Chapter Text
Galadriel feels the chill of the night consuming the warmth of the sky in her very bones, an ache and a warning. The feeling persists as the sun is swallowed by mountain ranges, and as the moon rises her pale face, proud and terrible.
The ruined village is swathed in moonlight, eerie and silent save for the rumbling of fire and mutterings of the orc prisoners. Galadriel herself watches over them, attempting to decode their foul language as a distraction from the din of her mind. They sit chained in a line beneath the eaves of a remaining building. Blood and dirt coat their grotesque bodies, armor of bone and leather stained with the same filth. She tries not to stare in their beady eyes, or watch the rising and falling of their chests as they breathe.
Watching the horrible creatures, Galadriel cannot help her mind wandering back to the events of the day. What she did, what he let her do. Wondering why he had let her, why she had initiated contact, why would she do such a thing, with an orc no less? The implications and consequences of such actions have started to trickle into her mind, hopefully not taking root in the reality of her life yet. As she tries to banish those unseemly thoughts, one stubbornly remains.
What of that creature who calls himself Adar? The more she thinks about him, for she cannot stop, the more horror fills her body as she contemplates his existence. He was once an elf, that much is clear from his skilled use of language and fine bone structure. Twisted into something nearly unrecognizable, something hideous and base. She idly wonders how it happened, who he once was.
She supposes it doesn't really matter anymore, if it ever did. The Valar have their plans for everyone. A part of her wants to ask him if it hurts, having one's beauty and personhood stolen from them, twisted into something unfathomable and foul. A part of her wants him to say yes, yes it hurts, that he suffered and wished for death. A part of her wishes that he had died then, and that she had never met him, fought him, fucked him.
Galadriel sits in the crackling firelight, pondering if she should feel pity for such a creature. Thinking that maybe they were once one in the same, elves of an ancient land and even older gods. That maybe they had once known each other, perhaps even loved each other. That maybe he hadn’t deserved this fate, to be a walking reminder of Morgoth’s cruelty.
But try as she might, she cannot seem to summon anything in her void of a heart, feeling nothing but the familiar expanse of apathy. Adar may have once been an elf like her, but he chose to bear the pain, to let himself be remade in darkness, rather than fade in light.
She will not feel pity for such a man, she decides, as she stares into the black depths of a smaller orc’s eye. She holds eye contact with the orc for too long, mesmerizing in the way it acts as a mirror for her own hatred, reflected back in kind.
The wind blows, and the embers of the fire are extinguished, leaving Galadriel in the all-consuming darkness, alone.
/
Sometime before the sun went down, a woman with dark hair and even darker eyes had thrown a pair of breeches at Adar. He had taken them, surprised by the small kindness. Perhaps it was out of decency, but he chooses to lie to himself, and say that kindness prevailed.
Kindness was a truly fickle thing, a rarity to be cherished. So long since a touch that wasn’t bruising, pointing, wanting had brushed his skin. All that would lay their hands upon his cursed flesh had an agenda, something to make the pain worth it.
Perhaps he had known such a simple thing as kindness in his life before Morgoth. Before the unmaking, before his creator bestowed his dark gifts upon the naive elf. So much that he wishes he knew about life from before.
But he cannot, willnot, bear the thoughts of such a time. He cannot remember those times, try as he might, Adar is all that he is now. It truly does not matter, for his fate has been sealed, and there is no going back now.
With practiced skill, he removes that line of thinking from the forefront of his mind, choosing to focus on the situation at hand.
Surveying the barn again, he finds nothing new. His hands are chained, and he supposes that there might be a guard standing as a sentinel outside the door, but he cannot know for certain.
Once he has access to a blade, hands unshackled, he will free his children, and they will soak the town red in blood, sparing no one. Shame and fear encircle his stomach, seizing, as he remembers his children, prisoners of the cruel townsfolk. Adar will not let them be butchered, no more, he promises himself. He will not let them be enslaved again, either. His people, his children have suffered for too long. Humans, by nature, are untrustworthy. Adar will not parley.
Adar is drawn from his thoughts by the creak of wood and unoiled hinges, the door to his prison opening. In the doorframe, a silhouette of a woman in armor stands proud against the light. Adar conceals his smile as Galadriel steps into the room, posture unsure, yet still maintaining an air of authority.
He shifts his position on the floorboards, attempting to look pathetic as possible. Judging by Galadriel’s unimpressed expression, he has succeeded. His eyes dart around the room, as if nervous or shy. She takes that as a cue to step closer, and Adar shivers, slipping into the persona easily.
“Who are you?” Galadriel finally asks, circling Adar, her boots thudding rhythmically. Adar keeps the surprise off of his face, and stares up at her, calculating. She remains solid, unflinching.
“I am Adar.” He says, parroting the name, or role, that Morgoth had given him all those years ago. She narrows her eyes, displeased.
