but I am more than happy to try my hand at teaching.”

Nerwyn folded her arms over her chest and glared at him, scrutinizing every inch of him from top to bottom. Isildur’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on his satchel strap, but he did his best not to appear intimidated. If he could handle Halbrand’s occasional ire and come through unscathed, he thought he could handle Nerwyn too.

“Ugh,” she scoffed at last, and he laughed.

“Come along, then,” he said, stepping back onto the stairs with care. “I thought we might sit on one of those benches inside that little greenhouse, on the south side. It will be a quiet place to begin, and some of the healers have asked me to gather herbs from the attendants anyway. We will accomplish both tasks.”

Isildur turned to offer her his hand so she might not slip on the icy steps again. “Now is the chance to extend a hand to someone who has been granted very little compassion in her life,” he could hear Diarmid saying once more.

Nerwyn smacked his hand away and flounced back up the stairs, huffing to herself. Isildur followed her with an amused smile. He would have expected nothing less of her. Teaching her to read may be a daunting task, but perhaps in a few months, they could both have a good laugh about it—Diarmid and Annatar probably already were.

*

The greenhouse welcomed them in from the snow as a haven of natural splendor. Tall glass panels let in streams of sunlight, bathing the lush plants and their carers in a golden glow. Exotic flowers from distant lands bloomed in vibrant colors, their scents mingling in the balmy air. Vines climbed up trellises, and small trees bore fruits that glistened with mist like precious jewels. A stone path wound through the greenery, leading to a wooden bench nestled among the foliage. He came here frequently in recent weeks to collect herbs or other plants requested by either the healers or Bronwyn for various uses; he kept meaning to ask Halbrand to accompany him sometime, but one or both of them always seemed to be occupied.

Isildur and Nerwyn settled on the bench, the soft rustling of leaves and the gentle hum of bees providing a soothing background for her first lesson. Isildur dug out a slip of parchment and quill, setting the inkwell between them on the bench. She tracked his every move as a hidden huntress aiming for the killing blow the very moment he betrayed a weakness. When Isildur was ready to begin, he looked to Nerwyn with what he hoped was a calm and encouraging smile.

She scowled back.

He reconsidered his tactic in a split second and handed over the parchment and quill to her instead. Nerwyn’s glower transformed into vague panic. “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “I do not want these things. Take them back.” Her hands made to shove the tools into his lap again, but he did not accept their return.

“I wish to know where to begin. Show me what you have been taught thus far,” Isildur explained, and she huffed when he did not yield to her insistence that he take the quill and parchment.

“I believed the aim of these lessons was for you to instruct me.”

“And so I shall—once I know where to begin.”

Isildur smiled, still sunny in the face of her brewing storm clouds. Nerwyn glared at him a moment longer, then took the parchment in both hands and simpered back as she tore it down the middle. He watched the lengthening rip trickle down, down, down until the separated slips of paper fluttered down at their feet like the wings of dying birds. Isildur considered them a moment, then bent and retrieved them both. One, he set on Nerwyn’s lap, and the other on his.

“Very good,” he said. “Now we each have our own.”

Nerwyn snarled something utterly inhuman under her breath and flounced a few feet away, turning her back to him and folding her arms across her chest. Isildur chuckled—perhaps he should not aggravate her so, but if he was tasked with seeing her lessons through to the end, he could not fold every time she attempted to rile him. Easier said than done, likely.

But she did not return to the bench as the minutes ticked by. Isildur gathered up the torn parchment pieces and set them aside, then moseyed about to gather the healers’ requested herbs while she pondered whatever answers she evidently sought in the reflection of the little fish pond winding through the foliage. He peered over his shoulder at her on occasion; she never looked at him.

Around the same time Isildur was stuffing the last bundles of freshly plucked herbs into his satchel and wondering if he should call off the lesson until tomorrow, Nerwyn dropped herself back down on the bench and scrawled a word on the parchment with nearly enough force to slash it open again. She scowled at her work and added another word. Isildur remained where he was, uncertain if he should approach her again lest she claw out his eyes.

“Well, stop lurking in the bushes like some kind of animal! Here, I did as you asked,” Nerwyn snapped.

Isildur ambled back to the bench and set down his satchel, then took the parchment from her to examine her work. She’d written only her name and Halbrand’s, and her letters were barely legible, similar in skill to what he might expect from a Númenorean toddler. Ah. Still, at least Nerwyn was capable of writing something—though from the crimson flush on her face, she could already guess how poor her education had been.

They both looked down at the words for a long minute. Isildur opened his mouth a few times. Nerwyn slowly turned her head, squinting as he debated what to say next; his heartrate sped a bit as her eyes bored into his cheek, waiting for him to make a false move. “Why did you agree to receive these lessons?” he asked once the silence had worn so thin it was near to snapping.

Her face flickered. “What? What do you mean, why?”

“Precisely that. Before you embark upon what is likely to be a long and often challenging journey, I wish to confirm that both our time will not be wasted here because you feel obligated or coerced into these lessons. If you know not why you sit here beside me, that is all right too. I will do everything in my power to help you, but only so long as that is what you wish.”

“Do not patronize me, Númenorean,” she shot back. “Am I a child who cannot comprehend the magnitude of my ‘yes’es and ‘no’s? If I have said I want the lessons, I want them. Now, will you quiet that showy mouth, or must I sit here another hour and listen to you philosophize every wiggle of my toes?”

Isildur replied, “Certainly—once you have answered my question: why do you want the lessons?”

Nerwyn hissed in his face and stormed off, her pale fists balled at her sides as she stalked down the curving path that meandered back towards the greenhouse entryway. Isildur nodded to himself, then sighed and collected all his unused materials. He pushed her for her own sake, just as he suspected Diarmid might have done if the old man had agreed to tutor Nerwyn instead. He could not guess why she truly agreed to receive the lessons, except perhaps a competitiveness with her brother—which was a passable reason, but if so, Isildur feared her impatience and apathy would fizzle out what little cooperation she could muster for him.

If she was not prepared to receive this instruction and all the trials that process would entail, better she realize it now.

All the same, Isildur returned to the greenhouse the next day, at the same time. He browsed the plants, collected a few for Bronwyn, and watched the fish swim idly by in the burbling little ponds. He savored the temperate heat after a morning of clearing the streets of fresh snowfall with Valandil and Arondir. He penned a letter to his father, although it could not be delivered in any knowable amount of time.

Nerwyn did not return.

For four days, Isildur carved out an hour of his time to sit in the greenhouse. He attended to various little chores, such as recording medicinal recipes for the healers, bundling herbs, labeling bottles, and whatever else could be carried in his satchel. He had acquired fresh parchment from Lord Annatar, though it remained rolled and unused in the embossed leather bag.

Whilst he tarried, Isildur munched upon a mix of almonds, hazelnuts, and pecans, glazed with a thin layer of golden honey harvested from the beehives tended by the elves. He also brought along a sachet of fresh fruits, which included plump, juicy blackberries and tart, ruby-red cranberries. To finish, delicate wafer-thin crackers he made himself from a blend of finely ground grains and seeds—lightly seasoned with a hint of sea salt and a sprinkle of fragrant herbs.

On this particular day, the fifth after the initial disaster of her first lesson, Nerwyn lowered herself down onto the bench without a word. Isildur smiled, reached down into his satchel, and then offered her a neatly wrapped bundle. She hesitated, as though he might be extending her a thing vile or poisonous. The little parcel hung between them a moment—at last she stretched out her hand and closed her fingers on the gift.

Nerwyn unwrapped it to divulge three raspberry and almond scones (Isildur baked them fresh that very morning), and her lips formed a tiny ‘o’. She blinked down at the treats, then squinted at him and demanded, “Did Halbrand—?”

“Yes. He told me he used to save his money to buy them for you when the springtide traders journeyed through Tirharad. I’m not certain I’ve replicated them precisely, of course, but there’s my best effort.” Isildur gave her a lopsided grin and explained, “I am yet unfamiliar with a great deal of recipes I have been attempting recently. And Valandil and Halbrand steal so much of what I create, I am fortunate if I have any left to share at all!”

She studied him another long moment, then broke one of the scones in half and gobbled it down. Isildur chuckled and resumed his letter to Eärien and Anárion. Nerwyn leaned over to peer at his penmanship whilst he wrote, and he did not mind—nor when she spilled crumbs on the parchment. She said little else, in fact, while Isildur went about his tasks. Only once two of her scones had been polished off in their entirety (she rewrapped the last to save for another day), and his chores completed, did Nerwyn broach the subject of her lessons again.

“I do wish to continue,” she mumbled, reaching down to knock some crumbs off her skirt.

“I am pleased to hear so. And why is that?”

She fiddled with her skirts, arranging them, brushing at them, then shrugged. Nerwyn wore her hair loose today, unlike the braid she wrangled it into when last they spoke; not that his opinion mattered in the slightest, but Isildur quite admired the way her shining red curls bounced down her slim back. “I think learning to read and write shall bring me some happiness.”

Isildur smiled, and after a wary moment, so did she, although it was yet a bare, meager thing. “Excellent. Then I know just where to begin.”

*

Despite her initial willingness to attempt the lesson again, Nerwyn’s mood quickly turned snippy as she struggled with the unfamiliar shapes and sounds. She often snapped at Isildur when he gently amended her mistakes, though he never seemed to take offense. She wished he would. Damned Isildur, with his patience and easy smile and raspberry and almond scones. Halbrand would not be thrilled if she throttled his closest friend … but the temptation arose from time to time.

Particularly when he corrected her pronunciation.

“What fault is it of mine that you have some ridiculous accent?” she seethed after yet another pause in her recitations of letters. “I shall pronounce it with mine—and that is, correctly.”

“Well,” he began, “actually—”

Nerwyn picked up the inkwell that sat between them as though about to refresh her quill and made certain their shoulders knocked. A hearty splash of the obsidian liquid sloshed onto his tunic, splattering down its front. “Oh!” she exclaimed sweetly. “How clumsy of me.”

Isildur sighed down at his dripping tunic, then squared his shoulders and fixed her with another of those unbearable smiles. “Only an accident—no harm done. Shall we try once more?”

She dabbed her quill into the ink with the delicate grace of an artist embarking upon a masterpiece, replaced the inkwell between them, and then flashed him an irresistible grin of her own. “Yes. Let’s. Now, remind me again—how was that letter pronounced?”

He shook his head at her. But Isildur returned to the greenhouse the next day (this time dressed in much darker clothes), and so did she.     

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

GOOD THINGS COME IN SMALL PACKAGES

Baran stirred on the steps when the doors of the forge opened once more, this time revealing Annatar. He sat up straight, his eyes connecting with the elf-lord’s; Annatar was clothed all in white, his hair and body unadorned with his usual gems except for a few rings, the ones he never removed. He surveyed the scene before him—Mirdania singing the first few notes of enchantment over the blade, Halbrand poised to strike the brilliant metal laid before him.

Annatar jolted, eyes flying wide, and called out, “No!”

But his warning came too late. Halbrand’s hammer was already descending, driven by the full might of his strength. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity as the hammer connected with the steel. The blade shattered, sending red-hot chunks of steel flying in all directions. Baran covered his eyes.

Annatar’s power surged through the forge, a wave of unseen energy that knocked Mirdania and Halbrand back, sparing them from the worst of the eruption of molten metal. Despite his intervention, a few still managed to land on Mirdania’s face and hands, leaving angry red marks in their wake. Halbrand fell on his back in a dazed heap—wherever pieces of the broken sword connected with his flesh, they left no evidence whatsoever.

Baran slowly lowered his arm, heart pounding. Silence boomed fierce as thunder in the forge. He stood when Halbrand groaned and sat up, rubbing the back of his head where blood quickly appeared upon his fingers. But scarce had he taken a few steps before Annatar planted a hand upon his chest and instructed, Tend to Mirdania, lieutenant. I will handle Halbrand.

He hesitated, but Annatar was already brushing past in a tempest of swishing white robes, rippling white-blonde hair, and a scorching fury mounting in his eyes as the roiling storm-clouds of impending doom. Baran winced as Annatar yanked Halbrand up off the floor with a single hand, and though he could not catch the precise wording of their argument as Annatar dragged him out of the forge like a misbehaving pup, he did not envy being the recipient of either’s fearsome tempers. Halbrand snapped and snarled all the way out the door, and then Baran and Mirdania were left in abrupt silence as the door banged shut.

“Baran ...” she murmured, sitting up with an audible grimace. He startled back to his senses and hastened over to tend to her injuries. His magic was not yet recovered from their earlier session, and as Baran knelt beside Mirdania on the floor to attempt using it again, his vision darkened towards unconsciousness. Too soon, too soon. But the sight of those throbbing red marks on her skin enflamed his fortitude, and Baran focused all his remaining strength upon the lightest burns—those, he was confident he could heal before his magic depleted altogether.

He closed his eyes, focusing all his energy, feeling the warmth of his tenuous power flow from his hands to her wound. The process was slow, each second stretching out as he willed the burn to fade.

Once the burn on her arm was healed (well enough, at least, that only a faint smudge of color remained), Baran moved his attention to one of the injuries on Mirdania’s face. His hands shook from the strain, but he cupped her cheek as he began his healing endeavors anew. Their eyes locked, and the world around Baran blurred—whether from his closeness to the little elf or his diminution of magic, he could not discern. His heart pounded in his chest, yet he did not relinquish his hold upon Mirdania’s face. She gazed upon his visage as he worked, never shy about lingering upon his scars; Baran wondered if she would pluck up some shame if he informed her how he acquired them.

Only two of her burns did he manage to repair before his head was swimming and his back drenched in sweat once more. The elf-smith caught his arm when the floor spun beneath him. “Baran! Sit, for Aulë’s sake. You’ll crack your head open on the floor.”

He grunted as he lowered himself down next to her, closer than he intended. For a moment, they breathed together in the aftermath of Halbrand’s accident, their exhausted little exhales mingling in the space between their bodies. If Baran concentrated, he could glean flickers of Halbrand’s enraged voice outside the closed doors. He should have better minded his brother, especially whilst Lord Annatar was otherwise occupied.

She winced as she gingerly touched the pink-tinged blooms on her skin surrounding the burns Baran had not managed to heal. “Thank you. Lord Annatar can tend to the rest; I do not wish to tax you any further.” Mirdania lifted her head towards the door, where they could now hear Halbrand arguing with ease. “I do hope he does not deal too harshly with Halbrand,” she murmured.

Baran managed a small nod of agreement, still laboring to recover his strength.

Mirdania’s gaze then shifted to the ruined sword strewn on the floor about the anvil, nothing more now than scattered and useless pieces of metal. She sighed deeply. “But all those hours of labor ... Gone in an instant,” she lamented, her voice barely above a whisper.

The forge door swung open, and Annatar re-entered, his presence commanding their immediate attention. Baran quickly moved to help Mirdania up off the floor, though doing so caused his eyesight to flicker; Mirdania steadied him, her small hand resting upon his bicep, and he nodded once to indicate that he could stand without aid.

Annatar’s eyes flashed with irritation as he took in the ruined blade behind them, as well as Mirdania’s remaining injuries. He came to the elf-smith, taking her afflicted arms in both hands, and spoke low, melodic Quenya over her as his long fingers smoothed away all signs of imperfection with exquisite ease. Baran looked on, a pang of chagrin tightening his chest. Annatar performed the same healing rites upon Mirdania’s face, and when he was certain she no longer suffered, the elf-lord released her with a fatherly hand fleetingly laid upon her shoulder.

Then he turned his withering eye upon Baran. “Return to your quarters,” Annatar commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I will assist Mirdania in recovering her lost progress—an undertaking best performed without the presence of distractions.” Within Baran’s mind, he added, Your healing work was shoddy. Continue your exercises, and let us all be grateful that Mirdania need not rely on your proficiencies to see her wounds mended. On your way, lieutenant.

Baran bowed his head in acquiescence, casting a final glance at Mirdania before leaving the forge. She did the same, peeking at him beyond Annatar’s shoulder as though she wished to say more, but another stern look from the elf-lord guided her back to her work. Then she was chattering again to Annatar about what precisely occurred with Halbrand whilst he was otherwise occupied in the city, and Baran was forgotten even as he took his silent leave of the forge.

Only rest and a hearty meal would restore his ability to wield his meager skills now, so he found little shame in dragging one of the quilts halfway up his lengthy body and succumbing to blissful oblivion within mere moments of returning to his room.

*

Baran jolted awake. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to make sense of the sudden noise that roused him from his heavy sleep. The dimly lit room, now shadowed by the onset of late evening and the constant light of the low flames in the hearth, filled his nostrils with the scents of coal, metal, burning wood, and the musty aroma of the worn and faded sofa beneath him. For a moment, Baran forgot where he was, his mind still clouded with the remnants of sleep. Then, there it was again—a knock on the door, more insistent this time.

As he rubbed at his eyes, the door creaked open, and Mirdania poked her head inside. Her golden hair shimmered in the failing light, and in the hours since they last saw one another, the elf-smith had changed out her sapphire gown for a slimmer-cut violet one; about her shoulders now swung a pale, silvery cloak, rippling against her form like the flash of little fishes beneath the surface of a summer lake.

“Baran, would you like to join me for dinner in town?” she asked. “Lord Annatar and I have concluded our work for the day, and he was called away on business with Lord Celebrimbor again. It occurred to me that you have not yet dined in the city, nor even left the Tower in quite some time, if memory serves. I would be glad of your company.”