“Before you became,” She gestures wildly at Adar, “This.” Adar must not have hid his shock quickly enough, because Galadriel continues. “You said you were an elf, before you were corrupted, twisted.” Now Adar bares his teeth at her audacity.
“Corrupted?” He growls, genuine anger creeping into his voice, but Galadriel must not have heard it, or cared.
“Yes,” She says, “Made into an inferior thing, an orc.”
“Uruk.” He interrupts, but again she continues, undeterred.
“Strange how you seem to have retained your intelligence,” She says, “Most orcs I have met have been little more than animals.” She smiles at him, as if it’s a compliment that he should thank her for.
Adar simply stares at her, for a moment, before making a decision. He had thought that maybe after she’d fucked him, she would listen, hear Adar’s truth, the truth of the orcs. That they have souls and minds, hearts and names. How wrong he’d been, to think that elves would be capable of such things. He knows now that he cannot free himself with words, as she will never see him on even footing, leaving him with only one choice.
He swings his leg out in a blur of motion, knocking Galadriel off of her feet. She crashes to the ground with a clang, heavy armor making it difficult for her to stand up. Adar crawls over to her prone form, and grabs her dagger from her scabbard, at the same time as she draws her sword.
Galadriel jumps to her feet, and swings the large sword down at Adar with ease. He holds up his arms, chain blocking the strike, and the force of the blow severs the fine metal. Now freed, Adar leaps up, brandishing her own dagger at her.
They circle each other, Adar in a manner similar to a snake ready to strike, Galadriel the fierce hawk descending from above. She makes the first move, aiming for the hand in which he holds her dagger, blade moving as if to slice, rather than stab. He moves his hand out of the way, narrowly avoiding her strike. She keeps him on the defensive, unable to do much but jump out of her way and block her lighter blows with the small dagger.
Both parties soon tire, Galadriel growing frustrated, as she misses him by a hair yet again. Her attacks become sloppy enough that Adar is able to find an opening in her onslaught, striking her temple with the pommel of her dagger.
Galadriel sways on her feet before collapsing, the blunt object with brute force behind it enough to knock her unconscious. Adar wastes no time celebrating his victory, for he leans down, blade sharp on her neck, ready to slit the elf’s throat.
“Wait,” A familiar voice sounds from the entrance, Sauron stepping into Adar’s peripheral vision. “Do not kill her.”
“And why not?” Adar snarls, blade still resting on Galadriel’s throat.
“Do not question me.” Sauron says, sounding bored. Adar knows that tone, dangerously flat, a threat behind the initial layer of disinterest. He slowly, carefully, removes the blade from Galadriel’s neck, dropping it onto the floor beside her. Sauron bares his teeth, a mockery of a smile. He extends his hand to Adar, holding a rusted key. Adar gingerly takes it. “For the orcs.” Sauron says.
Sauron walks to the door, motioning for Adar to follow him. Adar does, a pace behind, subservient. The night air is fresh on his scarred face, the breeze ripples through his matted hair. The dark lord and his servant make their way past sleeping guards and villagers, to the remaining building, beneath which the orcs are imprisoned. When they see Adar, they start clamoring, Adar shushing them gently.
“Quietly, my children, quietly,” He whispers. “I have come to free you.” Adar fumbles for the key, and once it is in his hand, he makes quick work of unlocking the chains. They are eager to be freed, but they look at Sauron with distrust. “A friend,” Adar adds hastily. “He is in disguise.”
Once all the orcs have been freed, Adar looks upon them with pride in his face. He turns to look at Sauron, who seems to not be paying much attention, his focus elsewhere. Adar scans the rubble, looking for the discarded weapons of fallen soldiers. He sees the pile of weapons and corpses at the well.
“Revenge,” Adar says, pointing to the weapons. “We shall kill them all, slit their throats. Complete our mission,” He glances at Sauron, who wears an odd expression. “The Southlands will fall.”
The orcs give a cheer, albeit a quiet one, eager to kill. Adar moves to lead them to their goal, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Sauron’s hand. Adar turns to look at Sauron, back facing the orcs, confusion clear in his posture.
“No,” Sauron finally announces, something heavy in his voice. “You shall not. The Southlands are under my protection.” Adar recoils from him. “I am sorry.”
Adar stares at the dark lord, uncomprehending. Sauron draws his sword from his scabbard, and Adar steps forward, blocking his children with his own body, weaponless. They stand, a stalemate, unmoving. Their eyes meet, betrayal clear in Adar’s, weary resignation in Sauron’s. The orcs growl, baring tusks, holding up their fists, ready to fight.
When Sauron finally moves, he shoves Adar with unnatural strength, sending him flying into the wall of a building. Adar feels the breath leave his body as he connects with the wall, collapsing onto the ground, wheezing. His eyes water, watching Sauron stalks forward.
Sauron moves quickly, darting forward to the closet orc, Adar watching in horror, as he slits her throat. She falls to the ground, motionless, blood blossoming from the wound. Adar doesn’t have the breath to scream, watching in tortured silence as Sauron butchers his children.