Dinner in town? Baran blinked a bit owlishly at her and wondered if he had misheard her invitation. Never in his life had he attended any such event, much less surrounded by elves and all their flippant finery. He was only tentatively familiar with the concept of restaurants (one simply requested a meal, and it was … provided?), and a hot flush crept up Baran’s neck at the thought of embarrassing himself in Mirdania’s company should he misstep in some way.

Upon receiving no immediate answer, Mirdania stepped further into the storage room. “Please,” she insisted gently. “It is the least I can do after all your efforts to heal me this afternoon. If your concern lies in possessing no coin, fear not—the meal would be paid for with mine. Lord Celebrimbor provides all the Mírdain with a most generous salary. But if you do wish to join me, we ought get started; soon enough the tables will be filling, and I can imagine you are not overfond of crowding.” She flashed him a small grin.

Baran gave a wry chuckle. “Indeed not.” Still … What would Lord Annatar have to say about the lieutenant of Adar wandering about Ost-in-Edhil in plain sight, supping for all to see with an Elven forge-master at his side? What if he was spotted by Halbrand and his friends—or, worse, Galadriel? Baran grimaced at the very thought. Mirdania shuffled in the doorway, awaiting his response, her round, sweet face alight with hope.

He sighed, feeling a pang of guilt for his reluctance. Once he departed for the Southlands, after all, he would likely never again have this chance. “All right,” Baran finally agreed, his voice gruff but not unkind. “I shall—join you for dinner.”

Mirdania’s face beamed with joy, and she clasped her hands together in delight. Her infectious excitement summoned a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You’ll not regret it. Our food is wonderful. Here! Your cloak.” She brought it to him, plucking it from where he’d last flung it upon a shelf, and Baran unfurled his limbs from the sofa as he accepted it. His long nap healed most of his bodily discomfort, though a headache lingered, but its source might have been the chasm of emptiness gnawing inside his belly.

Clasping the warm fabric about his throat, Baran followed Mirdania out of the storage room and hid a yawn. She chatted to him about the prototype as they walked, informing him of all the progress she and Annatar made since the accident that morning. Baran listened only with one ear (he understood only a small amount of the terms she used) and nodded along at what he felt to be appropriate intervals. Mirdania either did not notice or did not care that he never said anything in return. He suspected the latter, but as they were both comfortable with this arrangement, the walk from the Tower to their destination passed pleasantly enough.

The snowflakes fell gently, blanketing the city in a serene, white layer that muffled the usual evening-tide hustle and bustle. Delicate icicles adorned the eaves of buildings, sparkling as precious crystals in the soft light of the streetlamps. Lanterns hung from wrought iron posts, their flames casting dancing shadows on the buildings. As they walked, Baran could not help but notice the enchanting simplicity of the winter decorations that adorned the windows and doorways of the shops and homes they passed. Strings of half-melted candles illuminated doorways, leftover from Yule and still holding the line against the bitter nights. Evergreen wreaths, decorated with small pinecones and white ribbons, supplemented a touch of greenery to the cold stone and ice-slickened wooden beams of houses. Others boasted garlands woven of ribbons, curving twigs, and little wood ornaments painted to resemble fresh, vivid berries. Frost patterns on windowpanes created elaborate, natural designs that looked as though they had been painted upon the glass by an invisible hand. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of pine and wood smoke.

Mirdania pointed out various landmarks as they strolled. “That building over there is the Hall of Records,” she said. “Where Lord Annatar spends most of his time when he is not attending to Lord Celebrimbor and his various other duties. And just beyond that street over there is the Artisan’s Guild Hall, where some of the finest craftsmen in all of Middle-earth create their masterpieces.”

They passed a group of Elven children playing in the snow, their laughter ringing out like sweetest music. The children were building a snow fortress, their cheeks flushed with excitement and their eyes glinting with joy. Mirdania smiled warmly at the sight, while Baran looked upon them with utter indifference. Children grew into soldiers, into machines of war who no longer distinguished right from wrong—only the command of their superiors, only the singing of their swords and spears as their weapons drank fresh the blood of their enemies upon the field of battle, only the frenzy of death as it ever eluded those who longed for its cool kiss after sending so many of their foes into its arms.

One of the little elflings caught Baran glowering at them and ducked behind the fortress with round eyes.

As they neared the restaurant, the sound of an expertly played harp reached Baran’s ears. The restaurant itself was a cozy, inviting place, with large windows that allowed the warm light from within to spill out onto the street. Through the glass, Baran glimpsed Elven patrons seated at wooden tables, engaged in their refined conversation and enjoying their meals. Mirdania beckoned him inside with a smile, tugging on his wrist when he hesitated.

Within they were greeted by an elven hostess. Her long, silver hair flowed in glistening curtains down her back, and her eyes sparkled with the light of the stars. She wore a gown of shimmering teal and gold, and upon her brow rested an elegant circlet jeweled with amber. With a warm smile, she welcomed them, her voice melodious as a nightingale’s song. “Mae govannen,” the elf said, bowing slightly. “Welcome, Lady Mirdania; it is an honor to have one of Lord Celebrimbor’s Mírdain dine with us again tonight. Please, follow me.”

Baran trailed behind Mirdania with the sense that every eye in the place was fixed upon him, although when he glanced at the elves, he found few of them actually paying him any mind. The hostess led them through the restaurant towards the less populated back corners. Mirdania, who had never yet encountered a stranger, discussed the evening’s offerings with her as they went. Magnificently crafted lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow that infused the polished wooden tables and floors with light. Great heavy drapes of crushed velvet plum dressed each window, ready to be drawn to shield patrons’ eyes from the sun when it shone in upon them. The gentle hum of Elven music drifted through the scented air, performed on harps and flutes. Baran shook his head to himself, warding away persistent thoughts of what Adar or Annatar might say if they beheld him now.

Mirdania, on the other hand, was happy as a lark. She walked with a lightness in her step, her eyes gleaming. As they reached their table, she thanked the hostess with a cheerful nod and took her seat. Their evening table was laid with fine crystal goblets and plates of delicate porcelain, every piece a work of art in its own right. Baran slumped down in his chair across from her and regretted agreeing to this venture at all—even if his body was pleading to be nourished after the taxing day of healing work. Mirdania spoke again to a different elf, who approached the table shortly thereafter, and presumably requested their meals (she spoke in the tuneful tones of Quenya, and the other elf responded in kind).  

Once they were alone again, Mirdania leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as she began to describe the food she had ordered for them. “Baran, I think you will be pleased with tonight’s offerings. Firstly, they will serve us a platter of lembas bread accompanied by cheeses and fresh berries. Then, we shall have river trout—caught fresh from the Glanduin this very morning—served with spiced rice and wild greens. There was mention of sweets too, but I am not overfond of them, so I suppose their identity will be a surprise, for I ceased paying attention at that point.”

Baran grunted a little chuckle; he did not much care what the elves put before him tonight, for he would have devoured everything in sight given the chance. Still, he wished for something a bit heartier than fish and greens. But he nodded along, though his eyes kept darting around the room, taking in the elegant elves and their every move as though one might suddenly spring upon him with a hidden weapon. Like a rough stone lying within a bed of polished gems, Baran both regretted that he had nothing finer to wear and equally cared not what the elves might think when they looked upon him.

Mirdania spoke to him then of the Doors of Durin project whilst they awaited their meals. Baran tried to focus on her words, but his attention kept drifting back to her lips, the way they curved into a smile as she spoke of the smithing work. He nodded again, more out of habit than understanding. She regretted that she was not more involved, she told him, but likewise she was honored that Lord Annatar had selected her to craft the enchanted blade. But her fellow smiths updated her on the Doors each time she spoke with them, and when she found spare moments after work upon the sword was complete each day, Mirdania visited Lord Celebrimbor’s private forge to glance upon the Doors.

At last, their meals arrived. As soon as the plates were placed before him, Baran did not hesitate. He tore into the meal with vigor. The delicate fish practically melted in his mouth, and the sweet lembas was a delight whose odd charm he could not quite place. His manners were rough, perhaps even uncouth, compared to the elves around him, but he cared not. He was here to enjoy the food, and enjoy it he did. Baran was aware enough to avoid making a mess, but his focus was entirely on the flavors of his dinner and the satisfaction of his hunger.

Across the table, he noticed Mirdania watching him. At first, he thought she might be condemning him for his lack of propriety, but her burgeoning smile told a different story. There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, and something else he could not identify. Certainly this was not the first time she had witnessed him gulp down his dinner, but never with such interest. Baran cocked a brow at her after a few moments and reached across the table to push her plate closer to her.

“Eat,” he said.

Mirdania chuckled and picked up her fork. “You devour your food as though someone might steal it away from you.”

“Someone might.”

She shook her golden head as she placed a forkful of greens in her mouth with the expected delicacy of an Elven lady. “Men are such curious creatures,” she observed. “Always rushing about, hastening to accomplish their work. Then again, their lives are so very fleeting, and fragile. It is a strange thing to me, to consider that most of your kind will be dead within a mere seventy or eighty years of life. Our children are not even considered grown by that count.”

“Seventy or eighty years would be a fortunately long life for those of us residing in the Southlands,” Baran returned. “Or, unfortunately long, should one endure for such a time among certain circles. Very few live to see such a number. Disease, accidents, violence amongst travelers—and neighbors, starvation …” He shrugged, plopping another morsel of trout in his mouth. “No small wonder that many of its people do not live past their childhoods, and far less into proper adulthood.”

“You did, and your siblings.”

Baran gave her a smile that more resembled a baring of his teeth. “So we did.”

Mirdania’s eyes flitted again to his scars. He smirked as he tossed back a swallow of the elderflower wine accompanying their meal as her curious blue irises took in the immense damage of him once more. What stories did she concoct inside that pretty head, he wondered, to explain the ribboning disfigurements that twisted and gnarled upon his flesh? And what horror would creep into her visage if she knew the truth of him? Baran almost relished the idea of telling her, just to satisfy his curiosity.

The elf munched upon her own fish for a time, then sipped her wine. “An accident?” she prompted, nodding at his marred face. “Or violence amongst traders and neighbors?” She analyzed him with boldness, displaying no fear in the confidence of her query. Even Halbrand had not yet been brave enough to question Baran’s scars, and his eyebrow ticked upwards again as he studied this little elf-smith across the table with renewed interest.

He swirled more wine about on his tongue for a moment, then leaned a bit closer across the table and breathed, “That sort of conversation isn’t suitable for the dinner table, I’m afraid. But if you truly wish to know the answers, I’ll have no shame in telling you another time.”

Mirdania paused the bite she had just taken, and he settled back in his chair as he watched her mull upon his words. Her eyes dilated ever so slightly, and she did not meet his gaze again as she reached for her wine a second time. Satisfied that he had curbed her sweetly nosey interest for the time being, Baran started on his rice next, downing the herb-spiced grains with enthusiasm.

Not long deterred into silence, she picked up the conversation on another topic shortly thereafter—this time the snowstorms, and how he believed he might fare on his journey back to the Southlands. Baran indulged her questions as best he could, though in truth he was not eager to contemplate the long road away from Eregion. As they spoke, he polished off the last of his plate, and Mirdania ordered him a second, which he consumed with equal swiftness.

At last, both their bellies full with trout, wine, and sweets (which was some manner of fruit compote), Baran and Mirdania returned to the streets of Ost-in-Edhil beneath the falling snow. Mirdania drew her hood over her hair and gave a little twirl, laughing when he cocked his head at her. She slipped her arm through his as if by instinct; Baran froze a moment, although Mirdania seemed not to notice. Then he gave a mental shrug, his inhibitions softened by the wine, and kept walking undeterred. None of it mattered anyway; he would never see her again after he left.

The town had been lively with the sounds of dinner chatter and laughter, but now they turned down a quieter street, where the only noise was the soft crunch of snow under their boots and the distant conversation of a passing Elven family. As they walked, they both paused, drawn by a tiny, heart-wrenching sound. There, on a doorstep, huddled a diminutive orange kitten, shivering and appearing utterly lost. Its fur was matted with dirt and ice, and it looked towards them with wide, desperate eyes. The kitten let out a piercing scream, and before either of them could react, it charged across the snow towards them, so small that it left no paw prints behind.

Baran stared down in surprise as the kitten began to climb up his pants leg with extraordinary determination. It scrambled up his tunic, its dagger-sharp claws finding purchase in the fabric, and finally settled on his shoulder. The kitten rubbed its head against Baran’s neck, its loud purrs mingling with its continued cries for aid.

Mirdania could not help but laugh at the sight. “Well, it seems you have made yourself a new friend!” she said, her laughter ringing out in the stillness of the night. Baran, a bit bewildered by this sudden turn of events, plucked the kitten off his shoulder. It continued to purr loudly, its small body vibrating with the effort.

He looked down at the kitten, then at Mirdania, who was watching him with a smile. Decades passed since last he encountered a cat; he once kept a litter of them under his bed in Tirharad, rescued from behind the butcher’s shop when their emaciated mother died and left them to starve. A few of them did not survive the Southlands’ ferocious winters, but some did, thanks to his intervention, and Baran had still been feeding the cats scraps when he was stolen away by orcs. With a pang, he wondered what happened to his pets—Halbrand surely would not have bothered with them. His brother never much cared for cats, and Aulorn despised animals of all types. He could only hope some neighbor had taken pity on them, or they’d fended for themselves hunting mice in the fields and woods.

With a gentle touch, he tucked the kitten into his tunic, feeling its tiny body hunker down against the warmth of his chest. The kitten immediately quieted, its purrs becoming softer and more content. “Here,” Mirdania said, taking hold of his elbow and steering him towards a different street. “We’ll detour to the kitchens—surely they can spare us some dinner for this cold little one.”

A few minutes later, Baran found himself seated on the steps of some Elven hall whilst Mirdania begged scraps from the cooks who provided daily meals for Lord Celebrimbor and his staff. The kitten had climbed back up his torso (leaving little bleeding claw marks in its wake) and had its fluffy head poking out of his tunic so it could continue screaming at him. He rubbed one finger on its head, shushing the noisy creature to little avail. How long had it been wandering the streets, alone and half-frozen? When had it last eaten? Baran guessed the kitten could be no more than a few weeks old at most, and hoped there were not other members of its litter still suffering somewhere nearby.

Reverting to Black Speech, which was more comfortable on his tongue than Westron, Baran assured the miniscule beast that dinner was on its way. “Zunug. Globûg dashûrz, thûrûk.” (“Be calm. Food is arriving soon, fierce one.”) The kitten merely gnawed on his finger, its purrs only momentarily diminished.

Mirdania rejoined him shortly, beaming as she plopped down beside him after clearing aside some of the snow. “Dinner for our esteemed guest,” she said, grinning at Baran as she produced some chicken scraps from a little woven basket, covered with a meadow-green cloth. “And still warm! Here we are …”

She laughed as the kitten wrenched the first piece of chicken from her hand when she brought it close; Baran winced as it clawed to freedom from his tunic, and within moments, it had launched itself into the basket headfirst for more chicken. Mirdania stroked its tiny back as it feasted upon its dinner. “Such a little thing, aren’t you? It’s all right now. We’ll look after you.” She grinned at Baran once more, and their gazes snagged when they both silently acknowledged how closely they sat upon the steps. The frigid night became more tolerable as Baran’s limbs heated beneath his clothing, but the more sensible part of his mind conceded that the kitten was in need of warmth, rather than being kept out in the cold. So when the cat had eaten its fill of chicken, Baran tucked it back into his tunic, and they returned to the Tower with their new charge in tow.

Mirdania located some old blankets and arranged them in front of Baran’s hearth whilst he wrangled the kitten out of his clothes. She laughed at the sight, and he rolled his eyes. The kitten shrieked at being removed from what it evidently now considered its home, but within moments of being placed on the fire-warmed blankets, it began kneading the fabric with the loudest purrs its body had yet produced.

“She approves, I think,” Mirdania said, and Baran grunted in agreement as they both watched the creature settle in. “I’ll bring some more food for her in the morning; there was quite enough in that basket to last her ‘til then.”

He nodded, and for a moment, they simply stood there near the fire in pleasant silence. Baran mused upon the wisdom of taking in a (possibly) orphaned kitten right before he was due to return to the Southlands, but if it was a choice between leaving the cat to freeze or causing it some anxiety with his absence later on, the decision was an easy one. At the least, Baran would now have something to focus his mind upon beyond the sword project and the incessant hammering of the Mírdain echoing down his hallway day and night.

The elf turned to go a few minutes later, starting with, “Well—”

“Thank you for dinner,” Baran murmured at the same moment.

Mirdania’s face softened back into a smile, and she bobbed a small curtsy that brought a small smile to his own lips. “You are most welcome to join me any time you like,” she told Baran. “I—have been told I do tend to prattle on, so you will have to forgive me if I spoke too much tonight, but—”

“I enjoyed all your prattling,” he replied without thinking, and her eyes widened first with surprise, then hope. It was true, after all, Baran decided after brief reflection. Even if the subjects did not particularly interest him, he would have listened to Mirdania for hours on end if only to savor the sparkle in her eyes and the lush movements of her lovely lips.

“Did you? Really?” she questioned, fiddling with her hands.

He nodded assent, and Mirdania gleamed again. Then, before Baran had the wherewithal to process her intentions, she was stretching up on her tiptoes, and she brought his head down to plant a very soft kiss upon his scarred cheek. His heart stuttered, and a flash of fire poured through his veins. They lingered a hairsbreadth apart, and he turned his face slightly, so close to the elf’s that he could have kissed her mouth if he wished.

But then Mirdania was saying “good night,” and she flitted away from him like a little songbird whose downy wings brushed upon his face in passing. Baran set his hands upon his hips when the door closed behind her. He blinked a few more times, staring at the door, and then grinned and went to check on his kitten.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

WOULD YOU TELL ME TO GO STRAIGHT TO HELL OR LEAD ME TO THE GARDEN?

Galadriel’s boots made only the softest imprints of her passing in the gathering snowflakes, her presence in the garden barely more than a subtle whisper of the winter night. Beneath the light of the moon, their garden flowered around her as a living incongruity: snow heaped upon blood-red roses like bandages failing to contain an open wound, frost clinging to the branches of fruit trees and glazing the bottoms of plump apples and pears like icing, ice crunching beneath her feet, giving way to supple, vivid grass beneath. A hidden realm, an ever-bright star low upon the horizon, a gem buried beneath the weight of the gold of Eregion’s worth—tiny, bright, secret, safe. The frigidity of deepest winter, beneath which was buried the warmth and majesty of unfolding spring. Galadriel paused to lay a hand upon an ice-crystallized tree trunk, its rich, deep chestnut color lightened and warped by the frost. The touch of her hand melted an area of the same shape, and beneath her skin, if she listened, she discerned the very life-beat of Eä.

But Galadriel had not come to their garden tonight to tend to its trees.

The quiet turmoil in Annatar’s mind boomed softly as distant thunderclouds shrouding the river-waters. Though she kept his spirit and company at a gentle arm’s length since her return to Eregion, Galadriel had witnessed for herself his physical deterioration these past weeks. His investigation into Adar’s treachery continued—fruitlessly—as Baran’s and Arondir’s departures drew ever nearer, and with each passing day, Annatar became more visibly frazzled. Well enough he hid his discomposure from those who did not know him well—a talent they both honed to near-perfection. Centuries of adherence to duty and dignity demanded the needs of leadership come second to the needs of those they governed. As it should be, Galadriel knew … but having spent millennia divided between government and governed each, the dangers of retreating so far into oneself one no longer knew how to ask for help were evergreen.

Yestereve Celebrimbor dismissed them from a meeting wherein Annatar sat so limply and lifelessly next to her that Galadriel wondered if he was ill. Her cousin, too, expressed concern about his administrator during the meeting itself. Evidently mortified that his disquiet had been noted—and remarked upon in such public company—Annatar stiffened and wordlessly reigned himself back to dutiful concentration. Celebrimbor had attempted to speak with him when the meeting adjourned, but with a flash of silk and glittering crystals and sweeping hair, Annatar was among the first to exit the meeting hall. He had not glanced at Galadriel throughout the conference—not once. When she touched his mind, she found it imprisoned behind steel and stone, unbreachable except perhaps by Eru Himself. And his eyes—Galadriel noted a molten deadness in them uncommon to the doe-sweet sapphire and cerulean she knew so well. Blue they remained, but Annatar’s gaze swept the meeting hall last night with searing flame, seeking something she could not see nor understand, a simmering loathing and despair she had not glimpsed since her departure to Forodwaith thirty years past.

Halbrand had mentioned to her Annatar’s sullenness when he aided Mirdania in the forge, both he and the elf-smith wondering at its origins. He would never admit such, but Galadriel suspected his disastrous attempt at sparring with Annatar had been her kingfisher’s effort to liven him up again. Something had shifted between them in recent days—Galadriel hoped their close proximity in the forge had finally begun to melt the unspoken friction between them—and Halbrand no longer spoke quite so brutally of her administrator. And to see Annatar laugh on the training yard when he triumphed over Halbrand during their good-natured brawl … Galadriel’s fëa began to mend in manners she had not known were cracked.

Little it mattered, however, for Annatar quickly slipped back into melancholy. Moreso, if possible, as if Halbrand’s cautious peace offering only aggravated that which tormented his soul in secret. And Galadriel ached for him, both of them, because whatever tenuous peace sprung up between them like these delicate defiant blossoms at her feet had been obscured by snow again—and the weight of their individual pain may prove too heavy to bear.

She followed the invisible call of Annatar’s presence, her mind guiding her to where he lingered by the burbling pond. Like the foliage, its waters were enchanted to remain untouched by winter, and the fish that circled lazily beneath the reflective surface knew no cold. Her administrator may as well have been a statue, so quiet and still did he brood by the water—head bowed, eyelashes soft and light against his pale cheeks, hands folded behind his back and hair awash in pearly moonlight.

Black and gold he wore tonight, long robes that brushed the snow at his feet, yet so weighty and thick was the fabric that naught but his hair stirred when a chill wind swept through the garden. Gold threaded through the midnight-darkness of his robes like veins of the precious ore winding through a perilous mountain of obsidian. Jewelry adorned Annatar in abundance. Rings graced his fingers, and when the breeze lifted his hair from his shoulders, Galadriel glimpsed elegant golden leaves winding up from his lobes to the gracefully tipped peaks of his ears. A weighty golden circlet rested upon his brow, interwoven with black designs—the radiant bullion chased ever by darkness, intertwined with it, consumed by it.

The faint clouds of his breath were the only sign of life from his immobile form. Starlight cast a caressing hand upon the delicate lines of his face and softened the otherwise profound intensity of his downturned gaze. Too beautiful and too sorrowful to be entirely real, she thought him—some forgotten creature of myth, cast down from the spaces between the stars in a fiery blaze, extinguished and crippled now by the bonds of the earth to which he had been condemned.

Galadriel reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder. Annatar did not turn, but she felt him acknowledge her presence within their spirits, the tension in his body easing. Unlike Halbrand, he did not fall into her mental embrace, nor bear her away into his own—he simply recognized her, and she him. Careful, quiet, gentle, mild: the peace that bore her through some of the blackest days of her existence, the comfort she sought when the waters raged high and dark inside her mind, the steady, cool rain upon her burning skin when fire and flame licked at her bones.

“Man lumbë caitëa órëlya lóten, airemeldo (What shadow lies upon your heart tonight, treasured one)?” she asked, her words little more than a brush of air, carried away by the midnight winds to some fairer country wherein he knew no more distress. Galadriel’s hand remained upon his shoulder, and Annatar did not shrug it away. Nor did he dissent when she stepped before him, in the little space between his tall, lithe form and the rippling fishpond. Did not even lift his eyes when Galadriel cupped his face—cold as marble from what must have been hours in the snow by now—and tried to arrest his gaze to hers. His visage offered nothing, every line and facet of his angelic loveliness schooled into orderly perfection, untouched by emotion or burden, a living stone, a wilting blossom so thoroughly buried beneath the snow that to look upon its petals was to recall death.

Galadriel demanded nothing of him. Asked no further questions. Widened her mind and offered him the light of her care and friendship should he have need of it. She did not count the minutes she lingered with him there beneath the softly falling snow, fingers warm and tender upon his cheeks as she traced delicate circles onto his frozen skin. Their breathing harmonized as Annatar’s spirit gradually drew itself into her light, a shy, wary presence flitting at the edges of her being as though she might cast him out if he wandered too closely. Her eyes closed, and when he at last tilted his head down to press his forehead to hers, Galadriel smiled.

“I would not trouble you with my burdens tonight,” Annatar murmured into the stillness.

“Yet I would help you carry them, if you are willing.”

Her administrator shook his head and gently drew her hands from his face; one he took beneath his lips, closing his tormented eyes as he softly dragged his open lips over her palm for a moment (Galadriel trembled at the sight), and then Annatar folded her hand over her heart. “No, my lady. They are mine to bear, and mine alone. I would not have you sundered from the joy that has been so unmistakable on your face and in your heart these recent weeks.” His fingers curled around a strand of her hair, and Annatar’s gaze became as one peering into the world of unseen dreams. “Joy unending, I wish for you. Bathed in the light of the sun … crowned by the light of the stars.”

Galadriel smiled again, softer now. “My only wish is to be at peace, surrounded by those whom I love. And that you might know that same joy. Rarely in all my days have I encountered someone who deserves happiness so much as you, airemeldo. Centuries now have you toiled and tarried for our people, placing them always above yourself, wearing yourself to the bone that they might have gladness and provision.”

“As have you.”

She dipped her head. “And Celebrimbor with us. I …” Galadriel swallowed and took his hands in both of hers, gazing down at the manner in which he dwarfed even her hands. She traced their backs, between his long fingers, their uncalloused tips. Annatar made no response, let her do as she liked. When at last she looked up to him again, Galadriel found his eyes already pinned to her face, shadowed and dark beneath the moon.

She wet her lips and whispered, “I would have you seek your joy, Annatar. And it cannot—will not—come from me. My heart lies with another. But yours is kind, and gentle, and I treasure it most deeply among all whom I am blessed to call friend. I know not whether these burdens that weigh your shoulders have been unwittingly placed there by my hands—”

His façade cracked, ever so slightly—just a tiny tremble of his lip—and Galadriel’s heart rushed with new sorrow. Her hands tightened upon his. “There is life beyond this garden, and it awaits you, Annatar. You will know love again, and high beauty, and every wondrous and perfect thing you have so long deserved—”

“I deserve nothing,” he rasped, and held her gaze, an odd sheen glimmering star-bright in the shadowed depths of his irises. “Least of all you, my lady. Yet I would not have another. And I have known this since first I looked upon you and loved you even then. Whatever melancholy bearing I have portrayed to you, do not assign it to my inability to accept that I was not—am not—what you desire from this life. I shall never cease to adore you and desire you, most covetously, so long as my lungs draw breath, but your happiness eclipses every protest that would fall from my lips. You would not entertain them, I suspect, even should I beg you on hands and knees.

“So while I may look upon your joy with a great deal more envy than I am proud to admit, please take to heart that I have reiterated to you, multiple times now, that I will not interfere. I am glad for you. And I wish that we may cease speaking of it, particularly as you are nearly rehomed and shall no doubt wish to take several days’ leave to settle in.”

Despite the affirming nature of his words, they tumbled from Annatar’s mouth with the quietly seething pain and torment Galadriel glimpsed only when one of them dared to pick at this particular wound. Her eyes pricked, and when he started to move away from her, she grabbed softly at his wrist. “Annatar, I did not mean—”

“Galadriel,” he begged, not looking at her. “I no longer have the strength. There are other troubles which lay heavy and dark upon my spirit tonight, and I would have you leave me to their pondering in peace. I am so very weary.”

“I cannot abandon you in such agony,” she protested, though Galadriel knew she should heed his request to leave him be. Did he truly think she attributed all his exhaustion and visible distress these past weeks to petty jealousy? A deflection from the true source of his pain, perhaps, or irritation brought on by poor rest—her mind scrambled to justify why he snarled at her so when she believed their feelings on the subject long settled. Galadriel had only thought to encourage him towards freedom, that he might not become so ensnared with her that he was incapable of finding joy elsewhere … as she had once been ensnared by Mairon. She would not wish such a miserable fate on anyone, especially her dearest friend in all the world.

Then again, Annatar’s steadfastness and devotion was a cherished hallmark of his character, and Galadriel had no doubt insulted him by suggesting he simply move his heart along. Seven hundred years had she shared his bed, and now, when he very reasonably and kindly admitted he was still wounded by her rejection, she told him to find another person to love instead. Galadriel cringed inwardly—for all her noble intentions in seeking him out tonight, she had only worsened his mood, and her own. Likely even plunged the knife back into his heart anew.

“Have a pleasant evening, my lady. Should you find anything amiss in your new home, please do not hesitate to tell me, and I will correct the error,” he said, peeling his wrist out of her grasp. Emotionless once more, no indication of any more familiarity between them than two city officials discussing policy and protocol. Galadriel’s eyes watered again, yet Annatar merely shifted his gaze back to the fishpond and said no more.

Even so, she could not in good conscience leave him without an apology. And since all her words had failed her this bitter evening, Galadriel turned to the only other way she knew how to grant comfort. Taking his beloved face in both hands again, she stretched upwards and kissed his winter-white cheek, willing every ounce of her sorrow, her shame, and her love into the soft, chaste press of her lips. Annatar’s throat gave a thick bob. She lingered a moment, hoping—praying—he would speak, that he would tell her she was forgiven for causing him this pain, that he would of course attend the little feast Isildur and Bronwyn were planning for them … that he was her friend and always would be, no matter how many centuries he would pine for her, long after she was married and belonged to another man.

Annatar said none of those things. He said nothing at all.

And so Galadriel left him there in the garden, her heart dripping rose-red blood into the snow all the way home to Halbrand.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

TO DREAM OF HER

Halbrand gasped awake around noontide. A muscle cramped in his neck, and he grimaced as he rubbed at it, reorienting himself to the waking world. His notebook lay spread open on his lap (well, now fallen halfway off) and he fumbled with the book and the charcoal he had been using to practice his Westron handwriting. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of working, for his last stroke upon the page was incomplete. Halbrand yawned as he scanned over the notebook, then set it aside before he could be tempted to peruse the wedding rings and anatomy sketches he’d created in different parts of his book.

Rings … He paused, fingertips trailing over the cover of his notebook as a fragment of his dream resurfaced in a hazy, golden blur: himself, stirring from a deep sleep in a large, downy bed which faced an open-air window and terrace, curtained by floor-length ivory fabric that matched the magnificent blankets and coverlets upon the bed. The window overlooked a steep valley, which rose up around the building in which Halbrand rested behind Galadriel (a house? He could not be certain). Mist softened the gilded morning air, and a faint rainbow shimmered in the spray of a waterfall tumbling from the forested cliffsides across the vale. Cheerful birdsong danced among the trees and boughs rustling to welcome the rising sunlight. Halbrand breathed in air perfumed with the heady scents of blooming flowers, verdant forests, stone and spray, and his sweet little elf.

His hand curved languidly over Galadriel’s bare body beneath the covers as he nestled his lips into the pale junction of her shoulder and throat. Her radiant hair, glimmering bright as a silken cloak spread among the stars to grant him passage to her throne room in heaven, splayed across their pillows and his chest, tickling gently at the generous dusting of auburn hair that covered his pectorals. Halbrand’s wife rested content in his arms even as he drew her firmer back against his much larger body and continued pressing tender kisses into her skin; Galadriel’s lips lifted with a small, sleepy smile in time, and one of her hands raised to grasp a handful of his sleep-mussed hair.

Her doing so afforded Halbrand a glimpse of the rings she wore—one of his designs circled her wedding finger, and another, so luminous to his heightened eyes even in the paler morning air that he could not long fixate upon it, rested on her other hand. Unconsciously, he reached down to brush his fingertips over the adamant jewel—and then noticed that he himself wore an additional three rings. Halbrand’s consciousness did not bend to his curiosity: the dream continued uninterrupted despite his wish to linger on his rings, and his hand moved back out of his sight in favor of cupping Galadriel’s pert breast. She was speaking to him, saying something his ears could not process, and he replied in turn, the edges of their surroundings beginning to blur and fade even as Halbrand’s tongue sought entrance between his wife’s lips. His last recollection before awakening was of the rhythmic undulation of their joined hips beneath the blankets, and of Galadriel’s moans in his ear …

Halbrand shook out his hair with a shiver and then tugged at the fabric between his legs before crossing the room to splash his face in the wash basin. He peered at himself in the small, water-spattered looking glass as he attempted to wrangle his hair into the half-up style Galadriel designed for him. After several long minutes of trial and error, Halbrand created a satisfactory replica and then briefly trimmed his beard before returning to his nightstand. (Anything to occupy his hands after awakening with the sensation of Galadriel panting beneath him still so near.)

He picked up the notebook once more, musing upon the rings he glimpsed in his dream as he thumbed through the designs slowly. Galadriel’s wedding ring did not quite match any of the sketches he’d already created, although Halbrand could glimpse their influences in several of his prototypes. Absently, he fished out the slip of charcoal again and began drafting the ring he saw in his dream—barely a few moments had he glanced at it, but a compulsion to memorialize the piece overcame him nonetheless, and Halbrand did not question the wisdom of dwelling upon Galadriel and wedding rings.

Her ring was beautiful, and he desired to recall the design, nothing more (or so he reassured himself several times).  

Mercifully, the dreams that plagued him since his separation from Galadriel were few and far between. Most, Halbrand could not remember within mere moments of waking, although sometimes—as with this one—he could revisit them in gauzy snatches at other times. The mountain of fire was a recurring motif of late, and as Halbrand’s connection with Baran grew stronger, the Lord-father and his orcs also made their appearances … which solidified to him that these were nothing more than dreams. His own anxieties, manifesting themselves in nightmares riddled with fire and ash. Always had it been thus, since he was a child: Halbrand’s sleep came poorly (unless he rested in Galadriel’s arms), and he dreamed of blood and horror and ruin just as surely as the sun would rise. Perhaps they intensified after his abandonment of the Southlands to search out Aulorn, but rarely since his childhood did he experience a dreamless sleep.