His chest heaving, Adar turns onto his side, attempting to sit up. He retches from the effort, his vomit a sickly brown.
Sauron finishes his massacre, stalking towards Adar, kneeling in front of him. His sword is raised, but Adar faces death with dignity.
But the blow doesn’t come. Instead, Sauron whacks himself in the face with the flat of his blade. Adar just watches, as Sauron repeats the movement, until his brow bleeds. Then, he stands, dropping the blade into Adar’s unwilling hands. Sauron backs up, to the middle of the square. He looks Adar directly in the eyes.
“Run,” He whispers softly.
Then he screams, waking the warriors.
/
Galadriel wakes with a jolt, head throbbing. She’s laying on a dirty wooden floor, vision swimming. Memories flash through her head, a sword and a dagger, when she hears a scream. She pulls herself to her feet, vertigo fading and the world clearing up as she remembers how she found herself in this position.
Now standing, Galadriel grabs her blades, and runs to the direction from which she heard the noise. Her superior elven vision immediately pinpoints the source, Halbrand, who stands in the middle of what used to be the town square, bleeding. She surveys the scene, gasping as she sees the orc prisoners with their throats slit, corpses lying on the ground.
More people are coming now, surrounding Halbrand and the corpses. Galadriel steps forward, just in time to see a blur of motion disappear into the crowd, leaving a puddle of vomit and bloody footprints behind.
“He just killed them,” Halbrand says, interrupting Galadriel’s investigation. “Took my sword and the key, and slit their throats, I don’t know why. I don’t know how he got out,” His eyes meet Galadriel’s, “I tried to fight him.”
“Who?” She asks, knowing the answer before Halbrand speaks.
“Adar.” He answers.
“There!” Bronwyn yells from the other side of the crowd, pointing into the thick darkness, to where the horses graze. “I think I saw him there!” Galadriel wastes no time in sprinting closer to Bronwyn. Her eyes pierce the darkness, and sure enough, there he is, mounting a horse. She kicks herself into motion, as Adar cuts the horse loose, and spurs the animal into a gallop, heading towards the mountains.
Galadriel follows, pulling her dagger from her belt, following on foot. She runs at a speed which no ordinary creature can match, but the horse has a lead start. As the horse veers to the left, Galadriel sees her opening.
She throws her inferior dagger, a prayer whispered under her breath, hurtling it towards the rider, deadly in its aim.
But the blade misses him, and Galadriel rounds back to the camp, grabbing a horse of her own to follow Adar. She charges at him in full force, as he disappears into the treeline. She hears the screams of the warriors and townsfolk, but she carries on, determined to catch and kill.
Galadriel’s horse's hoof beats thunder in pace with her heartbeat, as she rides into the canopy of trees, swallowed by the darkness and smell of the forest. She follows the trail of broken sticks and horseshoe tracks, unable to tell if she’s gaining on him.
His trail leads up the mountain and to a collapsed watchtower. She dismounts as soon as his horse is in view, but Adar is nowhere in sight.
The forest is silent save for the howling of wolves, and Galadriel feels the hair on the back of her neck rise. She walks forward, steady on her feet, sword out. Her armored boots crunch loudly on dead sticks and leaves, echoing into the vast expanse.
Entering the rubble of the watchtower, she sees the huge statue of Sauron, and at its base, Adar. He holds Sauron’s sword in his hand, Galadriel watching, frozen, as he plunges the sword into the stone altar. He takes the sword, and twists it.
Adar turns to face Galadriel. The two warriors lock eyes, and the whole forest goes silent, save for their ragged breathing. Adar watches her, expression guarded, any traces of emotion absent. Galadriel’s eyes are wide with horror, uncomprehending. She doesn't know the scale of what is to come, but she will.
As a noise sounds, it breaks the silence, a horrible grinding that gives way to rumbling. Galadriel’s eyes wander to the great stone wall, watching helplessly as it slowly recedes downward, into the earth. A tsunami of water breaks forth from the wall, which Galadriel now understands to be a dam, rushing down the side of the mountain.
It’s unstoppable, Galadriel realizes, watching the wave crash down, thankfully in the opposite direction from the village. She narrows her eyes, unease growing as she sees the running water filter into trenches, leading to… Mount Doom.
The extent of the treachery is revealed to Galadriel as she hears a greater rumbling, even worse than the water.
A soundwave comes from the mountain, trees are felled, and Galadriel is pushed onto her back by the sheer force of the explosion.
She lies on her back, staring at the clouds like a child. But the clouds turn to gray, a red haze descending upon the clearing, as the very air crackles with heat. Galadriel’s head turns, and as she lays on her back, she sees Adar, prone on the other side of the patch of rubble.
Her heart burns with hatred as she stubbornly holds onto consciousness, watching his eyes close. Only once he is unconscious does she let her eyes close, Adar’s face burned into the back of her eyelids, the last thing she sees before it all goes dark.