And so, while he smarted at such an intimate revisitation of everything he’d lost in the last month, Halbrand would not complain that his dream this afternoon was pleasant. Brief, and unusual, but pleasant.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, continuing to sketch long after he finished reconstructing the ring Galadriel wore on her finger. Halbrand’s mind latched to the creative outlet quickly—over a month passed since last he drew anything—and so he wiled away the rest of the afternoon with renditions of the valley-view from their bedroom window, a brief study of his own face with the same hairstyle he now wore, some doodles of Lisse, and finally a rather viciously mean-spirited caricature of Annatar. Halbrand smirked at it, then closed his notebook and tipped his head back against the stone wall.

He allowed himself to abide within the memory of the dream for a while longer, his battered heart savoring and spurning the images of Galadriel cuddled into his chest in equal measure. But as he then roused to go fetch himself a late lunch some time later, Halbrand pushed them from his mind and did not revisit them.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

A BLOOM AMONG THE ASHES

THREE WEEKS AGO

Baran stood alone in the ruins of Tirharad.

They lay silent beneath a chalk-white sky, the soot-streaked skeletons of the townspeople softened only by time and overseen by the slow advance of mildew along the stonework. The apothecary’s thatched roof had collapsed in on itself, but Baran still recognized the crooked wooden sign that once bore Bronwyn’s family seal, now half-charred and dangling from a rusted hook. That family had never approved of Yavelyn’s rudimentary skill with magic, believing her dark and unnatural despite the thriving beauty of her gardens. Baran was certain now, as he viewed his village with the eyes of a grown man, that they were likely not the only ones. He studied the apothecary a lingering moment, able to glimpse inside; shattered glass littered the earth-packed floor, dulled to a murky frost beneath a sprawl of dead vines that had crept in through the broken windows.

Never imagining that he would lay eyes upon Bronwyn again, he had startled to identify her from afar in Pelargir when he returned with Galadriel bearing Halbrand’s wounded body in the aftermath of the pyre—and then curled his lip when she cozied up to Arondir, for well Baran recalled the Sylvan elf from that cursed day when he and Galadriel freed their slaves and set one of the campsites ablaze. He was certain to keep himself hidden from Arondir’s view thereafter, and from Bronwyn’s. Long had her childhood face faded from Baran’s memory, and he suspected she would not recognize him on sight, but one mere vision of him with Halbrand or Nerwyn would no doubt pique Bronwyn’s suspicions enough that she might start asking forbidden questions. Galadriel had shrouded his fëa from the perception of their company as they trekked to Eregion, and for that he was grudgingly grateful … yet Baran wondered, with grim amusement, how Bronwyn might react to the news that he returned from the dead after all these years.

He patted his horse’s mane and began walking. Baran had not intended to visit Tirharad for much of his journey. Yet some morbid interest roused in him as he approached Ghash Durbatuluk, a fleeting desire to look upon his village and witness the destruction the Lord-father decreed he rain upon it. He had not hesitated to gather the Uruk and follow Adar’s command; what love had Baran for Tirharad, its childhood memories lost to time and distance? Halbrand and Nerwyn were not present within its bounds when the Uruk struck, nor would have Adar allowed any harm to come to them if they were. Lord Sauron’s orders regarding Baran’s younger siblings had been explicit and unquestionable since first Baran became aware of them: they were not to be harmed, and they were not to be interfered with until the time was right.

So he kept away from Tirharad, by his own will and that of his betters. Except for the one time he attempted to flee shortly after he was captured, Baran had not looked upon the village in twenty years, until the night he led Adar’s forces in a brief and bloody raid. If not for Arondir, there would have been no survivors other than the hardiest townsfolk seized for the cages. A failure, one for which Baran suffered at Adar’s hand after Arondir and Galadriel then infiltrated one of the camps. He accepted his punishment willingly, and that was that.

Still … to now look upon Tirharad as both his once-home and his more recent error, Baran was uncertain what to feel as he walked through the ashes. So he simply continued his solitary tour, pausing here and there to hush his horse when the poor beast startled at the sound of wind whistling in broken windows or far-off wolves chorusing in the mountains.

Across the lane, the old butcher’s shop—Waldreg’s, if he recalled correctly—stood hollowed out, nothing but a frame of blackened beams and one lopsided cutting table still bolted into the flagstones. Bones (though whether animal or human, Baran did not care to determine) littered the scorched earthen floor; the stench had long since faded.

Farther along, past the row of gutted dwellings and over the shallow ridge where wildflowers once grew thick along the trail, Baran paused before a fallen dead tree. It died during his eighth year, and though its brittle limbs had cracked and collapsed over the years, the massive trunk had been stable enough to climb. He and Halbrand once spent a full week hollowing out its innards, imagining themselves soldiers guarding a grand fortress, or seafarers surveying the edges of the Sundering Seas. The tree had collapsed since then, no doubt the casualty of a summer storm.

Baran stared at the skeletal remains of it now (its bark long dead, the silvered wood dry and crumbling with rot) in utter silence. There stirred within his breast no flicker of brotherly warmth, nor any pang of longing for those halcyon days—only the ash under his boots and the low drone of wind caught in the chimneys of houses that no longer possessed walls.

He led his horse through the cindered streets without haste, his boots scuffing against broken stone and scorched mud as he moved deeper into the village. The beast snorted quietly, ears flicking in every direction, but made no protest. Tirharad’s alleys had narrowed with neglect (its walls had bowed and collapsed, overtaken by vine and root), but Baran did not glance into the marred doorways or the shadows curled beneath what remained of wooden awnings. He had already witnessed worse; it was his own hand, after all, which conducted Tirharad’s untimely fate. The trees beyond the far end of town had thickened since his childhood, creeping forward with each passing year, as if the forest meant to consume what little remained of the place that once defied its edge.

He turned west off the old main road, past the remnants of a rusted plow and an overturned cart, until he came upon the ruins of the house he once called his own. Aulorn’s forge still hunkered behind it, but only just—the roof had caved in on one side, and the stone chimney leaned precariously, blackened with smoke and split down its center. The house itself had not fared any better. Charred beams jutted from the earth, and what had once been a narrow porch now lay scattered in splinters across the dirt. There were remnants of life here and there (a patch of blue cloth half-buried in ash, a carved tool scorched beyond recognition) but none of them stirred his long-hollowed core.

Baran stopped before the forge, resting one hand on the horse’s bridle as he surveyed the destruction; the air smelled faintly of iron, long cooled. He could no longer recall the sound of Aulorn’s voice, although that was likely for the best. That house had not been a home to him for years now, and even as he stood in its shadow, only the quiet reek of death and decay remained to welcome him back. Only the slow, creeping dark beyond the treeline, summoning him back to the one place wherein he still found his purpose. 

He left the forge behind and stepped into the remnants of the house after lashing his horse’s reins to a nearby tree. Ash crumbled beneath his boots as he crossed what had once been the threshold, the door long since devoured by flame and weather. The interior smelled of old smoke and dry earth, but beneath those scents lingered something almost sweet—faint traces of cedar, lavender plants, bread long decayed.

Baran cast his eyes slowly about his childhood home as he catalogued its condition. The bones of the house gripped stubbornly in places: a soot-darkened beam still clung to one wall, etched faintly with knife marks from their father’s temper. Aulorn was never kind to Baran, but he rarely hurt him unless he attempted to shield Halbrand from his wrath. Yavelyn received the brunt of Aulorn’s ire, for she was quick to defend her youngest son from her husband at every opportunity—and she paid dearly for her interventions. If he closed his eyes, he thought he could recall Halbrand’s piercing shrieks amid the sound of Aulorn’s merciless fists … and later, Yavelyn singing to him as she rocked him in her arms, both of them bloody and weeping.

Baran swallowed and moved past that cut-riddled beam without allowing his body to touch it.

The hallway was narrow and half-collapsed, requiring him to duck beneath sagging rafters as he made his way through. His boots caught on warped planks and scattered bits of pottery. A rusted cooking pot lay overturned beside the hearth, and one of Yavelyn’s old shawls, its once-rich indigo faded near to grey, was tangled around a broken stool. Baran ignored those remnants and turned instead toward the small rear bedroom, where he and Halbrand once slept on a straw-filled mattress beneath a slanted window. Its frame was now blackened, the glass long since shattered.

He stood in the doorway, the air oddly still around him. Soot streaked the walls, and the roof had buckled inward, dappling the floor with sunlight. Beneath one beam of light, the warped wood still bore a mark of life—a childish sketch illustrated onto the floorboards: two decently-rendered figures with swords, smiling beside a less skillfully drawn kitten (Halbrand, ever the young artist, sometimes made little drawings around the house when he was restless). Baran stared at it for a long time, unmoving. A long-forgotten memory surfaced: Halbrand, no more than five years of age, clutching a handsewn dog doll in one hand and slinging his small arm around Baran’s neck as they played together.

“You’re my favorite,” he’d said, before kissing Baran’s cheek and laughing as if it was the simplest truth in the world. “I love you.”

The silence in the present deafened him. Baran turned away from their room without a backwards glance, his heart growing heavier at last.

He stepped out the back door—what remained of it—and into the scorched wasteland of what had once been Yavelyn’s garden. Ash and charcoal blanketed the blackened earth, and every trellis, every vine, every low stone border had collapsed into disrepair. The fruit trees were dead, little more than hollow, brittle-limbed stumps clawing at the sky. Charred wood and twisted iron marked the places where his mother had once hung herbs to dry. What weeds had returned were spiny and pale, stubborn things rooted in fire-hardened soil. Nothing soft had survived.

But the shape of the garden still lived in Baran’s memory, enough that he could mark the stone where Halbrand perched to gaze at the mountains in the evenings, a tiny sentry dreaming of the wide world beyond Tirharad. And there, near the western edge where the shade once fell soft and cool in the heat of summer, was the place Baran last stood before the orcs came.

He remembered the sudden weight of the rain pouring from twilight skies, the scent of wet stone and blood. Remembered an Uruk wrenching his arm back, a second smothering his scream. Remembered the forest swallowing him whole while his mother cried out from the house and Aulorn ran, barefoot and frantic, into the trees to chase his captors. His father’s efforts had been useless, of course, but those were the last memories he possessed of his parents in both sight and sound.

Baran stood there alone, for many long minutes, and listened to the wind ghosting through the trees.

And then, amid the ruins of Tirharad and his own disrupted life, he noticed them: flowers. Small, white blooms clustered at the far end of the garden, nestled around a rough standing stone pressed into the earth—his mother’s grave, constructed by a grief-stricken twelve-year-old Halbrand. All else had withered or blackened to ash, but the blossoms stirred faintly in the breeze, untouched by time or fire. Baran approached slowly, his boots quiet on the scorched ground. He crouched near the grave and ran a hand through the soil; it was cool and soft, unlike the dry earth around it. The texture startled him, for there had fallen no rain in weeks, and no living thing should have flourished there. But the soil held moisture, and the flowers sprouting from it appeared flawless and lovely, spoiled by neither ash nor decay. He stared for a long time, then laid his palm flat against the earth.

But Baran’s thoughts could not settle as the long, silent minutes passed. The future pressed close even as his past sought to engross him, and his mind tangled in his attempts to separate his duty from his deadened heart. His eyes cut down to his fingers, pale and lightly scarred against the darkened earth.

Adar introduced burial customs to the Uruk, many long centuries before any of Baran’s kin yet walked upon Middle-earth, and they had evolved with time into those now observed by the Uruk who marched beneath the banner of Sauron. Several of the she-orcs who bore Baran’s half-orc spawn lost their lives to various causes, and although neither he nor his offspring cared to bury them, Adar had done so with reverence.

Once, when Baran was still young and the defiance had not yet been beaten out of him, he refused to mate with the she-orc to which Adar gifted him, and they came to blows that ended in the loss of the she-orc’s life after she attempted to subdue him. The Lord-father gave Baran to the hordes of the she-orc’s kin that night in punishment, and the next morning, he knelt at Adar’s feet before the entirety of the Uruk to bury her in penance for his insolence.

Since that day, no more of Adar’s daughters met their end by Baran’s hand, but neither had he honored them in death. Let the Lord-father keep his traditions—Baran was no Uruk. Although he had adopted many of their customs in time and would sooner count himself among their kind than the Men of the Southlands, the orcs did not worship him as they did Adar, and many of them coveted his power and closeness with the Lord-father.

In particular, one of Baran’s eldest sons, who led a small but vicious warband responsible for the capture of many of their breeding slaves, as well as the raids and destruction of several Southlander villages. He was born of Adar’s most cunning dissenter, a she-orc matriarch who festered beneath the Lord-father’s more diplomatic policies and hungered to serve a darker master. Like many of the older Uruk, who still remembered the days of Morgoth and his chief lieutenant, they hungered to be set loose among the Men and the elves and drink their fill of mortal blood. Adar desired peace for his children, and clung to the promises of a home for orc-kind when Sauron raised his son up to rule the Southlands—yet not all the orcs craved the same armistice, and the violence and resentment within their hearts magnified in the many long years spent hiding in Ghash Durbatuluk.

If he was to dismantle Adar’s hold from within, he would need allies—and none were more dangerous, or promising, than the mother of his most bloodthirsty son.

Should Baran wield his words properly, he could win many of the Uruk to his side beneath the eyes of Adar himself, for the Lord-father tended to blind himself to the opposition of his children; few of them would be powerful enough to overcome his forces should they attack, and so most, if they were truly unhappy, simply fled. The majority never escaped the forest, unable to navigate the enchanted pathways or defend themselves from its dark creatures without aid. And should they return to Adar, half-mad with fear and hunger, their fates were often worse than death, reduced to breeding slaves or slain by those still devoted to Adar for their treachery. Adar loved his children, but he did not tolerate disloyalty.

And neither did Sauron.

So Baran would seek out the matriarch first, and begin to whisper in her ear the gilded temptations that might finally lure her and her vicious kin away from the Lord-father and into Sauron’s waiting hands. The Lord of Gifts was generous to his faithful servants, and if he discovered that Adar was indeed plotting with Sauron’s enemies to arrange Galadriel’s downfall … Baran would not hesitate to take advantage of Sauron’s munificence. Neither, he thought, would the she-orc.

After all, a mother seeking to liberate her young from the hand of perceived oppression could wield the strength of mountains and the cunning of serpents.  

He lowered his eyes back to his own mother’s grave. Baran did not speak for several moments. He had not anticipated visiting Yavelyn’s resting place, and now that he crouched over her remains, he found himself at a loss. He had not spoken to her in twenty years, and would never do so in the flesh again. Where could he begin? Would she even wish to hear his voice, considering it was the grief over his absence that killed her? Baran exhaled softly through his nose, and in time, he decided that casting his eyes towards the future would serve them both better than dwelling in the past.

His thoughts did not lodge upon her memory overmuch throughout the years, and rarely in the way lost children usually yearned for their mothers. There lived within Baran no warm ache or vivid longing, no blurred memory of lullabies or perfume. Her features became familiar again yet ever-distant after he reunited with his siblings—captured in the red shine of Nerwyn’s curls, the laughter lines of Halbrand’s beautiful face, his own nose. While still Baran was young enough to recall Yavelyn’s voice, he had already been ripped away from his family. Afterwards, there existed little time or allowance to grieve. Survival granted no space for such things, and the darkness of Ghash Durbatuluk choked out the flowers he himself might have left at the grave of his mother’s memory.

Even so, Baran knew well the tale of her valor. Yavelyn had chosen to accept Lord Sauron’s offer in full knowledge of who he was, what he had been, and what he now sought. She believed in him and in the reformed world he promised to those sacred few capable of seeing beyond his misdeeds and understanding the goodness he wished to bestow upon a broken land. She bore and nurtured Halbrand in the hope that one day, her son would rise up at his father’s side and play his kingly part in the reordering of Middle-earth, in the acquisition of a perfect and lasting peace …

“I believe that you would be proud of our lord,” Baran said softly, brushing his fingers through the short grass intermingled among the flowers. “Of the work for which we labor, and of Halbrand. Would that you could lay eyes upon him. You would scarce recognize him—but perhaps when he smiles, you may, for a moment, glimpse again the child you once cradled in your arms. He battles his fate with each passing day, yet … I grasp to the hope that he will do as he was meant. He will rise up and answer the call of his blood and his destiny, one day. He is still too blind and proud to understand what he was made for, but …” Baran smiled faintly, little more than an upwards brush of his lips. “Even stone must yield to the river, in time.”

He looked up at the sky for a moment, then back down. “It grieves me to learn that you died without the knowledge that I did not surrender my life that night. You waited and watched for me, ever hopeful that I would be returned to you, and yet no liberation came before your death. Your heart could no longer endure the anguish, and for that, I will carry your grief within mine in honor of the love you bore me all my life.

“Yet I think it would please you to know now that Nerwyn is safe, and she flourishes in a beautiful city far from the Southlands. Our lord watches over her, just as he shelters Halbrand in his wisdom and his care. And he has granted me wondrous tools with which to enact his will here, as I labor to discover the truth of Adar’s loyalties. This ring …” Baran brushed his fingers over the dark gem on his hand, a thrill coursing through him to gaze upon its obsidian facets and know that Sauron himself enchanted the piece to guard him from harm and detection. “And an elf blade, fine as any I could hope to possess after the loss of my own.”

He thought of Mirdania then, as he suspected he would do each time he looked upon his sword or wielded it against his foes; Baran’s throat jerked, and he swiftly corrected his focus before he wandered too far off the narrow road ahead.

“The eye of Lord Sauron oversees us all,” he murmured to his mother’s grave. “Everything he promised you … His memory has not dimmed with the years; he will reform the world to his will, and an enduring beauty shall spring from the charred earth. That which was broken shall be made new, and stronger than its predecessor. He will banish the very darkness from the earth …”

Baran rested his hand on the grave marker. “And when that day comes, we shall herald its dawning borne aloft on the wings of your sacrifice.”

He fell silent then and did not rise. He lingered beside the grave, letting his meandering thoughts settle as downy dust upon the headstone. Then, with his eyes still fixed on the soft petals that bloomed in defiance of the grim wreckage and rubble surrounding them, he opened his mind and reached outward—across the plainsland, across the mountains, across the unseen distance yawning between them … across the world.

You arranged this thing of beauty for her, my lord? he asked. The flowers that bloom upon my mother’s grave … It is the work of Sauron, is it not?

Annatar’s voice replied within his mind, neither affectionate nor warm, yet threaded with a somber remorse Baran had rarely encountered in his past dealings with the dark lord. Yes. He paused. She gave me my son. And so I would give her the honor in death I failed to give her in life.

Baran nodded once. You have my thanks, my lord. Then, uncertain why he continued, he murmured, There was a light within her that I think even death cannot diminish.

His lord’s presence lingered in silence, and Baran had already dismissed the possibility of his reply when Annatar responded with a reverential quietness of both volume and tone: Her death was needless. Had I been permitted to retrieve Halbrand in his youth, many lives might have been spared. Yet each day that I look upon his face, I glimpse her virtue shining within him, and I am glad. He bears such promise, your brother, and I shall mold him into a king and heir worthy of his lineage.

Whatever the cost, lieutenant, Halbrand shall fulfill his purpose in her name as well as mine. I would have you do your duty to him now, and to me, and know that I will be guiding your every step from the shadows. Go. Linger not on the dead, except to honor their memories. I have faith that you will not disappoint me.

Baran’s lips ghosted in a smile as Annatar’s mind then closed to his. He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands, cast one last look toward the garden, and murmured a final farewell. Then he turned away, walking back across the garden to where his horse waited. The fidgety steed shifted and snorted as Baran swung into the saddle.

He gave the demolished home one last glance—Aulorn’s derelict forge, the smashed windows, the scorched hallways of a life long since left behind—and then spurred his horse towards the looming treeline. The dark forest yawned open before him, laden with shadow and the familiar scent of rot and damp, but he did not flinch. Baran rode ahead without hesitation, his shoulders strong and his eyes clear. His ring glittered darkly beneath the suffocating canopy as the forest swallowed him down.

Whatever may await him within Ghash Durbatuluk, Baran would serve the will of Sauron until his last breath. For his lord, for his brother and sister … for his mother.

For the world she once believed could bloom from the ashes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

SPRINGTIDE IN EREGION

Halbrand was practicing his tengwar when Nerwyn came into his chambers a warm, cloudless day a week later. The twitter of birdsong greeted her, along with the rustling of the infirmary gardens’ foliage outside the open window under which her brother and his hound sprawled like a pair of sunning housecats. Lissë, who had been slumbering at his master’s side, woke upon hearing her entrance and then bounded off the bed to greet her. Nerwyn squatted to bury her hands in the hound’s fur as he whined and wagged his tail, and she twisted her face away, sputtering, as Lissë tried to swipe his enormous tongue over her features.

Halbrand snickered from the bed and then said, “How the fuck is this word pronounced? I cannot figure it; this entire foul passage is giving me a headache.”

Nerwyn smirked and rose, Lissë trotting alongside her as she went to examine her brother’s study materials; she lifted her brows when she realized he was attempting to translate a page of Quenya from one of the rather hefty tomes she’d seen on his nightstand in recent days. She glanced at Halbrand’s notes (and perceived with surprise that his handwriting was quite neat) and then bent down to gain a longer look at the word over which he was puzzling. Nerwyn recognized only a paltry selection of the Quenyic words before her, and she was uncertain of their meanings. What in Eru’s name was Halbrand attempting to read?

“Voronwëromion,” she decided after a lengthy pause.

Her brother rolled his eyes and penned the pronunciation down. “Ah,” he said, “of course. And what, pray tell, does voronwëromion mean?”

“Fuck if I know.” She straightened away and patted Lissë’s head with a chuckle as Halbrand grumbled something rude under his breath. “Listen, Isil’s finally convinced Luinissë to allow Galadriel out of doors—for a nip of fresh air and a turn in the sunshine and all—and we thought we might all make use of the opportunity to dip in the Glanduin. ‘Tis a warm day, as you’ve no doubt already discovered, and Valandil’s freed himself from his training to join us. Diarmid is occupied, but Bronwyn and Theo will accompany us, so I thought I’d put the question to you as well.”

“Waste of your breath, then,” Halbrand replied, almost before the sentence had even finished leaving her mouth. Nerwyn folded her arms across her chest, squinting down at her brother as he continued making notes on the book spread out beside him. He pretended he did not notice.

She breezed to the window and peeked out at the lush gardens beyond, trying to spy the ribboning Glanduin from her vantage point and only just able to do so between the Elven buildings. “Pity,” Nerwyn remarked. “Isil and Bronwyn have prepared quite the little feast, or so I hear. Theo’s pestered Valandil and Isil for weeks to teach him to swim; I cannot understand how they tolerate him and all his questions. Endless, endless questions. Anyway, Hal, you really ought to join us. Stepping outside your chambers more than twice a week would put some strength back in your limbs and in your heart, don’t you think?”

“The day is warm, but is the river yet temperate enough to swim in?” he wondered, barely glancing up from the tengwar in his lap. “Will all of you be swimming in its waters?”

Nerwyn huffed a little laugh. “Well, I doubt very much that Galadriel shall swim, but the remainder of our company intends nothing less.”

A frowning furrow appeared between Halbrand’s eyebrows. He focused on his penmanship with greater precision, his hand tightening upon the quill he had acquired in the interim since Nerwyn’s last visit. “And is Galadriel capable of walking from the infirmary all the way down to the river? I greatly doubt it, unless she has made vast improvements since I laid eyes upon her a week ago.”

She waved a hand, though she kept a close and curious eye upon her brother as she brushed off his concerns. “Transporting the elf is Isildur’s and Valandil’s business. I presume she would not attempt such a journey were she not feeling capable of it.”

Halbrand’s cheek flickered, but he did not otherwise react. He remained silent another moment, and Nerwyn tried to contain the grin threatening to break onto her cheeks as she watched him struggle to hold his tongue. Finally, he asked (quite neutrally), “Mm. And am I to be assured that Isildur and Valandil will continue to watch over her once you all arrive at the riverbanks, or shall she be left to fend for herself whilst the company feasts and splashes about? She remains so frail— …” He paused, wrestling with something, then resumed writing without another word.

Nerwyn chuckled (for which he shot her a punishing glare) and teased her brother, “Well, Hal, perhaps you ought simply come along and brood over her yourself, since her welfare has become such a cherished concern of yours this week—”

“Nerwyn,” he growled in warning.

“She shall be perfectly all right! Bronwyn is accompanying us, as I have said, and she will not fail to keep a close watch on Galadriel. And you know as well as I that Isildur will do the same. She is but a week from discharge, if you recall, and even Luinissë has agreed that strengthening her limbs and receiving the blessings of the sunshine will hasten her recovery. You would also benefit from—”

Halbrand finally looked up at her, his broad shoulders tensing and his eyes flashing in the morning light. “I cannot join you. There are more pressing matters to which I am attending. I ask after Galadriel’s welfare because it does indeed interest me, and I understand that may seem a contradiction from my behavior when first we were admitted to the infirmary last month, but do not assume that simply because I have not asked after her with frequency that I no longer— …” He broke off again, huffing, and then waved his hand. “I am out of sorts again. Everything … is out of sorts these days.” Halbrand tugged a hand through his shaggy hair and then resumed writing after a small, steadying breath.

Nerwyn’s lips quirked downwards in a slight frown, and then she went to sit on the edge of his bed, eyeing the book and notes upon which he focused with such single-minded clarity. “I admit,” she said after a moment, “that I have had very little idea of what I should assume, Hal. You told me when you came to me that night that she had done something to you, and now a month has passed, and still I cannot discern whether it was a grievous affront or not, for you have said nothing more to me. It is likely to be a—delicate subject, that I can guess, but … Will you not indicate to me, at least, whether I may enjoy this day in her company in peace, or whether I should begin making plans on when and how I shall toss her into the Glanduin as I did Alda?”

At the mention of the young woman whom Halbrand once fancied (and Nerwyn threw into a freezing river after Alda rejected a carving her brother made for her), the careworn lines around his green eyes softened with amusement just enough that she discerned she had broken through to him at last. Halbrand fiddled with his quill, contemplating its feather, then murmured, “I wonder what became of her. Alda. Whether she perished in the attack that brought Bronwyn and her family to Pelargir, or … Perhaps some other fate took her.” He glanced down with a pained grimace, then shook his head and looked back to Nerwyn. She attempted a weak smile, for she could offer little comfort in the guessing of their countrywoman’s fate.

Then Halbrand said, quieter now, “As for Galadriel …” He trailed off, eyes growing distant. Nerwyn started to speak, then bit her tongue. “Well. I do not wish to discuss her at length, but I will say to you that she—has broken my trust, and I am uncertain whether it may be forged anew. This was not the first time she … failed to apprise me of certain information, although this occurrence was by far the most offensive to my heart. I find myself unwilling to keep her company yet, although I am aware, of course, of how deeply her fëa has troubled her, and for that, I am very sorry, for I suspect my temper dealt the blow that crippled it anew.”

He shifted, rearranging his legs and his notes in lieu of meeting Nerwyn’s eyes; Lissë leapt onto the bed and came to sniff at his face. Halbrand scratched the dog’s ears, his face devoid of any expression now as he awaited her judgment.

“She did not—hurt you, then? She only lied, or …? Galadriel did not lay a hand to you.”

Appearing faintly aghast (though whether in response to Nerwyn’s suggestion or the thought of Galadriel physically harming him, she was not sure), Halbrand hastened to clarify, “No. No, she would never— … No.”

The coil of tension that had curled in Nerwyn’s belly for the last month ebbed away at last, and she could not help herself from leaning forward to kiss her brother’s forehead gratefully. “I am relieved to hear it, for the high-king would have found his army in need of a new commander had you confessed to me that Galadriel harmed you.”

Halbrand chuckled very faintly, although he mustered little amusement in the sound. “Only my heart,” he said with a tinge of despair, and Nerwyn winced; she started to apologize, but he waved her off. “No matter. What was done has been done, and I will endure it, although what parts of me shall remain when I emerge from the fire, I cannot yet tell. But, er, no, I would ask that you do not toss my elf into the Glanduin. Despite it all, I …” He sighed and reached over to stroke Lissë’s fur a moment. “My damned heart is a traitor to my reason, and I care for her still. It grieves me, at times,” her brother added after a pause, “to yearn for one who shattered my trust with such ease. I …”

He parted his lips as though to speak again, then closed them and remained silent.

Nerwyn’s heart twinged, and she hugged her brother; Halbrand tutted gently and rubbed her back, resting his cheek on her curls. She murmured to him, “I’m sorry, Hal.”

He sighed, his breath tremoring against her hair, and only tightened his arms around her. “Well,” Halbrand said a long minute later, “I have survived far worse than a wounded heart. Perhaps in time it shall mend. I cannot say where my road leads, but … whatever may come, I am glad to have you here at my side.” They smiled at one another, and Nerwyn leaned out of his arms, wiping surreptitiously at her eyes. “We have suffered so much together …” Her brother chucked her chin with a small, sad smile. “At the very least, we have food and shelter, hmm? I remind myself, even in these turbulent times, that I ought be grateful for those favors.”

“And … our friends,” Nerwyn ventured, a bit hesitantly.

Halbrand’s smile widened, just a bit. “Yes. And our friends. I would have been—very lost indeed without their guidance and companionship this past month.”

“Isil will miss you,” she teased then, “if we are on the subject of broken hearts—”

“He’ll miss me, shall he? I suppose you’ll just have to give him a kiss in my name then,” Halbrand laughed, leaning in to peck her cheek with so many tiny, smacking kisses that she shrieked and batted him away with a disgusted giggle. The idea of kissing Isildur, even in jest, sent a hot flush racing over Nerwyn’s body, so she quickly pivoted back to one of her earlier questions for her brother.

“You are certain you do not wish to come? It really would please me, Hal, if you did.”

He shook his head and shuffled through his notes once more. “I cannot. The day does sound pleasant, in truth, but … I am not yet prepared to mingle with our friends in Galadriel’s company so soon. I suspect she will feel the same. Additionally, I do, in fact, have a prior commitment this afternoon.”

“Oh? Is that why Diarmid was unable to accompany us; you are meeting with him?”

“Mirdania, rather. She offered to tour me through the orchards in the name of getting some air myself, and I agreed in the hope of sneaking a few peaches into my pockets.”

Nerwyn considered this development as she rose from his bedside and wondered slyly, “Mirdania … Just the two of you, is it?”

Halbrand fixed her with a chastising glance immediately, and she smirked. “Don’t start,” he warned. “Mirdania and I are dear friends, nothing more than that, and I shall not have you thinking otherwise.”

She laughed. “No, indeed I have been rather relieved she has been so occupied with the last stages of that wretched door project of late, because each time I am in her company, all she wishes to speak of is Baran. Which I am happy to do, of course, only I feel that she knows him better than I do. Although generally she is easily diverted back to her various smithing projects, so I suppose that is a small mercy. Think not that I do not adore her—only I will wish you luck if you hope to spend an afternoon dwelling on any other subject than our brother.”

Halbrand chuckled through a shrug. “She does not often speak of him to me, but I will be certain to regale you with the details if she mentions him today.” Nerwyn rolled her eyes and tried to smack him; he smirked and batted her away with his Quenyic book in return. “Begone with you. And do not allow any of our friends, most particularly Galadriel, to float away in the river, hmm?”

“You’re certain—?”

“Fuck off, you little— …”

Nerwyn darted out the door as Halbrand made to jump off the bed and lunge after her; laughing, she then poked her head back in and said, “Perhaps if I’m feeling generous, I shall save you some treats. Until then, I am glad you will be getting off your ass for some sunshine; tell Mirdania hello in my name. Shall I do the same for our friends?” Halbrand hesitated upon deciphering the unspoken question buried beneath her words—would she like him to mention a greeting to Galadriel in his absence?

Her brother wet his lips and then shook his head once. “No need,” he murmured. “But do take care in the water. It would be my luck if you drowned on a spring outing, hmm? Terribly inconvenient to my tengwar studies.”

He winked at her then, and Nerwyn lifted her middle finger at him before flouncing away, both of them chuckling. As she set off down the hallway, her brother brushed a fond little ripple of affection over her mind, and although she was not capable of responding to him in words, she returned the sensation as best she could.

She and Halbrand had never relied on words to express their love anyway.

*

The sun had ripened fully overhead by the time Nerwyn stepped out of her apartment building and into the crystalline warmth of midday. A breeze stirred the golden-green boughs lining the cobbled square beyond the gardens, fluttering the fabric of her skirts. She had opted for a simple but flattering attire: a sleeveless dress the color of new moss, light and loosely belted, layered over a darker green chemise whose hem rippled against her ankles when she walked. Beneath it all, she wore tightly-laced swimming garments—standard among the elves for modesty’s sake, though she had no intention of diving in until the water had proven itself sun-warmed. A folded towel and a small satchel of fruit were slung over one arm, and her damp-plaited hair swung freely down her back, still drying from her morning bath.

Spring had woven itself into every nook and alleyway of Eregion. The air smelled of damp earth, citrus blossoms, and the faint metallic tang of forge-smoke drifting lazily from the artisans’ district. Birds flitted overhead, trilling in the branches of the birches lining the street further into Ost-in-Edhil’s center, the joy of their songs nearly so luscious as the unfurling mats of vines and flowers sweeping from terraces and the sunlight-washed sides of Elven homes. In the near distance, the wind carried the sound of laughter—youths jesting quietly amongst themselves, and merchants tempting passersby with superbly crafted wares beneath embroidered canopies in the shade.

Despite her initially poor reception to being deserted in Ost-in-Edhil whilst Halbrand sailed for Tol Morwen (and surrounded by stuffy elves without a single friend amongst them beyond Annatar), Nerwyn found her steps slowing as she breathed in the scents and enjoyed the sights on her way to the company’s meeting spot by the river. In her dearest dreams, she had not imagined that, less than a year after leaving Tirharad, she would have her brother back at her side and a gaggle of friends from all corners of Middle-earth. Or that Baran yet lived, or that she could now read and write, or that Halbrand had somehow snared an Elven commander into his affections.

Nerwyn reached up to set a stray curl behind her ear as the pleasant springtide breeze tugged at her hair. Over the past month, she kept a general distance from Galadriel that could not be considered rude (in her estimation, at least—Isildur sometimes argued otherwise), but neither had she made any great efforts to coo and fawn over her as everyone else tended to do. No one, including Halbrand himself, had given her any further details about what had transpired between them. Therefore, uncertain how to conduct herself in Galadriel’s presence, Nerwyn mostly performed whatever little tasks Isildur or Diarmid requested and nothing more.

In truth, she missed Galadriel’s steady and gentle kindness, and the mischief they shared at Halbrand’s expense in the form of little jests and jibes. She missed dining with the elf and savoring the attention of such a wise and noble creature focused solely upon her, a meaningless girl from the Southlands who spoke too quick and too much. In many ways, Nerwyn reflected, her visitations with Galadriel reminded her of her dinners with Annatar in that they were both deeply attentive and endlessly patient with her even when Nerwyn knew her manner must have grated.

Isildur was much the same, but he was, in the end, only a few years Nerwyn’s elder and nearly so inexperienced in the ways of the world as she was—perhaps even moreso. They each offered her various ranges of wisdom and empathy and humor, her friends. But until she was more certain as to Halbrand’s future with Galadriel, she could continue to stifle her appreciation for Galadriel’s friendship with relative ease.

Her loyalty to her brother superseded any camaraderie with an elf she had known for less than a year.

Her heart twisted again at the memory of Halbrand’s forlorn face. Nerwyn’s spirit was gladdened by his stabilization after the violent and tumultuous first weeks of his recovery, although he continued to regard their friends—and even she herself—with a wariness she thought none except his blood kin might recognize. His eyes lingered upon faces longer, his body shifted away from prolonged proximity again, and he remained firmly at odds with the entirety of Luinissë’s longsuffering staff. Still, Nerwyn would accept any progress over none. She was the only member of their company who understood the depths of Halbrand’s lifelong misery, and while she was eager to keep his blood pumping so he did not retreat into dark despair, she also regretted spurring him to anger when his heart was still so tender.

But if arguing with and prodding at Halbrand kept him focused on his rage rather than his pain, Nerwyn was more than happy to play her part.

She rounded the corner past the governmental courtyard’s central fountain, water glittering in long arcs against the sky—and there, halfway across the square, she saw him.

Annatar stood at Celebrimbor’s side, his turquoise-and-silver robes catching and refracting the sunlight like the deep waters of the ocean. They were two of about ten members of Celebrimbor’s entourage, all of them conversing amongst themselves on the steps of the Tower of the Mírdain. A dwarf or two chatted with a pair of tall, beautiful smiths. Annatar was speaking low to the Lord of Eregion, one long hand gesturing to a bundle of parchment in his other palm, but when Nerwyn entered his periphery, his voice faltered. His gaze slid to her like an arrow drawn across a string—and Nerwyn, caught beneath his eye, halted with the urgency of a hare spotting a nearby bowman.

Her breath caught, but she schooled her features to neutrality and kept walking before any of the other elves milling about noticed her hesitation. There had been a time—not long ago—when she would have returned that glance with a pleasant smile or even mused upon a way she might summon the beautiful elf-lord over to her. But that night, when she and Isildur had escorted Halbrand to the infirmary after his collapse … that was the first time she had glimpsed something truly indecipherable in Annatar’s eyes. And the image of him attempting to gain entry to Galadriel’s chamber (and the unrelenting manner in which Diarmid had physically barred him from doing so) had not long left Nerwyn’s mind in the interim. She had not known how to interpret the encounter then—and remained uncertain even now—but she no longer felt as comfortable in Annatar’s presence as she once had.

Now, with her towel slung over her arm and the memory of Halbrand’s pain still soft in her chest, Nerwyn merely lowered her eyes and swept past without a word. In the corner of her vision, she saw Annatar’s expression shift: his soft smile dimming like a star passing behind thin cloud.

The wind rustled through the square, warm and fragrant with the call of her awaiting riverside outing. Nerwyn turned her face into the sun and picked up her pace along the road to the Glanduin without looking back at Annatar.

*

The winding path down to the river narrowed through thickets of early lilac and waist-high reeds, the sun pouring golden warmth over every leaf and stone. Nerwyn followed it at an easy pace, listening to the quiet chorus of bees among the blossoms and the far-off laughter of her friends carried on the wind. The world smelled of wet grass and blooming mint and the faint mineral sweetness of the river itself, which was shadowed in part by the mountains yet not so frigid in the shade as to be unbearable.

She rounded a gentle bend and stepped through the tall grass onto the hidden banks of the Glanduin—tucked far from the main roads and known mostly to the locals and to their little gathering of friends (Mirdania revealed its whereabouts on a riverside exploration jaunt last week). Trees hung low over the water’s edge here, shielding the river with sweeping canopies of pale new green, and the opposite bank was nothing more than a rise of moss-covered stone and more wildflowers than Nerwyn could name before it vanished into the forests. The water was swift but shallow near the shore, clear enough to see the golden pebbles and sunken branches scattered across the riverbed.

A few cloaks and sandals lay in neat heaps near a stretch of flat stone, beside which sat Galadriel and Bronwyn beneath the light shade of a blossoming alder tree. The elf’s long golden hair had been braided back from her temples, and her linen dress—pale blue and unadorned—hung loosely about her slender frame. She appeared to Nerwyn’s eyes delicate in the sunlight, her fëa still mending, but her posture was easy and her expression calm as Bronwyn murmured something beside her. Bronwyn herself wore a sleeveless dress that tied at the hip and was rolled at the hem to keep it from dragging in the grass, and she had already kicked off her boots and let her toes dig into the silt.

Isildur and Valandil stood knee-deep in the river nearby, stripped to their breeches. Nerwyn’s step faltered slightly as she took in the long lines of Isildur’s back—damp with river water and dappled with sunlight through the trees, his dark hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. His arms, bronzed and strong from months of sparring with Valandil, were crossed over his chest as he kept half an eye on Theo splashing ahead of him and the other Númenorean. It was a perfectly innocent tableau—and yet Nerwyn’s stomach tightened in a strange, fluttering way she had not anticipated. She smoothed her face into impassivity before the feeling could gather weight in the pit of her stomach.

“Nerwyn!” Valandil called, already shin-deep in the current and grinning with wind-pinked cheeks. “You’re late! We’ve started without you!”

“Late?” she scoffed, strolling down the grassy bank with her towel. “Surely you mean that I have arrived only just in time to rescue your sorry ass from Theo!”

Theo splashed water in her direction and laughed when she dodged it. Valandil grinned and offered a dramatic bow, his wiry dark curls shedding sparkling droplets with his every movement. “Come and join us, won’t you?” he called. “This young upstart needs knocking down a peg.”

“I shall be happy to,” she promised, and stripped down to her swimming clothes: close-fitting and practical, they were cut just high enough at the leg to allow for her freedom of motion. She tossed her outer clothing beside the others’ belongings, and then she waded in.

The river was colder than she had expected, but not chilly enough to drive her back out. Nerwyn gasped a little at the first bite, then exhaled slowly and let it pass over her. It was refreshing, in a way that made her pulse spark beneath her skin. The sunlight glimmered on the surface, catching in the eddies around her knees, and she strode deeper with careful steps until the water reached her hips. Theo whooped and charged Valandil, trying to tackle him beneath the surface, but the older boy caught him by the waist and easily flipped him over with a resounding splash.

Isildur stood off to the side still, letting the cool water lap at his calves as he watched their friends’ bedlam unfold with his usual quiet calm. Nerwyn made her way closer to him, submerging herself once to wet her hair fully, then slicked it back from her face and tilted her head to the sun.

“Will you not join in?” she asked. “Go on, then, Isil!”

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “I shall leave the grappling to those who enjoy it.”

“That is a truly evasive manner of confessing that you are afraid of being dunked.”

“Not afraid,” Isildur said with a laugh. “Merely uninterested in freezing to death.”

She chuckled at that and drifted past him, pretending not to notice the way his eyes lingered on her as she passed … or the pleasant resulting twist in her lower belly. Nerwyn was suddenly glad for the water hiding the blush she could not quite suppress, but neither did she make any particular efforts to conceal herself from Isildur’s casual perusal.

A ripple of quiet laughter drew her attention back to shore. Bronwyn had said something that made Galadriel smile, and Nerwyn watched the two women a moment without drawing near. They confided together similar to sisters, she thought: sun-dappled and seated close, their heads tipped together in easy camaraderie. Nerwyn could hear the rhythm of their voices, though not the words, and she did not feel the compulsion to listen.

Let the elf have this peace, she thought. Whatever disconnection festered between Galadriel and Halbrand, whatever wounds had yet to close, could wait.

Today, the river was kind, the sky was clear, and she had friends beside her.

*

Later, when Theo and Valandil clambered up the riverbank to chase about with Lissë (whose appearance Nerwyn guessed to mean Halbrand had departed the infirmary), she glanced back toward the shallows where Isildur stood alone with his arms folded loosely, eyes half-lidded against the sunlight. His back faced her now, his dark hair curling at the nape of his neck. The sun glazed the tops of Isildur’s shoulders, water sheening the ridges of his muscle and skin in rivulets that trailed down his spine. He had not moved except to patrol a small area of the shallows, and though he wore his ease well enough, she had begun to suspect there was more than the mere chill of the Glanduin keeping him close to shore.

And Nerwyn decided that simply would not do.

She could not later recount what possessed her—only that the moment begged for mischief, and her body moved before her mind could question itself.

So she began her approach stealthily, ducking under the water with only her eyes and nose visible above the surface like some lurking predator. The current tugged at her hair as she drifted forward, just far enough to close the distance between them. Her limbs cut through the cool river in long, graceful strokes until she was behind him, and then—quick as an arrow—Nerwyn lunged forward, wrapped both hands around his hips, and pitched them both bodily sideways.

They plunged together with a splash that scattered birds from the overhanging trees. Isildur surfaced with a strangled gasp, hair plastered over his brow, his arms flailing with startled instinct before he found his footing again. “Eru above, Nerwyn,” he sputtered, blinking water from his lashes.

She emerged beside him with a peal of laughter, wiping river water from her eyes. “And how do you find the water now?”

He watched her in silence, the barest smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, until at last he relented with a sigh, “It is warmer than I anticipated. Although I daresay the initial plunge was far from pleasant—no doubt precisely why you chose to initiate me thus.”

“Yes! And the initial plunge was only the beginning—” she laughed, making to grab him again that she might dunk him underwater just as Valandil and Theo had been doing to one another for the last half-hour or so. Nerwyn had only narrowly avoided being submerged herself, despite Isildur calling encouragement to his fellows to catch her. She proved too slippery despite her height, and now she would relish in her spontaneous vengeance.

Isildur, however, wrenched away from her efforts with an urgency that surprised her; he flinched, almost indiscernibly, though not from her hands, but perhaps from the shock of the water or a dread that lived deeper beneath the surface. Yet he recovered with swiftness, and his face betrayed no distress.

“Oh, I think not!” he returned, flashing a triumphant grin when Nerwyn tried to grab for his arm again. “I may not have entered this river by choice, but you shall find me cunning enough in the navigation of its waters to avoid such a fate. Have you forgotten the exceedingly watery nature of my homeland?” For good measure, he splashed her face, and Nerwyn splashed back even as she spit out a mouthful of the Glanduin.

They devolved into a frenzy of splattering and laughing as Nerwyn continued attempting to wrangle him beneath the water—until at last Isildur stilled with both her wrists pinioned in hand to thwart her efforts, their heaving chests mere inches apart. She rolled her eyes and said, “Go on, then, put me under; ‘tis the only fair ending to this game.”

Isildur chuckled and let her go, brushing off her capitulation, but neither of them balked from their sudden nearness. “I will not dunk a lady,” he said, lifting a hand to move some of his sopping hair out of his eyes.

“Coward,” Nerwyn replied, and stuck her tongue out at him.

That drew a true smile from him, quick and startled and far too beautiful for her to bear at such intimate range. His eyes caught the afternoon light just so—deep brown rimmed with sun-glint, his dark lashes clumped from the water. Isildur’s lazily-rowing arms were close now, and he was near enough that Nerwyn could see his pulse thundering just beneath the skin of his throat. They drifted for another breath—two—suspended together in the hush and glimmer of the whispering water.

When Isildur’s hand brushed hers beneath the surface, light as a falling leaf, Nerwyn’s breath caught. Her eyes jumped down to his mouth of their own accord, and Isildur’s ribs hitched when he noticed. It would take no effort at all to tilt forward, Nerwyn thought, suddenly dizzy, no effort to close the gap …

But before the moment could fold inward, Bronwyn’s voice rang out from where she still sat with Galadriel on the bank: “Nerwyn! Isildur! Come and take your lunch, both of you!”

She turned without a word and began to swim towards the remainder of their company. Valandil and Theo were likewise making their way over to the two women, Lissë following closely. The cool water tugged at Nerwyn’s limbs, pleading with her to stay put, and her skin burned where Isildur’s hand had touched hers. Behind her, she heard the soft sound of his breath releasing (somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle) as he followed in her wake.

Nerwyn did not look back as she emerged from the Glanduin, but her cheeks were ablaze with mid-afternoon heat, and her heart thumped strangely in her chest.

*

Bronwyn and Isildur handed out parcels with efficient grace, each wrapped in an elvish-leaf-patterned napkin tied with green thread. She gestured for Nerwyn to sit with them and patted the space between herself and Galadriel, where a neatly folded cloak had been laid out for her comfort. Nerwyn hesitated before lowering herself onto it, careful to leave a polite space between her and the elf. Galadriel offered a small smile, gracious but tentative, and Nerwyn gave a slight dip of her chin in return before shifting her gaze to the food Bronwyn was offering her.

The meal was simple but hearty: rounds of flatbread still faintly warm from the hearth, soft goat cheese seasoned with herbs, slices of smoked trout wrapped in vine leaves, and a handful of late-winter apples, their blush fading to gold. Nerwyn herself had brought a selection of fruits, some of which she did not recognize but had filched from the kitchen of the infirmary in recompense for Luinissë’s most recent disagreement with Halbrand. A small jar of pickled quail eggs had somehow made its way into Bronwyn’s satchel as well, much to Theo’s delight, but that contribution was certainly not her doing.

As the company began their little feast, the scent of the delectable food mingled with that of the river, the soft bloom of lilac on the breeze, and the clean linen of Galadriel’s robes beside her. Nerwyn breathed in a slow, deep lungful of Ost-in-Edhil’s magnificence and then exhaled with a smile.

Presently Lissë wandered over, summoned by the smell of trout, and flopped unceremoniously into the grass between Nerwyn and Galadriel with a great sigh. His damp fur brushed their legs, and Galadriel’s hand lowered instinctively to scratch behind his ears. The dog whuffed in approval, then stretched his neck to sniff at Nerwyn’s lunch. She giggled as she fed him a slice of trout, for he took it from her fingers with surprising gentleness for a hound his size—and then immediately wagged his tail as he tried to seek out another piece.

Galadriel smiled too and distracted Lissë from Nerwyn’s lunch with a few leftover samples of trout for her own meal; it seemed the elf’s appetite remained small, for she had barely touched her food despite the immaculate quality of Bronwyn’s and Isildur’s preparations.

Nerwyn nibbled on her flatbread as she watched the elf coo over Lissë and wondered if Isildur had suggested that particular item for lunch because he recalled how much she enjoyed them at one of the company’s preferred restaurants. When she happened to meet his eyes where he was handing off a meal parcel to Valandil, his small, questioning nod towards the food in her hands answered her question.

She smirked and shrugged back as though debating its quality. Isildur shook his head at her and playfully turned his back, which prompted Nerwyn to stifle another chuckle as she tucked into her flatbread once more.

Next to her, Bronwyn was encouraging Galadriel to take a few more bites, and the elf did so with gracious acquiescence. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Galadriel tucked a wayward wave behind her pointed ear, her eyes distant, but her posture subtly softening. Whether it was the sun overhead or the laughter and nearness of trusted friends, the elf’s countenance had shifted in the last hour. The long strain of convalescence seemed to ease its grip, if only just a little. Her shoulders no longer curled protectively inward. There was color in Galadriel’s cheeks now, and when Isildur passed her a flagon of crisply cold spring water, his voice low and warm with consideration, she looked up at their friend with true affection.

Further down the gently sloping riverbank, Valandil and Theo chattered easily—trading jokes, recounting an earlier mishap involving a slippery rock and an unintentional faceful of river silt. Isildur remained quiet for the most part, but his gaze passed regularly between each of them, always attentive. He made certain to draw Galadriel into the conversation when her silence stretched too long, and though she answered him softly, she did not retreat from his bids at connection. Valandil and Bronwyn wondered after Arondir’s welfare on his journey to the Greenwood, as Valandil had grown closer to the wood-elf during their combined tenure with the guardsmen of Ost-in-Edhil. Theo’s young face darkened a bit at the mention of his absent father, however, so Bronwyn kindly steered the topic elsewhere.

Their laughter came freely, rising into the treetops like birds taking to a warm and cloudless sky. The food, the warmth, the company—they wove together into an afternoon suspended in amber, untroubled by grief or the absences of their loved ones or the distant weight of looming futures. Even Galadriel, ancient and formidable as she was, looked younger under the open sky.

When the meal was finished and the last crumbs brushed from palms, Valandil and Theo sprang to their feet once more, eager to return to the river. Isildur rose at a more measured pace, pausing to lift Lissë’s head and press a fond kiss to the hound’s brow before disappearing after the others. Lissë’s tail wagged fiercely, and then he leapt up to join the trio in the water with an excited bark. Galadriel remained where she sat, her gaze following them as they plunged back into the glittering shallows.

Nerwyn tried to guess whether the Elven commander was imagining Halbrand splashing about with their friends. She had certainly noted her brother’s nonattendance, even if none of them had yet remarked upon it. Indeed, despite the pleasantness of the afternoon, the company felt incomplete without Halbrand (and Diarmid, truth be told). After all, Isildur and Valandil had followed him across the world that they might safeguard both their friend and the future king of the Southlands; she knew Isildur ached to lay eyes upon his father again, and that the quiet grief of Ontamo’s death still seized both the Númenoreans at times. And although he had not confessed thus to her, Nerwyn guessed that the fright of discovering Halbrand bleeding and maddened in her apartment had disquieted Isildur too.

All of them longed for Halbrand and Galadriel to be well again, and Halbrand’s absence today only served to remind the company that there remained many wounds left unhealed.

“Will he join us later?” Galadriel asked softly, her question almost an afterthought, as if she had meant to speak it only to herself. Nerwyn’s mind processed the inquiry for a moment, only mildly surprised that their thoughts both turned to Halbrand as they watched the Númenoreans and Theo gambol in the water. Isildur’s laugh rang out when Lissë managed to down Valandil, both Man and hound then floundering to regain their footing.

She glanced to the elf and hesitated. “No, er, he’s gone to the orchards, I believe. With Mirdania.”

Galadriel’s hands stilled, and then she passed the water flagon back to Bronwyn, who set it aside. She only nodded, gaze flicking toward the distant treeline across the Glanduin. “Oh,” she said, and nothing more.

Nerwyn glanced once toward Bronwyn and caught the other woman’s look just before she opened her mouth again. Their eyes met briefly in silent understanding, and then Bronwyn diverted the conversation to some shared memory from Tirharad which would require no input from Galadriel. Nerwyn prickled slightly to discuss their village but did so in the name of keeping the elf’s spirits light—much as she still hungered to know the truth of what Galadriel had done to so offend Halbrand, she did not desire to see the commander fall back into despondency on such a lovely day.

Indeed, the elf did not speak again for several minutes, but neither did she excuse herself. She sat in the sun beside them, her golden hair lit aflame against her shoulders, and listened without comment to Bronwyn’s unimportant little tale. The breeze stirred the long grasses at the edge of the bank, and the river whispered on beside them, tireless and shining. Somewhere downstream, Nerwyn could hear Valandil yelp in protest, and Theo’s answering cackle. But she returned her eyes to Galadriel, watching how the tree-shadows played across her face, wondering how it must feel to bear the burden of so many years of life and still endure with grace.

Bronwyn passed them both a slice of apple then, and Nerwyn bit into it as she returned her gaze to the water.

*

Halbrand had never in his young life walked beneath trees such as these.

The orchards of Eregion were not planted in ordered rows, nor constrained by neat furrows or ploughed earth as they might be in the kingdoms of Men. Here, the trees grew in gentle, spiraling patterns—each branch shaped with the quiet intention of a gardener’s hand but left to twist in the ways of its own desire. Blush-petaled quinces unfurled beside ancient pear trees heavy with beautiful blossoms, their limbs tangled with ivy and pale honeysuckle. The breeze carried the soft perfume of sap and flowers and crushed grass, warm and wild as a slumbering beast. Bees hummed in lazy loops beneath the sun, and birds called to one another in voices melodic as Elven flutes.

He walked slow amongst the glades, his boots brushing fallen petals, his head tilted back in reverence. Light filtered through the canopy in dappled gold, the shadows shifting with each gust of wind. Moss clung to the bases of the trunks, velvet-soft, and tiny fruits—half-formed still—glistened with dew or sap. He trailed his fingers along the bark of one particularly massive fig tree, rough and weathered and alive with the patient memory of centuries. A long breath slipped free from his chest.

For all the ruin he had witnessed, for all the things he had built and broken and bled for, he had never stood in a place that felt so utterly untouched by sorrow.

Somewhere up the winding slope behind him, Mirdania spoke in lilting Quenya with a gardener, her voice cheerful and fond as she gestured toward a nearby row of trees just beginning to bloom. Halbrand caught none of the words, but the cadence of their conversation soothed him. He let her linger at a distance and continued on. His hands itched with the familiar ache to create—to carve, to shape, to build something with reverence and care as his most instinctive response to the glorious beauty unfolding around him. But the orchard needed nothing of him. It was perfect without him in it, and he knew he could offer nothing to this tranquil little world that would improve upon its flawlessness.

And somehow, that knowledge hollowed Halbrand and healed him in equal measure.

Several minutes later, Mirdania’s footsteps were near soundless on the soft earth, but Halbrand’s sensitive ears alerted him to her approach as surely as if he had turned to look. She appeared at his side a moment later, the scent of earth and blossoms clinging to her like a second skin.

“He tells me they shall have another two weeks before the apricots begin to fall,” she told him lightly, nodding toward the gardener still half-visible behind a flowering hedge. “But we are welcome to gather whatever fruits we wish, with the blessings of the season. He did, however, advise that mortals ought take care,” Mirdania went on with a smile, “for the bounty of Ost-in-Edhil is oft enchanted to enhance its flavor and medicinal properties, which may overwhelm the duller senses of Men.”

Halbrand gave a soft, amused grunt of acknowledgment, and they fell into step without ceremony. For a time they wandered in a comfortable quiet, the breeze rustling through the treetops above like water spilling from a distant height. On occasion he glanced over at the much smaller elf and eventually decided she must have joined him directly from the Tower, although she had not yet indicated if that was so.

Mirdania’s clothing was plainer than usual for springtide, though it displayed the unmistakable signs of her trade as justification. She wore a copper gown, embroidered with bronze and silver stitching and belted at the waist with a length of braided leather. Beneath it, a cream-colored tunic clung close to her arms, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the split sides of the gown revealed slim-fitting chestnut trousers better suited to smithing (and traipsing through the orchards). Her boots were well-worn but supple, softened from years of standing at anvils. Smiths’ bracers encased her forearms, well-made and bearing the sigil of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. A stunningly-wrought circlet of fine bronze gleamed at her temple, half-buried beneath her hair, which cascaded down her back in blonde waves and was intermingled with miniscule braids.

Halbrand had chosen his own clothing with a careful practicality that still yielded to the day’s warmth. He wore a jewel-green tunic, short-sleeved and laced slightly open at the collar, the hem falling long over dark trousers that were tucked into leather boots dusted already with pollen and orchard dirt. The tunic had been a gift from the days he shared his home with Galadriel, for its make was elvish and far more regal than the garments he used to wear in the Southlands. A simple golden torc hung about his throat as his only ornamentation. He’d forgone any cloak or bracers today, nor did he adorn his head with a circlet. His hair, still drying from his bath, was pulled loosely half-up, a few strands curling about his ears where they had escaped restraint.

This particular ensemble had often garnered him compliments from Galadriel, and as he walked with Mirdania, he wondered with a pang whether his elf was enjoying her time with their friends at the riverside—without him.

Mirdania spoke then, as if sensing his brief spiral into melancholy, her tone casual. “Have you had news of Baran?”

Halbrand’s steps slowed for the span of a heartbeat. “Not in recent days,” he said, though the lie curdled in his throat. Although he supposed an argument could be made that his word was true, for he had not received any news directly from his brother. His only concept of Baran’s whereabouts came in glimpses and snatches that sometimes appeared to him clearer than others. Little elucidation had he achieved on the identity of the woman, or of Adar’s affiliation with her, though Halbrand pushed through his headaches to discern what he might (for despite his fury and hurt aimed at Annatar, he comprehended the importance of his tether to Baran and labored to make some headway in the investigation nonetheless). But Mirdania was privy to none of that information, so he mentioned it not.

A pause passed between them, filled only by the sound of birds and wind through the trees. Then she added, “You must miss him.”

Halbrand glanced up toward the sky, blinking at a shaft of light filtering through the branches. “I do.” More than he could possibly convey to her with the paltriness of his words.

“As do I. Moreso with each passing day,” Mirdania murmured. He speculated, briefly, whether he ought to do the right thing by Mirdania and warn her away from developing any lasting sentiments towards his brother; the mere thought of his friend discovering Baran’s true allegiances twisted his gut, and Halbrand comforted himself only with the realization that they would likely never cross one another’s paths again. He loved his brother, despite his loyalties … but Mirdania did not deserve the inevitably tragic fate of loving a Man sworn to the service of Sauron.

And when he looked at her, her expression had gentled—she smiled, and it was not a sad smile. No, he thought, let her care for him freely, without the burden of knowledge. Baran’s days in Eregion may have ended, but he found some happiness here, and you cannot steal that away from him by revealing his true obligations in his absence.

Halbrand lowered his eyes as he suddenly wondered if Galadriel had experienced similar thoughts of protectiveness when she gazed upon him in the weeks leading to their fallout.

A roil of nausea surged in his belly, but he returned Mirdania’s smile faintly and then could no longer meet her gaze. An entirely different circumstance, he consoled himself. They walked on without speaking, the path ahead curving into a sun-drenched corridor of apple trees in bloom, and though thoughts of Mirdania and Baran nagged at him for a time, eventually he was able to set them aside. The little elf-smith’s affection for his brother was nothing that he could resolve today, certainly.

So he busied himself with admiring his surroundings instead. Here, the branches arched overhead like the vaults of cathedrals, the petals sifting down around them in soft flurries. Mirdania reached out to brush her fingers along one low bough, plucking a pale blossom from its stem with idle reverence. Further down, the trees had begun to ripen; tiny green apples peeked shyly from their cradles of leaf and twig. She moved toward one of them, stretched up on her toes, and plucked a handful of fruit with ease. Her face split with a smile as she breathed in its scent, and then without looking at him, Mirdania offered him one across the space between them.

“Oh, how I have longed for springtide! Do these fruits not bring to mind the very perfection of the Undying Lands themselves? Here, Halbrand, have another. I am most pleased you were able to join me here today; perhaps when Lady Galadriel is discharged, I may bring her to walk amongst the sun and trees as well. Tell me,” she went on lightly, though her jovial tone had cooled to offhand caution. “How fares she?”

Halbrand hesitated. He took the apple from her palm; it was warm from the sun, and he rotated it between his hands as he debated how to respond. “Well enough,” he said after a moment. “Stronger, I believe, since last I saw her. Her fëa continues to mend; she accompanied our friends down to the riverside for an outing, in fact—that is where they all find themselves at this very moment, unless they have already departed.”

Mirdania nodded, her eyes brightening at the news. “Ah! It gladdens my heart to hear that she is capable of walking about the city! She seemed to my eyes … steadier, yesterday when I spoke with her. And it pleases me she can receive the blessings of the sunlight.” A silence then settled between them, wherein the elf-smith seemed to contemplate something unspoken; Halbrand did not mind her uncharacteristic quietness, although he wondered at it as they continued to harvest fruit from the lush boughs overhead.

Then, with a sidelong glance after placing an apple into the leather satchel she wore at her hip, Mirdania ventured slowly, “I had speculated as to when you might learn the full truth.”

Halbrand squinted at her, wary. “About what?”

Her smile turned rueful. “About her companionship with Lord Annatar.”

The accursed name landed like a stone dropped into deep water between them, and Halbrand’s very bones frosted. Ah—so Mirdania must be the other person privy to that knowledge; Galadriel had mentioned there was one other. (A grimly curious part of him pondered why Annatar would confide in her, of all elves, even if he had been a steady presence in much of her life since childhood.) Nevertheless, Halbrand curled his lips and moved to a different tree, yanking an apple free with much more force than the action warranted.

Mirdania paused to gather another cluster of apples, but to her credit, she did not recoil at his visible irritation. “He asked me not to speak of it after Lady Galadriel returned to Eregion,” she clarified (Halbrand rolled his eyes to himself). “Of course I kept my word, but I had also assumed Lady Galadriel would tell you herself … in time.”

“Yes, it seems that strategy was approved by everyone except the recipient of that particular gem of knowledge, nor was it ever realized by any of your kind, in all their combined Ages of wisdom, that failing to inform me quickly might be the most hurtful course of action,” Halbrand snapped, uncaring that he clenched his fists at his sides or that his tone roiled with an oceanic surge of his wounds. Why did Mirdania have to broach that subject here amidst such sunlit pleasure and peace? He dragged another fruit off the bough and sliced his fingernails into the soft flesh for a moment before storing it in his own borrowed satchel.

Mirdania stilled, and he privately rankled at the sorrow with which she regarded him then. “I am sorry, Halbrand,” she said, with such genuine remorse that he immediately regretted snarling at her—certainly none of the blame for this damned situation could be laid at his friend’s feet. “It is my wish that events had transpired differently, for your sake. And I have no doubts that Lady Galadriel shares my sentiments.”

“Oh, yes, no doubt,” he muttered before he could hold his tongue, and he continued walking to cool the fire and flame rushing through his lungs and wounded heart at the mention of his elf. Within him, Halbrand’s maitaromë mourned their continued separation even as he found himself grateful he had not accepted Nerwyn’s invitation to the river. Despite the relative success of relaying his heartache to his sister that morning, he had been unprepared to discuss Galadriel with one who knew both her and Annatar so well—one who had likely witnessed much of their relationship before Halbrand had even drawn his first breath.

And it stung him once again to recognize that, even should he walk another ten thousand years upon the earth, Galadriel’s first three millennia of life could never be fully known to him. 

They walked for a time beneath the shadow of the past. The hush of birdsong filled the air above, and the breeze carried the scent of old bark and new blooms. Mirdania did not press him further, and in time, he allowed her to fall back into step with him; she did not mean to rile him, this he knew. And she did not seem bothered by his sourness, for she took to pointing out various fruits and flowers, along with the bees buzzing around them, and rather quickly succeeded in drawing Halbrand out of his own head and back into the paradise around them. One of Mirdania’s many talents, he thought, running his eyes more appreciatively over her bright smile when she tugged him along towards the peach trees.

A thought occurred to him as he accepted a ripe peach from her some time later—she had been raised in the shadow of Galadriel and Annatar, of all the elves of Ost-in-Edhil, and was therefore likely to understand the nuances of their strange relationship better than most. And if she would be willing to divulge what secrets neither Galadriel nor Annatar seemed willing to part with … Halbrand could (perhaps) begin to make sense of the increasingly bewildering situation in which he now found himself.

“In my blindness, it was plain to my heart what they meant to one another, before this damnable revelation,” Halbrand ventured finally, soft and uncertain. “Yet I … confess that even now, the subtleties of their friendship escape me.”

Mirdania nodded, perking at his willingness to continue the conversation. “And that is no fault of your own!” she hurried to assure him. “It is a difficult task to explain their closeness in words. Lord Annatar is unusual amongst the elves—and so is Lady Galadriel, in truth—but they have been bound together by more than time. When she first sailed to Middle-earth, she was still young by the reckoning of the elves, and she was deeply eager to make her mark upon the land in the wake of the disaster at Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Lord Celebrimbor and Lord Annatar helped her achieve her vision for Eregion as partners in business and politics, but her path diverged towards something more than friendship with Lord Annatar shortly after Eregion was first founded. And she fostered Elros and Elrond Peredhel when they were orphaned—were you aware of that portion of her life?”

Halbrand nodded his head slowly. Elros Tar-Minyatur, who founded Númenor and sired its people (as did several of the elves who still remained in Thalorien). A thought occurred to him that his mother must be descended of Elros, for she was birthed of the line of an elf and his Númenorean wife who settled in the Southlands when they bore another name. And therefore he was descended of Elros … as were Isildur and Valandil, and thus, in some distant way, Halbrand’s kin. The revelation suffused him with warmth, and his shoulders straightened a bit.

“They were raised in part by her. She saw to their keeping for a time, though others lent her aid, as she was often extensively occupied with her duties.” Mirdania cast her gaze towards the sun, and the breeze tossed her gold-spun hair about her shoulders as she contemplated her next words. “Lord Annatar aided her where his schedule allowed, as he was her chief assistant in those years and his duty demanded that he attend to her needs.” (Here Halbrand pulled a face at Mirdania’s choice of wording, although he did not believe she meant anything by the phrasing.)

“And so Lord Annatar supported her in the raising of her foster-sons with more involvement than one might imagine, to know him now, for he will not willingly speak of Lord Elros, and of Lord Elrond he will speak with affection but not often. He was very fond of them, I think, although he would be slow to admit thus in present days. Particularly Lord Elros, whose death seemed to darken a part of him never hence rekindled.

“He was … much different in those years,” she went on. “More hopeful and resolved, and delighting in his role as Lady Galadriel’s administrator. And she took on much of the burdens of her people as she guided and shepherded them into a fledgling nation. She will be the first to admit, as I am certain she has already done if the pair of you have discussed it, that Eregion would not exist today as the jewel of Elven-dom without the great help of Lord Annatar and Lord Celebrimbor. Attached she was already to Lord Celebrimbor by bloodlines and friendship before sailing from Valinor, and though the centuries have been long and many, still they are dearest friends. And as for Lord Annatar …”

Mirdania paused once more, and Halbrand swallowed as he looked down upon his friend. There seemed to him a deep sorrow in her eyes as she regarded him, although her tone did not indicate any inward torment. “There are some friendships we shall carry with us until the sun darkens and falls from the sky, and they are forged in wartime and in peace, in sorrow and in joy … in the raising of cities, and foster-sons, and a near-millennium of laboring together towards a united goal. They may wax and wane over the years, and our love may ebb and flow as the tides upon the shore, but where there exists such … depthless sorrow as Lady Galadriel and Lord Annatar have each known, Halbrand … It is most natural, I think, that they might cling to one another as a healing balm for their troubled hearts, in whatever form that healing might take.”

Halbrand snorted, his throat bobbing as he shook his head at her. “And what depthless sorrow is it that Annatar has suffered, hmm? Galadriel’s pain I know well—always have I grieved for what she has endured, and recoiled at the thought of such agony inflicted upon her—but Annatar’s pain is not known to me. What great burden does the administrator of Eregion bear, clad in his silks and his jewels and with the entirety of Eregion at his behest, hmm?”

She gave him a small, kind smile. “Put not your faith in outward appearances, Halbrand. Lord Annatar has sacrificed much, and he has endured the loss of his family, just as Lady Galadriel has. There is much you do not yet know.” Mirdania contemplated the skies overhead once more, her face dappled by the drifting shadows of the fruit trees. Then she glanced back to him and concluded, “One day, perhaps, you will know his tale in full. But for today, it is enough to understand that none of us have escaped tragedy in our lives, and we none of us ought to dismiss the grief that others have borne, even if we do not understand its nature.”

“I have not dismissed his grief,” Halbrand returned, cocking his head at her, “although I must confess, I am not inclined to absolve him for his actions in the present due to some secret loss suffered in the past.” Although in truth, he did file away the information that Annatar had lost a family—a wife? a child? parents and siblings?—in the back of his mind, and his heart could not discern whether it could yet bear the elf-lord any pity. Of course you ought, he told himself, for no being deserves the death of those they love most, even one so relentlessly infuriating as Annatar. Had Annatar’s fëa been damaged just the same as Galadriel’s in the wake of his loss? Halbrand realized then that he had truthfully never given a spare thought to Annatar’s personal life beyond its effects upon his own, and a flicker of guilt sparked through him.

“No, and you need not,” she said, her more familiar smile returning. “Of course I do not request that of you! I only wish to clarify, for your sake, some of the reasoning why I believe he and Lady Galadriel have clung to one another so fiercely for so many years. They were united in their pain at the beginning of their connection, and as Eregion grew and blossomed, the sharpness of their hurts softened into the more steadfast friendship I believe they still bear one another today.

“And yet, I can see that despite everything I have told you … Well, we are Elven-kind, and our natures and our customs are very different to those of Men. Perhaps there are facets of us you will never understand in full, Halbrand, including the breadth and scope of our endless days. But I do hope that I have spoken well enough, and that you understand there are none among our friends who do not grieve for what has befallen you and Lady Galadriel.”

The trees rustled gently above them, sun glancing off the new fruit swelling on every branch. Halbrand stared down at the peach in his hand, turning it slowly with his thumb. Diarmid had suggested much the same, of course, that some of Galadriel’s shyness to deliver him the truth of her past stemmed from her Elven nature. And he understood, in some begrudging way, that her meaning of “soon” might be very different indeed from his, raised as he was among mortal Men and unaware of the undying days that awaited him beyond the burning flames of the pyre. Hearing it thus reiterated from another of Galadriel’s kind soothed some of Halbrand’s lingering misgivings about the supposed nature of elves. 

“You have all lived … hundreds—thousands—of the lifespans of Men before I was yet born,” he said, his voice quiet. “It is a thing difficult for me to imagine, the … vastness of it all.”

“And yet here you are,” she said, “woven into the thread all the same.”

Halbrand nodded slightly. Yes … here he was indeed. “May I ask you something and trust that you will answer me with full honesty?” he murmured then.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, brows arched in gentle curiosity. “Of course.”

“Does she love him?” Halbrand could not bring himself to choke out Annatar’s name as he breathed the question that could alter the very course of his fate.

Mirdania’s face did not change, though her hands stilled, one palm curled around a peach that she had bent to retrieve from the earth where it had fallen. She straightened slowly, brushing a bit of bark from her skirt, and turned to meet his eyes. Halbrand thought his very bones might leap from his skin if she did not answer him in another second.

“No,” she said at last, calm and clear. “Not in the way you fear. Their companionship … Although assumptions may be made from its long and intimate nature, the Lady Galadriel does not love Lord Annatar in the manner of a wife and her husband. There is a time-honored connection threaded between their spirits, but she has made no vows to him, nor will she, despite that he may desire the contrary.”

Halbrand could not speak, but his throat worked, his eyes scanning her face for even the smallest crack in her conviction. If she lied to him now …

Mirdania stepped closer, her voice gentling in light of his likely visible desperation. “If I may speak plainly, Halbrand … Lady Galadriel is beloved by all, for to know her is to love her, but she does not give her heart lightly in return. I have known her well since I was a girl, and I have beheld her in many circumstances across many years. And I will say to you now with confidence that the only man she has truly loved in the manner you mean—since the loss of her family and her flight from Valinor—is you.”

His eyes blurred, and he looked elsewhere with a small exhale, his heart squeezing hard within him.

“Lord Annatar …” Mirdania glanced away a moment, as if to measure her words with care. “He is a constancy to her, and he is clever, and … mourning and maddening—he knows the every shape of her righteous rage and every height of her ambition. He would protect her with his very life, and she would do the same. She would die for him without hesitation.”

Mirdania turned back to Halbrand, her gaze steady, almost fierce. “But you are the only man she has chosen to live for.”

A minute of silence passed. The wind shifted through the trees, setting the radiant blossoms dancing overhead. Halbrand swallowed with difficulty and attempted to wipe at his leaking eyes without drawing attention from his friend (he was not sure how well he succeeded). Within him, his maitaromë celebrated Mirdania’s words with such vicious joy that he nearly abandoned the orchard altogether in favor of finding his elf and flinging himself at her feet to beg for mercy and the kiss of her lips upon his face once more. What little remained of him not beholden to his servant-bond balked, pleading with it to recall Galadriel’s silence and Annatar’s cloying attempts to wheedle his way back into Halbrand’s graces.

All must be forgiven, his maitaromë begged. All is forgiven, if only she will welcome me home again—

All is most certainly not forgiven, Halbrand insisted with a snarl, then winced as he realized he was arguing with his own self. Was this what Galadriel had made of him with her silence? A Man descending into despairing, hungry madness at the mere thought of her? By Eru, he must redouble his search for a solution before his maitaromë put him on his hands and knees like a slavering beast again.

“And Lord Annatar …” Mirdania was saying (Halbrand somehow managed to shift his focus back to her voice, with monumental effort), “well. He can be—exceedingly—blind where Lady Galadriel is concerned. He … had his own reasonings for mentioning the truth of their companionship in the manner he did, and perhaps he even believed—”

“No, you cannot convince me that he was unaware she had not revealed the truth to me,” Halbrand quarreled back, his temper heightening both at the implication and his private misery at his maitaromë’s resurgence. “He may write me as many simpering letters and send me as many gorgeous bouquets as he likes, but I looked into his eyes, Mirdania, and I did not find innocence there. Galadriel has told me in months past, and I have witnessed it for myself, that he is not known to hold his tongue when he ought. A simple administrator he may be, but he is a cunning one, despite his reputation for gentleness and civility within Ost-in-Edhil. In fact, as I look back upon my interactions with him since first I encountered him in the Southlands, I cannot now help but wonder if his every word has been a calculation, or—”

Mirdania hastened to cut him off, as though she dreaded the continuation of that particular thought-line. “He is aware that he misspoke, Halbrand. I have personally rebuked him for what he has done to you, and I suspect he will receive an even greater reckoning from Lady Galadriel when she is well enough to confront him. None of us are heedless that Lord Annatar is responsible for a great deal of this harrowing situation. There were choices made thereafter that belong to each of you, certainly, but he was the catalyst, and well he knows it. Fear not that you are entirely to blame for what befell Lady Galadriel … Largely, but not entirely. And I think few who know the true meaning behind your displeasure could very well condemn you for it.”

Her lips quirked in a fleeting, sympathetic smile, and Halbrand shuffled on his feet, uncertain how to respond. He mulled upon her words for a time, turning over imaginings of Galadriel addressing the people of Ost-in-Edhil as their lady with Celebrimbor and Annatar at her sides, of her narrating a book to two small boys perched upon her lap, of her arriving in the uninhabited lands where Eregion would one day rise noble and proud beside the Glanduin and knowing in her heart that she would build a home there … a home that she would extend to Halbrand without reservation nearly a millennium later.

He recalled all the sacrifices Galadriel made to safeguard him on the road to Eregion, how little she slept and how fiercely she rejected Baran when she believed his brother might harm him still. Halbrand thought of how she rebuked the Númenoreans when Zimrathôr and his fellows spilled drinks down their backs in Armenelos—and how his heart had stirred to be protected for once in his miserable life.

And then his mind hovered, awaiting the images he could summon of her keeping Annatar’s company through the long, lonely centuries. Awaiting glimpses of Yuletides spent together showering their young wards with gifts and hugs and city-wide feasts. Awaiting the bitter, crippling sting of knowing that despite all the joy and friendship and camaraderie she shared with Annatar over seven hundred years and the all-encompassing love she supposedly bore Halbrand … Galadriel had still chosen not to share that part of her life with him.

His maitaromë bristled inside his chest and begged him to let the past lie—for the rest of the day, or at least for the hour. No more, it pleaded. Not today. And slowly, slowly, Halbrand forced the tension in his spine to abate. His expression did not shift, but his molten steel retreated into a softer glow of heat beneath the light of the sun. Not today, he agreed in silence, grateful that a unanimous decision could be reached in light of his earlier annoyance with his servant-bond.

Mirdania had given him much to think upon, and new facets of Galadriel’s and Annatar’s past to scrutinize, and for that, he could find it in himself to be grateful. Perhaps it would aid his enduring quest to chart the path of his future, at least where his elf was concerned.

And Mirdania did not press further. She stepped close instead and reached up with one sun-warmed hand to tuck a windblown curl behind his rounded ear. Her touch was feather-light, sisterly and sweet, and when she smiled up at him, her adorable face held none of the bubbling light he typically expected from her, but rather a steady warmness.

“She loves you,” Mirdania reiterated, as though truly willing him to believe her. “For all her reticence and all her fear—for every part of her that hesitates and withholds itself—Galadriel loves you, Halbrand.”

He did not withdraw, but his breath left him slowly, as if her words had dug out something dead and rotten inside him and ploughed the earth wherein new life could be planted one day. Around him, the trees swayed upon the breeze, and a cascade of flowers drifted down from the heavens, brushing his cheeks with silken petals borne on the winds of springtide.

The elf smiled up at him after a moment and then handed him another peach. “For you, my lord,” she teased, and Halbrand reached out to take it with a reluctant smile. He nodded his thanks, and she continued on her way, already pointing out which section of the lush orchards they ought visit next.

He followed Mirdania, biting into the sweet fruit and sliding his eyes shut in brief appreciation of the marvelous flavor bursting on his tongue. Halbrand imagined Galadriel’s hair catching the afternoon light like the peach trees in bloom, and his maitaromë purred; one day, he thought with fleeting longing, he would kiss his elf beneath the blossoms.

*

Nerwyn and Isildur laughed once more as they halted before her apartment door, and she hefted her belongings on her shoulder as she searched for her key. As the afternoon waned, they lingered near the river until Galadriel expressed a quiet desire to return to her chambers; Isildur set her upon Berek for the return journey, his steed proving gentle and willing to bear the Elven commander through the city. Now, once Galadriel was settled (and Nerwyn confirmed with a glance into Halbrand’s room that he was not yet returned), Isildur accompanied her back to her apartment with the fading of the light.

Despite what may (or may not) have passed between them in the Glanduin, their laughter and conversation came easily as ever. As Isildur dawdled with seemingly no urgency to return to whatever daily tasks might await him elsewhere, Nerwyn recalled once again how rarely Lord Annatar had shown her the same interest once his attentions had drifted away from her. With a heavy twist in her heart, she glanced over at the Númenorean beside her, who was chatting about a swordsmanship drill Valandil was teaching him, and sent up a swift prayer to Eru that he would not abandon her too.

She paused upon setting her key into the lock, and then turned to Isildur and said rather abruptly, “We ought to swim the Glanduin again as days grow warmer. The waters were rather chill, and I think as spring waxes, you shall find fewer excuses to remain in the shallows, hmm?”

Isildur huffed a laugh. “Excuses, were they? You seem quite determined to name me a weakling, and I wonder at your purpose.” He looked her over, squinting with veiled amusement, and then decided, “Ah—is it because I laughed at your reading last week? I meant no harm by it, honestly, and even you must admit you did a dreadful job of the passage—”

“I shall admit it, along with your equally piss-poor attempts at that Quenyic scroll,” she replied, poking him playfully in the chest. “Let us play fair, now, Númenorean! And no, my attempts to lure you back to the river do not bear designs of revenge, which has been satisfied upon seeing you flail in a few measly feet of water today.”

“Oho!” he chuckled. “What, then? Shall you give me lessons in swimming, since you think yourself much superior in the art?”

Nerwyn smirked. “Perhaps I shall. Although in truth, I would not consider either Hal or myself strong swimmers—we splashed about in the little river near Tirharad as children on the hottest days, but it was neither wide nor deep.”

Isildur smiled at her, contemplating her face a moment, then went on to say, “Well, we need not venture into the depths of the Glanduin. The day was pleasant, and I would not oppose returning to the waters at another time … so long as you do take care that any further ambushes are conducted within a safe distance of the riverbank, hmm?”

She started to retort a mocking answer, but she first noticed the somber tinge to Isildur’s words and eyes as he put the question to her. Nerwyn gazed back at him a moment, and a warm flush crept over her body as she pondered whether she had upset him earlier in the day with her playful strike; he had not seemed to her miffed (either then or now), yet she knew him well enough by now that her next barb faded away, and she nodded instead.

“Very well,” she agreed with a sudden steadiness that surprised even herself, “if that is the sole price to gain another day in your company.”

Isildur blinked, and then he shifted, his shoulders squaring slightly. Neither of them glanced away. Nerwyn smirked at him, pleased when he shifted closer to her, until the warmth of his breath breezed on her cheek. “There is no price, Nerwyn, should you ever desire my time. I have admittedly been occupied with …” He sighed, glancing down at their feet, and she shivered in the absence of his dark brown gaze. “The many avenues by which I have tried to make myself useful to the people of Eregion whilst we tarry here, and I do hope that you have not felt I am neglecting your reading lessons. Lord Annatar tasked me with your education, and I do consider it an important charge. You have done so well! And their frequency has dwindled for that reason only. You are …”

Nerwyn’s heart thumped as she awaited the completion of his thought, but he only smiled at her again and shook his head. “You need merely name the day, and I shall be more than happy to accompany you back to the river,” Isildur concluded. “Perhaps we might even conduct a reading lesson on the bank, that we may pretend we are spending the day in good use.”

She laughed and countered, “It is springtide in Eregion, Isil! What better use of our day could we find? But yes, I shall summon you again sometime soon … perhaps once this dreadful business with Hal and Galadriel is settled when she returns to her home.” She opened her mouth to continue, then noticed that Isildur had gently grimaced at the mention of her brother and the elf, so she held her tongue after deliberation. Nerwyn and Isildur both spent a great portion of their days conversing with or about that pair, and although she (of course) loved Halbrand deeply, she sensed her brother was a topic better left to her own mind tonight.

So she flashed another smile and turned her key in the lock. “And my price for the pleasure of my company shall be another round of those flatbreads—and those wondrous scones, the raspberry and almond ones. An entire basketful of them.”

Isildur chuckled, and she grinned to herself at the way his chest puffed slightly with pride. “Certainly, whatever you like. A good night to you now.” He gave her a little bow (this one less roguishly mocking than usual) and straightened before taking his leave as she opened the door to her apartment. She wet her lips as she watched him turn his back, a surge of longing and dizzying bravado surging into her veins, and she dropped her hand away from the doorknob.

“Isil?”

He glanced back. Nerwyn grinned and said, “Do you know—I’d nearly forgotten. Hal requested that I give you something, and I would have gone the entire day without doing as he asked!”

He cocked his head, but he did not have a chance to respond before she closed the short distance between them and pressed a warm, soft kiss onto his sun-reddened cheek. Isildur’s breath stuttered, and when Nerwyn withdrew, he gazed at her with an expression of such adorable awe that she nearly laughed, wobbly as she was with this strange bravery. A smile crept onto both their mouths a moment later, and then Isildur did laugh.

“Halbrand asked you to kiss me, did he?”

“Mm—and it was to be given in his name, in fact,” she replied, which drew another chuckle from him.

“I see. That being the case, I cannot very well leave him bereft in return.” Isildur brushed one finger under her chin (Nerwyn shuddered without meaning to do so), and then she became very still indeed when he leaned forward to place a feather-soft kiss of his own to the corner of her mouth. She swallowed, her pulse pounding in her ears, when he did not withdraw for a moment; they stood there in the hallway together, mere inches apart, and only when the quiet voices of elves meandering the halls nearby broke their attention did Isildur pull back.

Nerwyn, cheeks aflame, could only think to tease, “Isil, do you bear my brother some secret love? For that was quite a tender kiss indeed.”

He grinned (so did she) and he answered, “No. Not Halbrand, anyway. Good night, Nerwyn.”  

“Good night.”

She watched him leave again, and this time when he glanced back at her over his shoulder before disappearing from sight, they were both still smiling. Nerwyn then dashed into her apartment and closed the door; she went directly into her bedroom, flopped down upon her bed, and muffled her scream of joy into her pillow.